Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series)

by DuBois, Brendan

Doris nodded hard. “Very scary.”

  “Is he still in the store?”

  “I don’t know . . . is there a problem?”

  I offered up a lie and said, “My sister . . . her ex-boyfriend has been following her around, even though she has a restraining order. And the description you just gave me . . . it sounds just like him.”

  She brought her hand up to her mouth. “Oh, dear. That’s horrible.”

  I walked toward the store. “You’re absolutely right.”

  The store was well lit, with displays of shoes, belts, purses, and other leather gear, and the calming scent of leather. I didn’t see Mark, and I didn’t see anyone looking like Reeve Langley. At the rear of the store, two women and a man were engaged in a deep conversation. The man was tall, with round-rimmed glasses, and with a long white beard that looked like it would be in season in another month, just in time for Christmas. He was standing behind a glass display case with a shorter woman I took to be his wife, who had her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail and had an engaging smile and bright eyes behind her own set of glasses. The other woman had a bright smile as well, short blond hair, wearing black slacks and a colorful T-shirt with a coiled dragon on the rear. The three of them were discussing a Florida trip in the spring for some sort of tai chi conference, which seemed like a fantastic idea at the moment, and I was tempted to go over to see if I could join them.

  Instead, I noted a set of stairs leading up to the second floor of the store, and I took them quietly, keeping to the wall, so the steps wouldn’t creak, and I had my right hand under my jacket, grasping the Beretta. I had a thought of Reeve up there, with Mark, a knife at his throat or a gun to his head.

  But the second floor had Mark and no one else, and plenty of displays and racks with leather gear designed for motorcyclists. Mark was examining a plain black leather vest when he saw me emerging from the stairwell.

  “Hey, Lewis,” he said, holding the vest up. “What do you think?”

  “I think it looks nice but it’s not worth buying,” I said. “You don’t know how tall he is, or how big his waist is.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” he said, frowning, putting it back on the rack. “I just have this desire to show up with something as a present.”

  I gave the room a quick look, double-checked to make sure no one was there. “How about a gift certificate?”

  “Oh, come on, I’m not sure where he’s living, and whether this store is close enough.”

  “Then you can be his present, alive and breathing in one piece,” I said, taking a step back down the stairs. “A couple of customers saw a mean-looking man in the store just a little while ago, somebody who looked like Reeve Langley. He’s still pissed at you, and after our little chat he’s extremely pissed at me. So unless you’ve got something you want to purchase right now, we’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

  Mark jostled a rack of motorcycle jackets on his way toward the stairs. The rack leaned one way, and then another, and remained standing.

  Driving out of North Conway, Mark said, “What else?”

  “What else is more than enough,” I said. “Your Wyoming friend is obviously still in the area.”

  “Not my friend.”

  “Point noted. I just don’t like the idea of us barely missing running into Reeve Langley at that leather-and-shoe shop.”

  “Maybe he was looking for a gift too.”

  “Really,” I said. “So tell me, how many times did it take for you to pass the New Hampshire bar exam?”

  “Just once,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  Back at Jack Baker’s house, I didn’t bother parking away from the house or skulking around. I drove Mark’s Mazda right into the yard and then spun it around so it was facing down the long driveway. The Jeep Wrangler was still there, and lights were on inside as well. Still, when I went up to the door, I had my Beretta out and in my right hand.

  “You knock on the door,” I said. “I’m sort of preoccupied right now.”

  “Why did you take out your gun?”

  “It’s called a pistol,” I said. “And I have it out because we were almost surprised back at North Conway. I only like surprises on my birthday, and today ain’t it.”

  But Jack was alone, save for his black-and-white friend, and if there was any reminder of our earlier business negotiations with Jack, he kept it under wraps. In the living room he passed over a slip of paper.

  “Your dad is over in Maine, up the coast, nearly a seven-hour drive,” he said. “Small town called North Point Harbor. There’s the address. He’s living there with a new name. Stan Pinkerton.”

  I looked down at Jack’s neat handwriting, saw an address of 4 Blake’s Cove Road. Mark folded up the paper, gave it a hearty squeeze like it was some sort of religious artifact that he had been hunting for years.

  “Thanks,” he said, voice choking up. “You have no idea what this means to me. . . .”

  Jack nodded, looked down at the floor before looking up again. “You might want to hold off on thanking me, Mark.”

  “Why?” His voice was no longer choked.

  “I was able to get other information, about his length of residency, what he’s been up to, what kinds of things he’s been buying,” Jack said. “Among his weekly expenses is something up there called Restful Days VNA.”

  “VNA,” I said. “Visiting Nurse Association?”

  “The same,” Jack said, now directing his voice to Mark. “It’s a hospice outfit.”

  He paused.

  “I’m sorry, Mark, but your dad is dying.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Just over an hour later, we were having a quiet dinner at a 99 Restaurant just outside Portland, Maine’s largest city. Mark had some sort of steak-tip dinner, while I paid homage to where we were located by having fish and chips. We ate mostly in silence, and Mark lost it only once, when he crumpled a napkin in his hand and said “All this time, all these years, to come this close and find him dead.”

  “Not dead, according to Jack,” I pointed out. “Dying, I’m sorry to say, but we’re only a few hours away.”

  “Six,” he said. “And I want to know why we can’t go up now.”

  “We’re not going up now because I’m exhausted,” I said. “And we’re not going up now because it doesn’t make any sense. We leave now and we might get up to that small town about three or four in the morning. What, you want to knock on the door of a dying man and announce yourself? Does that make any sense?”

  Mark was slumped, spinning a cold French fry around on his plate. “No, no sense at all.”

  He looked up and said, “You know, you did good back there with Jack Baker. Especially when you showed him you were carrying. Despite the law and rules and regulations, that’s what really counts, isn’t it? Being armed.”

  “On occasion,” I said.

  The waitress came over, dropped off the bill, and I started calculating the tip off the bill and tried to remember how much money I had remaining in my wallet. Mark reached for his wallet as well—good man!—and I said, “We’ll pay up and then go find someplace to spend the night. Someplace reasonably priced. And then we head up to North Point Harbor after the sun rises, and then you make nice with your dad. All right?”

  A glum nod.

  “And you remember your promise, right? About contacting the cops after you’ve done that? Reveal all?”

  He spun the French fry around one more time.

  “I said I’d do it,” Mark said. “So I’ll do it.”

  After paying our bill, I stopped at a Walgreen’s to pick up a few essentials, including fresh underwear, socks, toothpaste and toothbrush. After some prodding on my part, Mark did the same, and I said “Just like Jack Reacher. We’ll travel light with only the essentials.”

  “Jack who?”

  “Mark, there are more books out there than just law and business.”

  We approached the counter. “Maybe so, but
they don’t pay the bills.”

  “No, but they feed the soul.”

  “My soul will be fine on its own,” he said. “It’s my bank account that needs to be fed.”

  After a few minutes of delicate negotiations in Mark’s Mazda concerning our relative cashworthiness and credit standing, we drove around the waterfront until we came upon a motel that looked like it had seen better days back when the first Arab oil embargo had struck. The place was called Ocean View Terrace, but the view was of a smelly cove that was some distance from the ocean. It seemed to be a forward-looking, liberal establishment, since it offered hourly, daily, and weekly rates.

  Mark sighed as I drove his Mazda into the potholed parking lot. “Last year at this time, I was on a junket in Florida. Stayed at a resort town on the Gulf of Mexico. It was a free conference for lawyers who represent small towns. Not a big city but not small either. Right on the beach. Four days. Didn’t have to pay for a single thing, just agree to attend a couple of seminars.”

  I found an empty spot near the office. It was one story, stretching out with two wings. “Sounds like legalized bribery to me.”

  “I agree.”

  “So why did you go?”

  “Because there wasn’t a chance in the world that the organizers could do anything to bribe me,” he said. “It was some conservative PAC, dedicated to rolling back state income taxes to what they thought were more reasonable levels.”

  “New Hampshire doesn’t have a state income tax.”

  “Right, but whoever organized this little shindig didn’t know that. So why not take a vaca? I checked with the town manager, and so I went . . . and I nodded at all the right places and ate great food, stayed in a great room . . . now look where I am.”

  “Correction, Counselor. Look where we are.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just a reminder, you’re not alone on this little quest.”

  We got out and into the night, and the air smelled of fuel oil, saltwater, and dead fish. At the office we had to ring a buzzer before a woman wearing black sweat pants and a Portland Sea Dogs sweatshirt came out. On the counter was a sign: KATHI HAWKINS, MANAGER. After some talk, she said, “Fellas, only rooms I have left have queen beds in ’em. So I can rent you one room and you’ll share, or I can give you each a separate room.”

  Kathi looked at us and our faces, and said “Separate rooms it is. Sign here.”

  We both got room keys with numbers etched on heavy, red diamond-shaped plastic; and as we went back outside and retrieved our respective kits, Mark asked “What time do you want to start tomorrow?”

  “As soon as I wake up.”

  “When will that be?”

  “When my body lets me know.”

  The room was spare and neat, and that’s when I ran out of positive adjectives. One queen-sized bed, sagging in the center like it had been used in a previous life to support boulders. The carpet was green and beaten down, and there was a small television on a stand in the corner, with an impressive-looking stain on the carpeting before it. I closed the drapes and gingerly checked the bathroom, and then walked out, thinking a shower could definitely wait, though I could probably get away with washing my face and hands without contracting anything. I took off my jacket and holster and stretched out on the bed. That was going to be it for any disrobing tonight.

  I took my new phone out and dialed a number from memory, and a brisk man answered, “Porter Rehab and Extended Care Center.”

  “Room 209, please.”

  “One moment.”

  The phone was answered on the first ring, and then it was dropped, and there was a clatter and fumble, and some giggles, and it was picked up and a woman said, “Chaos central, Major Disorder here, how can I help you?”

  That brought a smile. It was Kara Miles, Diane Woods’s partner.

  “Hey, Kara, it’s Lewis. Is Diane handy?”

  “In the kitchen? No. In the bedroom . . . well, I’ll let you tell her.”

  Some whispers and more laughter, and then Diane answered, her voice as strong as I’d heard it these past few weeks. “Hello, friend. Where the hell are you?”

  “In Portland, in one of its fine lodging establishments.”

  “Oh, and which one is that? The Sheraton Shorefront? The Hyatt?”

  “Not quite . . . it’s a place where they change the sheets and towels once a week, whether they need it or not.”

  “Christ . . . you okay?”

  “I hope to be. And you?”

  Even over the radio waves, I could sense her smile. “Son, at this very moment, my sweetie here and I are packing up my belongings, including a pound or so of greeting cards, and once daylight comes into this room, I am gone. I am departing, I am leaving, and I’m going to happier shores.”

  “Damn, I wish I was there to help.”

  “Don’t need a man’s help, or have you forgotten our little talk when we first met?”

  “Not hardly,” I said. “But I wish I was there anyway.”

  “Unh-hunh,” she said. “And the big day is Thursday. Are you coming by?”

  Damn.

  “I wish I was, Diane. I really . . . I really wish I was. Any chance for leftovers?”

  “Hah. The way Kara eats, I doubt it.” A muffled voice and Diane said, “Well, it’s true, you can pack it away, though God knows it never shows up on your ass.”

  More muffled sounds and giggles and Diane lowered her voice. “All right, pal, what’s going on? How’s the hunt for Mark Spencer?”

  “The hunt . . . is completed. He’s safe.”

  “Sweet Jesus. Why are you in Portland, then?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Of course it is. Just don’t tell me any more . . . but you’re going to see it straight through, make it right. Correct?”

  “Going to do my best.”

  “I’m sure . . . but Lewis, that hurricane is coming up here, landfall set for sometime Thursday.”

  “You and Kara going to be safe?”

  “Oh, Christ, yes. The family who built these condos way back when, they were oddballs. They went above and beyond the building-code requirements, and I’m sure we’re going to ride it out just fine. But what about your house?”

  “It’s . . . also complicated.”

  “Oh, Lewis. . . .”

  “My contractor promised he’d get over there, put up some more tarps, but. . . .”

  I just couldn’t say any more.

  Diane said, “You being in Maine. Pretty important stuff.”

  “Not to me, but to—”

  “No more words necessary. Christ. What we do, eh? For those who are our families, and those we love or have friendships with. You’re the truest man I know.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Right now, I’m the smelliest man.”

  She laughed and said “All right. Leftovers. I’ll do my best. You want a turkey leg?”

  “Nope, just some white meat, gravy, and stuffing. I’ll make do.”

  “I’m sure you will. Be safe, come home quick . . . and thanks for sticking by me. A little bird told me that you had a job lined up at Shoreline, as the goddamn editor, and that you lost the job because it meant moving out of Tyler. True?”

  “Well-informed bird you have there.”

  “So. Was it because you didn’t want to leave Tyler, or didn’t want to leave me?”

  “Good night, Diane. Happy trails.”

  With that phone call put away, I made a run into the bathroom, washed my hands, wiped them on my pants, and went back and made another call.

  Felix Tinios answered on the first ring and, when he heard my voice, said, “Ah, the most unpopular man in New Hampshire has decided to give me a call.”

  “I’m in Maine,” I said.

  “Fine, then. The most unpopular man in northern New England. What’s up with the new phone number?”

  “Had an earlier conversation with Reeve Langley. Somehow he got my number, decided to negotiate. I decided to dump my phone whe
n the call was over.”

  “What was he looking for?”

  “Mark Spencer, up on a silver platter.”

  “Bet you were tempted,” Felix said.

  “I was, but I couldn’t do it, not to Paula.”

  “Speaking of Paula, she’s made a number of calls to your old phone number. Maybe you should listen to them.”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “I don’t want to get discouraged so late at night.”

  Felix said, “Well, I was next to her when she made most of them. It’s been a while since I’ve heard such language come from such a sweet-looking young lady. If I thought she had a sense of humor, I would have suggested another line of work involving 1-800 numbers, but I didn’t want to go there.”

  “So where did you go?”

  “From where we departed, up north. Small town called Milan. Very remote, very empty.”

  “Christ,” I said. “Where did you put her? At some no-tell motel?”

  “No, some friends of mine. They have a remote and very secure compound.”

  “‘Compound’? Felix, who the hell are your friends? Aryan Nation? Klan?”

  “Lewis . . . please.” His voice was chilly. “That’s quite the insult, even coming from you. You know my methods, know my associates.”

  I rubbed at my eyes. “Sorry. You’re right. Speaking of no-tell motels, that’s where I currently am, dreading to go to sleep in a few minutes because I’m not sure what’s going to crawl out and greet me when the lights go off. What’s in Milan, then?”

  “Up here in Milan is a guy who used to work for the Federal Reserve in Boston. Did some . . . after-work details for him. Anyway, he told me he once saw some paperwork he shouldn’t have, about future financial trends and such. I have a head for numbers, but even I had a hard time figuring out what he was saying.”

  “Is he a doomsday prepper?” I asked.

  “You got it,” he said. “He’s convinced that some day, the strands and ties that bind this global economy are going to cut loose in a bad way that’s going to make the Great Depression look like a Black Friday sale. So he sold all his upper-class goodies, and he and a few friends and neighbors, they hightailed it up north, bought a few hundred acres, and are waiting for doomsday.”