The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer

by Rick Boyer

  "He's packing iron," whispered Joe to Keegan. "Only reason anybody wears a friggin' coat in the summertime is to hide artillery. There! See the bulge?"

  Keegan nodded, chewing his gum slowly, keeping his steely gaze fixed on the car. The back doors opened and two men got out. Right away I knew which one was Eddie Falcone, a.k.a. Slinky. He was young, with thinning black hair, and was wearing white, pleated, baggy pants, a blue silk shirt with no tie, and a stone-washed denim Jacket. Right out of Ralph Lauren's latest catalog. His shoes were Mexican huaraches of woven leather. He wore shades, too, and a lot of gold. With the dark glasses on top of the smoked glass of the car, how the hell could they see, I wondered. The man with him carried a brown attaché case and was dressed in a plain brown summer suit, with white shirt and tie. That would be the mouthpiece Keegan had mentioned; he had lawyer written all over him. I was surprised he wasn't carrying a pair of scales.

  "Mr. Keegan?" said the man in the suit. "I'm Marshall Brooks, , representing Mr. Falcone. We have come here voluntarily to see if we can help you in this investigation?

  "Thanks, we do appreciate it," answered Keegan. "But does your heavy think it's necessary to carry a piece with him? We've got a strict law against handguns in this state."

  Brooks glanced over his shoulder at the big man sitting on the bench, who was watching our every move from behind those shades. I could tell.

  "My client's assistant is fully licensed to carry a firearm to insure the safety of my client," said Brooks, snapping open the latches of his brown case. "If necessary, I can produce the authorizations for Rhode Island and the Commonwealth of Mass—"

  "That won't be necessary," said Joe, holding up his hand. "But you might tell Boris Karloff over there that he needn't be so obvious about it. We can see the bulge under his arm from way over here. Now, you must be Mr. Falcone, right?"

  He shook hands with the kid, and the rest of us shook hands all around. Eddie Falcone's eyes lit up when he came face to face with Mary. I suppose it was a compliment to both of us, but still, it pissed me off.

  "Can you take a ride with us, Eddie?" asked Keegan. "We'd like to show you something?

  "My client is here voluntarily, on a goodwill basis only," spouted Brooks, "he is not here for an interrogation or—"

  "It's okay Marshall, I'll go for a ride. My car or yours, gentlemen?"

  "Ours," said Keegan.

  "Why not his?" said Mary. "Can I ride in his car?"

  Keegan and Joe glared at her. Sensing the predicament, I quietly told Mary it would be better to go in Joe's car.

  "But we can't all fit in, can we?" she said.

  "We'll let them follow us then," said Paul.

  "I'd love you to ride with us," Eddie said to Mary. "I really would. And we can watch TV on the way."

  "Thanks, Eddie, but my sister would really rather—"

  "That's okay Joey; I'll ride with him."

  "Mary!"

  I yanked her aside, away from all the onlookers.

  "What the hell do you mean, 'I'll ride with him?' Don't you know he's the enemy? He could be responsible for Andy's death, for Chrissakes, what do—"

  "Aw c'mon, Charliel" she hissed, flinging my arm away. "You guys think you're so tough, threatening him like that. Can't you see he's only a kid?"

  "Yeah, a punk kid. A connected kid—"

  "Listen: I bet I find out three times as much from him as you guys do. There's more than one way to get information, you know. Or maybe you guys don't know . . . "

  "I think it's a dumb idea."

  "What's he going to do, attack me in his car while he's got a police escort? Look, I want to get to the bottom of this and clear Jackie just as much as you do. Remember that. Now lay off"'

  I knew I couldn't change her mind, so I stood and watched while she and Eddie Falcone tripped down the stairs and along the sidewalk to the Cadillac Eldorado, followed by lawyer Brooks, who hurried ahead of them to open the rear door and see them safely inside, then got in the front seat next to Baby Huey, who was starting the engine.

  "Sis is a pain in the ass sometimes," growled Joe. "Paul, where are we going, anyway?"

  Keegan directed us out of the center of town onto Sippiwissett Road, which we followed almost a mile, past some of the plushest real estate in New England, until we stopped at a quiet intersection. There, standing solitary as Minot's Ledge lighthouse, was a phone booth. Keegan pointed to it.

  "There, Doc. That's the phone we traced the number to. That's the phone Andy placed the call to the night he died, just before he went out for his two-hour ramble in the rain."

  "Well hell, he couldn't have come all the way here on foot."

  "No. He called somebody who was here, waiting for his call. Then that somebody drove to your cottage to meet him. How's that sound?"

  "It sounds as good as anything else we've come up with," said Joe. We got out of the cruiser and met the party of four as they emerged from the Caddy. The two helpers stood back. Mary and the kid were talking to each other a mile a minute. Then Joe, who wasn't pleased, drew her aside.

  "Well, did he give you an all-day sucker?"

  Mary told him to lay off the sexual innuendoes. Joe, taken aback, murmured to me that he hadn't intended any. Then she approached me.

  "jeez, Charlie, you ought to see it inside. He's got a TV and even a VCR. He can watch movies and everything while he's riding. There's a bar and a phone, too."

  "I'm terribly impressed. Are you planning on spending the rest of the day with him, or what?"

  "C'mon, Charlie . . .Joe."

  "The guy's a mobster, Mare," said her brother.

  "He's also not much older than Jackie. And I don't think he's mean."

  "Good. I'm glad you're such an expert," said Joe. "Too bad his rap sheet doesn't agree."

  "Shhhh!" she said, as Falcone walked up with Brooks.

  "Eddie," asked Keegan, "have you ever taken a phone call in that booth?"

  "No sir. Besides, I don't need a booth. I got a phone in my car."

  "You told me it's broken," said Mary, looking reproachfully at the kid.

  "Well, yeah. Not workin' too good right now."

  "You never took a call here? Not a week before last Friday? Think carefully, Eddie."

  "No sir."

  "Because that's where Andy called the night he died. You have any idea who he could have called here?"

  "Maybe his girl friend, Alice. She lives not too far from here, up in Falmouth."

  "When did you last talk with Andy?"

  "About three or four weeks ago. Dr. Adams, your son saw us talking. It was up on the road north of town."

  "And what did you talk about, Eddie?" pursued Keegan.

  "Things."

  "Things? You mean money? We know you loaned him money, Eddie. Andy told Jack Adams about the loan. And Arthur Hagstrom, the director of the MBL, told us. Well?"

  "Yeah. I loaned him money."

  "How much?"

  "Excuse me," interrupted Marshall Brooks, "my client is under no obligation to answer that. He is here voluntarily, in a spirit of cooperation in the investigation of a friend's murder. The loan was consummated across state lines. Moreover, no record of the transaction was made, as it was a gentlemen's agreement. Furthermore, I advise—"

  "Yeah yeah yeah yeah. No record made, Eddie? How many loans you make without records?'

  "Not many."

  "Not many, eh? We beg to differ with you. We've got—"

  "Lay off, you guys!" said Mary, leaning up against Joe's cruiser with her arms crossed. "C'mon. He didn't have to come up here, did you, Eddie?"

  The two men stared at her, dumbfounded and angry. Paul Keegan flipped his pocket notebook shut with a loud flap, jammed it into his inside breast pocket, and grunted that the interview was over. He and Joe climbed into the cruiser. I looked at Mary.

  "You riding with us?" I asked.

  "No, Charlie. You're riding with us. C'mon."

  Before I could decide, Joe and Keegan
pulled off, in a huff, no doubt. So Mary and I got inside the big white car, which, I quickly noticed, was not new, and settled ourselves in back, with Slinky sitting between us. A stereo system with fuzzy speakers played the theme from Mondo Cane, The car's shocks weren't in the best of shape, either; we bounced along the road like a pogo stick. Eddie Falcone was a good-looking boy, and he was doing his damnedest to be polite.

  "Would you care for another ginger ale, Mrs. Adams? My, you look ravishing this morning. . ."

  "Thanks, Eddie,” she answered with an amused grin. I could tell she was enjoying herself.

  "Dr. Adams?"

  "No thanks," I said, not wishing to taint myself with his hospitality. Slinky leaned forward and spoke to the driver.

  "Take it easy on these curves, eh Vinnie? We wouldn't want Mrs. Adams here to get nauseous."

  The big man nodded. He had a crew cut, and a neck that spilled out over his collar in enormous wrinkles of fat. His neck was much bigger than his head. He seemed competent, though. He understood spoken commands, for starters. He was probably even toilet trained. Marshall Brooks, the mouthpiece, sat with hands folded on top of his attaché case.

  "Isn't this lovely weather we've been having lately," continued the kid. You should go on a talk show, I thought. Mary opened a small cabinet attached to the back of the front seat. I saw her flipping through stacks of videocassettes. Eyeing her, Eddie Falcone grew nervous. I saw beads of sweat on his upper lip.

  "Mrs. Adams, I don't think you should—"

  "Aw, Charlie! He's got skin flicks in here. So now I know why you've got the VCR, Eddie. So, you take your girl friend for rides with you? Is that the reason for the darkened windows? Huh, Eddie? Where's the curtain for the front seat then? Oooooo, these look good. Do you have A Hard Man Is Good to Find? It's my fav—"

  "Mary! Can it."

  The big Caddy oozed to a stop right in front of Lillie Hall. "Who killed Andy?" I asked Falcone.

  "I don't know, Dr. Adams. I swear on the cross I don't know," he said, fingering the gold crucifix that dangled on his hairy chest.

  "And the last time you saw Andy was a month ago? I doubt that, Eddie."

  He looked at me, panic-stricken, and said nothing. Marshall Brooks and Vinnie both turned around in the front seat, looking at me. Eddie Falcone gave me a nervous, boyish grin and stuck out his hand.

  "Dr. Adams, it's been ever so nice to meet you and your charming, lovely wife."

  I climbed out of the mob-mobile. Joe and Paul were aloof as I walked up to them.

  "So, you too," said Joe.

  "For Chrissakes; you guys didn't give me a choice, you just pulled off."

  "We have a big dinner most Friday nights," Mary was saying as she leaned into the rear window.

  "Well, what do you think about Mr. Falcone?" I asked them.

  "I think he's a smooth-talking punk," said Joe.

  "Yeah? Well tell that to Mary," said Keegan.

  "So come on up, Eddie; we'd love to see you. And bring Carla. Except, you get into those flicks on the way up, you won't have much energy left for dinner."

  "Good God, Sis is a pain in the ass."

  "Runs in the family I guess," said Paul. "Let's go get some coffee."

  "Oh, and here's my ginger ale can—said Mary, leaning in and giving Eddie Falcone, a.k.a. Slinky, a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Then she hopped gaily up the walk and met us. The white Caddy pulled away in silence. All three of us descended on Mary, giving her hell for fraternizing with the enemy. I thought we were pretty impressive, myself. Apparently, she didn't.

  "Okay, okay, okay," she said, her arms crossed in defiance. "I know he's connected. I know he's a crook. Okay? You happy now? But I also know, based on my feelings, my instincts, that Eddie's telling the truth when he says he didn't kill Andy. I just know he didn't. Charlie, you said yourself the Wiseguys didn't kill Andy, remember?"

  "Well, yeah, but—"

  "That's it."' she said, throwing up her hands, "Now let's shut up and go back to the Breakers. I'm sick of all this male bullshit."

  The three of us puffed out our chests and looked at each other, trying to think of something forceful and penetrating to say. But we couldn't. So we went back to the cars for the ride up to the cottage.

  * * *

  "I'm not being belligerent, Joe. I'm just saying that I don't think it covers all the facts," I said. We were just pulling into the gravel parking space at the Breakers. The three of us had driven up after our bout with the Sicilian Connection, leaving Paul Keegan and the boys in Woods Hole for the nonce so we could get some R and R at the cottage. Then Mary and I had to return to Concord for a few days to catch up on work and errands. Moe met us at the door and we went out on the deck.

  "You have no respect for the way law enforcement works," said Joe. "Either of you."

  "Shut up, Joey. " said Mary. "You're just sore because I think Eddie Falcone's an okay guy. And because Charlie doesn't think old Lionel Hartzell's the guy who broke in here."

  "So? Who's he like better for it?"

  "Nobody," I said. "But the lack of a better suspect doesn't make Hartzell guilty . . . anymore than it made Jack guilty. If Hartzell had ransacked the Breakers, he wouldn't have stolen my shortwave radio."

  "Sure he would, to throw us off, make it look like a routine burglary."

  "C'mon. It just doesn't fit. Look: nothing was taken from the guys' rooms in Woods Hole. Jack says he can't account for anything missing, and there was a lot of stuff there that a burglar would want. So that was a genuine toss; somebody was looking for something they didn't find. But up here, hell, they took my radio, a camera, and some jewelry they must've thought was valuable. Little did they know."

  "Yeah. Little did they know poor Mary doesn't own any genuine ice. Or hardly anything . . ."

  Joe looked over at his forlorn sister. Poor Mary Adams. "Yeah, right. Except poor Mary Adams is gonna fix all that with her new book, right?"

  Mary beamed and blushed, and turned in her canvas director's chair to gaze off over Cape Cod Bay.

  "What book?" I said.

  "Your wife's writing a novel, Doc. Remember the book we talked about?"

  "Mare, is this true?"

  "Well," she blushed, "Joe mentioned to me yesterday that I had a gift with words, and that maybe I could put my . . . some of my past experiences into a romance novel."

  "What past experiences?

  "Oh, you know, just experiences. The title's great, isn't it, Joey?" She spun her head toward me. "I'm calling it Hills of Gold, Men of Bronze."

  "Hills of Gold, Men of Bronze? Christ almighty."

  "I tink it's great, Mary." piped Moe, looking up from his book, "I tink it—"

  "Nobody asked you," I said, turning back to Mary. "What experiences?"

  "Hmmmph!" she sniffed, snapping her head away from me.

  "You wanna find out what experiences, you gotta read the book, right Joey?"

  "Right."

  "Well, when am I going to get a chance to sample this masterpiece?"

  "When I start writing it. Right now, what I'm doing is, I'm just thinking about it. You know, getting ideas."

  "Oh I see. Moe, when did you hear about this?"

  "just now. And you know, Doc, Mary's got a creative mind. Her pottery proves that. I tink dis is a great idea. And who knows? She could be very successful at it."

  It figured Moe would like the idea. Good old Moe, who wouldn't say shit if he had a mouthful. I gazed out at the bay. The water was a deep turquoise, with occasional whitecaps.

  "Okay, Doc, so Keegan's having trouble making the charge stick. That's no surprise. But Hartzell's been arrested and detained on the charge; the whole thing will hinge on the probable cause hearing."

  "Moe, do you think Lionel Hartzell killed Andy, searched his rooms, and then sacked the cottage?"

  "I think it is possible, Doc. Perhaps, given the lack of other suspects, it is even probable. Joe says a hearing, wid a cross-examination, could reveal or disprove it
."

  I rose from my chair and paced the wooden planks. I wasn't satisfied. I turned back to Joe.

  "You think the two break-ins are related or just coincidence?"

  "C'mon! They were related, of course. To call it coincidence is lunacy. But they weren't similar. For instance, the burglary in Woods Hole wasn't forced. The burglar went right in the front door. But Hartzell could have used a key he had taken and copied, something he could have easily done, sharing an office with Andy. But he couldn't get a key to the cottage, so he forced the rear door."

  "Yeah, I'd say he forced it,Joey," said Mary, opening a bottle of nail polish. "He smashed the window."

  "No. No, he didn't smash it. He didn't have to. Here, let me show you something."

  We joined him at the kitchen door, which had a cracked pane of glass nearest the lock and a hole in it big enough for a hand to go through. Joe took a pointed can opener—the type you used to use to open beer cans—and placed the point on an unbroken corner of the shattered pane of glass.

  "I know you installed shatterproof safety glass in all the doors facing the ocean, Doc. Maybe it was smart, since you're worried about flying objects during storms. But watch what happens when I press this point against it."

  We saw three tiny lines ooze out from the point of the tool as Joe slowly pressed it against the glass.

  "Keep watching," he said. The cracks grew longer, and four others joined the original three. After half a minute, we could see a spider-web pattern of shatter marks. Another minute and the point of the can opener pushed through the pane with a soft crunch. Joe then pulled out the squarish glass fragments with his bare fingers, leaving a hole exactly like the one already in the pane.

  "See? No fuss, no muss, no noise. And no cut fingers, either. Safety glass is safe. It can also be pressure fractured in total silence. I tell ya, crooks love it."