by Rick Boyer
Joe took out his notebook and sat in the corner with Darryl Isaacson, the son who'd taken the radio in pawn, while Marvin placed my SONY on the counter. I wrote him a check for his money, hoping I could get at least part of it back from the insurance company. Joe requested that the young Isaacson go up to Boston and cooperate in a computer-generated composite reproduction of the young man who came into the shop.
"lt takes maybe thirty, thirty-five minutes," Joe said. "What you do is, you sit in front of a screen, and they flash up faces with different types of eyes, nose, hair, facial shapes, and so on, and all you do is tell them to change this and that until you see a face that resembles the guy as closely as you can remember. Remember that toy called Mr. Potato Head? Well, that's what it's like; you just keep playing with parts of a face until you get it."
The kid wasn't really eager, but the elder Isaacson assured us that both of them would go up to Ten Ten Commonwealth Avenue and do it. We thanked them and left, arriving back at the Breakers, as planned, in time for lunch. The three of us met Moe, who was already there, finishing up his little vacation. We all changed into bathing suits and sat on the deck.
I'd bought some of that spicy-hot red sausage the Portuguese call linguiga in the north end of town on the way back. This Mary and I cooked quickly in a wide iron skillet, then added marinara sauce. Then I cut three long pieces of a French baguette, put in the sausage, covered it with the sauce, and sprinkled on a lot of Parmesan cheese and some hot peppers. Sausage subs. I took them out onto the deck, where Joe dove into his with his usual fury: eyes glazed, chin shiny with grease, low moans of ecstasy punctuated by chewing and gulping.
Moe, who'd been reading and beachcombing, had his usual lunch. He brought out three big plastic bags of dried fruit and nuts, and sat munching on these items, washing down the health food with blue milk. Moe never has any fun. I was only eating lunch because I'd had no breakfast, but the subs were good. We sipped beer and looked at the far, hazy horizon. Joe wiped his hands and took out his notebook, flipping through the pages and belching softly.
"This was a lucky break," he said. "Besides getting your radio back, we've got a description of the kid who pawned it."
I eased back in my deck chair, feeling the warm sun all over me. "So have your thoughts about Hartzell as the culprit changed any?"
He shrugged. "Somehow, it seems a little less likely, but I can't say why. It's just a feeling."
"Uh-huh. I share it. And I think the reason is, we're remembering that Hartzell hates young guys. So why would he enlist the aid of a young kid in a burglary? So the pieces just don't fit very well."
"So? So what do you think?"
"If the two B and Es are not connected, then the break-in here was done by some young druggie, or druggies, strung out and needing quick cash. That's what I think."
He nodded and stretched out his huge, hairy legs, which, for him, were deadly pale. "Yeah, fine. But because a strange little voice keeps telling us, we've been assuming that the B and Es are related. This little voice that won't go away keeps saying that the same person or persons did both jobs, looking for something that wasn't a radio, that the stolen radio was just an afterthought?
"That's what I think, too."
"And you're also saying it might not be Hartzell. And I'm beginning to agree. So where do we go now?"
I shrugged, chewing. "Who knows? Maybe back to the Henderson family."
"Why them?" asked Mary.
"Because they're the link that fits best. They, at least Alice, seem to be in the center of this whole affair. Terry is roughly the same age as the kid who pawned the radio. I'm not saying that he did it; I'm saying that he's the right age, in the right place, at the right time, and he knew Andy."
"But you've already talked to Alice, Doc. And Keegan's interviewed Terry, too. In depth."
"Then I guess it's our turn."
"You have no authority," said Moe, trying to remove a bit of apricot skin, or bean sprout, or some damn thing, from his teeth.
"I do have authority. I am the interim medical examiner for Barnstable County. So there."
"Big deal," Moe sniffed. "Dat doesn't cut any ice wid me."
"Well I'm not interviewing you. So go eat your steamed grass and shut up."
NINETEEN
Eye—eeeeeee! . . . Eeeee-yonk.' . . . Yonk, yonk, yonk yonk!
The big herring gull glided in over us with delicate rowing motions of its long wings, then fanned them forward against the air as it stopped its flight above the trawler's mast, extended its over-sized, ducklike feet, and settled down there twenty feet above the deck, moving its head around in little jerks, looking out over Penzance Point.
Joe and I were standing on the afterdeck of the Highlander, the sixty-foot stern trawler owned by William Henderson, father of Alice and Terry. The vessel's hailing port, listed under her name, was Falmouth. But now she was berthed in Woods Hole, at the fishing docks west of the MBL. The senior Henderson was ashore at the moment, but Terry was sitting on the engine housing near the big winch drums, looking up at us nervously. I took my eyes off the noisy gull and looked down at the boy.
"I know Lieutenant Keegan already talked to you," said Joe softly. He has a great bedside manner when he wants to turn it on. Usually he begins an interview in this fashion, resorting to the tough cop routine only when he meets resistance. Clearly, we had Terry Henderson's attention.
"What we want to find out now is, who would want to break into Andy and Jack's room, and maybe also into the Adams's cottage up near Wellfleet?"
The kid shrugged and bit his lower lip lightly, nervously. "I don't know. I kinda thought that old man Hartzell was a good shot at it, you wanta know. But see, I'm not really with that group at the labs; I work for my dad on the boats and stuff. I don't really know what's going on there; the only time I see those guys is at some of the beach parties."
"What guys?"
"You know, Jack, Tom McDonnough, the younger guys at the lab. We see each other at some of the parties. My sister helped get us together, kinda."
"Where is Alice now?"
"She's out on the Westward again. We haven't seen her in two days."
"And you have no idea at all who would've wanted to kill Andy?" I asked.
"No. Like I said before, knowing Andy, I can't believe it was anybody in their right mind, you know? So that's why, when they tagged that old nut, I thought he might be the one."
We heard a thump from the Highlanders bow, looked up through the wheelhouse, and saw a big, ruddy, white-blond man walking aft with heavy, deliberate steps. He glanced in at the three of us and frowned.
"Something wrong? What's this?"
"Dad, these guys are asking about Andy Cunningham again," said Terry.
"Oh really now," the big man said, setting down a cardboard carton on the engine housing. "Well gentlemen, that's nice and all, that you're so concerned, but I've got a business to run. That boy's been dead now going on two weeks. We're all sorry, but life goes on."
He offered his hand and we introduced ourselves. Bill Henderson was the owner of the Highlander and apparently several other boats as well. He was half a head taller than I am, which made him at least six four. And he was solid, too. His hands were big, rough, warm, and dry. After we shook hands, Henderson returned to the carton, taking out a can of grease, prying it open with a wide screwdriver, and scooping out big globs of the greenish-brown jelly, which he smeared on the winch axles.
"Goddamn salt air is pure hell on metal," he grunted. "Even the new alloys that are supposed to be—ummmph.' shit!—supposed to be corrosion resistant. Terry, go into the wheelhouse and start this up," he said, almost under his breath. But before he'd even finished, the boy, so casual to most people, was on his feet and making a beeline for the wheelhouse. We heard the twin diesels rev up and watched the drums turn, then reverse. Bill Henderson made minor adjustments, primed the axles with more slick goop, and ordered the winches switched off.
"I think I heard a s
trange thing about this Cunningham kid," said Henderson as he lighted a cigarette, then tapped the grease can's top back in place with the screwdriver's butt. "Somebody happened to mention to me—was it you Terry?—that the kid owed some money. Or something like that. What was it anyway, Terry?"
The kid shrugged his shoulders, and his old man squinted at him. There was the look of interrogation in that squint. Terry just shook his head vaguely.
"Wasn't it you who told me? Goddammit! Who the hell was it?"
Bap! Bap! Bap! He tapped the can harder in his frustration. His son's jaw fell slack, and again he shrugged.
"Well anyway, I heard this scuttlebutt, and it could be pure bullshit, that the kid was in hock. Pretty deep in hock, and that he—"
"Can you remember where you heard it?" asked Joe. "This could be important."
"Well, I'm trying. I thought it was Terry, or Alice, or one of the kids. Hell, Dr. Adams, it coulda been your kid. Naw . . . no wait—He rose, grabbed the can of grease, and went forward to stow it in a locker. He came back almost immediately, leaving scarcely a lull in the conversation. For such a big man, he moved with a lot of speed and grace. But as he sat down, he was breathing faster. "Aw hell, I can't remember, but it was somebody. Anyhow, it just made me think that the kid wasn't what he—"
Henderson was looking past us; something had momentarily caught his eye. But in a flash, he seemed to wave it off and kept muttering about "outside elements."
"You know what I'm saying, right Lieutenant? I mean, it seems like everybody's questioning all of us in the community. And you're all wondering why it doesn't make too much sense and you're not getting anywhere. You ask me, you're not looking far enough away from home. But shit, what do I know? I'm just another one of life's chumps, tryin' to rub two nickels together-- excuse me a sec—"
He hustled down the Highlanders gangplank and across the dock, moving with that same driving speed I found so remarkable for a man his size. Looking beyond the docks, I saw that a big navy blue Mercedes had pulled up into the asphalt parking area. The driver, a plump, well-dressed, white-haired gentleman, leaned against the door, facing us. He was dressed in what I'd call rich-casual. I saw him flip his left arm up, brush back the sleeve of his blazer with his right hand, check a gold watch on his wrist, and lower the arm again. Bill Henderson came up to the man and they started talking without shaking hands. That meant they knew each other well, or had seen each other often. I turned around and saw Joe busy watching two young women padding along Albatross Street in bikinis. By the time I turned around again, the Mercedes was rolling away and the senior Henderson was trudging aboard his boat again.
I went aft and stared along the ramp cut into the Highlanders rear deck that sloped down to the water's surface. The nets were played out and hauled in right up the stern. Hence the name: stern trawler. We Americans finally got the hang of building these efficient boats after spending twenty years watching the Koreans, East Germans, Russians, and Japanese use them to slurp up all our fish. We were catching up, slowly but surely. Even so, the two-hundred-mile limit—excluding foreign craft from our rich coastal waters—hadn't come along any too soon.
"No, I tell ya I can't remember," I heard Henderson saying to Joe. He said it like this: cahnt. I swept my eyes around the big boat. I didn't want to ask permission to go below, but I knew there would be berths there for four, five, maybe as many as eight crew members. And then there were those big twin diesels, and all that navigation gear: radar, Loran, SATNAV, ASDIC, sonar depth sounders, sonar fish finders. Two-way radios . . . the works. What was I looking at? Half a million? Eight hundred thou? A mil and a half? What?
"No," Henderson continued in his boomy baritone. "Seems to me somebody saw a Mafia wagon around. Aw hell, don't lissen a' me Lieutenant. What do I know?"
I went up to where the two men were standing near the wheel-house. Joe was putting away his notebook. He stuck his hands into his pants pockets and shrugged. Then Henderson leaned over and pointed a big finger at his chest.
"Hey. Not to get nosey or anythin', but I thought that other guy was workin on this thing."
"Paul Keegan? Yeah, he is. But we're helping out. And I'm not sure the suspect he's got is going to pan out."
Henderson looked up to the wheelhouse. He shouted for his son to start the engines. Again we heard the rising crescendo of the big diesels beneath us. The steel deck vibrated under our feet as Henderson went forward to cast off. Time to leave. Joe and I thanked Henderson for his time, waved to his son up behind the glass in the wheelhouse, and disembarked, walked along the dock toward the MBL.
"Why not stop in the Kidd first for a coupla cold ones?" suggested Joe. So we did.
The pretty girl behind the bar handed us two St. Pauli Girl beers as we leaned on that unique and curious marble rail in the Cap'n Kidd. Never seen one like it before or since.
"So what are you thinking, Doc? You seem awfully preoccupied."
"I'm wondering where Henderson sells his fish. It can't be here in Woods Hole. And Falmouth's harbor hardly deserves the name."
"I asked him that very question. He sells fish in New Bedford. Where else?"
"That makes sense. I've heard New Bedford is the biggest commercial fishing port in America. Bigger than Gloucester. Bigger than San Francisco, Seattle . . ."
Joe chewed a handful of peanuts and scuffed his size thirteen shoes along the floor of the bar.
"I been thinking; there may be a new angle on this thing. Suppose the mob was in on the hit. Not necessarily that kid Slinky, but somebody else in the organization not so wet behind the ears.
We know they never woulda killed Andy the way it was done. But supposing they bumped into old Hartzell and discovered he hated Andy too. Why then wouldn't they make a deal with him and—
"Naw. C'mon, Joe, even I know the mob would never do a hit like that."
He chewed some more, nodding philosophically.
"Okay, try this: Andy has done something really major to piss the Wiseguys off. A lot of times, you owe the mob money and can't pay, and they know you haven't got the scratch, they ask you to do them a favor. So maybe he undertook the favor—whatever slimy thing it might be—and totally blew it. That would get him wasted."
I swiped a couple of peanuts. After one, I couldn't stop. There was a ring of truth to Joe's theory. It seemed to fill in a lot of blank spots.
"What kind of favor would this be?" I asked.
"A common one is courier, or bagman. They ask the guy to carry something hot for them. Or maybe carry a big load of dope across the border. Something like that."
"Well, we know the favor had to be in this region. What's most likely here?"
"Well, keeping to the dope idea, maybe the mob asked him to borrow one of the official small craft from here, say like that skiff you guys used the other day. Where was it from? The National Marine Fisheries Service? Anyway, asked Andy to borrow a boat for half a day and run in a load of coke or grass from the mother ship. just zip out there, take on the goods, and zip inland in a—"
The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
"That's it! Joe, it fits perfectly. These labs and the boats they use are the most respected things around here. You know the Coast Guard wouldn't stop and search one of those vessels. Never."
Joe swirled the beer around slowly in his glass and smiled. He was pleased with himself.
"Yeah, Doc. It does fit together nicely. Not bad for a cop on vacation, eh?"
"But it still leaves the question of the murderer."
"Okay, the mob wants Andy out, so they either have Hartzell do it, or else find out from somebody like Hartzell how to do it . . ."
I felt we were getting off base there, as if riding a crosscurrent. I shook my head.
"One thing the mob connection could explain is the break-ins," he continued. "If Andy held out on them, you know, kept part of the shipment for himself to sell, then they'd kill him and go looking for the stuff."
"That fits. That and the part a
bout smuggling. But the method employed . . . that does not fit."
"Let's go eat, and think about it some more."
"How's Keegan coming with Hartzell up in Boston? You heard anything?"
"Not lately. But if Hartzell's a washout, we'll tell Paul about this mob theory. Hey, let's go up to the Coonamessett for dinner, huh?"
TWENTY
SEVERAL DAYS LATER, the last day of August and twenty days after Andrew Cunningham was found dead in our cottage, Mary, Joe, Moe, and the boys and I were all at sea. In more ways than one, I suppose. We were aboard the MBL's collecting vessel the Gemma, the forty-foot trawler skippered by Wayland Smith. We were collecting all right, but sounds, not creatures. In the boat's high, broad bow stood Smitty and Moe, leaning over the hydromike that had been lowered into the sea to record the songs of the humpback whale.
Jack sat in the wheelhouse hunched over a console filled with electronic gear. He peered intently at an oscilloscope as the sounds picked up by the mike made sine curves and pairs of snaking, wavy lines. Wearing earphones, he fiddled with knobs and dials while his brother Tony minded the helm, keeping us at a steady four knots.
PPHHEEEEEWWWWW!
"Thar she blows . . . ," said Tony softly.
Thirty feet off our port bow three whales surfaced, spewing big clouds of vapor. Then they began their slow forward somersault back into the deep. Farther off, another whale smacked its tail down flat onto the surface; it sounded like a rifle shot. Sheets of water shot out sideways from under the big flukes. We'd been out three hours, and would shortly head for home. We had collected a lot of whale songs, those curious clicks, grunts, squeaks, and low, bass-fiddle groans that were so strange and haunting.
But Joe and Mary weren't talking about the whales; they were discussing a subject more dear to their hearts.
