by Jeff Deck
“I’ll escort myself,” I say. Grieg hasn’t fooled me a bit. Now I know exactly why he took the case on behalf of Scott Shaughnessy’s kids: he is trying to find out what the former city councilor is up to. Whether or not he’s lost his marbles, Shaughnessy poses a danger to the current council’s cult extermination project.
“No, really,” Patricia says. “I’ll walk you out.”
Something about her tone makes me indulge her. I’m curious about what she’s going to try next. Still, I keep my eyes on the railing as we head down the stairs together, distrusting any and all wallpaper in this house of deceit. I don’t dare face Grieg’s assistant until I’m standing out in the sunlight and she’s framed by the doorway of the firm.
Patricia’s eyes are shrewd but troubled as she looks at me. “Who did give you the idea that Mr. Grieg and the other councilors are killing people?”
My hand is still aching from the wound I gave it. It won’t let me forget that I need to protect my friends. “You sound as though you don’t believe me,” I say.
“Of course I don’t,” Patricia says quickly. “The city councilors want what’s best for Portsmouth. But they’d never—Mr. Grieg would never do something so awful, even as the means to a good end.”
“You keep telling yourself that, kiddo,” I say. I give her a salute with my good hand and turn away from the law firm.
3
My heartbeat hasn’t slowed yet when I get a call from a familiar name. I’ll always pick up for her.
“Kathryn,” I say.
“Divya,” says my therapist. “How are you holding up?”
I glance back at Grieg’s firm and quicken my steps. “Great. Blue skies, veggie burgers, girls—life is good on the outside.”
“What a marvelously fast readjustment,” Kathryn Bergman says dryly. “Still, would you do me a favor and consider coming in for a chat soon? I have a feeling we’ve got a lot to catch up on.”
I picture my therapist reclining in her office, twining a finger in her grey curls, surrounded by the accrued wisdom of both the East and West. I long with all of my thudding heart to go to Kathryn’s carefully calibrated sanctuary and unload everything on the poor woman. She helped to bring me back from the edge when I lost you. She would listen to me, no matter how crazy I sounded.
Believing me would be a hard leap beyond just listening, however. And putting Kathryn in danger by embroiling her in this business would be a poor thank you for all she’s done.
“Ooh, yeah, definitely,” I say. “Calendar’s busy right now, but can I check back with you in a few weeks? A month, maybe?”
“Your call,” says Kathryn. “Just know that I’m here to help. The things they say you did… I know they can’t be true.”
I’m touched, but I merely say, “Careful, doc. You go soft and I’ll have to edit my online review of you.”
“I’m speaking objectively,” she responds with a touch of irritation that a stranger wouldn’t detect. “As always. When you’re ready, Divya, make an appointment with reception.”
I thank her and hang up. Unwelcome suspicion stings me as I think about the timing of the call. The former head of the local FBI office, Marsters, knew about my appointments with Kathryn. Had my old “pal” Ethan Jeong inherited the thick file on me from Marsters—and then decided to use my therapist to get to me? A note from Jeong was waiting for me when I got out of jail, but I’d thrown the note away. That hardly meant he would stop trying.
I could use Jeong’s take on this latest puzzle. But… I’ll never be able to forget his role in arresting me for Benazir’s crimes. Knowing full well that I was innocent and had already been through reputational hell as I searched for the truth behind your death. (A justified search, as it’s turned out!) Now I’m getting angry all over again just thinking about the traitorous agent.
No, I don’t need to vent to anyone. I don’t need anyone else’s sage advice. I’m going to crack this all open on my own, and woe to anyone who gets in my way.
I catch up with Shaughnessy’s former maid in a frou-frou women’s clothing store on Market Street. She was easy to track down.
Natalie Drouin is browsing a rack of expensive dresses. The collection of bags at her feet from other high-end downtown stores tells me she’s been on this shopping spree for hours. Unfortunately, the young woman is already talking with someone else: a tall, wide-shouldered man with an unpleasant face.
Detective Ulrich glares at me. “You’re interrupting our conversation, Allard.”
“Does she know you’re not acting in a official capacity for the police?” I ask.
Drouin licks her lips nervously and looks from one of us to the other. “Little bit confused. Who are you?”
“I’m a former cop,” I say, offering my hand. “Divya Allard. Unlike this joker, I won’t pretend I’m here for anything but private reasons. Officer Milly Fragonard is my friend—I want to know where she is.”
Her mouth opens in a pretty little O of surprise. “Like I told Mr. Ulrich, Milly’s probably out at the island visiting Mr. Shaughnessy. She does that a lot. I haven’t been back to Round Island since I was let go, though.”
“Let go?” I ask, as Ulrich nods impatiently.
“Yeah,” Natalie Drouin says, eyeing a soft purple number that would be a little heavy in this heat, but would look fabulous in the fall. “Me and Marco both. Marco was the one who cooked for Mr. Shaughnessy. It was a week ago. The only one Mr. Shaughnessy didn’t let go was his nurse. Ilana. Would suck if she has to pick up our duties too—hope he gives her a raise.”
“Why did Shaughnessy fire you two?” Ulrich asks.
“Let us go, you mean?” The ex-maid shrugs. “I thought we were doing a great job. He would complain sometimes, but he did that with everyone. Mr. Shaughnessy isn’t right in the head. Me and Marco didn’t take it personally… maybe he was trying to save money.”
“Not right in the head,” I say. “Do you mean dementia?”
Drouin nods eagerly. “That’s right. Mr. Shaughnessy would tell us the same stories over and over again. He couldn’t remember something I told him earlier the same day. Sometimes he called me Anne. I guess that was his wife’s name. Poor old guy.”
“So you’d have no reason to believe he’s faking it?”
“Allard,” says Ulrich. “The fuck are you saying?”
The clerk at the store counter, a slender girl maybe not old enough to drink, looks up at Ulrich’s cursing and frowns. But Drouin just seems bewildered. “Oh, no. Mr. Shaughnessy suffers from dementia, beyond question. Why do you ask?”
I shrug. “Just trying to cover all the bases. Natalie, how long had Officer Fragonard been visiting the old man by the time you were let go?”
“A couple weeks,” she says. “But—I don’t think she put the idea in his head, to let us go, if that’s what you’re saying.”
Natalie doesn’t think, but Natalie doesn’t know, either, does she? I lean against one of the clothing racks and it wheels backward with a clatter. The store clerk looks annoyed; that’s strike two.
“You’ve seen the headlines,” I say. “You see what they’re insinuating about Officer Fragonard. What’s your take on the relationship between her and Shaughnessy?”
Drouin blushes. “I—I’m sorry, I can’t comment on that at all. I’m… Attorney Grieg said he may need to call me as a witness and so meanwhile I shouldn’t talk to anyone about Milly and Mr. Shaughnessy. I don’t want to screw up the court case, if it turns out Milly has been taking advantage of him.”
“So you don’t think that’s necessarily been happening, then?” Ulrich breaks in gruffly. “You already told us that Shaughnessy suffers from dementia.”
“Beyond question,” Drouin says.
“So he’s not in his right mind to put a random police officer into his will, is he?”
Drouin turns her paling face to me now, as if I’ll save her from Ulrich. “Please. If you’re not working for the police, then I really can’t talk abou
t this before the court case.”
“Fine,” I say, “we’ll leave you alone. I should talk to Shaughnessy directly. Can you tell me how the hell I get out there, though? Do I need to rent a boat?”
Natalie hesitates. “I suppose you could. Mr. Shaughnessy had a ferry custom built for guests to visit the island, but it’s bound to be docked out there if Ilana’s with him.”
I think this one through. “Then how did Milly get out there during times when the home aide had already taken the ferry over? Don’t tell me Shaughnessy sent you or the cook back over with the ferry to play chauffeur.”
Drouin’s cheeks pink, and I take it that’s exactly what happened.
“Screw it, I’ll borrow a boat from Sherman at the lobster pound,” Ulrich grumbles.
“You’ll borrow a boat?” I say. Too loudly. Now the young store clerk is coming over.
The detective notices the approach of the clerk and her raised, perfectly plucked eyebrows. “Clearly we’ll have to discuss this elsewhere. Thank you for your time, Ms. Drouin.”
“Hold on, just one last thing,” I say.
“Can I help you folks find anything?” the store clerk says, somehow injecting her bright voice with menace.
I ignore her and continue to address Natalie Drouin: “If you lost your job, how can you afford all this stuff you’re buying?” I indicate the bags at her feet and the black skirt draped over her arm.
“Got a new job,” she says.
“Already? Doing what?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t say,” Drouin responds, finally asserting herself. She turns to the clerk. “You can help me, actually. Do you have this in other sizes?”
As the two women close us off from further conversation, Ulrich grumbles, “Liked this spot better when it was a hardware store. What is this town coming to?”
He leaves and I follow him. Back out on the sidewalk, Ulrich plants his feet, forcing the stream of tourists to flow around him on either side.
“So…” he says. “You care enough to investigate, after all. Seems you’re a step behind me, though.”
I thrust up my chin. “Yeah? I’m guessing you didn’t pay Sandy Grieg a visit like I did. You need to be looking at this case from all the angles. The fact that both a city councilor and a past councilor are involved—that triggers my alarm bells.”
“Who gives a fuck about Grieg? Or the council for that matter? I’m just looking for Milly.”
Ulrich seems clueless about the council manipulating the PD for its own ends. He sensed this would be a matter for the Queen of Weird, but he still has no idea what the council is up to. So maybe he won’t be able to provide me with any useful info about Prince, Gomez, or any other dirty cop in the department, but I won’t give up hope yet.
“This is probably bigger than Milly,” I say, “unless she really is as venal as the papers are saying.”
“Not my circus, not my monkeys,” Ulrich responds. “Well, I’m off to Round Island.”
I put a hand on his arm. “No, big guy. I’m going there. You’re going to stay on the mainland… unless this is an authorized investigation.”
“Nobody needs to know what kind of investigation this is,” Ulrich says, too casually.
“Chief Akerman might want to know what you’re up to,” I say. Just as casually.
Ulrich’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t say anything, and I make like I’m walking away, back toward the square. Finally, he blurts out, “You wouldn’t! You asshole.”
I face him again. I keep my mouth shut.
“You wouldn’t pull that shit, would you?” he says. “Because you don’t want to work with me? I—you said this is bigger than Milly. What if it involves Akerman? What if you were putting her in even more danger by tipping him off?”
That’s why I would never actually tattle on this idiot to the police chief. But he doesn’t need to know that. “Maybe I’ll keep quiet,” I say. “Maybe I’ll even let you tag along to the Isle of the Demented. I would just need a little help from you. You already know what I want.”
Ulrich lets out a heavy sigh. “Goddammit. I can’t rat out my fellow officers.”
“Even if they’re criminals? Or even killers?”
The detective fishes in his jacket pocket and brings out a battered plastic pack of cigarettes. He lights a cancer stick, staring down at me, and then he says, “You really are a stone cold bitch. You know that?”
I shrug. “I’ll take that over ‘crazy bitch.’ Maybe one day you can even graduate to not calling me a female dog at all.”
“It’ll be a special day,” Ulrich agrees.
Ulrich and I stop in at Gilley’s Diner, one of the few places downtown I can afford on my present salary of zero, for a quick takeout lunch of grilled cheese (me) and chili dogs (three of them for him). When we get to the lobster pound off Salter Street, Sol Shrive is waiting for us.
He’s wearing a backpack, like a high school kid at the bus stop. Sol eyes the big man at my side with suspicion and alarm.
“What—what’s he doing here, Divya?” he says.
Ulrich throws it back at him: “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
I shift uncomfortably. There’s a breeze coming off the water. Round Island beckons. “I’m with Ulrich. How did you know we’d come here?”
“Word gets around,” Sol says. “I wasn’t about to let you go to Shaughnessy’s place by yourself.”
“You can see she’s not alone, so now feel free to scram.” Recognition flickers in Ulrich’s eyes. “You’re that junkie. One of the witnesses to Eric Kuhn’s murder. You can’t stay out of trouble, can you?”
Sol flinches. “How about ‘recovering addict,’ not junkie, for starters?”
“Sol, it’s okay,” I say. “We’ve got this. Whatever this is… we’ve got it.”
“No,” he says, “I’m pretty sure you don’t. So—your cop friend Milly disappears, and you’re figuring an old guy made that happen somehow? Not without some outside power he wouldn’t. Where do these powers tend to come from, huh?” He glances at Ulrich and puts a finger to his lips.
I understand in a flash. “You think there’s a Port involved. Or maybe you want to find one out there on the island, and this case provides the perfect opportunity. Bet none of the Trainers have ever been out there. You want to use your—”
“Jesus, Divya!” Sol protests. “Do you want to get us all killed? This fucking guy could tell his crooked friends, and then…”
Ulrich’s reaction is predictable. “Crooked? Listen, you little burnout, you can’t talk about the police that way. What are you so afraid of?”
The detective could, of course, pound Sol into the ground with little effort if it came to an actual fight. But Sol is showing all the good sense of a rat terrier charging a German shepherd. He thrusts an outraged finger in Ulrich’s direction. “You’re murderers—all of you. Except for Divya, of course. Yeah, I had a drug problem, but it’s nowhere near as widespread as you goddamn killers would have the public believe.”
Ulrich goggles at him. “The hell are you talking about?!”
I step between them smoothly. “There’s no need for a pissing contest. Right now Milly Fragonard is missing, and the corruption of the Portsmouth PD can wait. Sol… Ulrich and I are getting in that boat, and I don’t see a compelling reason for you to come with us.”
“Please,” he says. “Can I talk to you—alone—for one second?”
I look to Ulrich, who grudgingly steps out of earshot. Sol’s scuffed shoes line up next to mine at the water’s edge and we stare down at them.
“You’re looking for Milly,” Sol says. “What if your search means you need to access a Port, but you can’t find it? You know I can find them now. Easily.” Furtively glancing at the detective, Sol pulls down his sleeve to show me the bulge in his wrist.
“Are you expecting to find a Port on the island?” I ask.
He looks away from me. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Fine,” I say final
ly. “Let’s make it a trio for setting sail.” I gesture Ulrich over. “Sol’s coming. If either of you starts clawing at the other one again, I’m throwing both of you overboard. So says the captain. Got it?”
Ulrich and Sol both nod, though they eye each other suspiciously. The former ducks into the lobster pound to speak with his buddy about borrowing a boat.
I hear muffled disagreement, followed by Ulrich saying “safety inspector.” A sour-faced man emerges and leads us to the promised vessel, a sad-looking rowboat scarred by salt and time.
“Dunno if I trust this for even the five-minute trip,” I say.
Ulrich scowls at me. “Feel free to go rent yourself a kayak down at Sagamore Creek, then. I’m taking this fine-ass ride.”
“And bringing it back spit-shined,” adds the lobsterman, who all in all does not strike me as Ulrich’s friend.
We climb into the boat, Ulrich takes up the oars, and we cross the harbor water to Round Island.
As the three of us debark at the dock, I note the “ferry” that Natalie alluded to. It’s as gaudy and douchey as I imagined, rife with gold trim and wood paneling, tricked out with massive speakers, its name painted on the prow in large glittering letters.
The door to Shaughnessy’s mansion thunders open and a tall, burly woman in a tightly wrapped headscarf bursts out.
“Who do you think you are?”
4
I give in to my natural inclinations and say, “I’m Divya Allard. This is—”
“You people are vultures, you know that?” the woman says. “Mr. Shaughnessy is suffering, and all you people care about is the next sensational headline.”
“Um,” Ulrich says. “We’re not reporters, lady.”
“Then who the hell are you, to barge onto a private island?” Before we can answer, she goes on: “Oh, I get it. More lawyers. From a different breed of carrion hunters—you can tell Mr. Shaughnessy’s beloved children that he’s doing fine. They’ll still get their inheritance…”
