Black Tide (43 page)

A longer pause, and then Roger said quietly, "You're working on something that's not going to get my ass fried, right?"

''Absolutely,'' I said, and the doodles on the pad became darker as I pressed down on my pen. In the afternoon light the ocean swells seemed gentler. I could make out the bobbing colors of the lobster buoys, waiting to be retrieved. I thought I could feel my breathing and my heart rate slow down as I waited for Roger Krohn's answer.

"One Cameron Briggs," he said simply. "He's there, Lewis."

"Thank you," I managed to say. "What do they have on him?"

“Just a scoping document. Somebody in the Suffolk County DA's office thought Corelli and Cameron Briggs had a secret business relationship. Some favors done back and forth, but like I said, no arrests. No recommendations."

No arrests, but a piece of paper that opened up a lot of doors, a lot of possibilities. "I owe you one, Roger."

"That you do," he said, "and we'll talk about that later. I'll be interested in what you've got, but in the meantime, I've got to get going. Want to get together this afternoon for a beer?"

"No, I'm afraid I'm meeting someone about then."

"Well, okay, then," he said. "We'll see about tomorrow."

"That's fine."

After I hung up the phone I held the pad of paper tight in my hands and brought it against my chest, and thought of dinner tonight with Felix Tinios, and how much I was going to enjoy that, for it had been a long time since I had impressed Felix with anything.

Jimmy Corelli, a Boston organized crime leader. Cameron Briggs, wealthy New England businessman. Craig Dummer, security cop and art lover.

Three men. Three Winslow Horner paintings. All together, in one package, and now, with just one survivor.

"Oh, Felix," I whispered, and I waited for the afternoon to drift by.

I met Felix at 6 P.M. sharp at a tiny restaurant called Rick's Place, which is in a small business complex on Route 108 in Exonia, a couple of miles away from downtown. The interior was tables and booths against one wall, with an L-shaped bar in one corner. It was quiet, small and out-of-the-way, and I guess it was perfect for Felix's needs. We both ate quickly and without much conversation, and I was almost trembling with excitement, knowing what tales I would tell Felix. We ignored the dessert menu, and when the check carne Felix looked at me and said, "You've got something, don't you?"

"What?"

"The way you've been sitting, the way you bolted through your cheeseburger and everything else, Lewis. You've got something."

My mood was such that I didn't mind being made by Felix. "That I do. A lot."

"Something about the paintings?"

I leaned forward. "Everything about the paintings, Felix."

He slowly nodded and said, "Go on."

So I told him. Told him that Craig Dummer was dead, blown away and dragged out of his mobile home in Exonia, but in his death he had left behind some important evidence. The silencer-equipped pistol and face mask, and the paychecks linking Craig to Cameron Briggs. And then there was Cameron Briggs, a few years ago for having contacts with Jimmy Corelli after that incident, three paintings were stolen from the Scribner Museum and then ended up at a safe house owned by Jimmy Corelli, and after he was fired, Craig Dummer gets what amounts to a lifelong job with companies owned or controlled by Cameron Briggs.

Throughout the conversation, Felix listened carefully, his head cocked slightly, like a hunting dog hearing the sounds of something rasping about in the brush. Not once did he look away, and not once did he ask any questions. He just listened, comparing what I was telling him with what he knew.

When I was finished, I said, "It looks pretty clipped together, Felix. Five years ago Jimmy Corelli had those paintings stolen for Cameron Briggs, using the aid and assistance of Craig Dummer, guard at the museum. Then there's a screw-up and the paintings end up at Corelli's safe house. Along the way Craig Dummer somehow finds out that Cameron Briggs was the customer, was The Man, and Cameron gave him lifelong employment to keep him quiet."

Felix shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. "But why keep him working? Wouldn't it have been just as easy to give him the money without going through the hassle of finding him a job every year or so?"

"Remember what Justin Dix told me earlier," I said. "Right after the theft, Craig and the other guard were under suspicion and were probably under surveillance for quite some time. Having Craig sit around and support himself with no job would have raised a lot of questions. But having him survive on dead-end security guard jobs, well, that makes sense. Nothing out of the ordinary. "

Felix began playing with the salt and pepper shakers, moving them about in his big hand. They made tiny clicking noises. It sounded as if he was getting ready to roll bones. "So there's a screw-up and the paintings sit still for five years," he said, speaking in a thoughtful tone. "Cameron Briggs wonders where his paintings are, and Craig Dummer wonders if he's ever going to do more than just guard pieces of computers. Maybe Craig was promised a big bonus when the paintings were delivered safely, and he was still waiting for that."

I nodded back and said, "Then Tony Russo finds out five years later that the paintings are at a safe house owned by Jimmy Corelli, a house that's in Maine. After a bit of checking, he finds out that Felix Tinios of North Tyler, New Hampshire, is the only one who knows that particular address. After some dark work he meets with you and me at a restaurant in Porter, and after some negotiations and some talking back and forth, he ends up dead in the parking lot. Killed by Craig Dummer."

Felix looked at me sharply. "Why do you say that? What makes you think the shooter was Craig Dummer?"

I told him about the calendar note, and Felix shrugged. ''A note that could mean almost anything. You got better than that?"

"Yeah, because the pistol and the face mask were in his--- Oh. Just because they were there doesn't mean he used them. Whoever killed Craig Dummer could have planted the mask and the gun."

Felix nodded. "Exactly. So then try this one for size. What was one of the last things that Tony Russo said as we were going to the parking lot?"

"He said we were going to meet with the buyer. He said the buyer was waiting in the car, and wanted to meet you, Felix."

"That's right. So maybe Tony --- God rest his miserable soul ---- maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe the buyer was waiting outside, and that was your Cameron Briggs. Except that somewhere between the first drink and the check, he got out and loaded up and waited for Tony near the fence and bushes, waiting to eliminate a guy who could prove to be trouble later on. Sound reasonable?"

"Could be."

"This Cameron Briggs of yours. Does he have it, Lewis? Does he have what it takes to put down a guy like Tony Russo?"

I remembered what Paula Quinn had said earlier about Cameron Briggs, how there was no life in that man's eyes. "It's quite possible, Felix."

Then Felix's look darkened and he said, "You know something about this guy?"

"Yeah, I do. I found out he's the nitwit who owns the
Petro Star
, the tanker that had the oil spill in June."

"Jesus. I had to move out of my house for a month because of the stench when that happened. I'm beginning to like him just fine, Lewis. Where does he live?"

"On Atlantic Avenue in Wallis."

By now Felix's skin was flushed, and I was wondering about his heartbeat. "Makes sense, my friend. He lives a couple of miles up the road from my house."

I sipped at the rest of my ice water, for my throat was quite dry. "You think that's where your cousin Sal ended up?"

"Why not? You got a better place?"

I thought of Cameron Briggs's home, on a fairly quiet stretch of Atlantic Avenue. Lots of property with hedges and trees. You could bring someone in and come out with a corpse in the early morning hours, and there was a very good chance that nothing that went on would be witnessed. A very easy trip over the berm and into the ocean.

"No," I finally said. "I don't."

By then the restaurant's single waitress had come by to pick up the check. As the waitress stood at the cash register and started talking to the bartender, I said, "Cameron Briggs, Jimmy Corelli and Craig Dummer. But there's a couple of names missing. "

"Oh? Really?"

"Yeah. The two fake Manchester cops. Had to be someone extra --- I don't think Cameron Briggs would have been out there skulking around."

Felix looked over his shoulder and sighed at the sight of the waitress still jawing with the bartender. "Simple answer. From Corelli's organization."

"Guys disguised as cops?" Felix grunted. "Hah. Lewis, a crew like Corelli's, it was probably real cops. He had them on the payroll. Probably took of ‘em from his crowd and sent them up to Manchester to do job."

The waitress finally came back with a handful of change, which neither Felix nor I touched. Felix wiped his hands with a napkin.  The back of my neck suddenly hurt and I held on to my glass and said, "Felix?"

"Yeah?"

''Any names come to mind?"

"What?" I swirled the glass for a moment. "You used to work with Corelli. You got contacts down there. Any names come to mind of cops who used to be on the payroll? Who might know their way around Manchester?"

Felix swore something in Italian and scooped up the change that represented the waitress's forlorn tip, and he said, "I'm heading for a pay phone. You hold on."

Which is what I did. The waitress looked over at me and gave me a weak smile, and from my wallet I pulled out three singles and shoved them under the plate that held my half-eaten cheeseburger. Felix came back and slapped me on the side of the shoulder and said, "You feel like going for a ride?"

I smiled up at him. "Why the hell not?"

In just an hour a lot of things can happen, and on this particular night, sixty minutes took me from a small town in southeastern New Hampshire to the famous North End of Boston, thanks to the ghost of President Eisenhower and the Highway Civil Defense Act of 1956. A true fact, one that is still not well known: the nation's interstate highway system wasn't built for commerce or travel or for anything having to do with peace. It was built in the 1950s for war, to speed up the transportation of troops and heavy supplies across the nation, against a forgotten foe once called the Soviet Union. Ask most students today about the Soviet Union and the Highway Civil Defense Act and you get a blank look, which is all right, according to the education experts. We're not supposed to be filling those young minds with rote facts. As to what we're filling them with instead, I'm not sure.

As for the North End, luckily the Highway Civil Defense Act had nothing to do with its traditional neighborhoods. The streets were narrow and winding, and most of the buildings were brick with granite stoops. Old men and women --- some leaning on canes--- sat outside on the narrow sidewalks in chairs and looked up at us as we drove by.

Felix laughed when he saw that I had noticed them.

"Nice-looking old folks, right?" he asked. "Look peaceful and quiet, just nodding off the years and collecting Social Security. Right?"

"Why do I get the feeling that you're putting me on?"

He laughed again. "Because I am. This is one of the last neighborhoods in this city --- hell, maybe in this state --- that have old folks like that. They're this neighborhood's intelligence service, Lewis, and they're working tonight as early-warning radar. In a matter of a couple of minutes, a few good men in some of these brick buildings are going to know we're here tonight. But then again, I don't have to lecture you on intelligence agencies, right?"

''Absolutely."

"One of these days, I'll get you to talk, you old spook."

"Maybe so," I agreed. "But this isn't one of those days."

That gained me a wide grin, and he found a parking spot and we stepped out and Felix locked the doors to his rental car, which was a light gray Lumina this warm evening. We began walking and I noticed Felix's odd gait. He had on black wrestling sneakers, designer jeans and a billowy summer shirt that hung over his waist, and I said, "Carrying, right?"

"You got it."

"I thought this was your home base, your own turf."

"That it is, but that doesn't mean there might not be trouble afoot. Some old guys around here probably don't have fond memories of me, and those who do have fond memories of me might be hard to get a hold of in time to intervene if something gets started. So I carry, just to be on the safe side."

“But here?" I said, a slight tinge of humor seasoning my voice. "I've always heard that this is the safest neighborhood in the city, a place that's home."

''And home is always the most dangerous place to be, Lewis.  Look it up. That's where most murders take place. In the home."

I couldn't argue with that, and I followed him as he led me through the alleyways and crooked streets of the North End. It was a slightly comforting feeling, being in a strange and alien place and having a friendly guide along to show you where to go. I've not traveled much in my life, and I've always thought how pleasurable it would be to go to the most remote mountains of the old Soviet Asia, to the wide deserts of Australia and the hot jungles of equatorial Africa, but on all of these trips I would like to have a reputable friend and guide along. Not a guide-for-hire; just an old friend who knows the ropes and who’ll watch your back and make sure that your corpse doesn't end up being a burden on the local embassy.