Fatal Harbor (17 page)

Once I was dressed, the phone rang yet again, and this time it was the room’s phone. I picked it up, and the sympathetic desk clerk from earlier said, “Lewis? There’s someone down here who wants to see you.”

“Who is it?”

“She says she’s a reporter from the
Tyler Chronicle
.”

Paula Quinn. A lover from some time ago, a sweet friend, and someone who had nearly gotten killed the day Bronson Toles was shot. She had been standing next to him when the shot blew off his head, and later, the same shooter—Victor Toles—had tried a second time to kill her.

A rough couple of weeks, ending up with her pledging her undying love for me, and then going on a trip with her boyfriend out West.

This rotten day was going places I hadn’t even imagined.

“Tell her I’ll be right down.”

Paula was waiting for me in the lobby area of the Lafayette House. Her blond hair had been layered short in an attempt to hide her ears, which didn’t quite work, and it also managed to highlight her pug nose. She had on a knee-length black coat and she looked troubled, reporter’s notebook in her slim hands as I came over to her, a digital camera hanging from her shoulder.

“Oh, Lewis,” she said, and she came into my arms for a very long and warm hug. When we stepped apart, she said, “Your poor, poor house. . . .”

I could only nod. She touched my cheek. “How are you doing? I see you haven’t shaved in a while.”

“Not that great. At some point I’m going to have to go across the street and survey what’s left . . . if anything. Guess I should have packed a razor before I left.”

“Do you know what happened? How it started?”

“Not a thing. I was in Exonia, visiting Diane Woods, when I heard about the fire.”

“I just saw a guy arrive from the State Fire Marshal’s office before I came in here,” she said. “You want to go over and see him?”

“Not right now.”

Her eyebrows raised at that. “Not right now? Why not?”

“I’ve got something else going on. Look, what’s across the street isn’t going to leave any time soon.”

“But don’t you want to know if they think it was arson or accidental?”

I didn’t say anything. She eyed me. “You already know, don’t you?”

“Paula, you look great. How was your trip with the town counsel, Mister Sullivan?”

A flickering smile. “Did me lots of good. And please, his name’s Mark. You’re allowed to say his name.”

“Gee, thanks, I’ll remember that.”

“I tell you, we had a great, great time. Both of us. Him away from the town hall, me away from the newspaper. It was good to just be out there in Colorado, the two of us, with all those mountains. Did some skiing, visited some ghost towns, just relaxed. Now, good job on changing the subject, Lewis, but your house. You already know what happened, don’t you. Was it arson? Who could it be? I mean . . . oh.”

I glanced around the lobby to see if we were being watched. The lobby was covered with a colorful rug with comfortable chairs and settees, and a fireplace on the other side had a cheery little flame. Yeah, nice little trapped cheery flame, right where it belonged.

Paula said: “Before I left on my trip, you said you had something to do. Something about finding the guy who beat up Diane Woods. That’s what’s going on, isn’t it?”

“Is this Paula Quinn my friend asking me, or Paula Quinn assistant editor of the
Chronicle
?”

“By asking that,” she said, voice sharp, “you’re making an assumption that I’m not here as your friend.”

“I’m asking that,” I replied, “because I need to do something, and I don’t need the publicity, and Paula, I cherish you and what we have and all that, but my house is burning down at this moment, and I’m not in the best of moods.”

She slowly nodded. “Sorry.”

“No apologies needed. So you’re doing better?”

She smiled, lifted up her left hand, wiggled the fingers. I spotted the ring.

Something both sweet and sour went through me. “Congratulations, Paula. When’s the blessed event?”

“Next June.”

“Am I invited?”

“Stupid question. Of course.”

“Well, I’m thinking about the town counsel, I mean, Mark. I don’t think he cares that much for me.”

She leaned over, kissed me on the cheek. “I do, and that’s what counts.” There was a pause, and she said: “I need to tell you something. The day the sniper tried to shoot me at my condo, and when I hid out at your house, I said some things.”

Paula certainly had, I recalled, telling me that she had always loved me, and that she was my true love, and she was saying those things right up to when her boyfriend—now fiancé—had come to my house to pick her up.

“You were scared. You were in shock. I understand.”

She seemed relieved. “You okay?”

I shook my head. “About that, yes. About my house and everything else, no.”

That earned me another kiss on the cheek, and I went back up to my room, and she went back outside to the story.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

W
hen I finally left the Lafayette House, I drove out of the parking lot and did my best to avoid the scene across the street. People were still gathered around the rock knoll, looking down, and there was still some smoke drifting up, but I tried to keep my eyes on the road. I next made my way to Manchester, and the usually fifty-minute trip took nearly an hour and a half, because I went along some back roads and state roads, avoiding the major east-west highway that runs from Tyler to Manchester. The good thing was that I was driving Kara’s rattling Subaru, which meant it probably wasn’t carrying a tracking device. The bad thing was that with all the political bumper stickers attached to the rear, I was about as visible as an NRA member at a vegan convention.

In Manchester, the state’s largest city, I pulled into a neighborhood along the banks of the Amoskeag River, where huge brick mill buildings more than a century old had been converted into artists’ lofts, condos, office space, and restaurants. I checked my watch. Exactly noon. I parked at the far end of one long mill building, where the end unit hosted Fratello’s Restaurant, a grand Italian place that attracted a lot of the professionals who worked in the nearby renovated office spaces.

Last year, Felix and I had ended up here for a promised birthday dinner that had taken an odd turn. We were supposed to go to a small Italian eatery down the road in Bedford that had gotten rave reviews in the local newspapers, and when we got to the place, it was closed with a sign outside saying the owner/chef had unexpectedly become ill. Later, the owner/chef of that tiny Italian eatery was found at Logan Airport. In his car. In the trunk.

Felix had just shrugged his shoulders at the news and said, “Some people take their olive oil very seriously.”

So that day we had gone up to Manchester, and that dinner at Fratello’s had been a good one, with lots of delicious food, wine, laughter, and memories, but I had no illusion that today’s lunch would be as much fun or as memorable.

I went into the entranceway, and there standing by the hostess stand was Felix, who was talking to a young woman with raven hair and a snug red dress, who kept on pressing menus against her impressive chest as if trying to cool them down.

Felix turned to me, smiled. His skin was darker than usual, and he was finely dressed in a dark blue suit, light blue shirt, and red necktie. The coat had been expertly tailored to hold whatever weapon he was carrying this afternoon, while I made do with my Harris tweed.

A snug handshake, a slap on the shoulder. “Good to see you,” he said. “And what’s with the facial hair? You forget to shave or something?

“Good to see you, too,” I replied, and it was true, it did feel good. For the past several days, it seemed like Felix was the only one who knew who I was and where I was coming from. I rubbed at the bristle on my face and chin. “Truth is, I’ve been running so far and so fast, shaving’s been taking a back seat.”

The hostess came up to us but reserved her gaze for Felix. “Speaking of seats, let’s go find them.”

The place was busy, with lots of laughs and conversation. It was sprawling, with a second floor, and booths and round tables. The hostess led us to a quiet corner table and, after ordering drinks and meals, Felix sat back and asked, “How are you doing?”

“Lousy.”

“Go ahead.”

“My house burned down early this morning.”

His brown eyes narrowed. “Not funny.”

“I agree.”

“Lewis . . . for real?”

“Just under two hours ago, I left Tyler Beach. The fire trucks were there, as well as a couple of cops and some people pretending to be my neighbors. Plus an officer from the State Fire Marshal’s office, though it’s pretty damn obvious the fire didn’t start from somebody smoking in bed.”

For what seemed to be a first for him, Felix was at a loss for words. Our wine and our meals arrived, and we took the opportunity to eat. Felix had some complicated pasta dish with tomato sauce, sautéed vegetables, and eggplant. I, on the other hand, had a fettuccine Alfredo dish with lobster meat and scallops, and we threw caution and ceremony to the wind and had a nice New Zealand Pinot Noir to go with everything. Along the way, I told Felix what I had been up to, including my trip to D.C. and back.

At one point, knife and fork in hand, he said, “Sorry about Annie Wynn. She seemed to be a grand woman.”

“She is a grand woman,” I said. “She’s a strong, capable woman who is focused on getting her man elected president. She’s not in some planning board campaign for a small town or city. Up there where she is, the air is pretty intoxicating. I can’t fault her.”

“You’re a better man than me.”

“Which I’ve told you many times,” I said.

After we both paused to have another healthy swig of wine, I asked, “How’s your Aunt Teresa?”

“Adjusting to her new condo.”

“Her new what?”

“Condo. When I got her down to Florida, I did a quiet recon of her facility. Found out some muscular clean-cut men had been hanging around, asking questions about her and her favorite nephew. So I found her another place.”

“Felix, I’m sorry to hear that.”

He shook his head. “No worries. It’s a step up from where she was, the kitchen is bigger, she has her own private Jacuzzi, and she tells me the pool boys are much more attractive than the ones at her previous place.”

“But what’s going to happen in the spring? When she wants to go back to the North End?”

His eyes hardened. “I fully expect that this mess will be settled long before spring.”

I told him I didn’t disagree with that, and when our dining finally slowed down, Felix said, “Tell you a story?”

“Sure. Cops and . . . well, people of your persuasion always have the best stories.”

“Hah,” he said, breaking off a chunk of bread. “I think I might have just been insulted. But knowing you . . . maybe not.”

He chewed reflectively for a moment or two, then said: “Story begins in Providence. A number of years ago, when I was much younger, quicker, but still as handsome.”

“Rhode Island?” I asked innocently.

“No, you knucklehead, Nebraska. Of course Rhode Island. Funny how Boston and New York make all the papers and bestseller lists about what passes for organized crime these days, but Rhode Island is the most mobbed-up state in the Union. Anyway, this was when the Patriarca family was on the ropes because the old man was in prison. So up on Federal Hill, you had two associated families who were trying to keep the peace. You had Nicky Giovanni and Tony Messina. Neither as bright as old man Patriarca, but they wanted to keep things on an even keel so business wasn’t impacted.”

“Fascinating,” I said, spearing the last piece of lobster in my bowl.

“You kids are so impatient nowadays. So, one day Nicky Giovanni and Tony Messina are having coffee at some social club, and Nicky says, hey, Tony, you know, my house, the lawn and trees and bushes don’t look so good, and my wife, Carla, she’s busting my balls, you got any ideas? And Tony says, yeah, I got this Mick, his name is Callaghan, he’ll do a good job for you, no problem.”

“Ah, the Irish have arrived. Should get very interesting.”

“Yeah, it does. So Callaghan goes over and maybe he’s having a bad day, or maybe Nicky’s wife Carla doesn’t like the Irish, but Callaghan doesn’t get paid for his work. Callaghan complains to Nicky, and maybe Nicky’s having a bad day, and he tells Callaghan to piss off. So he goes to Tony, and Tony says, what, you’re bothering me with this little crap? Go away.”

I picked up the bottle of New Zealand Pinot Noir, finished off the bottle between our glasses. “Being as intimate as I am with the Irish, I guess this doesn’t end well.”

“Nope,” Felix said. “In fact, one weekend when Nicky and his family were away, Callaghan went to the house, wanting restitution, so he stole this marble statue of the Virgin Mary, a statue that had come over from the old country and was nearly a hundred years old. So Nicky went apeshit, because he knew Callaghan had stolen it. So he went to Tony, wanting it back, and Tony said, hell, ain’t my deal. You take care of it. And Nicky said, what the hell, you recommended the guy, and Tony said, doesn’t mean he’s my cousin, you idiot, and Nicky said, who the hell are you calling an idiot?”

“Sounds like Europe, about August 1914.”

“Good comparison. Insults get worse, tempers rise up, and before you know it, you got a full-scale gang war breaking out. Guys in the streets getting shot, laundromats getting burned down, cars blowing up. Meanwhile, Callaghan, seeing what’s going on and knowing that at some point blame’s coming his way in the guise of two in the hat, tries to do the right thing and make it right. So late one night, he tries to sneak back into Nicky’s yard and return the statue. But some nervous third cousin on guard duty sees somebody trying to climb over the fence with a sack slung over his back, and opens fire.”

I took a healthy sip of the Pinot. “Not going to end well, is it.”

“That’s for sure. Poor Callaghan takes a round to his ass, falls off the fence, and drops the Virgin Mary on the sidewalk, whereupon it breaks into a zillion pieces. Seeing this as a sign from above, Callaghan gets his ass stitched up and takes the next Aer Lingus flight back to the home country. Eventually the gang war peters out, but my God, what a mess. Even though a peace was worked out, there are still old goombahs down there in Providence who are holding a grudge over that landscape guy and the broken statue.”