Fatal Harbor (25 page)

“Not at the moment.”

“I didn’t think so. Plus there’s the fact that your own house burned down a few days ago, also by arson. Hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

I rattled the handcuff again. “They happen, don’t they.”

“In my line of work, we hate coincidences.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“We’ll see just how sorry you can be, Lewis.”

I moved some in my hospital bed, thrilled I could move without a bolt of pain searing its way up my leg like lightning.

“Go ahead.”

“Here’s the deal. Not open to negotiation.”

“Gee, I love it already,” I said.

“Look, you’ve managed to skate through a number of things over the years because of your relationship with Detective Woods. That’s understandable. But she’s still in a coma, and she’s not in a position to help you. Nobody can help you.”

“Except for you, right?”

“Right now I’m your best friend, Lewis. So the deal is, tell me what the hell you were doing up there, who those people are, and what the hell happened. Tell me and I’ll be on your side. I’ll do what I can to protect you, and I’ll do what I can with the Attorney General’s office.”

I rattled the handcuff again.

“Am I under arrest?”

“Depends on what you say.”

“Then I can’t say anything else, Detective.”

He sighed, stood up, and officially put me under arrest, using the standard Miranda warning.

“What charges, then?” I asked.

“Arson, for one. Three homicides, for another, if we’re lucky.”

“Won’t stick.”

He gave me a sly smile. “Sorry, Lewis. You’re not in Wentworth County any more. Here, you’ve put Grafton County in a bad spot, you were found next to the destruction of one of the oldest and finest homes in Osgood, and three burned bodies without heads tends to get people’s attention. Not particularly something that a judge will let you out on bail for. I got a strong feeling they’re going to go hardcore on your ass.”

“I suppose I’ll just have to do my best,” I said. “Is this when I get my sole phone call?”

He took out his cell phone, switched it on, and passed it over to me. “I’ll be right back.”

I dialed a number from memory, back when a special woman resided in Boston, and left a detailed message with the young man who answered. Then after I said good-bye, Detective Renzi came back into my room, held out his hand.

“You got your call,” he said. “Let’s have the phone.”

“How about another phone call?”

He took the phone away. “State says you get one, and you just got it. And in case you think about breaking free and shuffling away, there’s going to be a state trooper sitting outside your room.”

“Didn’t expect anything else.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Later that night, the same nurse as before with the colorful scrubs and the fine blond hair came in to help me with dinner. Her name was Lynn. My meal was sliced turkey with gravy, stuffing, and mashed potatoes, and she helped me cut up my food so I could eat it with one hand. When I was done, she came back and helped me clean up and looked at my empty plate.

“Looks like you have one heck of an appetite.”

“If you knew what I had been eating the past couple of days, you wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Really?”

“Helpful hint,” I said. “Gourmet freeze-dried food isn’t.”

She laughed and said, “You know, you don’t look like a dangerous criminal.”

“Really, I’m not,” I said. “I’m quite gentle.”

“So what are you being charged with?” Lynn asked, picking up my dinner tray.

“Trespassing with evil intent, I think.”

That got me a cheerful laugh, and I said: “Ask a favor?”

“As long as it’s not a handcuff key or a file.”

“My room phone is dead. I’m sure the State Police had something to do with it. Could you call somebody for me?”

She shifted the tray, seemed reluctant. “Just a friend,” I added. “She’s in a coma in Exonia Hospital, and I just wanted to check on her condition.”

She bit her lower lip, said, “Give me a sec.”

Lynn went out and came back with a pen and notepad. I gave her Kara Miles’s name and phone number, and she left. Five minutes later, she came back and said: “Your friend Kara says it was good to hear from you, she hopes you get out soon, and nothing’s changed with Diane.”

I nodded. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Another smile. “Glad to help a prisoner of society.”

After she left, I settled into my bed, winced just a bit, and checked my television. The listings for the evening included “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown,” and I saw that as a good sign.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

T
he next morning at about 11
A
.
M
., my little hospital room was fairly crowded. In addition to myself, there was Detective Pete Renzi; a fierce-looking young woman in a dark gray power suit, who was an assistant attorney general for the State of New Hampshire; a tall balding man with black robes, who was District Court Judge Jaden Bobbett; and Raymond Drake, an attorney from Boston, who was my representation. Drake was wearing a well-cut suit that was probably worth more than my entire wardrobe—or what was left of it—and he was definitely the most unpopular man in the room.

For one thing, he was a lawyer—insert your own lawyer joke here—and for his second strike, he was a defense attorney, and for his third strike, he was from the dreaded People’s Republic of Massachusetts. Even though he had been admitted to the New Hampshire Bar, he was still considered an outsider by Renzi, Judge Bobbett, and the assistant attorney general.

Still, he was
my
outsider. Some years ago, while practicing in Boston, he had come up against someone who was a business associate of Felix Tinios, and a disagreement arose. Drake was used to settling disputes in well-lit courtrooms with rows of benches and comfortable chairs, but his opponent was more inclined to see things in black and white. Long story short, Drake found himself on the proverbial one-way trip out to Boston Harbor, wrapped in chains in the back of a cabin cruiser, when Felix had intervened and saved him.

Ever since then, he’s been in Felix’s debt, and has always helped for free when the time came.

Like now.

The assistant AG, with a severely cut blond hairstyle and wearing black-rimmed glasses, got right to it. “Your Honor, in this matter, the people are seeking a remand for Mister Cole. He is linked to an arson that destroyed a home worth nearly a million dollars that was of great historical importance to the town of Osgood, and we believe he will soon be linked to the matter of three male homicide victims who were later found in the debris.”

Drake smiled. His skin was always permanently tanned, and he wore gold rings and jewelry on both wrists. His gray hair was finely cut and trimmed, and his blue eyes seemed bright with the thought of going to battle on my behalf.

“Your Honor, if I may, I’ve gone over the preliminary paperwork, and it seems that traces of gasoline were found on Mister Cole’s pants cuff and one of his sneakers,” he said in a calm voice that sounded like it belonged on NPR. “The state fire marshal’s office has also determined that an ‘accelerant’ was used to start the fire in question in Osgood. Now, the way I see it, the only connection between Mister Cole and the fire is that in both cases, hydrocarbons are involved. But I don’t see any evidence that the gasoline found on Mister Cole’s pants is the same type of accelerant used in the fire. He could have gotten gasoline on himself in filling up his vehicle. Or trimming hedgework. Or cutting down a tree.”

The assistant AG instantly responded. “We’d also like to point out, Your Honor, that a few days ago, Mister Cole’s home in Tyler Beach was destroyed by arson. It’s reasonable to infer that the house in Osgood was burned down in some sort of act of revenge.”

Drake didn’t let that one slide. “Your Honor, the Osgood residence that burned down is owned, as far as we can determine, by a real estate trust company based in Los Gatos, California. To think Mister Cole burned down a house in Osgood due to a grudge against someone thousands of miles away is a stretch. My learned friend from the attorney general’s office looks quite presentable today; one could infer that she was chauffeured here in a limousine, but I think we would all agree that’s a fairly poor assumption. Again, where is the evidence?”

The attorney general was a spunky sort and didn’t give up easily. “Your Honor, once the fire was extinguished, arson investigators and the State Police located three male bodies in the debris. Initial medical examination determined that they had died prior to the fire being set. Two of them appeared to have been bound, and all had their heads severed.”

Judge Bobbett blinked a couple of times, got Detective Renzi’s attention. “Do you have any more information to add to that, Detective Renzi?”

“I do not, Your Honor.”

“I see.”

Drake spoke up. “If I may . . . Your Honor, it’s said that all three men were missing their heads. Have their heads been located?”

Renzi shook his head in disgust. “Not at the present time.”

Drake smiled, gestured toward me. “As you can tell, Your Honor, my client has been grievously wounded with a bullet to his right leg. Is the State truly saying that my client managed to overcome three men, sever their heads, and set the house on fire, all with a bullet wound to his leg?”

The judge looked to Renzi and the assistant attorney general. She said: “The investigation is continuing, Your Honor, and the State is confident that more evidence connecting Mister Cole to these crimes will be found shortly. That’s why we’re asking for no bail. It’s obvious that Mister Cole is a threat to the community.”

Judge Bobbett said, “Well, Mister Drake, you’ve heard what the State has to say. What amount would you be seeking for bail for your client?”

He held out his tanned hands. “Your Honor, we recognize the severity of the crime, but Mister Cole has resided for some time in Tyler Beach, has connections to the area, and with that bullet wound is definitely not a flight risk. We think one hundred thousand dollars, cash or surety, would be quite equitable. We would also agree to Mister Cole surrendering his passport and wearing a monitor bracelet.”

“Is he employed?” the judge asked.

Drake paused, and I knew the judge had struck home with the question. “Mister Cole has been a long-time columnist for the Boston-based magazine called
Shoreline
. He has left their employ and is now a freelance writer.”

Judge Bobbett looked at me. “Is that true, Mister Cole?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you sold many articles since leaving your job?”

“Not a one, sir.”

“And Mister Cole, do you have a permanent residence?”

“Not at the moment, sir. As the assistant attorney general so capably pointed out, it burned down a few days ago.”

“I see . . . Mister Drake, we certainly have a situation here, don’t we.”

“That we do, Your Honor.”

“It might be good for all concerned for your client to give the State Police a full and truthful account of what happened that night in Osgood.”

Drake hesitated. “It might be good for all concerned, Your Honor, but I must look out for the best interests of my client. Which is why I’m advising him not to say a word.”

A brief nod. “Which is your right. Well.” Judge Bobbett looked down at his papers and said: “This is how it’s going to be, I’m afraid. Mister Drake, you have done an admirable job in representing your client’s interests, but at the end of the day, we have a home destroyed, three dead men with their heads missing, and your client. Who, by chance, was in the vicinity of said home, with accelerant evidence on his clothes and a bullet wound to his leg. Mister Cole could do the right thing and tell investigators what happened. He’s decided not to. His right. But I’m going to agree with the State’s request. No bail.”

That was that. Detective Renzi looked happy, the assistant attorney general looked happy, and the judge looked somber. Duty done.

Some paperwork was exchanged and examined, and the judge said: “Mister Cole, once your doctor says you can be moved, you’re going to be transferred to the Grafton County Jail’s medical wing. From there, we will be in contact with your attorney for an upcoming date for a probable-cause hearing.”

“I understand, sir.”

The judge gathered up his papers, put them into a soft leather briefcase. “If I can say something unofficially, I’ve looked at your background. Over the years, you’ve been in police custody on a number of occasions, but you’ve never been prosecuted. I’d say that today, your luck has run out. Despite what your attorney has advised you, do consider cooperating with investigators.”

“I’ll certainly keep that in mind,” I said.

Judge Bobbett said, “I doubt it, but I had to say it.”

Then the full complement of legal and police authorities of the State of New Hampshire left, and Renzi closed my hospital door behind him.

Drake moved his chair closer to my bed. “Sorry, Lewis. Did my best. That sucked.”

“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself,” I said. “At least you get to go home tonight.”

“Yeah, but it’s a hell of a drive. Interstate 89 has got to be the most boring road in all of New England.”

“Agreed. So what now?”

“You tell me.”

“Thought it was the other way around.”

He laughed. “Sure. In normal cases. But this ain’t normal, Lewis. So I’m going to do my very best to get you out, and if I can’t do that, I’ll do my very, very best to get a not-guilty verdict if and when this goes to trial.”

I slowly nodded. “Can’t ask for more than that.”

He began putting his own papers away. “Anything else you’d like to tell me about what’s going on?”

I looked out the window at the near peaks of the White Mountains. So very fine, so very far away. “Over the years, I’m sure you’ve seen those action-adventure movies, right? The ones with high-powered conspiracies, dark shadows, bad guys. Usually there are lots of gunfights, explosions, and fires. Action, action, action. But if you look closely at those movies, there are always some innocents in the background who get hurt, get killed, get run over. They’re forgotten within seconds. The big guys, the protagonists, they go on their way.”