Once Burned (Task Force Eagle) (10 page)

Chapter 10

Brushing mist droplets from her nose, Lani entered the
Tidewater Marina store the next morning. The tang of salt and a hint of ozone
hung in the damp air. The old salts in the Cuppa-’n-Suppa had called yesterday’s
brilliant day a weather breeder. Looked like they were right.

She still reeled from Jake’s revelations. Everything
was turned upside down, herself included. Who in D Harbor would know how to buy
explosives from a Mexican cartel? If a professional set the Tyson fire, he
might not be local. But who would hire—? Oh, wait, someone who would murder and
set a fire to cover it up but who wanted no connection to a second
arson-murder. Maybe his tangled web would be his undoing.

When they’d returned to the dock, Jake suggested a
cookout on the deck, but she demurred. Hard enough to resist her attraction to
the man without candlelight and wine. Not that having him come to the house to
install locks this evening was much better. But it gave her more time to shore
up her defenses.

She meandered along the aisles until she spotted Mike
Spear. He was waiting on a lobsterman who needed rope but who seemed more
inclined to complain about careless yachters “from away.” He claimed propellers
had cut his trap lines.

Mike was a big man with a thick crew cut and a square
jaw. He looked to be in his late thirties. Twelve years ago he’d have been only
a few years older than Gail and her, almost a peer. Gail might’ve confided in
him or his wife.

While she waited, she wandered down another aisle in
the Tidewater Marina. Roofing nails, light bulbs, and wood stain filled shelves
across from depth gauges, boat hooks, and life jackets. In a peninsula village
without a hardware store, a marina had to fill the gap to stay afloat.

Plucking a deadbolt assembly from the wall display of
doorknobs and locks, she sagged. Replacing the locks on the farmhouse doors
meant replacing history. Modernizing the place somehow desecrated its memories,
its integrity. But Jake was right. She needed solid, secure locks. Whoever
bought the place would change more than the locks.

“Can I help you find something?”

At the deep, mellow voice, thick with Down-East
intonation, she looked up to see the man she’d come to talk to. She explained
what she needed.

Mike’s gaze skimmed her scar before meeting hers. A
wide grin crinkled his brown eyes at the corners and transformed his rugged
features from harsh to handsome and charming.

She smiled back as she explained.

“You’re in the right place,” he said. “Got the best
locks on the market.” He cocked his head and winked. “Unless you want to go
high tech. You’d need a locksmith in that case.”

“What you have is fine.”

“
Finest kind
is what I have.” He chuckled at
his application of the old Maine expression and picked up a brass-finish deadbolt.
“This LokMan’s a jimmy-proof vertical bolt, double cylinder.”

Lani didn’t know what all that meant but accepted it.
The price wasn’t too bad. “Is this your best?”

“One of ‘em. Miss Ida Hallowell bought this one. She
told me she wanted a jimmy-proof lock because it’d keep out her no-good nephew
Jimmy. Although she’s ninety plus, she’s still sharp. I think she was puttin’
me on.”

A laugh bubbled up in spite of her serious purpose. He
showed her more locks, interspersing anecdotes with their descriptions. His
ebullience relaxed her taut nerves.

After she chose new door handles and deadbolts, she
introduced herself. “You probably don’t remember me, but my sister Gail used to
babysit your son in the summers.”

Mike Spear’s smile fell as if she’d slugged him
between the eyes with one of the locks. “I remember Gail.”

She waited for the inevitable sympathetic clucking but
it never came. “My memory the night of the fire is really spotty. I want to
understand what happened.”

“Terrible tragedy.” He turned, no more the jovial
salesman. All business, he carried her choices to a counter.

Thanks for the compassion and sympathy, you
insensitive toad.
Okay. Lani could be all business too,
her
business. “Mike, did Gail ever mention to you or your wife anything about
troubles with a guy she was seeing?”

He padlocked his gaze to her purchases as he entered
them in the cash register. “Don’t think so. Mostly we talked about Josh, what
time me and Patty’d be back, stuff like that. No time to jaw about anything
else.”

“Maybe your wife would know?”

“Doubt she’d remember anything. They didn’t talk much.”

“Maybe I’ll go talk to Patty. She works at the hair
salon, right?”

“She’s pretty busy. Be better if I ask her later,” he
said, his jaw tight enough to crack walnuts. “You want me to?”

Do I want? We’re only talking murder here, jerko.
The retort was on the tip of her tongue but he didn’t know it was murder. She
hoped. She manufactured a smile. “Sure. That’d be great. I’ll check back with
you in a couple days.”

After bagging her purchases, he vanished down an aisle
so fast the New England Patriots ought to sign him up as a running back.

Outside in her rental car, she stared through the misted
windshield at the glass double-doors. Maybe Mike was uncomfortable with
emotional stuff. The strong silent type unless he was selling you something.

But psychology courses and years of working with
evasive kids told her no. When she mentioned Gail, he went from Chatty Carl to
Silent Sam like a door slamming. He wouldn’t meet her gaze and hustled her out
of the store.

Mike Spear said he knew nothing. She didn’t buy it. He
was lying. She started the engine and backed out. No better time to find Patty
at the Color and Curl.

*****

“Appreciate your time, Otis. I’ve enjoyed our chat.”
Jake shook the man’s gnarled hand.

“Glad to help,” the old man said. “Shame about your
ma. Too young to have that Old Timer’s disease.” He shook his head in sorrow.

“Absolutely.” Jake thanked him and picked up the bill
for their pie and coffee. He left a tip on the yellow laminate counter. After
paying at the cash register, he left the Cuppa-’n-Suppa.

Outside he zipped his windbreaker against the chilling
fog that had crept in during the night. Mist hung in the air, clinging to
anything and anyone. Droplets beaded his face and hair before he took the three
steps to his Cherokee.

He didn’t care. He’d finally hit on a way other than
the Wheelhouse to dig up local dirt.

Otis, an old pal of his granddad’s, and a bunch of
cronies met every Tuesday and Friday at the diner for coffee and reminiscing.
Afterward in good weather they hung around the harbor. They knew local routines
better than he did and might spot someone or something he hadn’t. If there was
anyone suspicious in town or in the harbor, Otis would let him know.

Background checks on the harbormaster and some of the
lobstermen turned up zip. Too soon to have anything on Brandon. He was heading
up the peninsula, heater on against the damp, when his phone trilled.

“Hey, you all right?” Hank said. “What’s this I saw in
the
Telegram
about you and Lani Cameron? Another damsel in distress?”

Jake shrugged to convey nonchalance even though he
knew his brother couldn’t see him. “Seems our interests intersect. No big deal.”

“Ri-ight. Bet she’s filled out some since her teens.
Still...um, spirited? Or did that fire change her?”

Change her? The fire had changed them both. That night
had turned him in directions he’d never have taken otherwise. But Lani? The
fire had tempered her like steel. He grinned, picturing her hands propped on
the sweet curve of her hips and the sparks shooting from her eyes. “Still holds
her own.”

Thomas chuckled. “How’s Ma?”

“Saw her yesterday afternoon. Took her some of the tea
she favors. Seemed to perk her up some.” The brothers talked a few minutes
about Hank’s son and his wife’s return.

As soon as Jake disconnected, his cell rang again.

This time it was his task-force contact. “Status
report, Wescott? Or are you still partying on that yacht of yours?”

“You should do stand-up, Donovan.” Jake pictured the
club audience snoring in their martinis. “Briefed Lani Cameron. She’s scared
but on board. Going to her house tonight to plan strategy. I want to keep her
out of it as much as possible.”

“Won’t work. She’s the key to drawing out Vargas and
his local partner.”

“Afraid you’d say that.” Lani would never agree to
fade into the wallpaper anyway. He was stuck watching over her. His gut
clenched at the thought. For more than one reason. “What’ve you got on your
end?”

“Dick. We might as well have our UC guy carry a neon
sign announcing he’s a Fed after Vargas killed Ruiz. They’re not biting. But
some of the weapons have been moved into Maine. You might see some action on
your end.”

Not likely. But Jake made hopeful murmurs. He thought
better of telling Donovan about his dad’s old buddies keeping watch. Unorthodox
didn’t fly with the Feds. “I should have something here in a few days. Progress
on the old arson case might lead somewhere for us. I need you to do another
background check.”

“Shoot.”

Jake gave him what he knew on Kevin Meagher before
ending the conversation.

When he reached Route One, he turned right toward the
county seat. Originally a limestone and fishing town, Bayport had morphed in
recent years to an arts and tourist destination. Good in some ways, bad in
others. Dismay pursed his mouth as he passed the chain restaurants and big-box
stores that had displaced local, unique ones.

He pulled into the paved parking lot of Meagher
Enterprises. Now here was one business that continued to thrive. Beyond the new
brick office building spread an array of outbuildings. Not too shabby, as old
Otis would say. Earth moving, foundations, industrial developments—Meagher did
it all.

Kevin had invited him to stop by this morning. Jake
intended to find out more about his old buddy’s interest in Gail. If he’d
followed up on that interest, Jake wanted to know.

Inside the office building, Tammy Meagher, a younger
and slimmer version of her brother, greeted him from her desk. “Kevin’s about
finished with a meeting. Have a seat.”

“Place looks great,” he said, taking a leather-padded
wooden chair beside a blue loveseat.

Tammy wrinkled her nose and beamed a smile. “Except
for this ugly gray carpet. Gotta have one that can withstand muddy boots.” She
returned to her computer.

He perused an
Architectural Digest
while he
waited. But he couldn’t concentrate on the beautiful houses for beautiful
people. Houses he’d once dreamed of building. In spite of the reason he’d gone
into law enforcement, the work suited him.

His thoughts drifted to earlier that morning. Down at
the far end of the docks, he’d spotted the red speedboat, silver lightning
bolts on the side. When he described the reckless attack to the harbormaster,
Ed Pascal said the boat belonged to a Boston family who came only weekends. No
one should’ve been out in it midweek. Sometimes people were careless and left
the keys under the seat. He promised to check into the matter, saying it was
probably kids goofing around.

Too coincidental. Little fucking chance of finding out
who actually drove that racy boat.

After that he spotted Lani’s VW at Tidewater Marina.
Safe enough if she took her new locks home and stayed there afterward. Not
likely. Fear for what might happen if he couldn’t protect her dumped more sharp
implements in his gut.

“Hey, Jake. Glad you could make it.”

Jake looked up to see Kevin marching toward him,
grinning his campaign-trail toothiest.

“Wouldn’t have missed it, buddy.” He swept his arm in
a broad gesture. “Damned impressive. I remember that little house the company
used to be in.”

“Tore that old eyesore down when we built this.” He
ushered Jake down a hall. “Let me give you the tour.”

Jake made appreciative noises as Kevin showed him the
conference room and other offices. He introduced him to draftsmen using
computers to draw plans. A completed plan cranked out of a blueprint-sized
printer. When they left the bookkeeper’s office, J.T. was striding down the
hall.

What had been salt-and-pepper hair was now silver to
match his gray eyes. Unlike his son, he’d maintained his trim waistline and
angular features. J.T. pumped his hand as if he
was running for office
instead of his son and Jake had a hundred votes in his pocket. “Good to see
you. Kevin said you might drop by.”

“Thanks. Good to see you too, sir. Been a long time.”
Jake jerked a nod at Kevin. “You must be proud of your son. I hear he’s doing
well in the polls. After November, we’ll be addressing him as Mr. Congressman.”

Kevin’s wide countenance lit up. “Mr. Congressman. Has
a nice ring.”

J.T.’s brows lowered, nearly hiding his deep-set eyes.
“Won’t happen if the boy doesn’t hustle more.” He turned to his son. “You have
a speech scheduled tonight?”

Color bloomed on Kevin’s cheeks. He shifted his feet. “Not
tonight. Got one tomorrow night in Brunswick though.”

J.T. wagged his head in obvious disappointment. “When
I ran for Congress, I was out every night on the stump.”

Some things never changed. Jake felt his friend’s
discomfiture in his own heated face. He saw Kevin’s compressed mouth and
wondered if he was biting back the rejoinder that J.T. had lost that election.

Whatever Kevin accomplished would never be good enough
for J.T. His older brother by two years, John Thayne Meagher, Junior, had died
in a car accident a few years after college. He’d been the golden boy, the son
J.T. set his hopes on to succeed him in the business and in politics. Not
Kevin.