The Catch (21 page)

“She did.”

“I want to show you what I can—where I went, give you names, stuff like that—but it may all be different by now. It doesn’t take long, and from what I heard through the grapevine, it’s all being dumped on its ass anyhow, what with Roz getting killed.”

“What did you hear?”

“Just that. No names, no nothin’. In fact, that’s one of the interesting things about it—real quiet. Course, my sources aren’t what they used to be. I don’t hang out with the old crowd—don’t want anything to do with them. But you know how it is with day-to-day conversation. You hear things, even if you’re not asking.”

“How was it when you were interested in joining up?” Joe asked, as much to keep the conversation going as to gain actual knowledge. He wasn’t here, after all, to cure Maine’s drug trade. In fact, he’d been increasingly concerned that hunting Grega might slip to second rung status as the other task force members got more excited about Mroz. However, the linkage between the two interests remained clear for the moment, not to mention that the drug trade in upper New England had an internecine aspect to it. It was perfectly possible that what he learned over here might prove useful in Vermont.

“It was weird,” Steve said, answering Joe’s question. “In some ways, Maine was like a frat party. The Dorchester people, they were after your blood—there were turf battles, ethnic issues, real down-and-out gun-fights. Up here, people were just trying to make a little money and have fun. At least that’s how it seemed to me. That’s why I wanted in. It sounded like Roz had
created a never-ending party where you could make some money, too.”

“But it didn’t turn out that way?”

“Never found out,” Steve admitted. “I got busted before I could get my feet wet. I mean,” he added, “I
know
that was all bullshit now, but I didn’t back then.”

Joe was remembering what Lyn had told him earlier. “But you did go up there, to check it out?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said cheerily. Joe noticed that they were pretty much constantly in the passing lane by now, comfortably keeping up with the flow of traffic.

“Actually,” Steve continued, “I had it better than somebody just knocking on the door. I had a connection.” Once more, he abruptly twisted around in his seat to make eye contact with his sister. “You’re not gonna like this, but remember those trips to Maine we used to take with Dad?”

“Of course,” she answered, her expression questioning and a little apprehensive, sensing one of those surprises that Joe knew she disliked.

“Well,” her brother said lightly, “there was more than just lobster fishing we were researching, whether any of us knew it or not. A couple of the boat captains he introduced us to also did some smuggling on the side. I bet Dad didn’t have a clue, since he was all lobster, all the time. But I found it out later, when I went back on my own. It was actually kind of funny, being older and meeting the same guy in a totally different context.”

Lyn leaned forward and propped her elbows on their seatbacks. “What’re you talking about? I don’t remember any boat captains.”

He waved one hand in the air. “All right, all right. It
was one boat captain. You and Mom went shopping. We were in Jonesport, and me, Dad, and José went down to the harbor. That’s when we met him.”

“Who?” she persisted.

“Wellman Beale,” Steve said. “How can you forget a name like that? He didn’t talk to me—that was all for adults—but they let me check out his boat, which was state-of-the-art. Actually,” he suddenly added, “I think that part helped me out—that he never got a good look at me then, ’cause when I met him later, he didn’t know who I was, and I never told him.” His mood darkened at that, as he admitted, “I was embarrassed he might connect me to Dad, if he heard my last name.”

“But what were you all doing with him?” Lyn asked. “I mean, the first time.”

“Nothing,” he explained. “We bumped into him. We were walking down the dock and he was there fueling up. You know how José was with new boats, and like I said, this was a beaut. They just got to talking. I thought Beale was a big shot then—he said he owned an island, not far from Jonesport, fully equipped with a repair and maintenance shop. Of course, the boat spoke for itself. He was nice, too. Dad and he talked a lot.”

Joe was wondering about a more recent connection. “And you’re saying that Beale worked for Mroz?”

“Yeah … Well, no. Not exactly. The way I heard it, Beale didn’t work for anybody, what with the island and all. But times had gotten tighter. The boat was history when I saw him the second time. I was told he knew Roz and, quote-unquote, did business with him now and then. That’s why I was introduced to him by a mutual friend—another guy who’s doing time right
now. Anyhow, I asked Beale what Roz was like to work with—stuff like that. It didn’t go farther than that.”

“What did Beale say?” Joe asked.

“He was cool. Told me he’d be happy to introduce us when I was ready to make my move. He was cagey, though. It’s not like he told me he was in cahoots with a drug dealer. All reference to Roz was roundabout, like he was an acquaintance.”

Joe nodded thoughtfully. “You know,” he suggested, “we probably ought to stop and see some of the people I’m working with before we hit your old haunts. Would that be okay? I bet they’d like to hear about Wellman.”

“Sure,” Steve said. “Glad to help.”

Kevin Delaney—the only one actually in the MDEA office when Joe dropped by with Lyn and Steve—was happy to hear about Wellman Beale, but not because the name was new to him. Beale had been in their records for years as an interesting bit player; he just hadn’t been heard from in a while. The fact that he might be active, therefore, was of more than passing interest. Delaney’s real joy, however, was in pumping Steve for his other old memories, dated or not. For the other two in the room it was like listening to a couple of returning alumni, exchanging endless one-liners about what had happened to what’s-his-name.

Later, as they were about to leave, Delaney asked Joe to linger for a short, private conversation.

“Vicious bastard,” he said quietly as Joe shut the office door.

Joe settled back into the chair he’d been using earlier. “Steve?” he asked in surprise.

His host laughed. “Hardly. I like him—glad to see he’s turning things around. I meant Beale.”

“I thought you barely knew him.”

Delaney frowned. “No. I was a little less than candid there—didn’t want to say too much.”

“Sure,” Joe reassured him, well used to how cops tended toward discretion, as he often did himself. “Has he been acting up lately?”

“Not specifically, although rumors are his fortunes have improved—which tweaks my interest. Also, he pounded the snot out of one of my informants a couple of years back, he has a history of assault and battery, and—more to the point—we can confirm he knew Roz because he once tried to organize a weird kind of labor movement against him on the part of all the suppliers.”

“You’re kidding,” Joe exclaimed. “Like a strike?”

“Beale said people like himself—mules, importers, shipment facilitators, or whatever you want to call them—were getting the shit end of the stick while running the biggest risks. He had a point, even if it wasn’t late breaking news.

“He didn’t get anywhere, surprise, surprise,” Delaney went on. “Didn’t stand a chance from the start, since the people he spoke for couldn’t have cared less. I think he was basically pissed off and tried to legitimize it, at least in his own eyes. The point is that he threatened Roz in the process, got mauled by the bodyguard, Harold, and was frozen out of ever doing business with Roz again. I’d forgotten all about that, since it dates back.”

Joe shook his head. “Steve made Beale sound like everyone’s favorite uncle.”

Delaney’s eyes widened. “Oh, he can be a charmer. Don’t get me wrong. That’s one of the secrets of his success. I’m sure as many people think he loved Roz as know he hated him.”

Joe furrowed his brows. “You think Beale might’ve killed him?”

Delaney shrugged. “It’s worth looking into. I’ll shoot a memo to the state police and tell them to check him for that. We probably ought to take a squint at him, too, now that everything’s in an uproar. Be a perfect time for him to make a play.” He paused and added, “I would say that Steve got lucky never dealing with him. Do me a favor, will you? Take note if Steve mentions anything else about the guy. Could be he remembers something he didn’t tell me.”

That didn’t happen. Wellman Beale was never brought up again, except in passing as they revisited the Jonesport pier. Otherwise, they drove along the coast, hitting harbor after harbor—Deer Isle, Bar Harbor, South Addison, Machias, and more—finally reminiscing less about Steve’s solo travels and more about their shared family outings. The trip, however, remained valuable, if for reasons unconnected to Joe’s initial thinking. When they parted ways the following day, all three of them felt richer for the companionship, and certainly, Joe and Lyn had moved a little farther toward something deeper. Joe’s failure, therefore, to gain much new information mattered little to him. Indeed, he could now admit that the entire scheme had probably been more about wanting some time with Lyn. That he’d gotten to know and appreciate her brother was a bonus he hadn’t expected.

Things were different the following day, however, after Lyn and Steve had left, and Joe was back among the
task force. Once more in Delaney’s office, they were all told that the case had finally gotten a break.

“Bernie?” Cathy Lawless virtually crowed. “The man of mystery? Turns out he’s named Ann DiBernardo.”

“A woman?” someone reacted.

“Don’t you love it?” she asked. “I give credit where it’s due—our own Dave Beaubien came up with this one.”

“Attaboy, Dave,” said Michael Coven, the MDEA director, who happened to be in the area.

Dave, his back against the wall, merely nodded.

“Do we know about DiBernardo?” asked Dede Miller, of the ICE team.

“Portland PD does,” Lawless answered. “They’ve had her under surveillance now and then, brought her in for questioning several times, and generally would love to have the taxpayers pay for her room and board. But they’ve never been able to pin anything on her.”

“What’s her angle?” Miller asked.

“Crooked finances,” Lawless said. “Mostly drug-related. Dave discovered a minor rap sheet dating back to a misspent youth—well, misspent twenties, at least. She’s mentioned in connection with a business fraud case, about ten years old; and she’s a person-of-interest in an embezzlement, same vintage. After that, she’s been all but invisible, except through inference and innuendo—the ultimate person-of-interest.”

“And she lives in Portland?” Lester Spinney asked.

“Yup—a city girl.”

“Why would Bob and Grega be talking about her?” he pressed, recalling what Jill Zachary had told him.

“No clue,” Cathy said.

“Which is probably why we should sit on her around
the clock for a while,” Joe suggested. “She being the hottest lead we’ve got, for both my homicide and your drug case.”

Delaney spoke what immediately leaped to every local cop’s mind at that—he pointed at Chapman and asked, “Lenny? The federal government’s writing the checks here. None of us is going to cover that kind of expense.”

Chapman sighed slightly and asked rhetorically, “We’ve had no sightings of Grega anywhere, right?”

“Nope,” Cathy confirmed.

“If it helps,” Mike Coven said quietly, using his senior officer status to clinch the deal, “you might end up killing two birds with one stone, like Joe said. On top of that, since Bernie’s news to us and seems involved in the drug business, you’d be doing MDEA a huge favor as well by funding an operation we could never justify on our own.”

“And credit would be paid publicly where it was due,” Joe added.

Lenny smiled and shook his head. “You guys sure know how to say all the right things, don’t you? Okay. I’ll run it by my handlers. I’ll also run her through our computers and have a chat with the Portland PD. No promises, but keep your fingers crossed.”

Luis Grega waited for a full hour before making his move. He’d mentally rehearsed how he wanted this to go, and now that the time had come, he wanted to make sure everything went perfectly. It was a game he played with himself, especially when the stakes were high—balancing the adrenaline of such situations with
disciplined cold-bloodedness. He’d seen too many people lose control just when they shouldn’t—whether they were responsible for what was about to happen or simply the victims.

He’d played both roles in his life—the latter only when he’d been weak and young. That was why he was always the aggressor now. He would never be on the short end again, no matter the cost.

He eased himself out of the guest bedroom closet, the hinges of which he’d oiled earlier in preparation, and stepped soundlessly across the room in his sneakered feet, acutely attuned to the house’s every sound.

He stood in the hallway for a few minutes, enjoying the power of being the only one awake. He’d done this sometimes in prison, slipping out of his bunk and merely standing at the bars, comparing his wakeful vigilance to so much surrounding unconscious vulnerability.

He walked slowly, gracefully, remembering from his practice runs which boards creaked. He passed the bathroom, still smelling of her shower and the cheap perfumed soap she used, to the half open door of her bedroom.

This he pushed open gently, again confident of its silenced hinges, before slipping across the threshold like a ghost and positioning himself with his back against the wall.

Eight feet from him was the foot of the double bed—a beaten-up wooden monster, held together in two places with nailed-on lathing. The room, dimly glowing from the moon outside and the nightlight in the distant bathroom, was a depository of dropped clothes, discarded toys, strewn magazines, and unpaid bills. A mess, in
other words, like its inhabitants—or what was left of them.

She lay on her side, facing him. One bare leg had already worked its way out from under the single sheet, and the T-shirt she wore as a nightgown had ridden partway up her stomach, revealing her underwear. Her long dark hair partially covered her face.