Vineyard Prey (22 page)

Joshua did that, and we found Sam again, but again the site would only give up more information if I subscribed to its service.

I tried to calculate how much it would cost me to investigate all of the people on my list. Quite a lot. If the police would just let me in on what they could find out, I could save a bundle. But they wouldn't. There ain't no justice.

We tried three other sites with similar results. We'd been at it for an hour without any luck. Time for Plan B.

I thanked Joshua for his help and agreed with him that if I'd let him stay up and keep trying he might be able to find a site that would tell me everything I wanted to know for free. But I didn't want him staying up late on a school night, so I sent my disappointed boy to bed.

“Time to give Brady a call,” I said to Zee.

Brady Coyne had recently moved to a place on Beacon Hill, where he cohabited with his lady, Evie. I had never seen his new house, but from my days
on the Boston PD I knew it to be a place where not many cops could afford to live.

“Is this the same Brady Coyne who used to live a poverty-stricken life in an apartment looking out over Boston Harbor?” I asked when he answered on the first ring.

“How's fishing?” he asked in reply.

“Scalloping is about all we have to offer right now.”

“If you can catch those with a fly rod, I may come down this weekend.”

“You'll be happier if you wait for the bluefish to show up in May. The guest room is reserved in your name.”

“I'll be there. What's happening down there in Eden?”

I told him what was happening and what I wanted. “Zee thinks you may know somebody who can get me the information,” I said in conclusion.

He thought for only a moment and then said, “I think I might. I understand you've finally entered the twenty-first century and gotten yourself a computer, so I'll e-mail you the information in the morning. Now give me those names again. If you weren't so cheap you could do all this yourself, you know.”

Good old Brady.

The next morning, after Zee and the kids had left for work and school, Brady's e-mail arrived. I printed it out. There was a surprising amount of information about the people on my list, but most of it meant little to me. I took my time going over it and had about decided that I'd wasted Brady's time
when I noticed a small thing: Stephen Harkness, who'd gotten himself shot up on the trade mission, now worked for the FBI. I reread his file. He and his wife, Melanie, had three children and lived in Alexandria, Virginia. Melanie's maiden name was Oakland.

  24 

The little cogs began to turn in my brain and then bigger ones began to move. I thought back over things I'd seen and heard since Joe Begay had stepped into the shack where I'd been opening scallops. Then I reached for the phone and called Jake Spitz.

I got his assistant again. “You may remember me,” I said. “We spoke a few days ago. I want to talk with Jake Spitz. Same subject as before: the Easter Bunny.”

“One moment, please.”

When Jake came on the line I said, “Can you get on somebody else's phone and call me back?” I gave him John Skye's number.

Jake said, “Yes,” and hung up. Good old Jake. No questions asked.

Two minutes later John's phone rang.

“What's this all about?” asked Jake.

“Is your telephone assistant a guy named Stephen Harkness? Used to work for the DIA?”

There was a short silence, then, “What about him?”

“I think he listens in on your telephone calls.”

“Does he, now? What makes you think so?”

“Because whoever is trying to kill Kate MacLeod has known for days that she's here on the island, and the only person who might have figured that out from my phone call was you, because you know where I live. Unless your assistant listened to our talk last week. If he did, and knew my name, it wouldn't have been hard for him to learn I live on the Vineyard and to put two and two together. I figure he got interested when I mentioned the Easter Bunny.”

“Why would he be interested in the Easter Bunny?”

“Because he knows it's not the Easter Bunny who wants to kill Kate MacLeod and Joe Begay. It's Steve himself.”

Jake's voice was flat. “Why would Steve want to harm Kate and Joe?”

“How about revenge and jealousy? They've always been good motives for killing people. Harkness was Kate's lover, and even before he got hurt maybe he was jealous of her other lovers, including Edo and Joe Begay. Joe says he never slept with her and I believe him, but maybe Harkness thought he did. He was mad at Susan Bancroft, too, because she flipped him off when he tried to crawl into her bed.”

“Go on.”

“There's more. Harkness may think that somebody on his last mission—Kate or Edo or Susan or Joe Begay—stole his papers and got him crippled at the border crossing. Nobody knows what really happened to the papers, but it's easy to find new reasons to hate people you're already mad at.”

“In case you didn't know,” said Jake, with a hint of
impatience in his voice, “Steve Harkness is in a wheelchair and will be for the rest of his life. He doesn't need legs to handle the phones, but he couldn't kill anyone if he wanted to. Besides, he's never missed a day of work here. You're barking up the wrong tree.”

“I don't think he's the field agent,” I said. “I think that's probably his brother-in-law, Stuart Oakland, who's up here right now, staying in his family's vacation house. Melanie, Harkness's wife, is Oakland's sister, and I think Oakland's motive is revenge for what the shock of Harkness's wounds did to her. When she learned what had happened to her husband, she apparently had a breakdown of some kind and had to be institutionalized. I think that Harkness blamed the mission crew and that Oakland believed Harkness.”

I could hear Spitz breathing as he thought. Then he said, “I'll do some checking.”

“Maybe you can check three things I'd like to know,” I said. “Has Stuart Oakland had training that would make him proficient in the use of explosives and poisons? Did he know Sam Arbuckle? And what's become of Melanie Harkness?”

“I know what became of Melanie Harkness,” said Spitz in a tired voice. “It's in our file on Steve. She got out of her room and up onto the roof of the sanatorium somehow and jumped before the nurses who were chasing her could stop her. The nurse who was closest to her heard her say, ‘I'm flying.' But she wasn't flying.”

I didn't know what to say to that, and so said
nothing. But I could imagine my own feelings if I were in Stephen Harkness's or Stuart Oakland's place and believed what they believed.

Spitz's voice floated into my consciousness. “While I nose around here, I think you should offer your theory to the island police. If Oakland is the killer, he might decide to cancel his plans if they talk to him, even though they can't prove anything. Of course, they also might think you're full of baloney and ignore him.”

“How can they ignore somebody who has that much motive and opportunity? Oakland has his own house and car. He knows the island and he was the first person to show up at Joe Begay's house after the explosion, maybe to check up on the results of his work. How can they ignore all that?”

“They don't know what you think you know. Besides, cops can ignore anything they want to ignore. If the police won't listen to you, try the DIA guys. Maybe you'll have better luck with them. They're probably looking for somebody to shoot.”

“Call me if you learn anything.”

“If I learn anything, I'll call Dom Agganis.”

“Don't use your own phone,” I said, annoyed. Nobody wanted to get close to me, to confide in me. Was it my breath? Had my deodorant failed?

Walking to my car, I noted that the temperatures had risen well above freezing and that the snow was melting fast. It felt more like April than December. New England weather; if you don't like it, wait a minute.

I drove to the state police office in Oak Bluffs
and went inside. There I had the misfortune to find, not Dom Agganis or even some DIA men, but my nemesis Officer Olive Otero. Ours had been one of those instant mutual enmities that had begun the first time we met and had never changed. She was my Dr. Fell and I was hers.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Your boss,” I said.

“He's out. If you turn around and go out the door, you will be, too.”

“I need to talk with him.”

“If it's something relevant to the police, talk with me. Otherwise, go talk to the trees.”

“I'll have to use some words with two or three syllables in them, and I don't want to confuse you. Where's Dom?”

“Out. You have something to say, say it. Otherwise, good-bye. I have work to do.” She picked up a pen and slid a form under it. Since computers have become part of their office equipment, the cops have to fill out more forms than ever.

“I've never been impressed by your memory, Olive, so dig out your tape recorder and try to turn it on. I want Dom to hear what I actually say, not what you think I said.”

“Gladly. I'll try to get some work done while you babble. When you're through, just leave. Don't bother saying good-bye.”

She opened a desk drawer and brought out a tape recorder. “This is the microphone,” she said, picking it up. “You talk into it. Got that?” She pushed a button and stated her name, the date and time, the
address, and my name as the speaker. Then she put the mike in my hand and pretended to ignore me.

I told the tape recorder everything I'd told Jake Spitz and everything he'd told me. When I was done I put the mike on the desk. Olive turned off the recorder and waved at the door. “On your way, Jackson. We'll take it from here. Not that there's much to take.”

“I hope for my country's sake that you're not the front line of national security,” I said as I headed toward the door. There, just as I was about to go through, I whipped around in time to see her reaching for her phone. She glared and yanked her hand back, and I feigned a laugh and went on out, feeling foolish as I always did after one of my childish exchanges with Olive. I knew she must be good at her job or else Dom would have long since gotten rid of her, but I couldn't seem to prevent myself from deliberately rubbing her fur wrong. Perversity, thy name is Jackson.

I wondered if Olive would be able to reach Dom and, if so, what she would tell him. I was uneasy and felt time sliding past me. I drove toward the hospital, took a left on Eastville Road and a right on County Road. Buford Oakland's house was in one of the new developments off County. I turned in and drove to his house.

The Mercedes SUV wasn't in sight, but it could well be in the garage. I parked in the graveled circular driveway and knocked on the front door of the house. Nobody came to welcome me. I knocked again. Still nothing.

I noticed that the curtains on the living room
windows had been pulled back to let in some winter light, and I peeked through one of them.

No lights were on.

I knocked again, just to be sure.

Nothing. Stuart Oakland was either out or wasn't receiving visitors.

I got out my key to the house and let myself in. I shut the door behind me and called out, announcing myself just in case somebody actually was home. Silence answered in the dusty way of empty houses.

I went through the kitchen and breezeway to the garage. The Mercedes wasn't there. I went back and walked through the house, not knowing what I expected to find.

All the rooms were empty. Stuart Oakland was sleeping in a second-floor guest room rather than in his parents' master bedroom. His bed was unmade and emitted a faint smell of sex. Was Stu making love to himself or to someone else?

I found two suitcases on a shelf of the closet and some clothes on hangers and in the drawers of a bureau. There was nothing unusual in the suitcases or among the clothes.

I went downstairs to the library. There were ashes in the fireplace. Apparently Stu sometimes spent an evening reading in front of a fire.