A Vineyard Killing (6 page)

Just to be sure, I turned onto Metcalf Drive, drove a half mile or so, and stopped in front of a house. In jig time the Range Rover came around a corner behind me. It seemed to hesitate, then drove on by. The driver and passenger didn't look at me, but I looked casually at them. They were both wearing ties.

When the car was out of sight, I waited a few minutes, then drove on. Around the next corner I met it coming back. I gave it not a glance because I already had the license plate number and knew what the driver and passenger looked like. The plate was from Georgia.

I wondered how long I'd been followed and why Saberfox was interested in me. The tail could have been there from the time I'd left home and I just hadn't been paying attention. The first time I'd noticed a Range Rover was when I'd seen that one headed up the road to the work site, but maybe that wasn't the occupants' first sight of me.

There's a small traffic circle where Metcalf Drive joins Dodgers Hole Road. I went around the circle and parked facing back toward Metcalf Drive. Sure enough, the Range Rover soon came along. I was fairly sure that its occupants were not pleased to see me waiting for them, but they had little choice but to keep driving. When the car entered the traffic circle I followed after it, the tailed now tailing the tailer.

The car's occupants, sure now that they'd been spotted, sped off ahead of me along Dodgers Hole Road. Their new car could certainly outrun my old one, but there are several speed bumps on Dodgers Hole Road, so they beat up their vehicle a bit as they fled. Some day I'd like a Range Rover of my own, but at that time I took pleasure in the damage they were doing to theirs as I watched them pull away from me. By the time I got to the Vineyard Haven–Edgartown road the Range Rover was not to be seen.

I drove to the State Police barracks and no one followed me. I found Dom Agganis at his desk.

“I'm seeing a lot of you lately,” he said. “To what do I owe this particular honor?”

I told him about my day and asked him to verify my guess that the Range Rover belonged to Saberfox. He checked and it did. “You want me to find out why Saberfox is tailing you?” he asked.

“I plan to ask them that myself. I just thought you might want to know it was happening. But you'll be remembered in my will if you can tell me where John Reilley lives. He slipped my noose.”

He leaned back. “Why are you looking for John Reilley? I hope you're not nosing around in police business. Like that shooting in Vineyard Haven, for instance.”

I put a hand on my heart. “Heaven forbid,” I said, and told him about Maria Donawa's concerns.

“Well, that explains your interest in John. Why do you suppose Fox is so interested in you?”

I'd been thinking about that. “He knows where I live, so I don't think it's me that interests him. My best guess is that he wants me to lead him to somebody else.”

He nodded. “Who?”

“I'd think it was John Reilley except that there's no reason for Fox to believe I'd lead him to John. But I don't know who else it could be.”

“How many people know you're looking for John?”

“Not too many. Maria Donawa, Zee, Hazel Fine, and a couple of others.”

Dom stretched his heavy arms and wiggled his thick fingers in a sort of mini exercise routine. “Well, you know the saying: two can keep a secret if one of them is dead. Maybe one of the ladies told a friend who told a friend and so forth.”

“Yeah, it could be. Now, how about telling me where John lives, so I can save myself a lot of time and energy.”

Dom put his hands together and cracked his knuckles. It was a talent I did not possess. “I hate to destroy my reputation for omniscience,” he said, “but I have to admit that I don't know where John Reilley hangs his hat.”

We considered that fact in silence for a while.

“There's a curious lack of information about John,” I said finally.

“Indeed,” Dom agreed. “Nothing illegal about living a very private life, of course.”

“Nothing at all.” I stood up. “Anything new on the Kirkland killing or the shot at Paul Fox?”

“The investigations are proceeding, as we say in the police biz.”

“Any arrests imminent?”

“When I was a kid I always got
imminent, immanent,
and
eminent
mixed up. That ever happen to you?”

“Constantly. I take it that's a no.”

“You take it correctly. Keep in touch. All of this may tie together.”

I went home and nobody followed me. I told Zee what I'd told Dom.

“If you want to find out where John Reilley lives,” she said, “tomorrow morning go up there where you lost him and park yourself someplace where you can see the road. When he goes to work, you'll see where he comes from.”

Smart Zee.

“Unless,” she added, “he actually lives somewhere else entirely.”

Unless that, of course.

She frowned. “I don't like this business of people following you.”

“I don't even like me following John Reilley.”

“I don't either, but you're doing Maria a favor. I don't know what those Saberfox guys are up to. You be careful.”

Early the next morning I drove back to Airport Road. No one followed me. Maybe I'd embarrassed them into staying home.

I parked the Land Cruiser a hundred yards in on the entrance road that led to the state forest headquarters, walked back to Airport Road, and found a tree to lean against while I looked up and down the highway and watched early risers drive to wherever they were going. I was chilly and wishing that I'd remembered to bring a jug of coffee with me when I turned my head to look back toward the blinker and saw a moped coming toward me along the highway. I slid behind the tree and watched John Reilley go by, apparently headed back to work in Chilmark.

I waited until he was well down the road, then got into the truck and drove slowly in the direction John had come from. I hadn't see him emerge onto the blacktop, but he hadn't been there just moments before, so I knew about where he had to have come out.

The problem was that there wasn't a road or path where he'd come onto the pavement. I turned around at the blinker and drove back, studying the ground and foliage.

Nothing.

Traffic was picking up as starting times approached for most working people. Unlike them I had no obligation to be anywhere. It was one advantage of not having a real job. A compensating disadvantage was that I also had little money. All in all I preferred the freedom to the cash, as did the hoboes looking for the Big Rock Candy Mountain.

I parked beside the road and walked first on one side, then the other, looking at the ground for spoor as I'd been told the African trackers do when leading game walks and drives and as the American Indians and other hunters no doubt also do.

I'm not Lew Wetzel or Trader Horn or Abraham Mahsimba, but I'm not blind either. I had walked several hundred yards up the road and was coming back when I saw the track of the moped's tires in a small patch of soft earth on the west side of the pavement.

I looked in the direction the track had come from, then walked that way seeing hints of tire marks on the grass. Beyond the first line of trees and scrub oak a paved bike path paralleled the highway. On the other side of the bike path, where the real forest began, there were no tire tracks. Careful John Reilley had apparently driven along the bike path for a while before cutting out to the highway.

I followed the bike path back toward the blinker but saw no sign of a moped track leading from the forest. Returning, I was almost opposite my parked truck when I finally saw where John had come out onto the path. His trail was faint and led from between two pine trees that would have hidden him from the view of anyone on the path or on the highway. John could study the public world for a while and enter it only when there was no one to see him do it.

I looked into the forest. Many of the trees and bushes were still leafless, and I could look deep and see places I could never see in the summertime.

I saw nothing related to human beings: no house, no shed, no half-fallen stone fence. A hundred years before, all this forest had been grassy grazing land for sheep and cattle, where farmers had walked and worked. Now it was wilderness.

I went into the woods, moving slowly through scrub oak and blackjack pine, following what had now become a faint trail of moped tracks through the undergrowth. A hundred yards into the forest I looked back. The seemingly open woods had closed behind me and I could no longer see the highway. I turned and went on.

I came to a lightning-blasted tree. Once large and tall, it was now a charred, splintered stump perhaps twenty feet high. I could almost smell the smoke from that ancient bolt of fire.

Other stumps were in sight, these showing the markings of crosscut saws where loggers now long dead had timbered out the area before the current crop of oak and pine had grown in.

On the far side of a small meadow there was what looked like an old cellar hole. I went there and looked down into it. Fallen stones half filled it, the remains of what had once been a foundation, and ancient, warped beams and boards lay tumbled among them. Such old foundations can be found all over the Vineyard, mute testaments to long-forgotten ambitions of island men and women.

The moped tracks led past the hole and into a patch of greenbrier. I had no intention of tangling with greenbrier thorns, so I circumnavigated the patch. No track led out the other side. I got as close to the greenbrier as I cared to, stood on my tiptoes, and stared into its center. There I thought I could see a piece of camouflaged tarp.

John was fond of camouflage. He kept his moped in the Greenbrier Garage. Home must be nearby.

There were two ways to find John's lair: I could look for it myself, or I could let him show it to me. I decided on the latter. Tonight when John came to the clearing after work, I'd be watching.

I found my spot to do that fairly quickly, a small, crooked fir not far from the cellar hole with branches that swept the ground, providing a hidden shelter just the right size for me.

No problem.

I circled away from John's path on my way back to the highway, picking up a few scratches as I traveled, but feeling pretty good about my detective work. I fetched the bike path a few hundred yards from my truck and had almost begun to whistle a happy, self-congratulatory tune when I saw the Range Rover.

It was parked behind my truck and a large man with a necktie was doing something at my rear bumper. Another large, necktied man was looking up and down the road and into the trees, his head on a busy swivel. The lookout was not too good at his job and was peering in other directions when I slipped behind a tree trunk and watched the action from there.

The men climbed back into the Range Rover and drove toward me. I eased around the tree trunk as they passed by and watched them pull off onto a side road about a quarter of a mile to the south. The driver and passenger were the same two guys I'd seen the day before. I waited for them to reappear, but they didn't.

After a bit I walked on up the bike path and cut through the underbrush and trees to my truck. Inside my rear bumper was a small electronic device held in place by duct tape. I didn't think it was a bomb because a bomb would have been placed up where the driver sat. A bug to allow someone to follow me, then.

The guys in the Range Rover were apparently waiting for me to leave so they could follow me at a distance without being seen. Maybe they had some sort of modern electronic monitor that showed exactly where I was on a video map. Did such things actually exist, or were they only make-believe gadgets that I had seen in the movies? My ignorance of modern electronics was staggering.

Maybe I should at least break down and buy a computer. As far as I knew, I was the only person in the Western world who didn't have one. Should I get one for the kids, or could they use the ones at school? Problems, problems.

I checked beneath the car and under the hood but found no other devices that hadn't been there before, then climbed in and drove to Vineyard Haven where I parked in the A&P parking lot. The Range Rover was nowhere in sight, but there were a couple of Tisbury police cruisers parked in front of the impressive new police station across from the grocery store.

For several years Edgartown had held the championship for the snazziest police station on the Vineyard, but now it had stiff competition from both Vineyard Haven and Chilmark, where the old coast guard station has become the new police station. Time rolls on, in spite of the efforts of many monied islanders to make it stop or go backward.

Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to me, so I got a roll of duct tape from the back of the truck, cut the tape holding the tracking device, and went over to one of the cruisers. Still, nobody was giving me heed. Where are the cops when you really need them? I taped the gadget to the inside of the cruiser's rear bumper and went back to my truck. I wondered how long it would take the guys in the Range Rover to realize that they were tailing a police car.

How would they feel when they found out? How would their boss feel?

I drove to the hospital and found Zee and another nurse at the desk of the emergency room, doing paperwork. Zee seemed happy to see me and returned the kiss I gave her.

“What brings you here, hunk?”

“An emergency. I thought my heart would stop beating if I had to stay away from you a moment longer.”

“Good grief,” said the other nurse.

“He's always like this,” said Zee. “He can't live without me. Can you, dear?”

“An eternity in hell would be bliss compared to an hour without you, my sweet.”

“Ye gods!” said the nurse. “I'll leave you two alone.” She walked away.

“How's your gudgeon?” I asked.

“Fine. How's your pintle?”

“My pintle is okay, I'm glad to tell you.”

“And I'm happy to hear it. Now, why are you really here?”

“Two things. I need to be free a little after four. Can you shake loose from here early again today?” I told her about finding John Reilley's trail.

She nodded. “I can probably leave early. It's been a slow day. What's the other thing?”

“I'm going to talk with Donald Fox. Paul Fox was in here after he got shot, so I figured you have big brother's local address and phone number somewhere in your files.”

She went away and came back with a slip of paper in her hand. “You figured right. Apparently, Saberfox has taken over the whole Martin's Vineyard Hotel, right here in town. Their office is there, and so are the living quarters for the entire high command: the Fox brothers and Brad Hillborough. Why do you want to see Donald Fox?”

“I want to know why those guys were tailing me. They were there again today.”

She picked up on the tense. “Were?”

“I think the dogs may be chasing a red herring at the moment, but they'll be back. I'd like to know why. While I'm asking questions, do you know if Paul Fox is still on the island? Donald wanted him to go home to Savannah, but Paul didn't seem anxious to leave.”

“And he didn't. Maria tells me that he and she and his cracked ribs went to the movies night before last. Apparently Donald's wish is not Paul's command. Are you sure you want to get more involved in whatever it is that's going on?”

“I'm already involved. I may have to get more involved in order to get uninvolved.”

The Martin's Vineyard Hotel is a couple of streets in back of Ocean Park, and was built in the time when an ocean view was not held in such high esteem as it is nowadays. It's a big old Victorian place with wide porches and a lot of gingerbread decoration. It's well maintained and is painted in four different colors, as are many of the cottages around the campground because, I've been told, that was the way the buildings were painted back in the 1800s, when the places were new.

The name comes from early maps, some of which identify the island as Martin's Vineyard while others call it Martha's Vineyard. Bartholomew Gosnold, who named the island in 1602, could have used either name since his mother-in-law, who helped finance his voyage, was named Martha, since he supposedly had a daughter by that name, and since John Martin was the captain of one of Gosnold's ships.

In any event, Martha eventually overcame Martin and got the island for herself, leaving Martin with only a Victorian hotel. The hotel was probably glad to have Saberfox's business during the winter, when there were few other customers about. Maybe Saberfox paid so well that the company would be welcome all summer, too.

I didn't know if Donald Fox would be there in midmorning, but I also didn't know he wouldn't be, so I went in. A clerk came out from an office behind the desk, and looked more than slightly surprised at having a customer who didn't work for Saberfox. She instantly knew I didn't because I wasn't wearing a suit and tie. She recovered nicely and smiled and asked if she could help me. I told her I wanted to see Donald Fox. She told me I could find the Saberfox office on the second floor and pointed to a graceful staircase across the lobby.

I crossed the room, taking in the decor as I went. The walls were hung with paintings and photos of square-rigged ships and Victorian scenes. Art nouveau statues and vases stood on tables, and ornately carved chairs and couches lined the sides of the room. Colored light filtered through stained-glass windows beside and over the door and brightened the worn but still lovely Oriental carpets on the floor. There was a faint smell of lavender in the air.

I went up the worn stairs and found myself in another lobby. A woman sat at a large desk upon which was a computer and a small sign that read
SABERFOX
,
INC
. Facing the desk were two comfortable chairs. On a table between the chairs were a half dozen magazines. They appeared to be the latest issues. Clearly I wasn't in a doctor's office. The woman was wearing a suit and a necktie. What else?

“I'm Dana Hvide,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

I told her I'd like to speak with Donald Fox.

Her eyes flowed over my clothing. Clearly I wasn't the type who normally had access to Donald Fox.

“I'm afraid Mr. Fox is busy this morning, Mr….?”

“Jackson.” I gave her my best smile. It was like smiling at a rock.

“As I said, I'm afraid Mr. Fox is busy this afternoon, Mr. Jackson.” She fingered her keyboard and looked at her computer screen. Whatever happened to appointment books? “Mr. Fox's assistant, Mr. Jacobs, may be able to help you.”

“I doubt it. Perhaps you can tell Mr. Fox that J. W. Jackson would like to talk with him. I think he'll want to see me, and I won't need much of his time.”

“As I just told you, Mr. Jackson, Mr. Fox is busy. He can't be interrupted.”

“Anybody can be interrupted,” I said. “Work can be interrupted, too, and jobs. Yours, for instance, might be if you don't tell your boss that I'm here. I think he'll be annoyed if you don't do that.”

Her eyes hardened. “Mr. Fox's work is very important. He takes it very seriously.” She leaned forward. “And I take mine seriously. Don't try to threaten me!”

I admired her. What is more valuable to a businessman than a loyal secretary who will defend you from your enemies?

“The graveyards are full of indispensable people,” I said. “I'll wait.”

I sat down and picked up a magazine. It had to do with country living. I more or less lived in the country, so I began to read. The country it described was another country than mine.

After a few minutes Dana Hvide picked up a phone and spoke into it. I heard my name mentioned. She listened and said, “Certainly, sir,” and put the phone down. She stood and gestured toward a door. “Please go right in, Mr. Jackson.”

I went in.