Deadout (13 page)

I nodded. “Say, who were those guys on the beach today?”

Nola did a quick back and forth between us.

“Johnny Blue's thugs.”

“No, I meant the other two.”

He laughed. “That's a long story.”

“I'd love to hear it some day.”

He laughed again. “So, Nola tells me you're leaving tomorrow.”

That bothered me. “Probably.”

Nola's head snapped around to look at me.

“Moose asked me to help him with the bee monitoring.”

I couldn't read her reaction.

“You're a helpful guy. Anyway,” Teddy said, looking back down at the ground, “like I was saying, we need a legal effort, a public relations effort—”

“Public relations?” said the guy with the Amish beard. “Are you kidding? We need to—”

Teddy silenced him with a look, then made enough of a show of looking at me that the bearded wonder followed his gaze and fell quiet.

Sure, my feelings were a little hurt, but to be fair, I am a narc.

I kissed Nola on the side of the head and retreated to the cabin.

When she came in a half hour later, I was already in bed, my feet sticking out the bottom. It had been a tiring couple of days, and Friday's all-nighter was sneaking back up on me. It wasn't even nine o'clock, and I was starting to think of sleep. I had been thinking of other things—things like Annalisa—and trying desperately not to.

When Nola came in, she pressed the door closed behind her with a soft but firm click. There was something almost seductive about it, something that stirred me.

That's right, I thought. Nola, not Annalisa.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” she replied quietly as she pulled each of the blinds down.

I took a deep breath. “Look, sorry about today, if it seemed like I don't think this is important. I know it is. It's just, I've seen situations like that get out of control. Innocent people get hurt.”

“I know,” she said, pulling off her T-shirt. She reached behind her and undid her bra. Obviously, I'd seen them a hundred times. A hundred times each. But somehow the distance between us made it seem more provocative, a sexy and seductive gesture. She saw me looking, and she smiled. She wriggled out of her jeans and walked to the small sink in just her panties, her pert behind shaking as she brushed her teeth.

I reached for her as she got into bed and she gave me a friendly peck. When I reached for her again, she pulled away. “You know we can't, right? There's people all around. These walls are like paper. Teddy's right out front.”

I would have been disappointed, but invoking Teddy's name while explaining why we couldn't have sex left me downright grumpy.

“Okay,” I said, rolling over. “Well, goodnight.”

“Are you all right?” she said. “We just can't, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, closing my eyes. As I drifted off to sleep, thoughts of Annalisa returned. This time, I let them.

 

22

“I have to go to work.” The voice filtered through a haze, penetrating my sleeping brain. Nola was smiling down on me, her hand on my forehead, caressing my cheek.

I smiled back at her.

“Let me know when you leave, okay? I'll take a break.”

“Okay,” I said, still half asleep.

She kissed me on my forehead. “You take care of yourself, Doyle Carrick.”

I closed my eyes, and when I opened them I was alone. The room was a little brighter and the sun a little higher. Still only ten after seven.

I was supposed to meet Moose at eight, but I needed a coffee, so I left early and headed over to Vineyard Haven. Somewhere, I'd seen that Mocha Mott had a location there as well.

I was turning onto Edgartown Road when I saw them, a few car lengths back. It was the two suits, this time driving what looked like a Bentley. When I looked closer I saw that they had changed their suits as well.

I was impressed that they were at least trying to be discreet, but as soon as the thought crossed my mind, they swerved into the left lane and passed two cars, now coming up on me. For a moment I thought they were going to try to run me off the road, but you wouldn't use a Bentley for that. As they pulled up behind me, I noticed a third person sitting in the backseat.

I pulled over abruptly and stopped on the side of the road. The younger one was behind the wheel, and he seemed stymied by the move. He didn't have enough warning to pull in behind me, so he found himself stopped beside me, double-parked and blocking traffic. He tried to back into the space behind me, but the guy behind him had already pulled up too close. Finally, he swung into the space in front of me.

I got out and walked up to the driver's side window. It was open.

“License and registration please,” I said, using the same tone I used when giving out tickets.

The driver looked flustered. “License and registration,” I repeated, waving my hand like, “Come on.”

The kid was reaching for his wallet when his partner placed a hand on his arm.

The kid looked out the window at me. “So what, are you a cop?”

“Yes,” I said.

That was when the back window slowly rolled down. “Detective Carrick,” said the older man sitting in the back.

“Look,” I said. “I don't have any Grey Poupon in my car, if that's what this is about.”

The guy in the back smiled. I didn't like it. “Detective Carrick, I apologize for sneaking up on you like that. But I was hoping I could have a word with you. Just a few minutes of your time.”

“Who are you?”

“Darren Renfrew. I'm Teddy's father.”

Interesting. “What do you want to talk about?”

“It's somewhat delicate. Could we go somewhere else?”

I looked at my watch. “I'm actually busy at the moment. I've got places to go and coffee to drink. I could meet you this afternoon.”

“Why don't you come out to the compound? You can be my guest for lunch. The house is called Windshift. It's on Main Street in West Chop.”

Part of me was screaming,
Get the hell away from here and have no part of it
. But I was curious about Teddy Renfrew. I liked the idea of finding out more about him.

“What time?”

*   *   *

It took four hours to switch out all the hard drives and reposition all the monitoring stations. Moose asked several times if I was okay. He said I seemed distracted.

I was distracted. Some of it was because of Annalisa. She had invaded my dreams the night before, and throughout the morning, little snippets came back to me.
No, Annalisa, I am not a good man.

Mostly, however, it was because of my meeting with Darren Renfrew. The Bentley made total sense; Teddy Renfrew reeked of spoiled little punk who didn't think about money because he didn't have to worry about money. I couldn't help wondering where his father stood in all this.

When we were done, Moose offered to buy me lunch, but I told him I was busy. He looked like he was assuming I was going to see Annalisa, but he didn't ask so I didn't offer.

“So you headed back to Philly, then?” he asked.

“I don't even know.” Part of me didn't like the idea of leaving things so unsettled with Nola. And while things with Annalisa were settled, to be honest, I didn't want to leave without seeing her again. And there was definitely a part that thought the other two parts were crazy, and that I needed to get as far away from here as possible, before I got myself into real trouble.

West Chop was at the top of the island, across Vineyard Haven Harbor from East Chop. Together, they formed the point at the top of the triangle. I had assumed a “chop” was some archaic New Englander phrase for an obscure coastal land formation, like a bight or a cove. Turns out, the two chops together look like a top jaw and bottom jaw of something taking a bite.

Both of them were very scenic, with expensive houses and great views overlooking the water. Renfrew's house might not have been the nicest, but of the houses I could see, that weren't hidden behind acres of scrub or huge fieldstone walls, it was by far the biggest, the most ostentatious, and presumably the most expensive.

I drove up the long driveway and parked in the circle by the wide front steps.

The place was a bit of an architectural mash-up, part mansion, part McMansion, with turrets and terraces and balconies, all covered with cedar shingles—I guess to make it fit in. In the back was a complex of tennis courts and gardens. The place had everything except taste or any sense of proportion.

A young dark-haired woman came to the door, but before she could open it, the young guy with the buzz cut came up behind her and sent her away. He opened the door and gave me a squint, letting me know he was a badass. He seemed a little ticked off, maybe because I almost gave him a ticket, or because I hadn't had any mustard.

“This way,” he said, stepping back from the door. I followed him through a cavernous living room, out onto a slate patio and down a few steps to the expansive front lawn.

It was an impressive view, looking out onto the harbor and, beyond that, the ocean. A line of dark clouds was assembled to the north.

It looked as though a ferry was coming in, a big fancy white one I hadn't seen before. But it wasn't moving, and I realized it wasn't a ferry, it was either a small cruise ship or a very, very big yacht.

In the middle of the lawn was a cluster of white Adirondack furniture. Darren Renfrew was sitting in one of the chairs, looking out onto the water. It seemed a little too Zen for the mental image I had of him, but as I approached, I noticed he was on the phone. And he wasn't happy.

“Look, you flea, I don't care about any of that. I don't care whose water that is. This is my view, and I paid thirty million dollars for it. Having those bees of his on my island is bad enough, but you tell that Aussie trash that he needs to move that god-awful shit can out of my view.… Bullshit you can't do anything about it. Yes, you goddamn can, and you better, or you can kiss your job good-bye and I'll find a harbormaster who's not such a chicken shit, you hear me?” He shot to his feet. “Don't tell me about the goddamned town council. I can replace them, too, goddamn it.…
Enough!
” He held the phone in front of his face, screaming into it. “I want that boat gone
now
!”

His thumbs frantically jabbed at the screen until the phone was disconnected. Then he lowered it, his arm waving it around, like the limb itself needed the release of slamming the phone down. Eventually he just kind of ran out of steam, and fell back, limp, into his chair.

After a moment, he looked around, his face drained.

The suit standing beside me cleared his throat. “Carrick's here.”

 

23

Renfrew managed a weak smile. “Thank you, Percy. Please tell Marta.”

Percy nodded, glanced at me, and then turned and walked back across the grass.

“He's a good man,” Renfrew said, causing me to reconsider my denials with Annalisa. Maybe the standards were lower than I had realized.

He sat up a little straighter, his moment of exhaustion apparently passed. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Carrick.” He stood up and shook my hand, firm and measured if a little damp. He led me to a table set with fine china, glassware, and flowers, a pitcher of ice water with lemon slices. “I can assure you, the lunch itself will be worth the trip, apart from anything else. I hope you like lobster. No shellfish allergies or anything of that nature?”

“No, that sounds fine.”

“I can easily arrange something else, but Marta's bisque is legendary. A favorite of presidents and celebrities.”

I almost wanted to ask for something else just for that, but I actually like lobster bisque. “So what did you want to discuss?”

“Would you like something to drink, Mr. Carrick? Some local beer or imported wine?” He smiled, as if that were funny.

I filled my glass from the pitcher. “Water's fine.”

“I love this view,” he said, turning to look out across the water. “When I'm here I watch the sunrise every single day.” The line of clouds was closer now, a sheer wall of ominous gray chasing the sunlight across the water. “It's quite something, isn't it?”

“Certainly is,” I replied, thinking if this was what he wanted to talk about, the bisque had better be phenomenal. And there had better be crackers.

“It's perfect, except for that monstrosity out there.” He pointed the corner of his phone at the anchored ship. It didn't really bother me, but I thought it best to keep that thought to myself. “Garish and ostentatious. Tacky, really, don't you think?”

It reminded me a bit of his house, but I kept that quiet, too.

“Do you know who Archibald Pearce is?” he asked, apparently not really caring about my opinion of the boat. I knew the name, but before I could place it, he went on. “He's the head of Stoma Corporation … A bit of a rival of mine.”

I willed my eyebrows not to rise at that. If this guy was a rival of Archie Pearce, he was richer than I thought. Stoma was massive, and Archie Pearce had made it that way.

Renfrew shook his head. “He's parked that thing in my front yard, just to get my goat.” He smiled, looking out at the boat as if it wasn't bothering him. As if I hadn't just seen his little hissy fit. As he continued to stare, his face grew red.

I cleared my throat, wondering if I should let him know that marine demolition wasn't my specialty.

“Sorry,” he said, snapping out of it, his face once again placid. A heavy-set, dark-haired woman of about sixty arrived with a tray: two bowls of faintly pink bisque and a heavy glass chalice of oyster crackers. Marta, I assumed.

Renfrew acknowledged her with a twitch of his eyebrow as he placed his napkin on his lap. I gave her a nice smile, which she seemed to think was very strange.