Fatal Harbor (11 page)

I missed the address of Munce, Price & O’Toole and had to circle back to find it. It was a simple glass door with gold lettering. I tugged open the door and walked into a lobby.

A small lobby.

A
very
small lobby.

It had a light-blue luxurious carpet, indirect lighting, and a curved counter where a receptionist sat. She was in her late twenties, early thirties, and excuse my old-fashioned observation but she was drop-dead gorgeous. A mane of blond hair that was expertly done, soft red lipsticked lips, and a clinging black dress that showed off a very taut and curvy body. She had a wide smile as I approached, and she was wearing a Bluetooth headset in her left ear.

Before her was a telephone that struck me as very odd. There was no keypad, no buttons, nothing. Just a handset. To her right was a plain wooden door that had the firm’s name in gold letters, along with a doorknob with a keypad lock.

“Good afternoon, sir, how can I help you?” she asked in a soft Southern voice.

I looked around, took the place in. Another very odd thing: no coffee table with magazines, no comfortable chairs or couches for clients or salesmen to cool their heels.

Munce, Price & O’Toole looked like a very tightly wrapped place.

I showed her my press pass, issued by the N.H. Department of Safety, which had my name, photo, and the name of my former employer,
Shoreline
magazine. I held it for just a second or two, long enough for her to recognize it as a press pass, and hopefully not long enough for her to memorize my name.

“I’m working on a story about different lobbying firms in Washington and what their clients feel about deep-sea fishing rights.”

Her smile didn’t change a bit, but her voice seemed shaky. “Deep-sea what?”

“Deep-sea fishing rights. Haven’t you heard about the fishing quota controversies in the Northeast?”

“I can’t say I really have, sir.”

“That’s my point. More people need to know about these issues, and I’m looking for information about possible lobbying actions that your firm has conducted. Is there a spokesman I can talk to?”

The receptionist quickly regained her composure. “I’m afraid there isn’t.”

“Really? Nobody to interact with the news media?”

“Our firm rarely interacts with the news media. We find that our clients prefer it that way.”

“How about community outreach?”

“We don’t do community outreach.”

“Oh. Well, can you tell me which clients may have an interest in deep-sea fishing rights?”

“I’m afraid I’m not in a position to help you.”

“But what kind of clients do you have?”

“I’m afraid I’m not in a position to help you.”

“Really, I mean, can’t you tell me—”

A quick buzz on her phone. She toggled something and nodded, speaking into her Bluetooth. “I see. I see.”

Then she looked up at me, widened her smile some. “You know, Mister. . . .”

“Smith.”

“Smith,” she said. “Someone’s coming right now who might be able to help you.”

“I’m sure.”

I turned and got the hell out.

I was about ten feet down the sidewalk when I realized my earlier mistake. The place looked quiet, small, and non-threatening. All of which were quickly proving to be false. I was certain that when I’d walked into that lobby, I was being observed and recorded, both by sound and vision. Plus I wouldn’t doubt that there were hidden metal detectors or X-ray devices around the doorframe through which I’d gone.

Which meant to someone sitting in a room, deep in the building, that an armed man was in the lobby, asking lots of probing questions. Hence the call to the receptionist, to encourage her to keep me in place.

I got to the corner, glanced back. Two men had emerged from the doorway of Munce, Price & O’Toole, one breaking left, the other breaking right. They strode quickly and purposefully.

So did I. I went down and crossed the street, dodging through traffic, all of the drivers no doubt conducting the people’s business, and I got a barrage of honking horns for my trouble. Another glance back.

There. An alleyway behind the building hosting Munce, Price & O’Toole. Two more men emerged. Their heads swiveled as they scanned the streets, and then they were looking at something in their hands.

Another good guess. Print-outs of my face, from hidden cameras in the lobby.

I kept on moving, trying to keep the fast-moving pedestrians between me and the sharp eyes of the wolves trying to pick up my scent. I had no illusions. If those men or others were to catch up with me, all it would take would be a long-distance Taser shot, or some sort of device to shoot a projectile with a nerve agent, or something else equally impressive to drop me. A few seconds after that, I would be bundled into an unmarked van or an ambulance, and then I would be gone. I’d probably end up in a basement or a lonely farm somewhere, about to receive an interrogation from folks thinking waterboarding was just a passing fad. I could try to get a shot off first at my pursuers, but who would I shoot? The guys following me, or people about me who might be working for the same employer?

My pace picked up. I went past a Starbucks and a number of other buildings with open, inviting doors.

But those invitations were all traps.

I couldn’t chance ducking in someplace, to be cornered.

My hand was under my coat, on the butt of my Beretta.

Still moving.

Was that a shout?

Still moving.

A horn blared.

Honked again.

Another shout.

I spared a half-second glance to my right.

A Diamond cab was pulled to the side, with a familiar-looking driver.

A set-up? An ambush? Could I trust him?

I went to the cab’s rear door, opened it up.

I was tired of being paranoid.

He was accelerating before I even had the door closed, and made a sharp left corner, blasting through a red light, causing a screech of brakes and another blast of horns. I caught my breath and looked out the rear window. None of my pursuers seemed to be after me. Even then, my driver took no chances. He made a couple more turns before we were traveling at a steady pace along J Street.

“Thanks,” I finally said.

“Glad to be of service.”

“How the hell did you end up there?”

I could see his strong shoulders shrug. “You’re a man who likes passing around the green. I like guys like that. So I figured I’d hang around the neighborhood for a while, see if you needed another ride.”

“Oh,” I said. “Is that all?”

A chuckle. “The way you asked me for a place. Most folks ask for a joint near the Metro station or the monuments or museums. You just wanted someplace close, clean, and inexpensive. Means you were here on a job. But most guys I ride, if they’re on a job, someone else is paying the freight. So this is something personal for you . . . and the way you moved, way you kept quiet, don’t think you were applying to the State Department or something like that.”

I settled back into the seat. “Good observations.”

“Spent many years in this man’s Air Force, looking at radar screens. I was trained to look at things, m’man. And when you got out of my cab a few minutes ago, I told myself that you were going into harm’s way, and I’d better be around to scoop you up if you come out of a building at a fast pace.”

I looked at his license, caught his name. “Thanks, Frank. I really appreciate that.”

He pulled up at a stoplight. “So how did the job go?”

“Managed to apparently piss off some people.”

“Means you’re doing something right.”

“Thanks for the compliment.” I wiped at my forehead. It was cool and dry. First real big surprise of the day.

“What kind of job are you up to, anyway?”

“Trying to make things right for a friend.”

“Male or female?”

“Female.”

The light changed. We moved ahead. “Hah, I think I know what you’re saying.”

“And you’d be wrong. She’s not my wife or my girlfriend. Just . . . best friend I’ve ever had.”

“She in trouble?”

“She may be dying. And I’m looking for the guy who did that to her.”

The back of his neck tensed up. “Then go get the fucker. Where do you want to go next?”

“Nearest Metro station will do.”

“You sure? I don’t mind driving you to your next place, if it’s part of your job.”

“I appreciate that. But those bad guys . . . they might be waiting for me at the next stop. You were lucky once, Frank. I don’t want you to be unlucky the next time.”

He turned to me. “You could let me worry about that.”

“Yeah, but there’s your son, right? He needs you.”

Frank took a turn. Up ahead I saw the familiar sign for the Metro. “There’s that. All right, good luck, whatever you’re doing. You seem like a good guy. Make me happy to see the good guys win one for a change.”

“Me too.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

N
early thirty minutes later, I was in the Commonwealth of Virginia, walking along a residential street in a very pricey suburb of Arlington. All the homes looked like their value was about equal to the amount of money I’ve made in my life, and they were set far from the street. They were made of brick or wood, several had horse pastures in the rear, and as the sole pedestrian on the street I felt very much out of place.

The one I was looking for was numbered 119, and it was a huge Colonial-style home, white with black shutters, with an attached three-car garage. The landscape was carefully manicured and set, and there was a brick walkway up to the door. Oak trees and pine trees decorated the yard. I paused and gave it a good long glance.

I strolled up the brick walkway to the front door. It was wooden, carved, and it looked like something out of a sixteenth-century Bavarian carver’s workshop. There was no doorbell, just a knob in the center that I spun and spun. I could hear a rough tingling noise come from within.

I stood back. Adjusted my clothes. Wondered how shabby I looked.

The door opened up. A man about twenty years older than me stood there, wearing khaki pants, loafers, a white turtleneck, and a navy blue buttoned cardigan. Half-sized reading glasses were perched at the end of his prominent nose, and his white hair was trimmed quite short. In one hand he had a copy of
The Economist
magazine, and he looked attentive, yet so very, very tired.

“Yes?”

“Lawrence Thomas? Lawrence Todd Thomas?”

“Who are you, if I may ask?” he asked, his voice soft.

“My name’s Lewis Cole. I’m a journalist from New Hampshire. I’m here about your son, John Todd Thomas.”

He pursed his lips, shook his head. “I’m afraid I have nothing to say to you.”

“Mister Thomas, please, I really think—”

“Good day, Mister Cole.”

The door started closing, and I said: “Except for his killer, I’m the last one to see your son alive.”

The door halted.

Opened back up again.

His eyes were watery. “Then do come in, please.”

The inside of the house was large, clean, and quite ordered. The carpets were Oriental, the furniture was wood and old, and there were lots of books and framed photos. On one coffee table was a framed photo of the man’s son, John Todd Thomas. The photo was in color, it showed him at his college campus in Maine, and a black mourning ribbon was placed across a corner of the glass.

As Lawrence padded into the living room, he said, “Do have a seat. My wife Frances . . . well, she’s upstairs, and I prefer her to stay there. I do intend to listen to you, but whatever information you share, well, I do intend to protect Frances. I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I’d offer you coffee or tea, but even after retirement I still haven’t gotten the hang of our kitchen gear. So how about a bottled water?”

“That would be fine.”

I gingerly sat down on the edge of a couch that looked like it had been lifted from an Early American furniture display at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, and gave the room another look. There were black-and-white wedding photos of Lawrence Thomas, with a young woman who was no doubt Frances. More photos of their only son, as a Cub Scout, Boy Scout, Little Leaguer, and soccer player. I recalled the young man I had met over a week ago up at the Falconer nuclear power plant, when he had escorted me to visit Curt Chesak of the Nuclear Freedom Front. Soon after he had escorted me, he had been shot to death in the salt marshes around the power plant, and for a few long hours I had been a suspect in his murder.

Lawrence came back, carrying two bottles of Poland Spring water. I got up and he handed one over, then cocked his head. “I have an idea we’ll be discussing things of a sensitive nature . . . so perhaps we should go to the rear garden.”

“That would be fine.”

I followed him out of the living room, to a short hallway and a small room that had floor-to-ceiling French doors. He opened up the near door and I followed him out. There was statuary and a water fountain, and small shrubs and plants that I couldn’t recognize. He walked a few yards, past some hedgework, until we came to a stone bench. He sat down with a sigh, stretched his legs. Before us was a small pool, with lily pads and orange fish lazily swimming about. We both unscrewed the tops of our bottles and I took a satisfying swig.

He did the same, looked down at the pond. “This was one of John’s favorite places, this little pond.”

“I can see why. It’s quite beautiful.”

“True, and John would spend hours here, on his knees, looking at the water, the fish, the frogs and crayfish. He often begged me to get bigger and better fish, like Japanese koi, and I always refused. It didn’t make sense to spend ten or fifteen dollars for a fish that might end up in the belly of a raccoon or a Great Blue Heron.”

He took a tiny sip of his water. “Days like these, you look back in regret, think of all the times you said no, all the times you said later, son, all the missed ball games and recitals and events . . . it makes one feel very, very old. Are you married, Mister Cole?”

“No, I’m not.”

“I envy you, then. For not having that special terror of being a parent, of worrying about your only son, of seeing him grow up with skinned knees and broken arms. At some point, after he’s gone through the temptations of high school and the chances of injury that come with a driver’s license, you expect that the odds are now in his favor. That he will grow old and marry and bless you with a fine daughter-in-law and grandchildren . . . and in the space of one depressing late-night phone call from a place you’ve never heard of, it’s gone. It’s all gone.”