Levon's Night (7 page)

All received the big ho-hum at each of their respective agencies.

“Too bad we couldn’t turn up anyone named Muhammed,” Bill said more than once.

They were both assigned to other cases but stayed in regular contact over the Blanco case. Several times a week, on off-duty hours or when they could snag some time at their offices when the time zones overlapped, they compared anything they may have found. As time passed the discovery of new evidence petered away and the theorizing increased to form the bulk of their conversations.

“There’s no video of anyone who might be in this crew anywhere. Not at airports or sea ports or anywhere. No rental cars. No nothing that can’t be accounted for,” she said.

“I know. I’ve watched the videos. Hours of surveillance videos looking for the same faces in both places,” he said.

“They entered both places illegally. Easy peasy since the target houses were on the water.”

“And in areas thick with pleasure craft.”

“But that still begs a question,” she said.

“It does, does it? Begs?” he said laughing at her turn of phrase.

“Sorry. I binge watched two seasons of
The Tudors
over the weekend.” She smiled.

“So, you
do
have a life.”

“Such as it is, smartass. Back to my question. These guys just don’t paddle ashore and wander around. They go right for their target by the shortest route, do their business and get out the same way. A few hours in and out with the bulk of that time spent torturing anyone they come across.”

“Someone does their prep work. An advance man already on the island.” Bill nodded.

“Someone who cases the place. Checks for alarms. Police presence. Who’s home and who’s not. Comings and goings. Other relevant data. The skids are greased for the team when they arrive on the scene like a rock band to take the stage,” Nancy said.

“They also need to
locate
the targets, right? They’d need to do the same kind of digging you did to find any real estate holdings that Blanco finagled.”

“I don’t think so, Bill. Maybe for the first house but not the Fiji house and not any others.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Blanco died taking his secrets with him. But the wife was still alive and I have to think she’d share anything she knew to make them stop doing what they were doing to her kids.”

“Like tell them about any other possible hiding places.”

“That’s probably the only thing she knew. Blanco kept everything else a secret from her. But she damn sure knew where they lived, what houses they owned,” Nancy said.

“And she traded that,” Bill said.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“If I had kids. Yeah.”

“So, the villains have a treasure map. They just don’t know where ‘X’ is.”

“Villains? Is that more of
The Tudors
?”

“Just something I picked up.” She smirked.

“Well then I beg the question,
is
there a next place and, if there is,
where
is it?” he said, rubbing his chin with his fingers.

“Beats the shit out of me, G-man.”

15

“Just what’s here. The Greenbergs gave them to me before they left for Florida,” Carl Fenton said.

The kids, including Giselle, were in the great room of the cabin that the Fentons called home. It had high ceilings and everywhere Merry looked she saw gleaming yellow wood. It was like a place where a hobbit might live.

“This one continues next issue and you don’t
have
the next issue,” Merry said, putting the comic back atop the short stack.

Giselle lay back on a daybed, engrossed in something on her tablet. “Is it the one where Archie can’t decide between Betty or Veronica?” she said without looking up.

“That’s the one. You read it?” Merry said.

“I don’t have to. That’s what they’re
all
about,” Giselle said, rolling her eyes before turning them back to the screen in her hands, thumbs working furiously.

“I have lots of Spiderman,” Carl offered, shoving a cardboard box stuffed with comics across the table.

“Does he have a girlfriend?” Merry said, inspecting the cover of one she pulled from the upright stack.

“Sure. He’s even married in some of them,” Carl said, riffling through copies.

“Get me those ones,” Merry said.

“Sure, Moira,” Carl said and began assembling a selection for her.

The younger kids read while Giselle, far too mature for comic books at fourteen, texted friends and cursed the slow wi-fi she was borrowing from the nearest house, a Swiss nightmare of a place owned by some Wall Street guy.

A whining sound off the lake broke the muttered silence.

Merry broke off reading to go to the bay window through which she could see past the bigger house to the lake surface. It was blinding white even in the muted glare from the overcast sky.

“There’s someone on the lake,” Merry said.

Giselle joined her. Carl remained absorbed with his comics.

Out on the vast flat surface sat three tiny dark shapes. Giselle got a pair of binoculars from a drawer in the base of the bay window. They kept it there for moose watching. She focused then watched a while before handing it to Merry who was eager for a peek.

Through the lenses Merry could see that there were a pair of wooden shacks out on the ice where they had not been earlier that day. Parked behind them was a pickup bigger than her father’s with huge knobby tires fitted with chains. The door of one of the shacks opened and two men stepped out. They walked with a peculiar gait over to the second shack a hundred feet away. One of them carried a tool of some kind but it was too far for Merry to see what it was. They both went into the second shack and the whining noise started up again.

“What are they doing?” Merry asked Giselle.

“They’re going to piss my dad off as soon as he sees them.”

He aimed the snow machine toward the two ice fishing shacks and turned the throttle to race over the ice toward the two idiots hurrying back to their pickup. One of them fell hard on his ass as Nate drew up in front of the F-150 to block its escape. Dennis Walbrooke was helping his brother Tom up off the ice.

The two shacks were roughly the size of small walk-in closets. They were plywood over a wooden frame with tar paper roofs and holes cut for the stove pipe for propane-fueled heaters. They’d been lined inside with insulation covered by beaverboard panels to keep them cozy. They sat on two-by-fours that served as skis so the pickup could pull them over the ice at the end of tow chains.

“Do we have to do this every year, guys?” Nate said, cutting the engine and climbing off the saddle.

“What’s a few fish, Nate?” Dennis said. Tom braced himself against the bed of the Ford to regain his balance.

“When they’re fish that don’t belong to you? You know Ty Grant stocks this lake with trout every year. I’d think he’d expect a few left over for himself when he puts his line in come spring,” Nate said and leaned on the truck himself.

“Aw come on, champ,” Tom Walbrooke groused.

The three had gone to school together. Dennis a year behind and Nate and Tom in the same grade until Tom ran into Algebra and dropped back to join his little brother. Nate was something of a local hero for making all-state as a wide receiver for Arundel Regional High.

“Yeah, those fish spend all winter under the ice fucking each other and making more little fishies. There’s plenty for all, Nate.” Dennis pleaded the same argument he had last year and all the years before since Nate had taken on the job as caretaker for the lake properties.

“It’s not the little ones Grant is interested in and you know that, you dumb shit,” Nate said but he was smiling.

The brothers were encouraged by the smile and returned it with eager expressions.

“You’ll have those shacks off by the first sign of thaw? And you’ll keep your catch down to a reasonable number?” Nate said.

Both brothers nodded with enthusiasm, grins broadening.

“You’re welcome any time to try your own hand, champ,” Dennis said.

“That’s very kind of you to invite me to poach along with you. But have either of you ever heard of deniability?”

The brothers exchanged an uncertain glance.

“That means I have to pretend I didn’t see you.” Nate sighed.

The brothers’ grins refreshed and they elbowed each other with great enthusiasm.

Before saddling up on the snow machine Nate turned to glance back at the cabin set above the road on the western bank. The sun gleamed off something at the faraway bay window. The kids were watching him at work. That made Nate smile. As he turned his head another glint flashed in his peripheral. A glare from one of the larger homes on the east shore. It was gone before he could fix its exact location. He cranked the engine to life and turned back west to the next house on his rounds, leaving the Walbrookes to finish drilling their second ice hole in the center of the lake.

16

“It’s Lee!” she hollered, covering the phone mike with her hand.

“I didn’t know who else to call, Mitch,” Lee Tessler said when Levon picked up the cordless in the garage.

“Nate is the one who usually handles things like that,” he said.

“He can’t get to me until tonight. Something about a tree that came down overnight.”

“I can come over and take a look.”

“Would you?” she said, sighing with relief.

The problem was snow that had drifted up around the outdoor heat pump intakes, shutting down the four units that heated the Moulson house. Levon shoveled the snow away from them. Lee was leaning at a window inside the house, wrapped in a cardigan with a ski cap tilted her head, watching him digging. He saw her there. When he had the units cleared all the way around he made a stirring motion to her with a finger. She disappeared from the window. The fans atop the heat pumps whirred to life. The defrost cycle would melt the remaining ice from the vent flanges. He turned to the window to see her motioning for him to come inside.

“Nate can put up a snow fence to keep that from happening again,” he said, taking a mug of coffee from him.

“You didn’t seem to be a big espresso fan last time. That’s just regular old coffee,” she said from the broad island at the center of the kitchen. She set the coffee carafe down on the granite top.

“It’s fine,” he said.

“And I mean
old
. I think the can of Maxwell House I found was here when the house was built.”

“As long as it’s hot.”

“And thanks for coming by. I woke up this morning and I could see my breath. Jiggling the thermostat and calling the super is the extent of my expertise. I’m not used to winters like this.”

“I thought you said you were from Boston.”

“I leased the Merc in Boston. I live in New York. A condo. Twenty floors above the weather. Have a problem? Call maintenance.”

“You have an unusual accent,” he said.

“I blame the Hudson River Valley and northern boarding schools,” she said.

“Yankee through and through.” He smiled. She smiled back.

“Even so, these Maine winters are an entirely different animal.”

“Are you regretting your decision to stay here?” He set the mug down.

“Actually, no. Can I top that off?” she said and came around the island to stand close by him to take the mug.

“Still a few swallows in there,” he said touching her hand. She didn’t move from his side.

“Like I was saying, there are a few good reasons for staying through the winter.”

“The house is starting to warm up,” Levon said, removing his fingers from the back of her hand.

“I know a way to make it even warmer. You know, I lied before. I never called Nate.” She tilted her head, looking up at him from under a strand of hair come loose from under her cap. The corner of her mouth curved.

He stood to go. She touched the sleeve of his coat.

“Can’t you think of a reason to stay a little while longer?” She removed the cap and her fine blonde hair fell about her shoulders.

“What kind of reason, Lee?”

“You’re a man. I’m a woman. It’s cold outside and warm inside.” Her hand moved to his shoulder.

“Because I’m a man.”

“You have a cock don’t you?”

“And that makes me a man.”

“It sure helps, Mitch,” she said. Her easy smile widened.

“I told Moira I’d only be a little while. I need to get back,” he said, taking a step from her. Her hand dropped to her side. He picked up his coat from the seat back and moved toward the door.

“Do I need to apologize?” she said, following him.

“No need to apologize, Lee. For either of us,” he said and was gone.

She watched him get in the truck and pull away, her breath misting the glass pane.

17

He was going to make a remark about it to the deliveree until he saw the face of the man in the black raincoat rising from the bench to meet him. Half the guy’s face looked like it was made of putty and left out in the sun too long. Without a word the messenger handed over the eight inch by five inch padded envelope. The man took it in a gloved hand and turned to walk away.