Shattered Shell (28 page)

She flipped through the pages again. "You think he's done this before?"

"I don't know what to think. All I do know is that if we're going to believe that the town's fire inspector is burning down businesses in Tyler because of some grudge, we better have some good Information to start with. So far," I pointed at the minutes collection, "this is all we've got."

Paula's reporter's face was now firmly on. She has a number of faces, from ones that make me smile to others that give me the heebie-jeebies, and her reporter's face was creepy. She looked like a mother bear who's just found someone shaving her cubs.

"I think I can help you with that," Paula said. "Kristie Graham. She roomed with me for a semester back at UNH. She's now the secretary at the fire department."

"You think she'll let you see Mike's personnel file?"

"See it?" Paula said. "Hell, I helped her pass English two semesters in a row. She damn better let me make a copy of it."

"If she does, pass it along."

"The hell I will, this is my story."

"The hell you won't," I said. "This isn't just a story. This is some very strange stuff. If you start digging around and Mike Ahern finds out what you've been up to, then your job will become even more hellish. All of the firefighters, most of the cops, and a good chunk of the townspeople will be quite upset with you."

She sounded glum. "But nothing bad will happen to you, right? Sounds pretty macho to me."

"No, it sounds right, and you know it. I can still write the column, even if the entire town boycotts
Shoreline
. I don't have much to lose. You do. And I promise, if anything comes up, its yours. Your story, top to bottom. Deal?"

"Oh, it's a deal, damn you."

Then the door opened up and Frank the intern came in with two paper bags containing a veggie sub for Paula and a pastrami and cheese on rye for me, and iced tea for both of us. As Frank went out Paula said, "Frank, can you go down to the police station this afternoon to check on the log for me?"

His face brightened. "Sure. That'd be great."

When he closed the door behind us and I started unwrapping my sandwich, I said, "You hate going to the police station for the log in the winter, don't you?"

"Unh-hunh," she said, taking a big bite from her sandwich "It's cold and I have to park in that lot that never gets plowed, and there's hardly anything there anyway."

"So you sent the intern."

Paula looked up and smiled. "I sure did. Payback can be fun can't it?"

After a brief stop at the post office, I drove back home, seeing that the roads hadn't improved much since my drive into town. There were still cars stranded in snowdrifts and people shoveling and snowblowing as I made my way back to Atlantic Avenue. When I got in and took off my coat and tossed away most of the mail, I saw the blinking green light on my answering machine, and found that I had a call from Meg Purdy, the landlord for Doug Miles. She was quick and to the point:

"Call me back, will you?" she had said. "Dougie will be home tonight."

So I did, and she answered the phone and told me, "One of Dougie's friends stopped by, asked me to give him this envelope. He says Dougie will be by just before eleven."

"He wants you to hand deliver it?"

"Yeah, can you believe that?" she said. "I made a fuss and he gave me twenty bucks for my trouble."

"What kind of envelope is it?"

"Nine-by-twelve, the brown kind. Nice and sealed shut with tape, so don't go asking me to open it."

"I won't," I said. "But thanks for the call."

"You're welcome. So. Are you and your friend coming by tonight?"

"I imagine we will."

"Well, you imagine yourselves nice and careful," she said.  “You two look like a couple of strong young men, but you be prepared. And tell you what, you manage to get Doggie out, I'll give you something, and I don't mean twenty bucks."

"Thanks for the offer," I said.

"Don't bother, and don't mind me if I stay in my bedroom with the
Tonight Show
on and Krypton sharing my bed," she said with a laugh. "I don't think I want to know what's going on down there."

I nodded to myself. "I think you're right."

We were having a cup of coffee and some late-night dessert at the Grog in Newburyport, and I asked Felix how he had made it through the blizzard.

"Made it through, nice and fine."

"Even with the power out?"

He took up another forkful of cheesecake. "Who said I was at home? I had a business appointment in Boston."

"North End?" I asked blandly, and he gave me a look as he continued, "--- and I knew the storm was just going to get worse, so a friend of mine, we ended up in the Parker House. Nice place to ride out a blizzard. Big bed, big tub, and wonderful room service."

"Sounds like fun," I said. "Any chance I'll be meeting this friend anytime soon?"

"Not a chance," he said.

"Fine," I said. "How did your background check go on young Mr. Miles?"

"Our young Mr. Miles has been a busy boy, but nothing too outrageous," Felix said. "A few driving offenses and two burglary charges. A couple of barroom brawls, a marijuana possession, and one armed robbery charge that never went anywhere."

"Nice fellow. No wonder his landlord wants him out."

"Oh, I've seen nicer," Felix said, which I didn't doubt.

Later we went outside, walking carefully along the ice-covered sidewalk.  It was about eleven o'clock and the hot coffee, along with the thoughts of our evening's work, had wired me up. Everything seemed crisp and clear-from the brickwork of the buildings and the sharp light from the streetlamps, to the crunch of ice and sand under our feet. After we got into my four-wheeler and waited for the engine to warm up, Felix rubbed his hands together and said. "A few more days, I'm going to be so warm, and you're going to be so jealous."

"Run that by me one more time?" I asked.

He turned and smiled. "Courier job coming up very soon. Sun, sand, and fun in the Cayman Islands, thank you very much."

"Plus bruises, broken bones, and a little blood to go along with it, right?"

"Only if I screw up, which I promise I won't."

"What are you bringing in?" I asked, as I drove out of downtown Newburyport.

Felix shrugged. "Maybe I'm taking something out."

"Maybe I'm stupid in asking you."

"No argument here.”

We drove out to the western part of the city, where Doug Miles and his odd landlord lived. Felix reached behind him and pulled out a small black bag, which he zippered open. Taking out his 9mm Smith & Wesson, he opened up his winter jacket and placed it in a shoulder holster. He left his coat open and tossed the bag back into the rear seat, saying, "And you?"

"Underneath the front seat."

"Good."

He pulled the coat closed around him and said, "What do you think the landlord meant with her little statement?"

"Exactly what she said. We should be careful."

Felix crossed his arms around his chest. "Well, others might disagree, but I feel more careful when I'm carrying."

"Glad to hear it."

In New Hampshire, carrying a concealed weapon means getting a permit from the local police chief, which was easy for me, considering my relationship with a member of the Tyler Police Department. In Massachusetts, getting such a permit as a resident was very difficult, and getting one as an out-of-state resident --- like me --- was damn near impossible.

So tonight Felix and I would be breaking the law in the fair Commonwealth save for one thing: Some time ago he had secured permits for the both of us as representatives of a security firm that probably exists only from a mail drop somewhere in Boston. While I'm sure the way Felix managed to pull that scam off was an interesting story, I was content to have the permit and also content not to ask too many questions.

"Coming up in a minute or two," Felix said.

The banks of snow along the road were quite high, and the pavement was still covered with a hard pack of snow and sand. '"Here it is," Felix said. "Slow it down."

Which I did, and which I kept on doing as we slid past Doug Miles's home. Nothing in the driveway, no lights on, no sign of anyone.

“Damn," Felix said.

“Exactly."

We drove by twice more and then, thinking we would arouse the' suspicions of anyone awake, I drove back to town and we stayed in a shopping plaza parking lot, listening to some late-night music. The sodium-vapor lamps made everything look orange, and at the far' end of the lot, plows and earthmovers were widening the lot, dumping the snow into huge mounds that looked to be almost fifty feel tall.

"You got a grand plan after tonight?" Felix asked, resting his head in his hand.

"Nothing too grand about it," I said. "We talk to the young master Miles, and see what he tells us. If it's nothing worthwhile, then that's it, we're wrapped up and I talk to Diane later this week I give her a full report of everywhere we've been and everything we've done, and admit defeat."

"Nice."

"No, it's not nice, but it's all we can do. But if Doug offers us something, even something as small as knowing somebody that might not have liked Kara, or something Kara might have done to someone that she wouldn't admit to Diane, then we keep on going, until this road reaches a dead end."

"Then?"

I thought of Mike Ahern and the fires, and his dislike for one police detective. Another road to travel for a while, but nothing yet to get Felix involved with. Not yet.

"Then I think of something else."

"Couple of days ago, you said you might be taking a look at Diane and what might be going on with her. Still true?"

"Still true, but later," I said. "You ready for another trip back?"

"I suppose I don't have a choice."

"You suppose right."

This time, there were lights.

"All right," Felix said, zipping up his coat. "Slow down and let me out, and then come back in about five minutes. Head up to the driveway and knock on the door and I'll wait out back, and let's see what kind of mischief we can get into."

"See you soon," and I slowed down, and Felix opened the door, a cold blast of wind coming through the interior, and he slid out and on his feet and I sped up. I drove up the street, thinking again of why I was out here on a cold January night in a state not my own, with an automatic pistol under my seat and soon to be in my coat, and going in harm's way. I went about a quarter of a mile, enough time for Felix to settle himself in, and then I turned around and headed back, knowing full well the answer: For my friend. That's it. No deep philosophy, no heavy questions, no turgid debate. I was doing this for Diane, and for no one else.

The lights were still on at the shuttered and cold-looking house as I pulled into the driveway, making no attempt to quiet my approach. Parked in front of the house was an old Dodge Colt, its blue paint whitened with road salt, and I pulled up behind and switched off the engine. I reached under the seat and pulled out my own 9mm Beretta, unzipping it from its case, putting it in my own shoulder holster.

With flashlight in hand I got out and crunched my way across the frozen lawn, cold air on my face, not seeing Felix but knowing he was out there just the same. A comforting thought.

I went up to the front door, making a quick look around to unsure that Krypton or any friends of his weren't sniffing around, and I knocked a few times.

No answer.

"Doug? Doug Miles?"

I rapped on the door with my flashlight, and I thought I heard something moving around inside, and then there was a loud thump. I moved off the doorstep and was going to move around to the side of the house when the door suddenly opened, and standing in the light, breathing heavily but smiling, was Felix, pistol in hand.

"Selling something, young boy?" he asked.

"Depends on what you're buying, I guess."

I walked in and suddenly started breathing through my mouth. We were in a walkway that led off to the garage at our right, and to a living room to the left. A sour-looking man who looked to be Doug Miles was sitting on a couch, rubbing at his jaw. He had on jeans and a thick blue sweatshirt, and had one sneaker on. The room looked like someone had taken a Salvation Army drop-off bin and had tumbled it inside. Clothes were strewn around and were flowing out of torn green garbage bags. The room was thick with the smell of old grease and unwashed clothes. There were some newspapers crumpled up and some torn magazines, and a leaning bookshelf that held some paperbacks and a couple of souvenir sculptures or something. I looked quickly and saw one of the little statues was of a busty woman, holding up a beer stein, and on the base of the sculpture was "Beer and Broads: The Way Life Was Meant To Be." Toward the rear an open door led to the backyard, and next to the door was a counter that had a mini-fridge and two-burner hotplate. The walls were cheap paneling, bowing out from the wall studs, and a clock on the near wall was off by an hour.