Third Strike (19 page)

“So far you've told me nothing I don't know,” I said, narrowing my eyes a little.

Frazier seemed to try to sink out of sight. “Come on. Gimme a break, willya? I'm tryin' to help, ain't I? What happened was, whatever Doyle had in mind when he talked with Steve, it was going down the next Wednesday night, so Eddie tells me he's going to find Doyle that night and follow him and find out what he's doing and keep him from doing it if it's something that'll be bad for the union. I tell him that's probably not a good idea, because Doyle is a bad egg, but Eddie says he don't want any trouble to happen, so he's going to stick to his plan. Well, I didn't want him out there alone, so I said I'd go with him, but I didn't want no trouble either.”

He looked up at me with fear in his eyes.

“Continue,” I growled. “I want all of it.”

“Sure, sure.” Frazier nodded vigorously. “So, okay, I drive us up to Doyle's house—he lives a couple blocks from here, you know—and we see his car's still there, so when he leaves we follow him down to the docks, and when he parks, we go down a ways farther and we park, too. Like they do in the movies, you know?”

“Yes,” I said. “I know.”

“Okay, so anyway,” said Frazier, “even though it's dark we can see Doyle carry a suitcase out toward the
Trident,
walking sort of sneaky and like the suitcase was heavy, and Eddie doesn't like whatever it is he sees, so he goes running after him, but I don't want no trouble so I stayed where I was.”

Frazier stopped talking and gave me a sick look.

“And?” I said.

“That was last Wednesday night. Eddie didn't come right back. I waited, and after a while I see Doyle headed back to his car. He drives past me and sees me and slows down, but then he keeps going, and just as I'm about to go find Eddie, the
Trident
blows up.” Frazier's wide eyes stared up at me. “I ain't got proof, but I think Doyle maybe hit Eddie with something and left him there to take the rap for the explosion, you know?”

“I do know,” I said. “Then what?”

“So,” he said, “there I was with Doyle knowing what I saw. So he comes over here the next morning and tells me to keep my mouth shut or else, but if I do, everything will be fine and I should just keep doing the things I usually do. But now you've got me blabbing. Jesus! I never should have gone with Eddie that night.”

“That explains Doyle,” I said. “Who are the others you're afraid of?”

“Honest to Christ,” he said, “I don't know who they are, but there's got to be more of them than just Harry Doyle. He wouldn't do nothing like that unless it was somebody else's idea. Why would he? I don't know who they are, but they must know about me, too, and now you do, too. I gotta get away. I can't live a normal life here anymore.”

“You sure you don't know who those other people are?”

“No. Yes! I mean I don't know!”

I turned to Brady. “Bruno, maybe you should ask him.”

Brady glared at him. It was a truly impressive glare.

“No, wait,” cried Frazier. “Doyle works for Mortison, I know that. Mortison knows a lot of people. Maybe it's them. And I've seen Doyle up at church a lot. He don't seem like the churchgoing type, but he goes up there.” He looked past me at Brady. “I swear to God that's all I know about Doyle, but I know he didn't blow up that ship without somebody telling him to.”

I heard the sound of a car stopping in front of the house, then heard Brady's steps going to a window.

“We've got company,” he said. “It's Harry Doyle.”

Frazier groaned.

“Have you got a gun in the house?” I asked.

“Gun? No, I ain't got no gun!”

“How about a back door?”

“Yeah, I got one of them.”

I put down a hand and pulled him to his feet. “Use it,” I said.

He did.

I looked to Brady.

“Bruno,” he said. “Is that the best thug name you could come up with?”

“It worked,” I said. “Is Doyle alone?”

“I think the guy with him is a genuine thug.”

There was a heavy knock on the front door.

“What do you think?” I said. “Should we open that door or go out the back one?”

“Leave this to me,” said Brady, and he went to the front door and opened it.

“We want to talk to Norm Frazier,” said Doyle, frowning.

His companion stood behind him, looking very large.

“Who wants to see him?” asked Brady, standing square in the doorway.

“None of your business,” snapped Doyle. “I want to see Frazier. Who the hell are you?”

“My name is Coyne. I'm an officer of the court. If you have any business with Mr. Frazier, you'll do it through us or not at all. You can start by telling me who you are.”

Doyle suggested that Brady perform an impossible task.

“Not everyone enjoys your favorite practices, Mr. Doyle,” said Brady smoothly. “Yes, I already know who you are. We have photos of you in our files.” He turned to me. “Isn't that right, Lieutenant?”

“He looks worse in person,” I said, my right hand behind my back.

“Mr. Frazier is in our custody,” said Brady. “However, we would like to talk with you, too. Maybe you'd like to come with us now and save us the trouble of finding you later.”

But Doyle didn't accept the invitation. Instead, he turned on his heel, said, “Come on, Bruno,” and walked to his car. The big thug followed him.

Brady watched them drive away, then shut the door.

“Jesus,” he said, shaking his head. “Another Bruno. It's hard to believe.”

“Maybe Doyle was lying about his name,” I said. “Have you ever noticed that there are a lot of liars in the world?”

“It's recently come to my attention,” said Brady. “What do you make of this business between Frazier and Doyle?”

“I think Frazier is right,” I said. “I think there are other people behind Doyle, and I think we'd better find out who they are.”

W
e went out to the Jeep. “What do you think?” said J.W.

“I think,” I said, “I want to get out of this jacket and necktie and back into my blue jeans. I feel like a damn lawyer.”

He looked sideways at me but didn't say the obvious thing. Instead, he started up the car and pulled out of Norm Frazier's driveway. “Far as I'm concerned,” he said, “we just solved the mystery of who blew up the
Trident
.”

“Doyle,” I said. “Maybe on Mortison's orders.”

J.W. nodded thoughtfully. “That's if Norm Frazier is to be believed.”

“I think you scared him pretty good.”

“It was you who scared him, Bruno,” said J.W. “I'm not sure fear produces truth the way wine does, though.”

“Maybe we should go tell the police what Frazier told us,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said dubiously. “Maybe.” He paused. “There's still too much we don't know. Maybe we should try to follow Doyle and his thug, see where that takes us.”

“This red Jeep is kind of noticeable,” I said, “and I'm not so sure I want to know what those guys would do if they spotted us tailing them. I think we should try to think things through a little bit before we do something stupid. Besides, this necktie is choking me. Take me home, Jeeves.”

“At once, sir,” said J.W.

He knew how to get to where we were going, and I didn't, so I just watched the scenery go by. It was a postcard-perfect late-summer Sunday on Martha's Vineyard. A lot of people paid a lot of money for this, but it seemed as if every time I was on the island I ended up getting involved in something unpleasant and didn't have the leisure to pay much attention to the scenery or the weather.

We drove in silence for a little while. Then J.W. said, “They're all connected.”

“All these men,” I said. “Mortison and Doyle and the priest.”

“Yes. And Eduardo Alvarez, and Steve with the broken ankle, and Dr. Lundsberg. Larry Bucyck, too. All of them.”

“Doyle killed Alvarez and blew up the boat,” I said. “Doyle is buddies with Mortison, and Mortison's was the back of the head you recognized at Dr. Lundsberg's last night.”

“And they were all at Father Zapata's church this morning.”

“Larry Bucyck got tortured and killed for what he saw at Lundsberg's the other night.”

“It looks that way,” said J.W. “And we saw even more at Lundsberg's.”

“What did we see?” I said.

“We saw men studying a map of the island, for one thing.” He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Two men have been murdered. Unless I'm way off base, Larry Bucyck and Eduardo Alvarez got murdered because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. They saw something they shouldn't've seen.”

“Whatever they saw,” I said, “it had to be pretty important to be worth murdering for.”

“And those guys with Uzis tried to murder us last night, don't forget,” he said.

“I bet it's occurred to you,” I said to J.W., “that you and I haven't exactly been keeping a low profile lately.”

He turned and smiled at me. “You mean like getting chased by men with Uzis and showing up in church?”

“It's not that funny.”

“Detecting 101,” he said. “I learned when I was a cop that sometimes you've just got to keep kicking the bushes and shaking the trees until something falls out.”

“And you hope whatever falls out doesn't land on your head,” I said.

When we pulled into the yard, we found Joshua and Diana in their bathing suits playing in the tree house. We declined their invitation to join them on the grounds that we still had our church clothes on, and we went inside.

Zee was in the kitchen loading up a picnic basket with sandwiches and pickles and potato chips and cookies. A cooler was stuffed with ice and cans of lemonade and iced tea and soft drinks. “We're hitting the beach,” she said. “You guys want to come?”

J.W. shook his head. “Maybe we'll meet you there later.”

She shrugged as if she expected that answer. “Gloria Alvarez and Mary are swinging by to pick us up. I wasn't sure if you'd be back in time with my car, and you know how I feel about driving that clunky old Land Cruiser of yours.”

“You can take the Wrangler,” he said. “We're back.”

I poked J.W.'s shoulder. He turned to me with his eyebrows arched. I gave my head a quick shake.

He frowned at me for a moment, then I saw understanding spark in his eyes.

He nodded and turned to Zee. “Actually,” he said to her, “you'd better not take the Jeep. On the way home just now it developed a funny clanking noise under the hood. We probably ought to get it looked at before we drive it anymore.”

She cocked her head at him. “Clanking noise, huh?”

“Like a handful of spoons and forks got loose under the hood,” he said. “It's good that Gloria's driving.”

“Spoons and forks,” she said.

He shrugged. “Something's loose. You don't want to get stuck at the beach with a car that won't run. I'll drop it off at Paulie's.”

Zee smiled, and it was hard to tell whether she saw through J.W.'s story. “I'll let Gloria drive.”

The toot of an automobile horn came from out front. “That's Gloria,” Zee said. She brushed J.W.'s cheek with a kiss, did the same to mine, then picked up the picnic basket and cooler and headed for the front porch.

“Have fun,” J.W. called after her.

“Stay out of trouble, you two,” she said.

After she left, J.W. sat on a kitchen stool. “That was fast thinking,” he said.

“You thought pretty fast, too,” I said. “Spoons and forks. That was good.”

He shrugged. “I'm not sure Zee believed me.”

“Doesn't matter,” I said. “She and the kids aren't in the red Jeep, and that's the point. Bad enough we took it to church this morning, and then to Frazier's house. But don't forget that I left it parked in plain sight in front of Larry Bucyck's house the night before he got executed.”

J.W. had a faraway look in his eyes that I didn't interpret as concern for me. I thought I knew what he was thinking. He didn't want his wife and kids in a car that killers would connect to a couple of troublemakers like us.

“I don't think the thugs with Uzis saw the Land Cruiser last night,” he said.

I smiled. “Let's hope not.”

“I think we need to do some touring.”

“The places on the map.”

He nodded. “Let's eat something first.”

“And get out of these church clothes,” I added.

I changed into my jeans and sneakers while J.W. made us some chicken salad sandwiches. When I got back to the kitchen, I saw that he'd also started a fresh pot of coffee brewing. He knew me well.

We ate at the kitchen table. J.W. had his map of Martha's Vineyard spread out in front of him, and he was frowning at it with narrowed eyes. Now and then he'd push his face closer to it and make a kind of grunting sound, as if he was having a conversation with himself.

I didn't interrupt. If he was drawing some inferences and making some deductions, he'd fill me in when he was ready.

When we finished eating, I filled a big travel mug with coffee, and we went outside. “I'll take the Land Cruiser,” he said. “You climb into the Wrangler and follow me.”

“What about the spoons and forks?” I said.

“Ha, ha,” he said.

“I thought we didn't want to be seen in the Jeep.”

“We don't,” he said. “Just follow me.”

At the end of his road, we turned right onto the Edgartown–Vineyard Haven Road, took another right on County Road heading into Oak Bluffs, and a few minutes later we pulled into a gas station. I stopped the Jeep behind the Land Cruiser while J.W. went inside. I could see him talking with somebody, and a minute later he came out accompanied by a gangly teenage boy who didn't look old enough to drive.

The kid came over to the driver's side of the Jeep. “You can pull around back,” he said to me. “Leave it between the Ford pickup and the Mercedes. Lock up and bring me the keys.”

I did as I was told. When I delivered the keys to the boy, he looked at J.W. “Call Paulie tomorrow, tell him what's going on, okay?” he said.

J.W. nodded. “I'll call Paulie.”

“We're wicked backed up,” he said. “But maybe Paulie—”

“It's okay,” J.W. said. “Thanks for finding a spot for it.”

J.W. and I got into the Land Cruiser and pulled out onto the road. “That was smart,” I said. “Get the car away from the house.”

“That kid Billy,” he said, “told me their mechanics are backed up about two weeks. All the vehicles that came over on the last ferries before the strike are still here, breaking down, needing new mufflers, new tires, oil changes, and the rental cars and taxis have been on the go all summer. I had to bribe him just to let me leave the Jeep there, and it cost me extra to put it out back where you can't see it from the road.”

“A sound peace-of-mind investment,” I said.

We headed away from Oak Bluffs on County Road and turned back onto the Edgartown–Vineyard Haven Road heading westerly. A bike trail followed alongside. Pretty soon J.W. slowed down and turned left over the bike trail onto a dirt road. We drove slowly past a couple of shingled houses, and a hundred yards or so later the road ended in a little turnaround. J.W. stopped there and got out of the Land Cruiser.

I got out, too. “What's here?” I said.

He shrugged and waved his hand at the scrubby woods. “One of the places that was circled on Dr. Lundsberg's map is in there somewhere.”

“Where are we?”

He spread his arms, encompassing the whole area past the end of the dirt road. “State forest,” he said. He was walking slowly around the rim of the turnaround, peering into the woods. After a minute, he said, “Here we go. Come on.”

He'd found a narrow pathway leading into the woods. We started following it. It was unmarked and unofficial, just a beaten-down trail that might've been made by deer, not people—except for the occasional discarded Marlboro pack and Miller Lite can along the way.

We'd gone maybe fifty yards when J.W. stopped. “Hm,” he said.

“What?”

“The trail goes that way,” he said, pointing straight ahead, “but somebody recently went that way.” He pointed to the right. “See?”

I looked, and I saw that a bush was broken. The cracked wood looked fresh. Then I saw that some weeds had been stepped on.

“The Great White Hunter,” I said.

“The Great Indian Tracker,” said J.W. “Please.”

I followed J.W., and he tried to follow the track of whoever had veered off the trail, but pretty soon he stopped and blew out a breath. “Lost it,” he said.

“Where would they be going?”

He looked around, then pointed. Ahead of us was a gentle rise in the land. “That,” he said, “is about as close to a hill as we have here on the Vineyard.”

“Let's go up there,” I said.

We did. The hill didn't amount to much. It was topped with some scrubby oak and pine and a few big boulders. There was evidence that people had been there. Cigarette butts, a couple of Coke cans, a circle of blackened rocks where somebody had built a little campfire. Kids, probably, finding an isolated place to smoke dope and make out. As low as the elevation was, it was enough to give a long view of the flat Vineyard landscape looking toward the south. You could see all the way to the airport and beyond it to the shimmering ribbon of ocean at the horizon.

J.W. had visored his eyes with his hand, and he was peering around like a sea captain looking for land. “Left the damn binoculars in the car,” he muttered.

“What're you looking for?”

“I don't know,” he said. “I thought I'd know it when I saw it. Now I'm not so sure. I'm not even sure if this is the place Lundsberg was pointing out on his map.”

“Maybe if we check out some of those other spots on the map we can make a connection.”

“That's what I'm thinking,” he said. “Let's go.”

We hiked back to the Land Cruiser. J.W. studied his map for a few minutes, then turned around and drove back out to the Edgartown–Vineyard Haven Road. He went a short distance further, in the direction of Tisbury, and then took a left onto Airport Road.

“This cuts north to south, straight through the state forest near the airport,” he muttered, as if he was talking to himself, not me. “I'm looking…somewhere along here…”

He crept along with the Land Cruiser in first gear, peering out his window at the roadside, and after a minute or two he pulled over and stopped the car.