Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series) Page 3

  There were just a few cars motoring around, and with the November winds, sand was beginning to drift over the streets. Along the beach, the state had erected long, orange plastic fences along the sidewalks to keep most of the sand in place.

  The Tyler police station is a bunker-like concrete building, right next to the Tyler fire department, and I parked in a visitor spot; and after a brief conversation with a dispatcher behind thick bulletproof glass, the door leading in was buzzed open and I met with Captain Kate Nickerson.

  She was friendly but slightly wary, and had on a dark green Tyler police uniform with heavy-looking black boots. Her blond hair was short and she had simple gold earrings in each ear, and her office was small, its one desk being shared with two other captains who worked other shifts. But on one corner of the desk was a photo of a man I assumed was her husband, along with a young boy and girl, all three laughing and sitting on a park bench. Black filing cabinets and a bulletin board were about the only other features in the office.

  I took a chair across from her, and she said “Detective Woods called a while ago, saying you’d stop by for a visit.”

  “Thanks for taking the time,” I said.

  She folded her hands in front of her. “Sorry to say, even with Diane’s phone call, I don’t have much to offer you. Paula Quinn came in, I talked to her, took down some information . . . and that’s it.”

  “I know,” I said. “Being an adult and leaving without telling anybody isn’t a crime.”

  “That’s right. But Paula being with the newspaper, and Mark being the town counsel, I made some phone calls, checked to see if anybody was injured at the local hospitals with no ID . . . even checked the county morgues. Nothing. And that’s about that.”

  “How about putting an alert on his credit cards? In case they get used?”

  She pursed her lips. “That needs a warrant from a judge, and what can I say to a judge to request a warrant? No sign of a crime, no threats, no ransom notes, nothing . . . and for all you and I know, he might have just decided to toss away his law career and take a Greyhound to Key West.”

  “Or he might be dead.”

  “Or he might be dead,” she agreed. “And if he is . . . well, don’t tell Paula this, please, but there’s a good chance he’ll be found in a week or two. When our citizen militia goes out on drills.”

  She was smiling, and I think she was teasing me. So I took the bait. “What militia?”

  “Deer hunters,” she said. “Bow hunters, muzzle-loaders, regular hunters. They start tramping through the woods and the meadows. That’s when we find bones, that’s when we find missing persons. So that’s when and where I think we’ll find Mark Spencer.”

  The town hall for Tyler is back up at the center of the town, next to the uptown fire station. It’s in a white building that looks like a particularly large Cape Cod house—complete with black shutters—and even without an appointment, I got a meeting with Glen Torrance, the town manager. In most towns in New Hampshire, the government hasn’t changed much in the past 375 years—an elected board of selectmen, sometimes three members, sometimes five. And those with five selectmen usually hire a town manager to run the day-to-day operations for the town, since selectmen most often have other jobs and get paid the magnificent sum of five hundred dollars a year.

  But the real fun part is the makeup of the five selectmen. If you get a mix of rabid left-wingers and right-wingers, it can make the town manager’s job miserable, trying to answer to five different masters, meaning you have towns that go through town managers like tires on NASCAR racing cars.

  But Glen had been here for four years—nearly an eternity in small-town politics—and I was happy he’d see me on such short notice. His office was on the second floor, with a great view of the parking lot behind the town hall, and I took a chair across from his clean and ordered desk. Glen was tall, about six foot six, but with not much fat or muscle. His face was lean and angular and sort of melancholy, like he had a hard time ducking problems and low-hanging ceilings. His hair was a mix of gray-brown, and it was parted to the side. He had on a blue Oxford shirt with button collar, no necktie, and dark gray slacks.

  “Hey, I’m glad to see Ray issued you the building permit for your place, Lewis.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Hope I can get some work done before any heavy weather gets up here.”

  He grimaced. “Yeah. That depression off Florida. Hope it holds.”

  “Or at least gets some Prozac into it,” I said, making his grimace disappear. He put his long hands behind his head, leaned back into his chair. “So. What can the town of Tyler do for you today?”

  “Tell me where you think your town counsel is.”

  The grimace returned. “Pretty strange, isn’t it. I was supposed to meet with him last Friday, over some worker-compensation paperwork, but he never showed up. Called him at home, at his office, even tried his cell. Nothing.”

  “What did his office say?”

  The sour expression on his face remained. “Why are you asking?”

  “Doing a favor for a friend. Paula Quinn. There’s no sign of a struggle, or a violent crime, or anything illegal, so the police aren’t doing much.”

  “Which is true,” he said. “But still . . . that’s not Mark.”

  “How do you mean that?”

  He lowered his hands, put them in his lap. “Last February. We were having a meeting over a possible lawsuit against the town because of some zoning matter. An important meeting, but nothing life-or-death, you understand? The meeting was set for two P.M., with me, Bud Tyson, the selectmen chairman, and Wanda Fogarty, from the zoning board of adjustment. A storm that was predicted to be rain changed unexpectedly into snow, heavy, wet snow. You probably remember. Mark called us from his cell phone, saying he was coming up from Boston and that he would make it.”

  Glen paused. “Yeah, he made it, all right. About a half hour late, covered with snow. He had been driving so fast that he dropped his car in a ditch just off the exit from I-95. He walked, ran, and hitchhiked to get to the town hall after he did that. Didn’t even wait for a tow truck. That’s our town counsel. It’s not like him to just disappear.”

  “What do you think might have happened?”

  “No idea,” Glen said. “But town-counsel work . . . it’s mostly planning-board or zoning-board disputes, a few worker-comp cases. Very dry, normal, and boring. But he also does some work for his firm. I’d start there, Lewis. If there are any questions, I think it would have to be there. Not with the Town of Tyler.”

  I got up, extended my hand. “Fair enough. And how are the selectmen treating you?”

  Another grimace. “Like the legendary red-headed stepchild . . . but the elementary school is great, and once Tina graduates from there, it’ll be time for me to tell them what I really think of them.”

  “You think you’ll have enough time for that?”

  Glen smiled. “I’ll make the time.”

  A phone call to the law firm of Adams & Lessard was unsuccessful, as I was eventually talked to by a brisk-sounding and very competent Hannah Adams, the senior partner.

  “Mister Cole, are you a member of any law-enforcement agency?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “And are you a private investigator?”

  “No.”

  “Are you a relative of Mister Spencer?”

  I sighed. “No, once more.”

  “Then have a nice day,” she said, as she hung up on me in a not-very-nice way.

  Twelve Rockland Ridge was off High Street, near where Paula had her own condo. It was set back from the road, and the developers had wisely kept as many trees as possible. There were two old farm stone walls set along the grounds. Hard to believe that my home state is one of the most forested in the nation, yet more than a century ago it was mostly cleared farmland. But when lands opened up out west, and the farmers here realized they could own property that wasn’t peppered with granite boulders, they quickly abandoned their
farms and hit the road.

  The condo buildings were white with black shingles, and each unit was three stories tall, sandwiched next to its neighbor, with oval-shaped parking lots in front of the units. Before I went into Unit 4, I spent a depressing hour knocking on doors and talking to Mark’s alleged neighbors. It’s nice to believe in the myth of the small New Hampshire town where neighbors look out for each other, but the truth is—especially in these new condo units dumped in the local countryside—the residents are transients, staying for a year or two before going on to a bigger place, or a bigger job, or a divorce court.

  Which meant that out of the fifteen doors I knocked on that afternoon, fourteen were answered, and nobody knew anything about Mark Spencer. A couple of them knew he lived in Unit 4, but seeing him leave for work in the morning and come back at night was about the extent of their interaction with their town’s local lawyer. With respect to their questions as to why I was inquiring about Mark Spencer, I said “routine background check,” and that seemed satisfactory.

  My feet were tired and my right leg ached. I went to Unit 4, unlocked it with the key Paula had passed on, and entered a tiny foyer. To the left was an empty, clean garage, with some tools hanging properly on a pegboard. Before me was a steep set of wooden stairs, and at the top was a wooden door which opened easily enough. To the left was a small and clean kitchen; beyond the kitchen, a good-sized living room.

  I just took a moment to walk through the second floor, and then went upstairs to see a bathroom, bedroom, and small office. The office had a tiny wooden desk, black office chair, but no laptop. There were bookcases lined with volumes about the law, management, and business. No history, no science, and no fiction.

  Out back to the bedroom. I spent a few minutes going through the closets and drawers. Clothes clean, folded, and hung in order. Shined shoes lined up like soldiers on the floor of the largest closet. No newspapers or magazines, and no dust bunnies. I stepped out of the bedroom, gave it one last glance, managed to keep the thought of Paula up here out of my mind.

  Downstairs in the living room, a slight success. About a half dozen photos of Mark with Paula, including one where they were both wearing bathing suits—he black trunks, she a well-filled-out light orange bikini on a small sandy beach with pine trees in the distance—and Mark had his arm around her shoulders, smiling. I leaned in at the photo, saw a smudge or something on his wrist, and murmured “So you can smile without fainting, Counselor. Congratulations.”

  The living room was tidy and, except for the photos of him and Paula, was practically sterile. I went into the kitchen. Nothing out of the ordinary here, and back to the living room, where I sat down.

  Too sterile, too quiet, too empty.

  Aloud, I said “What the hell does Paula see in you, anyway, pal?”

  I went through the thin batch of papers Paula had given me, and looked again at something I had earlier missed.

  “Especially,” I added, “since you’ve been lying to her from the day the two of you met.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  As my first day ended as Lewis Cole, intrepid boy investigator, I had one more appointment to fulfill, up in Wallis, a town just above Tyler and North Tyler. There are large homes along the twisting coastline that could house a prep-school dorm population, but I ended up at the Wallis Bed & Breakfast Inn, a Victorian-style building set on an outcropping of rock. Including the Bed and the Breakfast, they also had a small dining room with a spectacular menu and an equally spectacular view of the Atlantic.

  As I walked into the carpeted dining room, Felix Tinios, originally from the North End of Boston and now residing in North Tyler as a security consultant—which he always manages to say with a straight face—got up from the table, extended a hand. I gave it a quick shake and sat down, and he said “Don’t take this personally, Lewis, but it looks like you’ve been living in the back of your rental car.”

  “Such a keen observer you are, Felix,” I said. “Next, you’ll be telling me that winter’s approaching.”

  He flipped a white napkin onto his lap, and I said “What have you been up to?”

  Felix passed over a leather-clad menu. “Resolving a union dispute in the fair commonwealth to the south, between electricians and carpenters.”

  “Really?” I asked. “Were a lot of offers made, offers that couldn’t be refused?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “It seems that some outside forces from New York were trying to stir up trouble between the two groups so they could swoop in and pretend to be their saviors. I’ve had dealings with both unions in the past, their leadership trusts me, and I did a little digging, told them what was really going on. Peace has now broken out, I’m owed a bunch of favors, and certain men from New York have gone home with their legs and arms in casts.”

  “Slips and falls,” I said. “The hidden threat.”

  “You got it, friend.”

  We then got to work reviewing the menus, and I tried not to gulp hard at seeing the prices. Felix and I had eaten here on many occasions, back when my bank account was fat and I had a steady income stream; but now that I had neither, I felt like a Midwest farmer with a dustbowl for a field and a grim-faced mortgage-company rep knocking on the door.

  Felix caught my expression, closed the black leather-clad menu. He had on a dark blue heavy knit sweater, and his usual olive-colored skin was tanned after having earlier spent a few weeks in Florida. His black hair was its usual thick and styled self, and his brown eyes were as sharp and as intelligent as always.

  “Don’t worry, tonight’s on me.”

  “Only if you keep a running tally.”

  “Of course. And speaking of tally and such, why the hell are you still camping out in the back of your Pilot? You know I could set you up at a hotel for a bit, or you could crash on my couch.”

  “Maybe I’m not in the mood for receiving favors.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  I put my own menu down. “No, not really . . . but look, are you in the mood for granting favors?”

  “Not usually, but you’ve caught me in a giving place. What do you have in mind? Hotel, or my spare bedroom?”

  “Neither,” I said. “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Who’s the someone?”

  From my inside jacket pocket, I took out the photo of Mark Spencer, slid it over the white tablecloth. Felix picked up the photo and said “Handsome young lad. Missing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t take you for a skip tracer or missing-persons investigator.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “Like you, I’m trading in favors. That’s Mark Spencer, town counsel and soon-to-be husband of Paula Quinn.”

  He put the photo down. “Ah, yes, the delectable Paula Quinn. Your first—quote, romance, unquote—after you relocated to these fair shores. And you’re still in the mood to do her a favor?”

  “Guess I am.”

  “What’s the story?”

  I told him, and he nodded a few times and then picked up the photo again. “Odd.”

  “I know. Care to explain more?”

  “Most guys who go missing . . . they have unrewarding lives, or excessive debt, or responsibilities that they’re running away from. Some little voice inside their head tells them today is the day to strike out for the territories, and off they go.”

  I said, “But Mark is a lawyer, counsel for the town of Tyler, and a couple of weeks ago, he asked Paula Quinn to marry him.”

  “Not the sign of someone who is preparing to run.”

  “No,” I said. “Which is why I think he’s probably dead, maybe in a one-car accident on a remote road, or maybe he got swept off a breakwater somewhere along the coast and drowned. Or some other death by misadventure.”

  He put the photo down again. “If that’s what you think, then what kind of favor do you need me for?”

  A young waitress dressed in tight black slacks and white top came by to take our order. She had full brunette hair, a
n engaging smile, and said her name was Corey. Felix placed an order for a filet mignon—medium rare—with a side of two lobster tails, risotto, and house salad, and I tried to make do with a Caesar salad and a crock of French onion soup.

  Felix took the menu from my hand and said: “Corey?”

  “Yes?” she said, smiling widely.

  “This fine fellow across from me is . . . what you call ‘special.’ He’s confused about his order, so forget what he just said and bring him the same as me.”

  “Felix. . . .”

  “Please, dad, don’t make a scene in front of this sweet young lady, okay?” Felix said in a soothing voice.

  I kept my mouth shut and noted that Corey looked back at us twice as she walked back into the kitchen.

  Correction: she looked back twice at Felix.

  “Still waiting for an answer. What do you think I can do for you?” he asked.

  “The way Mark left . . . sudden but not in a rush. I spent some time at his condo. Looked like the maid had just visited. Nothing out of place. Nothing to indicate that he was in one hell of a hurry to leave.”

  “But he’s still gone.”

  “Yeah. Like he was terribly scared of something, something so bad that he left without telling his law firm, the town, or his fiancée.”

  “What did the town say? Any angry workers or lawyers after him for some legal-related matter?”

  “No.”

  “His law firm?”

  “They still believe in confidentiality. So no joy there. But they don’t do much in the way of criminal work . . . but I’m thinking something about his law career got him into a spot that scared him. Or his past.”

  That got his attention. “What about his past? I thought he was a straight shooter, straight dresser, straight boredom.”