Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series) Page 5

  Didn’t make sense.

  But what of his Social Security number?

  It began with the number 520, which meant it had been assigned in Wyoming.

  But I didn’t see any evidence or indication that Mark Spencer had any connection with the state of Wyoming.

  I got up from my cubicle, sniffed the air again—nothing seemed untoward, so I guess I could go one more day without a shower—and I went back to the Tyler Chronicle.

  Paula took me back into the same conference room as before, except this time there wasn’t any thumping of music coming from the dance studio next door. She had on a simple light blue dress that hugged her in some nice places, and her face looked better today, like she had gotten four or five hours of sleep last night.

  We sat down at the tiny conference-room table, and she said “The Lafayette House still treating you all right?”

  “Like a king,” I said.

  That got a flash of a smile and I went on. “I’m not making much progress, Paula, but I’m getting some points covered. Tell me, you ever meet Mark’s boss at the law firm, Hannah Adams?”

  “A few times, at a reception or function,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind one of her prominent ears. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m asking because I just had a few minutes with her, talking about Mark, and she didn’t seem that concerned. If anything, she seemed more concerned about me wasting her time and getting in the way.”

  “That’s Hannah for you,” Paula said. “Her life is work, work, and more work. Mark said she has never taken a day off or a vacation since he’s been there, and he joked once that if lawyers were gotten rid of, like the guy wants to do in that Shakespeare play, she’d kill herself because she wouldn’t know what to do.”

  “So if she doesn’t appear concerned about Mark being gone, that wouldn’t surprise you?

  She shook her head. “Mark said that she was a tough but fair boss, with ice water in her veins. From what I’ve seen, if she’s upset about anything, it’s losing billable hours.”

  “The firm’s secretary? Guy named Kenneth?”

  “Nope, nothing there.”

  “How about the other law partner? Lessard?”

  She moved yet another strand of hair. “Carl Lessard. Gray skinny guy, wears gray suits, keeps to himself. I’ve seen him at the same functions with Hannah Adams. Sticks to himself, nurses one drink, and then slides out when it looks like he’s put in enough time to be social. Hannah bosses him around like he’s a paralegal, but he just seems to take it, poor fellow.”

  I said, “I visited Mark’s condo unit. Nothing there appeared disturbed or out of place, except for his laptop.”

  “Which he still hasn’t used to answer my e-mails,” she said, exasperation in her voice. “What else?”

  “I did a canvass of most of his neighbors. He sure likes to keep a low profile.”

  Paula said, “You forget his place in town. He’s the town lawyer. Everywhere he goes, he’s under a spotlight. The grocery store, the gas station, a local restaurant. Eyes and ears keeping view, scooping up gossip to use later. That’s why we’ve gone out of town for most of our dates.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “He was born in Vermont, right?”

  She looked up. “That’s what I said. Why?”

  “Because his Social Security number . . . it begins with the numbers 520. That means it was issued in Wyoming. He ever mention spending time in Wyoming?”

  “Not at all.”

  “And he’s never said anything about having an odd Social Security number?”

  “Lewis . . . I know you’ve had experiences working with the federal government. What, you think they can’t make mistakes here and there?”

  “Fair point,” I admitted.

  “You go to the cops?”

  “I did. I talked to Captain Nickerson. I’m sorry, there’s no joy on that end. He’s an adult, and—”

  “—and being an adult and skipping out is not against the law. Yeah, I got the same goddamn message. Hey, he’s a prominent lawyer in town, he’s the lawyer for Tyler, for Christ’s sake, and oh, he’s even thinking of running for state senate down the road, but hey, no problem if he disappears.”

  “Paula. . . .”

  “What?”

  “What else is there? There’s no sign of violence, you and his boss both say none of his work-related activities involved him in anything with a possibility of someone seeking revenge, and you said he appeared to be in a good mood recently.”

  She scrunched up her face, like she was trying to decide to get angry, or tearful, or both. I reached over, gently touched her hand. “Plus he just put a ring on that lovely finger. That doesn’t sound like a guy looking over his shoulder, or a guy who’s about to run off and end it all.”

  Paula’s right hand started rubbing at a faint smudge on the table. “You giving up?”

  “No.”

  “You sure? It sounds like you’re giving up.”

  “I’m not. I’m just . . . letting you know what I’ve done. And I don’t intend to give up.”

  She then decided, and the tears started to flow. “Okay. Sorry if I was snippy back there. Trying to get a newspaper out between checking police reports for car accidents, or checking in with local ER admissions folks to see if someone you love has been admitted . . . takes a lot out of a girl.”

  I got up from the table, went around and hugged her, and kissed the top of her head. “I’m still on it . . . and you’ll call me if you think of anything, okay?”

  I felt her nod under my touch, and I started for the door—and stopped when she called out my name.

  “I’m sorry about the news, Lewis.”

  I turned. “I’m sorry: What news?”

  “That Tropical Storm Toni,” she said. “It’s been upgraded to a hurricane and is coming up the East Coast.”

  Back to Porter I went, to the Porter Rehab and Extended Care Center and Room 209. Diane Woods was sitting up in bed, and next to her was her companion and fiancée, Kara Miles. The color in Diane’s face was improving and her hair looked freshly washed. Kara was sitting next to her, her dark hair razored up in some sort of cutting-edge fashion, I guess, and she had on a COLBY sweatshirt and dungarees.

  I kissed Diane on the cheek, and Kara asked: “Hey, you making moves on my woman while I watch?”

  Diane said, “Then look away, silly girl.”

  Some wide smiles from that little exchange that warmed me, and I sat down in a spare chair. Both women were working on a slab of cheesecake with cream and strawberries on top, and I asked: “The dietitian here know what you’re eating?”

  “Nope,” Diane said, and Kara said “Ditto.”

  “Might be against rehab rules and regulations,” I said.

  “Might be,” Diane replied. “But in the meantime, we’re destroying the evidence. Wish we had some to share.”

  “No worries,” I said, and I sat with them as they chatted and laughed and gossiped some, and Kara looked to me and said: “Great news today. Looks like our fair princess will be going home in a few days.”

  “That’s outstanding.”

  “Sure is,” Diane said, licking off her fork. “Still have work to do on the PT and OT side, but I need to do some cop stuff. I can just imagine the pile of shit that’s waiting for me at the station.”

  Kara said “Then imagine something else. Don’t be in such a hurry to get back to the grind.”

  Diane stuck out her tongue, Kara made an extraordinarily rude comment that made Diane laugh and me blush, and in a couple of minutes Kara got up and said “Back to the salt mines, boys and girls. I’ll see you later tonight.”

  “Deal,” Diane said, and Kara gave her a quick kiss on her lips, and then came around the bed and did the same to me, which surprised me.

  Diane called out, “Hey, you making moves on my woman while I watch?”

  “I was just sitting here, minding my own business.”

  “Hah. Like you put up
a fight then.”

  Kara giggled and left, and Diane and I were alone, and I said “Great news, about going home.”

  “Oh, Christ, you know it. I may bump into the furniture and the walls, but they’ll be my furniture and walls. Even the police union promised to kick in if I needed handrails installed or a temporary chairlift to go up to the second floor. Still, I need to get back to work, to feel productive. Sitting on my ass most days, shuffling up and down the hallways, it’s not my idea of living.”

  “Nor mine.”

  “Speaking of home and living,” she said, “Thanksgiving’s in a few days. Unless you have any plans, you’re invited to spend the day at our place.”

  I smiled. “My calendar’s clear, unless something stupid comes along.”

  “Great. We’ll set an extra plate. But be warned . . . I don’t know why, but Kara loves football on Thanksgiving. Be prepared to eat in the living room, balancing a plate on your lap.”

  “No problem.”

  She put her empty plate and fork down on an adjacent table. “So, how goes the search for Mark Spencer?”

  “Going in pretty odd places. Still no word about where he is. Captain Nickerson did her best, but she was pure professional. No sign of trauma, no sign of anything criminal going on, and once again, it’s not a crime to skip out and not leave a note. But I don’t like it.”

  “Who would? Where else have you gone?”

  “Your town manager doesn’t seem particularly upset. And Hannah Adams from Mark’s law firm, she’s taking it in stride.”

  Diane said, “Glen Torrance wants to stay as town manager as long as possible. The longer the tenure, the more attractive he looks in being a candidate for a bigger town with a bigger salary. So if he gets even a tingle that making a fuss about Mark Spencer will blow back on him, he won’t do a damn thing.”

  “How about Mark’s boss?”

  “Hannah Adams is one of those deadly lawyers who sees everything through a lawyer’s prism. Oh, most lawyers do a good job for their clients and try not to gum up the works, but Hannah . . . she eats, breathes, and lives the law. If Mark is gone under unfortunate circumstances, it might cast aspersions on her and her firm.”

  “What about Carl Lessard, her law partner?”

  Diane wiped her fingers clean with a napkin. “Carl the Gray Ghost? Poor slob had been in town for years, working alone, until somehow he got roped into an association with Hannah. He gets all the grunt cases, like appearing before the selectmen or the planning board or zoning board. Real dry stuff that would bore any sane or non-lawyer person to tears. But that work brings in a steady income and allows Hannah to let loose at Wentworth Superior Court, where she loves being in the spotlight.”

  “Still doesn’t make sense,” I said. “Seems like the only person concerned because he’s gone is Paula.”

  She shrugged. “People who work with him, they’d be concerned. But they most likely wouldn’t take the effort and trouble to try to find him. But a loved one, what do you expect?”

  “You’ve worked with Mark. Did you ever think he’d take off like this?”

  That gave her pause. “A good question. I don’t know. Mark is tightly wound, well versed, smart about the law . . . but not a warm guy. Didn’t ever reveal much of his personal life. Makes you wonder why Paula. . . .”

  Diane’s voice dribbled off. I took up the gauntlet. “Makes you wonder why Paula took up with a guy like that. Instead of me.”

  A nod from Diane. “But the tightly wound guys, when they cut loose, watch out. They’ve got years of frustrations and anxieties bubbling down there that, when they come out, they tend to spread wide and burn anyone in the way.”

  I got up and asked her: “Any last-minute words of advice?”

  “You check in with your Mafia friend?”

  “Felix? He’d dispute the Mafia insult, but yes, he’s asking around.”

  “Doubtful he’ll find out much. Most crimes in this state revolve around heroin or meth and the crimes that raise money to help fuel it. I don’t think Felix moves much in those circles.” She stretched out on the hospital bed, winced. “Hate to say it, but go back again. Widen the net. Do the unexpected, ask the unexpected. And be prepared if something shakes out.”

  I went to her to kiss her good-bye, and she surprised me by grabbing my hand and squeezing it tight. “I was thinking about you when I woke up this morning,” she said, her voice serious.

  “Not sure if I should be sad or glad about that.”

  The squeeze of her hand increased. “I woke up and realized I hadn’t had a single nightmare during the night. I slept well . . . and that happened only after you told me what you did about Curt Chesak.”

  That brought back a quick memory from a few weeks ago. Up in the small town of Osgood, in a big house, a fresh bullet wound in my thigh, an armed and angry Curt Chesak coming my way, moments from shooting me, until an unexpected ally arrived and severed his lower spine with one quick flash of a Gurkha knife.

  I kissed the top of her head. “Glad I could help.”

  She released my hand. “Promise me someday you’ll tell me about it.”

  I strolled out of the room, gave her a wave and a smile.

  “Sorry,” I said. “That’ll never happen.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I needed to make a phone call, and I sat in the Pilot and retrieved my cell phone, but the smell of old clothes, old meals, and a damp sleeping bag drove me outside. I leaned against the cold fender, saw the air traffic over the nearby McIntosh Air Force Base, and went to work. I dialed a number from memory, went through the usual menu, and after about ten or so minutes—half of it on hold, listening to “The Girl from Ipanema”—I got through to the insurance agent allegedly handling my claim.

  “Adrian Zimmerman,” came the young man’s voice. “How can I help you?”

  “Hello, Adrian,” I said. “It’s Lewis Cole, your faithful Tyler Beach correspondent. Anything new on my claim status?”

  Even though I was outside, I was pretty sure I could hear his sigh. “No, there’s nothing new to report. That’s what I said yesterday, last Friday, and the day before that. And like I said, I will call you the moment I hear any news.”

  “Gee, Adrian, what’s the matter, you don’t like hearing my voice? We’re not friends anymore?”

  “Mister Cole. . . .”

  “Look, ever since my place burned down, you said that my claim for my house and car are under review, because it was arson. It’s been weeks now. How much longer?”

  “You’re forgetting the other arson. The one for which you were arrested.”

  Right, I thought. The arson that charred the remains of Curt Chesak and two others.

  “Come, now, Adrian, the charges were dropped.”

  “They were, but the charges were certainly made. That all has to be taken into consideration.”

  “Well, consider this,” I said. “You ever watch the Weather Channel?”

  His voice grew cautious. “No, not really. . . .”

  “You should,” I said. “There’s a hurricane forming off the coast of Florida, and it’s heading this way over the next several days. I can’t wait anymore. I need to get my contractor in there, make temporary repairs, at least, before the storm destroys whatever’s left.”

  “I’ll make sure the hurricane is taken into consideration, Mister Cole.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning . . . I’ll make sure it’s taken into consideration. Is there anything else?”

  I was now standing up straight, my legs quivering, like a hunting dog eager to sink its teeth into something. “There sure is. I won’t be happy if, through your feet-dragging, my property is destroyed and swept away.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, making me wonder if he had quietly hung up on me, and then he spoke up. “That might be just for the best, don’t you think?”

  “How? How the hell can my house being destroyed be for the best?”

  Adri
an’s voice quickened. “You recall when we first met, when I did a survey of the property? I said that I was going to recommend that the house and the garage be declared a total loss, to be completely razed. If the hurricane helps that process along, so much the better.”

  “But it’s a historical house! More than a hundred and fifty years old!”

  I swear I could sense the smile on his face as he spoke next. “Is your home listed in the National Registry of Historical Places? Is it in a designated historical zone for the town of Tyler? Does it have any certification whatsoever that it’s historical?”

  No, no, and no, I thought. But then again, a fair chunk of homes in Tyler and the surrounding towns had been built in the 1700s and 1800s, and none of them bore any historical certification, because . . . well, that’s just the way things were in this part of the world. Every town had old homes. They were just part of the landscape.

  “I think you already know the answer,” I said.

  “Then as far as we’re concerned, your home isn’t historical. Have a good day, now, Mister Cole.”

  And he hung up on me.

  I drove into the Lafayette House parking lot on Tyler Beach, spotting a green-and-white Tyler police cruiser amble out. The parking lot looked pretty quiet, and I then had a warm thought: that Diane Woods had spread the word to the shift sergeants, to make sure that what was left of my house got a look-see from the regular beach patrols during the day.

  I backed my Pilot into its usual space and then walked down to my house. The wind was blowing in a different direction, so there wasn’t that sad smell of burnt things as I got there. There was the usual flapping noise of the blue tarpaulins echoing with the sound of the crashing waves, and, clenched hands in my coat pockets, I wandered around the house, at the rear deck, the unscorched wood, the broken windows, the collapsed roof. The air was cold and the wind was sharp.

  I stood still for a moment, saw a spot where the tarpaulin had torn free, near the doorway, and I unlocked the door, again thumped my shoulder against the door to pry it open. I retrieved a handful of nails and the Craftsman hammer that had brained me the other day, and went to work. I hammered in the nails and stood back to admire my work.