Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series) Read online

  Leather-bound menus were in front of us, and Felix said, “It is closed, but the owner owes me some favors, and I told him I needed a quiet place for a fine meal and productive conversation.”

  “I’ll bet,” Paula muttered, as she opened her menu, and Felix was still in a good mood.

  “Oh, it’s not like that, Paula,” he explained. “Sometimes in my business dealings, there’s need for a neutral restaurant in a neutral location that serves great food and that’s out of the way. Anthony’s fits the bill.”

  “Who’s Anthony?”

  Felix opened his menu. “The owner.”

  “Does he know we’re here?”

  Felix said, “You can ask him. He was the fine gentleman who took our coats.”

  Felix had a veal dish with a side of pasta, while I had lobster fettuccine and Paula made do with plain penne pasta with tomato sauce. Felix ordered a bottle of Chianti for the table, and while I begged off having a glass of wine, Felix would have none of it.

  “Look, a bit of wine isn’t going to slow you down,” he said. “In fact, it’ll relax you and probably put you in a better place. And ‘relaxed’ is the word of the day. Let’s avoid talking about Topic A until we’re done eating. It’ll help all our digestions.”

  So I did have a glass of Chianti, and so did Paula, while Felix manfully finished off the rest of the bottle. Anthony came back several times, talking Italian to Felix, with lots of laughs and two-handed handshakes; and when our dishes were finally cleared away and replaced with a small tray of Italian pastries and strong coffee, I was feeling warm, well fed, and, with Felix across from me, safe indeed.

  He patted his lips with his white cloth napkin and turned to Paula. “M’dear, I’m sorry to say, the next several minutes are going to be uncomfortable for you. My apologies in advance, but it can’t be helped, not if we’re going to find Mark Spencer.”

  Mouth pursed, Paula nodded. “I understand.”

  “No, I don’t think you do,” Felix said. “But you will.”

  His attention came to me. “So, care to explain that shooting in downtown Tyler this morning?”

  And that’s how the next several minutes were used, by me explaining my canvassing of Mark Spencer’s condo complex, learning of the fake deputy sheriff, and then coming across Paula and the now-fake federal official, and how he was traced back to Wyoming, along with Mark Spencer, though with Paula’s reluctant agreement.

  Felix nodded a few times and pulled his handheld phone out of his pants pocket. He manipulated the screen a few times, then put it on the tablecloth and slid it across so Paula and I could take a gander.

  “Is that your man?”

  It certainly was, though he wasn’t wearing a cloth cap and the tank top T-shirt he did have on revealed a fair number of tattoos around his neck and chest. Paula brought a hand up to her mouth, just nodded.

  “Either him or his handsome twin,” I said.

  “I see,” Felix said. “This is Reeve Langley, president of the Stonecold Falcons Motorcycle Club of Wyoming.”

  “Damn,” I said.

  “What’s wrong?” Paula asked.

  Felix retrieved his handheld. “My guess is that Lewis is responding to Mister Langley’s position in the motorcycle club.”

  “I’m sorry,” Paula said. “I don’t understand.”

  “He’s the president, their head guy,” I said. “To have him come here to the East Coast, to be the one leading the search for Mark Spencer, means it’s something very, very important to him. Otherwise he’d send a minion or three to track him down. He wouldn’t come here to do the job personally.”

  “Paula . . . what did Mark do?” Felix quietly asked.

  “Nothing!”

  “Paula . . . Lewis and I, we don’t care what he did, where he did it, or who he did it to. We’re not law enforcement, not even close. All we want to do is find Mark. Right now, a motorcycle gang from Wyoming is looking for him . . . and they’ve also called in some friends.”

  “Other gang members from here?”

  “That’s right,” Felix said. “Word I’ve got is that there are two New Hampshire motorcycle gangs who’ve been contacted by the Stonecold Falcons.”

  “I didn’t know we had motorcycle gangs in New Hampshire,” Paula said.

  “Oh, we do,” Felix said. “They keep a very low profile, very low, and are involved in marijuana, heroin, or crystal meth. But they have alliances with other motorcycle clubs across the country, and they can get a lot of prestige and deposits in the ol’ karma bank by helping their fellow one-percenters. Still, having the head of a Wyoming club out here, tracking down a small-town lawyer, that’s an outlier.”

  Felix’s expression suddenly got cold, and he said to Paula: “So let it out. Like it or not, your fiancé has a bounty on his head, and if you want his head to stay untouched, tell us what he did.”

  Paula’s face was scrunched up, and at first I thought she was trying hard not to cry, but then I realized something different: she was trying very hard not to lose her temper. She chewed on her lower lip and took a deep breath and said, “For the last goddamn time, Mark is from Vermont. He went to the New England College of Law. I’ve seen photos, transcripts, and information about his background. I know there’s something odd with his Social Security number, but I don’t know why it came from Wyoming. He’s never said anything about Wyoming, not once.”

  “But the two of them,” I told Felix, “were on a trip to Colorado a few weeks ago. They spent the night in a city less than an hour from the Wyoming border.”

  Felix said, “Any chance he could have slipped over and back?”

  Paula took another deep breath. “Possible, but there’s no evidence.”

  Felix took that in and held up both of his hands. “All right. We’ll set aside the possibility that Mark did something illegal. But legal or illegal, or maybe mistaken identity, there’s now some bloody hunters looking for him. We’re doing the same thing, but we have something they don’t: his fiancée.”

  Paula said “Gee, thanks.”

  “Does he have any family in the area? Or in Vermont?”

  “No, he doesn’t,” she said. “His parents died in a car accident when he was young. There’s no relatives there or in New Hampshire. In fact . . . one of the reasons he’s said he’s going to enjoy being my husband is becoming part of my family, as nutty as it can be. Twice we’ve gone out to Vermont so we could visit his parents’ grave. He held my hand and told me how much he hated not having a family, and how much he was looking forward to starting a family with me . . . oh, Christ. . . .”

  The tears came out and her napkin went up, and Felix and I took a few seconds to add sugar or cream to our respective coffees and examine the pastry tray. After a moment, Paula lowered the napkin and said “It’s okay, I’m going to be okay.”

  Felix smiled, teeth white and perfect. “Of course you are. Now. No family, no real close friends except for you . . . was there a favorite place the two of you liked to go to? A hotel? Bed-and-breakfast? Vacation spot that if something were to rattle him, he’d feel comfortable grabbing a ‘go bag’ and driving there to hide out?”

  A firm shake of her head.

  “And there’s been no texts, e-mails, or phone calls for nearly a week?”

  A nod of her head. It seemed like she couldn’t talk at the moment.

  Felix went to me again. “The shootout in Tyler this morning. How did Reeve respond? Did he say anything?”

  “He wasn’t happy,” I said.

  “I can imagine. How did it come about?”

  “Earlier in the morning, I had talked to a neighbor of Mark Spencer’s, and he described a deputy sheriff coming by to check on Mark’s disappearance.”

  “Knowing what deputy sheriffs do in this state, pretty dumb story.”

  “Agreed. But that’s how they work in Wyoming. Then I called Paula to let her know what was going on, and that’s when I found out that she had just left with a guy fitting the deputy s
heriff’s description.”

  Felix said to Paula, “True enough?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He told me he was a federal agent, that Mark was being kept nearby, and if we moved quickly, we could meet up with him. We were in his Suburban when Lewis arrived . . . and ordered me out.”

  Felix put his hands together. “Lucky for you he did. Otherwise Langley would have started asking you questions, assisted by a propane torch.”

  Paula slowly swallowed, looked like she was about to lose her meal all over the pristine white tablecloth.

  “When she got over to me,” I said, “Reeve said something about me doing a bold move, and then he said something about following me.”

  “That’s when you shot out the tires.”

  “Not all the tires; the near ones.”

  “Why two?”

  “Got caught up in the excitement of the moment, I guess,” I said.

  Felix’s eyes twinkled and Paula regained some of her composure, and she asked “What now?”

  “Now?” Felix asked. “I think we find someplace safe to keep you secure until—”

  She shook her head. “No. A non-starter. I stick with whatever the two of you come up with . . . I might remember something or come up with a lead. So we stop talking about that. Deal?”

  Felix looked to me, and I gave him a bland look in return. There was no way I was going to debate with Paula at a time like this in front of Felix. “All right, Paula. Deal. But what are you going to do about work?”

  “I’ll call in sick. Rollie Grandmaison is due back next Monday anyway; he can start a day or two early. But the cops . . . won’t they be able to help?”

  Felix said: “Absolutely. They’ll be able to write up a nice report and take some great crime-scene photographs when it’s over. But if you want Mark back and alive and happy to be with you . . . don’t go to the cops. At this point in time, they’ll just get in the way.”

  “Lewis?” she said, asking me about a page worth of questions in that one word.

  “Felix knows what he’s talking about,” I said. “He might not be able to go into details of what he’s done and learned along the way, but I trust him to do the right thing, and I trust him to find Mark. If there’s anyone in the state who can do it, it’s him.”

  Felix looked pleased. “Only one state?”

  “Don’t get cocky.”

  We discussed a few more things after that, and Felix said: “That Pilot of yours has to go. By now, every cop in New Hampshire and this part of Massachusetts has a description of the Pilot and its license plate. Give me a few minutes and we’ll get a new set of wheels for both of us.”

  “Both of us?” I asked.

  Felix said: “What, you think I’m going to go into harm’s way with my Benz? Nope. Like I said, new wheels for both of us.”

  Paula said: “Excuse me, what did you just say? You’re going to have new vehicles here in a few minutes? For real?”

  “That’s right,” Felix said. “For real.”

  She briefly shook her head. “I feel like I’m trapped in a bad mob movie.”

  I said, “You still have a chance to opt out. We can find you someplace safe to stay over the next few days.”

  “No,” she said. “I stay with you. For real.”

  Paula and I stayed in the dining room while Felix made a few phone calls, and he came back about five minutes later and said, “All set. About fifteen minutes, we’ll be heading . . . okay, Lewis, where are we heading?”

  “North. Back to Tyler.”

  “Why?” Felix asked. “You got some laundry to pick up?”

  “No,” I said. “Besides being town counsel, Mark worked for a small law firm in town, run by Hannah Adams and Carl Lessard. Carl told me last night that Mark had been in contact with him, telling him that he was safe.”

  “Did he say anything else?” Felix asked.

  “No. I pressed him, but he wouldn’t say any more.”

  Felix reflected on that for a few seconds. “All right, north it is. We’ll see if we can find Carl at his office or court, find a quiet moment to chat, and try to convince him of the error of his ways.”

  “Suppose that doesn’t work?” Paula asked.

  Felix checked his watch. “There’s other ways of convincing.”

  Outside in the parking lot of Anthony’s, my Honda Pilot and Felix’s Mercedes-Benz were missing. In their place was a dark blue Chevrolet Tahoe, engine running, bearing New Hampshire license plates.

  “Not that I’m not grateful, Felix, but I had some stuff in that Pilot.”

  “All belongings were transferred when the Tahoe came here.”

  “That’s nice, but the Pilot’s also a rental.”

  “True,” Felix said, “and a man about your age, identifying himself as Lewis Cole, has just called the Tyler Police Department to report that his rental vehicle had earlier been stolen.”

  “Where’s he calling from?”

  “One of the few pay phones still in existence in Tyler. He’s also going to say that he will be unable to make a report in person to the Tyler police because of extenuating circumstances.”

  “What kind of circumstances?”

  Felix slapped his hands together. “How the hell would I know? What, you think I know everything?”

  Paula said “You sure give that impression.”

  In the Tahoe, I took the rear, while Paula and Felix sat up front. I saw that my possessions were folded and piled neatly in the back of the Tahoe, and placed in the center of the rear seat was my 9mm Beretta in its Bianchi leather holster. Next to my pistol was a box of 9mm ammunition. I removed the magazine from the Beretta, worked the action to take out the round in the chamber, and then slipped the round into the magazine. From the box of cartridges I removed two additional rounds, pushed them into the magazine with my thumb.

  Fully loaded now, I slipped the magazine back into the handle of the Beretta, heard the satisfying click as it snapped in, and then worked the action, lowered the hammer, and placed the Beretta on safe.

  Sliding my pistol back into the holster, I glanced up, saw that Paula had turned in her seat, had watched every motion.

  “Even when you were shooting back there, in Tyler, it all seemed make-believe,” Paula said. “Now . . . it’s too goddamn real.”

  I put my holstered weapon back at my side.

  “Lots to be said for make-believe,” I said. Paula turned around, and soon we were on Interstate 95, heading north back to Tyler.

  Along the drive north, Paula made two phone calls, both relatively quick: she called the Chronicle and said she wasn’t coming in for the rest of the day, or tomorrow. She also called the law offices of Adams & Lessard, and said “unh-hunh, unh-hunh” a few times, and then disconnected her call.

  “Must be something going around,” Paula said. “Carl Lessard called in sick today as well.”

  “Hope it’s not catching,” Felix said. “Paula, you know where Attorney Lessard lives?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Easy enough to get to. Spent a couple of ghastly evenings there with the witch that’s the partner and Mark, along with assorted friends and spouses.”

  Up ahead finally were the main Tyler tollbooths, which greet northbound travelers about five minutes after they cross the border into my home state. Probably not much of a welcome, but at least there’s a state liquor store just before to ease the pain. Before we got to the tollbooths, Felix took the last exit, which took us into Falconer and Route 1, thereby avoiding being tracked via the tollbooth. During the drive, Felix had the Tahoe’s radio set to WBZ-AM, the main news station out of Boston; and when we got on the main road leading to Tyler, there was a news-brief at the bottom of the hour, and the second news item concerned Hurricane Toni. It had been upgraded to a Category Two hurricane, and was still heading north. In a couple of days, the National Weather Service said, it was possible that all of New England would be under a hurricane watch.

  Paula turned once more. “Sorry to hear that,
Lewis.”

  “I’ll be all right, thanks.”

  Felix said, “What’s going on? Still no insurance settlement?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Maybe your insurance agent needs some encouragement. You ever think of that?”

  “One Don Quixote mission at a time,” I said.

  Paula muttered, “Don Quixote was an optimist.”

  We then stopped at the intersection of Lafayette Road and High Street, where several hours ago I had broken several traffic laws, town ordinances, and state laws to grab Paula before she got taken away by Reeve Langley. The street in front of the town common was clear. There was no Suburban with shot-out tires resting there.

  “Paula, any idea what happened to the Suburban that was there this morning?”

  “Jonah told me, right after I told him I was calling in sick. He said that after the shooting . . . the Suburban drove out on two flat tires, got abandoned in the woods off Meadowland Road. Police are currently investigating, so forth and so on.”

  The light turned green. Felix said: “Threatening a motorcycle gang leader, taking somebody away that he wanted to talk to, and disabling his ride. Hell of a full morning you had there, Lewis.”

  “True, and I’m hoping the rest of the day isn’t as full.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Felix said, and we drove down High Street in silence.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Following Paula’s directions, Felix took a series of turns off of High Street, near the famed Tyler Beach. It was starting to get dark as the sun set, and I saw an old, faded JACKSON HALE FOR PRESIDENT sign flapping in the breeze.

  That campaign sign seemed to get Paula’s attention, and she asked, “Hey, whatever happened to that lawyer girl you were dating, Lewis, the one who was working on Senator Hale’s campaign?”

  “It’s been over now for almost a month.”

  “Oh. Sorry to hear that. What happened?”

  “Politics.”

  “A conflict, then?”

  “I suppose,” I said. “She loved politics. I didn’t. End of story.”

  Felix grunted. We were on Herbert Street, near the ocean, and then Paula said “That’s the house up there, on the right. The gray ranch.”