The Price of Malice Read online

  Ray remained quiet, but his hands unlaced from behind his neck, and his body lost its nonchalance.

  “You hear about Wayne Castine?” Lester asked.

  For a moment, he could see Ray’s breathing stop.

  “I heard he died,” he finally said.

  “You could say that,” Lester said lightly. “He was butchered, more like it, by someone he really irritated.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Spinney raised his eyebrows, apparently thinking of something interesting. “Speaking of which, I heard you two had a falling out, just lately.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” Ray said, an edge to his voice.

  Les sat forward. “You thought about it, though. Not much of a gap between those two. Gotta do one to do the other.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” Ray repeated, shifting to place his back against the wall.

  “What made you so mad?” Spinney asked.

  “Ripped me off, that’s all. It was a business deal. I didn’t like him, but I didn’t kill him.”

  Lester smiled. “Yeah, so you say. Tell me about the business deal.”

  “We got hold of some scrap metal, Wayne said he’d sell it, and he never split the profits.”

  “Who’d he sell it to?”

  “I don’t know. He said he didn’t, which is why he didn’t have the money to split, but I know he was lying. He just took it all and figured I could go fuck myself.”

  “So, what did you do?”

  “I went looking for him.” Ray also sat forward, eager to sell his message. “That part’s true. I was mad. I woulda torn him a new one, but I never found him. I’ll swear that on the Bible.”

  He held up his hand. Lester nodded solemnly, if in fact unimpressed. The Bible usually came in too little, too late, in his experience.

  “I read your rap sheet, Ray,” Lester explained. “You pound on people you don’t like.”

  “Not this time.”

  “You sent a couple to the hospital. Think you might’ve sent Wayne to his grave?”

  Ray pressed his lips together before saying, “You prove it, then I did it, but you can’t do that. So, with all due respect, I gotta tell you to screw off.”

  Lester nodded. “Respectfully noted. So, since you had nothing to do with his death, when did you last see Wayne?”

  “What’s today?”

  “Wednesday.”

  Ray shut his eyes briefly. “Then it was . . . Friday . . . No, wait. Thursday. Thursday last. Out back of the bowling alley. That’s when he told me about the deal where he ripped me off after.”

  “On Thursday, you met so he could tell you about the deal? You didn’t do it right then, too?”

  Ray’s brow furrowed. “Sure we did. We met, we did the deal, he ripped me off, and I went lookin’ for him. That’s it.”

  “When did you start looking?”

  “Couple of days later. He said he had a fence.”

  “How did you find out that fell through?”

  “I called him.”

  “At home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And after he told you, you went over there and killed him.”

  Ray’s mouth fell open. He dropped his hands into his lap and leaned his head against the cinder blocks behind him. “Fuck you,” he said tiredly.

  Les laughed. “You telling me he stiffed you and you didn’t go over there? You really do take me for an asshole.”

  Ray snapped forward and glared at him. “I don’t know where he lived,” he enunciated.

  Lester pretended to think about that for a moment. “Really? Your business partner? I know where my fellow cops live.”

  Ray became sullen. “Good for you. You think I whacked him, prove it.”

  “You’re the one who was angry at the man, Ray. What were you doing Monday night?”

  “Nuthin’.”

  “That the best you can do?”

  But Ray was done. He crossed his arms and stared up at the ceiling—a variation of his posture at the start of the conversation.

  Lester got the hint. He stood up, waved, and said, “Get some sleep, Ray. It’s noisy in prison. I’ll see you later.”

  “Whatever. You dumb fuck.”

  Lester climbed the stairs, at last feeling his own fatigue. At the top, just outside dispatch, he met Ron Klesczewski.

  “You get it all?” he asked.

  Ron nodded. “Yup. Sound quality was good—everything. I already cut a CD for you.” He handed over a small envelope. “You think he did it?”

  Les tilted his head to one side. “You think he didn’t?”

  Ron smiled and crooked his finger. “Come in here.”

  He led the way into dispatch, which had a standard array of radio consoles, TV monitors, tape and CD recorders. A woman was sitting at one of the two operator bays, talking to someone over her headset. Ron led the way to a CD player in the far corner.

  “After Ray said he’d last seen Wayne on Thursday, I went back to some video footage we collected yesterday. Remember? Wayne had bought some fast food and thrown the receipts on the floor. To establish a timeline and see if he was with any kids, I had my guys pull the videos from all the stores on the receipts.”

  He pushed a few buttons on a player. The small TV screen before them lit up and Lester saw the back of a clerk operating a cash register. The camera was mounted up against the ceiling and showed everyone from a giant’s viewpoint. Seconds later, they watched Wayne Castine step up to the counter, lay down a sandwich and a soda and a bag of chips, along with a twenty-dollar bill.

  Next to him was Ray Needham.

  “That,” Ron explained, “was this Monday.”

  Lester grunted. “And he was dead Tuesday morning. Cool.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Where are you?” Lyn’s voice asked over the cell phone.

  Joe tried to see through the rain streaking the windshield. It was dark and the glass was old and slightly pitted, causing all points of light to flare.

  He’d left the Interstate at Augusta, hoping the late hour would offset using Route 3 East instead of driving all the way to Bangor and then cutting south. Despite a downpour over the past hour, it still felt like a good decision, which mattered, given the urgency he’d heard in her voice three hours ago, and which remained still.

  “I just left Searsport,” he finally said, reading a passing sign. “I’ve got to be only about ten miles away.”

  “You’ll go over two bridges in a row,” she told him. “The first is over-the-top modern—a suspension bridge. It’s right next to an old metal one that hasn’t been demolished yet. The second is short and regular-looking. That one T-bones into Route 15. Take a left into Bucksport. You’ll see the motel on the left, not too far afterward.”

  “Got it. See you soon. You’re still okay, right?”

  “I’m fine, Joe,” she answered, her voice softer and calmer. “Thanks for coming so fast.”

  He hung up and concentrated on the road. As promised, he soon saw emerge from the gloom a ghostly, spotlighted span to his right—its twin towers like obelisks, linked by a gleaming web of steel cables—accompanied by its older, peeling, stalwart, traditional predecessor, mere feet off to one side. This was the Penobscot Narrows Bridge, famous for its architectural innovation, and near the site of two unheralded naval battles, where the British twice creamed the Americans, during the Revolution and the War of 1812. As Joe crossed the soaring bridge, he glanced left and saw the harbor village of Bucksport, barely a mile off, gleaming through a curtain of rain. Almost there.

  He had no idea what was coming. Lyn had called him, close to midnight, and told him she was in trouble. She was in Maine, she’d said, had met a guy who’d maybe sicced some people onto her—or maybe not—but, in any case, she was worried that she’d really stepped into it this time.

  He’d asked her if she felt unsafe, to which she’d answered that while she was scared, she couldn’t call the cops, since she had nothing to gi
ve them.

  It had still been enough for him. Finally stirring from her weeks of emotional catatonia, Lyn had chosen to act. Maybe something had happened in Gloucester; maybe someone had spoken to her of her father and brother. Joe didn’t know and didn’t care. Despite Lyn’s fear on the phone, he was oddly content that something had finally dislodged the status quo.

  And he was pleased she’d called him for help.

  The irony was that he could ill afford such chivalry, or the time it was costing him. Things were building in the Castine investigation. Ron’s crew and his own were compiling suspects. The logistics of processing them effectively would be tricky and sensitive, the penalties being people either “lawyering up” prematurely or fleeing and/or destroying evidence.

  But he was torn. His squad was experienced, competent, and skillful, while his feelings for Lyn were growing by the day. Besides—to his ear—her crisis sounded like the more pressing of the two.

  He crossed the second bridge, turned left, located the motel, and rolled to a stop in the parking lot.

  Almost immediately, a pale shadow appeared in his side window, as Lyn rapped her knuckles against the glass.

  He opened the door and wrapped his arms around her. She was trembling.

  “God, Joe. It’s good to see you.”

  He rubbed her back and kissed her cheek. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Let’s get out of the rain and you can tell me what’s going on.”

  She led the way inside, to a room on the other side of the building, where the motel’s appeal was immediately revealed. Facing him across the room was a large window overlooking the dark Penobscot Narrows and the modern bridge he’d just crossed in the murky distance. In addition, to the right, also spotlighted and spectral in the rain, was the restored Fort Knox, uselessly built in the mid-1840s against any future British drubbings.

  “Pretty,” he muttered.

  She closed the door, bolted it, and came up beside him. The lights were out in the room, allowing the scenery to dominate.

  “It is,” she agreed. “Gives me a little peace in the middle of all this.”

  He turned to her. “Which is what, exactly?”

  She sat at a small table under the window, so they could talk and enjoy the view at the same time. He joined her, sitting opposite, recognizing her need for at least a semblance of order and normalcy.

  Slowly, occasionally correcting herself or retracing her steps, Lyn detailed her recent activities, from her first misgivings to her meeting with Harry Martin to her conversation at Brandhorst’s office, and finally to her discovery that her room had been searched, or at least visited.

  Joe mostly listened, asking questions only rarely, until he was sure she was done.

  After which, he got up, leaned across the table, and kissed her. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  She smiled as he sat back down. “I am now. I don’t know what to do, though.”

  “Okay,” he offered. “Let’s talk about that, if you’re up to it.”

  Her eyes widened. “God, yes. I’m scared, but excited, too, you know? I feel like I really stirred something up. That’s got to be good, right?”

  “Tricky, but sure,” he agreed. “Why not?”

  Privately, however, he was less enthusiastic. Her approach up to now had been totally unorthodox—appealing, perhaps, but without controls.

  “Okay,” he began. “First off, you were right when you said you had nothing to give the cops. I could ask for a favor and have Brandhorst’s record run, but that would be only marginally kosher, and probably not useful. I’d prefer to keep my powder dry until we’ve got something meatier on him, or maybe found out why he’s so interested in you.”

  He held up a finger, adding, “Assuming he’s even connected to the visit to your motel room. It sounds right, but we shouldn’t shut any doors prematurely.”

  She was nodding. “All right. But what’s my next move? Should I go back to his office like I said, and pretend I didn’t notice about the room?”

  Joe shook his head. “Let’s go on the assumption that Brandhorst is dirty and that he sent a team to check you out. Why would he do that? You dropped in on him out of the blue, told him a wild story he claimed he knew nothing about, and told him you’d be back. So why go through your things? He could’ve just waited. It could be he wanted to see if you were a cop or a competitor. But maybe you did shake something up. Whoever went through your room might’ve been after something specific.”

  “What?” she asked, nonplussed.

  “If we’re right, that’s what we need to find out, by turning the tables on him a little.”

  “How?” she said next.

  He laughed. “This is where it can start being fun. I think we should let him stew for a while. He’s got your cell number?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Don’t show up at his office in the morning. He’ll send his people to the motel and find your car there and your stuff gone. Maybe they’ll even find the toilet seat up and have a dope-slap moment, realizing they goofed. In any case, that cell number’s going to start burning a hole in his pocket. It’ll push him to call you, which means the next meeting will be ours to arrange.”

  She frowned at him. “What’s the advantage there? If we still don’t know anything about him?”

  “His meeting you on your terms,” Joe explained, “confirms you’ve got something he wants. It’s subtle, but a valuable next step. Also, he won’t know about me, which means I can photograph him and whoever he brings along—that could come in handy later.”

  She sat back and studied him for a moment, her excitement shadowed by anxiety. “Sounds like a spy movie.”

  He smiled encouragingly. “Where do you think they get their ideas?”

  A brief lull fell between them as they contemplated the near future.

  Joe saw her face cloud with sadness. He came around the small table and took her into his arms. She turned toward him and held on tight, speaking into his chest. “I feel like an idiot—totally lied to.”

  She paused and added, “And I passed all those lies on to Coryn—lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “You passed more than that to your daughter. You know that,” he challenged her, breaking her grip to look her in the eyes.

  She didn’t answer.

  “You gave her your own example. That counts for a lot more than a few glowing memories of a dead grandfather. Look at what you’re doing now, Lyn—searching for the truth, regardless of the consequences. That means something to a kid as bright as her.”

  She stretched up and kissed him, long and passionately, her face wet and her nose dripping. They both started laughing partway through and broke apart to wipe their upper lips.

  “Jesus,” she said. “What a mess.”

  He laughed and leaned in for more. “Hell. A minor obstacle.”

  They didn’t have long to wait for Dick Brandhorst’s phone call. By noon, barely ten hours later, while they were eating at a local restaurant, Lyn’s cell buzzed on the tabletop. She studied the number on the small screen and gave Joe a meaningful glance. “We’re on,” she said, turned on the small recorder he’d set up for her, and answered it.

  Listening to her end of the conversation, Joe could tell things were lining up as they’d hoped. In extremely short order, she asked Brandhorst, “You know where Bucksport is? Head down there at three o’clock this afternoon, park downtown, and wait for me to call you. Give me a cell-phone number.”

  She wrote it down on a napkin, hung up, and killed the recorder.

  They looked at each other for a couple of seconds.

  “He sound okay?” Joe asked.

  “Far as I could tell. Why did you want him parked in the street? Why not send him straight to the meeting place?”

  “ ’Cause then he’d send his goons there immediately and stake it out. Plus, I like him dangling a bit.”

  She reached out and took up one of his hands. “I’m worried about what to say when we meet.”r />
  Joe shrugged. “You don’t have to say much of anything. He called you, after all. Let him worry about it. My guess is he’ll try to play you.”

  “How?” she asked.

  “By giving you some bogus contact. Without meaning to, that’s what you asked for when you came to his office. He’s never had the upper hand with you. The first time you showed up, it was straight out of the blue; the second time, he would’ve been ready, but you never appeared. Now, you’re calling the shots. I’m betting he’ll just give you a name and a place where all your questions will supposedly be answered, but they’ll really be the equivalent of a dark alley somewhere.”

  “But why?” she asked, not for the first time. “I don’t have anything for him.”

  Joe turned both palms to the ceiling. “He thinks you do, which is what makes this interesting.”

  He reached for his coffee, taking advantage of the moment to reconsider all she’d told him so far.

  “Did you ever tell him Steve’s got The Silva Lining, or where it is? He did ask you about it a couple of times, didn’t he?”

  “I don’t call it that,” she said, thinking back. “No,” she then said confidently. “I remember thinking I’d tell him only what he needed to know—José’s name, my father’s; I mentioned the Maria, but not The Silva Lining. And I definitely didn’t bring Steve into it, or where he had it moored.”

  “But you let it slip that you got it back,” Joe pressed.

  She acknowledged as much, if mournfully. “Kind of.”

  Joe touched the back of her hand. “Not to worry—perfectly reasonable. It’s interesting that he cares, though.”

  “What?” she asked him as he furrowed his brow.

  “Well,” he explained, “you said they were paying off José’s debt, implying they had more to go. If Brandhorst got hold of the boat and sold it, he’d probably see that as helping to balance the books.”

  She nodded. “Right.”

  Joe then gave her a lopsided smile, hoping to lift her spirits. “It is amazing, though, you know? In two days, you may end up popping the lid off of something the local cops’re going to love. We’re not there yet, but I got to hand it to you—you do good work.”