The Price of Malice Read online

  Willy laughed. “I’d say what we got qualifies. I’m up for squeezing Ryan.”

  Sam glanced at Lester, who lifted a shoulder, not so much agreeing as not offering any opposition. “He’s right about Karen being the only shared parent among them,” he said. “That pretty much guarantees a six-loci match being good enough, at least for our purposes—be different if two or more of them shared a father.”

  “I’ll run it by Joe,” she said, opening her phone. “Grabbing Ryan might be a little premature, since he’s probably not going anywhere and we still haven’t done our homework yet.”

  She punched in the number, held the phone to her ear, and then almost immediately snapped it shut, visibly disappointed. “Out of cell range,” she announced.

  Willy scowled. “Fuck him, then. Let’s do it.”

  Joe closed his phone slowly, hanging on to the pole supporting the Zodiac’s small roof above the steering console Randy Coffin was manning.

  “No service,” he announced in a loud voice, over the roar of the twin outboards.

  “Maybe later,” she shouted back, keeping to her task and increasing speed. The boat could reach over forty knots—a rate that demanded she avoid even the smallest obstacle.

  Joe kept watching the small island they’d just left, recalling when he’d first seen it, at night, weeks ago, when he’d had his one and only encounter with Wellman Beale.

  Beale hadn’t been there this time, though. All they’d found was Dougie O’Hearn, his grizzled sternman, who’d allowed them to tour the place, and had obligingly told them—while he couldn’t swear to it—that he thought his boss might be in Lubec, where he owned some property.

  Joe could still see the old man far behind them, a stick figure standing on the dock, studying them as they blended into the northern horizon. If Wellman Beale is in Lubec, Joe thought, then I’m the proverbial monkey’s uncle.

  Lyn startled awake at the sound of a scrape overhead. She was sitting curled up against one wall of the cellar Beale had placed her in hours earlier, extracting the ladder as he left.

  “Hello?” she called out toward the pale gray opening of the overhead trapdoor, barely visible in the thin daylight from the windows above.

  A bulky shadow appeared in the frame. “That the best you can do?” Wellman Beale asked. “Not, ‘Hello, asshole,’ or something?”

  “Would that get me out of here?” she asked, fighting to keep her voice strong and direct, hoping her fear couldn’t be heard.

  “Nah. Probably not.”

  A pinprick of bright red light suddenly leaped from the shadow’s midst—a laser beam, as from a gun sight—it began dancing cheerfully across her body, a Tinker Bell with lethal intent.

  “What’re you going to do?” she asked, trying to ignore it, while transfixed by its erratic wanderings. “If you’re worried about a kidnap charge or anything, I’m happy to keep my mouth shut. Nobody needs to know about this.”

  He laughed. “Right.” He sat on the edge of the square hole, dangling his feet into her cell, better to steady his aim. “We’ll just let bygones be bygones—until some fucking SWAT cops come kicking down my door.”

  “Then what do you want?” she blurted out, instantly regretting the despair she heard echoing back off the enveloping concrete.

  “I don’t know yet,” he said lightly, as if he’d just been asked what kind of sandwich he wanted at a picnic. The tiny red dot settled down between her legs. “Maybe I’m getting interested in seeing the color of your panties.”

  She stared up at his shadow in muted terror, half expecting him to simply drop down on top of her. Please, Joe, she thought, wrestling with her panic, find me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Harmony parking lot is located in the heart of Brattleboro. It is as hemmed in by downtown’s shoulder-to-shoulder nineteenth-century buildings as a large castle courtyard, complete with only three entrances—a narrow, arched, one-way tunnel from High Street, a two-way gap about a quarter block wide, leading out to Elliot Street, and a driveway next to it by the bank. Over the years, the lot had been planted with small trees, to soften its appearance, and targeted by town leaders and police against making it a magnet for teens and euphemistically labeled “young adults”—both considered troublemakers. The trees were coming along; the population control efforts remained iffier.

  Sam, Lester, and Willy arrived there in two cars from the Putnam trailer in West Bratt, where small Richard had told his friend Sam where he thought his oldest brother might be. Lester entered the lot from the north—High Street—while Sam and Willy came in from the south, parking illegally by the lot’s outlet. In that way, they were positioned like cowboys, hoping to head off any skittish horses that might choose to bolt from the corral.

  They were connected by radio, discreetly accessed by sleeve mikes and earbuds.

  “You all set?” Sam asked Lester after they’d exited their car.

  “Yup. Looking around as we speak,” came the answer.

  “Willy—you want to split up or work this together?” Sam asked over her shoulder. Hearing no response, she checked, and found him already gone.

  “Gotcha,” she muttered to herself. “Glad we talked.”

  The lot wasn’t overly crowded—a couple of small groups in odd corners, unsurprisingly near the few stores facing inward that either catered to the kids or simply ignored them. But visibility was still a challenge, what with the trees and the hundred or so parked cars.

  This explained another reason for the location’s popularity among the less-than-desirable—while automobiles had limited access to it, pedestrians could pass through like water through a colander. A dozen stores facing out had rear entrances servicing the parking lot. Intended to address fire codes or simple convenience, this porosity afforded drug dealers and others seeking discretion multiple ways of transecting the block without drawing attention.

  That alone made Sammie nervous—that they hadn’t done enough preparation only worsened it. With Willy’s DNA match, Ryan was no longer a mere interview subject; he was a murder suspect. That meant that you delved into his background thoroughly, scrutinized his personal habits, found out the best place to isolate and grab him, and only then took action. It didn’t mean you wandered around a parking lot, hoping to get lucky.

  But Willy was Willy, and Joe wasn’t around—again. That put Sam in the position of dancing with the devil she knew all too well, versus holding off until Joe surfaced, knowing that Willy would be in motion on his own in the meantime.

  At least this way, she might be able to run interference.

  “I got Maura Scully,” Lester said quietly over Sam’s earpiece.

  “Where?”

  “She just left the bakery, east side.”

  Sam walked in that direction, soon spotting the young girl’s hank of long blond hair.

  “You want to tag her first?” Les asked.

  “Yeah,” she answered. “I want this nice and quiet.”

  Sam saw Lester idly leaning against his car, beyond where Scully was chatting with two other girls. He was pretending to be having a cell-phone conversation.

  Sam approached the trio casually. “Hi,” she said, addressing them all before looking directly at Scully. “Are you Maura?”

  “Who’s asking?” Scully wanted to know.

  Sam smiled and stuck her hand out. “Oh, right—duh. I’m Sam. I work with HCRS. I just wondered if I could ask you a couple of questions.”

  Predictably, and as Sam had hoped, Maura rolled her eyes. “God, what is it with you people?”

  “I know, I know. This is just so I can fill out some paperwork and not get fired. I am sorry. I know what a hassle we can be.”

  Maura put on a show of being peeved, mostly for her companions, but conceded in the end. “Whatever.”

  Sam hesitated. “It’s kind of confidential.”

  “I can’t leave,” Maura told her. “I’m waiting for somebody.”

  “No, no. We can just
move across the way a little.” Sam glanced at the other two. “That’s okay, isn’t it? Just two minutes of privacy? I’ll be as fast as I can.”

  The other girls looked uncomfortable being asked permission. “Sure,” one of them barely murmured.

  But it was enough. Scully followed Sam across the parking lot’s traffic lane, until they were standing out of earshot.

  “Where’s Ryan?” Sam asked, out of the blue but for the sake of the microphone. “I thought he’d be with you.”

  “In the bakery,” Maura told her without thought. “What do you want?”

  From the corner of her eye, Sam saw Lester leave his post and stroll toward the bakery’s far entrance, so that Ryan would be boxed in.

  “I guess you heard that Becky had a meltdown last night,” Sam said, watching over the girl’s shoulder to check on any activity at the store.

  “So? What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Well, you live at the same address, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, I was wondering what you could tell me about life in general there, specifically relating to Becky’s state of mind.”

  Maura’s forehead wrinkled. “What?”

  “How’s Becky been acting?”

  “She’s a stuck-up bitch. I don’t have nothing to do with her.”

  “Still, you must have some impressions.”

  Sam saw Les enter the store. Almost immediately, she heard his surprised voice mutter, “Shit. Willy’s making his move.”

  Sam stiffened, not listening to Maura anymore. So that’s where he went.

  As if on cue, she heard Willy say, “Hey, shitbird. Drop the goods and show your hands.”

  That was instantly followed by a loud bang and a crash, Willy letting out a grunt and Lester yelling, “Go, go, go. He’s a runner.”

  The door behind Scully banged open to reveal Ryan Hatch, his eyes wide, stopping for a split second, looking around, and then preparing to sprint for the Elliot Street exit.

  Sam shoved Maura out of the way, pulled her gun from her holster, and yelled, “Do not move. Police.”

  Ryan didn’t hesitate. He pulled his own gun from under his T-shirt just as Maura regained her balance and threw herself against Sam.

  Ryan’s gun cracked sharply once before he took off. Sam, grabbed by a bullet low in her right leg, spun around and fell as Maura began screaming.

  Lester appeared outside first, and ran over to Sam. Willy flew out behind him, instinctively took in his partner’s grimace and the nature of her wound, and went after the fleeing Ryan.

  The latter’s speed served him well, allowing him to cross the lot, straddle the motorcycle none of them had noticed, fire it up, and begin rolling, just as Willy came within two feet of laying his hand on the young man’s shirt.

  Willy didn’t hesitate, even as the bike squealed away in a plume of burning rubber. He threw himself behind the wheel of his car, and—covert siren and lights ignited—followed the motorcycle out of the lot, turning right and heading west up Elliot, toward the fire department’s central station.

  It was a short chase, even with the bike’s speed and agility. Willy, not radioing for help or pursuing Ryan from a safe distance, crushed the accelerator instead and sent the car off like a rocket. Pedestrians and traffic scattered before him, he bounced off the side of a car parked beside the dry cleaner’s, and just as Ryan had to slow down for a vehicle entering from the side, Willy simply ran him down at top speed, smashing him between his front bumper and the side of the obstructing car.

  Ryan flew over the roof as if shot from a catapult and landed in a heap in the middle of the street, a pool of blood slowly spreading from under his head.

  Willy swung out of his wrecked car, ignored the other driver, who was shaking his head in a daze, and walked around to where Ryan lay motionless.

  He stared at the body for a moment, noticing the slightly moving chest, and said softly, “You’re it, asshole.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Joe hopped from the bow of the Zodiac and quickly looped the line around the nearest cleat. Randy Coffin spun the wheel, snugged the rest of the boat up fast against the piling, killed the engines, and did the same with the stern line.

  They were one dock down from where Beale’s boat was quietly bobbing on the water.

  “See anyone?” she whispered.

  It was midmorning in Lubec, and yet the view down Water Street wasn’t much more crowded than in the middle of the night.

  Gunther studied the distant lobster boat for half a minute. “Nope.”

  They left their mooring spot and circled around to the other dock—watchful, hands on holstered weapons, sensitive to any movement either on board or in the immediate surroundings.

  But all remained serene.

  “Ahoy,” Randy finally called out. “Maine Marine Patrol. Anyone aboard?”

  Hearing nothing, she cautiously stepped on deck, with Joe close behind, and approached the open cabin door.

  “Nothing,” she announced.

  They went below and saw the cut loops of duct tape lying on the floor.

  “No blood,” she commented hopefully.

  Joe was already headed back up. “Where the hell’s Cathy?”

  They had finally reached Cathy Lawless via radio from the Zodiac and got her to agree to meet with them here.

  Randy followed him back out and scanned the two streets visible from the dock.

  “There.” She pointed to a car approaching from the distant corner, where Water Street met the bridge over to Campobello Island.

  The two of them walked to the edge of Commercial Street and waited for the dark sedan Randy had spotted. Inside were Cathy Lawless and her monosyllabic partner, Dave Beaubien.

  “Hey, guys,” Cathy greeted them. “You made good time.” She glanced beyond them. “That the boat?”

  “Yeah,” Randy told her. “Empty. Found this.” She dangled one of the loops of duct tape.

  “Ouch,” Cathy said. “Sorry, Joe.” She reached over the back of her seat to move a bag out of the way. “Climb in. Let’s figure out what’s what.”

  Joe and Randy complied, transforming the car into a miniature office.

  “Hey, Dave,” Joe greeted Beaubien glumly.

  Dave merely nodded his response.

  “Did you get the town clerk to find out what property Beale owns?” Joe asked, following up on the second half of the conversation they’d shared on the radio.

  “Two she could identify,” Cathy told them. “A residence on Mowry and an abandoned warehouse somewhere ahead of us.” She pointed down Commercial Street. “As far as I could tell, the Mowry address is our best bet—the clerk said she was amazed the warehouse was still standing. Plus, the address on that one was a little vague.”

  Randy looked at Joe. “We’re just along to watch your back. What’s your preference?”

  He paused. “The house seems more likely, and I’m worried about losing more time.”

  “Want to leave half of us here, while the rest go to the house?”

  “Where’s ‘here’?” Joe asked. “I thought you weren’t sure of the warehouse’s location.”

  Cathy nodded. “Cool. What about the boat?”

  In answer, Randy dangled the ignition keys from her hand.

  Cathy pulled away from the side of the road. “Done.”

  Mowry Street may have been on the far side of town, but that only translated to a three-minute drive across five blocks. Lubec was sparsely populated, hosting only a handful of lobster boats; its school was facing extinction, its locals were selling their homes to wealthy vacationers, and employment often consisted of a round robin of blueberry picking, Christmas wreath making, and the odd carpentry job. Although appreciative of many a spruced-up and handsome home—and of a neat and picturesque village, overall—the four cops weren’t startled to see a run-down, tiny house surrounded by rusting metal lobster traps and three abandoned cars by the time they reached Beale’s property
.

  “La Maison Beale,” Cathy announced, killing the engine. She twisted in her seat before asking, “Just so we all stay on the same page, what’re we looking at?”

  Joe understood the question and, despite his anxiety, tried to answer it professionally. “Possible kidnapping, maybe worse, but the evidence is thin. Lyn somehow arranged to meet Beale. Randy and I interviewed a guy who saw them step onto Beale’s boat, but no signs of coercion aside from the informant saying that Lyn didn’t look happy.”

  Cathy pulled a face. “That could mean she didn’t like getting seasick, too.”

  Joe swallowed most of his protests. “Before she vanished, she did tell me she would stay put till I got there.”

  She smiled at him. “Good enough for me. Let’s kick some ass.”

  They got out and slowly approached the decrepit house in a spreadout straight line, covering all entrances. Joe and Cathy then met at the front door, on which she hammered unceremoniously with the heel of her hand.

  “Wellman Beale? Open up. Police.”

  To their shared amazement, the door opened within seconds, revealing the same heavyset, scowling man Joe had met weeks earlier, and whom he’d interviewed in vain about the disappearance of Lyn’s father and brother.

  Adding to the surprise, Beale immediately recognized Joe and gave him a sarcastic smile. “Couldn’t find Vermont?”

  Joe nodded to him. “Came back for you.”

  “Wellman Beale?” Cathy asked formally.

  “Trick question, right?”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “Taking a shit.”

  “Were you or were you not in Jonesport?”

  “Like you don’t know.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “I were. Do I win something?”