Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series) (22 page)

“Yes.”

“Good.”

We drove to North Conway, a fair-sized town in the White Mountains that, through some curious mix of geography and commercialism, is a hotbed of discount stores from Macy’s to L.L. Bean to American Eagle, and a host of other stores, including a super Wal-Mart, where I spent a few minutes picking up a cheap replacement cell phone. North Conway also has a number of smaller shops devoted to skiing, mountain climbing, and other outdoor activities; and as we slowly motored our way through the center of its crowded downtown, Mark said “I want to pick up something for my dad.”

“Like what? Some flowers? Bottle of wine? Crystal meth?”

“No,” he said. “He’s a biker . . . from what I gathered, a biker all his life. Maybe I can get him some gear or something.”

“If you think so,” I said, and I found an empty spot for the Mazda right in the center of North Conway. Out on the sidewalk we walked to the south, past a couple of shops and a white-steepled church, and came upon a shoe and leather-goods store called The Beggar’s Pouch that seemed to fit Mark’s bill.

“You go in,” I said. “I’ve got a couple of calls to make.”

He went up a set of brick steps and into the store. It was late afternoon. I was hungry, tired, and I didn’t like the look of the sky. Even at this distance from the Atlantic, the funny light in the sky seemed to warn of an approaching storm.

My first call went to Duncan Gross, the contractor who had been getting ready to start work on my house. The phone rang a half dozen times before his wife Sue answered, and I didn’t feel a whole lot of warmth coming my way when she said “He’ll be here in a sec. Hold on.”

When he got to the phone and I announced myself, he said, “Jeez, Lewis, I thought this might be you. Look, I’ve bent over backwards to help you out. We got that old lumber in place, I’ve done some prep work, but I’m already in pretty deep with you. And not to belabor the point, but I don’t know when I’m gonna get paid.”

“I know that, and I appreciate that, Duncan, but last I heard, Hurricane Toni is heading right for New England.”

“Sure is, and day after tomorrow is Thanksgiving, so please . . . what can I do?” He lowered his voice. “I want to help, honest to God I do, but the missus, she’s my business manager. She watches every penny that comes in and out, and I can’t do any more. I’m sorry. Without that insurance settlement . . . I’m stuck.”

“You and me both, Duncan. Thanks anyway.”

A short sigh. “Look, I might be able to slip away for an hour or so before we hit the road for turkey day. I’ll try to stop by your place, see if I can nail up some additional tarp. Won’t be much, but if the storm veers away, well, maybe you’ll get lucky, the damage will be minimal.”

After wishing him the best and not meaning it that much, I made another phone call, while two women of a certain age emerged from the store, with bulging shopping bags in their hands. Their accents said New York and lots of money, and I tried to tune them out while the phone rang and rang on the other end, and then it went to a menu, and I punched in an extension that I hoped someday to forget.

For some reason, I wasn’t placed on hold, and the phone was briskly answered. “Adrian Zimmerman, how can I help you?”

“Adrian, Lewis Cole . . . was that a trick question?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said ‘how can I help you?’ Did you really mean that, or is that some sort of automatic reply they teach you at insurance adjuster school?”

There was no sound and I thought he had hung up on me. But he finally went on and said, “Mister Cole, there’s nothing new to report. Nothing. The investigation is continuing, and that’s all I can say.”

“And the fact that within a couple of days, a hurricane will be hitting New England and just might destroy a historical home, that’s no concern of yours?”

“My concern and that of my company is to make sure legitimate claims are promptly settled. There’s still questions about the legitimacy of your claim. Plus . . . we received word that your Honda Pilot was stolen. In Tyler. True?”

“Yes,” I said, which was technically true. I didn’t have possession of it anymore and I didn’t know where it was.

“But you haven’t made an official report to the Tyler police, have you?”

“I’ve been . . . busy.”

“Or perhaps you’re concerned about what might happen if you were to show up at the Tyler police station?”

“Adrian, I’d like to point out that I’m still out here, breathing free and not under arrest,” I said.

“That still doesn’t answer the questions about the arsons and your stolen vehicle.”

“Adrian, I need—”

“Mister Cole, I’m sorry. I appreciate your desire to get this resolved, but there are procedures to be followed, and at this moment I’m leaving the office for the upcoming holiday.”

“Goody for you, Adrian,” I said. “I’m sure you’re going to have a nice holiday, in a nice home. Think about me while you’re dining safe and warm.”

“Mister Cole—”

Now it was my turn to interrupt. “Ever hear of karma, Adrian? She can be a bitch. And I guarantee you this: some time in the future, next day or next year, you’re going to be in my position. And I hope you get the same level of consideration and attention you’ve shown to me.”

By then I was talking to myself.

I turned around and was going to enter the store to check up on Mark, when one of the women standing near me said something about an “ugly biker thug” and I stopped moving.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, my voice polite and filled with concern. “I’m sorry, I accidentally heard you say something about a ‘biker thug.’ Did someone just threaten you?”

The near woman’s hair was black, thick and luxurious, no doubt having come from a bottle and skilled hands. Her companion was blond, and their clothes and coats and high-heeled boots and jewelry all said they were from away. She giggled nervously and said, “Oh my, it was nothing like that. It was just that Doris and I were in this cute little shop behind us, and there was one mean-looking thug walking around. Looked like one of those biker gang members you see on television.”

“Why did you think he was a biker?”

She fluttered a hand. “Oh, my word, the leather jacket he was wearing, funny beard and moustache, and my God, the tattoos; now, I’m not prejudiced and even my granddaughter, bless her, has a tattoo, but this thug . . . oh, he was scary, Doris, wasn’t he.”

Doris nodded hard. “Very scary.”

“Is he still in the store?”

“I don’t know . . . is there a problem?”

I offered up a lie and said, “My sister . . . her ex-boyfriend has been following her around, even though she has a restraining order. And the description you just gave me . . . it sounds just like him.”

She brought her hand up to her mouth. “Oh, dear. That’s horrible.”

I walked toward the store. “You’re absolutely right.”

The store was well lit, with displays of shoes, belts, purses, and other leather gear, and the calming scent of leather. I didn’t see Mark, and I didn’t see anyone looking like Reeve Langley. At the rear of the store, two women and a man were engaged in a deep conversation. The man was tall, with round-rimmed glasses, and with a long white beard that looked like it would be in season in another month, just in time for Christmas. He was standing behind a glass display case with a shorter woman I took to be his wife, who had her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail and had an engaging smile and bright eyes behind her own set of glasses. The other woman had a bright smile as well, short blond hair, wearing black slacks and a colorful T-shirt with a coiled dragon on the rear. The three of them were discussing a Florida trip in the spring for some sort of tai chi conference, which seemed like a fantastic idea at the moment, and I was tempted to go over to see if I could join them.

Instead, I noted a set of stairs leading up to the second floor of the store, and I took them quietly, keeping to the wall, so the steps wouldn’t creak, and I had my right hand under my jacket, grasping the Beretta. I had a thought of Reeve up there, with Mark, a knife at his throat or a gun to his head.

But the second floor had Mark and no one else, and plenty of displays and racks with leather gear designed for motorcyclists. Mark was examining a plain black leather vest when he saw me emerging from the stairwell.

“Hey, Lewis,” he said, holding the vest up. “What do you think?”

“I think it looks nice but it’s not worth buying,” I said. “You don’t know how tall he is, or how big his waist is.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, frowning, putting it back on the rack. “I just have this desire to show up with something as a present.”

I gave the room a quick look, double-checked to make sure no one was there. “How about a gift certificate?”

“Oh, come on, I’m not sure where he’s living, and whether this store is close enough.”

“Then
you
can be his present, alive and breathing in one piece,” I said, taking a step back down the stairs. “A couple of customers saw a mean-looking man in the store just a little while ago, somebody who looked like Reeve Langley. He’s still pissed at you, and after our little chat he’s extremely pissed at me. So unless you’ve got something you want to purchase right now, we’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

Mark jostled a rack of motorcycle jackets on his way toward the stairs. The rack leaned one way, and then another, and remained standing.

Driving out of North Conway, Mark said, “What else?”

“What else is more than enough,” I said. “Your Wyoming friend is obviously still in the area.”

“Not my friend.”

“Point noted. I just don’t like the idea of us barely missing running into Reeve Langley at that leather-and-shoe shop.”

“Maybe he was looking for a gift too.”

“Really,” I said. “So tell me, how many times did it take for you to pass the New Hampshire bar exam?”

“Just once,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“Could have fooled me.”

Back at Jack Baker’s house, I didn’t bother parking away from the house or skulking around. I drove Mark’s Mazda right into the yard and then spun it around so it was facing down the long driveway. The Jeep Wrangler was still there, and lights were on inside as well. Still, when I went up to the door, I had my Beretta out and in my right hand.

“You knock on the door,” I said. “I’m sort of preoccupied right now.”

“Why did you take out your gun?”

“It’s called a pistol,” I said. “And I have it out because we were almost surprised back at North Conway. I only like surprises on my birthday, and today ain’t it.”

But Jack was alone, save for his black-and-white friend, and if there was any reminder of our earlier business negotiations with Jack, he kept it under wraps. In the living room he passed over a slip of paper.

“Your dad is over in Maine, up the coast, nearly a seven-hour drive,” he said. “Small town called North Point Harbor. There’s the address. He’s living there with a new name. Stan Pinkerton.”

I looked down at Jack’s neat handwriting, saw an address of 4 Blake’s Cove Road. Mark folded up the paper, gave it a hearty squeeze like it was some sort of religious artifact that he had been hunting for years.

“Thanks,” he said, voice choking up. “You have no idea what this means to me. . . .”

Jack nodded, looked down at the floor before looking up again. “You might want to hold off on thanking me, Mark.”

“Why?” His voice was no longer choked.

“I was able to get other information, about his length of residency, what he’s been up to, what kinds of things he’s been buying,” Jack said. “Among his weekly expenses is something up there called Restful Days VNA.”

“VNA,” I said. “Visiting Nurse Association?”

“The same,” Jack said, now directing his voice to Mark. “It’s a hospice outfit.”

He paused.

“I’m sorry, Mark, but your dad is dying.”

J
ust over an hour later, we were having a quiet dinner at a 99 Restaurant just outside Portland, Maine’s largest city. Mark had some sort of steak-tip dinner, while I paid homage to where we were located by having fish and chips. We ate mostly in silence, and Mark lost it only once, when he crumpled a napkin in his hand and said “All this time, all these years, to come this close and find him dead.”

“Not dead, according to Jack,” I pointed out. “Dying, I’m sorry to say, but we’re only a few hours away.”

“Six,” he said. “And I want to know why we can’t go up now.”

“We’re not going up now because I’m exhausted,” I said. “And we’re not going up now because it doesn’t make any sense. We leave now and we might get up to that small town about three or four in the morning. What, you want to knock on the door of a dying man and announce yourself? Does that make any sense?”

Mark was slumped, spinning a cold French fry around on his plate. “No, no sense at all.”

He looked up and said, “You know, you did good back there with Jack Baker. Especially when you showed him you were carrying. Despite the law and rules and regulations, that’s what really counts, isn’t it? Being armed.”

“On occasion,” I said.

The waitress came over, dropped off the bill, and I started calculating the tip off the bill and tried to remember how much money I had remaining in my wallet. Mark reached for his wallet as well—good man!—and I said, “We’ll pay up and then go find someplace to spend the night. Someplace reasonably priced. And then we head up to North Point Harbor after the sun rises, and then you make nice with your dad. All right?”

A glum nod.

“And you remember your promise, right? About contacting the cops after you’ve done that? Reveal all?”

He spun the French fry around one more time.

“I said I’d do it,” Mark said. “So I’ll do it.”

After paying our bill, I stopped at a Walgreen’s to pick up a few essentials, including fresh underwear, socks, toothpaste and toothbrush. After some prodding on my part, Mark did the same, and I said “Just like Jack Reacher. We’ll travel light with only the essentials.”

“Jack who?”

“Mark, there are more books out there than just law and business.”