Rough Harbor (16 page)

Peter Flynn sat on the train nursing his Budweiser Tall Boy. It was difficult to make it last all the way home. There was always the temptation to buy two, but that usually put him asleep, and he did not like to sleep. There were too many things that could be missed if you slept. He had found people were very indiscreet on trains. They would talk loudly and clearly about their business and everyone else’s.

His bland features helped him here; most people ignored him, and he had picked up more than a few good tips from loudmouths. You’d think women would be the worst, he reflected, sipping his beer, but it was always the men. If they could talk about business, even to strangers, it made them seem important, always trying to prove they worked harder than the next guy. Suckers. Didn’t they realize the goal was not to have to work very hard at all? Women, on the other hand, once they were finished with work, were finished.

But tonight was late and most of the other travelers were quiet, reading their papers or staring out the window at the darkened scenery rushing past. Even cell phone use was done, and Flynn sighed and thought about moving to another car in the hopes of finding better hunting grounds. But, in the end, he stayed put. He was tired. Every part of him was tired. This last day in the city had been somewhat of a disappointment. He’d done well up to this point, but he’d been blown off today.

He ran his stubby fingers through his tightly curled gray hair. People loved to gossip, especially if they thought they would make it into the paper. He’d spent weeks collecting background information on all of the players, and he was closing in. But he needed someone on the inside, someone to get the final bit of proof, the smoking gun, as it were.

The train let out a long howl, the toot rolling across the suburban landscape of Westchester County. He would be home soon, where he could have a nice little vodka to finish off the evening. Flynn leaned his head back and let his eyes close for just an instant.

He almost missed his stop. It was the conductor walking through the car collecting the last of the ticket stubs that woke him up. He’d fallen asleep, and some of the beer had spilled on his overcoat. He brushed it off with his hands, cursing a little. His wife did not like the fact that he drank beer from a can, wrapped in a brown paper bag, on the train. His defense, that everyone else did it, fell on deaf ears.

Flynn walked up the swaying aisle. A gust of cold air hit his back as waited in front of the train car door. He glanced back. A teenager in a jacket and a sweatshirt with a hood, headphones, and sunglasses stood behind him. Flynn sighed. Why did they need sunglasses at night?

The train ground to a halt, and Flynn opened the door and stepped into the cold winter air. The ground still moved underneath the train, though slowly it stopped, and he could see in the yellow sulfur lights the individual rocks of gravel that the tracks ran in.

Peter stepped down, waved at the conductor, who did not see him, and started off towards his car. There was no one else returning this late at night; the station and the town were dark and quiet, the lights twinkling in the crisp clean air. The train gathered speed and moved past him, faster than he could make it to his car. He stepped up his pace, eager to be home.

He glanced back, thinking he heard something, but there was no one there. Flynn peered into the shadow created by the station house, but saw nothing and quickened his pace. He had come late to the station in the morning and had to leave his car in the no-man’s land parking lot, a dubious area where there was technically no parking and was therefore subject to the whims of the police force on whether or not they gave tickets. Eyes straining, he looked for the flutter of white paper against the dark glass of the windshield. Relieved, he saw nothing.

He almost made it to the car when he heard it, the quick flap-flap of steps and then interestingly enough the sound of music, muted, an indefinable pattern of noise. Flynn swung around and saw a figure come at him, hood up and sunglasses on. It was the teenager from the train.

“Give me your briefcase.” The voice was young, and Flynn thought to himself that he was just a kid. He came close, fast enough that Flynn found he was backed up against the car.

“No.” It was his first reaction, and he hugged it close to him. He was not going to give this brat his briefcase.

“Give it,” the kid said slightly louder, and then he showed his leverage. A gun appeared in his right hand and waved around, light glinting off the barrel. Flynn felt his heart skip a beat and hesitated, feeling himself tremble.

He hesitated too long. The gun came sweeping towards him in an arc, and though he tried to duck and lift the briefcase at the same time, to shield himself, he was terribly clumsy when it came to physical coordination, and his head went up and his hands down. He found himself flat on his back, staring up at the night sky, looking at stars that dotted the sky like little chips of diamonds.

“Oooppff…” he moaned as the breath went out of him and he felt pain in the small of his back.

The gun barrel came down, pointed more directly at him, and the face leaned over him. Flynn could hear the sound of music from the headphones dangling from the kid’s neck. A radio station playing one of those horrible rock versions of a Christmas carol. Flynn groaned again.

“I’ll give you my wallet. My watch,” he offered, doing his best to stay calm.

“And the briefcase.” The gun gestured. The sunglasses slipped down the nose and hung there, so Flynn could see a face. He gasped in surprise. His attacker wasn’t a kid.

The man glanced to the side, as if he could not bear to watch, and Flynn saw the finger squeeze the trigger. There were two loud booms and then a great dull pain. Flynn felt the briefcase being lifted from his hands and felt warmth spread over his chest. There was someone disturbing him, Flynn thought, and then remembered. The other man picked up his wrist, looked at the watch and then let it drop. It was only a Timex.

Flynn tried to move as he heard the sneakers run away, but he couldn’t. All he could see were the stars still in the sky, winking down at him before everything faded to black.

It had taken some work, but Caitlyn had finally convinced Sam Harris to send Tony’s money back to him. After having to listen to another half-hour of lecturing, Caitlyn had returned to her desk, exhausted. She had won a battle, sure, but she felt like she was losing a war. Sam Harris didn’t have any faith in her. That much had been evident.

It would be a good night to go home early, Caitlyn thought, checking her watch, and then realized it wasn’t so early. Noah was in the city, having dinner with some investors, and she was alone. It would be a nice evening to relax, have a glass of wine and look at account statements. She still hadn’t had a chance to look at Mrs. Smith-Sullivan’s paperwork.

Caitlyn pulled her coat tightly around her and turned off her office lights. The rest of the floor was empty. It was the holiday season, and no one was staying late. The parking lot was in the back of the building, looking at the brick face with its symmetrical row of windows. It was cold out, the sky already darkening, and the smell of fireplaces in the air, unmistakably winter. The quaint gas lamps of Queensbay were draped in evergreen garlands and red ribbons, and last Sunday had been the official lighting of the Christmas tree, complete with the Victorian-garbed carolers.

She picked up some supplies in the local market, chatting with the woman behind the counter. It was starting, she thought, to feel like home. She had managed to keep Flynn out of her mind. He hadn’t called her back, and she had tried to reach him, getting an answering machine. Maybe, she thought, her mind soothed by the friendly chit-chat, she already knew everything she needed about her grandfather’s death.

Caitlyn took her car, her grandfather’s old Mercedes, through the village and up the hill towards home. The Queensbay version of rush hour was starting. It had also started to rain, large cold drops, and she was reminded that new tires might be in order. She turned onto the Shore Road, following the curve of the land as it hugged the water. Streetlights twinkled on the surface, and a duck seemed to drift in and out of the pools of shadow and light. It was times like these, she thought, that she was the most vulnerable. She was thinking about her grandfather and her mother, and then about Maxwell. Because if Queensbay was starting to feel like home, going to work every day was feeling more and more like a battle.

An SUV with high headlights followed closely on her tail and, annoyed, she slowed down. The lights grew closer in her mirror before the other driver slowed down, and Caitlyn resisted the urge to make a rude gesture. It wasn’t as if either one of them was so far away from home that they needed to rush. She refused to be bullied into speeding, a small victory for the day, and the SUV followed at a respectable pace.

Caitlyn made the turn into her driveway, which dipped down and then up, and the other car slowed and then kept going. She thought about her break-in. The locks should be changed, but she hadn’t a chance to get around to it. That was the best she could do, short of getting a dog or spending a lot of money on a security system. She watched her rearview mirror, but her driveway and the road remained clear.

Lights were on in the house, but then again, she never left without leaving a few like that. It made walking into it better. She opened the door and stamped her feet, jostling her keys. The sounds made her feel better if they served no other purpose. She listened. Only silence. The house was quiet, empty. She was alone.

Feeling calmer, she heated up some dinner and poured a glass of wine. She took it all into the study and set out the papers Mrs. Smith-Sullivan had given her. The old girl Sully wasn’t that far off, Caitlyn thought, after looking through things and using her calculator. According to her Randall Group statements, there should have been more than enough money for her to write a check to her nephew.

But that wasn’t what happened. It was only after she had needed it and complained, that the money showed up in one lump sum. Someone had forgotten to keep up the transfers, though according to Sully they were supposed to be automatic. And if there had been enough money in the Randall account, then there was no reason why someone wouldn’t have made those transfers.

Caitlyn leaned back and took a sip. It didn’t matter; the woman had gotten her money, after all. Of course, it would be interesting to see if it was just a simple administrative error on Tommy’s part that he had forgotten to transfer the money until it was requested. He had nothing to gain by not doing it. The money was just sitting in Sully’s account.

It was easy to think bad things about Tommy, Caitlyn thought. Too easy. It was unproductive and unprofessional. She wouldn’t want anyone digging into her accounts. Who knew what kind of honest mistakes could be uncovered that way?

It was decision time. Caitlyn had gone to work the next day, but her mind wasn’t focusing on it. Instead, she thought about her conversations with Flynn and the account statements Sully had given her. How much did Flynn know? He’d hinted that history was repeating itself, and Caitlyn had a funny idea she knew what he had meant. But digging deeper into things now meant that she’d have to dig up the past. How much did she want to know what Flynn was offering her? The truth about her grandfather? Adriana had said there was nothing more to it. And if anyone had known him, it was Adriana.

So, what truth could someone like Peter Flynn offer? What could he know that no one else did? But she could not get it out of her head. If Flynn knew anything, anything at all that might have made it better – that her grandfather was not a crook, that there was nothing Caitlyn could have done to save him – well, what would she pay for that kind of absolution? Because money was all she had left to offer.

Caitlyn turned into her computer and typed “Peter Flynn” into the search box. First was the website, then a link to an article in some obscure publication that had actually quoted Flynn. Next was something from Flynn’s shoe manufacturer and then, finally, something she hadn’t been expecting.

It was a news article, from a few days ago, just after her last conversation with him. The name Peter Flynn was highlighted, and Caitlyn clicked through to the website of a paper from Westchester County.

Her eyes scanned the article, and she caught her breath. A Peter Flynn had been killed in an attempted mugging on his way home from Manhattan. The story was brief, with few facts, saying only that an early morning commuter had found Flynn’s body near the train station. It appeared that he had been killed the night before. There were no witnesses, and the family was refusing to comment. He was survived by his wife, Helen, and son, Peter Jr.

Caitlyn leaned back in the chair, her eyes not on the computer screen, but on the painting she had taken from the house and moved to her office, an abstract landscape with a farmhouse leading down to a small inlet. She focused on it, letting her mind sort through what she had just learned.

It didn’t have to be the same man, for instance; Flynn could be a common name. And it could be a coincidence that this Flynn had died only a few days after she had spoken to him, and that the Flynn she wanted to speak with had not returned her phone calls.

She picked up the phone and dialed the phone number from Peter Flynn’s website.

“Helen Flynn?”

There was silence, and then in a voice barely above a whisper, a woman answered, “Yes, who is this?”

“My name is Caitlyn Montgomery. I’m so sorry for your loss, but your husband had some information for me.”

There was a strange, strangled sort of cry, and Caitlyn felt her own stomach lurch. The phone went dead in her hand, and she replaced the receiver slowly, her free hand drumming out a tattoo on the edge of her desk. She stared at it and debated what to do. It was true, then. It appeared that Peter Flynn was dead and that, for some reason she didn’t yet understand, the family wanted to keep it very quiet.

She did not have long to think it over. Her phone rang, and she picked it up.

“Caitlyn Montgomery?” It was a man’s voice, youngish and smooth and with none of the hoarseness she had grown to associate with his father.

“Peter Flynn Jr.?”

“Yes.”

“Your father had some information for me.” It wasn’t entirely true, but she was hoping that the son didn’t know that.

“He’s dead.” Peter Flynn Jr. said.

“I know. I’m so sorry,” Caitlyn said, and she was, even though she hadn’t liked the man.

“What do you want?” the voice was guarded.

“I’m not sure, really. Your father was asking me for some information about the company I work for, and he said he knew something about my grandfather. He died, too,” Caitlyn rushed on.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Caitlyn Montgomery. I work at the Randall Group.”

There was a pause, and then a whispered conversation, one that Caitlyn couldn’t pick out the words for.

“We should talk. But not on the phone.”

“Okay,” Caitlyn agreed and took down their address.

<<>>

Heather looked up as she came out of her office, surprise on her face as she saw Caitlyn tying the belt of her overcoat tightly around her.

“Are you going out?” There was a staff meeting at four.

“Yes. I have to go meet with a potential client. Westchester,” Caitlyn said. When Heather still looked puzzled, she added, with a raise of her eyebrows and a spread of her hands, “A big client. Tell Sam I won’t be back until much later.”

Heather nodded and looked as if she were about to say something more, but Caitlyn was already gone, the skirts of her camel-colored coat swirling, long black hair streaming out behind her.

Was there any chance, Caitlyn wondered, that she would be able to find out what she wanted to know? The man who had promised her the truth was dead. Would the why behind her grandfather’s death always stay just out of reach?