Third Strike (5 page)

I turned back to Gloria Alvarez. “Did your husband have any enemies? Was he on bad terms with anyone?”

“No,” she said. “I told you. Eduardo had no enemies. He was too sweet for his own good, in fact. He was a pacifist. Did you know that? He was a conscientious objector. He didn't believe in fighting.”

“Zee mentioned that he was a pacifist,” I said. “Did he have any friends who might not be pacifists? Anyone who might know how he happened to be on the
Trident
last night?”

“He was everyone's friend. Everyone loved him. He's in heaven, but I'm in hell because of what people are thinking of him.” More tears ran down her cheeks.

St. Eduardo.

“Did he have a favorite tavern?” I said. “A place where he could meet friends and talk?”

“Eduardo didn't drink alcohol or smoke. He didn't go to taverns.”

“Did he go to church?”

“Every week, yes.”

“Who is his minister, his priest?”

“Father Zapata,” she said. “Why do you ask? I'm sure Father Zapata can tell you nothing about last night.”

“You're probably right.” I looked at Mrs. Martinez. “Is there a place where the union members meet, do you know? Some pub or coffee shop?”

“They're men,” said Mrs. Martinez. “They like coffee and beer. George goes to the Fireside sometimes. I think he sees his friends there, and a lot of his friends belong to the union.”

I wasn't getting much help from Gloria, but I tried another couple of questions. “Did your husband gamble? Did he argue with anyone enough to make that person angry?”

“No,” said his widow, wiping her tears. “He wasn't a gambler. He would argue, but never so as to anger anyone. He was a good man. A very good man. No one would want to hurt him, and he would never hurt anyone.”

And yet somehow Eduardo, like Jesus, had managed to get himself more than just hurt.

I thanked both women for their time, got Sarah Martinez's phone number, and departed. I didn't have much more to go on than when I'd left home, but I had some.

First, though, I drove to the Vineyard Haven police station. The station, which fronts the Stop and Shop parking lot, is pretty impressive from the outside and is a contender, with the Edgartown station, for the best-looking police station on the island. It almost overlooks the site of the explosion.

Inside, I asked a couple of questions and soon found myself sitting in an office across from Sergeant John Sylvester, a man about my age who looked to be fifty or sixty pounds over fighting weight. I'd seen him around town, but I didn't know him.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

I told him the nature of my quest, and when I was through he said, “We won't know for sure until we get the ME's report, but everything we have now makes it look like Alvarez got himself killed when his own explosive blew up on him.” He shrugged. “This strike is getting rougher every day. There are hotheads on both sides, so something like this isn't a big surprise. That said, I think you should call it a day, go home, and leave the driving to us.” He smiled.

“Are you treating his death like a homicide?”

“Until they rule otherwise,” Sylvester said, “it's a state-police case.” The way he said it made me think that he, like a lot of town cops, resented the idea that in Massachusetts the state police were responsible for investigating all homicides, or suspected homicides.

“Are you considering the possibility that Alvarez was a victim? That he didn't set the explosive?” I asked.

His eyes narrowed. “We're considering all of the possibilities.”

“Mrs. Alvarez says her husband would never have blown up a boat.”

“Al Capone's mother probably thought her baby boy was just misunderstood.”

True enough.

“If you find out anything,” I said, “will you let me know?”

His smile returned to his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. “You can read about it in the papers.”

I walked down to the harbor and looked at the
Trident
. She was a small, double-ended trimaran ferry boat such as I'd seen in photographs. The only sign of an engine explosion was a blackened area astern around a hatch. She was tied to a pier, and men were standing on the pier with their hands in their pockets looking at her.

I joined them.

“God damned strikers,” a man was saying. “They ought to be shot.”

His companion nodded. “This here boat carried eight cars at a time. Two, three trips a day. I guess they didn't want that happening. Served the guy right, killing himself like that, maybe. Bad business, though. I don't like it.”

“Where'd this boat come from?” I asked.

They both looked at me, as though wondering who I was and whether they should like me or not.

“Down in Connecticut,” said the man who'd damned the strikers. “Normally runs out to some little island down there. Came up here to make some real money. Now this happens. Damned shame.”

“You're right about that,” I said, and thereby seemed to make myself his friend.

He shared another nasty remark or two about the union and nodded knowingly as I left.

I was weary already, and I hadn't even really started to work. Tomorrow seemed soon enough, so I went home.

“Well?” said Zee.

“I told Mrs. Alvarez I'd try to help,” I said. “I'll start in the morning. I have some leads, or at least a few places to begin asking questions.”

She stood on her toes and kissed me. “Good. Go see what the kids are up to and I'll fix us some martinis. You can meet me on the deck.”

I went out to the beech tree and looked up through the leaves. Joshua and Diana and Jim Duarte were all up there, still alive after the earlier attack of the leopard men.

“Come up, Pa!” yelled Diana.

“All right.”

I climbed up the ladder, passed through the trap-door in the floor of the porch of the main room, and found a good limb to sit on. The three children were pleased. I moved carefully after them through the branches, glad that we had a tree house where I could escape from the world where Eduardo Alvarez had lived and died.

Zee called to me from the balcony, inviting me to join her for a little something. The balcony was a big people's place where children were not allowed. The rule had its benefits. While Zee and I sat there, sipping Luksusowa on the rocks and nibbling on crackers and bluefish pâté, I told her what I'd heard from Sergeant Sylvester and the guys on the pier.

“No surprise, I guess,” she said. “But it makes me glad that you're going to find out what really happened.”

We looked in silence out toward Nantucket Sound, where the sails were white against the blue water and under the blue sky. The colors reminded me of those in paintings of the Virgin Mary.

“Hey, Pa!” It was Joshua's voice coming out of the beech tree.

“What?”

“When you finish your little something, will you come back and play with us some more before Jim has to go home?”

“Sure.”

I had returned to the tree when Zee called to me and said that Brady Coyne was on the phone. I told the kids that I'd be back and swung down to the ground on the rope hung for that purpose.

Brady, unable to get a reservation on Cape Air, was coming to the Vineyard the next day but figured the boat strike might strand him in Woods Hole. I told him I'd try to find somebody to bring him across and that I'd call him back.

After I'd wasted more than an hour trying to do that, Zee said, “Why don't you just take the
Shirley J.
over and bring him back yourself? Take the kids with you, so I can shoot with Manny without having any distractions. We'll stick Brady in the guest room and loan him a car and take him fishing when he's through doing whatever work he's going to be doing.”

I had planned to start asking questions the next morning, but the thought of a good sail was very appealing. I hesitated.

“The boat needs exercising,” said Zee, eyeing me with wifely sagacity.

And Eduardo Alvarez was already dead, and he'd stay that way whether I learned why tomorrow morning, or later, or never.

“You can talk about the case with Brady on the way home,” said Zee. “He may have some ideas that will help you.”

Good old Zee, giving me reasons to do what she knew I wanted to do anyway.

I called Brady, told him I'd pick him up in Woods Hole at noon, and went back to the tree house. When Joshua and Diana heard my sailing plans, they invited themselves to join me. Jim looked sad, so I invited him too, if it was okay with his folks. Only Zee, who would be shooting with Manny, would be missing from our merry band.

I took Jim home and arranged to pick him up again in the morning.

“You're sure he won't be a bother?” said Mrs. Duarte.

“If he gives me any trouble,” I said, looking down at him, “I'll toss him overboard.”

“Fine,” she said.

At eight the next morning, I made sure that all of our life vests were on securely, then hoisted the
Shirley J.
's big mainsail and cast her off her stake between the yacht club and the Reading Room. We eased out of Edgartown harbor, pushed by a light west wind, passed the lighthouse, and reached for East Chop on a port tack. The wind rose a bit with the sun and carried us over a mild sea toward the mainland.

I helped the children handle the tiller and showed them how to change the set of the sail just a bit when we could see Woods Hole on the far side of Vineyard Sound. The tide was perfect for our purposes, falling and helping us on our way, then slowly flattening out as we fetched Woods Hole. The sound was alive with boats.

Brady Coyne, overnight case in his hand, was waiting for us. He put his bag on the dock and caught the line I threw. He got into the life vest I tossed to him, and a few moments later we were headed back to the island, with the wind on our starboard beam and a now-rising tide pushing us home.

“‘A capital ship on an ocean trip was the
Walloping Window Blind
,'” chanted Brady to the children. “‘No wind that blew dismayed the crew or troubled the captain's mind.'”

They liked the poem so much that they asked him to recite the whole thing. To my surprise, he could and did.

“I thought all you read were law books and fishing magazines,” I said when the clapping stopped.

“Shows what you know,” said Brady. “What's the news with the strike? I hear somebody got blown up on a boat. You know anything about that?”

“Not much, but I hope to know more soon. You want to take the helm?”

“Sure.” He took the tiller.

“Just clear the point of West Chop,” I said, pointing ahead.

“Aye, Captain.”

He sailed a course making a straight wake, and as he did I told him about the job I'd taken and the people I'd talked to. He listened without interruption, and I had the impression, not for the first time, that Brady had some sort of storage unit in his brain where he kept everything he heard just in case he might need to remember it sometime.

“Well,” he said when I was done, “you've got the names of some people who might be able to help you. That's a start.”

“It's not much.”

“No,” he said. “It's not.”

Off West Chop we were smothered a bit by the highlands, but the sail still pulled, and then it filled again when we crossed the entrance to Vineyard Haven harbor. The water was crowded with boats, large and small, heading to and from the mainland. A big one, the
Neptune,
with four cars on her deck, bounced us with her wake. We fetched East Chop, then hauled in the sheet just a bit for the long reach to Edgartown.

“You know any more about why Larry Bucyck wants to see you?” I asked Brady.

“No more than I knew when I talked to you on the phone,” he said.

“It'll ruin my reputation if anybody finds out I'm a friend of Larry Bucyck's lawyer,” I said.

“Who said we were friends?” said Brady.

Off the Chappy cliffs we came about and began tacking into Edgartown harbor. The rising tide helped, and we scooted between Chappy Point and the town dock with no problems. A half hour later the
Shirley J.
was back on her stake, sail furled, and we were all ashore on Collins Beach. I chained the dinghy, the
Millennium Falcon,
to the bulwark, so it wouldn't be stolen by gentlemen yachtsmen trying to get back to their boats in the wee, small hours, and we all climbed into the Land Cruiser and headed out of town.

“A successful sail,” said Brady, articulating the adage that any sail that gets you home is a successful one.

We returned Jim to his mother and went on to the Jackson house.