Grey Lady Page 3

  “Can I help you gentlemen?” I said in a tone that could have been friendlier.

  The shorter man glanced around. “Naz bot,” he said.

  I didn’t have a clue what he meant, but said, “Nazbot to you, too.”

  They exchanged glances and the tall man said, “His English not so good like mine. He is saying you have nice boat.”

  “Thanks. It’s available for charter this afternoon. Are you gentlemen interested in going on a fishing trip?”

  The tall man unfolded a newspaper he’d been carrying.

  “No fishing. Interested in this.”

  In his hand was the front page of The Cape Cod Times. My eyes went to the banner headline above the fold: PRIVATE EYE SAYS IVAN THE TERRIBLE KILLED THE BURNING MAN.

  The story had Sheila Crumley’s byline on it. Set into the story was a photo of me, a publicity head shot that I’d sent into the paper’s business page. I saw my name repeated a number of times in the article, and each mention was circled with heavy black ink.

  I took the paper from the stranger and read the lead sentence.

  “Ivan the Terrible was the killer of the Russian man found burned to death in the woods near Barnstable Municipal Airport. So says Aristotle P. Socarides, a retired homicide detective formerly with the Boston Police Department who is now a part-time private investigator living on Cape Cod.”

  I scanned the next few paragraphs. Sheila had done a pretty good job cobbling my alcohol-fueled bar ramblings into a story. Enshrined in print was my off-hand theorizing about the Russian mafia, the drug trade and the possibility of a deal gone bad. There was my comment, loosely quoted, which said, “Don’t cross Ivan the Terrible or you’re toast.”

  Crumley had recapped the details of the murder from her original reporting and mentioned that as a private investigator, I only took cases that were highly unusual. She finished up with the plug she had promised, saying that I ran the charter fishing boat Thalassa out of the Hyannis Marina. It was clear how my visitors had found me, but not why. I handed the paper back to the tall man who tapped my photo with his finger.

  “This is you?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, that’s me. Not my best side.”

  “How are you knowing Ivan is killer from Russian mafia?”

  “I don’t know that,” I said with a shake of my head.

  He waved the folded page at me. “Is in paper.”

  I had a bad feeling about this. Damn that Sheila! Double-damn my beer mouth. Speaking slowly and deliberately so my new pal wouldn’t miss anything in the translation, I said, “The man who was killed was Russian. He’s from Brighton Beach and he’s been arrested before. The dead man was in the drug business. Someone killed him. It was probably Russian bad guys. Ivan is a common Russian name. Like John in this country.”

  “Russian bad guys?” He chuckled and spoke a few words to his friend.

  The short man laughed. “Roosian bed gize.”

  “Why the questions about someone named Ivan?” I said.

  Tall Guy frowned. “Our boss named Ivan. He reads this. He don’t like it. He thinks it makes big trouble. He says it stinks.”

  “It steenks,” said his shorter friend.

  “Your boss isn’t the only guy in the world named Ivan.”

  “He’s only Ivan who is my boss,” Tall Guy said.

  I couldn’t argue with his logic, even if I disagreed with the conclusion.

  “Please explain to your boss that he was not the person in the story. Offer him my apologies.”

  “Not enough,” Tall Guy said.

  He said something to Short Guy, who reached under his leather jacket. His hand came out holding a knife. I heard a snick and a sharply-pointed four-inch blade flicked out of the black handle. I tensed, thinking he was coming for me, but he turned and stabbed the leatherette cushion in the stern seat. He yanked the knife back, leaving a cut about two feet long. Then he pulled the knife out and jabbed the cushion in another place.

  My first instinct was to go for him. But the voice of experience was telling me if I moved in, he’d start working on my gut instead of the cushions. The Tall Guy watched me in case I did something rash. The corners of his mouth were tweaked up in a smile.

  I backed away as if I were scared to death. He grinned and turned to watch his friend. Using the center console to shield my move, I leaned over, grabbed a boat hook from its holder and snapped the telescoping tube to full length. I stepped back around the console and took a baseball swing at the taller man. He was surprised, but he jumped away from the chest-high blur of metal. I brought the aluminum shaft back again and swung it like a Jedi knight across the posterior of his friend, was who bent over, busily slicing the seat cushions to ribbons.

  He let out a scream of pain and whirled around, his face contorted in anger. He pulled the knife out of the cushion and brought it around. I chopped at his forearm. The switchblade flew from his hand and splashed into the water. Pivoting, I faced off against his pal, who had dropped the newspaper and had his hand under his jacket.

  My boat is docked between two bigger boats that blocked the view of the Thalassa’s deck where I could easily be dispatched with no one to witness it. I needed a miracle, which came to me at that moment, courtesy of an angel in a blue police uniform who appeared on the dock.

  “Hello, Officer Tucker,” I said in a loud voice.

  Tall Guy turned and his hand came out from the jacket. He growled in Russian to his friend, who was holding his right arm with his hand.

  Tucker glanced at the two men, then at the boat hook in my hand. “Everything okay?” she said.

  I didn’t know what the tall guy had under his jacket, but if he had a gun and was spooked into using it, Tucker would have been the first target.

  I grinned and said, “Everything’s fine, Officer. These gentlemen were just leaving.”

  Tall Guy stared at me as if he were trying to make up his mind, then he growled something to his friend. They climbed out of the boat and walked briskly along the dock. I motioned for Tucker to come on board.

  “Who were those guys?” she said.

  “They work for someone named Ivan.” I picked the newspaper up from the deck. “They think I was talking about their boss in this dumb story. I wasn’t. I was just using the name Ivan as an example.”

  She glanced at the headline. “Weird. What did they want?”

  I pointed to the mutilated cushion. “I think they wanted to make me sorry I opened my big mouth.”

  “Holy crap!” She grabbed her hand radio, stepped off the boat and sprinted down the dock. “Gone,” she said when she came back a moment later. “Okay, tell me what happened.”

  I was still pumped up with adrenaline as I told her about the encounter. She shook her head in disbelief. “You seem to attract trouble, Mr. Socarides.”

  “Just call me ol’ lightning rod. Glad you showed up. What brings you to my neighborhood?”

  “I came by to tell you that I talked to Mr. Glick’s three friends. They hate their boss. Said he’s nothing but a slumlord for old people. They backed up your account.”

  “Then it’s over?”

  “The criminal complaint part is. You may have to deal with a civil suit. Talked to your lawyer?”

  “Still looking up his number.”

  She ran her hand over the shredded seat cushion. “Better do it fast, because at the rate you’re going, this boat won’t be worth suing you for. Think those guys will be back?”

  “I hope not.”

  “I’ll ask around the marina. Maybe someone noticed them or their car. Call 911 if they show up again. In the meantime, be careful.”

  I thanked her and we walked up to the parking lot. She got into the cruiser and I decided I needed something to steady my nerves and strolled ove
r to Trader Ed’s. On the way, I encountered the dock master. He handed me a pink telephone call back slip.

  “Got a call for you. Lady said she left a message on your home phone, but called the marina on the chance she’d find you.”

  I used to get phone messages at a bar called the ‘Hole, but I figured that if I was serious about my new business I’d better have a better system. I considered getting a cell phone, but my mother would be calling constantly to ask how her boat was doing. Instead, I hooked up an answering machine at the boat house so I could call in and retrieve messages. The pretty blonde barkeep on duty poured me a beer without being asked, then slid the mug across the bar-top. I took a sip of the cold brew and read the name on the pink slip. Lisa Hendricks. She had called about a half hour earlier.

  I asked the bartender if I could borrow a phone and punched out the number. A woman answered. “Hendricks law firm.”

  I asked for Lisa Hendricks and gave my name.

  “I’m Lisa Hendricks. Thank you for returning my call so quickly, Mr. Socarides.” She had a nice voice.

  “No problem. My fishing schedule is filling up quickly, so I thought I should get back to you right away.”

  “You misunderstood, Mr. Socarides. I didn’t call about fishing. I’d like you to take a case in your capacity as a private investigator.”

  I hadn’t done any PI work in months and the last job wasn’t exactly the Purloined Letter. A wealthy couple from New Jersey hired me to do security checks on their summer home. I should have done security checks on them because they still owed me money.

  “How did you find me?” I said.

  “I saw your name in the newspaper. I’m an attorney on Nantucket. I need the help of a private investigator. The article said you take unusual cases. This situation certainly fits that description.”

  “You’ll have to tell me more about this case, Ms. Hendricks.”

  “You’d be working for the defense team of someone who’s a suspect in a murder.”

  “That’s pretty routine stuff. Checking alibis and witnesses. What makes this so unusual?”

  “It’s too complicated to explain over the phone. You’d have to come to Nantucket so I can show you.”

  I contemplated the wisdom of further complicating my messy life. When I didn’t answer right away, she must have taken my silence for a bargaining ploy.

  “I know it’s a little inconvenient coming over to the island, but this could be quite lucrative.” She quoted an hourly rate that raised my eyebrows. I had a damaged boat that would put me out of business until it was repaired, a high deductible on my insurance, and a potential lawsuit.

  “When do you want to get together?”

  “The Hy-Line’s high speed ferry will be leaving in half an hour. I’ve made a reservation for you. I’ll meet you at the dock when you arrive in Nantucket.”

  “Okay, Ms. Hendricks. How will I know you?”

  “That won’t be a problem. I’ll know you. Didn’t you know your picture was in the paper?”

  I thought about the slashed cushions, and the smiling gent in the picture that went with Crumley’s story in the local daily. “Yeah,” I said. “So I’ve heard.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The high-speed ferry was on the other side of the harbor. I tucked my truck into a parking slot, trotted over to the ticket booth, then sprinted aboard the boat moments before the dock crew removed the gangway. Within minutes, the ferry was entering Lewis Bay, moving past the long breakwater that juts out from Camelot, the Kennedy compound at Hyannisport. The ferry swung a few points to port around the Number 4 red harbor buoy, then headed southeast. Once it hit open water, the ferry flexed its mechanical muscles, ramped up to its cruising speed of thirty knots and began its dash across Nantucket Sound, leaving twin rooster tails in its wake.

  With their squashed down, streamlined looks, the high-speed catamarans that make the daily run between the mainland and Nantucket resemble waterborne UFOs. Their twin aluminum hulls slice through the water like hot knives through butter. The fast ferries don’t have the character of the grungy, slow-moving car ferries that are the lifelines to Nantucket, but they’re heavily used by workers who can’t afford to live on the island and by travelers who’d rather go by boat than plane.

  I bought a cup of coffee at the food counter and plucked a tourist brochure from a rack. Settling into one of the seats arranged in rows like those on an airplane, I opened the chamber of commerce brochure and read, “Because of the grey shingled buildings and frequent fog, Nantucket is affectionately referred to as ‘the Little Grey Lady of the Sea.’

  I glanced at a brief history of the island’s whaling heritage, then studied the map in the pamphlet. From the air, the island looks like a croissant, with the concave side of the crescent facing the mainland. Nantucket is only fourteen miles long and three miles wide and was shaped by the same ice age glaciers that sculpted Cape Cod. The island encompasses around forty-eight square miles, most of it not much higher than the waves that wash its sandy shores, except for Folger Hill, which soars one-hundred-nine-feet above sea level.

  It was too nice a day to stay in the cabin. I set the brochure aside and went out onto the deck for some fresh air. It was hard to believe there was land under the low bank of marshmallow clouds off to the south. At the midpoint in Nantucket Sound, neither shore is visible. The boat is at the center of what Joseph Conrad described in his writing as the wide disk of the sea.

  The island first appeared as an unevenness of the horizon. The line separating land and sea darkened in hue. A water tower appeared, then church spires spiked the blue sky. As the ferry neared the buoy marking the harbor entrance, tawny strands of beach and dark green vegetation were visible. Mansions lined the cliffs on the harbor approach. The ferry slowed as it passed between the Brant Point lighthouse and the tip of a thin, sandy island that shelters the harbor, with the Coast Station on our right, then it cruised past Straight Wharf, which encloses one side of a rectangular basin for smaller boats. The ferry stopped and pivoted to back up to the wharf.

  I walked down the gangway onto the ferry dock, the busy nexus where the eager newcomers exchanged places with the tanned but sad-eyed vacationers who look like refugees being driven from the only home they have ever known. The foot traffic flowed past gift shops, galleries and restaurants, around the tour vans and hotel shuttles. Handsome young men and pretty young women from the local hotels held squares of cardboard printed with names of incoming guests.

  As the crowd thinned, I felt like a pebble left in the ebb of a receding wave. I waited five minutes. Still no one who looked lawyerly. After ten minutes had passed, I went over to an ice cream stand. I was checking out the list of flavors when someone tapped me lightly on the shoulder. I turned and looked into the anxious face of an attractive young woman. She brushed a strand of curly black hair away from her forehead. She had a flawless cinnamon and cream complexion.

  She was holding a copy of The Cape Cod Times, folded to display the front page. “Mr. Socarides?” she said, glancing at my photo.

  “That’s right. And you must be Ms. Hendricks?”

  She extended her hand. Her grip was warm and firm.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late. There was a moped accident on the Siasconset road.” She pronounced it properly as S’conset.

  “I’m in no hurry, Ms. Hendricks. Can I buy you an ice cream cone?”

  Her lush lips widened in a smile. “Thank you. I had a late lunch. Maybe later after we talk business. My office is a short walk from here.”

  She guided me toward the center of town along a narrow uneven brick sidewalk, moving with the relaxed litheness of a yoga instructor. She was wearing an almond-colored silk pant suit that flowed with her body. Main Street begins its slow rise a short stroll from the ferry dock. The wide street is paved in cobblestones and lined o
n both sides with shade trees and ritzy shops. Near the top of the hill, at the venerable Pacific Bank, we made a right onto a quiet street away from the hubbub. The law office was in a neat two-story brick building. A brass plaque to the right of the entryway said: Lisa D. Hendricks, Attorney at Law.

  Her office was on the second floor at the top of a narrow stairway. Taped to the dark-wood walls were several color-coded maps. Light streamed in through tall windows that looked out on the Methodist church across the street. Ms. Hendricks motioned to a comfortable leather chair and slipped behind a mahogany desk. She removed her designer sunglasses to reveal eyes of startling blue framed by long dark lashes.

  “Thank you for coming to the island on such short, may I say impossibly demanding, notice.”

  “It’s always a pleasure to come to Nantucket even when I don’t know why I’m here.”

  “Then let me get right down to business. As I mentioned on the phone, I’d like you to investigate the circumstances surrounding a murder. I’m representing the suspect. His name is Henry Daggett.”

  “When did the murder occur?”

  “About five weeks ago. I’m surprised you don’t know about it. The story was all over the news because of the unusual circumstances and the prominence of Mr. Daggett and the victim, Absalom Coffin.”

  “I was busy getting my charter business off the ground about then. You’ll have to fill me in. You said both men were prominent.”

  “Henry Daggett and Ab Coffin come from old Nantucket families that go back to the Quakers who settled the island. Both families originally made their money in the whaling business which they used as springboards to other ventures. The Daggetts owned huge holdings of property which became quite valuable as real estate. In developing that land, they moved into construction and did quite well at it. When whaling faded, many of the Coffin family became successful in other businesses. Ab’s branch of the Coffins wasn’t one of them, although he was quite respected as an antiques dealer.”