Port City Crossfire (A Brandon Blake Mystery, Book 1) Page 24

  The Uber driver was at Monument Square in two minutes, pulling up in a white Corolla, a cheap lease. Brandon gave Mia’s hand a squeeze. They didn’t say goodbye.

  The driver was a Somali guy. He was on the phone and didn’t glance over when Brandon slid into the back seat behind him. The Uber destination was Sunset Grille, a waterfront restaurant up the road from the marina. The guy stared at the GPS, sped past the P.D, the backside. The lot was nearly empty, everybody out hunting the guy who’d taken the shot. Or not a guy at all.

  Amanda Shakespeare’s mom? Tiff Rawlings? Some unknown nut-job, drawn to the cause by the stories? Rogue cop gets away with murder. Like the commenters said, Somebody should take him out.

  They were on the bridge. Brandon peered over the railing and out over the harbor. The marina lights were on, a string of solar on the float. The mooring field was dark except for dim cabin lights on the Rockaways’ motorsailer, three moorings west of Bay Witch. Helene would sit in the salon and watch movies, DVDs from the public library. George would sit in the cockpit for hours and smoke his pipe, very nautical. People complained about the smell.

  The driver dropped him in the restaurant parking lot, a couple of cars left, the late crew. Brandon walked toward the door until the Corolla was out of sight, then turned around and walked out of the lot and onto the street. The street was dark away from the restaurant sign. Brandon walked on the harbor side, in the shadows, close to a chain-link fence covered in vines. When he approached the marina gate, he stopped. The parking lot was beyond the gate, behind rusting metal boatsheds. A single bug-spattered street lamp illuminated the boatyard. The Coke machine glowed outside the office. The yard was still.

  Brandon stepped into the vines and stopped and listened. He could hear crickets. Traffic on the bridge. A siren from across the harbor. The distant sound of a forklift working on the Portland side. And once he had filtered those sounds out, nothing. He counted to 30, then walked quickly to the gate, punched in the code, swung the gate open and closed. In a half crouch, he hurried across the yard and down the ramp to the float.

  The tide was out and the ramp was steep. He grabbed the rail, then swung down and untied into his dinghy. Slipping the oars into the oarlocks, he feathered the boat backward, then swung hard and started to pull. He rowed steadily but under control, keeping the oars from rattling the oarlocks. The boat skimmed away from the floats and into the darkness. Brandon stayed wide of the other moorings, close by the stumps of a rotting pier. He smelled George Rockaway’s pipe, heard him cough and clear his throat. And then Bay Witch was coming up and Brandon gave a last pull and coasted up to the starboard side. He circled the boat silently, stopped to sit and listen.

  He heard barely audible slaps, the ripples from the oars flicking the wooden hull. The bilge pump kicked on and water ran, trickling into the bay. He eased up to the stern, grabbed the transom and the painter and swung aboard. Listened again. Tied the dinghy on, moved across the stern deck to the cabin door.

  He opened it, went inside, and closed it behind him. Stepped down to the galley and bent to take a Budweiser out of the fridge. Moved up to the helm and opened the chart book. Danni’s note was there, tucked between Casco and Muscongus bays. He read it again. Went down to the stateroom, and through to the ladder leading up to the bow hatch. Tucking the bottle into his jeans, he climbed up, unhooked the hatch and pushed it open. Then he climbed out onto the foredeck, the bow pointed toward the Portland skyline, into the northwest wind.

  Brandon sat on the deck, his back against the windscreen. He thought of medieval people cast out of city gates. Hence, the word. Outcast. Why did he think he and Danni had so much in common? Outsiders, even when they were with someone.

  He shrugged off the thought, let the conversations with Mia replay. You’re wallowing.…Yeah, well, she hadn’t killed two people. Two messed-up kids, probably needed counseling, instead they got—

  He opened the beer, took a long drink, closing his eyes as he swallowed. When he opened them nothing had changed. The sign on top of the Time & Temp building across the harbor said 1:43, 56 degrees. There was a siren somewhere, but just one. Not the shooter.

  Brandon drank again, swallowed and said aloud, “She’s right.”

  He put the bottle down on the deck. Tapped his phone on, the screen lighting the darkness.

  He searched for an obit for Rawlings, Portland, Maine. There were several, or there used to be. Men, women, old and not so old. All named Rawlings, all dead. One was named Alexandra. She was 89. She died unexpectedly.

  Alexandra Rawlings was formerly of Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania. Her husband, Thatcher T. Rawlings, died in 2001. She was survived by one son, Crawford Rawlings, and his wife, Tiffany, of Moresby, Maine, and a grandson, Thatcher D. Rawlings. Readers were asked to make a gift in her memory to the Woodford Bowl Historical Society, c/o of P. Ainsley Wethersfield...

  “Huh,” Brandon said. “Small world, these rich people.”

  He looked up the number of Twin Oaks Residential Care Center. Then he took out the burner phone and called.

  Twenty-Two

  A woman answered.

  “Twin Oaks.”

  Brandon could hear the faint sound of a television show in the background. Voices then laughter.

  “Hi. This is Dave Joseph, I’m a reporter at the Review. Do you have a sec? I just have a question for you.”

  There were voices, somebody saying, “They need you in 309. He’s out of bed again.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” the woman said, then back to the phone, “Listen, I gotta go.”

  And she was gone.

  Brandon waited, a 20-count. He called back.

  “Twin Oaks. This is Tammy.”

  He introduced himself again.

  “Boy, you guys work late. You really should call during the day. Talk to Mrs. Martine. She’s the supervisor.”

  “Oh, I know. But I always figure the people who work nights know what’s really going on. Not off in some office, pushing paper. Listen, Tammy, it’s just a quick question.”

  Tammy hesitated. The TV sound was turned down, not off. Brandon pictured a movie on her phone.

  “What’d you say your name is?”

  He repeated it.

  “So what’s the question?” Tammy said.

  She said it like she thought she might win something.

  “So it’s just that we do this thing in the paper where we talk about older folks, pick one out and write about them, the contribution they’ve made in their life, that sort of thing,” Brandon said. “It’s a feel-good piece. Somebody suggested Alexandra Rawlings.”

  “Mrs. R? You’re about three weeks too late.”

  “Oh, no,” Brandon said.

  “She passed away.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah, well...” Tammy said, like she wasn’t. “Happens around here.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “So would she have been a good one for the story?” Brandon said.

  No reply. The boat rocked softly. Brandon tightened his grip on his beer.

  “Just curious. You wonder when people call in.”

  Still nothing, and then Tammy said, “This off the page or whatever they call it?”

  “Off the record? Sure. I mean, she’s gone. Not like there’s anything to write.”

  “Then I can tell you. Mrs. R, she was a tough one. Walk in there, get ready to get your head taken off.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know what you would’ve wrote. I was scared of her. Everybody was. We called her ‘the queen.’”

  “Huh.”

  “Yeah. She lived on VIP, that’s what we call the wing for the old folks with money. Two-room suites, big flat screens. Nice view of the woods and the shrubbery. They even get their own bird feeder.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “They got cash. Mrs. R., they said she had like millions,” Tammy said.

  “So Mrs. Rawlings was rich?”

  �
��You have to be for VIP.”

  “Her family come to visit?”

  “The son and his wife. Sometimes their kid. He was in high school.”

  “That’s nice,” Brandon said.

  “Not really. You read about the kid got shot by the cop? Had a BB gun or something? That was this kid. Cops blew him away.”

  “Whoa.”

  “I know, right.”

  Brandon swallowed, said, “At least she didn’t live to see that.”

  “Mrs. R, yeah, she would’ve freaked. She liked the grandson. They’d chat, the parents would be trying to leave, grabbing the kid by the arm. She didn’t like the parents. Can’t say I blamed her.”

  “That right?” Brandon said.

  “Oh, yeah. It happens more than you think. People come in to visit their so-called loved one. Once a month. Stay for five minutes. You can tell they can’t wait to get the heck out.”

  “The Rawlings folks were like that?”

  “Oh yeah. When they were here, the dad and Mrs. R—they argued like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Really. About what?”

  “Money, what else? This place is like a money hole.”

  “And that’s money that isn’t going to be in the inheritance,” Brandon said.

  “You said it, I didn’t. You know nobody’s even picked up her clothes and stuff? I’ll email the guy again tonight. You know, if you don’t want it, we give it away.”

  The TV show got slightly louder. Even buzzed, Tammy was losing interest.

  “Anyway,” she said. “This is my last night. I’m going to Pleasant View. Got a day job, seven to four. Two of the girls here, we went out for a goodbye margarita.”

  The chattiness.

  “Six a.m., I’m out the door.”

  “Good for you,” Brandon said.

  “Nights do a number on your body. Plus, I’m on match.com. You tell a guy you work nights, end of conversation.”

  “I’m sure. Hey, listen, so how was Mrs. R before she passed. Pretty out of it?”

  “Mrs. R? You kidding? That lady was sharp. Five minutes late with her tea, you’d catch hell. She called me ‘Girl,’ like I didn’t have a name. ‘Girl, I pay good money for service here. I could have you fired.’”

  “So not just vegging out?”

  “Heck no. Smart as hell. Read like a book a day. But wicked mean.”

  “How’d she die?”

  The TV show got still louder.

  “Went to visit her son. OD’d is what I heard. They said she took something out of the medicine cabinet or something. I’m like, ‘Mrs. R? You sure?’ She watched her pills like a hawk. Counted ’em a couple of times a day. She thought we were gonna steal her meds, sell ’em on the street.”

  There were voices in the background, the first woman who’d answered the phone. The TV sound cut off.

  “Hey, I gotta run,” Tammy said.

  “So you don’t think that she would—”

  But Tammy was gone.

  Brandon sat on the deck, took a drink. The Time & Temp sign said 1:42 a.m., 53 degrees. He looked at the phone, tapped out a text. Put the phone down and waited. It rang.

  “Yes,” Maddie said, like it was the red phone at the White House.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No. Breaking Bad, Season Six. We’re bingeing.”

  “Kat doesn’t get enough of that at work?”

  “She’s indulging the English professor.”

  “She right there?”

  “In the other room,” Maddie said. “Plausible deniability and all that.”

  “Right. Listen, I just wanted to let you know. I called the nursing home. The one where Mrs. Rawlings was.”

  A gull passed over in the darkness. Brandon had a flicker of a thought, that it was the Mrs. R’s soul, on its way to wherever. Maddie didn’t reply so Brandon kept going. Recounted the conversation with Tammy.

  “She was chatty,” Maddie said.

  “A little drunk. And her last night,” Brandon said.

  “So let’s just say the son was seeing his inheritance slip away.”

  Maddie, true detective.

  “At twenty K a month.”

  “Would you kill your own mother for a million dollars?” Maddie said.

  “If you hated her to begin with? Why not?”

  Silence, Maddie thinking.

  “If he’s a narcissist,” she said, “a personality disorder, he could rationalize it. Hey, she had a long life. Just laying around in bed, money wasted on years of a vegetative state.”

  “Except she was sharp, the woman said.”

  “He could rationalize that, too. Narcissists shape the world around them to fit their needs.”

  “Mom, time for your medicine,” Brandon said.

  “A couple of Oxycodones in the Manhattan. A couple more as she’s starting to wobble.”

  “Then stir up some opiate paste, wash it down with water.”

  “And she’s gone,” Maddie said.

  “Problem solved,” Brandon said.

  “Assuming he was the beneficiary.”

  “He was her only survivor, according to the obituary.”

  “Could have left it to the local food pantry or the animal shelter. Except—”

  “Except what?” Brandon said.

  “Except, maybe I forgot to tell you this. One of the neighbors said he seemed all cheerful after she was gone. She stops the car, he’s getting the paper out of the box at the curb. She gives her condolences, he just smiles, says, ‘It was time.’”

  Brandon looked out at the skyline, felt the boat rocking from something unseen. A wake? A wave? The ghost of Mrs. R? Thatcher Rawlings? Amanda Shakespeare?

  “And then Thatcher goes and gets himself killed,” he said. “And spoils the party.”

  “Wills are public once they’re filed in probate court,” Maddie said. “I could...”

  “You could,” Brandon said.

  “But you don’t know that.”

  “No.”

  “We’ll talk soon,” Maddie said.

  “Be discreet,” Brandon said. “Like, go in and ask for five or six. Say you’re from a law firm.”

  “I got it. Obfuscation. Like in Graham Greene. The American.”

  “Because this is a pretty dangerous thing here, for Kat especially. I don’t want to take her down with me.”

  “Nobody’s going down,” Maddie said. “It’s all good.”

  But it wasn’t. That much Brandon absolutely knew.

  He sat and drank the beer, the boat swaying, a salty night-dew coming off the water. The wind shifted and Bay Witch swung and pointed at the bridge, its lights veiled by the almost imperceptible mist. An occasional car crossed, headlights fading to taillights, then darkness. The boat was making a gentle arc, with each swing turning a few degrees farther south. As Brandon sipped the beer, the moored boats came into view, then the end of the floats, boats tucked in their slips.

  He was thinking about Maddie, the scandal that would erupt if she were found out. A court clerk who’d been in one of her classes. A former student in Probate to register an adoption. It was a gantlet Maddie was running, three careers on the line. Estusa would go crazy, more evidence of a giant police conspiracy, all of them trying to pin the blame on the victim. Brandon would be—

  Someone moved on the float. A dark figure near his empty slip.

  It disappeared behind the hulls, then showed again. The person was moving, stopping, moving again. Not walking to a boat.

  Brandon leaned forward, turning as Bay Witch swung toward the bridge, then back. The person had reached the top of the T of floats, was moving right, closer. Brandon saw legs in the dim dock lights, then the figure at the end of the float. It stopped.

  Arms came up.

  A spotlight blazed.

  Brandon dove to the deck.

  A slug hummed close by his head. A rifle boomed.

  He rolled, almost went overboard, one leg dangling. The light was out and he could h
ear footsteps, running on the float. The shot had come from the bridge side. He moved along the starboard side of the cabin in a crouch, flung himself onto the stern deck.

  Another shot, a smack against the port hull. Then another. Brandon crawled to the hatch, down into the salon. He rolled to the far side, away from the shooter, protected by the thin plywood hull.

  He thought of getting the hatch up, hiding in the bilge behind the engine.

  But the next shot didn’t come. Lying on his back, he dug his phone out. Tapped 911. The calm voice of the dispatcher, a woman, not Chooch.

  “This is Brandon Blake. Somebody just took three shots at my boat.” A millisecond to process. Who he was. Why someone would want to shoot him.

  “Are you hit?”

  “No.”

  “Are you on the boat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you tell the direction of fire?”

  “A rifle. I think toward the bridge. South Portland side. It was two people. Someone lit me up with a spotlight for the shooter. The spot was on the float at the marina. It’s just up from the—”

  “I know where you are,” the dispatcher said.

  Cops were on the float. Cruisers were on and under the bridge. The South Portland P.D. launch was drawn up alongside Bay Witch, strobes flashing, spotlights trained on the stern deck. An inflatable launch from the Coast Guard station was standing by fifty yards out.

  There were two bullet holes in the plywood above the deck on the starboard side. Exit holes to port, slightly lower. The slugs had passed over Brandon as he crawled.

  An evidence tech named Whalen was measuring the distance from the holes to the stern deck.

  “Was the boat rocking?” she said.

  “No,” Brandon said.

  “A couple of centimeters lower on the exit side.”

  “So he was shooting down,” a SoPo detective said. His name was Rothstein. Like the rest of the cops, he was wearing a life jacket.

  Everyone looked toward the bridge, the buttresses and supports. There were cruisers there, blue lights flashing. Another night, another set of cops.

  “Climbed up?” Brandon said.