The Harbor. Carla Neggers
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arsenal in back, an MP5 handy if he needed it. “Yeah? What do you want?”
“I thought you were having a heart attack. You’re okay?”
“Yeah, fine.”
“My mistake. Local?”
“Look, I’m in a hurry. I don’t have time for a chat.” Teddy didn’t bother keeping the sarcasm out of his tone, but he decided he didn’t want McGrath memorizing his license plate or lifting his prints off a coffee cup. He made himself ease off. “Thanks for checking up on me. Nice to know if I do have a heart attack, there are people around who’ll do something.”
“Sure. No problem.”
Teddy started the engine, and the FBI agent stepped back, still with his eyes narrowed and his cop look. Teddy wondered what he’d done to attract the guy’s attention. Maybe he could smell ex-cons and illegal weapons. “Heart attack, my ass.”
He didn’t know what he was supposed to do now. Wait for Luke to call with instructions, he guessed. He headed back through the village with its cute shops and pretty houses and took a side road down along the water just south of the harbor, veering off onto a dirt road until he came to Bruce Young’s lobster pound. The place was starting to pick up with lobster boats pulling in to turn in their catches. The tide was out. Teddy couldn’t stand the smell.
The driveway to the cottage he was renting from Bruce split off from the dirt road. Teddy shook his head when he saw its sagging roof and half-rotted back steps. Bruce was probably waiting for it to fall down so he could put up something new when he got the money together. He’d warned Teddy the place was a dump.
With a little luck, push would finally come to shove, and before he had to spend another hellish winter here, he’d be in good shape and moving on from Gooseshit Harbor, Maine.
* * *
“I thought you were on vacation.”
J.B. heard the slight surprise in Sally Meintz’s voice. He was in his Jeep on his cell phone. Sally was at her desk at FBI headquarters. Her surprise was very slight. There was a note of sarcasm in her voice, too. Not much got to her anymore. She was one of the thousands of support staff that kept the FBI and the rest of the federal government running. She was sixty, the mother of four, the wife of a retired marine officer and a by-the-book type. She didn’t like doing favors on the sly. But she would if she got talked into it, and she wasn’t a tattletale.
“I am on vacation. I just want you to run a plate for me.”
“State?”
“Maine.”
“Right. You’re there on vacation.” She’d let a little more sarcasm slip into her tone. “Give me the number.”
He gave her the license plate number of the rusting truck whose driver J.B. had known wasn’t having a heart attack. He’d spotted the truck last night outside Christina West’s house and then again this morning passing Olivia West’s house, not long after Zoe had turned up the driveway. The third strike was outside Christina’s Café at lunch.
“What do I get for doing you a favor?” Sally asked.
“My undying respect and affection.”
“I already have that. You coming back to Washington for good after this vacation of yours?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“They want to keep you from going off the deep end. God knows why. I’d let you jump.”
She disconnected. J.B. tossed his cell phone onto the seat next to him. Maybe it was a stretch to call Sally Meintz a friend. He climbed back out of his Jeep and stood in the sunlight. He could see his rented lobster boat bobbing in the water. At least no one had set fire to it overnight.
Zoe was still at the small table overlooking the water in her sister’s café, working on a massive piece of chocolate cream pie. J.B. had had a bowl of haddock chowder with her and watched the reactions of the people who knew her when they realized she was back in town. Alert, awkward, even nervous—or maybe it was seeing her with him. People probably wouldn’t mind if they both went away.
He spotted Bruce Young on the docks and walked down to join him. He had on his Carhartt and a black turtleneck as he untied his lobster boat, a fairly new vessel with all the bells and whistles—radar, GPS, a good radio, plastic-coated wire traps, lighter in weight than the old wooden traps. The knowledge and instincts of guys like Bruce still mattered, but maybe not as much as they used to.
“Been out today?” Bruce asked, not looking up from his work.
“Not yet.”
“Heard you had lunch with Zoe.”
“Fish chowder. She put butter in hers.”
“Best way to eat it. A pat of butter, a little pepper. People think she’s here to kick your ass and teach you not to toy with the good people of Goose Harbor.”
J.B. smiled. “Can she play darts?”
“Zoe? No way. She can shoot, though.”
“I camped out at her aunt’s house last night.”
Bruce grinned at him. “She catch you?”
“In the attic.”
“Good thing she doesn’t go armed anymore. What’d you want with Teddy?”
J.B. frowned. “Who?”
“Teddy Shelton. The guy in the truck. You were just talking to him—”
“Oh, him. I thought he was having a heart attack. You know him?”
Bruce lifted a thick rope into his callused hand. “I’m renting him a cottage down by the lobster pound. He does odd jobs around town.”
“He’s not from Goose Harbor?”
“I don’t know where he’s from. He showed up last summer. He keeps to himself. He tried working at the pound, but he didn’t like it.” Bruce shook his head. “Hates the smell of the ocean.”
“Why not move on?”
“Don’t know. Teddy’s not your big talker.” Bruce tossed the rope into his boat and climbed aboard. “What’d Zoe do when she found you in the attic?”
“Came after me with a drapery rod.”
“You backed down?”
“Amen.”
“Yeah. You wouldn’t want to lose a fight with a fired cop over a drapery rod.”
Words to live by. J.B. watched Bruce’s boat ease slowly out of the busy dock area and head south toward his lobster pound for another few hours’ work.
When Sally Meintz rang him back, J.B. didn’t tell her he already knew Teddy Shelton’s name. She said, “The plates are registered to a Teddy Shelton in Goose Harbor, Maine. Guess what else?” She paused, waiting for an answer.
J.B. sighed. “What else, Sally?”
“I did a little more checking while I was at it. He’s an ex-con. Served seven years in federal prison after he was convicted on charges of transfering and possessing semiautomatic assault weapons. ATF nailed him.”
“When did he get out?”
“Last July.”
He must have come straight to Goose Harbor. Three months later Patrick West was murdered. “Find out what you can about his case, okay? Thanks, Sally.”
“I like it when you say thank-you. It gives me hope for the rest of the world. What do I get for my trouble?”
“A cop-killer, maybe.”
She sighed, serious now. “That’d be worth it.”
The state and