Chapter 40
Ray Conover had thought it was all over yesterday, but he couldn't have been more wrong. What with Carpucci found shot in the head down on that Massachusetts beach, and the drug dealer's associates killed in the shootout with the Saugus cops topped off with the hundred kilos being confiscated, he'd thought that was it. Just a little more digging and they'd find out those same men were responsible for the Hampton Harbor murders and that'd be that. He'd be able to tie up the whole episode nice and neat-like with ribbons and bows. At least that's what he'd thought . . . until Bartolo played him a tape of a call that had come over the tap on Dan Marlowe's phone line.
They'd just finished listening to that tape all over again. It was early morning and they were sitting in their unmarked unit in the Patriot's Corner strip mall parking lot on Ocean Boulevard. Conover was behind the wheel. Bartolo sat shotgun with a small cassette player balanced on his knees.
"Bring the money in the gym bag, all of it," Bartolo said, staring down at the recorder in his lap. "What money? What gym bag?"
"Who the hell knows? It's got something to do with the coke, though. You can bet on that."
"Maybe Carpucci and his people didn't do the harbor hits after all."
That happened to be what Conover was thinking too. "Maybe. Maybe it was their load that got snatched and someone ransomed it back to them. How's that look?"
"Yeah, makes sense. At least it'd explain a gym bag full of money floating around. That'd mean Marlowe pulled the rip, sold Carpucci back his own coke, and now someone's shaking him down. Does that fly?"
"I don't see two murders fitting Dan Marlowe. How he got the coke, I don't know."
"What about whacking Carpucci? You see him doing that?"
"No. Had to be Carpucci's own men. The ones killed down in Saugus probably. Carpucci should've known better than to take chances, even with his own people. Too much powder involved."
"We still don't know who did the harbor murders. Or how Marlowe got the coke."
"We gotta lead on the guy who did the murders," Conover said. "Whoever is on that tape talking to Marlowe is the missing piece of this puzzle."
Neither man spoke for a minute. Finally Bartolo cleared his throat. "Would be nice to tie this thing up."
"Yeah. I'm ready for a little time off."
"You got that right."
Maybe Bartolo sounded a little too eager. Maybe he was burned out. Conover wasn't sure which, but something had his hackles raised. "How about we grab a beer when this is all over and celebrate?"
Usually the mention of beer put a smile on Bartolo's face. Not today. He just kept staring at that cassette player sitting in his lap. "A big gym bag could hold a lot of dough. It'd have to be a lot to buy back a boat load of coke, wouldn't it?"
Conover studied his partner's face. He hadn't liked what he'd just heard and he didn't like what he saw any better. Bartolo was suddenly sounding and looking like a taker. Or was it just his imagination?
Bartolo held the cassette player chest high with both hands. "Do you think Marlowe will actually show up at the jetty like this guy wants him to? Or will he try to pull something?"
"I think he'll show. He's not the type of guy to risk his family's safety."
Bartolo finally looked at Conover. "Then some bastard'll walk away with all that cash. We put a lot of work in on this, Ray. It's nobody's money. And that's who'd miss it. Nobody."
Conover was stunned–the man had come right out and said it. He turned toward Bartolo and leaned into his space. "Are you crazy? We're cops, and that's coke money. Get hold of yourself, man."
"Yeah, but you heard what he said." Bartolo sounded almost frantic now. "It's a gym bag full of money. Like you said, coke money. It belonged to Carpucci and he's dead. No one will miss it. We can grab it at the jetty and let Marlowe and whoever else shows up take a walk. Christ, they'll be glad to just get out of there without getting busted."
Conover looked hard at Bartolo. Was the man joking? Was he playing with a full deck? The answer to both questions was probably no. Bartolo might be serious, but he wasn't thinking this thing through. Whoever made that call to Dan Marlowe had already killed at least twice. They wouldn't just walk away from what they considered their money just because two state cops told them to. No way. These weren't kids you were telling to dump out their beers and head home. People like this, if you could call them people, wouldn't head home. They'd have to be taken care of along with Marlowe . . . what the hell was he thinking? Was he going crazy too?
Before he could decide whether to smack Bartolo upside the head or himself, his partner laughed. "Ray, Ray. For Chrissake, I'm kidding. Can't you take a fucking joke?"
It'd been no joke, Conover was sure. But he'd just scared himself so much he was willing to let it go–for now. He turned back to watching the crowd meander in and out of the stores in the small shopping complex–laundromat, convenience store, surf board business, and coffee shop. Bartolo was still staring at the cassette player in his lap.
"We'll have to bring some others in on this," Conover said.
"And how are we going to tell them we found out about it?" Bartolo shot back. He set the cassette player on the seat between them. "With an illegal tap? We have to handle this ourselves, Ray."
Conover let out a sigh. Why the hell did he let himself get into this? "All right, all right."
"Good. I'm gonna grab a coffee. You want another?"
"Okay, but make mine decaf. I don't want to get any crankier than I already am."
As soon as Bartolo disappeared into the store, Conover listened to the tape again. The whole thing. And when he was done listening, he still couldn't figure out what the hell exactly was going on.
Bartolo returned with two cups of steaming coffee and a bagful of donuts a few minutes later. "What time is it?"
"A little after seven thirty," Conover said irritably. "Time to get moving." The meet was supposed to take place at eight. He and Bartolo needed to be in position before anything went down.
"Let's go then." Bartolo licked the last of the jelly off his fingers and wiped them with a scrunched-up napkin. He dropped the napkin on the car floor and took a sip from the coffee cup he had resting on the dashboard.
"Let's walk." It was a weekday which meant there wouldn't be many cars in the state park. "We park over there, whoever's meeting Marlowe might make us."
"Okay, okay. We'll walk. Let's go."
Bartolo had a strange look on his face. Scared? Excited? Mad? Whatever it was, Conover didn't like it. Like maybe Bartolo knew something he didn't. That hackles-raised feeling slid down to his gut, settling in like an old friend. He'd had the feeling before–just before things turned sour.
"Remember, we agreed to take whoever shows up nice and easy if possible," Conover said, trying to diffuse some of the tension emanating from his partner. "Right?"
"Yeah, we did. Unless Marlowe or the other character tries to rabbit. Then it's up to us to stop the bastards. They're killers, for Chrissake."
Sounded like his partner was hoping they'd make a run for it. A good cop's nerves or was there more to it? That feeling in Conover's gut tightened, like radar going off. "Calm down, will you, Vinny?"
"I am calm." Bartolo massaged the gun in his shoulder holster.
Conover couldn't remember seeing Bartolo so nervous. Maybe it was because they'd never been so close to anything quite this big in their careers. But if that were so, then why did his inner radar just add another bleep to the screen?
"Come on. Let's go." Conover grabbed a pair of binoculars from the back seat as both men hopped out of the car and headed toward the state park.
It took them less than five minutes to reach the park. They walked across the unpaved lot to the sand dunes at the far end. Off to the right was the channel that flowed in from the ocean, under the bridge, and into Hampton Harbor. The men half crouched as t
hey scrambled up a huge sand dune, Conover leading the way. When he reached the top of the dune, he knelt down and peered over the crest. The beach was almost deserted, with only a few early morning walkers and joggers scattered along the mile-long stretch.
Bartolo knelt beside him and looked around. "There they are." He pointed south.
Conover had already seen them–two men sitting on the jetty, just short of where the incoming tide stopped. He took a look through the binoculars. Those guys looked as out of place as snowmen sitting there. They had to be the ones meeting Marlowe.
"Where's fucking Marlowe?"
Conover glanced at his partner and almost dropped the binoculars. Bartolo's face was filled with pure fear. Conover started to say something, to make sure the man wasn't cracking, but something caught his eye. He scanned the beach with the binoculars and focused on a figure heading toward them from the opposite direction of the jetty. Someone carrying a gym bag.
"There he is," Conover said.
"Let me see." Bartolo snatched the binoculars and aimed them down the beach. He licked his lips, then licked them again.
For Christ's sake, what the hell's the matter with him? That funny feeling was going gangbusters, telling Conover that whatever was wrong with his partner, he was probably going to find out all about it and soon. Conover tugged the binoculars away from Bartolo and took another look at Marlowe.
"Come on," Bartolo said through gritted teeth. "Let's take them now."
Bartolo had a wild look in his eyes. He had his pistol in hand and was up on his hands and knees, ready to charge down the dune.
"Have you lost it?" Conover hissed as he reached over and grabbed his partner's arm. "Marlowe isn't even close yet."
"He'll bolt, I'm telling you. He won't get close to them." Bartolo tried to shake his arm free.
Conover held on tight. "Will you calm down. He is coming closer."
Bartolo's gun hand shook. Emotions flickered across his face faster than Conover could identify them. He'd stopped trying to free his arm, but Conover wasn't about to let go. He didn't have that funny feeling anymore–the inner radar had switched off. Didn't make him feel one bit better, because he finally realized what his intuition had been trying to tell him–Bartolo was going off the deep end. Too bad that intuition wasn't telling him what to do about it.
Conover turned the binoculars back to look at the two men sitting on the jetty. Whatever was about to go down wasn't going to be good.
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