The Yakuza Gambit Page 5

  “This might help.” Bannon held his hand out and dropped the slug he’d dug out of the boat’s fiberglass into Singleton’s hand.

  McMurphy handed him a clear plastic sandwich bag with a resealable zipper. Singleton dropped the slug into it and McMurphy sealed it, handing it back to the cop.

  Bannon explained where he found it.

  “Riggi was shot during an attack,” Singleton said. “Palmer, assuming he was on the boat in the first place and Riggi didn’t steal it or something like that, was killed and fell overboard and hasn’t washed up yet.”

  “Or he was abducted,” Bannon suggested.

  “Or he killed Riggi and escaped on the second boat,” McMurphy offered. “Assuming the damage was caused by a second boat. I think I’m gonna need a second beer.”

  “In two of those three scenarios Billy Palmer’s still alive.”

  “All workable theories,” Singleton said. “And all more complicated than a simple falling out between friends.”

  “Afraid so.” Bannon turned his attention to the grab bag. “Maybe something in here will help clear it up.” He turned the bag over to dump it out on the filleting station, surprised at how heavy it was. Something he hadn’t full noticed while underwater.

  When the contents spilled out across the chrome table he saw why.

  Mostly the items he’d retrieved were what one would expect; a bunch of papers pertaining to the boat’s ownership, registration, and insurance, all soaked through, sunglasses, wallet, cell phone, a keyring with a bunch of keys attached to it, several of those discount barcode tags from local stores, an electronic car fob, and a hard plastic replica of some animated cartoon character attached by a tiny chain, and a…

  It was Singleton who said it. “A gun.”

  A small silver-plated, five-shot, .32 revolver, specifically. Any fingerprints that might’ve been on it had been washed away when Bannon exposed the gun to the water. He ejected the cylinder and dumped five rounds onto the fillet table.

  “Funny thing for an accountant to carry on his boat,” Singleton said.

  “The ocean can be a dangerous place,” McMurphy said, handing out fresh beers.

  Bannon agreed. “That certainly proved to be the case for Billy Palmer and Alex Riggi.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  By the time McMurphy nosed Skyjack’s Folly into the beach it was past noon.

  Bannon unhinged the drop down bow door and McMurphy activated the hydraulics, lowering the gate to the sand. Singleton had returned the contents of the Bottom Line’s glove box to the grab bag and carried it with them as he and Bannon walked down the metal ramp onto the beach.

  The sun was high and bright in the sky, but few braved the chilly temperatures, leaving the beach nearly empty. A few gulls hopped around, pecking at the sand, searching for something to eat. A solitary old timer walked the shoreline with a metal detector. He wore a canvas bag slung over one shoulder as he swept the device back and forth without looking up as the unusual boat discharged its two passengers. A group of young bicyclists went by on Ocean Boulevard. They stopped and pointed at the unusual boat.

  Tara and Meredith Palmer waited anxiously for Bannon and Singleton to disembark Skyjack’s Folly, coming across the sand to meet them.

  “Where are the Riggis?” Bannon asked.

  “They went home,” Tara said. “Mr. Riggi asked that we call him with any updates.”

  “What did you find?” Meredith asked without preamble, rushing forward.

  Behind Bannon the gate hydraulics hummed, lifting the bow door. Water cascaded from the rising gate. He glanced at Singleton.

  The cop nodded, putting his cell phone to his ear to take a call. He took a few steps away.

  “We found the boat,” Bannon said. “It sunk about a mile and half off the coast.”

  “Sunk?” Meredith Palmer hugged herself, like she had a stomachache. The wind tossed her hair across her face. She shook it away. Tara stood behind her.

  “It appears to have been in some kind of accident. It was intact, but there were scrapes along its hull. The best we can determine, preliminarily, is it impacted with another boat. Did Billy say anything to you about the boat being damaged?”

  Meredith covered her open mouth with trembling hands. “No. He would have said. He loves that boat.”

  Tara put her arm across the woman’s shoulders.

  “Are you saying Billy ran into something?” Meredith pressed. “No. He was a good driver. He’s taken me out. I’ve seen.”

  Bannon put a hand on her upper arm, steering her away from the lapping surf. “We’re not saying that, or anything. We simply don’t have enough information yet. We did—”

  “Billy,” she said sharply. “Did you find Billy. He’s—”

  “No,” Bannon insisted, cutting her off. “We didn’t find Billy.”

  “Does that mean—”

  Skyjack’s Folly’s engines rumbled to life as McMurphy backed the dive boat away from the beach. He’d told Bannon he’d return the boat to its slip and meet up with him later. Singleton continued with his phone call, pacing the shoreline as he spoke and listened. It was impossible to hear what he was saying as his voice got carried away in the wind.

  “Let’s try to only deal with what we know, remember?” Bannon said.

  “Yes, of course. It’s hard. My son is missing. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. I need to know where my son is.”

  Tara squeezed her shoulders. “He knows,” she said, her voice low and soothing. “They didn’t find his…him. That’s good news.”

  Singleton pocketed the phone and joined them. “That was the judge. He’s signed the search warrants.”

  Overhead serval circling gulls cawed. To Bannon, the noise had an ominous quality about it. At least they weren’t crows, or ravens.

  “Search warrants?” Meredith repeated. “What’s going on? Is my son in some kind of trouble? Somebody talk to me, please.”

  “I’ll be as straight forward as I can, Mrs. Palmer,” Singleton said. “We don’t know where your son is or what happened to him. From what Brice and his friend found, it looks like your son’s boat was rammed and intentionally sunk. We don’t know why or by whom, but I assure you, I’ll do everything in my power to find out.”

  “Why do you need search warrants?” she asked. “Did Billy do something wrong?”

  “Not that we’re aware of. No,” Singleton said. “Its standard procedure in cases like this. My hope is something in his apartment—or Alex Riggi’s—will help us find Billy, maybe give us a clue as to what happened on that boat last night.” Singleton looked at Bannon and Tara. “Maybe we should take this back to the Keel Haul.”

  “No,” Meredith insisted. “Stop stalling and tell me everything.”

  “Let’s go over here, out of the wind.” Bannon indicated the nearby clamshell-shaped bandshell used for summer concert and other events. Tara held Meredith’s arm as they walked through the sand to the stadium-like seats that faced the stage. Meredith sat down. Tara took a sat next to her, never letting go of the hand she held.

  “As you would expect, the manner in which Alex died indicates foul play. Murder,” Singleton said. “I apologize for being so blunt—”

  “I appreciate it, Chief,” she said. “Go on.”

  “Very often in cases like this…” Singleton hesitated.

  “You suspect Billy killed Alex,” Meredith said, completing his train of thought.

  The chief nodded. “A falling out between friends. It happens.”

  “Not Billy and Alex. No way.”

  Singleton accepted Meredith’s denials without arguing.

  “The other possibility is your son’s another victim.”

  “Meaning he’s dead, too.”

  “Or,” Singleton said, “he’s been taken.”

  “Kidnapped? Who would kidnap Billy?

  “Or he got scared. He’s on the run, perhaps hiding from whoever did this. We’ll explore all these possibilities and more.
As far as we’re concerned, and until we know otherwise, your son is alive and needs our help.”

  Meredith took in the information. She took a deep breath. And nodded. “Fair enough.”

  Singleton squeezed her shoulder until she looked up at him. When their eyes met, he said, “We’ll do everything we can to find him. Now,” he looked at Bannon and Tara. “I need to go with Boston PD to conduct these searches. Can I impose once more, ask you guys to make Mrs. Palmer comfortable, take her home if she wishes. I’m stretched a little thin, manpower wise.”

  “Of course,” Bannon said.

  Tara nodded.

  Singleton nodded to Bannon. He still carried the dive bag. “And Bannon, a word if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure.”

  To Meredith, Singleton said, “I’ll be in touch shortly.”

  She forced a weak smile and continued to wring her hands.

  Back on the sand, in the warming rays of the sun, despite the wind, Singleton said, “I know I asked for your help on this, but I’m not looking for you to get involved in this any more than that.”

  “What do you mean?” Bannon asked, knowing exactly what Singleton was getting at.

  “You run a clean, quiet bar,” Singleton said. “No issue. And while I appreciate what you do for my officers, free coffee and water and what not, and the shindigs you’ve hosted for them.”

  “I hear a but coming on,” Bannon said.

  Singleton sighed. “But we both know you’re involved in a lot more than running a seaside gin joint in a quiet beach community.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Then I’ll cut to the chase for you. That attack on your bar a few months back, in the middle of the night. When armed gunmen nearly bombed your place to Hell and back. It didn’t go unnoticed.” Singleton held up his hand, cutting of argument or explanation. “The comings and goings in all hours of the night, sometimes long past closing hour. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were running something shady.”

  “What makes you think I’m not?”

  “I’m a good judge of character,” Singleton said. “And I’ve been told you’re not.”

  That took Bannon by surprise. “Told by whom?”

  “The Governor, for one,” Singleton said. “And others higher up the food chain than even him.”

  “And what else did they tell you?”

  “Nothing. But I’m a cop, a pretty good one too if I say so myself. I did my due diligence. Given your background and that all your late night visitors are Coast Guard and other military types, federal law enforcement, and government personnel, not to mention the frequent visits from Senator Grayson, the Secretary of Homeland Security, I’ve got a good idea of what’s really going on. You don’t need to tell me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “I figured,” Singleton said. “Here’s the point of this little chat. I also know you’ve got a PI license. That you like to take on little side cases now and again. What I’m saying is, I don’t want you monkeying around in my investigation. I’ve worked with PIs before. It never goes well. More importantly, I won’t risk a killer getting away with murder on some technicality because you mucked my case up.”

  “I don’t muck cases up, Chief.” Bannon put his hands in the air, surrendering. “But no monkeying around here.”

  “Good,” Singleton said, adding, “Don’t mean to offend.”

  “None taken. You’ll let me know what you find out, from your searches?”

  “You didn’t hear a thing I just said, did you?”

  “Every word. No monkeying around.” Bannon raised his hand. “No mucking.”

  The longtime lawman shook his head and walked away, pulling his cell phone from his pocket once more and placed a call. He leaned in against the wind and cupped his ear to hear better. When he reached Ocean Boulevard a police cruiser pulled up and Singleton climbed in.

  The cruiser drove away.

  Bannon turned his attention back to Tara and Meredith who remained seated at the bandshell. Despite the optimism they’d tried to demonstrate on her behalf, both men knew from what they’ve found so far; Billy Palmer—if he wasn’t dead—was in trouble, big time.

  He returned to the bandshell. “There’s nothing more we can do here. Let’s head back to the Keel Haul. I need to get into my own clothes.” He plucked at McMurphy’s oversize sweatshirt that swam on him. “I’m sure you could use something to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Tara eased her to her feet. “You need to keep up your strength. The next few days aren’t going to be easy, and getting yourself sick won’t help anyone.”

  “All right,” Meredith agreed reluctantly. “I could use another cup of coffee.”

  Tara hooked an arm through hers and the three of them returned to the Keel Haul.

  Back at the bar, Bannon went upstairs and took a quick shower and changed into a pair of khakis, a long sleeve, black polo shirt, and boat shoes. He came back down freshly shaved with his hair still damp. Tara was behind the bar. She’d put the closed sign up on the door. Meredith sat at the bar with her hand around a highball glass.

  So much for coffee, but Bannon couldn’t blame her. He’d have done the same. He took a seat next to her. “I’d like to hear more about Billy.”

  “What do you want to know?” Meredith asked.

  “About his work.” Bannon accepted a steaming coffee mug from Tara. “He’s an accountant. You said he works freelance?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know any of his clients? Did he ever mention any of them by name?”

  “No. Not really. Mostly they’re small-to-medium size companies. The sort that don’t have their own in-house accounting departments or personnel. I don’t know the names of any of them. I’m sorry.”

  “No need to be,” Bannon assured her. He figured Singleton would find something at Billy’s apartment. If he freelanced, there was a good chance he worked out of a home office. Singleton would identify all the young man’s clients from information he found there. “What about his friends? Other than Alex? Anyone the police could contact that might know where he would go if he was scared or in trouble? A girlfriend, maybe?”

  “No. I really don’t. He dates, but he’s not seeing anyone special. I don’t know any of their names.”

  “The police will find something in his apartment,” Tara said.

  Meredith brightened. “What about his cell phone? He’s got to have a list of contacts on it. He was on that thing constantly.”

  “We found his cell phone on the boat,” Bannon said. “Underwater that long,” he shook his head, “the State police have tech people who might be able to recover the information on it, but that’ll take time.”

  “What about things he likes to do?” Tara asked. “Favorite places he hangs out? Things he like to do? Did he have any hobbies?”

  Meredith’s expression grew more miserable with each question asked. “I don’t know. He’s a young man living in the city. He doesn’t share that kind of stuff with his mother.” She sipped her drink. “These are things a mother should know, aren’t they? You must think I’m a terrible parent.”

  Bannon patted her arm. “Don’t do that to yourself. Your son’s a grown man, living on his own. Living his own life. That’s what every parent wants for their children.”

  “Thank you for saying so.” Meredith didn’t seem to be buying it though. She wiped a tear from her cheek. “Wait. There was one place he told me about, said he went to a lot. I remember because it has the same name as a town here in New Hampshire. Exeter. The Exeter Lounge.”

  “Sounds nice,” Tara said. Bannon couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or serious.

  Meredith laughed. “Billy said it was a dive. That’s what he and Alex liked about it so much. It was real, he said. Raw. Whatever that means.”

  “Do you know where it is?” Bannon asked.

  Meredith brightened. “Actually, I do. It’s on Exeter
Street not far from where Alex lives. Lived.”

  “That’s great,” Bannon said. “I’ll let Chief Singleton know.”

  “No.” Meredith swiveled on her barstool. “I want you to do it.”

  “Do what?” Bannon asked.

  “Check it out. Whatever you do. You are a private investigator, aren’t you? I want to hire you.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Later that afternoon Bannon and Tara walked into the Exeter Lounge in the Back Bay section of Boston. It was just as Billy had described it to his mother: a dive. Booths partitioned by knotty pine walls lined both sides of the dark bar. Poker lights hung over the tables. Two disheveled men played pool in the back. From the jukebox Billy Joel sang about being a Piano Man over the buzz of low conversation and the thunder-like crack of billiard balls.

  Bannon sniffed.

  The air was hazy with cigarette smoke and the sour smell of sweat and desperation. A workingman’s bar, the day-drinkers all had the look of men—and woman—to whom life had not been kind.

  Tara and Bannon spent the next hour seated at the bar nursing beers in longneck bottles and getting the sink eye from the bartender. Bannon assumed they weren’t pounding down their lukewarm brews fast enough for her liking.

  A tough looking woman in her early thirties, she had dish-water blond hair pulled around so it hung over one shoulder and cascaded down her front. She wore a teal-colored shirt that fit like a second skin and tied in a knot between her breasts in a way to reveal maximum cleavage and expose her pale-white mid-riff. While she served others in the bar, she kept an eagle eye on Tara and Bannon.

  They ignored her and spent the time surveying the patrons, trying to decide which were the most likely to know Riggi and Palmer.

  It wasn’t the sort of bar Bannon imagined a well-to-do accountant would gravitate to, but perhaps Billy Palmer enjoyed slumming it. It took all kinds, he reminded himself.

  After reluctantly ordering two more room temperature beers—he refused to order anything that came out of a glass—it became clear to him the Exeter Lounge was the sort of neighborhood place where everyone knew everyone. He re-evaluated his perceived reason for the bartender’s heavy scrutiny. It wasn’t because they were slow drinkers—though that probably didn’t help—it was that they were strangers. And strangers in a place like this caused suspicion.