‘I can handle him, and I can conceal any negative feelings I may have about him,’ I said. ‘But you need to be clear on the extent of his self-interest, and the only way we can get him to act as we want him to is by making it appear that his actions serve his own ends. If we’re to make him come forward, then perhaps he needs to understand that if something bad happens to the girl, and it turns into a murder investigation, there’s a good chance the cops will find out who he is and what he did, and the rest of it will come out as well. If there is a connection between the two cases, the best – the very best – that he can hope for is to be known as the man who let a girl die when he might have been able to provide evidence that could have saved her. He could also end up in prison, and I don’t think that would suit him. He’ll do hard time as a convicted child killer linked to another child killing. He won’t survive a year.’
She nodded. ‘I told him we were meeting, and that I’d call him when we were done. The threat of being returned to jail, unlikely as it might be, could be enough to persuade him to talk to the police. It’s probably the only thing he fears more than the revelation of his past. Is there anything else I should know?’
‘Kind of. You should know, but I don’t think it’ll make you any happier. The situation is more difficult than it first seemed.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘Two things: The first is that while I was languishing in a broom closet in Pastor’s Bay I saw a fed named Robert Engel lurking in the background.’
‘So? The state police have asked for FBI assistance. It’s not unusual in cases like this.’
‘Child abductions are not Engel’s bag. He deals with organized crime: Italians, Russians, Irish. That’s not to say that any of them are above kidnapping, but what would criminals be doing taking a girl from Pastor’s Bay, Maine?’
‘What do we know about Anna Kore’s family?’
‘Not much, but I intend to find out more.’
‘And the second thing?’
I showed her my cell phone with the anonymous text message about Chief Allan.
‘Shit,’ said Aimee. ‘Pastor’s Bay is a regular nest of vipers. Hasn’t anybody told them that gossiping is bad for the soul? So what’s Chief Allan lying about, if anything at all?’
‘For that you need to see the second message. It came through while I was finishing my breakfast.’
I handed her the phone. There were ten words to the message:
CHIEF ALLAN IS A PEDOFILE.
HE PRAYS ON YOUNG GIRLS.
‘God,’ said Aimee. She pushed the phone away as if it were infected. I could see her running the numbers in her head, sizing up the angles. I had done the same earlier, and none of the results had pleased me.
‘It could just be a local with a grudge,’ I said. ‘He’s a small-town police chief, so you can be sure that he’s managed to cross a couple of people in his time. He tickets the wrong guy, makes someone put down a dog that bit when it shouldn’t have, didn’t let a possession bust slide. It doesn’t take much.’
‘But if it’s true? My God, a fourteen-year-old girl has gone missing from his jurisdiction. If he’s involved, he’s manipulating an investigation of which he may be the focus.’
‘We’re getting ahead of ourselves,’ I told her. ‘But I want help, and not Fulci help. I need to be able to track Allan, but he knows me, and when Haight presents himself to the police I’m going to be as popular with the cops as blackflies at a wedding, at least for a little while. I’m also worried about Engel. He deals with some seriously unpleasant people, and if there’s a mob angle to this we’ll have to move carefully, for our sakes and Haight’s.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘It’s already under way. I’ve asked some friends to come up from New York. They’ll be here tomorrow.’
Aimee knew to whom I was referring. She had heard the stories.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘I’ll be very curious to meet these friends.’
I spoke to Haight shortly after Aimee concluded her second conversation of the day with him. He sounded dazed, and less certain of the wisdom of keeping silent about what was happening to him, and I knew that soon we’d be facing the police in an interview room. Haight might not have realized it yet, but it was probably the best move he could make under the circumstances. The only part of our exchange that seemed to throw him was my final question.
‘Mr. Haight, in the course of your work have you ever had dealings with criminal enterprises?’
‘What do you mean by that?’ he said. ‘What are you implying?’
‘I’m not implying anything. All I’m asking is if, either knowingly or unknowingly, you might have come into contact with businesses that could have organized-crime connections? I’m talking about strip joints, gambling clubs, loan sharks, or even seemingly legitimate operations that weren’t quite so legitimate when their books were examined?’
‘No,’ he said, and he sounded definite about it. ‘I deal with small businesses for the most part, and none of them have ever given me any real cause to be concerned. They also know better than to ask me to collude in any illegal activities.’
‘That’s fine, Mr. Haight,’ I told him. ‘I just wanted to be sure.’
‘I like my work,’ he said. ‘Some people might find it dull, but I don’t. I like its sense of order. I don’t want to lose my job, Mr. Parker. I don’t want to lose my clients, and my friends. I don’t want to lose this life.’
‘I understand.’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘You think you do, but you don’t understand at all.’
And he hung up the phone.
16
Joseph Anthony Toomey, or Joey Tuna as he was known to his customers at the Dorchester Central Fish Market, a name that implied Dorchester was coming down with fish markets as if they were going out of fashion, sat in his office calculating the day’s takings and planning his orders for the week to come. Around him, the market was quiet. The day’s work was done by seven p.m., and in reality there was little cause for Joey to be there after hours, but he enjoyed the silence of the old building, broken only by the low hum of the refrigerators and the dripping of water. Each part of the day had its own rhythm, its own cadence, and after so many years of working the market Joey’s own body was now attuned to the cycles of his business. It was why he knew that he would never be able to retire: He was connected to this place as surely as if an umbilical cord joined him to it. Without it, he would fade away and die. He loved the market, loved the feel of it, the sound of it, the smell of it. He carried it with him in his heart, his thoughts, and on his clothes and his skin. His wife, his beloved Eileen, liked to joke that there were creatures living in the sea who smelled less strongly of salt and fish than her Joey. And what of it if he did? It was where we had all come from to begin with, and we could still taste it in our sweat. The sea had given life to Joey, and continued to support him. He tried never to be far from it, and had always lived within earshot of the sound of breaking waves.
Still, he was always on site with the first of the workers, the processing crew that came in at six a.m. to commence the cutting of the fish, mostly haddock, tuna and swordfish. Throughout the day Joey’s was generally an unobtrusive presence, for he trusted his employees to do whatever was necessary to ensure the smooth running of the operation; after all, most of them had been with him for many years, and by now he was convinced that even the gentlest involvement by their employer was largely an inconvenience to them. They each had their own areas of responsibility, they worked well together, and when Joey stuck his nose in he only managed to confuse everyone. It was better if he simply ensured that they had fish to sell every morning, a safe in which to put the money every evening, and enough cash left at the end of the week to pay everybody’s wages.
So he would make a cursory check at 7:45 a.m. before walking the floor with a mug of tea in his hand, shooting the breeze with his customers, checking that they were happy, enquiring after the well-being of their businesses and the health of their families, offering help where it might be needed, and carefully recording each acceptance of such favors in his mental ledger of debtors and creditors, for not every debt could be counted in dollars and cents.
