I should have called Nikki’s father back, but I didn’t.
31
The houses in the fishing village of Seal Cove clung like barnacles around a perfect vase-shaped harbor. Mariners knew it as a hurricane hole: a safe haven where they could tie up their boats if ever a monster storm came crashing down the coast. In August the cove would be a watery parking lot where sloops and lobsterboats angled for every available mooring, but in March the only boats were a few lonely commercial vessels glowing white in the moonlight. You could fish for lobsters year-round along the Maine coast if you didn’t mind scraping ice off every hawser and venturing out on subzero mornings through breath-stopping clouds of sea smoke.
But now with spring officially here-on the calendar, if not in fact-more lobsterboats would begin to emerge from beneath their shrink-wrapped skins. Soon the harbormaster would motor out to set the summer moorings. One morning the cove would be placid and empty; the next it would be dotted with floating volleyballs.
The Harpoon Bar occupied an entire wharf on the waterfront. It was a sprawling dead whale of a place that looked like it might someday slide back into the brink. When I got there that night, the parking lot was full, and the joint was jumping. During mud season, there wasn’t much to do in this ghost town but drink.
Close to the water, the air felt raw, but the smell of the ocean was stronger than I remembered: another seasonal sign of change. That pleasant briny odor was caused by breeding plankton. In July you could breathe in the sea from miles away, but in the winter it was just a faint scent that drifted like a windblown memory of some long-forgotten summer.
Even before I opened the door, I could hear loud rock music and shouted conversations. I stepped into the bar and paused on the threshold to absorb the maritime spectacle.
The Harpoon took its nautical theme seriously-fishing nets were hung decoratively from the ceiling, and the walls were made of weathered panels that might have been salvaged from wrecked pirate ships. It was the kind of place where the bathroom doors were labeled BUOYS and GULLS. The signature harpoon itself hung above the fully stocked bar, which was where I seated myself.
Despite all the packed bodies inside the bar, the air was as cold as a fish locker; it smelled of fried seafood, spilled beer, and various strong perfumes and colognes.
The bartender took a while to find his way to me. He was engrossed in a spirited conversation with a middle-aged woman wearing a UConn sweatshirt. The TV above their heads showed a fast-paced basketball game. I was so caught up in my own obsessions that I’d forgotten about the other March madness.
I spun around on my stool. All the tables seemed to be full. I recognized many of the faces-men and women I’d arrested for growing pot or driving drunk-but there were just as many people unfamiliar to me. I spotted the mustachioed Driskos in the far corner. They were seated with a balding man who sat with his back to the room.
“What’ll you have?”
The bartender leaned across the damp bar. Despite the cloistered chill of the room, he wore a T-shirt that exposed his massive biceps, one of which was emblazoned with a United States Marines tattoo. I guessed him to be in his late thirties, maybe early forties, a veteran of the first Gulf War. He might have been handsome if not for the flattened nose and thinning sandy hair.
“A beer and a menu,” I said.
“What?” He needed to shout to be heard above the thudding bass of Lynyrd Skynyrd.
“Allagash White!” I shouted back. “And a menu!”
He poured me a pint and returned with a grease-slicked menu. “What happened to your hand?”
I wriggled my black fingers for him. “Crashed my ATV!”
He bobbed his eyebrows at me. “You’re that game warden!”
I should have figured the town bartender would be a link in the local gossip chain. “Folsom, right?”
“Yeah!” he said, displaying enough suspicion to tell me that he was no dope. “What do you want to eat?”
“Hamburger!”
He stared at me for a moment as if he hadn’t heard what I’d said, then wandered down to the end of the bar, past the row of beer taps and ice sinks, to punch my order into a computer.
After a while, Folsom drifted down to me again. There was a mirror behind the shelf of liquor bottles, and it showed a hairless spot on the crown of his head.
“Can we talk somewhere?” I was tired of shouting.
“Why?”
“I just need a minute!”
He motioned down to the end of the bar, where a set of swinging doors led into a brightly lit kitchen. I grabbed my beer and followed. The jukebox was still loud in the kitchen, and there was the added clatter of plates and the wet hum of the dishwasher. But you could at least converse at a near normal volume.
Folsom grabbed a pretty waitress by the shoulder. “Watch the bar for me.”
She sighed and disappeared back into pandemonium.
The bartender bobbed his head at me as if he’d already reached the limit of his patience. “So what can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for Dane Guffey.”
“Guffey? He only comes in for lunch sometimes.” He played with a few strands of his wispy forelock. “What do you want with him?”
“Police business.” The words sounded ridiculous as soon as they left my mouth. “I need to talk with him about Erland Jefferts.”
“Jefferts? What the hell is this about?”
“I think you know.”
Folsom crossed his Popeye forearms. “If this is about that Asian chick, I have nothing to say. Besides, I thought they found the guy who killed her. It’s been all over the news tonight.”
“I wouldn’t believe everything you hear. The case continues to be under active investigation.”
“Are you saying I’m still some kind of suspect?”
“There’s evidence linking you to the death of two young women.”
The bartender leaned close enough that I could smell liquor on his breath. Folsom was one of those barkeeps who helped himself to his own spirits. “So I used Smitty’s pay phone a few times? So what? I wasn’t anywhere near Parker Point that night.”
“The J-Team doesn’t care. As far as they’re concerned, these new killings just prove Nikki’s murderer is still on the loose. And your name is on their list.”
“I never committed a crime in my life.” Folsom’s muscled chest had begun to heave, and he seemed on the verge of tears. “Do you know what it’s like being called a sex killer? It nearly killed my mom to read that shit in the papers.” One of the waitresses dropped a plate, which shattered on the floor. We both watched as the cook scolded her for her clumsiness. When Folsom looked at me again, his eyes were dry. “What does it matter to you anyway?”
“I was the one who found Ashley Kim. I think there’s some connection between her death and what happened to Nikki Donnatelli.” I framed my next words with care. “Jefferts and Nikki had a sexual relationship, didn’t they?”
“That’s a lie,” Folsom sneered. “Nikki was a good girl from a good family. She wouldn’t have been interested in a scumbag like that.”
I sensed that he wasn’t being entirely truthful. “How can you be so sure?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Because I knew her, and you didn’t. I resent your talking about Nikki like she was some kind of slut.”
Interesting choice of words, I thought. But I didn’t want to provoke a fistfight with a former Marine, especially with one hand tied behind my back, so to speak. “What do you think happened to Nikki after she left work that night?”
“For seven years, I’ve been asking myself that question. Jefferts must have surprised her or something.” He pinched his nostrils as if to keep them from running and looked down at the greasy kitchen floor. “You don’t know what it’s like having people think you’re a murderer.”