The Wreck Read online

  Randall McCleod had established a fine bar and grill. Over one hundred beers on tap, fantastic soup, and an expansive deck out back with a bonfire pit in the middle made McCleod’s the preferred watering hole in Hampstead. The location was a two minute walk from Shelby’s Marina and another ten minutes from the beach mansions, which kept the money rolling in. If he got in a bind over the summer, he’d simply arrange for one of the millionaire drunks to be pulled over after leaving the bar, have the cop take a payoff for not arresting the rich pinhead, and then split the money with the cop. And why shouldn’t he?

  A group of five customers were steadily making their way to the bar; in the lead were the Sawyers. Jeff Sawyer had been a little too regular lately, drinking like there was no bottom to his glass, told McCleod everything: job lost, boat sold, in deep deep do-do, blah, blah, blah. Sawyer had also left a few nights with Christine. The threesome in tow McCleod had never seen before. Unfamiliar people did not make Randall McCleod nervous. Sooner or later they would take their place on McCleod’s picture wall—a wall filled with photos of customers with Randall, and sometimes Christine and Troy. No, unfamiliar people were an opportunity. To call a customer by his or her first name after a few drinks was to up one’s tip. McCleod knew Sawyer was on board for at least fifty bucks, but could he get the rest to follow suit? Such are the thoughts of a successful bartender.

  Sawyer’s wife peeled off for the restroom and Sawyer continued to lead the unknown trio toward McCleod. The man approaching with Sawyer was athletic and so were the two women. His guess was these were new summer folk. The brunette seemed to be out of bar-going practice as she said ‘excuse me’ or ‘I’m sorry’ to everyone she bumped into. The blonde moved with confidence. Maybe they weren’t summer folk. The brunette was dressed to fit in, but the clothes looked too new—not her regular garb. Randall McCleod smiled. This would be easy.

  ✽✽✽

  Nate lay in bed watching the Tigers bat in the bottom of the ninth while eating peanuts and drinking Vernors. The rain had stopped after dinner and he had the windows cranked all the way open. He could hear waves beating on the beach. Succumbing to the chilly air, he had put on a sweatshirt. Brooke was still not home and a part of him began to worry. When was the last time she had been out this late? He yawned.

  The game ended—three up, three down, fourth loss in a row—and he turned off the lights. Music could be heard from somewhere down the beach as Nate drifted off to sleep. He did not hear Brooke enter when she got home. Nor did he hear her getting sick in the bathroom. Nor had he seen the way Gibson traced the curve of her ass as he conscientiously walked her to the door.

  21

  Hutch sat on Lucille Hawthorne’s living room davenport. The cushions were a plaid pattern of brown, tan, and green; the arms at both ends were wood. A cream-colored phone with a cord sat on the coffee table in front of him. Hutch looked at his watch: 11:30 p.m., meaning 8:30 p.m. in California where his daughter Melanie lived. Lucille was sitting across the room in a rocking chair, moving slowly back and forth. A Frank Sinatra record was playing on a turntable in the corner, noticeable enough to be heard but not enough to interfere with a conversation—or a phone call.

  “I haven’t spoken to her in a year,” Hutch said.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” said Lucille, “I’ve been marking off the days on my kitchen calendar.”

  “Where do I begin?” Hutch said.

  “Where I told you to: with an apology.”

  Hutch went to take a sip of the brandy Lucille had brought out.

  “Not until you’re done with the call,” Lucille said.

  Hutch put the brandy down. From his shirt pocket, he removed a wrinkled piece of paper with Melanie’s phone number on it. He looked over at Lucille and then put on his glasses.

  Picking up the receiver like he was sneaking in a phone call that he didn’t want his parents to hear, he pushed each button. When the line began to ring, he set the paper down on the coffee table.

  “Hello,” a man’s voice answered.

  Hutch recognized it as the voice of Melanie’s husband. “Oh, hello there—” he began waving at Lucille for the husband’s name.

  “Jim.” Lucille said.

  “—Jim,” said Hutch.

  “Who is this?” Jim said.

  “It’s,” he paused.

  Lucille gave him a reassuring look.

  “Melanie’s father,” he said. “May I speak with her?”

  “Oh,” said Jim. “Just a moment.”

  Hutch covered the handle. “He’s going to get her,” he said to Lucille.

  “You can do this, Abner,” she said.

  “Hello?” came Melanie’s voice from the phone.

  “Hi,” Hutch said.

  “What do you want?” she said.

  He heard a baby cry in the background. “Is that Michael?” Hutch said.

  “Yes,” Melanie said.

  Hutch was silent. His grandson had been born three months ago.

  “Are you still there?” Melanie said.

  “I am,” he said.

  “If you’re not going to talk, then we should end this call,” she said.

  Hutch took a deep breath. “I have some things I’d like to say, and I—” he searched for the words.

  “Need you to listen,” Lucille whispered.

  “—need you to listen,” Hutch finished.

  “The last time we spoke, I did nothing but listen,” Melanie said. “You didn’t let me get in a word. I don’t know how many times I left messages at Lucille’s that you never returned.”

  “Twenty-seven,” he said in a low tone.

  “So, why should I listen now?”

  “You have every right not to,” said Hutch. “But I want to ask for your forgiveness.”

  “My forgiveness?” she said.

  Hutch let out another breath.

  “I—”

  She cut him off. “You haven’t even seen your new grandson! And your four-year old granddaughter doesn’t even know her grandfather. Sound familiar?”

  He’d missed too much. The years had gone too fast. Before his wife died, he’d told her that he wanted them back—all of them. “I can’t change the past, Melanie. But I want to change where the future is headed.”

  “I can’t take this right now,” she said. “It’s too—” and her voice broke, “painful.”

  The line went dead.

  Hutch put the receiver down, and his head down with it.

  Lucille came over and sat next to him. “We’ll try again. I’m very proud of you.”

  Hutch shook his head.

  22

  At six-thirty, Nate awoke to a cold shadowy bedroom. The breeze from last night remained, and he lay in his briefs. At some point he must have taken off his sweatshirt but didn’t remember. Brooke was on her side facing away from him and snoring almost as loudly as the box fan she had evidently turned on when she got home. Nate sat up. The lake was as flat as a pancake, and the sun was just above the horizon. He saw a large glass of water placed on top of Brooke’s nightstand and also a garbage can next to the bed. Must have tied one on last night.

  The last time he had seen a trashcan by the bed was at the hotel where they were staying for Brooke’s best friend’s wedding. On the way back to their hotel after the reception, Brooke had come on to him in the parking lot and they had intoxicated sex as soon as they made it to their room. He was stirred awake by the sound of Brooke getting sick in the bathroom. He had offered his help, but had the bathroom door slammed in his face. The next morning, there was a trashcan on Brooke’s side of the hotel bed. He was still naked; she was in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.

  Nate stood up and stretched. His arms and legs were tight from the swim yesterday. The weather forecast for the day was the same as yesterday, starting out nice and then thundershowers. It was supposed to clear up by late evening and be perfect the next few days, sunny and briefly spiking up to ninety before leveling off at around eig
hty. Nate walked around the bed and gave Brooke a sympathy kiss on her forehead. The garbage can was empty. He went into the bathroom and noticed that the rug that usually was underneath the toilet was gone; she must have missed a little.

  Nate shaved, showered, and put on coffee. He walked to the end of the driveway to pick up the paper and had started the sports section when the phone rang. It was almost seven.

  Nate picked up the phone. It was Hutch.

  “I know it’s six-fifty, but I waited as long as I could. You up?” Hutch said.

  “Yeah, I’m up. What do you mean you waited?”

  “I’ve been up since four-thirty, like I am every morning. Already taken my run, swam, read the paper, and I’m on my second pot of coffee.”

  Nate wondered if he’d still be going even a percentage of that strong when he was sixty-two. “Anything new?”

  “Tyee called me on my radio an hour ago and says the books he’s got for me will be at his store around eight. I’m taking’ Queen over. You interested?”

  Nate walked to the bedroom and peeked in on Brooke. She was still snoring and lying motionless. “Yeah, I’m game.”

  “I’ll bring Queen in as close as I can, but you’ll have to swim out to me. I checked the dinghy this morning and the paint’s not dry yet. Damn humidity does that sometimes.”

  Nate agreed. Back home, he’d had some bookshelves custom made out of pine and stained. When he ordered them, he asked when they would be done. The owner had replied, “Three weeks, but if it rains nothin’ around here gets done.” Nate had asked him what he meant. “I mean that the wood don’t take no stain ‘cause of the humidity.” It rained one day in the allotted three weeks. The bookshelves were delivered two months later.

  “I’ll be ready,” Nate said.

  23

  Leonard Shaw sat in his robe on the balcony of his third floor master bedroom overlooking the water, drinking an espresso and checking the stock market on a laptop. His wife was still in bed, sleeping off a hangover from last night. It was hard to notice if she was still in bed on most days since she slept with the covers over her head and her five-feet, ninety pound body hardly gave the king-size more than the appearance of the covers needing to be straightened. At fifty-one, she was ten years his junior and they had been married for twenty years. He had been in the petite brunette phase at that time and had never left it.

  Shaw listened as two sets of footsteps grew louder on the outdoor stairs that led up to the balcony. Balcony was the proper term for an extension from a second or third story room, but this was more the size of a deck and was furnished with Adirondack chairs, glass tables, wooden benches with cushions, and a wet bar. Shaw set his computer aside, walked over, and closed the sliding glass door to the bedroom.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” Shaw said.

  The shorter, heavier set man took a seat across from Shaw at the glass table. The other man remained standing. Shaw poured the seated man, his lawyer Joshua Bagley, a cup of coffee.

  “Why did you fly me in this morning, Leonard?” Bagley asked.

  Bagley had arrived in a seaplane less than an hour ago, and a speedboat had taken him from the water to Shaw’s beach.

  “I’ve gotten wind of something and wanted to ask your advice.”

  “And I couldn’t have given it to you over the phone?” Bagley said.

  “No,” Shaw said.

  Bagley moved the chair back far enough to cross his right leg over his left knee. It was getting harder to do this because of his weight. “I’m not sure I like this, Leonard.”

  Shaw had hired Bagley twenty-one years ago to draft his prenuptial with his soon-to-be wife. Six years prior to that, Shaw had become the youngest CEO in Grauman Enterprise’s history at thirty-four and was worth millions on his wedding day. Now, he was worth multi-millions. A few more buyouts and it would be billions. Bagley had ridden on Shaw’s coattails and was now one of the most connected lawyers in Baltimore, where Grauman’s main office was located. In fact, he had been labeled the unofficial Mayor of Baltimore. Shaw stared into Bagley’s sunken eyes and guessed he was running through the possibilities of what Shaw would have had him come in person to talk about.

  ✽✽✽

  Bagley had narrowed the possibilities down to three.

  One: Shaw was again contemplating retirement. The subject always seemed to come up over the summer when Shaw was away from Baltimore, either relaxing at his beach house in Hampstead or touring the Great Lakes on his mega-yacht, Triumph. The eighty hour work-weeks were beginning to catch up. As CEO, he began at five a.m. and worked to seven p.m. Monday through Friday and came in from seven a.m. until late afternoon on Saturdays. Except for vacations, he had kept to the schedule for twenty-seven years.

  Now sixty-one, his goal was to retire in 4 years at sixty-five after forty-one years with the company—the last thirty as CEO. The final four years would preserve the $250,000 sliver of his pension that would be taken away if he retired any sooner. Even after that many years of service, Grauman would be expecting that his dedication to the company would endure beyond retirement and that he would bequeath a generous amount to the company in his will. Both he and Bagley knew that it was never coming. At the root, Leonard Shaw was frugal. He had learned as a young working-class paper pusher to save what he made and live below his means in case anything ever happened. It had sounded fine, until he was making more in a month than his parents had ever made. But he never broke character. The toys that he and his wife were surrounded with were all her doing, and he monitored her closely.

  The truth was that almost half of his wealth was going to go to his alma mater, Duke University, upon his retirement. The truth of Shaw’s intentions entertained Bagley as he watched Shaw at Grauman benefactor appreciation lunches and dinners, where Shaw would kiss ass and stress the importance of donations and loyalty.

  Two: Shaw had heard of Bagley’s recent indiscretion and was contemplating severing ties before he got dragged in with the newspaper and media sensationalism that threatened. Shaw felt that as powerful and influential as Bagley had become, he somehow could not escape his roots. Bagley had bullied his way to the top, nothing more, nothing less.

  In Baltimore and Washington D.C.’s inner corridors of power, Bagley was known as a man who got things done—and got them done quickly. Bribe any politician, lobby for influence, and seal any deal. Need to disappear for six months with no questions asked, see Bagley. Need a judge in your pocket, Bagley. Need an invite to a White House State Dinner, yep, Bagley. With a thick stomach from everyday power lunches, slicked back gray hair with puppy brown eyes, charismatic charm, and a smile that could make anyone believe that their daughter was safe in his presence at night, Bagley ran Baltimore by day and chased skirt by night, only to come home and have breakfast with a loving wife (his third) and their two children before they left for school. A morning of sleep, and the cycle started over again.

  Until recently, it had never gotten out of control. There were always rumors (never confirmed) of Bagley being sighted at the Playboy Mansion and at a Catholic Church in the same day on west coast trips. In Baltimore, his unofficial office was in a downtown bar called “The Advocate.” Bagley would lure lawyers, brokers, and senators away from the hustle and bustle of Baltimore and D.C.’s core and treat them to a day of booze, boobs, and promises. Lunch was always on him. The joy juice usually kicked in by Happy Hour, and then Bagley would lay out his case, and before dessert was served by strippers and call girls, he had his guests signing ludicrous deals. After paperwork was signed and handshakes exchanged (sometimes high fives), Bagley sent his boys back to their offices in cabs. After all, he didn’t want them to get a DUI, did he? Sometimes he even sent a nightcap back with one of his newly acquired friends. And that is where the recent trouble had started.

  A politician he had sent back last week had had a guest waiting outside the man’s office. The politician’s wife had watched as her husband struggled to get out of the cab, laughing while a
hot number wearing knee high red boots and little else pulled on his tie with both hands. When the politician had finally freed himself, he had turned around just in time to have his wife’s purse clothesline him. Normally, this wouldn’t have been a problem and Bagley would have denied everything. But this time he had been in the back of the cab, and the wife had taken pictures. Now there was an investigation starting at “The Advocate,” and Bagley was fighting to keep his spin on every story that was being reported, which was why he was so pissed off at Shaw for flying him out here.

  Three: Somehow (and Bagley felt a chill at the possibility) the events of last summer had resurfaced, which would be the worst-case scenario. That might be the reason Shaw had his head of security, Jackson Floyd, present at the meeting. Floyd was an immense physical presence, standing six foot eight weighing two-fifty. He had been an Australian spear fishing champion before becoming somewhat of a mercenary for hire. Bagley had found him during the events and Shaw had hired him—and now trusted him with his life. If something new had come to light in regard to last summer, Bagley was uneasy of being within arms reach of Floyd.

  ✽✽✽

  “No worries, Joshua,” said Shaw. “I have some interesting news. Floyd here informed me last night that a cottage owner down the beach has found a gold French coin from the sixteen hundreds.”

  Bagley pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. He took a long drag and chased it with a sip of coffee. “And?”

  “I’m wondering if this is something we could get in on if there’s more.”

  “That’s what you called me here for?”

  “There is also the issue of last summer, which Floyd tells me may present a problem.”