The Dark Tide

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Pensacola, Florida

The huge gray tanker emerged from the mist and cut its engines at the mouth of the harbor.

The shadows of heavy industry: steel gray trestles, the refinery tanks, the gigantic hydraulic pumps awaiting gas and oil, all lay quiet in the vessel’s approach.

A single launch motored out to meet it.

At the helm the pilot, who was called Pappy, fixed on the waiting ship. As assistant harbormaster, Pensacola Port Authority, his job was to guide the football-field-size craft through the sandy limestone shoals around Singleton Point and then through the busy lanes of the inner harbor, which bustled with commercial traffic as the day wore on. He’d been bringing home large ships like this since he was twenty-two, a job—more like a rite—handed down from his own father, who had done it himself since he was twenty-two. For close to thirty years, Pappy had done this so many times he could pretty much guide home a ship in his sleep, which in the darkened calm before the dawn this morning—if it were a normal morning and this just another tanker—would be exactly what he was about to do.

She’s tall there, Pappy noted, focused on the ship’s hull.

Too tall. The draft line was plainly visible. He stared at the logo on the tanker’s bow.

He’d seen these ships before.

Normally the real skill lay in gauging what the large tanker was drawing and navigating it through the sandbars at the outer rim of the harbor. Then simply follow the lanes, which by 10:00 A.M. could be livelier than the loop into downtown, and make the wide, sweeping arc into Pier 12, which was where the Persephone, according to its papers carrying a full load of Venezuelan crude, was slotted to put in.

But not this morning.

Pappy’s launch approached the large tanker from the port side. As he neared, he focused on the logo of a leaping dolphin on the Persephone’s hull.

Dolphin Oil.

He scratched a weathered hand across his beard and scanned over his entry papers from Maritime Control: 2.3 million barrels of crude aboard. The ship had made the trip up from Trinidad in barely fourteen hours. Fast, Pappy noted, especially for an outdated 1970 ULCC-class piece of junk like this, weighed down with a full load.

They always made it up here fast.

Dolphin Oil.

The first time he’d just been curious. It had come in from Jakarta. He had wondered, how could a ship loaded with slime be riding quite that high? The second time, just a few weeks back, he’d actually snuck below after it docked—inside the belly of the ship, making his way past the distracted crew, and checked out the forward tanks.

Empty. Came as no surprise. At least not to him.

Clean as a newborn’s ass.

He’d brought this up to the harbormaster, not once but twice. But he just patted Pappy on the back like he was some old fool and asked him what his plans were when he retired. This time, though, no glorified paper pusher was going to slip this under a stack of forms. Pappy knew people. People who worked in the right places. People who’d be interested in this kind of thing. This time, when he brought the ship in, he’d prove it.

2.3 million barrels …

2.3 million barrels, my ass.

Pappy sounded the horn and pulled the launch along the ship’s bow. His mate, Al, took over the wheel. A retractable gangway was lowered from the main deck. He prepared to board.

That’s when his cell phone vibrated. He grabbed it off his belt. It was 5:10 in the morning. Anyone not insane was still asleep. The screen read PRIVATE. Text message.

Some kind of picture coming through.

Pappy yelled forward to Al to hold it and jumped back from the Persephone’s gangway. In the predawn light, he squinted at the image on the screen.

He froze.

It was a body. Twisted and contorted on the street. A dark pool beneath the head that Pappy realized was blood.

He brought the screen closer and tried to find the light.

“Oh, Lord God, no …”

His eyes were seized by the image of the victim’s long red dreadlocks. His chest filled up with pain as if he’d been stabbed. He fell back, an inner vise cracking his ribs.

“Pappy!” Al called back from the bridge. “You all right there?”

No. He wasn’t all right.

“That’s Abel,” he gasped, his airways closing. “That’s my son!”

Suddenly, he felt the vibration of another message coming through.

Same: PRIVATE NUMBER.

This time it was just three words that flashed on the screen.

Pappy ripped open his collar and tried to breathe. But it was sorrow knifing at him there, not a heart attack. And anger—at his own pride.

He sank to the deck, the three words flashing in his brain.

SEEN ENOUGH NOW?

CHAPTER TWELVE

A month later—a few days after they’d finally held a memorial for Charlie, Karen trying to be upbeat, but it was so, so hard—the UPS man dropped off a package at her door.

It was during the day. The kids were at school. Karen was getting ready to leave. She had a steering-committee meeting at the kids’ school. She was trying as best she could to get back to some kind of normal routine.

Rita, their housekeeper, brought it in, knocking on the bedroom door.

It was a large padded envelope. Karen checked out the sender. The label said it was from a Shipping Plus outlet in Brooklyn. No return name or address. Karen couldn’t think of anyone she knew in Brooklyn.

She went into the kitchen and took a package blade and opened the envelope. Whatever was inside was protected in bubble wrap, which Karen carefully slit open. Curious, she lifted out the contents.

It was a frame. Maybe ten by twelve inches. Chrome. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble.

Inside the frame was what appeared to be a page from some kind of notepad, charred, dirt marks on it, torn on the upper right edge. There were a bunch of random numbers scratched all over it, and a name.

Karen felt her breath stolen away.

The page read From the desk of Charles Friedman.

The writing on it was Charlie’s.

“Ees a gift?” asked Rita, picking up the wrappings.

Karen nodded, barely able to even speak. “Yes.”

She took it into the sunroom and sat with it on the window seat, rain coming down outside.

It was her husband’s notepad. The stationery Karen had given him herself a few years back. The sheet was torn. The numbers didn’t make sense to her and the name scrawled there was one Karen didn’t recognize. Megan Walsh. A corner of it was charred. It looked as if it had been on the ground for a long time.

But it was Charlie—his writing. Karen felt a tingling sensation all over.

There was a note taped to the frame. Karen pulled it off. It read: I found this, three days after what happened, in the main terminal of Grand Central. It must have floated there. I held on to it, because I didn’t know if it would hurt or help. I pray it helps.

It was unsigned.

Karen couldn’t believe it. On the news she’d heard there were thousands of papers blown all over the station after the explosion. They had settled everywhere. Like confetti after a parade.

Karen fixed intently on Charlie’s writing. It was just a bunch of meaningless numbers and a name she didn’t recognize, scribbled at odd angles. Dated 3/22, weeks before his death. A bunch of random messages, no doubt.

But it was from Charlie. His writing. It was a part of him the day he died.

They had never given her back the piece of his briefcase they’d recovered. This was all she had. Holding it to her, for a moment it was almost as if she felt him there.

Her eyes filled up with tears. “Oh, Charlie …”

In a way it was like he was saying good-bye.

I didn’t know if it would hurt or help, the sender had written.

Oh, yes, it helps. It more than helps…. Karen held it close. A thousand times more.

It was just a jumble of stupid numbers and a name scratched out in his hand. But it was all she had.

She hadn’t been able to cry at his memorial. Too many people. Charlie’s blown-up photo looming above them. And they all wanted it to be upbeat, not sad. She’d tried to be so strong.

But there, sitting by the window, her husband’s writing pressed against her heart, she felt it was okay. I’m here with you, Charlie, Karen thought. She finally let herself really cry.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Down the street a man hunched in a darkened car, rain streaming on the windshield. He smoked as he watched the house and cracked the window a shade to flick the ashes onto the street.

The UPS truck had just left. He knew that what it brought would send things spinning. A short while later, Karen Friedman rushed out, a rain jacket over her head, and climbed into her Lexus.

Things promised to get interesting.

She backed out of the driveway and onto the street, reversed, and headed back toward him. The man hunched lower in the car, the Lexus’s headlights hitting his windshield, glistening sharply in the rain as it went by.

Hybrid, he noted, impressed, watching in the rearview mirror as it went down the block.

He picked up his phone, which was sitting on the passenger seat across from him, next to his Walther P38, punching in a private number. His gaze fell to his hands. They were thick, coarse, workman’s hands.

Time to get them dirty again, he sighed.

“Plan A doesn’t seem to be moving,” he said into the phone when the voice he was expecting finally answered.

“We don’t have forever,” the person on the other end replied.

“Exactamente.” He exhaled. He started his ignition, flicked an ash out the window, and took off at a slow pace, following the Lexus. “I’m already on Plan B.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

One of the things Karen had to deal with in the weeks that followed was the liquidation of Charlie’s firm.

She’d never gotten deeply involved in her husband’s business. Harbor was what was termed “a general limited partnership.” The share agreement maintained that in case the principal partner ever became deceased or unable to perform, the assets of the firm were to be redistributed back to the other partners. Charlie managed a modest-size fund, with assets of around $250 million. The lead investors were Goldman Sachs, where he had started out years before, and a few wealthy families he’d attracted over the years.

Saul Lennick, Charlie’s first boss at Goldman, who had helped put him in business, acted as the firm’s trustee.

It was hard for Karen to go through. Bittersweet. Charlie had only seven people working for him: a junior trader and a bookkeeper, Sally, who ran the back office and had been with him since he’d first opened shop. His assistant, Heather, handled a lot of their personal stuff. Karen pretty much knew them all.

It would take a few months, Lennick advised her, for everything to be finalized. And that was fine with her. Charlie would’ve wanted them all to be well taken care of. “Hell, you know better than anyone that he practically spent more time with them over the years than he did with me,” she said, smiling knowingly at Saul. Anyway, money wasn’t exactly the issue right now.

She and the kids were okay financially. She had the house, which they owned clear, the ski place in Vermont. Plus, Charlie had been able to pull out some money over the years.

But it was tough, seeing his baby dismantled. The positions were sold. The office on Park Avenue was put up for lease. One by one, people found new jobs and began to leave.

That was like the final straw. The final imprint of him gone.

About that time the junior trader Charlie had brought into the firm just a few months before, Jonathan Lauer, called her at home. Karen wasn’t around. He left a message on her machine: “I’d like to speak with you, Mrs. Friedman. At your convenience. There are some things you ought to know.”

Some things … Whatever they were, she wasn’t up to it right then. Jonathan was new; he had started working for Charles only this past year. Charlie had lured him from Morgan. She passed the message on to Saul.

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it,” he told her. “All kinds of sticky issues, closing down a firm. People are looking out for their own arrangements. There may have been some bonus agreements discussed. Charlie wasn’t the best at recording those things. You shouldn’t have to deal with any of that right now.”

He was right. She couldn’t deal with that right now. In July she went away for a well-needed week at Paula and Rick’s house in Sag Harbor. She rejoined her book group, started doing yoga again. God, how she needed that. Her body began to resemble itself once again and feel alive. Gradually her spirits did, too.

August came, and Samantha had a job at a local beach club. Alex was away at lacrosse camp. Karen was thinking maybe she’d look into getting a real-estate license.

Jonathan Lauer contacted her again.

This time Karen was at home. Still, she didn’t pick up. She heard the same cryptic message on the machine: “Mrs. Friedman, I think it’s important that we talk….”

But Karen just let the message tape go on. She didn’t like avoiding him. Charlie had always spoken highly of the young man. People are looking out for their own arrangements….

She just couldn’t answer. Hearing his voice trail off, she felt bad.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It was September, the kids were back in school when Karen ran into Lieutenant Hauck, the Greenwich detective, again.

It was halftime of a high-school football game at Greenwich Field. They were playing Stamford West. Karen had volunteered to sell raffle tickets for the Teen Center drive for the athletic department. The stands were packed. It was a crisp, early-autumn Saturday morning. The Huskies band was on the field. She went over to the refreshment stand to grab herself a cup of coffee against the chill.

She almost didn’t recognize him at first. He was dressed in a navy polar-fleece pullover and jeans, a young, pretty girl who looked no more than nine or ten to Karen hoisted on his shoulders. They sort of bumped into each other in the crowd.

“Lieutenant …?”

“Hauck.” He turned and stopped, a pleased glimmer in his eye.

“Karen Friedman.” She nodded, shielding the sun out of her eyes.

“Of course I remember.” He let the girl down. “Jess, say hi to Mrs. Friedman.”

“Hi.” The pretty girl waved, a little shy. “Nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too, sweetie.” Karen smiled. “Your daughter?”

The lieutenant nodded. “Just as well,” he groaned, clutching his back, “she’s getting way too big for me to do this for very long. Right, honey? Why don’t you go ahead and find your friends. I’ll be over in a while.”

“Okay.” The girl ran off and melded into the crowd, heading in the direction of the far sidelines.

“Nine?” Karen guessed, an inquisitive arch of her eyebrows.

“Ten. Somehow she still pushes for the Big Ride. I figure I’ve got another year or two at best before she’ll start to cringe if I ever offer to do it again.”

“Not girls and their daddies.” Karen shook her head and grinned. “Anyway, it’s sort of like a bell curve. At some point they come all the way back. At least that’s what I’m told. I’m still waiting.”

They stood around for a minute, bucking the flow of the crowd. A heavyset guy in a Greenwich sweatshirt slapped Hauck on the shoulder as he went by. “Hey, Leg …”

“Rollie.” The lieutenant waved back.

“I was just headed to get some coffee,” Karen said.

“Let me,” Hauck offered. “Trust me, you won’t be able to beat the price.”

They stepped over to the refreshment line. A woman who was running the coffee station seemed to recognize him. “Hey, Ty! How’s it going, Lieutenant? Looks like we could use you out there today.”

“Yeah, just gimme about twenty of these straight up plus a shot of cortisone in both knees and you can put me in.” He pulled out a couple of bills.

“On the house, Lieutenant.” She waved him away. “Booster program.”

“Thanks, Mary.” Hauck winked back. He handed a cup to Karen. There was a table free, and Hauck motioned her toward it and they each grabbed a metal chair.

“See what I mean?” He took a sip. “One of the few legal perks I have left.”

“Rank has its privilege.” Karen winked, pretending to be impressed.

“Nah.” Hauck shrugged. “Tailback. Greenwich High, 1975. Went all the way to the state finals that year. They never forget.”

Karen grinned. She brushed her hair back from under her hooded Greenwich High sweatshirt and cupped her hands on the steaming cup.

“So how are you doing?” the detective asked. “I actually meant to call a couple of times. When I last saw you, things were pretty raw.”

“I know.” Karen shrugged again. “They were then. I’m doing better. Time …” She sighed, tilting her cup.

“As they say …” The lieutenant did the same and smiled. “So you have kids in the high school?”

“Two. Samantha’s graduating this year. Alex is a sophomore. He plays lacrosse. He’s still taking things pretty hard.”

“’Course he is,” the lieutenant said. Someone brushed him in the back, rushing by. He nodded, pressing his lips together. What could you say?

“You were looking into a hit-and-run then,” Karen said, shifting gears. “Some kid out of Florida. You ever find that guy?”

“No. But I did find out why your husband’s name was in his pocket.”

He told Karen about the Mustang.

“‘Charlie’s Baby.’” She nodded and smiled. “Figures. Still have it. Charlie asked in his will not to sell it. How about it, Lieutenant? You want your own American icon, only year they made the color Emberglow. Only costs about eight grand a year to take it out of the garage a couple of times?”

“Sorry. I have my own American icon. College account.” He grinned.

The PA announced that the teams were heading back on the field. The Huskies band marched off to a brassy version of Bon Jovi’s “Who Says You Can’t Go Home?” The lieutenant’s daughter ran out of the crowd and yelled, “Daddy, come on! I want to sit with Elyse!”

“Second half’s starting up,” the lieutenant said.

“She’s pretty,” Karen said. “Oldest?”

“My only,” the detective replied after a short pause. “Thanks.”

Their eyes met for a second. There was something Karen felt hiding behind his deep-set eyes.

“So how about a raffle ticket?” she asked. “It’s for a good cause. Booster program.” She chuckled. “C’mon, I’m running behind.”

“I’m afraid I already paid my dues.” Hauck sighed resignedly, patting his knees.

She tore one off the pad and penciled his name in the blank. “It’s on the house. You know, it was nice what you said to me that day. About how you knew how I felt. I guess I needed something then. I appreciated that.”

“Man …” Hauck shook his head, taking the raffle slip out of her hand, their fingers momentarily touching. “The gifts just don’t stop coming today.”

“Price you have to pay for doing a good deed, Lieutenant.”

They stood up. The lieutenant’s daughter called out impatiently, “Daddy, c’mon!”

“Good luck with the raffles,” he said. “You know, it might be good if you actually ended up selling a few of them today.”

Karen laughed. “Nice to see you, Lieutenant.” She shook her fists like imaginary pom-poms. “Go Huskies!”

Hauck waved, backing into the crowd. “See you around.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It took him by surprise that night, Hauck decided as he dabbed at the canvas in the small two-bedroom home he rented on Euclid Avenue in Stamford, overlooking Holly Cove.

Another marina scene. A sloop in a harbor, sails down. Pretty much the same scene from his deck. It was all he ever painted. Boats …

Jessie was in her room, watching TV, sending text messages. They’d had a pizza at Mona Lisa in town and went to the new animated release. Jess pretended to be bored. He’d enjoyed it.

“It’s for, like, three-year-olds, Daddy.” She rolled her eyes.

“Oh.” He stopped pushing it. “The penguins were cool.”

Hauck liked it here. A block from the small cove. His little two-story sixties Cape. The owner had fixed it up. From the deck off the second floor, where the living room was, you could see Long Island Sound. A French couple lived next door, Richard and Jacqueline, custom furniture restorers—their workshop was out in their garage—and they always invited him to their parties, full of lots of people with crazy accents and not-half-bad wine.

Yes, it took him by surprise. What he was feeling. How he had noticed her eyes—brown and fetchingly wide. How laughter seemed a natural fit in them. The little lilt in her voice, as if she weren’t from around here. Her auburn hair tied back in a youthful ponytail.

How she stuffed that raffle ticket into his pocket and tried to make him smile.

Unlike Beth. When her world fell apart.

Hauck traced a narrow line from the sailboat’s mast and blended it into the blue of the sea. He stared. It sucked.

No one would exactly confuse him with Picasso.

She had asked him if Jess was his youngest, and he had replied, pausing for what seemed an eternity—my only. He could have told her. She would have understood. She was going through it, too.

C’mon, Ty, why does it always have to come back to this?

They’d had everything then. He and Beth. It was hard to remember how they were once so in love. How she once thought he was the sexiest man alive. And he, her.