The Banker, page 5
Monday morning found me parked up the street from the Lintz house. If I was expecting a change in the routine that had bored me so much a few weeks ago, I was to be disappointed. The kids were in front of the same houses. The same school buses came and went. Lintz pulled out of his driveway at the same time with the same consistency of a Swiss watch.
Tailing Lintz wasn’t very challenging. He drove from his home to the bank and back again. There were no sudden turns, no doubling back, no indication that he was looking for a tail. It has been my experience that people doing criminal stuff tend to be suspicious people. Suspicious people drive like everyone behind them is a potential tail. Not Lintz. Nope, he drove like a man with no worries. He mostly obeyed the rules of the road and didn’t seem overly cautious.
Lintz pulled into the bank’s parking lot and into his spot. I drove by and noticed that Karen Marti’s car was there too. Also conspicuously parked in front was an Amesbury police car. In case anyone in the Commonwealth didn’t realize the bank had recently had some excitement.
It looked like the bank was going to be open. The police must have taken all the crime scene photos they needed, and Brock probably had the place cleaned up over the weekend. After all, it was highly unlikely that anyone was going to try and rob the joint just a few days after it had been robbed. Which made the police car parked in front seem all the more a waste, but I wasn’t paying taxes in this town, so it wasn’t any of my business.
Figuring the local police might be a touch more on guard than usual, especially about cars parked outside of banks for long periods of time, I decided it was a good idea to check in with them again. Better to be proactive than try to explain myself at gunpoint to a jumpy, small-town cop. It was just too easy to get shot these days.
The police station was a pleasant two-story building. It was on School Street in front of a traffic circle with a flagpole in the middle of it. It was the type of town that would have had a Veterans Day parade, and it was easy to picture it going right by the police station. I parked in the lot, which was flanked by the police station on one side and City Hall on the other.
It was a short walk to the main entrance of the station, and I was pleased to see there was a blue light above the door. It was a nice touch that a lot of the more modern steel and glass stations seem to lack. Inside, there was a counter, and behind that was heavy-set man in his fifties. His sandy-colored hair was closely cropped, and he looked up at me with watery blue eyes. He was wearing the requisite blue uniform and badge.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ The politeness was a bit different from what I was used to in Boston where my old neighbor Detective Sergeant Billy Devaney peppered every third word he said to me with an insult.
‘Yes, I’m a private investigator on a case and I wanted to just check in.’ I slid my license across the counter to him.
‘From Boston?’
‘Yes.’
‘What brings you up here?’
‘I am working a case that requires me to follow a couple of people who work at the Amesbury Community Bank.’
‘Oh,’ he said slowly.
‘Yeah, I read about what happened last week and figured I’d better check in in case anyone got nervous seeing a strange car out front.’
‘Hang on a second.’ He stood up with my license still in hand. He had the thick build that most cops over forty had. It was a product of too many fast food meals and not enough sleep layered over a younger, fitter man’s muscles. He was gone for a minute or two, and then a door by the side of the counter opened and he poked his head out.
‘Come with me.’
‘Sure.’ I followed him through an office area, down a nondescript corridor to an office that had a nameplate on the wall next to it that proclaimed, ‘Paul Dixon, Chief of Police.’ You would think in a department for a town this size everyone would know who he was. The cop knocked on the frame of the open door and a gruff voice inside told us to come in. We went in.
‘This is the private eye from Boston, Chief.’ The chief in question was sitting behind a green institutional metal desk. He looked to be in his early fifties. He was thickly built through the shoulders and neck with dark hair greying at the temples and cut just a little longer than most men his age wore it. The office smelled faintly of Vitalis and menthol cigarettes.
‘Come in.’ He stood up and I noticed that, while the cop from the desk had been carrying a plain Jane .38 special revolver, the chief seemed to favor a larger .357 Magnum with a stainless-steel finish.
‘Paul Dixon,’ he said, sticking his hand out across the desk.
‘Andy Roark,’ I said as we shook hands. It was the usual thing where he tried to crush my hand, and I just ignored it. After a few seconds, he let my hand go.
‘Please sit down.’
‘Thanks.’
‘What brings you to my town, Roark?’
‘Business.’
‘What type of business?’
‘I’m here to conduct surveillance on two employees of the Amesbury Community Bank.’
‘What for?’
‘It’s a delicate matter, Chief,’ I said in my best, ‘we’re both men of the world’ tone.
‘Divorce?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Again, I can’t say. This is a small town.’
‘Not that small. Who are you working for?’
‘Chief, again, I can’t say.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’ At least he stuck to the script, which tended to make things easier.
‘Same thing. I was hired in part because my client wanted things done discreetly.’ Which had been true back in April when Brock had actually hired me.
‘If you don’t tell me what I want to know, you won’t be doing anything in this town unless it’s leaving it.’
‘Chief, all I can tell you is that I was hired to watch a man and a woman and see if they’re doing anything.’ It was the biggest, vaguest, most suggestive hint I could stick under his nose.
‘Oh … well, how do I know this isn’t related to the bank robbery?’ I was starting to wonder if the mayor was his brother or something.
‘Well, there wouldn’t be much use in surveilling a bank that’s already been robbed. Also, if I was up to no good, coming into the station to let you know I’m here seems like a pretty bad idea.’
‘Or maybe you’re trying to convince me you’re on the level.’
‘Chief, you can call Boston PD. Detective Captain Johnson or Detective Sergeant Billy Devaney will vouch for me.’
He looked at me the way cops look at anyone who isn’t their mother or their kid, hard and suspicious, and then he flicked my license across the desk at me. It skittered across and landed in my lap.
‘OK, Roark. Just watch your step while you’re in my town. This is a nice little town, and we don’t need any trouble … not any more trouble. If you’re up to any funny business, I throw you in jail so fast your head will spin. If that isn’t enough, I’ll see that your license gets yanked. Got it?’
‘Yes sir. You won’t have any trouble from me, Chief.’ I was sincere. I wasn’t looking to cause any trouble. I wasn’t a big fan of trouble, but then again, trouble seems to find me whether I am looking for it or not. I didn’t feel the need to share that tidbit with the chief.
‘All right, Roark, see yourself out. Tell the front desk what you’re driving and the plate.’ He didn’t bother to get up or shake my hand again. I followed his advice, pausing only to slip my PI license back in my wallet. I stopped at the front desk and told the bored looking cop the details about my slightly battered Ford Maverick. He wrote them down and then I stepped out into the pleasant May morning. There are few places finer than New England in May or June, but I am not exactly objective about it.
Back in the Maverick, I started it and listened to the healthy rumble coming from under the hood. The radio came on to The Guess Who, who sang to me about the trials of being a bus rider. The drive from the police station to the bank wasn’t a long one, and I found a parking spot that allowed me a good view of the parking lot.
I poured myself a cup of coffee from my thermos and settled in to wait. If I had been expecting anything to have changed in the last month, I would have been disappointed. Fortunately, I had a good idea of what to expect. The only real changes were the police car out front and seemingly fewer customers using the bank. Also, it wasn’t raining and I was able to have my window open, which was a nice change.
I spent the day doing the crossword puzzle in the Globe, drinking coffee, and listening to the radio. I tried to ration my cigarettes by playing little games like only having one Lucky Strike every half an hour. At lunch time, no one left the bank to head home or go get pizza for everyone. It was quiet, and when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I went to the deli I had frequented before to get a sandwich.
When the bank closed for the day and everyone headed home, I followed Lintz back to the homestead. I sat up the street from his house, watching as the afternoon slid into early evening. The bugs started to come out and I decided I had enough. It’s not like I was getting paid to put up with the bugs. Even in Vietnam, I had gotten paid to deal with it. Tomorrow, I decided, I would mix it up and follow Karen Marti.
The next morning, I was parked outside Karen Marti’s. She lived in a brick row house that at the beginning of the century had housed workers for one of the many local mills. Somewhere along the line, after the mills had closed, someone had the bright idea of turning them into condominiums. I was struck by how much the mill houses reminded me of post housing on Army bases like Fort Devens, brick and uniform and with no individuality expressed nor welcome.
Marti’s front door opened, and she came outside dressed for work in black slacks and a dark green blouse, with a cream jacket over it. She got in her car and started it up. If Lintz was a boring driver to follow, Marti wasn’t. Her driving style seemed to involve mashing down on the gas or brakes as necessary. She drove fast but well, and I had to pay a little more attention to the road tailing her compared to Lintz. I was starting to think that there was no way Lintz could do anything as exciting as embezzle from the Merrimack Community Bank. I wondered, idly, if his lunch was peanut butter and jelly with the crusts cut off.
I spent the day as I had spent so many other days, watching the bank. Bored. Bored and hungry, doing the crossword puzzle in the Globe and rationing my cigarettes just to have something to do. The bank closed at three thirty p.m., and an hour later Karen Marti came out. She got into her black Chevette, and I followed her back to her brick row house.
I parked a few doors down so that I could see her front door and parked car. I sat listening to the engine tick slowly in the mild air as late afternoon started to slide into evening. Dylan strummed his guitar and sang softly about buckets of rain on the radio. The song complimented the bugs that were flying around doing their aerial mating ritual that they do every spring. I lit a cigarette to encourage the bugs to bug off and smoked it with a hand cupped around the ember. It was a trick that every soldier learned.
I watched the lights in her condo go on with a pleasant glow. I considered wrapping it up when the front door opened and Marti came out. She was moving like she had someplace to be five minutes ago. She wore tight jeans and the same blouse. Her low work heels had been replaced with ones that were considerably higher, and in the light from her condo, I could see she had put on lipstick.
She started her car and backed out of her spot with a mild screeching of tires. I tossed my cigarette butt out the window and turned over the Maverick’s engine. I followed her, turning on my lights only when I was on the main road behind her for a few seconds so it wouldn’t be obvious I had followed her out of her parking lot. This was shaping up to be the most exciting thing that had happened to me in all my time in Amesbury.
I followed her through the surface streets on to Route 110. She drove fast, faster than was advisable, and, while the Maverick could easily keep up, I had to juggle my speed so as not to get too close. A little way out of town, she abruptly turned off of Route 110 into the parking lot of what could loosely be described as a roadhouse. It was actually a joint that had a sign of a dancing pig holding two mugs of beer in its front hooves.
I drove past it, not because I was trying to act like a super suave private detective, but she had turned off the road so fast I wasn’t sure I could do the same without drawing too much attention to myself. A hundred yards down the road, I banged a U-ey or if you’re not from Boston, I made a U-turn. I doubled back, pulled into the parking lot and found a spot well away from Marti’s car.
I eased out of my car, locking the door behind me. There was the unmistakable smell of wood smoke and grilled meat in the air as I crossed the parking lot to the door. My stomach rumbled, reminding me that a thermos of coffee, a tuna sandwich and an apple were not going to cut it. I pulled the front door open and stepped inside. I was enveloped in a cloud of cigarette smoke. The jukebox was playing George Thorogood, and I was pleased to see that they had Lowenbrau beer.
The roadhouse was exactly what you’d expect, nothing fancy but the food coming out of the kitchen looked good and the price of beer posted over the bar wasn’t going to bankrupt me. There was a small dance floor that no one was dancing on. The tables were black Formica topped with the matching metal and vinyl chairs. The bar was long with tall, wooden, hardbacked chairs. The whole place was just like every other barbecue joint/roadhouse I had ever been in. They had their own type of uniformity, like McDonald’s, just with better food and booze.
Karen Marti was sitting at one of the tables in the middle of the room, and she wasn’t alone. Sitting across from her was a blond man in his thirties. He was wearing a light-colored polo shirt with blue horizontal stripes. His neck and shoulders were thick, and his forearms had veins that were prominent. My guess was that Captain Muscles spent a lot of time in the gym, falling in love with himself in a mirror while he pumped iron.
I moved across the room to the bar which had half a dozen people sitting at it – a couple clearly on a date, a few guys watching sports on TV, and one lone woman. The bartender was my age, pretty and brunette.
‘What can I getcha?’
‘Lowenbrau.’
‘Only got it in a bottle.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘You need a menu?’
‘Please.’
‘OK.’ She handed me a menu from her side of the bar and stepped over to a cooler and pulled out my beer. She popped it with an opener affixed to a pole that supported a load-bearing beam in the ceiling. She put it down in front of me, all of it done with the fluid motions of long practice.
‘Need a minute?’
‘Is there anything you recommend?’
‘The brisket is good, but the pulled pork sandwich is the thing to get. It comes with coleslaw on it. Not everyone cares for it, but I think it’s good.’
‘Pulled pork it is.’
‘Fries?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Back in a bit.’ She moved off and I turned my attention to the mirror behind the bar which afforded me a good view of Karen Marti and Captain Muscles. They seemed to be having some sort of animated discussion. I couldn’t tell if it was animated as in they were having a good time or something else. There was no chance of hearing them over the jukebox, which seemed to be at max volume.
I sipped my beer, casually looked around at my fellow bar patrons, then acted like I was watching the TV while trying to watch Marti and Captain Muscles. I couldn’t see his pants or shoes under their table, but I would bet anything he was wearing boat shoes and no socks. At this time of year, at night it might have been a little cold for that. Also, Amesbury was a little too far from the ocean for the Yacht Club look.
The bartender brought my sandwich and fries, and there were also a few slices of pickles on the plate. They looked to be reasonably fresh, and, though not half-sours, they weren’t the almost neon green things that have been sitting in a jar on a supermarket shelf for months if not years. I have nothing against storks, but I didn’t associate them with good pickles.
‘Getcha anything else?’
‘No, thanks. Not yet.’
‘Enjoy.’ She drifted down the bar to check on the other patrons. I picked up the sandwich and managed to take a bite without wearing any of it. It was good, but you have to get up pretty early in the morning to screw up a pulled pork sandwich. I tried a French fry, dipping it in the paper cup of ketchup on the plate. Having firmly established that quality control was being taken seriously at the Dancing Pig, I tucked into the meal in earnest.
I also watched Karen Marti and Captain Muscles. They were having a pretty serious discussion. Based on the number of times she touched his veiny arm or he took her hand in his, I had to believe that they were a little more than just casual acquaintances. How had I missed this last time I was tailing her? Or was this a new relationship? They stopped touching every time the waitress went over. If they were there for a romantic dinner, it was a liquid one. They never ordered any food.
I had finished my sandwich and was on my second Lowenbrau. There was nothing exciting happening on the TV when I heard raised voices. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. In the mirror, I could see Captain Muscles scowling at Karen Marti, and then he stood up suddenly. She stood up and reached out to touch his gym-bloated forearm, but he shook her off and stormed away. Karen looked after him as he pushed the door open with considerable force, slamming it behind him. I didn’t have to be some sort of relationship expert to see that she was unhappy about this turn of events.
I started to reach for my wallet to pay the bill. I figured that she would be leaving now that their date or whatever it was had ended so badly. Instead, she stood up and walked over to the bar, sitting a couple of seats away from me. She flagged down the bartender, and I heard her order another beer and a shot of tequila. It looked like I wasn’t going anywhere yet.
I caught the bartender’s eye and pointed to my empty bottle of Lowenbrau. She nodded, went to the cooler and in no time, there was a cold bottle of beer in front of me. She poured Marti’s tequila and poured a beer then brought them over to Marti. I took a sip of beer and watched Marti down her tequila shot in one gulp. She grimaced and her face flushed. She placed the shot glass down on the bar instead of slamming down.
