The Truth Will Drop: Carter Peterson Mystery Series Book 5 Read online

  “Thanks. Nice catch,” I said, ending the call just as I was about to make the turn. Sure enough, at the end of the gravel driveway leading to a modest, ranch-style home, stood a mailbox with the name Hall painted across the side.

  There were boats of various sizes and condition parked around the property, along with roughly 200 lobster traps. A dilapidated pickup truck, propped-up on concrete blocks, sat off to the side with all four wheels missing. There were no other vehicles in the driveway, and no garage, which told me the owner or owners were probably at work.

  Had Sarah not mentioned which property to look for, the Hall residence would have blended in with the rest of the homes in the neighborhood. It appeared as though the majority of lobsterman in Maine lived here, with boats, traps, and trucks filling every other yard.

  I looked out at the river as I pulled up in front of the Taylor residence. The Piscataqua looked as smooth as glass. I figured I must have caught it during slack tide, the period of time right in between low and high tides.

  I got out of the car and saw Carol standing at the storm door, waiting for me behind the glass. She swung it open as I approached, and offered a faint smile. “Afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon,” I answered.

  “I take it you have news for me,” she said as I entered.

  “Sorry. Not yet. The reason I’m here has to do with something I forgot to ask for when I saw you last. Could I get a couple recent photos of Don and Jason? It’s important we know what they look like, being that we’re conducting an investigation without their knowledge.”

  “Oh, goodness, I never even considered that,” she said. “Yes, yes, of course. Let me go see what I can come up with.”

  “Thank you.” I turned to look at the framed photographs hanging on the wall while I waited for Carol to return. The images must have spanned decades, several of the family portraits capturing all five Taylors together with smiles on their faces. “

  “Obviously, those photos you’re seeing there were taken during happier times,” Carol said as she stepped back into the living room. “Here, why don’t you go ahead and pick from these four snapshots. All of them were taken within the last three months.”

  I studied the shots, one by one. “This one,” I said after a few seconds, choosing a photo of Don and Jason standing together, the image a close-up of just their faces. “Both good-looking fellas.”

  “I thought you might pick that one. Yes, they’re both handsome men, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to ring both their necks,” she said, a look of sadness washing over her.

  “Men can be frustrating from time to time,” I said. “At least, that’s what I’m told.”

  My comment made Carol smile, if only for an instant. “Well, you seem like a very nice man, Mr. Peterson. I think Sarah may have found herself a good one.”

  Not much for compliments, I raised the photo I’d chosen while handing the other three back. “Thank you, Mrs. Taylor. We’ll be in touch.”

  She nodded. “Let me know if you need anything else. Otherwise, I’ll be waiting to hear what you and Sarah come up with.”

  I looked into her eyes, nodded, and let myself out. As I walked back to the car, a question I often asked myself popped into my head once again. Why had I chosen this line of work? Being a cop had been tough, but at least I knew the goal back then: to put bad guys away in order to keep innocent folks safe.

  Unfortunately, conducting private investigations requires a whole different set of rules, the lines between good and bad often blurred. PIs tend to witness a lot of pain, but can seldom say, with certainty, who the bad actors really are. Sometimes, the person we’re investigating ends up being rotten. Other times, the client takes the prize.

  And, on rare occasions, both.

  Good guys, bad guys, or indifferent, we were getting paid to find answers, and that’s what I needed to do.

  I got behind the wheel, cranked the engine over, and turned up the radio. It was time to head toward Everett Shapleigh’s place, but hadn’t quite worked out my spiel. Somehow, I needed to convince him that renting his boat to me would be beneficial to both of us.

  I didn’t know him from a hole in the wall, so figuring out what motivated the guy was a crap shoot, at best. I felt bad about not sharing our true intentions with him right from the start, but now that we’d involved him, the less he knew, the better. My only hope was that the universe might cut me some slack for not directly involving Everett in our dirty work any further.

  * * *

  “Afternoon,” Everett said from behind cracked glass as he unlatched his rickety storm door. “C’mon in.”

  I stepped inside the dated kitchen, air smelling of burnt wood. “Sorry to pop in on you, unannounced,” I said.

  “Oh, that makes no matter to me,” he said. “I apologize for the smoke. Tried gettin’ fancy this afternoon. Cooked up a fish on a cedar plank. Problem is, I got to eatin’ while the wood was still in the oven. Won’t try that again, I guess.”

  “What kind of fish?” I asked.

  “Big striper,” he replied while pointing toward the back window. “Caught him right off the end of my dock, just before meetin’ up with you two.”

  “Nice.”

  “So, I figure that nice lady friend of yours must have enjoyed being out on Juneau well enough to want to do it again, am I right?” Everett asked, followed by a belly laugh and coughing spell that caught me off guard.

  I smiled and nodded while waiting for him to recover. “That’s about right. In fact, that’s why I’m here.”

  “Well, the both of you ought to come on along again this evening. I was fixin’ to head out in just a bit. Truth be told, I enjoyed your company real good this morning.”

  “Thank you, Everett. Sounds real nice. Unfortunately, Sarah’s got some responsibilities she’s taking care of at the moment. But, I would like to run a proposition by you.”

  “A proposition, you say? Sounds serious.”

  His comment made me chuckle, his demeanor making me believe he was truly concerned. “Not too serious. Actually, I’m trying to plan a special getaway for Sarah. You know, as a thank you for all she does for me. She’s never spent the night on a boat. Everett, I was wondering … would you be willing to tie Juneau off to that dock we passed up the river, then rent her to me for a couple of days? I’m not looking to drive the boat around. I’d be willing to keep her tied up right there. We’re just looking to spend a couple days on board, that’s all.”

  Everett gave me a blank stare, then exhaled as if he were making a weak effort to blow out a glowing match. “Huh. That’s a new one. I ain’t never been asked nothing like that before.”

  “Listen, I’ll completely understand if you’re uncomfortable with the idea, but I’m willing to offer you a generous amount of money for the opportunity.”

  “How much we talking?” he asked without missing a beat. “Probably have to make it real worth my while, seeing I don’t care much for missing many days out there on the river.”

  I tried hard not to smile. “How does six hundred dollars sound?”

  Everett stared down the well-worn path that ran clear across his linoleum floor. “Well, I suppose you best tell me when you’re going to want her up there.”

  Chapter 11

  It was about an hour after dark when I rolled into our driveway, Sarah’s silhouette visible inside the house as she moved back and forth past the kitchen window. I got out of the car, let go a deep sigh of relief, and headed inside. I was happy to be returning home with good news.

  “Something smells terrific,” I said as I walked through the door. “I’m famished. Feels like we ate lunch days ago.”

  Sarah dropped her spoon into the mixing bowl before coming over to wrap her arms around my neck. “You made it happen. We’re doing an overnight on Everett’s boat.”

  “Whoa, hold on,” I said, trying my best to fake her out. “I wouldn’t be so sure, if I were you.”

  “I know your energy
by now, Carter Peterson. I can always tell when things have gone your way.”

  I smiled and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “Guilty, as charged. Everett said he’d deliver the boat first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh my goodness, that’s awesome. I’m so psyched. Was he a hard sell?”

  “Ha! Everett was the easy part. I spent no more than five minutes at his place. The hard part was getting permission to tie Juneau up over at that private dock.”

  “How come?”

  “Well, first I had to locate the right person to ask. The dock belongs to a homeowner’s association with forty-eight members. Most of whom were still at work when I went over there.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, oh is right. I should have done a little more research on the place before I got there. Could have saved myself hours of wasted time.”

  “Why, what happened?”

  “Well, the first few folks I spoke with gave me quite a run-around, like they couldn’t be bothered. After an hour of that nonsense I finally spoke with a woman who was willing to cooperate. She was nice enough to give me the name and number of the guy who heads-up the association’s dock committee. So, I called the guy. At first he said no way. So, I waited for him to get home then hit him up again.”

  “What did you say to him? I mean, what made him change his mind?”

  I took off my coat, pulled my shirt sleeve back, and showed Sarah my bare wrist.

  “Your brand new watch?” she asked, a look of shock on her face. “You waited years to own that insanely expensive hunk of metal.”

  “I can get another one at some point,” I said, hands in the air. “You do what you’ve got to do, right?”

  “Oh, Carter.”

  “Yeah, well, here’s the kicker. So, after I agreed to hand over my timepiece in exchange for permission to use their dock for a few days, the guy hits me with the truth. All I really needed to do was to get any one of the forty-eight homeowners to vouch for me, and we would have been all set.”

  Sarah gave me one of her looks and shook her head. “Why do people have to be so greedy?”

  “Way of the world,” I said. “Good news is, we’re all set for the return of the Sandakan Sun.”

  “Nice work. Oh, shoot, I’d better finish mixing my batter. or you’re going to be chomping on rock-hard cookies for dessert.”

  “Can’t have that.”

  “My afternoon wasn’t quite as productive as yours. I haven’t had any luck figuring out where we might get that video footage enhanced without spending an arm and a leg. There are tons of places online, but the turnaround takes forever. I found one local place. When I called them, they said they could turn the work around in a day, but that it was going to cost us two hundred dollars.”

  “Ouch. What do you think? Is it worth the money?”

  “Can we really afford not to?” Sarah asked. “If that video was shot from a government vessel, we need to know about it. Soon.”

  “I agree. It changes the stakes, in terms of what we might be up against. Let’s go ahead and get it over to them. Where is this place located?”

  “The mall.”

  “Uh-oh. Maybe I’d better be the one to take the file over there,” I said, covering my face with my hands for effect.

  Sarah turned and gave me a dirty look. “Aww, that’s just not right. I’ve been really good about curbing my shopping habits, lately.”

  “I’ll give you that,” I said. “But, recovering gambling addicts usually have to steer clear of casinos, you know? Same rules apply here.”

  Sarah narrowed her eyes and gave me the old stare-down. “You best be careful, mister. You never know what might end up inside of these cookies I’m making for you.”

  I held my hands in the air. “I surrender. You up for running that thumb drive over there after dinner?”

  “Sure,” Sarah said. “Hey, what about Carol? Did you get some photographs of her husband and son?”

  I pulled the picture of Don and his son out of my breast pocket and brought it over to her. “Just one, but I think it’s all we’ll need.”

  “Jeez, both of the Taylor men are striking,” Sarah said as she stared at the image.

  “Guess you could say that. Wish I’d taken a better look at the three guys manning that Homeland boat this morning,” I said, pointing at Jason’s face. “Sure would be nice to know whether or not he was one of them.”

  “We couldn’t take a chance ogling them,” Sarah replied. “I totally looked the other way once that patrol boat got close. Besides, after seeing those crazy machine guns mounted on the deck, it would have been hard to look at anything else.”

  Chapter 12

  I pushed the empty paper plate toward the back corner of my desk---after polishing off half a dozen of the gooey chocolate chip cookies Sarah had made for me. Time to get busy. I was determined to figure out who this Kief Hall guy was before Sarah returned from the mall.

  It would have been way easier just to ask Everett Shapleigh for more information about Keif the fisherman, but I knew it was time to stop putting our retired friend at risk. So, I began by entering the name Keith Hall.

  I got eight hits. None of whom lived in New England.

  I tried the name Kief Hall next. There were two. Kiefer Hall Sr., and Kiefer Hall Jr.

  Both of Peoria, Illinois.

  I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. Was Kief a nickname? I was aware that folks who worked the trades often used nicknames to hail one another---their real names used only by their mothers, and mail delivery personnel.

  For lack of a better idea I typed the word keef into the search bar. It immediately came back with a definition I hadn’t anticipated: the crystals off dank marijuana buds. I smiled and typed in the name Keef Hall, also aware that many watermen enjoyed smoking nature’s happy herb.

  Pay dirt.

  As it turned out, Keef Hall, aka Charles Hall Jr., had earned himself quite a reputation in the area. Keef was a known entity to local authorities as a small-time dope dealer---likely his off-season gig when he wasn’t busy pulling lobster traps. It was at this point I recalled Everett’s words: Young Keef Hall, a local fisherman who comes and goes from time to time.

  Comes and goes, all right. To, and from, jail.

  Once I’d discovered our multitasking entrepreneur’s real name I was able to find an address, and more importantly, several social media pages belonging to the 27 year old divorcee. The home near Carol’s place belonged to a different Hall family.

  Seems our new found friend enjoyed the good life---when not behind bars---drinking in the Florida Keys, partying with locals in Jamaica, generally in search of whatever rounds of debauchery he could get himself into.

  In fact, after scrolling down through the many photos he’d posted online, I wasn’t at all surprised he’d been on the radar of local authorities. Apparently, the word discreet was never on any vocabulary study lists Hall had been handed during his abbreviated stint inside high school classrooms.

  I’d worn a badge for many years, during which time I’d had enough run-ins with dope smokers to be able to say---with confidence---I’d seen it all. But, Hall was right up there with the best of the best. This guy was hard core, his social media pictures capturing him taking pulls off of huge water bongs, smoking giant blunts fashioned from hollowed out cigars, and looking as if both his eyes were swollen shut most of the time.

  Yep. This guy was the real deal, all right.

  Lucky for us, Hall wasn’t going to be difficult to get close to. Like many members of his generation, every move he made eventually showed up on his social media platforms of choice, his activities and thoughts becoming public knowledge right after his fingers touched the keys.

  According to his last few posts, he was back in the area. And, being that he listed The Ferry Landing as one of his favorite hangs, it was only a matter of time before our paths would cross.

  One task completed, I picked up the photo of the Taylors and st
udied their mugs. I consider the practice of committing faces to memory really important when conducting investigations. In this particular case, the fact that Jason Taylor worked for Homeland Security made doing so even more important. Experience has taught me, time and time again, that recognizing a person quickly is often the deciding factor between being made versus remaining undetected.

  At this point, the last thing I needed was another Homeland employee breathing down my neck.

  I entered Jason Taylor’s name into the search bar and hit enter. The top result was a newspaper article, dating back two plus years. I clicked on it and started reading. The reporter began by touching on Taylor’s decision to quit Moray Towing in order to pursue a career with the Coast Guard, but neglected to explain why. The article then went on to cover the expected background information concerning where Taylor lived and attended school, but little else. The story was short and uninteresting.

  However, there was one aspect of the article I found very interesting: the lone photo attached to the layout.

  The picture showed Taylor dressed in his formal uniform, mother and father flanking, with a huge Coast Guard cutter floating in the background. I expanded the photo to fill my computer screen then held the photo of Jason and his dad next to it.

  The comparison was nothing short of astounding.

  I checked the date on the article again: published just over two years ago. I reexamined the photo Carol Taylor had given me. The digital date stamp on the bottom corner indicated the shot was taken less than three months ago, just as Carol said.

  I’d made no mistake in my understanding of when each image had been captured. And, I didn’t need a mathematics degree to figure out the time span between them---the calculation was simple---but, I ran the numbers a second time. My eyes weren’t allowing my brain to comprehend what I understood to be true. Nonetheless, a span of roughly two years had passed between captures of the images.