Deadly Waters Pt. 08

"919," Sean repeated, and then copied down the rest of the number and read it back for confirmation.

"That's her cell. Is there a problem?"

"No, no problem. Thank you. Who am I speaking with?"

"Chet Holland."

"Thank you, Chet."

"You're welcome."

Hearing the probable murder of Thacker on his phone had been like a gut punch. During his time as a patrol officer, he'd worked assaults, muggings, and once, a shooting. Until now, Thacker's murder had been an academic exercise, a puzzle to solve, like the cases he worked on when he was heading up the cybercrime task force. That was until he heard Thacker's voice, especially at the end, when Thacker was obviously fearing for his life and in pain. That had made him human and real. He didn't want to go home to an empty apartment, not right now. He tended to dwell on cases, and he didn't want to think about this one until in the morning.

He picked up the phone and dialed the number Chet had given him. "Hello?"

"Maggie, it's Sean."

"Sean? Is something wrong?"

"No. I was wondering if you'd care to join me for dinner? I'll treat."

There was a pause. "Sean McGhee, are you asking me out on a date?" she asked, her tone mischievous and playful.

He smiled, rather liking how that sounded. "I don't feel like eating alone tonight," he said, dodging the question.

"Are you okay? You sound a little down."

His smile faded. "Tough day at work. It's why I don't want to eat alone."

"You know what? I just realized I don't want to eat alone either. You want to meet somewhere?"

His smile returned. "Sure. You name the time and place, and I'll meet you there."

"You like Italian?"

"Love it."

"Mangia, then. It's a block off Main, say six-thirty? That'll give me a chance to change."

He glanced at the clock. It was almost six. There was no way for him to get home, change, and be back in time. "I'll see you there."

Sean was standing outside the entrance to Mangia when he saw Maggie's blue Civic pull into the parking lot. He smiled to himself and wandered in that direction, meeting her at the halfway point between her car and the entrance.

"Thank you for joining me on such short notice," he said. "You look nice," he added with a smile.

Maggie was dressed in tight fitting faded blue jeans, a pair of stylish black boots with a low heel, and a bright red sweater top. It was the first time he'd seen her in anything other than the bright blue shirt the employees at the treatment plant wore.

"Why, thank you, Chief McGhee. I was just about to start dinner, so your timing was perfect."

He rolled his eyes. "If you call me that, I'll have to call you ROC Neese."

"It's ORC, Operator in Responsible Charge."

"Oh. Sorry. Why isn't it Responsible Operator in Charge? That makes more sense to me."

She smiled and shrugged. "Government. Come on, let's go in. It's cold out here. Aren't you freezing?"

He was wearing nothing but his long sleeve Brunswick PD shirt. "No. It's probably fifty-five."

"Like I said, it's cold," she said as she looped her arm around his and dragged him along.

"Two please," he said as they stepped into the small, cozy restaurant.

Mangia shared space in what was locally known as the Old Great Eastern Building, a large, two-story, red brick structure that had housed the Great Eastern Insurance Company when it was built in the 1920s. While Great Eastern was long gone, folded, or gobbled up in mergers, its building continued on with new businesses occupying its space. While it was early twentieth century American office building on the outside, inside Mangia was a little slice of Italy. Its light stucco walls, cream tile floors with a dark grout, and decorative architecture on doorways, windows, and walls, made the place resemble an Italian villa. Spread through the room were about twenty-five small tables sporting red tablecloths and white napkins. A white tablecloth, turned at a forty-five-degree angle, was used as an overlay, allowing the red to peek out at the corners. The décor made the interior warm and inviting, and it was obviously a popular place with many of the tables already occupied.

"Right this way," the hostess said as she picked up a pair of menus and led them to a table under a green and white awning shading a fake window. "Your waiter will be right with you."

Sean, remembering his manners, held Maggie's chair for her.

"Such a gentleman," she said as she took her chair, and then smiled across the table as he sat down. "So... how was your day?" she asked, teasing him about having a bad day. His smile instantly disappeared and she grimaced. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

He forced his smile back. "No, it's okay."

"Is it the mayor again?"

He snickered as he shook his head. "No, nothing like that, not this time." He paused as he thought over what he could, and couldn't, say. "It's the Thacker case. I can't give you any details, but it kind of got to me today."

She nodded in sympathy. "I heard about Locoste. Don't let it get to you."

If she only knew, he thought to himself. "Enough about work. If I wanted to think about that, I would've gone home," he said, forcing some playful enthusiasm into his voice.

"Good idea," she agreed as their waiter arrived.

They placed their drink order, Maggie ordering a tea and Sean sticking with water, and then picked up their menus. "What's good?" he asked.

"I always get the lasagna or the fettuccine alfredo. They're both to die for."

"Is that what you're going to order tonight?" he asked, watching her over the top of his menu.

"Yeah, probably."

"Okay, you get one and I'll get the other."

"So you can try some of mine?" she asked, her tone playful.

He gave her a small shrug and a mischievous smile. "Maybe."

She giggled and placed her menu on the table. "So long as I get a taste of yours."

"What will people think, us eating off each other's plate?" he asked.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as her lips twisted into an impish grin. "They'll think I want to taste your lasagna and you wanted to try my fettuccine."

"That's what you're having?"

"Yeah, I think so. There's enough I can take the leftovers home and have them for lunch tomorrow."

The waiter returned with their drinks. "What can I get you folks?" They placed their orders, Sean adding a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon to his order, Maggie a sweet Chardonnay. The waiter gave them a nod in approval before picking up the menus. "I'll get that in for you. Would you like some bread?"

"Yes, please," Sean said. "One of my weaknesses," he added to Maggie as their waiter left with their order.

"Mine too." She puffed her cheeks out. "I have to watch how much of it I eat or I'll be big as a cow."

He snorted in disbelief. "I find that hard to believe."

"Oh, God yes. I'll have to do an extra run to burn off tonight's meal."

"You're a runner?"

She grinned. "Define runner. Do I run? Yes. Do I compete? No. I'm too slow."

"Oh, so like me being a weightlifter. Do I lift? Yes. Do I compete? I think looking at me answers that."

"At least you're not fat."

"No. The BPD had fitness guidelines you had to meet."

"Brunswick or Boston?"

He flashed her a smile. "Both."

They looked up as the waiter returned with their wine, along with a basket of bread and a small plate of olive oil with spices in it.

"Oh, hot!" Maggie said, juggling a piece of bread out of the basket. "So, tell me, Sean, what do you do when you're not the chief of police?"

"Now? Not much. I haven't had time to develop many friends. At home, I tinkered on my car and fiddled around the house. I had a little sailboat that I used to take out in the harbor sometimes. I'm looking for a house, but so far, I haven't found anything I like. What amazes me is the cost of housing down here," he said as he quickly pulled a roll from the basket. He dropped it on his plate and fanned his fingers a moment, to cool them, before ripping off a bite-sized chunk.

"High or low?" she asked as she dipped a piece of bread into the oil then popped it into her mouth.

"Low. My wife and I had a little two story in Newton, about two thousand square feet. For what I sold the place for, I can buy a mansion down here."

"Where's Newton?"

"Outside Boston. It's where the Fig Newton comes from."

"No kidding?"

"No kidding."

"I'm curious. What does a two-thousand square foot house typically go for in Newton?"

Sean smiled as he dipped his bread into the oil, interested in seeing her reaction. "I got five twenty-five for it."

She stared at him a moment, her eyes wide. "You're not kidding," she finally said.

"Nope. That's what I mean when I said the price of housing down here is low."

"Wow!" she breathed. "I don't know how people afford to live there. My house is about eighteen hundred square feet on three acres, and I think we only paid about one seventy. Of course, that was a few years ago, and the house is a little older, but wow!"

He shrugged. "My house was built in 1923."

She grinned. "Okay, not that old. Mine was built in the eighties. So, you live in an apartment now?"

"Yeah. I'm still looking. I want something small, but with a big yard. I've never had a yard to speak of. In Newton I mowed with an old-fashioned reel mower because I didn't have enough grass to bother with a power mower. You know the kind, where you push it and that makes the blades spin?" He gave her a crooked smile. "I want one of those riding mowers to ride around on."

"Be careful what you wish for. I have to mow three acres, and I have to tell you, that gets real old, real fast."

He nodded in understanding. "Kind of like me and snow."

"Yeah, something like that I guess."

The waiter arrived with their food.

"This looks good," he said, hot fingering the small baking dish into place in front of him.

"Wait until you try it."

They ate in silence a moment. "This is really good. Want to try it?" he asked.

She grinned at him but gave her head a quick shake. "Yes, but no."

Using his unused spoon, he cut off a bite sized piece from the end he hadn't touched yet and transferred it to the edge of her plate. "There. I never touched it."

She giggled. "It wasn't that, but if I'm eating off your plate, this is definitely a date."

He grinned and shrugged, but didn't meet her eyes. "I've had worse," he said just loud enough for her to hear before taking another bite of his lasagna.

"So, you're a sailor?" she asked to start the conversation again and fill the growing silence.

"I'd hardly call myself a sailor. I had a sixteen-foot Capitol Neptune I used to play around with. I never got out in the rough water. I had this idea that Stephanie, that's my ex-wife, and I would do some sailing around the harbor. Turned out she gets seasick in a bathtub, so that was a total bust."

"Maybe you should have asked her about that before you bought the thing."

"She'd never been on the water before, at least not in something so small, so she didn't know."

"Do you miss it?"

"The boat? Not a bit. Turned out I didn't enjoy it as much as I thought I would. I'd take it out once or twice a year, and that was enough to remind me of why I didn't take it out more often." He smirked. "Do you know what boat stands for?"

"What?" she asked before forking in another bite of her fettuccine.

"Bust out another thousand. I don't know how anything that small could cost so much."

She grinned. "I'd always heard that a boat was a hole in the water you threw money into."

"That too. What do you do when you're not the... was it ORC?"

"Yeah. Nothing much. I watch a lot of movies. I'm a huge movie buff, so TC and I do a lot of Netflix and chill."

"Really? What kind of movies?"

"Pretty much anything except slashers. Those," she shook her head as she rolled her eyes, "everyone in them is too stupid to live and I end up cheering for the slasher guy to kill them all."

He chuckled, liking her wit and how her ponytail moved when she shook her head like that. "Okay," he said, drawing the word out.

"I'll still watch one occasionally if there's a twist on the theme. I watched Tucker and Dale vs. Evil a couple of months back and laughed my butt off."

"Haven't seen it."

"It's on streaming right now. You should watch it. It's a pretty good flick."

"Maybe I'll check it out. I started a subscription to Netflix when I moved down here."

They ate in silence a moment, the conversation lagging. "So, did you bring your boat with you when you moved?" she asked, jump-starting the conversation again.

"No. I sold it, along with everything else, before I moved. The only thing I brought with me was my Jag, clothes, cat, and enough furniture for a small apartment. I'm making a fresh start."

She looked surprised. "Jag? As in Jaguar, the car? You have a Jag?"

"Yeah, a '66 E-Type."

She beamed, obviously intrigued. "No kidding? That's like the one Austin Powers drove. Does it run? What color is it? Does it have the Union Jack painted on it?"

He snickered, surprised and amused by her enthusiasm over the car and the rapid-fire questions. "Yes, it runs. It belonged to my dad. He bought it used in the late seventies some time. He gave it to me a few years back, when they moved to Florida, and I had it freshened up. He, and the previous owner, only drove it on nice summer days, so miracle of miracles, it was rust free. And no, it doesn't have the Union Jack painted on it. I had it repainted in the original BRG."

"BRG? What's that?"

"British racing green. A really dark green."

"That's awesome! You don't see many of those down here. You should have entered it in the car show at the Brunswick Stew Festival."

"Maybe next year. Car shows aren't really my thing. I like to look, but not sit around all day while someone else looks at my car." He paused then gave her a sideways smile. "Want a ride?" he asked, his delivery slow and inviting.

"Is it a convertible?"

"Yes."

"Kind of chilly, don't you think?"

He snickered. "It has a top and a heater," he assured her.

She smiled and nodded. "Then sure, I'd love one. I've never been in a Jag before, old or new."

"Next time I get it out, I'll let you know. If you're available, I'll come by and pick you up."

"Thanks, Sean. It's nice of you to offer. Maybe I'll put a scarf over my head, get some old-fashioned sunglasses, and have you take a picture."

She struck a movie star like pose, tilting her head slightly to the side as she beamed at him, her hand on the side of her face and her little finger just touching her lips. It was a very flirty pose that she was good at, and he felt that tingle of attraction again.

"It would be my pleasure," he said, returning her smile.

They finished eating, talking about whatever came to mind. He was in no hurry to go, enjoying Maggie's company as more than just a distraction from work.

"As much as I don't want to go," he said, slowly spinning his wine glass on the table between his fingers, "Marmalade probably thinks I've forgotten about him and he's going to starve."

Maggie smiled, her eyes warm. "Thanks for inviting me to dinner," she said, and then twisted for her purse.

"I said it was my treat," he reminded her.

"I don't mind paying for my own meal."

"My treat, seriously. What kind of date would it be if I made you buy your own dinner?" he asked with a slight grin.

"So, it is a date?" she asked, her eyes dancing and her tone playful.

"You said it was when I put the lasagna on your plate."

She grinned, holding her purse up so he could see it. "Last chance," she warned.

"I've got it."

She dropped her purse. "Then thank you very much. I've had a lovely evening."

He looked down as he smiled to himself. So had he. He placed his credit card in the bill folder and set it at the edge of the table. "You're welcome. Thank you for keeping me out of my own head."

"Bad, huh?"

"Not good."

"But you'll be alright?"

"Oh sure. I just tend to think too much if I'm alone."

"Marmalade is there."

"Yeah, but he gets in my lap, goes to sleep, and then I might as well be alone. He acts like he's exhausted from having to sleep all day."

"I've always lived around here. I can imagine it's hard when you don't have friends close." He shrugged. "Tell you what... anytime you don't want to be alone in your head, as you said, give me a call. If I'm not busy, you can buy me dinner. How's that for a great offer?" she asked, obviously trying to lighten the suddenly somber mood.

He chuckled. "Best offer I've had in months."

"Seriously. Give me a call. I won't even make you buy dinner."

He smiled and nodded, strangely touched that she made the offer. "Thanks, Maggie."

"My pleasure."

After paying the check he walked her to her car. He felt the pleasant warmth of her company, that unidentifiable something that comes from being attracted to someone and wanting to be with them. He thought about kissing her, but like the last time, decided not to. She was no longer a suspect, but he didn't want there to be even a whisper of scandal, so he settled for opening the car door for her.

"Thanks again. I enjoyed it."

She plopped into the car. "So did I," she said, looking up at him with a big grin.

He smiled at her and pushed her door shut. He watched until she backed out and then pulled away with a cheerful wave. He raised his hand in return and then made his way to his own car.

"Good morning, magistrate," Sean said. "I'm here for a warrant for the arrest of Steven T. Locoste. 3086 Turkey Trot Lane, Brunswick, for the murder of Jonathan Boyd Thacker."

"Murder?"

"That's right."

"You found what you were looking for?"

"Yes, sir."

"Show me."

As before, Sean went over the file, glossing over the parts Hank had already seen, and then showing him copies of the spreadsheets where he'd worked out Locoste was generating more waste than he was properly disposing of.

"Anything else?" Hank asked when Sean had finished.

"Yes. I found these audio and video recordings on Thacker's phone, which I recovered at what I believe is the murder scene. I transferred them to my computer."

Sean booted his computer and clicked on the video file. Hank watched the entire clip before commenting. "Is that Locoste's truck?"

"Yes. It's hard to tell in the video, though it's the right type and color, but in the audio, Thacker reads off the plate number. The plate is registered to Locoste Trucking. I'll play the audio clips in the order they were recorded. There are three of them, probably because the VAR function of the recorder ended each clip when there was a moment of quiet."

He played the clips, and again Hank sat quietly until they were finished. "Is that Locoste's voice on the recording?"

"Locoste is known to me, and it sounds like his voice."

"Then I've heard enough," Hank said. "I assume you're going to execute the warrant today?"

"Yes, sir."

"Please wait outside."

"You're warrant, chief. Good luck," a tiny Asian woman said, handing him the piece of paper.

"Thank you," he replied, taking the document.

He hurried to his cruiser, started his car, and then pulled out his cell and dialed.

"Brunswick Police Department, how may I help you?"

"Terri, it's Sean."

"How can I help you, chief?" Terri asked.

"Who's on duty?"

"Fish and Chips, Donner and Caswell. Caswell is working an accident at the moment."

"Okay. Have Chips meet me at LoCoste Adhesives in forty minutes."

"I'll get him rolling."

Sean acknowledged, tossed his phone into the passenger seat, and then put his car in gear and backed out of the parking spot. As he drove to LoCoste Adhesives, he mulled over all the possibilities. Locoste could submit without protest, he could run, he could struggle, or he could engage them with a weapon. The most likely scenario was that he'd submit, and the least likely was that he'd start shooting, but the other two scenarios were also possible. That's why he wanted Chips with him. He wanted the option of non-lethal force if Steve decided to put up a fight. He hadn't qualified with a Taser yet, but it was something he was going to do as soon as possible.