The Inn(25)

“I think you need to see someone,” I said.

“I’ll see someone when you see someone.” Nick laughed. “Maybe we could see each other? Save the money.”

“I don’t need to see anyone.”

“Really?” Nick shifted in his seat. “Is there some reason you prefer living in the basement with the rats and the paint cans and the boxes of Siobhan’s stuff rather than in the loft, as she intended? See? Don’t go poking around in my brain and I won’t go poking around in yours.”

“The veterans hospital will help you find a guy,” I said. “And if there is an up-front fee, you can take it out of your rent.”

“No, thanks,” Nick said.

“Nick—”

“No, thanks,” he snapped.

I drove us toward town in silence.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE





I DON’T KNOW what I was expecting of Mitchell Cline’s house. I suppose I thought that anyone who dealt the life-destroying products Cline did would have some stain on his home. But his house was not the filthy, smelly, half-burned bedroom of Winley Minnow or the reeking-of-excrement, forgotten seaside hole of Rick Craft.

Cline’s Queen Anne–style mansion dominated the end of Stuart Street, a curved cul-de-sac on the water. I could see why he’d chosen the spot. There was one way in and one way out by road, and an acre of forest had been cleared behind the house, making a surprise raid by the police difficult. The other houses on the block seemed almost to shy away from Cline’s; his property was bordered by towering cypresses and hedges that two gardeners, a man and a squat, sweating woman, were trimming as we pulled up. I parked at the bottom of the driveway. Two black Escalades loomed at the top of it, watched over by men who I assumed were their drivers along with some others. I counted five people near the cars and three on the porch just hanging out, texting or moving to music coming from inside the house.

Noise. It hit us as soon as we popped the doors of my car. The whir of the gardener’s trimmer and the thumping music, a pair of girls sitting on a wicker couch, laughing. It was clear who belonged to the house and who didn’t. Cline’s employees wore glimmering cuff links and tailored trousers, a jarring contrast with their scarred, tattooed knuckles and the muscles bulging against the fabric. The crowd stopped and watched us approach.

“Cline here?” I asked a big lug leaning on the front of one of the Escalades. He was missing the top of his left ear, and he sniffed the air like a hound as he looked us over.

“Who?” he said.

“We want to talk about these.” Nick, looking impossibly small next to the brute in a suit, held up the red pill we’d taken from Craft.

“You chumps are on private property.” The goon pointed to our car. “Move the shitbox before it leaks oil on the driveway and someone has to clean it up with your face.”

“Yeah. Fuck off, po-po!” one of the girls yelled, barely getting the insult out before she and her friend descended into giggles. It was clear to me that Cline and his people would require a convincing display rather than an eloquent proposal. I calmly plucked up a bucket-size potted plant from a collection by the mailbox.

“Special delivery,” I announced.

Nick watched, his arms folded, as I hurled the pot into the windshield of the Escalade.

The crunch of glass shattering, then the blaring alarm. Three of Cline’s guys rushed forward like dogs who’d been let off their leashes; two went for Nick, while the biggest one grabbed me by the shirt, put his face inches from mine. I barely maintained my calm, but as I’d expected, the noise of the crash summoned their leader.

“Boys” was all he had to say. I was let go. The two goons who had backed Nick against the car stepped away.

Cline, at the top of the stairs, cut the music with a tap on his mobile phone, which he then slipped into the back pocket of his gray slacks. He waved a hand at one of the goons on the porch, and he took out the keys and silenced the car alarm. The gardeners ran off around the side of the house, aware, it seemed, when they needed to make themselves scarce.

Cline did not act like a drug lord being harangued by a pair of local desperadoes. He seemed more like a mildly curious homeowner inspecting the work of gophers on his lawn. Cline walked down the steps, a slight frown on his otherwise perfect brow, taking in the sight of us as he tucked a hardcover book under his arm.

“I hope that’s a guide to New Hampshire,” Nick said, pointing at the book. “You’re going to need it.”

The silence Cline had seemingly willed into existence was eerie. He gave a gentle sigh, looking at the pot in the car windshield.

“Anyone get a name for these punks?” he asked.

“Bill Robinson,” I said. “Nick Jones.” I nodded at Nick. “We’re returning something you lost.”

I took the pill from Nick and tossed it at Cline’s chest. He didn’t try to catch it. Didn’t flinch. It bounced off his chest and landed on the pavement.

“I have witnesses who can connect you to the distribution of at least two of those pills,” I said. “One of which caused an overdose and another that destroyed a family home. After I ride around for a couple more days surveying the shit-storm you’ve brought down on this town, I’ll be able to connect you to some fatalities.”