Calamity (Captain Grande Angil Mysteries) Read online

  CALAMITY

  A Captain Grande Angil Mystery

  by

  B. G. Bernstein

  Calamity is a work of fiction and should be construed as nothing else. All characters, locations and incidents portrayed in the novel are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. However, the names of real locations, events and people have been used to help create an air of authenticity. The author has integrated the real and imagined for no other purpose than to tell a story. Any bias, prejudice, commentary, judgements and criticisms of real people, places and historical events, expressed or implied, are meant solely for entertainment purposes.

  Copyright © February 2012

  Robert “B.G.” Bernstein

  Robert “B.G.” Bernstein & Riverfront Press

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Photo © Steven L. Waterman

  This Print Version Published by Create Space

  ISBN-13: 978-1470194048

  ISBN-10: 147019404X

  Look for this book as a Kindle e-book

  www.seabgb.com

  www.amazon.com/author/rgbernstein

  www.alzheimersmemoir.com

  CALAMITY

  by

  B. G. Bernstein

  Riverfront Press

  Maine

  (207) 542-9805

  For you, Dad. Sorry it took so long.

  1

  The head of the State’s Permit and Licensing Division for Private Investigators was a young, strong, fat-headed state cop by the name of Randall Mortz. He was the guy I had to see to get my license. He was also the guy who liked hoops, the kind of hoops through which the little people had to jump. I wasn’t much of a hoop jumper, and not just because I weighed two-hundred forty pounds and stood six-foot-three in my bare feet.

  Mortz’s secretary looked to be in her eighties. She had on a three-quarter woolen blend skirt, white cotton blouse and a gray button-down sweater. Her face had more wrinkles than a duffel bag full of wet clothes.

  “Mr. Angil?” she said.

  “The same,” I said.

  “Go right in. The Lieutenant is waiting for you.” I thanked her with a nod and a smile and stepped into Mortz’s office.

  He hadn’t changed much since I’d seen him last. It had been two years ago at my shorefront house on the river. I had put one of my shark cages up for sale and one of the guys who wanted to buy it was a retired cop who lived and worked farther down the peninsula. This retired cop had a six-pack charter boat and was looking to get into cage diving. He and Mortz came to my house together several times. They kept telling me how interested they were in the cage. The two of them took a series of measurements on two separate occasions but then never came back. I found out later through another friend that they had built a cage of their own to my exact specifications. Never gave me a dime or even said thank you. It kind of ticked me off.

  Mortz didn’t get out of his chair. He shifted in it and adjusted himself in a way that made it obvious he was wearing a piece on his left hip. Same old Mortz. Pompous, pretentious buck who thought he was as tough as a pair of old boots. Probably pissed he ended up a pencil pusher instead of working the Interstate or criminal investigation like his real cop buddies.

  “Have we met?” Mortz said.

  “Might have,” I said as I sat in one of the two chairs opposite him.

  He was wearing a gray suit with a powder blue shirt and solid black tie. He still had his hair cut jar-head style. Trying to fit in with the commissioner and AG and be a rookie’s best friend at the same time.

  “Where are you from?” he said.

  “Originally, New York. But I’ve been living up here for the past twenty-five years.

  “I could swear we’ve met before.”

  “Might have. We travel in some of the same circles.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I’ve worked for the Attorney General on several occasions. As a professional witness.”

  “In what capacity.”

  “As a professional witness,” I said.

  Mortz shot me a look.

  “Yeah, so you just said. I mean, what was the professional capacity.”

  “The cases involved marine accidents,” I said.

  He shuffled through more of my paperwork.

  “Nope. Wasn’t that.”

  “Maybe I just have one of those faces,” I said. I didn’t need him recollecting the business about the shark cage. Didn’t want to add a kink to the approval process.

  Mortz frowned and shook his head. He picked up my application and studied the first page. “Angil. That’s a strange name. Professional captain. Self-employed.”

  “It was shortened from Angilbert.”

  “Hmm. Says here you live on the St. George Peninsula. You know a guy down there name of Bill Sanderson?”

  And there it was.

  “I know of him,” I said. “We’ve been in and out of similar businesses the last few years. I can’t say I would actually recognize him if I saw him.” I lied. I’d recognize him through a riflescope at five hundred yards.

  “Hmm. Well, it says here you worked for an investigations firm in New York twenty years ago. CBC Security and Investigations. We tried to get in touch with them but they’ve been out of business for a while.”

  “I heard that,” I said. “Too bad. I liked those guys. Good outfit.” Huge lie.

  “What kind of work did you do?” Mortz was still agonizing over the fact that he knew me but couldn’t place me. He wouldn’t have made a very good detective and probably wasn’t much of a poker player.

  “The usual. Workman’s Comp. Background checks. Paralegal work for law firms. A couple of missing persons cases.” More lies. What the hell? I needed work.

  He shuffled my papers like he was looking for something and at the same time shifted his weight and adjusted his piece. A real cop who wore his piece day in and day out would have worn it like it was another arm. I had to wonder why, if it was so damned uncomfortable, he didn’t just carry a smaller firearm. Was he expecting an army of angry ninjas right here in the office?

  “I don’t see any service record. You don’t have any military experience?”

  “Not in the U.S. Armed Forces, no.”

  He looked up from the desk and gave me his most penetrating stare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I have combat experience fighting on behalf of American interests but that I never served in the U.S. Military.” That part was true, although I wished it weren’t.

  “Really,” he said. “Please elaborate.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “You can’t tell me what you did and where.”

  “No. I can’t.”

  “That sounds kind of dubious.”

  “I’m sure it does,” I said.

  “You won’t tell me even if I told you it could cost you your investigator’s license? Or is it because if you told me you’d have to kill me?” He had a smirk on his face I wanted to smack into the next county.

  “I can tell you it wasn’t illegal, that it didn’t violate the principles of the U.S. Constitution, and that it didn’t violate my status as a U.S. Citizen. If it had, I wouldn’t be here, or I’d already be in jail. Look, Lieutenant, I’m fifty-eight years old. I was born during the Korean War to parents who suffered through World War II. I was drafted to go to Vietnam but the President ended the war and the draft retroactive to just a few numbers before mine. I never had to go. Grenada. Panama. Kuwait. Iraq. Afghanistan. Iraq again. I’ve been living in some tough times, as have you. And I’m
sure you served—”

  “I sure as hell did,” he said. Iraq six years ago.”

  “Good for you, Lieutenant. And I mean it. Seriously. But my situation was different. Something was happening somewhere and I couldn’t stand by and let it keep happening. I joined a few people who were doing their part. And that’s about all I’m willing to tell you. If it costs me my license, so be it.”

  We sat, staring at each other for a good thirty-seconds. Then he leaned forward over his desk and said: “Shark cage.”

  I guess Mortz wasn’t such an incompetent, pompous ass after all.

  2

  My license arrived in the mail two weeks after my meeting with Mortz. God bless him. Meanwhile, I had already placed an ad in the Trade Magazines and sent mailers out to two dozen law firms from Boston to Bangor. The ad had a simple message.

  Maritime Investigations

  Private – Confidential

  My first case came in around the middle of December. A woman from the Boston area telephoned and said she needed to meet with me about her son who had died in a fishing boat accident. I asked her if she wanted me to come down to her and she said that she would rather meet me in my office. Being that I didn’t have an office I told her to come to the house, where I had very quickly figured out a way to make one of the spare bedrooms look like an office.

  She was not what I expected. For one thing, she arrived in a stretch limousine driven by a very large, imposing black man by the name of Zeke. She had been sitting in the front with him, which made me wonder why they needed such a big car. Zeke was in his late thirties and didn’t talk much. Other than a folksy, little comment he made to me just before he left, he didn’t say anything more than “Ma’am” the whole time the two of them were here.

  “I’ll be right out, Zeke.”

  “Ma’am.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  “Ma’am.”

  And when he held the door for her.

  “Thank, you, Zeke.”

  “Ma’am.”

  Zeke gave me a cold, hard stare when I shook Mrs. Bowers hand. I didn’t offer him my hand but instead nodded in his direction. He stood motionless and speechless. He didn’t acknowledge the nod.

  Mrs. Bowers was in her early to middle fifties. She wore a full-length dress that went from her neck all the way down to her laced boots. The dress buttoned into a tight collar around her neck and it flowed full and round with large pleats at the bottom. It reminded me of something out of the old west.

  She looked vigorous, strong and determined and carried herself proudly. When she walked toward the house she placed one foot in front of the other with such precision I immediately thought of a runway model, a theory supported by her exceptionally good looks, long legs and narrow waist, especially for a woman her age. She was too tall for a ballerina.

  I had taken the bed and bureau from the spare bedroom and stuck them both in the barn, picked up a desk at Staples, a few chairs, added some wall decorations and photos, a bookcase with old copies of the Maine statutes and a few college books. The last accouterment was a file cabinet from Goodwill in the corner. It was stuffed with empty file folders and a half-empty bottle of The Glenlivett.

  Mrs. Bowers walked through the door and glanced around, then sat in the chair across from my desk. I don’t think she was fooled.

  “Can I get you something?” I said. “Tea? Coffee?”

  “I will have a glass of water with ice,” she said. “And a spoon, please.”

  I got it for her. She used the spoon to dig the ice cubes out of the glass and suck on them.

  “Captain, Angil is it?” she said as I sat down.

  “Grande will be fine,” I said.

  “But you are a captain? You know about boats, Your ad said you specialize in maritime cases.” She chewed a piece of ice. The way she seemed to sit in the chair suggested she had arthritis or an old injury.

  “I’m a Coast Guard licensed captain, sixteen hundred ton, all oceans, motor driven vessels and auxiliary sail vessels. I have about thirty years experience running small boats, OSVs, ferries, tour boats, schooners, pilot boats, that sort of thing. No big ship or big tug work, though. Are you here because you want me to run a boat for you?”

  She took a moment to answer and then said, “No.”

  I waited.

  “I’m here because I want you to find evidence that a man who lives in this area killed my son,” she said.

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Bowers, but that sounds like a police matter.”

  “It was, and they’ve done all they can. They didn’t find anything.”

  “You’re not satisfied with their conclusions?”

  “No. I’m not. I think he was responsible and I want somebody to look into it further. I’m willing to pay, whatever it takes.” She looked around for a place to set her glass and spoon. I got out of my chair, took the glass from her and placed it on the file cabinet, then went back and sat down. She folded her hands in her lap.

  “In the event you’re suggesting it, and I’m not saying you are, I won’t fabricate evidence or build a case that supports a theory or single point of view. The truth is what it is. You understand?”

  She nodded.

  “If I gave you the impression that’s what I wanted I apologize,” she said.

  “Why don’t you give me some history, Mrs. Bowers.”

  There was a long pause during which she looked up at the ceiling, the window, her hands in her lap and the floor. When she was glancing at the ceiling, her neck stretched out of her collar just a little and I could see the edge of a scar or graft. She seemed to sense my stare almost immediately and turned toward me. We looked hard into each other’s eyes for a moment. I couldn’t tell if she was hiding something or if she was shy or embarrassed. Her behavior seemed almost clinical.

  “My son was in his twenties when he died,” she said. “It happened on a small fishing boat. They went out on a very bad day and my son got killed. They told me Aaron had an embolism because he was spitting blood. According to this man, the captain – his name is Pete Tanner – he called the Coast Guard and headed for shore when he saw the blood. But on the way in, the boat either hit something floating in the water or something broke. Tanner was rescued but Aaron’s body was never found.”

  “I vaguely remember this,” I said. “It was last winter. There was a Coast Guard casualty investigation. What did they tell you?”

  “They told me they tested Tanner for drugs and alcohol and he tested negative. But it had already been several days. They also said they had no reason to suspect anything other than what Tanner told them.”

  “You’re not satisfied.”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Do you have any basis for your suspicions, Mrs. Bowers. Any reason to think it happened any other way than the way Tanner said it happened?”

  She said nothing.

  “When was the last time you spoke to your son?” I said.

  She sighed and looked out the window. We could see Zeke. He was leaning against the limo having a smoke, occasionally glancing our way. I wasn’t sure if he could see us or if his view of us was blanketed by the glare and reflection from the afternoon sun.

  “We were estranged,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “How long had it been?”

  “About thirteen years.”

  It was my turn to hesitate. I thought of my own mother, about going overseas and not telling anyone where I was for four years.

  “And he was how old when he died?” I said.

  “Twenty-two.”

  “So you hadn’t talked to him since he was nine.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “That’s a long estrangement.”

  “Yes.”

  “Had you seen him?”

  “I saw him once. I came up when he started fishing with Mr. Tanner. He didn’t want to talk to me but I went to the wharf and watched him load the boat. He waved as they were leaving.”

/>   She took a handkerchief from one of her pockets and dabbed a tear or two from both eyes. I decided I didn’t need to ask any more of those types of questions.

  “Now let me ask you something, Captain Angil.”

  “Grande is fine. My friends call me Gray, or sometimes just G. You can call me captain if we’re on a boat and I’m running the thing.”

  She nodded.

  “How long have you been doing this type of work.”

  “Not as long as I’ve been a professional captain.”

  “How long?”

  “About three months.” Maybe I did have some scruples.

  “That’s not very long.”

  “No.”

  “Have you had many cases like this?”

  “No. This would be my first.”

  “Your first murder case.”

  “I’ll be honest with you, Mrs. Bowers. This will be my first case. Period. Furthermore, this is not a murder case. Not by a long shot. Believe me when I tell you I’m very sorry to hear about your son, very, very sorry. But the Coast Guard and the police have investigated and concluded there was no wrongdoing. I can tell you as a professional captain that it’s very hard to lose a boat and infinitely harder to lose a shipmate. Maybe this man Tanner did something he regrets. Maybe he made some bad decisions out there. Doesn’t mean he killed your son. Lastly, Ma’am, although I want a job and need one, I can’t take your money without being entirely upfront with you. To be honest, there are things I can help with and things I can’t. Why don’t we start there and then you can decide if you want to hire me. Is that OK?”

  She dabbed at her eyes again with the handkerchief and nodded. I then gave her a step-by-step explanation of what I was willing to do for her, namely, the footwork, talk with the Coast Guard and the police, look over the case files and see if anything was overlooked. I told her I would meet with Tanner and other fishermen and dockworkers. I would go to the marinas and boat yards. I would even take my boat to the site of the ‘incident’ and take photos. When I was done, she would have a great deal more than what she had now, which was little more than a statement from the police and Coast Guard that her son died in a tragic commercial fishing accident. From me, she would get a breakdown of everything that happened the day of the sinking and possibly everything that happened the week leading up to it.