25
Houston and Bouchard were scanning the menu at a steakhouse when Sam Fuchs called. “Willard Fischer,” he said, “lives on Northeast Cove about thirty miles north of Portland according to the DMV. I checked with the Department of Marine Resources, and they said that he does both charter and commercial fishing. I have a number.”
Houston took a notebook out of his pocket and wrote down the number. “When you want to go fishing?” he asked Fuchs.
“Whenever you can arrange it.”
Houston disconnected the call and put his phone on the table. “We found him,” he said.
“Now what?”
“Now we go after the son of a bitch.”
_________________
Fuchs met Houston and Bouchard in a coffee shop across from the public library in Portland’s Monument Square. They sat at an outside table and watched a group of protesters standing along the sidewalk.
“What are they protesting?” Bouchard asked Fuchs.
“Probably the fact that they have nothing to protest about.”
Houston grinned, took a drink of coffee, and said, “So any suggestions on how we should go about this?”
“I figure we call and make an appointment to see him and his boat. That way we have an excuse to go there and see the layout. Hopefully we’ll see something that will get a judge to issue a search warrant.”
“Who’s the front man on this?”
“Don’t look at me,” Bouchard said.
“I’ll call,” Houston said. He turned to Anne and said, “I don’t want him to get suspicious, so I want you to stay out of it.”
She bristled. “You know I can take care of myself.”
“Didn’t say you couldn’t, I just think you being there will interfere with my cover story.”
“What’s your story going to be?” Bouchard asked.
“We’ll keep it simple. Two old buddies out for a day of drinking beer and fishing,” Fuchs said.
“I’ll make the call,” Houston said.
_________________
Fischer placed the paint sprayer on the workbench. He stared at the truck, which was now a shade of light brown similar to that of split pea soup. He nodded, sure that no one would recognize it—not that it mattered that much. It was headed for retirement anyhow. He walked out of the barn and closed the door behind him.
He stood in the dark, smoked a cigarette, and stared at the window of Cheryl’s room. She had been here for almost a month, and he still did not know if she was the one who would finally appeal to him. As much as he liked this one, she had not been able to excite him.
He heard the phone ringing and tossed the cigarette away before he entered the house. Once inside, he grabbed the phone from its cradle on the wall and said, “Fischer Charters.”
“My name is Houston, Mike Houston, and a friend and I are interested in chartering your boat for a day of fishing.”
“Okay.”
“We’d like to visit you, see your boat—you know, stuff like that.”
“When you want to come?”
“Would tomorrow morning be alright?”
“What time?”
“Well, we’re driving from Portland, so how about ten o’clock?”
“Sure. You know the way?”
“I have a GPS.” Houston read the address.
“See you tomorrow at ten.” Fischer hung up. He looked at the staircase leading to the bedrooms upstairs. He popped a breath mint into his mouth. Mum would go ape shit if she smelled smoke on him. He climbed the stairs and turned toward her room. He would take care of Mum and then make sure the boat was shipshape for tomorrow’s visitors.