Catch and release, p.1
Catch and Release, page 1
ACCLAIM FOR THE WORK OF TRACE CONGER
“Trace Conger is establishing himself as one of the most original voices in crime fiction.” - Gregory Petersen, author of Open Mike and The Dream Thief
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"Mirage Man is a propulsive novel that churns with energy and tension." - Vick Mickunas, NPR's Book Nook
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“Conger’s writing is direct. It moves clearly and quickly, perfect for thrillers.” - Ronald Tierney, author of the Deets Shanahan Mysteries
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“The Mr. Finn series breathes new life into the P.I. genre… It is one of the best detective series I’ve ever read.” - Gumshoes, Gats and Gams
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“The Prison Guard’s Son is a superbly crafted crime novel. The characters are richly drawn with a rare combination of nuance and depth... This is one of the year’s best books.” - Mysterious Reviews
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“The Shadow Broker tips a handsome hat in the direction of old-fashioned pulp fiction and it does so with considerable style. The writing is fluid and the plot pumps along.” - Murder, Mayhem & More
CONTENTS
1. The Man in the Canoe
2. Not My Pig
3. Postcard Anatomy
4. Murders, Maps, and Motives
5. Savage Season
6. The Calais Library
7. A Sinking Feeling
8. The Man in the Mercedes
9. Leaving on A Jet Plane
10. Photographic Evidence
11. Smile and Dial
12. She Sells Sanctuary
13. Jessica Winslow
14. A Familiar Voice
15. Finding Justin Friedman
16. Not-So-Dead Ends
17. Alfred
18. Tampa International
19. Plan B
20. Loose Ends
21. Mr. Fish
Connor Harding Will Return
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also By Trace Conger
Catch and Release
Copyright © 2022 by Trace Conger
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All rights reserved.
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Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, brands, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover design by 100Covers.
Interior design and formatting by the handsome devils at
Black Mill Books
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ISBN-13: 978-1-957336-05-3
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Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Conger, Trace
Catch and Release (A Connor Harding Novel) — 1st edition
For Beth.
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Inspiration can be hard to find. You make it easy.
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Thank you for filling my life with joy, love, and optimism.
1
THE MAN IN THE CANOE
Connor Harding watched from the front porch as the man with the shoebox in his lap paddled the rented canoe toward the dock. He was a few hundred feet out, and the wind wasn’t cooperating. That, combined with the angry lake, tossed the canoe from side to side, almost upending it.
The middle-aged man inside the boat was imposing. He probably played football in his younger days. His solid frame, an asset in most situations, worked against him in the small canoe, which rocked back and forth, fighting the wind.
The lake toyed with him. Every time he aligned the front of the canoe with the dock, a gust knocked him off course and spun him in the choppy water.
Setting his binoculars down, Connor left the porch and walked to the dock. Generations of soft moss and decaying pine needles soothed the bottoms of his bare feet. When he reached the water, he noticed the man in the canoe wasn’t any closer.
He sat on the edge of the dock, plunged his feet in the cool water, and refocused his gaze on the man struggling against the wind. For a moment, he considered firing up the pontoon boat tied to the other side of the boathouse, going out, and towing the canoe in. But that would mean a trip back to the main house for the boat key, a lot of work for a man on vacation.
Another five minutes, and the canoe was close enough. Connor stood up, grabbed a nearby rope, and tossed it out, keeping a firm grip on one end. It landed across the big man’s shoulder. The oar slipped from his hand when he reached for the rope, but somehow he managed to secure both without capsizing. After he wedged the shoebox between his thighs, he laid the oar across the canoe and looked for a place to tie off the rope.
“Just hold on to it,” yelled Connor. “I’ll pull you in.”
The man complied, and a few moments later, Connor had pulled him to the dock.
“Tie your line to the cleat and watch your step getting out. Those things tip real easy.”
The man released his vice-like grip on the shoebox, placed it on the dock, and used the oar to push it as far from the edge as possible. Then he took the bowline and looked up at Connor.
“What’s a cleat?”
“That metal thing on the edge of the dock.” Connor kicked it for emphasis.
“Right.” The man wrapped the line around the cleat and tied it off with a knot Connor had never seen.
“First time in Maine?” said Connor.
“Yes.” The man clumsily climbed out of the canoe and retrieved the shoebox.
As he stood up, Connor took him all in. He was even bigger than expected. Six-foot-four, at least. The man was in his late thirties. He had wind-blown hair that Connor assumed had been neatly combed before he climbed into Mitch Skinner’s canoe. The expensive slacks and dress shoes said he’d either never spent time on a lake before or didn’t have time to pack a proper bag. He looked important. Too important to take a commercial flight into Bangor and drive the two-plus hours to Meddybemps Lake. No, he had likely chartered a private plane into Eastport Municipal Airport, twenty-five miles away.
“Boone,” said the man.
Connor waved him toward the house. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming. Mitch radioed me when you left the town dock an hour ago.”
“I had a hard time on the lake. The wind kept pushing me around.”
“Yeah, it’ll do that. Why didn’t Mitch give you the motorboat? You could have made the trip in ten minutes.”
“He said there wasn’t a motorboat.”
Connor sneered. “There’s a motorboat. He’s just screwing with you.”
The wind picked up and the shoebox lid lifted from the box, but the big man snapped it back down.
“Let’s get this over with,” said Connor, leading the way up the worn path to the main house.
When they reached the porch, Connor opened a second folding chair and placed it across from the one he’d been sitting in earlier. “Have a seat.”
“I appreciate you meeting with me,” said Boone. “My employer does too.”
“I normally don’t talk business on vacation, but I’m hearing you out as a favor to my brother.”
Boone nodded and opened the shoebox. “How much has your brother told you?”
“He said someone murdered your boss’s wife and kid, what, ten years ago?”
“Twelve,” he corrected. “Debra and Sydney.”
“Right. And now he wants to find whoever’s responsible.”
“That’s the bones of it.”
“He also said your employer, Little Freddie, is it?”
“That’s right.”
“Said he’s wrapped up with some pretty bad people. Seems obvious the murders and his job are connected.” Connor nodded to the shoebox. “That the evidence?”
“Yes.” Boone opened the box and handed it to Connor.
Inside were a dozen postcards.
“He gets one every year on the anniversary of the murders,” said Boone. “Taunting him.”
Connor plucked them out and flipped through them. Some had photos of famous landmarks, like the Hoover Dam and Yellowstone. Others were black and white photos of people playing instruments or dancing. Some were reproductions of famous paintings. But it wasn’t the photos Connor was interested in. It was the writing on the back. Connor held one up, tilting it just right to catch the narrow sunbeam coming in from between the pine trees.
* * *
Sydney screamed. Your wife didn’t. I think she was trying to keep a brave face for her daughter. I bet she thought if she wasn’t afraid, your daughter wouldn’t be afraid either. I guess it doesn’t matter much, but I killed your wife first.
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He tossed it back into the shoebox and picked up another.
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Tiptoes wore a dancer’s outfit the night I stabbed her. Some shiny red thing with fringe. It was the same color as her blood. I kept her dance shoes.
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“And he gets one every year?” asked Connor.
“Like clockwork.”
“Is there anything in here that gives us a lead on who’s sending them?”
“No. Just taunts. Details about the murders, but nothing about the killer or anything else that sheds light on who’s behind it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Freddie’s read those a million times. He’d have noticed an important detail if it was in there.”
Connor noted the postmark on the card. San Diego. “It’s obviously connected to someone your boss had a run-in with. Why not cross-reference a list of Freddie’s enemies with anyone he knows in San Diego?”
“Look at the other postmarks.”
Connor flipped to another card. Cody, Wyoming. He looked at another. New York, New York. And another. Lincoln, Ohio.
“They’re from all over,” said Boone. “No two were sent from the same city. And Freddie isn’t convinced the murders were connected to his job.”
“Bullshit. He’s a contract killer. It’s connected.”
“No one knew that when this happened. His own family didn’t know. His wife thought he was a business consultant.”
“Someone knew.”
“Then that’s who you need to find.”
“Why me?”
“Because your brother owes Little Freddie a favor. And we hear you’re good at finding people.” Boone stood up. “So we expect you to get started.” He reached into his sock, removed a cell phone, and handed it to Connor. “There’s a number in the contact list. Freddie will be waiting for updates.”
“You always keep a phone in your sock?”
“You saw the size of that canoe. Where was I supposed to put it?”
Connor took the phone and tossed it into the shoebox with the postcards. “That’s not going to work on the island. Only the mainland.” He snatched a boat key from the decaying table next to the front door. “Follow me.”
He led Boone down to the boathouse and around the dock to the pontoon boat. He fired the two MerCruiser engines, untied the lines, and eased away from the dock. When he was far enough out, he threw the throttle down and put 400-horsepower behind them. They were at the town dock in minutes. Connor didn’t bother tying up. He wasn’t going to be there long.
After Boone stepped onto the dock, he wrapped his thick hands around the boat’s aluminum frame and leaned back in.
“We expect results, Connor. Freddie isn’t someone you want to owe favors.”
“I don’t owe him anything.”
“No, you don’t. But your brother does.”
As Boone walked toward the black Mercedes in the small parking lot, Connor threw the throttle down and tore away from the dock. Once he made it to the middle of the lake, he killed the engine and clicked on the marine radio. He popped the receiver off the unit and pressed the button with his thumb.
“Mitch, you there?”
He waited for a bit and then tried again.
“Mitch here, over.”
“This is Connor. You can pick up your busted-ass canoe at my dock.”
“What happened to your visitor?”
“Just dropped him off. Figured that was faster than sending him back in your rental. Why didn’t you give him the motorboat?”
“Because I pegged him as an asshole,” said Mitch. “Was he?”
“Too soon to tell.”
Connor was about to throw the throttle again when Mitch squawked back on the radio.
“Not sure if it’s worth mentioning, but there was another fella in the car with the big guy.”
“That right?”
“Yeah. He got out of the car and went into the community center. Probably for the AC. Older fella. Short white hair. Wore a black turtleneck and gray slacks. Obviously not from around here.”
“Thanks for the info,” said Connor. “I suspect I’ll run into him sooner or later.”
He clicked off the radio, buried the throttle, and returned to the cabin to get his fishing gear.
2
NOT MY PIG
Connor had come to his family’s cabin on Meddybemps Lake to fish. The place was remote, and besides fishing, the only thing there was to do out there was nothing, which Connor also liked. After two hours of fighting smallmouth bass in his favorite cove, Connor hauled up the boat anchor and headed for the town dock. Every summer, the Harding family rented dock space from Mitch Skinner across the lake, and Conner would usually tie up there whenever he went to the mainland. That wasn’t the destination today. Connor was headed to Palmer’s Restaurant and Grocery for a late lunch, and the town dock was much closer to the restaurant than Mitch’s place.
Except for the two fishing boats Connor passed, the lake was deserted. Meddybemps Lake didn’t like boaters. It was full of rocks the size of Volkswagens that turned steel boat props into confetti. The lake froze to three feet every winter, and the melting ice moved even the giant rocks, so those boat crushers were not in the same place year after year. The only ones who trusted a boat on Meddybemps Lake were townies who had lived there long enough to know the areas to avoid. Connor wasn’t a townie, but his family had owned the cabin for close to a hundred years, and he’d been coming here since he could walk. The only thing that betrayed him as an outsider was his lack of a Down East accent.
Connor eased up to the town dock, tied off the lines, killed the engine, and stepped off the pontoon boat onto the weathered cedar planks. On one side of the dock were a boat launch and a small parking lot. On the other side was the Meddybemps Community Center, which served as a town meeting hall, event center, and post office. It was usually empty. Connor passed the building and walked the quarter-mile path along the lake edge until he arrived at Palmer’s.
Palmer’s Restaurant and Grocery was just that, part restaurant and part grocery. There were about 150 residents in Meddybemps and not much else. Aside from the chain grocery store in Calais, Maine, which was a good forty minutes away, Palmer’s was the only place to pick up ice, milk, bait, propane, and beer. It was also the place to find townies trading news and tales of fishing, logging, and anything else.
Connor stepped inside and found Jack Palmer, the owner, cook, bartender, waiter, and grocery clerk, reading a three-day-old newspaper.
“Jack.”
“Connor.” Jack looked up from his paper. “You shop’n or eat’n?”
“Came in for some clams, if you’ve got any left.”
Jack tossed the paper on the counter and walked into the restaurant side of the building. “Think I can scrounge something up fer ya.”
Connor followed Jack into the restaurant and went for his favorite booth, near the back next to the pool table.
A few minutes later, an older man wearing a black turtleneck and gray slacks walked in. His short white hair reflected the glare from the ceiling lights. When they locked eyes, the man approached and stood over Connor.
“You know I’m on vacation, right?” said Connor. “I come to Maine to get away from people.”
“I thought it was important we talk.”
Connor didn’t have to ask who the man was. He already knew. Little Freddie was a killer who worked for various Midwest crime families. He’d never met him, but his brother, Finn, had worked with him years ago, and he’d given Connor all the juicy details. The rumor was that Freddie had been a high school history teacher back in the day. At some point, he discovered a knack for killing people and changed careers. He was in high demand because he enjoyed his job. Killing is a gruesome business, and most of those who do it for a living don’t quite care for it. Freddie was different. He liked it. He looked forward to it the same way a nurse looks forward to delivering a newborn. That’s some crazy shit, but say what you want about Little Freddie, he was in the right line of work.
