Dead Down East (36 page)

“OK,” he replied. “What should I say?”

“First, find out if he is in town. If he’s away from
the office, ask for his cell phone and call him directly. When you
reach him, tell him you will be passing through Troy over the
weekend, and you’d like to discuss a natural gas drilling project.
He may want to set up an appointment in his office. Tell him you’ll
be there on Sunday, and to make it easy on him, you’d be happy to
drop by his home for a preliminary discussion. My first choice is
to arrange a meeting at his home sometime during the day on Sunday.
If that doesn’t work out smoothly, don’t worry. Set up a meeting in
his office.”

“Who am I supposed to be, Jesse?”

“Tell him you are a lawyer, and you represent a
number of individuals with farmland in central Pennsylvania. If he
presses you for specifics, tell him that you aren’t at liberty to
give out any individual names.”

“All right,” Ray said. “I’ll call you back as soon as
I arrange it.”

“Before you call him,” I said cautiously, “do a
little research on drilling for natural gas. Don’t provide him with
a specific location for your project. Be a little mysterious. To
get his competitive juices flowing, tell him you will be visiting a
number of other drilling companies in the area. We want
him
to bend over backward for
you
… not the other way
around.”

“Got it,” he said, “Anything else.”

“That will do it. Good luck.”

• • •

It was four o’clock. All I could do was enjoy the
view of the lake and wait.

My phone rang a half-hour later.

“Jesse, I managed to reach Mark Prichard on his cell
phone. He is at his summer home on Seneca Lake in upstate New York.
But there’s good news. He’ll be back home Saturday evening. I’ve
arranged to meet him at his home at ten o’clock Sunday
morning.”

“Perfect, Ray. Thanks for your help.”

Raymond provided me with his home address and phone
number, and bid me farewell. I entered the address in my GPS and
checked out the driving time. It would take us a little over eight
hours to get there.

Things were falling into place. It was a perfect time
for a cold beer. I opened three bottles of Narragansett. Angele and
Eric joined me on the porch. The lake was beautiful. For the
moment, the world seemed to be spinning in our favor.

• • •

Brock arrived at five-thirty. He was eager to get the
full scoop. I walked him down to the lake, told him the news and
laid out our plan. I had to spend ten minutes convincing him I
wasn’t completely nuts. In the end, he shook his head and said, “I
think you’re crazy, but who knows… it just might work.”

When we got back to the house, supper was ready. It
was a lively affair. Everyone commented on Billy’s excellent
photographic work. We all were keyed up. I poured a second glass of
wine for Brock. He raised his glass and offered a toast, “Here’s to
a group of creative numbskulls. If I weren’t on the force, I’d
drive to Pennsylvania and back you up. Cheers and good luck!”

When the sun went down, Angele and I sat on the dock
and watched the moon rise over the lake. Our legs dangled over the
edge. Gentle waves lapped the shore. Words were unnecessary.

Saturday was getaway day.

I got dressed and ambled into the kitchen. Brock and
Cynthia were already at the dining room table drinking coffee. I
poured a cup and joined them.

Cynthia smiled as Brock said, “You know, Jesse, maybe
I should join you in Pennsylvania after all. I’m trained to deal
with criminals.”

“I’ve thought about it, Brock,” I said. “It would be
nice to have you there for support and backup when we meet with
Mark Prichard, but I think it’s better that you stay here. If
things go badly, your career might be in jeopardy. We’re not
exactly doing this by the book.

“There’s also an important legal issue to consider.
Suppose we pull this off and bring Prichard back to Maine. If a
bona fide trooper were involved, any evidence we gathered in the
process might be tainted. It could all be thrown out in court over
procedural issues. Cynthia, Eric and I are not restricted in the
same way. We will be running some risk by impersonating officers of
the law, but as independent citizens, we won’t be undermining the
legal case.

“And let’s not forget, there’s been a threat to
Cynthia’s life. I’ll feel more comfortable if you’re here. I’ve
been assuming three people planned and executed the governor’s
murder, but I could be wrong. There might be a broader conspiracy
at work. We can’t let our guard down just because we are in Billy’s
cabin on the lake. Keep your sidearm with you at all times. My
30-30 is in the living room.

“Which reminds me…don’t let Billy smoke any pot. All
three of you need to hunker down and be prepared for trouble.”

Brock didn’t say a thing. He took it in and processed
it. The wheels were turning; his facial expressions told the whole
story.

I made a mental note. “When this is all over, invite
Brock over for poker night.” I could read him like a book.

Angele walked into the room behind me. She put her
hands on my shoulders, pressed her thumbs into the trapezius
muscles on both sides of my neck and dug in; I tried to relax. I
was wound up tighter than a two-dollar watch. Thirteen days on a
murder investigation had taken its toll on my nervous system.

“Angele, that’s marvelous. I need a full-time
masseuse and a vacation.”

I groaned as Angele intensified her grip. My back
turned to putty.

“I could sit here all day,” I said.

“No, you can’t,” Angele countered. “We’ve got a job
to do. Wake up Eric. We need to get moving.”

She was right, as usual.

I walked over to Eric’s bedroom door and knocked. He
didn’t make a sound, so I knocked louder and hollered, “Eric, let’s
go to Pennsylvania.”

“OK, boss,” came a weak reply.

Cynthia went to the kitchen and started a second pot
of coffee. Angele joined her and made a smoothie. She combined
bananas, pineapple, orange juice, soy milk and protein powder in a
blender and turned it on high. Camp Billy jolted to life.

Cynthia fixed eggs, bacon and toast for the
non-vegans; Angele and I downed our liquid breakfast. By eight,
Angele, Eric and I were on the road.

We had settled on using Angele’s car for the trip.
She owns a black, late model Buick LaCrosse. We decided that of all
our vehicles, it was the best fit for prominent officials of the
FBI.

We had booked a two-bedroom suite at a Best Western
in Sayre, PA for Saturday night. It was going to be an eight-hour
drive. For the first two hours, we talked strategy and rehearsed
our parts. In the middle of Massachusetts, we took a break and
began enjoying the countryside. Angele and I shared the driving,
while Eric tweaked our notes on his laptop.

We reached Sayre at four o’clock and checked into our
rooms. Angele and I took a dip in the pool. Eric took a nap.
Getting up at eight in the morning had thrown off his internal
clock.

After dinner, we rehearsed again. By eight o’clock,
we felt we were as ready as we could be. I turned on the television
and scrolled to ESPN. We managed to catch the last inning of the
Sox game. They were playing the Angels in Anaheim. Angele curled up
with a book on the bed. Eric and I relocated to his room and
continued watching the game. The Sox lost 4-3 on a ninth inning,
two-run homer by Albert Pujols.

“Don’t tell Angele how it turned out,” Eric said.
“She might take it as a bad omen.”

I agreed.

When I returned to our room, Angele looked up and
asked, “Is the game over?”

“No, honey,” I said. “It’s going into extra innings.
I want to get a good night sleep. We have our work cut out for us
in the morning.”

She studied me closely.

“You’ve abandoned an extra inning Sox game for some
shuteye. You’re taking your work very seriously,” she said.

“I thought we could spend a little time in the sack
before calling it a night,” I offered.

“Hmm… Sounds like a plan,” she replied.

She put down her book, slipped out of her clothes and
slid under the covers.

“Turn off the lights and come find me,” she said.
“I’m in here somewhere.”

My radar worked perfectly.

We checked out of our room bright and early Sunday
morning and had breakfast at a local diner. We left Sayre at nine.
It was a half-hour drive to Troy. We were parked in front of Mark
Prichard’s house at nine-thirty. The first part of our plan was for
Eric and Angele to meet with Mark. I remained out of sight in the
back of the car while they walked up and rang the bell.

“You must be Raymond McDaniels,” Mark said as he
opened the door.

“No,” Eric said. “My name is Leroy Cochrane; this is
my assistant, Angele Richards. We are from the Federal Bureau of
Investigation. We are investigating a series of burglaries.”

“Burglaries?” Mark asked.

“Are you Mark Prichard?” Eric asked.

“Yes,” he replied uneasily.

“May we come inside to discuss this with you?”

“The FBI?” Mark queried. “May I see some
identification?”

Eric and Angele produced their novelty badges,
followed by some of Billy’s digital ID handiwork, freshly
laminated.

Mark studied the credentials briefly, then handed
them back and asked, “Why is the FBI involved in burglaries in
Pennsylvania?”

“Four states are involved, sir. The burglaries have
taken place in Ohio, Maryland and West Virginia. The stolen items
have been fenced here in Troy. If you wouldn’t mind, we’d like to
discuss this privately,” Eric said.

“Sure. I’ve got nothing to hide,” Mark replied
confidently.

They walked inside, and Mark suggested they sit in
the living room.

“Why have you come to see me, exactly?” Mark
asked.

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Prichard, Mrs. Richards will
record our conversation,” Eric said in a formal tone.

Angele produced a small hand-held microphone from her
bag and set it down on the coffee table. She monitored the volume
levels as Eric continued to speak.

“The burglaries in question have taken place over the
past three months,” Eric said. “A couple miles northwest of Troy,
on the Roosevelt Highway, there is a small farmhouse that has been
used to receive the goods. We have reports that a late model, blue
Ford Taurus has been spotted frequently going in and out of that
farmhouse over the past two months. We ran a search of vehicles in
the area and found that there are three cars registered in Troy
that match that description. Yours is one of them. Is that your
Taurus in the driveway, Mr. Prichard?”

“Yes,” Mark replied without a hint of concern.

“We are interested in your whereabouts during the
past two months and in particular on three specific dates,” Eric
said as he pulled out a notepad from the vest of his three-piece
suit. “The dates in question are May 12
^th
, June
1
^st
and June 8
^th
.”

“I have just spent the past six weeks at my summer
home on Seneca Lake, about twenty miles west of Ithaca, New York,”
Mark said.

“Can you show us some proof that you were there? Do
you have any receipts for purchases, groceries or gasoline for
example?” Eric asked.

“Absolutely,” he replied. “I have most of them in an
envelope in my desk. I’ll be happy to get them for you.”

“I’ll go with you, if you don’t mind,” Eric said
seriously.

Eric stood up, unbuttoned his jacket—suggesting in a
subtle way that a service revolver was riding in a shoulder
holster—and followed behind him. Eric did indeed have a revolver in
a shoulder holster, none other than Rhonda, my own .38 Special.