Tucker Peak (21 page)

“Maybe management did it to put the finger on TPL—get the sympathy vote.”

I couldn’t argue with her. “True.”

I sensed that a combination of curiosity, friendship, and a feeling of responsibility made Gail pick up the top sheet again. But her tone of voice betrayed her discomfort. “Roger you already know. If you think he’d put someone’s life at risk to make a point, this conversation just ended.”

“Gail,” I said soothingly, knowing I was pushing her, “that list was generated by hitting a few computer keys. That’s why there’re so many names.”

Her mouth made a rueful twist as she relented. “I know. I’m being thin-skinned and close-minded—two things I hate about most of the people I work with. It’s catching. I’m sorry.” She took up the entire batch and weeded out three sheets that had obviously caught her eye early on. “If I were you, I’d start with these. One I don’t know, one I don’t like, and the third has the reputation of being as cold-hearted as anyone he’s ever opposed.”

I studied the three. “Toussaint, McPherson, and Davis,” I read.

“Toussaint’s the wild card,” she told me. “Looks like he’s been around: Seattle, Philly, San Francisco, Boston. All the right places for all the right causes. ‘Resisting arrest’ could mean anything, but he does have one assault on a police officer.

“McPherson is a flamer, if you ask me—super-opinionated, super short fuse. He’s a self-righteous, pompous, stuck-up little creep. He’s also British and an ex-Greenpeacer—claims to have been where it counted when it counted, like hassling those French ships that were trying to set off the atomic test in the Pacific. But anyone can say that—there’re loads of liars in this business. It’s just that no one wants to be so un-PC as to check them out and call their bluff.”

“Let me guess,” I suggested, “he’s the one you don’t like.”

She saluted me with her cup, “Two points. Davis has a reputation that does stand up. Tough as nails, very persuasive, a committed fighter for the cause. I’ve never seen any proof of it, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he’d broken a few rules to get what he wanted.”

I put the three on the top of the pile and returned them all to the envelope. “Why just them?”

She swallowed some coffee before answering. “You asked for a gut reaction. It could be one of the others, but from what I either know of them or have heard about them, they’d be unlikely violent types. I’m not sure what made me pick Toussaint—maybe because in all the places he was busted things turned ugly and people were hurt. Left a bad taste in my mouth. When you meet him, he’ll probably turn out to be a Don Knotts look-alike, scared of his own shadow.”

“You also picked people who either have been or claim to have been all over the place geographically. Most of the rest of them seem to be pretty home-grown.”

“Maybe, but from my brief career as a prosecutor, I found rap sheets can be misleading. If you don’t get busted out of state, it looks like you never left home. Still, there aren’t as many hard-core radicals here—typical of Vermont, they tend to be more pragmatic.”

That sounded about right and made me think back to when that attitude had led to a private meeting in a motel room recently. “You think Betts might be willing to talk to me after I do a little homework with all this?”

“He did the first time, for reasons I don’t pretend to know. My bet is he’s expecting a call, and I’d be happy to be the go-between again.”

Gail checked her watch one last time, stood up, washed her cup and plate in the sink, and set them in the drying rack. “I better take off. Hope that helps.”

I escorted her to the door and gave her a kiss. “Thanks for coming down.”

She looked at me and touched my cheek, her eyes soft. “That was pretty weird, almost like I knew you’d been hurt. One doozy of a relationship, huh?”

I kissed her again. “Yup. One in a million.”

I SHOWED UP LATE AT THE OFFICE, MILKING MY BUM ARM
for all it was worth. In fact, I’d taken a small nap after Gail left to catch up on the sleep she’d so pleasantly interrupted. Once I arrived and had awkwardly shucked my coat, though, I wished I’d heeded the commissioner’s advice the day before and taken a few days off. The ringing phones and pink message slips emphasized how popular Lester’s and my little escapade had become. As our director Bill Allard had mournfully commented, it was just the kind of high-profile event VBI had been hoping to avoid, especially during its honeymoon phase. In fact, leafing through the slips, I noticed that many of the callers hadn’t been reporters and politicians, but fellow cops, no doubt seeking some indication of what this might tell of the future. Despite the mistaken perception of what makes law enforcement appealing to those who join it—chases, shoot-outs, and undercover pyrotechnics—it is just those kinds of uncontrolled events that make officers nervous. Cops, more than most, hate surprises.

Which didn’t mean I saw myself as the one to calm their nerves. I dropped the entire pile on Judy’s desk and told her to forward them to Allard. Better he than I, I rationalized, in these times of delicate image molding. I’d let him give me hell later.

Still, Richie’s spectacular death did change how I wanted to approach the several problems facing us, which is why I’d called for a squad meeting from home.

And they were all there: Sammie at her desk, studying the contents of a computer screen; Willy, reading a back issue of
Guns & Ammo
; and Lester, tilted back in his chair with his feet up on his desk, wearing his customary bemused expression.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked me.

“I liked it better when they had me doped up. How ’bout you? The adrenaline settle down yet?”

His demeanor changed to something closer to melancholy. “The adrenaline’s okay. Having killed somebody still needs work. Last night wasn’t great for sleeping.”

Willy looked up briefly from his reading. “It’s like losing your cherry, Les. No big deal.”

Spinney glanced from me to him and back and then silently raised his eyebrows, the half-smile returning, if tinged with incredulity.

I leaned toward him so the other two couldn’t hear and murmured, “You’re being stress-debriefed for this, right? Or do I have to quote the rule book?”

“No, no,” he reassured me. “I’ve seen the shrink once already, last night, and we’ve got a repeat in a couple of days. I’m okay—promise.”

I nodded, sat on the corner of my desk, and addressed them all, “Okay, now that we’re really under the microscope, I thought it might be a good idea to see where we’re standing and decide on a possibly revised course of action. Snuffy Dawson is sweating bullets over the Richie thing, since that’s the investigation he asked us to conduct, so in fairness to him and in light of the fact we may be looking at multiple homicides now, putting that one first seems to make sense. Where’s Shayla Rossi right now?”

“Downstairs,” Sammie said, “but not for long. ’Course we can talk to her in Woodstock after they arraign her and ship her north.”

“Any of you had a crack at her yet?”

“A once-over-lightly,” Sammie admitted. “You might have better luck, but she didn’t sound like a great source to me. Could be why he chose her to hide out with—clueless barely covers it.”

“If you think it’ll do any good. Otherwise, I won’t waste my time.”

“No, no. Have at it.”

I was almost disappointed to hear her say that. Not because her caution wasn’t reasonable, but because there was an added element of self-doubt I was forever hopeful she’d lose. On the other hand, Shayla was the only one we had available from the whole Marty-Richie-Jorja Duval mess.

“Maybe I will, if only to ask her why Richie was so desperate.”

“Gee, there’s a tough one,” Willy said sourly. “He was shitting bricks about whoever iced Jorja.”

“He was shitting bricks when he had Joe in the garage,” Sammie commented. “Why didn’t he kill him then?”

Willy shook his head dismissively. “’Cause he wasn’t sure. When Richie saw Joe the second time, at Shayla’s, that convinced him Joe was a bad guy, especially since he had Lester riding shotgun. It pushed him over the edge.”

“And reintroduces an interesting point,” Lester added. “Richie didn’t know who was after him, not even by name, or he would’ve confronted Joe with it in the garage.”

After a long, reflective pause, I suggested, “Which still doesn’t mean it couldn’t have been Marty.”

Not surprisingly, Willy then countered his earlier, dismissive comment with an interesting suggestion. “What we should be asking is, why this level of violence against a B-and-E lowbrow? The other thing Richie would’ve spilled in the garage—if he’d had the slightest idea—was why he was being targeted and why he thought Marty’d already been killed.”

“Damn,” Sammie muttered. “Maybe they both stole something they didn’t know they had.”

“Maybe,” Lester said doubtfully. “But when whoever they stole it from pounded on the guy who fenced the watch—”

“Walter Skottick,” I interjected quietly.

“—he wasn’t asked what else he might have, just where the guy was who sold it to him.”

Willy seemed to come to Sammie’s aid by saying, “Then it was something they saw, or somebody.”

Sammie’s enthusiasm was still obvious in her voice. “Or maybe the killer was after Richie all along. He’s the one who spent all the time with those women, milking them for personal info. Could be one of them said something important he didn’t realize.”

“And her husband, boyfriend, or whatever decided to be careful and plug the leak,” Lester filled in, tilting his head to one side. “That would play to the theory that Marty’s dead, too. You’d think we would’ve picked up on that kind of family dynamic during all the interviews, though.”

“We haven’t talked to everyone yet,” Willy reminded him.

That jarred loose an idea. “Speaking of people talking,” I said, “Jorja Duval’s the only one we know for sure who met Richie’s bogeyman face-to-face, whether it was Marty or not.”

Willy jumped straight to where I was headed. “Meaning you’re hoping he left something behind the crime lab missed.”

“It was a frustrating scene,” Lester commented. “A ton to process, most of it useless… But they did process it. Still, sounds like a long shot, and you’d expect signs of Marty to be there, anyhow.”

“I’m going to call David Hawke at the crime lab,” I persisted, “see what he says. In the meantime, we need to put all our energies toward building clear and complete backgrounds for Richie, Marty, and everyone else: spouses, caretakers, anyone with even a remote connection to the houses listed in Richie’s hidden documents. I know we’re partway there already, but the heat’s on now, and it’s only going to get worse until we solve this. Along those lines, Allard has assigned us three extra people from the Bennington office. Sam, you can coordinate with them as to how many, if any, come over here, or if you want them to just stay put and work the phone lines and computers from there.”

“What about the TPL investigation?” she asked.

“Back burner again,” I answered her, immediately thinking of the three names that Gail had indicated might have potential. “If anything comes up accidentally, great—spread the word. Otherwise, we’re going to have to divide and conquer here. TPL will have to wait.”

· · ·

David Hawke had started out at the state crime lab as a civilian scientist back when it was run by the Vermont State Police. That it was now an independent branch of the Department of Public Safety—just as we were—and directed by Hawke instead of a state police captain, spoke volumes about recent efforts the DPS had been making to distribute its resources more efficiently, much to the distress of state police old-timers nostalgic for the days when they’d controlled almost every law enforcement function beyond the municipal level. The VSP was still king of the mountain in terms of size and political muscle, but that mountain was visibly, if slowly, changing shape.

The metamorphosis of the crime lab had been gradual, smooth, and driven by increasingly stringent and sophisticated scientific necessities, antiquating the erstwhile practice of having uniformed troopers do forensics rotations and then leaving just as they became competent. But Hawke still understood the pain of organizational change and thus knew how loaded his opening question was when he asked me on the phone, “How’re things in your neck of the woods? Cold and lonely?”

I could only laugh and admit, “Yeah, pretty much. At least I’m not being taken for a state food inspector quite as often.”

“But you’re still not Vermont’s FBI?”

“Not even close. How’re you settling in?”

“Great,” he said cheerily. “We’re now nationally accredited, and I just had to break the news to the powers-that-be that in order to stay that way, we’ll have to get out of this building and into something that doesn’t date back to the 1800s. So, I’m a happy camper, but I have a lot of depressed bosses. Speaking of which, you call to cry on my shoulder, or are you scrounging for a favor?”

“Ouch,” I said. “I sound that desperate?”

“I read the papers, Joe. How’s the arm?”

“It hurts.”

“I am sorry about that.” Then he admitted, “But it may be just the beginning. The buzz downstairs is that none of them would’ve ever fallen into something like that with their pants down, and that they sure hope you boys get your shit sorted out before one of you gets killed—all quote-unquote, of course.”

I sighed. “Them” in Hawke’s parlance meant the state police, and in particular their Bureau of Criminal Investigation.

I ducked that debate altogether. “You’re right, David, I am scrounging for a favor. You still have access to Jorja Duval’s body?”

“So long as it’s an unsolved case—you bet.”

“Then can you get anything more out of her? We’re heading straight up the creek with this one.”

There was a long pause at the other end as David Hawke considered the request. “We pretty much gave her the full battery, more than just the standard checklist. We could run her blood for specifics, if you have any suggestions. What’re you looking for? Drugs? Environmental chemicals?”

“That’s the problem,” I had to tell him. “I don’t know. We have no idea who killed her, or who spooked the guy we just killed. Basically, she’s the only one left we can interrogate, even if it’s after the fact.”