Presumption of Guilt (13 page)

He saw his chance and entered the road. “Absolutely nothing. Hell of a case.”

 

CHAPTER TEN

For Vermonters living east of the Green Mountains, the Connecticut River is as iconic a reference as is a major boulevard to a city dweller—say, Fifth Avenue to a Manhattanite. To some, the Connecticut is a strict divider between New Hampshire and Vermont—with all the prejudice that might entail. To others, it is either a long, powerful, historically laden symbol of old Yankee capitalism, or a playground for modern sports enthusiasts—or both.

But whoever is consulted, and regardless of their response, there is an opinion. Everyone, it seems, has an association with the river—despite the rarely discussed fact that legally, New Hampshire owns the water right up to Vermont's shoreline.

That notwithstanding, Joe always viewed it as part of his New England birthright. It was his body of water, as Lake Champlain is to northwestern Vermonters, Lake Michigan to Chicago, or San Francisco Bay to its town. It lay claim to a corner of his permanent memory—like the bedroom closet he had as a child.

He unconsciously considered that now, as he drove along its bank, watching the birds skimming over the gleaming, muscular, undulating water in the day's ebbing light in search of whatever food was available just beneath the surface.

Joe was in New Hampshire on this drive. For all of Vermont's references to the river, few of its towns were actually perched on its edge, or many houses—at least compared to New Hampshire—largely as a result of the railroad having purchased so much of Vermont's shorefront property.

A little less sentimentally, what he knew most about the river concerned dead bodies: Anyone found floating in it automatically belonged to the Granite State. There was no telling how many one-liners had been uttered at a death scene, where some Vermont cop had proposed pushing a newly discovered floater into the current, in order to make it someone else's jurisdictional problem.

Not that anyone had ever done such a thing.

Joe was on the River Road, north of West Chesterfield—a meandering, little-traveled, well-maintained favorite among motorcyclists and bicycle lovers that steadfastly lived up to its name by hugging the river as closely as was practical.

Along its length—unlike what appeared to be wilderness over in Vermont—were snug and quiet homes lined up at peaceable distances from each other, like respectful fishermen enjoying a little isolation from a busy world.

It was next to one of these—although a larger, newer, more modernized and fortified version—where Joe eventually pulled over and parked.

In fact, the house was not attractive. While its setting spoke for itself in soft and budding shades of green, interspersed with the river's alluring openness, the building—sharp-edged, blank-faced, modern, and jarring—had the same brutal feeling to it as a concrete bunker overlooking a beach.

He approached the heavy front door, aware of a beady camera lens suspended to one side, and rang the bell.

“Hello?” a man answered.

Joe took a step back, as if to give room to the disembodied voice. “Hello?” he reacted, caught by surprise. He was no stranger to security systems, but cameras and speakers were rare this far from urban America.

“What do you want?”

“Is that Mr. Lucas?” Joe asked. “Johnny Lucas?”

“What do you want?” the voice repeated.

Joe revealed his credentials to the camera. “I'm a police officer, Mr. Lucas. No one's in trouble. I just want to ask you a couple of questions—dating way back. I was hoping you could help me out.”

“That's a Vermont badge.”

“That's correct,” Joe affirmed, returning it to his pocket. “Vermont Bureau of Investigation.”

He was about to expand on that, but was cut off by, “You have no jurisdiction here.”

“True,” Joe said pleasantly. “Which is why I mentioned I was just looking to chat.”

“I don't have to talk to you.”

“You certainly don't, Mr. Lucas. I'm not quite sure why you wouldn't be willing to help a police officer, though.”

There was a pause before the voice announced, “Mr. Lucas isn't here. Leave.”

Joe nodded and took out a business card, which he also held up for viewing. “Got it. Well, if you could do me a big favor and give him my card when you see him, I would sure appreciate it. I'd like to pick his brains.”

Another pause. “What about?”

Joe smiled. “Open the door and I'll tell you. As you said, I have no authority here. It's just a conversation I'm after.”

But there was no response. Joe stood with his card in his hand for a few moments, feeling increasingly ludicrous, wondering if he was looking at a dead camera lens or being studied by someone who might just as well be in Detroit. Certainly, there had been no sign of life from inside the house during this exchange.

He resisted the extra humiliation of speaking further to an inanimate structure, and poked his card under the edge of the front door—half expecting the house to spit it back out.

*   *   *

Willy pulled over to the curb and lowered his passenger-side window to address two people he'd recognized walking on the sidewalk, just shy of the Arch Street drop-off from Main.

“
Hey.
Kravitz.”

They turned to face him. Dan Kravitz—tall, gaunt, immaculately dressed in clean and pressed Goodwill togs—and a teenage girl with blond hair, whom Willy knew to be his daughter.

Dan leaned into the window's opening and gave Willy a gentle smile. “Detective.”

“Haven't seen you in a while,” Willy stated. “You been staying out of trouble?”

“You would know.”

“Been staying out of other people's homes?”

“Isn't that our agreement?”

“You are so full of it.” Willy bent forward to include Sally. “Hey, there. You still in school?”

Sally knew Willy, if only slightly, and although Dan had tempered her impression with his own more nuanced insight, she still considered him as someone best to be avoided.

Nevertheless, she got close enough to say, “I graduated.”

“Hangin' with Dad, then?”

“I guess. Taking a year off.”

“Watch out for him,” Willy said seriously. “One of the smartest men I know, but he's got some wild hairs. You wanna think about that. He's not as invisible as he thinks he is.”

“Okay.”

Dan's face was impassive. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“That's my question for you, Dan. We still have our arrangement, like you said—you let me know if there's anything cooking I should hear about?”

“We do. Are you inquiring about anything specific?”

“You heard about the body at VY?” Willy asked.

“Just that one had been found.”

“Nothing else?”

“Not yet. I'll keep my eyes peeled.”

Satisfied, Willy gestured for Sally to get closer, so that she could hear him without any passersby catching a word.

“I know you don't like me—that's the longest line in history. But I like your dad, and I trust him, which I can say for about five people in the world. I wasn't just busting your chops about what he does. If you know what I'm talking about—which would mean he's taken you into his confidence—then pay attention. I'm your friend, as weird as you think that sounds. Everybody else'll toss you to the dogs in a heartbeat.”

He paused long enough to study their faces, after which he smiled, if barely. “That tells me I'm right—or you'd be telling me to fuck off. That being the case, do me a favor? Please?”

Sally was scowling, at once alarmed, confused, and angry. Dan remained imperturbable.

“What would that be, Mr. Kunkle?”

“Take care of each other. Watch each other's back. It's a tricky world.”

Sally's eyes widened slightly as Dan acknowledged, “Always. Thank you.”

Willy pulled into traffic and drove away. Sally looked up at her father. “That was random.”

Dan draped his arm across her shoulders and smiled. “And kind of wonderful.”

*   *   *

Now that spring had replaced winter, the days were longer, so there was still light coming through the office window when most of the squad assembled to compare notes. All except Sammie, who'd asked Lester to represent her while she went by the day care to pick up Emma.

Throughout their daily routine, as befitted operational protocols, each squad member filed his or her activities electronically, so that the others always knew, from hour to hour, of any new developments. Surprisingly to Joe, who'd originated this practice long ago, Willy had complied without complaint. Only later, feeling slightly foolish, had Joe conceded that one primary reason for that easy acquiescence was that Willy was as prone to entering fiction as fact, depending on his needs and moods.

In any case, the older, more traditional habit also remained—of regularly gathering to discuss the day's work—thereby giving Joe the additional value of a Socratic exchange.

“You read today's dailies?” Joe asked them after Spinney had settled down with his last cup of coffee for the day.

“Yes, Dad,” Willy said in a bored monotone.

“Not yours, though,” Lester added with a smile.

“Fair enough,” Joe conceded. “I just got back from Johnny Lucas's in West Chesterfield, where I had an unenlightening conversation with a talking house.”

Lester laughed. “They only spoke over the speaker?” he interpreted correctly.

“Was it Lucas, at least?” Willy asked.

“I think so,” Joe told them. “He could totally deny it if he wanted to.”

“You say why you were there?” Willy followed up.

“Nope,” Joe said. “Which I found interesting, too. He's either a complete paranoid, had his pants around his ankles at the time, or already knew what we're up to. Has the paper put a name on the Vermont Yankee body yet? I haven't read it today.”

“The radio did,” Lester said. “A few hours ago. Somebody talked.”

“We been blabbing it all over town ourselves,” Willy observed. “Twitter and Facebook have done the rest, I bet.”

“Regardless,” said Joe, “Lucas is pretty high on my list. Why would you avoid the police, unless you had something to hide?”

“'Cause you have a girlfriend in bed when your wife's out shopping?” Willy proposed. “Could be any reason better than an ancient homicide. Just sayin'.”

“Okay,” Joe agreed, reading off his computer screen. “What else? Sam writes that she and you, Les, found something out of whack with what Sharon Mitchell told Willy and me.”

“Yeah,” Lester explained. “Either Hank was yearning to be free or Sharon thought he'd already overstepped in that department, and threw him out. I could see that happening between a couple—both spinning their own version. It didn't really set up who might've wanted him dead, though.”

“You believe Lacey that she and Hank were never an item?” Joe asked.

“Sam did, from what she told me in the car,” Lester said. “Plus, Lacey did a real stand-by-your-man imitation when Sam asked if maybe Jimmy killed Hank.

“One thing rattled around my head afterwards, though,” Les added. “Lacey implied that BB could've resented Hank for being so good at drumming up business. It was subtle, but it's kind of what I got from my interview with Jimmy and Carlo, too: Hank was Ridgeline's ace in the hole. If you combine that with BB's obsession with Sharon, then suddenly, BB has two reasons to see Hank gone.”

“Talk about shooting yourself in the foot,” Willy said.

“Except he didn't, did he?” Lester asked generally. “Not in the long run.”

“Not financially,” Joe agreed. “But what about the time delay between Hank leaving and Johnny taking his place? How did BB survive if he was so bad at bringing in business? Lacey told Sam she figured he had deep pockets, but that's not what I heard. It would be interesting to somehow take a closer look at that time slot.”

“Did Ridgeline have a bookkeeper?” Lester asked.

The three men exchanged looks.

“Okay,” Joe said. “Tack that onto our to-do list.” He took his eyes off the screen and consulted several notes he had scattered across his desk. “What's our progress with Vermont Yankee's old records? Reported fights, unexplained employee departures, unusual events—around the time of the burial? We get anything there? And any leads on Mr. Neathawk?”

Willy didn't deign to respond, so Lester answered, “We're all sharing that load, between interviews. Nothing's standing out. You were right about those records being less than God's gift to organization. On paper, there was a single umbrella contractor, but there were also so many jobbers responsible for their own people—some of which left no footprint—that a small army of people could've worked there nobody knew about. Until the nuke stuff arrived, it was just a construction job, with pretty basic accountability. Everybody was focused on the integrity of the containment vessel and the reactor building—not on who was or wasn't coming in to do the peripheral stuff.”

“I found Neathawk listed here and there,” Willy contributed. “But no special mentions.”

“Did any of those entries postdate the torching of his van?” Joe asked.

“Yup,” Willy confirmed. “So he definitely stuck around afterwards. Looks like he left with the rest of the high iron guys.”

Joe reflected a moment and then checked his watch. “All right. Why don't we call it a day? If this damn thing ever catches fire, we'll be putting in overtime like usual. No point driving the bean counters crazy prematurely.” He looked up at them. “Anyone got big plans tonight?”

Both men laughed, and Lester answered for the two of them, “Right—home to pass out in front of the tube after a plate of mac 'n' cheese.” He quickly held up a hand, as if in protest, adding, “Not that I'm complaining.”