Purgatory Chasm: A Mystery (30 page)

We were quiet maybe two miles.

Randall said, “Motorenwerk is going to be sealed tight as a drum for a long time, my friend.”

“I said I’d get a Barnburner’s car back. I’ll get it back.”

“You’ve done some good here, amigo. Good work for little in the way of thanks.”

“Who killed Tander Phigg?” I said. “Who took his money? I’ve done jack shit.”

Randall said nothing until we hit the Massachusetts border. When he spoke, his voice was even lower and slower than it had been before. “Trey Phigg buying that house is the worst thing that could have happened to you.”

“Why?”

“Because he bailed you out of a stupid mistake. He prevented you from learning a lesson.”

“What lesson? Don’t fix up old houses?”

“Don’t play stupid!” He shouted it, jackknifing. Then he settled himself with deep breaths, calmed himself again. “Pissing into the wind. Pretending things are black and white when you know better. Pouring energy into lost causes to forget about everything you could be working on.
Should
be working on.”

I said nothing. I hit our off-ramp faster than I needed to. The F-150’s front tires squalled. When I lifted my foot from the throttle, the back end got light and tried to come around.

But I fought it. I saved it.

When I dropped Randall off, neither of us said a word.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

In Framingham, Kieu and Tuan were asleep. I gave Trey a fast rundown on what Randall and I had found. Probably should’ve been gentler about it—when I got to the dead bodies in Vermont, his face drained and he went very quiet. I’d overloaded him.

I did a Google News search for Enosburg Falls. There was a four-paragraph story: Two dead bodies, idyllic town near the Canadian border, names being withheld, Vermont State Police investigating.

The twenty-four-hour news station that covered all of New England didn’t have much more. A reporter who looked fifteen years old stood out front of Ollie’s mother’s house. The reporter walked around and made lots of hand motions, working hard to sell a story he had no facts on. He did say unconfirmed reports had it a possible murder-suicide. Enosburg Falls hadn’t seen a murder since 1923.

I leaned in, ignored the reporter, watched behind him. Every light in the house was on. Crown Vics were everywhere. Three big guys in dark Windbreakers stood on the front porch. Probably state detectives taking a cigarette break, holding the smokes low while the TV camera rolled.

The reporter promised more details and tossed it back to the anchor.

“Shit,” I said.

Trey said, “What?”

“One of those Crown Vics had a New Hampshire cop plate. That means Vermont called New Hampshire already. So they’re going to take a hard look at your father’s death. Hell, they’re going to take a hard look at
you
.”

“It’s going to be a mess, isn’t it?”

“I was you, I’d hide that seventy-five K in something safer than a trash bag.”

Trey faced me and clasped his hands together the way he did sometimes. The move seemed formal, maybe something he picked up in Vietnam. “Conway,” he said, “did Montreal murder my father?”

“I believe he did.”

“Is he going to pay?”

“Yes.”

He swallowed, and I noticed for the first time how big his Adam’s apple was. “Will there be extradition, trials, dog-and-pony shows?”

“No.”

Trey looked at me awhile. Then he rose and left the room.

I understood. I’ve been through it with Barnburners a hundred times. They need to be rescued from the jackpots they get into, but they don’t appreciate it the way you might think. Everybody knows that without spiders, the world would be overrun by insects. But that doesn’t make people love spiders.

I get it. I live with it. Sometimes, I guess, I wish it didn’t work that way.

But wishing is pretty low on my to-do list.

*   *   *

Restless, I killed the TV and took off. Driving west, I thought about the cops reopening Tander Phigg’s death. Thought about Patty Marx, Josh Whipple, Montreal, heroin, suicide that wasn’t suicide.

Trey Phigg had said more than once he wanted to know more about his old man. “Careful what you wish for, kid,” I said out loud in the dashboard glow.

That reminded me of a call I wanted to make. It was really too late for this call, but … hell, I’d wake her if I needed to.

“Roper residence,” she said when she picked up, pronouncing
residence
carefully. “This is Myna Roper; how may I help you?”

I said my name, asked if she remembered me.

“Of
course
I remember you,” Myna said, and I pictured her standing erect, pissed at the question. “You were here two days ago.”

“Want to talk to you about a couple of things. Have the police called about your daughter?”

“Why would they?”

I thought about giving it to her straight. Decided not to. “Miz Roper, there’s a chance Diana is involved with a man who’s gone on kind of a crime spree up here.”

“What?”

“She calls herself Patty Marx, did you know that? She’s a reporter, or was.”

“I knew,” Myna said, so softly I barely heard.

“Wish you’d told me.”

“It’s … embarrassing. The child rejects the mother’s name. Embarrassing, Mister Sax. Who is this crime-spree man she’s involved with?”

“I don’t know for a fact she’s dating him, and even if she is, she may not know everything he’s up to.” I thought Patty Marx was in it up to her eyeballs, but saying so would hurt my chances.

“What exactly do you mean by ‘crime spree,’ Mister Sax?”
Crime shpree
. “That’s quite a broad term.”

“The police are wondering if Tander Phigg’s suicide was really a suicide.”

“Oh my God!” I heard air go out of her, pictured her sitting hard on the sofa.

“Look,” I said, “none of this is fact. I’m guessing, and even if my worst guesses are true, nobody knows how your daughter fits in. But you’re going to get a call or a visit soon. The police will have questions about Patty.”

“I don’t have anything to tell them! I told you everything there is the other night.”

“So tell it to
them
. Tell it all. Don’t hold back, don’t try to guess what they’re after. Just tell it.”

There was a long pause. Ice cubes clinked.

“You said you wanted to talk about two things,” Myna said. “I certainly hope you didn’t save the worst for last.”

“I want to tell you about Tander Phigg’s son.”

And I did. I told her about Trey Phigg—his curiosity about his father’s five good years, a fight that chased him to Vietnam, a young family, the way he came home to make peace with his father and found him dead.

She listened hard. No ice clinked.

By the time I finished, I was idling in Charlene’s driveway. Myna was hooked. She jumped when I finally asked the favor. I started to ask if I could help with travel arrangements, but she interrupted me.

“Believe it or not,” Myna Roper said, “we have the same Internet down here that you have up there.” Click.

*   *   *

Charlene was sound asleep. I closed her bedroom door, went back downstairs, and flipped the news on, but they were just rerunning the report I’d seen already. I muted the volume and lay with my hands behind my head.

Vermont and New Hampshire state cops, working together. With the Enosburg Falls killings hitting the news, the New Hampshire detectives who hadn’t listened to McCord about Phigg’s death would look like idiots. No, worse: They’d look like lazy assholes who’d blown a chance to stop two killings. They ought to be embarrassed, but if I knew anything about cops, they’d be pissed at the world instead.

They were going to come after me, Trey, and maybe Josh with everything they had.

When they saw my record they were going to drool.

I was on parole for manslaughter two. I’d been seen with Tander Phigg the day before he died, and it was me who called in his body. I was a known associate of Ollie and Josh. Solid canvassing would show I’d driven them right to Ollie’s mom’s house.

Shit.

I pulled my cell, hesitated, dialed McCord.

He picked up and said my name. In the background I heard the Red Sox radio announcers. “Pretty late for a ball game,” I said. “They on the west coast?”

“Seattle.”

I took a guess and said, “You’re sitting at the side of I-Ninety-three waiting for a drunk to go by.”

“Or a speeder.”

“So you figured out the Phigg thing first, but you’re stuck working graveyard anyway? No promotion? No apologies from the detectives? No employee-of-the-month award?”

He either laughed or said, “Unh.”

We said nothing while the Red Sox screwed up a hit and run. Then McCord said, “Nobody likes the guy tells them they screwed up.”

“And they
did
screw up. Royally.”

“What do you want, Sax?”

“I didn’t do it.”

He knew what I meant. “Which one?”

“Any of them.”

“I hear they’re looking at the son,” he said. “They’ll want to interview him again.”

“He didn’t do it either. I’ll vouch for him.”

“I had a look at your record. Not sure how much weight your voucher carries.” He stifled a yawn. “Anyway, you’ll get a chance to tell it to the detectives tomorrow. Two-state task force with an assist from the FBI.”

“Jesus.”

“They love a task force, especially when they’re embarrassed.”

We were quiet.

McCord said, “You understand I need to tell my boss about this call?”

“Sure,” I said. “About that task force. No help from Canada yet?”

“What do you mean?” His voice was different, like he’d straightened up.

I realized he didn’t know yet about Montreal. Most likely none of the cops knew. I said, “Have you guys taken a good look through Dufresne’s garage yet?”

“Not sure. Why?”

I told McCord about the heroin runs, the Montreal connection, the guys from the black Escalade who’d creamed Ollie’s knee.

McCord said nothing. I heard a keyboard as he took notes on his cruiser’s laptop.

Finally I said, “That’s some good stuff, huh?”

McCord was quiet.

“You tell the detectives all that,” I said, “and maybe they ease off me and Trey Phigg. Plus you look good.”

“Maybe.” McCord clicked off.

*   *   *

The next morning, cereal-bowl clinks woke me. As I realized I’d fallen asleep on the couch, I craned my neck and saw Charlene doing something new—humming and dancing a box step in the kitchen while she ate her raisin bran.

She didn’t know I was awake, so I held still and watched and listened. After a minute I figured out the tune: “I Feel Pretty.” Morning sun lit the edges of her blond hair. She wore work clothes: black pencil skirt, pearl-gray blouse.

It was nice watching her while she didn’t know she was being watched.

When she danced her cereal bowl over to the sink, I said, “You
look
pretty.”

She jumped six inches, turned, put hands on hips. “How long, Conway Sax?”

“Couple minutes.”

Charlene tried for a mad face but couldn’t hold it, smiled, held her arms out like a TV spokesmodel. “The empty-nester life,” she said, “is the life for me.”

Then she ran into the family room—the tight skirt making for choppy steps—and plopped herself on top of me, straddling. Had to wiggle the skirt real high to make it.

I said, “Wow.”

Charlene laughed and wriggled and put her hands on my chest. “No ‘Where’s my homework?’ No three-day pout because somebody didn’t get her way. Freedom!” She did the spokesmodel flare again and slowed her wriggle, gave it some purpose, moved her hands to the waist of my jeans.

“Got a stiff neck,” I said.

“And then some,” she said, giggling. When I tried to sit up to kiss her, she flat-handed my chest. “Stay right there, dragon breath.”

I don’t know how she got her panty hose off without climbing from me.

But she did.

*   *   *

After, Charlene was all business and bustle. A bathroom cleanup, fresh panty hose, check the makeup, ready to split. She glanced at the TV, which was tuned again to the New England news station, as she crossed the room. Said she wanted to hear more about the Vermont deaths, but it’d have to wait. She leaned down to peck my temple.

I grabbed her wrist. “What about Fred?”

Her eyes went hard for an instant—she hates being interrupted while on a mission, and she was on a mission to get to the office—but then she softened and sat. “I did everything I could think of,” she said. “I drove around two hours last night looking for him. I called the Shrewsbury police and the state police
again
. I even e-mailed the gal who runs the town blog, sent her a cell-phone picture of Fred that Sophie took. I said Fred may be wandering around, implying he has Alzheimer’s.”