Redemption (A Joe Burgess Mystery, Book 3) (21 page)

Then there was the practical reason for not sneaking up and peeking in the windows. He had spotted several exterior motion-sensor lights. Any approach to the house including a simple stroll up the front walk would be instantly illuminated. As soon as Stan's car came around the corner, he started walking toward the house. He was in the driveway, standing behind the red car, when Stan rolled to a stop and got out, closing his door silently and joining Burgess.

"How you want to play this, Joe?"

"I'll do the door. You stay here with the car in case Joey bolts."

"You think he will?"

"The way I see this? Claire stalls me on the steps and Joey makes a run for it. She's mother love writ large in a twisted sort of way. What I don't yet know is why he'll run." He shrugged. "I could be pleasantly surprised but I wouldn't put money on it."

"Cops haven't got money," Perry said.

"Well, I'm not betting my ass or my balls, either, and depending on who you talk to, my honor's kinda tattered."

"Know what you mean."

Burgess left him standing behind Joey's car, arms folded, looking battered and mean, and headed up the front walk. As expected, lights came on to greet him. Before he got his finger on the bell, a curtain twitched, so Claire knew he was there. She took her time coming to the door, though, and when she finally did open it, she stood blocking his way into the house. Impeccable in slim black pants, a black sweater, and simple pearls. Too formal for everyday. As though she'd been expecting a visitor, though not the one on her doorstep.

"This is not a good time, Joe," she said. "I have company."

"I won't bother you," he said. "I just need a few minutes with Joey."

"Joey's not..." She looked toward him, as though she could see through his bulk to the car in her driveway. "He's not here." She lifted her chin defiantly. "He left the car for the weekend. He's gone off with some friends."

"Weekend's over," he said. "You expecting him back soon?"

"Oh, Joe, you know young people." She tried for nonchalant, a chummy note that was stiff as cardboard. "He'll probably be back in the middle of the night."

"But he is living here with you, Claire?" Burgess said.

Her answer sounded squeezed, as though lying to the cops came hard. "Yes. Yes, he's living here."

"I really do need to talk to him, Claire, sooner rather than later. I have some questions about his visits to his dad in the weeks before Reggie's death. His information is pretty important. We're trying to create a time line."

"Joey hasn't been seeing Reggie. He's had no contact with his father for ages." She told this lie more smoothly.

"I've got at least four witnesses who disagree," he said. "Look, I don't want to interfere with your evening if you have guests. Maybe I could catch up with him tomorrow at work? Joey is working these days?"

The lines around her mouth tightened with displeasure. "Of course he's working." Her chin came up again and small spots of pink glowed in her cheeks.

"I'm glad to hear it," he said. "Just tell me where to find him and I'll be out of your hair."

She brushed at her perfect coif as though he were a bug that had gotten stuck there. "You know, Joe, he hasn't been working there very long. It might not be such a good idea for you to be showing up. Some people... some employers... aren't all that comfortable with cops coming around. It might reflect..." She studied her shiny shoes on the shiny floor, then back at him. "I don't understand why you need to talk to Joey, anyway. What is this about a timeline? Yes, Reggie's dead, and it's a sad thing that he never did get his life together, but why isn't that the end of it?"

"Because there are some things about Reggie's death that don't add up, Claire. We always take a closer look at suspicious circumstances."

"Oh, spare me." She rolled her eyes. "There's nothing suspicious about a habitual drunk having one too many, falling in the water, and drowning. The only strange thing about Reggie's death is that it didn't happen sooner." She stood straighter. Folded her arms more tightly across her chest.

"I wish it were that simple," he said. "And there's the funeral, Claire—"

From the driveway came a sharp, "Hey!" Then a squabble of voices. Stan's loud voice identifying himself as a police officer and asking for ID. There was a grunt and the sound of blows. A car door slammed, tires screeched. Perry was knocked aside as the red car shot backward across the lawn, around Stan's car, and out into the street, digging deep grooves in the nice green sod.

Claire emitted a shocked, "Oh, my God, Joey!" as she shoved past him and ran down the walk toward Stan Perry, who lurched up from the ground, raced for his car, and took off after Joey's retreating taillights.

Chapter 15

She stamped back up the walk, her low-heeled patent shoes clattering loudly on the granite step, and stepped past Burgess into the house. He followed her in before she could shut the door. "Why did you lie to me, Claire?" he said. "Joey was home."

Her back went stiff. "I was trying to spare him," she said. "My son has had enough trouble with the police. And he's grieving about his father."

She lowered her head so he wouldn't see her eyeing the top drawer of the decorative little dresser here in her entry. What did she keep in there. A panic button? That wouldn't do her much good, calling the police because the police were questioning her about a murder. Pepper spray or cell phone? Same problem. She didn't seem the type to keep a handgun in the foyer.

"Spare him? Joey just bought himself a boatload of new trouble, Claire. He came within inches of seriously hurting a police officer." He didn't buy the crap about Joey's grief. She'd raised the boy to care about no one but himself. And when she'd told him that Joey hadn't been near Reggie, her tones had implied Joey had no use for his old man.

While she was gathering herself for an angry response, he said, "I see Star Goodall's van outside. Is she your company?"

"I don't know anyone named Star Goodall." She folded her arms across her chest and stared up at him. "And I would like you leave now. You have no reason to be here and you're making me uncomfortable."

"Reggie's cousin Cindy?" he said. "Calls herself Star now. Married that sculptor, Nicholas Goodall. You're saying you don't know her?" When she didn't answer, he said, "Maybe she was here visiting with Joey and he forgot to introduce you? I know she and Joey are acquainted. They've got some real estate thing going." Her tight face looked like it might split.

He glanced back over his shoulder to see if the van was still there. It was. Star hadn't been as successful at sneaking out as Joey. Maybe she was lurking in the shrubbery, waiting for him to leave.

Claire's cool posture, the folded arms, the tapping foot, the stubborn raised chin, all made him want to walk right up until their bodies touched, march her backward into her own elegant living room until she plopped down on her creamy couch, and tell her what a destructive, heartless bitch she was. But that was a human impulse, not a cop's. A cop, when asked to leave a place he has no warrant to enter, has to leave unless he can exercise some wile to remain there.

"I need to talk to him, Claire," Burgess said. "He is living here?" She nodded. "He doesn't have another place?"

"He sometimes stays with a friend."

"Male friend or female friend?" She didn't answer. They both knew Joey's history. They also both knew that despite that, Joey's looks and bad boy attitude continued to attract women too easily. And what came next.

"Male or female?" he repeated. "What's the friend's name? And address?" She didn't respond. "Claire, I need to find him. Give me his cell phone number so I can call him, at least. If nothing else, there's the matter of Reggie's funeral."

"You can't seriously think we're responsible for that," she said.

"Well, the estate... Reggie's land. That's his only asset. And Joey's his heir."

"It's in trust," she said quickly, then looked down at the floor, probably wishing she'd kept her mouth shut. She was usually so good at this cold indifference. Somewhere in the house a phone rang. Maybe Joey, calling to ask mommy what he should do.

"I have to get that," she said. "And you have to leave." She wheeled around and strode away, her heels clip-clopping across the polished marble like hooves on cobblestones.

He checked the living room and the dining room. Empty. So was the powder room. That was as much as he could do right now. As he passed, he pulled out the drawer she'd been staring at, and came very close to being surprised. She did have a gun in there. He added to his mental list to check and see if she had a permit. Not, given Maine's extremely bad-guy-friendly gun laws, that she needed one to keep a gun in her house. Disturbing, though, to know Joey, with his lack of impulse control and propensity for violence, had such easy access to a weapon. Convicted felons weren't supposed to be around guns.

He let himself out, quietly closing the door behind him. The black van was still there. He called patrol, asked them to put a unit on the house and let him know if the red car returned or the black van left. Told them to call him with a description of the van's driver, although he didn't expect anyone else would be driving a black van with WIKA on the plate, and to have someone follow it if a car was available when it left, but to keep someone sitting on the house.

Because Claire's outfit was too elegant for receiving Joey or even Star Goodall in her witches' gauze and ecclesiastical scarf, he asked for the plate numbers of any other vehicles visiting the house. Then he called Stan. "You okay?" he asked.

"I'm thinking this isn't my week," Perry said. "Whatever wasn't bruised before is now. I identify myself as a police officer, show my badge, and the little prick takes a swing at me. Then he jumps in the car, starts backing up, and I go ass over elbows trying to get out of his way."

"You still on him?"

"Lost him down in the Old Port when a pod of half-dressed, underage chickies lurched into my path. Normally, I'd be fine with that. Tonight I was so pissed I almost ran them down. Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing, though. Two of them were no more than sixteen and so drunk they were about to pass out. I called patrol and sent most of them down the station, one over to Maine Med. Lost that little shit in the process. I've got a BOLO out."

"As in be on the lookout for a red Audi convertible with a vanity plate that says STUD?"

Perry nodded.

"So what have we got?" Burgess said. "Assault on a police officer. Failing to stop for an officer. Driving to endanger. Speeding. Anything else?"

"I can come up with some things. We got any leads on where to look for him?"

"Not much. I'm working on it, though. Someone said he was living on a boat. We can talk about it when you and Terry come in."

"That's now," Perry said. "You back at 109?"

"Stopped for a chat with Joey's mother. I'm on my way now."

"I'm going to grab something to eat. You want anything?"

Burgess considered. He hadn't eaten all day. He ought to eat something just to keep his body and brain working; wasn't about to ask Stan to bring him chicken soup. "Golden Arches or Dunkin' Donuts?" he asked.

"DD."

"How about a whole wheat bagel, toasted. No butter. Cream cheese on the side?"

"This time of day, it'll be like munching cardboard."

"Cardboard's about all I'm up for. See you in a few."

"I'll bring something, case you change your mind."

He parked in the garage and went upstairs. Terry was pacing among the desks, lean and wired as a greyhound, looking neither rested nor happy. So much for his weekend away. He wheeled around when Burgess came in, checked his watch, and said, "Stan on his way?"

"He is. He was chasing Joey Libby through the Old Port when he ran into a bunch of inebriated teens and had to stop and sort that out. You get anything?"

"Lotta people feeling bad about Reggie, wanting to know when his funeral's gonna be. Lotta sympathy for Maura. Beyond that? Maybe my compassion's wearing thin, Joe, but me and Stan were out what, four, five hours, and we didn't find a working brain anywhere. I mean, all the years I lived with Wanda, trying to follow her train of thought, I oughta be good at this. Able to follow the thought as it bobs and weaves through the chaos."