The Railroad (32 page)

“Who do you think killed Benoit?”

He laughed. “You don’t trust me. Why do you think I’d tell you the truth if I knew it? Maybe
I
killed him.”

“I wouldn’t dismiss any possibility at this point. You know Upstate New York is more dangerous than Manhattan. While we’re on that point, why don’t you take me to the bus station? Or better yet, how about a Metro-North station.”

“You don’t want to go to your house?”

“It’s not my house. It never was. It was a purchase. It was a bit of vanity. All yuppies have to have summer houses.”

“Okay. How about Suffern? “

“As good as anywhere else.”

The rest of the trip was spent in silence. When I left the car, I said nothing. I wanted Bardstown and everything associated with it to be gone.

The train trip was uneventful. Oddly, I got back just as Dennis would be coming home. I used the key he’d given me and sat down in his apartment and relished the silence. Then it occurred to me that Dennis might have found out where I was taken and would be on his way up there. I called his office and, thankfully, found him in.

“Oh shit!” he said. “I’ve been calling around all day trying to get someone to tell me where you’d been taken. I finally found out. You wouldn’t think that City cops would be willing to go to bat for upstate cops.”

“I had thought that it was Benoit with the power, but he's dead, so I don’t know who’s pulling the strings now. I think he had some powerful friends.”

“All right. Just stay there and I’ll come home. I want to hear everything.”

*

An hour later I was back at the City View, vowing that I would never leave New York again. Dennis sat across from me and shook his head. “What I can’t figure out is why they tried to push this if they had such a shitty case. It sounds like your friend Moskowitz shot holes in it in two seconds.”

“He’s not my friend. Why do you think they’d bring me up there then?”

“Desperation maybe? A prominent businessman gets killed and they don’t have any suspects. Maybe they thought they could force a confession from you. I suppose since you hated the guy there was some decent circumstantial evidence.”

“But if Moskowitz just shot it down, and I still wonder why he did, to be honest, then why did they try it?"

“Look. You’re all they have. If it seems like they have a good suspect and they believe he’s the killer, it at least keeps their boss off their backs for a time.”

“I’m wondering if I should get out of this part of the country.”

“No. It would look bad. Anyway, I can get you a lawyer, but I don’t think you’ll need one.”

“I  feel like this is never going to end.”

“Come on, Mike. You were an hour and a half away when he was murdered. They have no evidence to support it. They certainly have no evidence to support the fact that you drove up there, killed him, and drove back. Your friend Moskowitz has it tied up.”

“I keep telling you he’s not my friend, and what if they want to try to charge me with conspiracy or something.”

He smirked. “They’ll need conspirators. You didn’t pay anyone to kill Benoit, so there’s no check, no large withdrawal of funds. What do they have?”

“I’m really tempted to just hire someone and let them go clean out my house.”

“There are people who’d do that for you. It’s your house. It would be a good idea to let the police know so they don’t think whoever you send is robbing your house.”

“I really want to talk to the police, don’t I?”

“Look, we can just get about ten guys, go up there, and have it cleared out in two hours. What can they do to you? You own the house.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Are you still looking for a place? I have a friend who has a sublet in Alphabet Land. Not that cheap, but not too bad.”

“It would be better than Queens. To be honest, I don’t want to think about that for a while. Do you mind if I stay a few more days?”

“You’re an asshole, Alfalfa. Don’t insult me by asking.”

“Okay. Thanks, Dennis.

We stopped for a couple of beers and then went home. Dennis had some research to do and I was ready to just sleep. It occurred to me that I should probably check my answering machine, just in case Eileen had called. Remote as the possibility was, I had always wanted to be there in case she needed money or support and I’d started to feel a little guilty that I’d just run out on her and come to New York. Irrational guilt, but inescapable guilt nonetheless.

I called my answering machine. Everyone had laughed at me when I consistently refused to give up on an ancient answering machine and not switched to voice mail like the rest of the world. To me it seemed like old antiquated technology belonged in chez Moosehead. In fact it made it what it was. This particular dinosaur allowed me to call my number in Bardstown and, after typing a code, I was able to hear all the new messages that had come in while I was out.

All of the messages were at least a week old. The first message was from a telemarketer trying to get me to sign up for a credit card. The second message was from the Police in Targersville, bless their hearts, asking me to call the station. It sounded like Wills and his voice was placating, asking if I’d come in to answer some simple questions. It seemed that the charges were dropped, so I guess they were trying to make nice.

The fifth message was baffling. It was from a man named Butler who was the manager at a McDonald's. He said he had some mail that might be for me. The number sounded like it was upstate; I got a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wondered what this new development might mean and how I’d get my ass kicked this time.

*

When I got up, Dennis had left. There were real New York bagels on the kitchen table and lox and fixings to go with them. I was in heaven for at least an hour.

After that I got up the nerve to call Butler. It was a busy time at any McDonalds and I had to wait five minutes before he got a chance to come to the phone. “This is Mike Dobbs,” I told him.

“Oh yes! Mr. Dobbs. Well I hope you know what this is about. I got a postcard from someone who said to call you.”

The sound of the word postcard got my attention. “What did it say?”

“Well that’s the problem. I don’t know if you’re the right person, and I just don’t want to give out this information to anyone. I’m not sure how I can find out if you’re the right one. Listen, I have about thirty customers out front. Could you come up here? I’d feel better about it if I can look you in the eye.”

“I guess so. Are you sure that you can’t tell me who it’s from?”

“I’m not sure of that myself. I’m in a weird position. There isn’t much else I can tell you.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in Bardstown. Do you know the McDonald’s on Paterson Avenue?

I should have known. It was
our
McDonald’s. For the first time it occurred to me then that Megan might have sent all the other cards. Maybe. There was only one McDonald's in Bardstown proper. She could have gotten the address, somehow.

Then it occurred to me to wonder why she hadn’t felt safe sending it to my house, and I became frightened. “I can be up there about 2:00,” I told Butler.

“That’s fine. I’m sorry for all the cloak and dagger.”

“I understand. I’ll see you then.”

It seemed amazing to me that I was back making the same trip that I hated taking; the more I tried to pull away from Bardstown, the more it seemed to pull me back. Nothing I had done there could be erased.

I got to the McDonald’s at around 2:10. I felt creepy sitting in the parking lot, involuntarily reliving what I’d experienced there weeks earlier. The sights and sounds were so evocative that I could hardly sit still for the few moments it took me to find the courage to get out of my car. I guess I hadn’t left things behind as completely as I thought I had.

Once I got through the door, I realized that I’d seen Mr. Butler any number of times; I just had never really paid any attention to what was going on behind the counter. I watched him for a few minutes, attending to the diminishing traffic that came after the lunch rush. Finally he saw me staring at him and gave me a puzzled look, wondering why I wasn’t in line to order some food.

He finally came forward, looking distracted and annoyed. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Mike Dobbs.”

He grimaced. “Damn. I’m sorry but I forgot you were coming. We’re one person short today and I’ve been doing some of the food prep.” He looked around. “It doesn’t look like things are too bad now.” He turned to the girl who looked to be the most alert of his crew; she’d been watching us since he’d noticed me. “Susan? Could you handle things for fifteen minutes?”

“No problem.”

“Thanks. I think we might as well go in the back. Can I call you Mike?”

“Sure.”

We went to a room that looked like a cross between an office and a storeroom. He gestured me to a chair covered with tape used to repair holes in the vinyl. He sat down behind a beat up desk and fished around in one of the drawers.

“I think there’s something at stake here and I’m not sure what it is. I don’t feel comfortable giving you this information until I make sure you're the right person. I’m sorry.”

“I can’t blame you for feeling that way.”

He nodded. “The person who sent this mentions a bear that you should know. It says that the bear is waiting for you with whoever it was who sent this.”

I closed my eyes. “Oh boy.”

“Are you okay?” he asked me.

“Yes. The bear is Billy Bear, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It is. Okay. Do you know who The Frog is?”

Now I had reason to be scared. Was Megan trying to warn me about something? “The Frog is, well I doubt this will mean anything to you. It’s a whiskey. A scotch.”

“You got both of them right, though I don’t understand any of it. I’m not much of a drinker so I don’t know about scotch. What does scotch have to do with frogs?”

“The name of the scotch is Gaelic. It’s called Laphroaig. This person called it "The Frog".

He leaned forward. “So you think you know who it is. The person who sent this?”

“I think so.”

“You look upset.”

“I am. I…I can’t think of a good reason why this person would write to me. Unless there was a problem.”

“I feel like I’m prying.”

“But you get a weird postcard and you don’t know who sent it or why it was sent or if you should give it to me. I understand. I’ll tell you the story and you can make your own judgment.” I went on to do just that. It took more than the fifteen minutes he’d allotted, but, once he got into the story, he didn’t show any signs of pulling away. When I finished, he seemed visibly shaken.

“That was more than I bargained for,” he murmured. “The worst thing is I remember the case; it was in the newspapers. Now I’m part of it.”

“I wonder if Megan is trying to tell me something’s wrong. That’s the only thing I can think of.” To think I had thought it was Benoit sending the cards.

He studied me for a good minute. Then he pushed the postcard across to me. “I’ve always trusted my instincts; when I was hiring someone, when I found a doctor. That’s the best I can do now. I trust you, though I don’t know why.”

“Thanks,” was all I could say.

He stood up and I could see that his mind was turning to work again; he was worried about his employees. “I was divorced once,” he said distractedly. “I don’t get to see my kid as much as I’d like.”

“I never really had a family before.”

“I see that. Good luck, Mike.” We shook hands.

As I walked out through the dwindling lunchtime crowd, I almost expected to see Moskowitz walking toward me, watching my every move. But he wasn’t there. I felt the stiffness of the postcard in my shirt pocket. Somehow I didn’t have the guts to look at it right away.

Chapter Sixteen

I sat with Dennis hours later. “How do you know it’s Megan?” he asked.

I looked down at the postcard. Dennis and I had made a ceremony of it, opening a new bottle of Laphroaig and solemnly downing a few before I took it out of my pocket and looked at it. I’ll admit that I was scared shitless at what I’d find.

When I did look at it, I saw just another postcard. It showed a lake and a man fishing. The caption read
The lakes of Maine’s coastline: Lake Pierre, Gaston Maine.
On the back was a hand drawing of what looked like
Noah’s
Ark
, complete with animals. Next to it was a single word: Megan. It was all in a little kid’s handwriting or the best imitation I’ve ever seen. I passed it to Dennis.

After a moment he said, “You still can’t be sure it’s Megan.”

“I know that”, I answered. “But whoever it is knows about Laphroaig and Billy Bear.”

“Maybe she talked about you to someone.”