The Surrogate Thief (10 page)

Joe reapproached, his expression still hard. “It’s not illegal to sell a gun, stupid, unless it’s stolen and the price involves drugs. Or are you going to pretend you didn’t know that, either?”

Beauchamp actually hung his head. “Sorry.”

Spinney glanced at his boss. The good-cop-bad-cop routine had ended when Beauchamp had confessed. This last outburst of Joe’s had come from somewhere else.

Lester quickly moved to extract the last piece of information they needed. “Derek,” he said gently, “where exactly was this job?”

“Dummerston Center,” came the eager reply. “Just beyond the four-way intersection on the East-West Road, heading toward Putney. On the right, in the middle of that hairpin curve they got. Super-nice folks.”

Beauchamp took a risk and looked at Joe. “I’m real sorry for what I did.”

Joe’s face merely darkened. “You little jerk. You’re sorry we caught you at it, and you think dancing around like some ass-kissing five-year-old will get you off the hook. You and I know damn well that three seconds after we’re gone you’ll be calling us assholes to our backs.” He suddenly stabbed the man hard in his chest with his finger. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Beauchamp didn’t know what to say anymore. Spinney reached out and slowly lowered Joe’s hand with his own. “We’ll be heading out now, Derek,” he said in a neutral tone. “But remember what happened here, okay? You are now on our radar. Call us whatever you like later, but if we ever hear of you screwing around like this again, we won’t be coming around to chat. Is that crystal clear?”

During this speech, Spinney was steering Joe toward the door, talking over his shoulder.

Staring at them from his post near the silent sander, Derek Beauchamp still looked unsure. “So, I’m okay, then? This time?”

Joe swung around. “There’s going to be another?”

Beauchamp backed up, tripping over the electrical cord behind him. “No, no. Sorry. Not what I meant. I get it. I mean, I’m cool. Everything’s cool.”

Gunther hesitated, as if pondering a choice of violent options. Finally, he turned on his heel, said, “Idiot,” and walked away with Spinney in pursuit.

Spinney drove this time, allowing Joe to stare out the side window.

“You okay?”

Joe didn’t answer at first. Didn’t even move, until at last he shifted his gaze to the front and said, “You ever have those almost out-of-body experiences where you start doing something the rational part of your brain just can’t believe? It’s like being on autopilot and stamping on the brakes at the same time, getting nowhere.”

“You know what pushed your button?” he asked.

Gunther sighed. “It’s not like we don’t deal with guys like that every day. Something just snapped this time. The futility of it, maybe. Damned if I know. I just stood there and got really pissed off—all of a sudden. I felt like smacking him.” He altered his voice slightly in imitation. “‘I’m real sorry for what I did.’ Jesus. Give me a break. I sometimes think we’re just slightly more complicated than when we crawled out of the caves. We’re sure as hell no better. Me want, me take, and screw you in the process.”

Spinney didn’t answer. Cops were ill disposed to think along such lines. It was almost guaranteed to undermine whatever satisfaction the job offered.

As Joe knew all too well.

“Sorry,” he said a moment later. “Too much shit on my mind.”

The house Derek Beauchamp had described was more in keeping with the area’s norm for upward mobility. No Yuppie version of a rusticated mansion, this one was a straightforward salvation of a previously worn-down farmhouse: asphalt roof, economy paint job, a repaired foundation, and, they now knew, some refinished flooring.

Fully recovered, Joe pulled himself out of the car and smiled at the young woman who stepped from the house to greet them.

“Hi,” he said, waving toward Lester. “Sorry to bother you. We’re police officers from the Vermont Bureau of Investigation. My name’s Gunther, and this is Lester Spinney. We’re just looking for some information—nothing bad,” he added, to assuage the alarm he saw growing on her face.

As they drew closer, he stuck out his hand. “Call me Joe.”

She shook it tentatively. “Margo Wilson.”

Gunther indicated the house. “What a nice job. Just what the place needed.”

Still flustered, Wilson turned and faced the house with them, as if they were all three admiring a mural. “Oh. Thanks. Did you know it before?”

“Just to drive by. But you can tell you’ve given it a shot in the arm. Actually, that’s why we’re here. It’s sort of a historical fishing expedition. We’re trying to find out who used to own it.”

“The Zimmers?” she asked.

“Maybe,” Joe said. “Depends on how far back they go.”

Wilson looked doubtful. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think they lived here for more than a few years. Mrs. Zimmer turned out to be allergic to almost everything, and they ended up moving back to the city. That’s why it was sort of run-down, and how we got such a decent price. Not that we haven’t poured a small fortune into fixing it up,” she added ruefully.

“They’ll do that to you,” Lester commiserated, clearly more kindly inclined toward this homeowner than to the unknown ones they’d just left. “You love them, but they are out to ruin you, day in and day out.”

Margo Wilson began to relax. She pointed toward the still open front door. “Would you like to come in? I think I know where Edward—that’s my husband—has squirreled away some of the old documents we got at the closing; maybe those’ll help. Would you like coffee? It’s fresh.”

They entered together, she showed them around, and they made the appropriate flattering noises before settling down in the living room with the coffee and a small, messy pile of the aforementioned paperwork.

Spinney kept their hostess entertained while Joe began leafing through the offerings.

There were the standard items—surveys, legal correspondence, court papers, and tax records—but of most use to Joe was a copy of the town clerk’s record of successive ownership. He went through the pages, deciphering the entries, keeping track of the years as his finger ran down the list.

Where he finally stopped short wasn’t because of the date, however, but the name opposite it. He straightened and let out a small grunt of recognition, causing the other two to stop speaking and stare at him.

“You find something?” Margo Wilson asked him hopefully.

Joe closed the stapled sheaf and held it up. “I think so. Could I borrow this? Just long enough to get it copied? I promise I’ll mail it back to you first thing tomorrow.”

He stood up, still holding it, forcing the issue somewhat. Mrs. Wilson was gracious enough merely to smile and stand in turn. “Oh, sure. I doubt we even need it, to be honest, but sure—mail it back at your convenience.”

She escorted them to the door, hesitating only as they were halfway across the threshold. “I hope this is nothing bad. I mean . . .”

Joe placed his hand on her forearm. “No. Absolutely not. We’re literally just trying to track someone down—kind of like connect-the-dots. Where were they when? That sort of thing. Nothing to worry about. I promise.”

Relieved, she let them go and waved as they backed down the driveway. Spinney waited until they’d covered about a hundred yards before saying, “Okay, Grumpy—spill. You look like you struck gold.”

Joe smiled. “I don’t know about that, but I found a familiar name. Thirty-two years ago that house belonged to Lawrence Clark. Remember that old case file you were reading before?”

Spinney’s brow furrowed. “Yeah, but that name doesn’t ring any bells.”

“His sister, Katie, was living with Pete Shea when he vanished into thin air.”

Chapter 10

A
fter Peter Shea went on the lam, Klaus Oberfeldt succumbed, and Ellen slipped away forever, Joe began to do some sliding of his own. He had hoped—even planned on—the newly minted homicide to distract him, maybe even afford him an emotional bridge he could use to distance himself from Ellen’s death. But the frustration of Shea’s total disappearance, leaving behind no alternate leads, ended up compounding Joe’s sense of loss and lack of direction. He became distracted, sleepless, and could find no satisfaction in anything he did.

It was Frank Murphy who eventually gave him a handhold at work. Without him, Joe always believed, he would have hit the ropes just as Willy Kunkle did later, and maybe worse. He’d never know for sure, fortunately, but that was in some ways precisely the point.

It wasn’t the first time Frank had come through, either. After seeing combat as a young man and then dropping out of college on the West Coast a couple of years later, Joe had found himself rootless, restless, and without a plan. By then back on the farm and attempting a fruitless return to a bygone life, he got a call from Murphy, an erstwhile older neighbor and friend and now a Brattleboro cop, and went down to take a look at what Frank was offering, as much to prove him wrong as out of any true interest.

But interested he became. Now, several years later, Murphy again reached out and took Joe under his wing, inviting him over to dinner regularly, taking him fishing, and making him one of his own family. Nurturing him, occasionally covering for his mistakes, Frank Murphy coaxed Joe back to health, inspiring him in the process to be a better cop.

In many ways, that was why he continued to stick his neck out for Willy Kunkle. There was a tradition at stake, and it involved the saving of one’s own, no matter how obliquely.

Except that in Joe’s own case, Shea was never found, the Oberfeldt case was never closed, and Ellen’s loss never fully overcome. It took years before Joe could commit to Gail, and then only because of her own interest in a completely unconventional relationship.

Now, suddenly, these ancient wounds were being revisited in odd ways—some through the distorted lens of memory, others in light of confusing current events, but all linked to names and actions Joe hadn’t thought about in decades.

“Okay,” Joe asked. “What’ve we found out?”

The entire squad—Willy, Sam, and Lester—were convened at the VBI office, something that occurred with increasing rarity as the agency picked up more cases.

“I dug into the tax records and confirmed what Margo Wilson showed us,” Sam answered first. “Her place was definitely owned by Larry Clark when the Oberfeldt assault took place.”

“The same Larry Clark who then died of cirrhosis of the liver ten years later,” Willy added. “Can’t imagine how he came down with that, but that’s when the house ended up on the market.”

Joe ignored him—usually the best policy. “Any guesses on other family members, like Katie?”

Spinney held up a computer printout with a small flourish. “God bless the Internet,” he said. “I tried every police resource we have, and in the end, it was one of those ‘find your high school sweetheart’ ads on the Net that finally worked. Katherine Madeleine Clark is listed as living in Orange, Massachusetts—assuming,” he added with emphasis, “that she and your Katie are one and the same, which, given the common names, may be a stretch.”

“How did you match them up?” Joe asked.

“Date of birth and where she went to high school. But like I said, Katherine Clark is right up there with John Smith.”

“That’s standing by your guns,” Willy commented.

Sam threw a pencil at him, which he batted away. Out of the office, Sam and Willy formed a complicated couple, although so far, despite regular fireworks, they seemed to be lasting.

Joe had been sitting on the edge of his desk and now leaned forward to take the printout from Lester. “Can’t hurt to give it a try.”

“You going to check her out personally?” Sam asked.

“It’s not far,” he answered, “and if it’s the same woman, I actually met her once. Plus, you’ve all got more than enough on your plates to waste much more time on this. Chances are, even if I do get a fix on Pete Shea, he’s been dead for years.”

“Jesus, boss,” Willy said, “you sure know how to sell a thing. You better not be writing that in your expense voucher.”

Orange, Massachusetts, regardless of its own pride in self, is duplicated a hundredfold all across New England. Mill towns long ago, they are stamped as such by huge, hulking, soot-grimed architectural remnants of an era that once made the region a global industrial powerhouse. Nowadays they are crossroads with brick downtowns and Civil War memorials, their efforts to survive hanging on tourism, or on being attractive to part-time city dwellers, or on trying to cope commercially in a world that time and again proves it doesn’t need them anymore. Often as not, they are the places people drive through wondering, “Why is this place here?”

Orange is healthier along those lines, what with its proximity to several recreational lakes, including the enormous Quabbin Reservoir to its south. About half the size of Brattleboro and also equipped with a river, it has a similar background of mills and factories.

Joe located the address Lester had given him, just off the town’s main thoroughfare. It belonged to a heavy brick office building long ago converted into an affordably priced and severe apartment complex, right across the street from an oddly shaped, slightly forlorn park dedicated to local World War I veterans.

He parked his car and approached the building’s front door, pausing when he heard music floating just above him. He glanced up and saw the back of a woman’s head almost resting against a first-floor window, seemingly lulled by the soft classical notes emanating from her apartment.

He proceeded to the front lobby and studied the names above the mail receptacles. “K. Clark” was attached to the only apartment on the ground floor, clearly the one he’d noticed with the music and the apparently sleeping woman. Encouraged, he pushed the bell.

There was no answer. He hesitated, giving the lineup of names a second look to rule out any error. He rang again.

Still no response.

Leaving the lobby, he returned to the window and, standing tall on his toes, rapped on the glass with his knuckles.

In almost cinematic slow motion, the head above him stirred, swung around as if on a rusty hinge, and finally revealed the round, pale face of a woman who looked as if she’d just been shaken from a very deep sleep.

“Katie Clark?” he half shouted at the closed window, conscious of how people on the street might interpret this.

The face showed no change of expression. It was as if she didn’t see him.

Maybe she’s blind, he thought. He waved his hand at her and saw her grimace slightly, clearly in reaction. Reassured, he pointed toward the building’s entrance and said, “I’ll talk to you on the intercom.”

Back in the lobby, he repeated his effort with the bell and again got no satisfaction.

He jogged back to the window, only to find it empty. She’d left, presumably to speak to him on the intercom.

“Goddamn Marx Brothers routine,” he muttered, running back.

Once he got there, however, there was no voice on the speaker, and no answer to his third push of the button.

He stood motionless for a couple of minutes, wondering what to do next, when suddenly, making him jump in surprise, an angry and exhausted voice inquired, “What do you want?”

“Katie Clark?”

“Who’s that?”

He’d thought about this moment, knowing the wrong approach might stop him from even getting through the door. Now, God only knew where he stood. A little incongruously, he tried keeping his voice upbeat. “My name’s Joe Gunther. From Brattleboro. You and I met more than thirty years ago. I was driving through town, and I heard through the grapevine you were living here. Thought I’d just take a chance and see if you were in. I’m sorry about the confusion with the doorbell. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“What was your name?” The voice had become no more energetic or friendly.

“Joe. Joe Gunther.”

There was a long pause, followed by “Did you say Brattleboro?”

“Yes. That’s right. A long time ago.”

“What was a long time ago?”

Joe looked at the intercom quizzically. “That we met,” he said, his voice trailing off.

The white noise of the speaker stretched out, eventually followed by a weak “Oh, what the hell” and the buzzing of the entryway lock to let him in.

He stepped into a hallway and turned left, toward where he knew the apartment to be. He knocked on the only door with a number on it.

“Come in,” said the same weak voice.

Gingerly he tested the knob and pushed the door open. “Katie?” he asked hesitantly.

There was no answer. He peered around the edge of the door and saw a small, thin woman sitting on an upright chair in the short hallway before him, her back against the wall as if she’d collapsed there following some shocking news.

“Are you all right?” he asked, stepping inside.

She gave him a deadpan stare with hollow eyes and sighed. “Peachy. What do you want?”

“Nothing, really,” he lied. “Like I said, I’d heard you were here. Actually, that was a while ago, but then, all of a sudden, I’m driving through town, and I remembered it, so I thought I’d drop by. Maybe not such a good idea, though, huh?”

“What?” she asked.

He approached slowly, looking at her, again caught off guard by her apparent confusion. “Maybe I shouldn’t have bothered you today. You seem a little tired.”

She looked at the floor and laughed weakly, doubling over with the effort. He feared she might fall off her chair.

“That’s good,” she almost whispered. “A little tired. Jesus Christ.”

While she caught her breath, he asked, “Can I do anything to help?”

“You’d be the first if you could,” she answered, and then went through an agonizingly slow process of standing up, using the wall and chair back for assistance, during which he fought the impulse to reach out and help, sensing that it would be poorly received.

The odd thing was that she looked fine. Nothing bloated or bent or altogether missing. She was just a slim woman in her late forties who moved like an ailing octogenarian. He remembered the lithe, attractive, quick-moving girl she’d been, and could still see the ghosts of all that, but in extreme slow motion.

He followed her into the apartment’s main room, filled with soft music but also cluttered with magazines, newspapers, clothing, cast-aside mail, odds and ends, all looking as if it had been dropped in the midst of some military retreat. Dominating it was a chair by the window, overstuffed, crammed with pillows, and circled by small tables stacked with more junk. It made him think of the nest of some large flightless bird, reduced to being fed and cared for by others.

Laboriously Katie Clark worked her way toward this resting place, her hands slightly out to her sides like a tightrope walker’s, her gait uncertain, as if negotiating a rain-slicked icy pond.

By the time she finally reached her goal and sank in among her pillows, Joe was as grateful as she appeared to be.

“Who are you, again?” she asked, squinting at him in concentration. “I know you told me, but I forgot.”

He decided to keep it simple this time. “Joe, from Brattleboro.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Right. Brattleboro. Long time.”

She didn’t add anything to that, leaving him groping for a follow-up.

“Yeah. We actually met, you and I. Decades ago. You weren’t even twenty yet.” He was about to add that he was a cop and that their connection was Peter Shea, but then held back, deciding to let things evolve a little first.

She glanced out the window at a brief spurt of traffic, unleashed by the intersection’s changing light. “Not even twenty,” she murmured. “Christ, to be there again.”

He sensed a small opening. “What happened, Katie?”

She turned to look at him, the exhaustion on her face ever more pronounced. “You ever hear of Yuppie disease?”

He nodded. “Chronic fatigue, right?”

She smiled bitterly. “Well, I’m one of the Yuppies who’s got it. Yuppie, my ass. You know
that’s
bullshit.”

He grimaced his embarrassment. “Actually, I don’t know much of anything. Just the name, really. I read about a woman with it who took several years to write a history book. That put it in the headlines.”

Katie nodded. “Damned if I know how she did that. I change my sheets and it’s lights out for the rest of the day. The name’s crap anyway.”

“What name?” he asked. “‘Yuppie disease’?”

She frowned dismissively. “Sure, and the other one. ‘Chronic fatigue.’ Makes it sound like we’re a bunch of sleepwalkers. It’s more than that. Sleep’s a bitch, in fact.”

“You don’t sleep?” He was surprised.

“Not well. In fits and starts. We never feel rested. That’s one of the . . . whatchamacallits they use to tell this from something else.”

“Symptoms?”

“Yeah. Fatigue’s only one. There’s swollen glands, headaches, lousy sleep, achy joints and muscles, sore throat. You can’t remember shit and you can’t do anything right . . . fucking checklist. I’ve got it all and then some,” she said regretfully. “You want to sound cool,” she then added, looking at him sharply, “you call it CFIDS. Stands for something.” She passed her hand across her forehead. “Whatever. I can’t remember.”

They both listened to the street sounds leaking through the windows for a while before he asked, “Are you in a lot of pain right now?”

“You bet your ass I am.”

Gunther had expected none of this, and was at a loss how to proceed. Katie Clark was locked in a whirlpool of her own misery, which seemed to have consumed all her attention.

He decided to work backward.

“How long have you had this?” he asked.

She’d been gazing at him for a couple of minutes, and now continued doing so without any sign of having heard him.

He waited a couple of moments before softly saying, “Katie?”