The Surrogate Thief (19 page)

“What about Sandy Conant?”

“Yup. Checked on him, too. Died an alcoholic about ten years ago.”

Joe cupped his chin in his hand and gazed at the wall a moment. “How ’bout the other stuff Willy and I found at her house? All those paper rolls from the steno machine. Do we have one that matches this?” he held up the document.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “But you’d have an easier time reading hieroglyphics.”

The phone rang beside Joe. He picked it up and answered.

“Joe,” Lester said. “You might want to come downstairs. We found something in the Tunbridge pictures.”

The basement room had lost the neat and tidy appearance of its inception. The squared-away tables equipped with phones and computers were piled high with paperwork, the floor was strewn with debris, and the air was close and vaguely unpleasant. Men and women either sat at their stations drinking coffee and squinting at screen or page or wandered back and forth comparing notes. A low buzz of continuous conversation, both face-to-face and on the phone, filled the air like a mechanical hum. In one corner, Lester Spinney had commandeered two folding tables he’d lined up catty-corner and covered with folders and piles of photographs that had fallen to him for analysis. In the center of it all was another computer, designated solely for e-mail downloads. This is where Joe and Sam found him sitting.

He looked over his shoulder as they approached. “It ain’t like in the movies, but it’s still pretty cool.”

They peered at the screen. Before them was a slightly blurry picture, enlarged as far as it could stand, of the fair’s interior midway, the one enclosed within the racetrack. It was a crowd shot, with a smiling child in the foreground holding an enormous cotton candy, his cheeks already smeared bright pink.

Lester tapped the screen, where his two colleagues were already looking. “That’s her, moving fast, so she’s out of focus and almost out of the picture, but look at this guy.”

Framed by the entrance gate and still clearly in midstride, the person he’d indicated appeared to be directing two men to go elsewhere, while a third continued after Hannah. Their expressions were grim, in stark contrast to the child’s, and there seemed no doubt that they were staring straight at the woman in the cowboy hat and bright red shirt.

“What do you think?” Lester asked.

Joe studied the leader. Medium height and build. Brown hair and mustache.

“I think I better drive back to Gloucester.”

It was early evening when Gunther stepped through the bar’s door. The usual hangers-on were still there, seemingly unmoved since he’d left them—in fact, barely looking alive. The one exception, as before, was back playing gin with Evelyn, both of them chatting quietly. Out of deference to the place’s clear traditions, Joe took his own usual seat and gazed down the length of the bar at the woman he hadn’t been able to chase from his mind as easily as he’d hoped.

She cast him a smiling glance, slapped down a final card, patted her old rival on the shoulder, and slowly walked in Joe’s direction, pausing only long enough to draw him a Coke. She placed it before him with a napkin and leaned on the bar.

“Couldn’t keep away, huh?”

“Don’t I wish,” he said, taking a sip.

She pushed out her lips slightly. “Interesting answer. Could go either way.”

He laughed. “No, no. Don’t take me wrong. I’d love to be back here for pleasure only.”

“That would suit me, too.”

Even with the kiss she’d given him last time, her response came as a surprise and made him blush. Sammie Martens had asked if he wanted company on the trip, and he’d turned her down, citing the enormous workload confronting them all. That was true enough, but he knew in his heart that efficiency had played no role in his wanting to travel alone.

And now that he was here, that knowledge was making him feel awkward.

Nevertheless, he heard himself say, “You on a full shift tonight?”

She nodded slowly, watching him carefully. “Yup. What were you thinking of?”

He smiled, hot and uncomfortable. “Just a question. I know you don’t like me acting like a cop in here.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That what you want to do? Act like a cop?”

He knew she was enjoying herself—self-confident behind her bar—which had the funny effect of lessening his embarrassment. In that way, he started feeling he could trust her, regardless of where this led. Which was comforting, given his own confusion.

“I have a photograph to show you. It might be the guy who asked you about Pete Shea.”

“Norman,” she reminded him.

“Right—Norman.”

But he didn’t pull the picture from his pocket.

“I could save this till later,” he said instead, still torn.

“Another late-night rendezvous by the water, with lobster roll and milkshake?” she asked, teasing again. “What would people say?”

He took another sip, grateful for the cold coursing down his throat. He wiped his mouth with the napkin and conceded, “You’re right. Bad idea.”

“No,” she said, suddenly looking quite sad. “Just a badly timed one—for you, I think.”

“That obvious?” he asked.

She merely looked at him kindly.

His gaze dropped to the polished bar between them.

“Show me the picture,” she said gently, the regret in her voice a combination of empathy and support.

Reluctantly, thrown off by how at odds he felt, Joe did as she requested, and placed the photograph of the man with the mustache before her.

She looked at it for a long time before saying, “That’s him.”

“No doubts?”

She gave him a funny half smile. “I’m as sure of that as I am of never seeing you again.”

He studied her face, using it as a mirror to better see his own inner turmoil finally settling down.

“You’re very good at this,” he told her.

“I’ve had a lot of experience.”

He collected the photograph, slid off his stool, and gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Well, thank you for sharing it with me.”

She nodded. “It was a real pleasure. Take care of yourself.”

Chapter 19

A
lvah Jordan was Putney’s town constable, a position considered by some in law enforcement to be the very first rung—or the lowest, depending on your prejudice—on the profession’s ladder. An ancient role, dating back to Vermont’s birth, it had fallen on hard times with the passing years. Most every town had one, and sometimes more, but the job ran the gamut from truly fulfilling a police function, as when the next closest officer of any stripe was more than half an hour away, to merely being a post the selectmen were forced to fill. In one of the latter such towns, the constable had actually been bedridden for four years before being replaced, with virtually no one the wiser.

Jordan fell between the extremes, as did most of his fellows. He took care of animal complaints and minor neighbor disputes and generally handled items of little or no interest to the sheriff, who was therefore only too happy to pass them along. This was an arrangement of unspoken mutual consent, because, in fact, Alvah Jordan had made the effort to become a certified part-time police officer, complete with a week’s training at the academy in Pittsford, many hours of continuing education, and some field training alongside a designated deputy sheriff. The town hadn’t required this of him, although some did of their constables. He’d taken the extra step because he’d thought it the right thing to do. That kind of thinking had pretty much directed him throughout his life.

And his life so far had been full and satisfying. He was married, had four kids and three grandchildren, and owned his own house, a dump truck, a pickup with a plow, and a backhoe, the last three of which he put to creative use to generate income. He was, like many Vermonters, a man given to solving problems—his own and those of his many customers—with a combination of common sense, hard work, good humor, and an instinctive rapport with mechanical objects.

Tonight, however, that good humor was being tested. On the sliding scale of regular calls, noise complaints were his least favorite, perhaps because, in most cases, the complainant rarely bothered telephoning the offender—whom he might not even know, much less dislike—preferring to use the constable as an ax handle instead. That bothered Alvah Jordan. He approached life directly and would never have asked someone else to act on his behalf, especially over so trivial a matter. Nevertheless, as often in the past, he’d left his family again tonight to do the bidding of others.

Perhaps it was time to think of retirement.

He pulled up the dirt driveway of the address he’d been given, killed his engine, and stepped out of the car. It was now full into fall, the leaves were turning, and the earth smelled of moisture and decomposition. The chill in the night air foretold winter poised on the threshold.

Alvah hitched the gun he always carried on calls to a more comfortable position. He wasn’t in uniform. It wasn’t that formal a job. And the gun’s holster was a clip-on model, so he could take it off as soon as he was done. Many constables didn’t even carry them, but he figured he ought to, as a matter of form.

Closing his truck door gently, he grudgingly had to admit that at least this time, the complaint had merit. The music throbbing from the small house ahead of him was loud enough to fill the surrounding woods, and certainly the neighborhood up and down the road. Why did people think their favorite pastimes should be community property?

He stepped up under the porch light and pounded on the door.

Blessedly, the music died down almost instantly, footsteps approached, and the door swung back to reveal a man of medium height with brown hair and a mustache.

“Yes?” he asked pleasantly enough.

“Sorry to bother. I’m Alvah Jordan, the town constable. Could I have your name?”

“Gabe Greenberg. What’s the problem?”

“I received a complaint about the noise and have to ask you to keep it down.”

The man smiled regretfully. “I should have known. I am sorry. I was in a good mood, felt like celebrating a little, and got carried away. Living out here, I kind of forget there’re other people around, you know? Am I in any trouble?”

“Not if you don’t do it again.”

Greenberg put his left hand on his chest in a gesture of contrition. “I promise. And tell whoever complained that I’m really sorry.”

It was the scar that did it, deep and vivid and running down the back of the man’s hand. Jordan prided himself on being a part, however small, of the law enforcement community, and so kept up with the bulletins and alerts that regularly made the rounds. Days ago, he’d received a BOL e-mail, a so-called be-on-the-lookout, featuring a man with brown hair and a mustache who was wanted for questioning in a homicide. The photograph hadn’t been great, and the guy had looked pretty ordinary. But the BOL had stressed both the scar and the man’s left-handedness.

Jordan knew instinctively that he was staring at the one they were after.

Unfortunately, Gabe Greenberg noticed Jordan’s interest. His eyes narrowing slightly but with his voice still light, he waggled the hand before him. “Nasty-looking, isn’t it? I suppose I should get some plastic surgery or something. I’ve just had it so long, I don’t hardly notice it anymore.”

Jordan stepped back, intent on getting to a phone as fast as he could. “Didn’t mean to offend. Well, I’ll leave you be.”

Greenberg also moved, following Jordan out onto the front stoop. His voice was less upbeat as he said, “Most people ask me how I got it.”

“I figure that’s your business.”

“I don’t mind. It was a dog bite, when I was a kid.”

Jordan nodded, still backing away. “Tough.”

Greenberg kept coming. “Yeah. My dad sicced him onto me.”

“Don’t say?”

“You seem a little nervous, Constable. You know something I don’t?”

It was one of those critical moments, usually missed, which—if you survive—you forever refer to as a miracle. Alvah Jordan’s plan A of heading for a phone was clearly over. Plan B was to try to save his hide and live with the embarrassment of possibly being wrong.

Without another word, on instinct alone, he threw himself at Greenberg.

That timing saved his life. As Jordan suddenly closed in, Greenberg was drawing a knife from the back of his belt, but by the time he’d swung it around to use it, he was already off balance, and Jordan had inadvertently blocked the blow with his body.

Both men careened backward, smacking against the door frame. Greenberg’s head made contact with an audible crack, distracting him long enough for Jordan to pull his gun free and use it as a hammer on the other man’s left wrist.

Greenberg let out a yell of pain, the knife fell to the ground, and Jordan completed his string of lucky breaks by bringing his knee up sharply into his adversary’s groin. As astonished as if he’d just been watching the past three seconds on video, Alvah Jordan saw Greenberg crumple up and collapse, both hands on his testicles.

After a moment’s stunned hesitation, he bent over, quickly removed Greenberg’s belt, rolled him onto his face, and strapped his wrists together, checking to make sure the knife was out of reach.

Then he stood, already shaking with adrenaline, and asked as calmly as he could, “You have a phone I could use?”

Greenberg’s only response was, “A fucking constable—Jesus.”

The VBI was still threadbare enough that it depended on sister agencies for everything from copiers to jail cells. Gunther’s official bailiwick extended solely to the one office with four desks, and all across the state the situation was roughly the same. Personally, he didn’t mind it. It heightened his own sales message that VBI was a support team to every other cop out there. There were moments, however, when the level of dependence stretched credibility. One hour after local constable Jordan had arrested Gabe Greenberg, Joe was watching what was technically his prisoner through the one-way mirror of the Brattleboro police department’s tiny interrogation room—marking the first time anyone from the VBI had even heard of this latest development in their very own investigation.

Ron Klesczewski stood beside Joe, watching the man sitting alone and now properly handcuffed, next to a rickety card table.

“How’s he been acting?” Joe asked.

“Pretty much like now: cool and calm. He asked to see a lawyer once, and he’s been a clam ever since.”

“You run him through the system?”

Ron handed him a thin file. “He exists. That’s about all you can say. He’s either been very careful or very lucky.”

Joe noticed the touch of doubt in his former subordinate’s voice. “Or he’s innocent.”

Ron looked at him. “Is that possible? Does make you wonder.”

But Joe had only been playing devil’s advocate. “I don’t think so. The bartender in Gloucester had no doubts, we have the pictures from Tunbridge, and he did go for the constable, from what I hear. That’s enough for a warrant. Once we tear his house apart, we’ll probably get more. If we’re really lucky, we’ll even match his knife to the wounds and/or blood types of both Shriver and Shea.” He stopped, ran all that through his mind once more, and added, “I’m betting this is the guy.”

It was an odd sensation, despite his having watched hundreds of other suspects through similar windows over a lifelong career. Looking at this nondescript man, he felt an emotional pulling in his chest connecting Greenberg to his own entire past history.

“You going to talk to him?” Ron asked.

Joe hesitated. The temptation was great, even if the likelihood was slim that it would yield anything.

“You have, right?” he asked Ron.

“Yeah.”

“What did you think?”

Ron pursed his lips. He didn’t enjoy being put on the spot. He was a detail man, devoted to reports and analyses. But he knew what Joe was after, and owed him a response. “I think he’s guilty as hell and not about to say a word, no matter what you lay on him.”

Joe waved the file in his hand. “So, when I do, it better weigh more than this.” He left the tiny viewing cubicle and stepped into the hallway outside, adding, “Let’s feed him his lawyer, lock him up, and do some homework.”

Joe slipped his arm behind Gail’s bare shoulders and cradled her more comfortably against his chest. She let out a contented sigh and placed her hand on his stomach.

“I like coming over to your place,” she murmured.

“Too crazy at home?”

“Too crazy, too big, too empty or too full, depending. It’s gotten to be like an office. Not a place to escape.”

“How’s it coming? Katz told me you should consider making some room in the fridge for champagne.”

She laughed, making his chest tickle. “What a bullshitter. Bet he hoped that would open you up. What did you tell him?”

“‘Nice try,’ I think. He let it go. Not the persistent mutt he used to be.”

“I hope he’s right,” she said reflectively, “but I have my doubts. I still haven’t connected with so many people—the truck drivers and farmers and regular working stiffs. Sometimes it feels like they all see me as a threat, not realizing I’m more in their corner than Parker’ll ever be. But he plasters the county with all those signs and ads and waves around all that red-white-and-blue crap, pretending that if you’re pro-choice or against war you’re anti-American, anti-Christ, and anti-everything else. I end up looking like Fidel Castro, when the first thing he’ll do is come down on every program we’ve got for the poor and the working class, and try to gut the economy, pushing for sweetheart deals with big business—anonymous Tom Bander megamoguls nobody knows anything about.”

“Whoa,” Joe told her, patting her shoulder. “I’ll vote for you—promise.” But what she was saying cut straight to something he’d learned late this afternoon, and which had been preying on him ever since.

“Sorry,” she said. “But I’m really getting nervous about him. I don’t think people realize just how powerful Bander could be. Charbonneau is just a grab-ass happy boy with too much cash. According to Susan, Bander’s got connections everywhere, and he’s completely untouchable—never run for office, no publicly traded businesses, and he has a bunch of flunkies standing in for him on every occasion. He’s like a woodchuck Howard Hughes. I just have this awful feeling that come election day, all the headway we’ve been making in this county for the past couple of decades will be suddenly walking the plank. Bander and his types will come out of the woodwork big-time.”

It was against every rule, but Joe couldn’t not share what was so much on his mind, even if he did think Gail’s comments were approaching paranoia. “I may have an extra monkey wrench to add to that.”

She lifted her head to look at him. “Joe, what’s wrong?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you this, especially given that you’re running for office, but I don’t feel I really have a choice: the guy they just caught—Gabe Greenberg? The one in the news, who killed Hannah Shriver? He works for Bander.”

Gail sat up, her eyes wide. “What?”

“We searched his house. In fact, we’re still processing what we collected—it’ll take days—but the connection to Bander is solid. Canceled checks, phone records, a bunch of stuff.”

“What does he do for him?” She was clearly stunned by what he was saying.

“We’re still piecing that together. He’s lawyered up, and we haven’t wanted to talk to Bander yet. I just thought you ought to know—political ramifications and all.”

He watched her. She made an incongruous picture, the thoughtful strategist figuring the angles while completely naked. He felt suddenly more sentimental toward her than he had in months.

Gail and he had worked so hard to establish such an unlikely relationship that he hadn’t noticed the simple truth: that theirs was a union unusual only on the outside. In fact, they
were
a pretty conventional couple, and they did make allowances for each other all the time. He’d been wrestling for some elusive answer to his recent discomfort, naively equating his loss of Ellen to losing Gail to politics, selling short in the process that since Gail was still alive, so was their love for each other. In itself, a new job wasn’t going to end that—although any number of emotional missteps based on that assumption well might.