The Surrogate Thief (7 page)

But running wasn’t Ted Moore’s only tactic. About halfway along, and urged on by the incongruous cheers of his distant coworkers, he paused, doubled over from the exertion, and picked up a three-foot length of rebar from the littered ground.

Joe didn’t hesitate. Still coming on at full tilt, he pulled his snub-nosed revolver from his holster and took aim.

Moore dropped the metal rod and resumed running.

This time, however, knowing he was athletically outclassed, he veered toward the towering salt shed beside him, and a small exterior staircase angling toward a narrow access door at its apex—used during the winter to reach the top of the salt pile inside. Joe could see Moore’s plan: If he got through that door and blocked it from the inside, Gunther would have to go around, allowing Moore ample time to reach his pickup and escape. Even if Joe didn’t try following, he’d probably still be too late to make up for the shortcut.

Joe took the stairs two at a time, the ringing of his shoes against the metal steps matching Moore’s high above him.

But not that much higher. Already flagging, Moore was clearly finding his uphill option a real challenge. Gasping for air, helping himself along with both hands on the railing, he was stumbling every few feet, reducing the gap between them.

By the time he reached the door, he didn’t bother trying to block it behind him. He merely threw it open and disappeared from sight, Gunther barely ten feet below.

Inside, there was a small platform leading to a ladder that dropped into the salt pile like a straw into a milkshake. The drop would have been thirty feet had the shed been empty. Right now, in preparation for the coming winter, it was over half full.

Ted Moore staggered toward the ladder’s top, swung around to face it, and tried to descend. Gunther took a more practical approach. He ran to the platform’s edge and kicked Moore in the head, sending him sailing backward through the air to land with a thud ten feet below.

Gunther then climbed down the ladder at a leisurely pace to crouch by the other man’s side.

Moore’s arms and legs were moving slightly, as if he were keeping afloat in the water. His eyes were wide and fixed on Joe’s.

“You almost killed me,” he said in a whisper, the air knocked out of him.

Joe rolled him over, handcuffed him, and rolled him back. Moore’s sweaty face was now caked with salty sand.

“And what were you going to do with that rebar, asshole?” he asked.

“I didn’t know who you were.”

“Bullshit. Why’d you run?”

“I thought you were the brother of some girl I knocked up.”

Joe picked up a fistful of sand and dumped it onto Ted’s face, blinding him and making him choke.

His hands bound, Moore thrashed around for half a minute, spitting and catching his breath. “What the fuck’re you doing?” he complained.

Joe picked up another fistful and held it where Moore could see it. “Trying to have a conversation. Why’d you run?”

Moore was blinking furiously against the sting in his eyes. “You can’t do this.”

Gunther moved to open his hand.

“No, no. Okay. I’ll tell you. I ripped off a store last night. I thought you were after me for that.” He paused for a moment, his brains almost making noises as he realized his admission. “Weren’t you?” he added plaintively.

Gunther smiled and sat back more comfortably, noticing that a couple of workmen had appeared far below, looking up the hill at them from around the edge of the open bay doors. He waved cheerfully and gestured to them to leave.

“I am now,” he answered.

Moore closed his eyes tiredly. “Shit.”

“Actually,” Joe admitted, “I just wanted to ask you about Pete Shea.”

The other man grimaced. “What the fuck do I know about Pete?”

“I don’t know. Educate me.”

Moore tried to look surprised, but the gesture let more dirt into his eyes. “Ah, shit. Come on. Let me sit up.”

Gunther pulled him to a sitting position.

Ted hung his head and shook it violently a couple of times. “Jesus, that smarts.”

“Talk to me about Pete,” Joe said again.

Moore’s voice was angry. “Pete, Pete . . . The son of a bitch isn’t even around anymore. Hasn’t been for months. What’s the big deal?”

“Where’d he go?”

Ted looked up at him and slowly enunciated, “I do not know.”

Joe pushed him flat onto his back again, swiveled around, and placed his forearm against the man’s throat, making him gag.

This time, Joe was the one speaking slowly and clearly. “Cut the crap, Teddy, or you’ll be grateful for a mouthful of salt.”

“I don’t know. Honest,” Moore half croaked.

Joe pulled him up again roughly. “Why did he leave town?”

“He was spooked. Said you guys were after him. He said you were going to pin the storekeeper beating on him.”

“Did he do it?”

“Like he’d tell me. Of course he said he didn’t do it.”

“What do you think?” Joe asked him.

“Me? I don’t know. It wasn’t Pete’s style, but what’s that worth? A guy gets juiced, somebody pisses him off, then suddenly it’s not his style, but he does it anyhow. He was pretty cranked last I saw him.”

“What’re they saying on the street?”

Ted Moore shrugged. “They’re saying he did it. But nobody knows squat. They say Paul McCartney’s dead, too.”

“Was Pete flashing around any cash before he took off?”

“Nah. He was just acting paranoid. I didn’t know any money was involved. That wasn’t in the papers.”

Joe ignored him. “You were seen spending a lot right after the old man went down.”

Moore looked innocent. “Me?”

Joe only had to reach for Moore’s throat to make the man concede, “All right, all right. Jesus H. Christ. I had some money. Fine. It had nothing to do with that shit.”

Joe looked into his face and believed what he heard. He reached around and opened the handcuffs. Moore massaged his wrists and then rubbed his face with both hands, brushing the sand away.

“You’re not bustin’ me?” he asked cautiously.

“You still have what you stole last night?”

“Yeah. It’s at home.”

Joe tilted his head slightly. “Then, no—not if you hand it over. We’ll do it now.” He stood up and yanked Moore to his feet, not admitting that since he’d cuffed him and had him confess without Mirandizing him, there wasn’t a bust to speak of.

“Is there anyone else in town Pete might’ve confided in?” Joe asked as they sidestepped down the slope.

“Not Pete. Kept to himself, pretty much.”

“No girlfriend?”

The other man looked surprised. “Hey, there’s always a girlfriend—Katie Clark, if you’re interested. They even lived together, but that’ll be a dead end, too.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Chemistry. Pete’s been gone for months, and Katie started hanging with somebody else a week later—no love lost, if you ask me. If he’d contacted her or anyone else, I would’ve heard. This crowd isn’t big on keeping secrets.”

He paused and eyed Gunther as if struck by something wholly original. “That’s a first, you know? I mean, sooner or later, you always hear about where a guy ends up, even if it’s dead. But not Pete. Not so far.”

Chapter 7

J
oe Gunther was thinking back to that unorthodox salt pile interview when he entered the VBI office, his brain still working on how to link two events separated by three decades.

“Deep in thought?” came a voice. “Better not strain yourself.”

Joe glanced over to the one desk in the room that was wedged into a corner. That quasi-defensive positioning combined with the mess spilling over the desk’s surface made its occupant look as if he were hunkered behind sandbags. Psychologically speaking, the image fit perfectly.

“Hey, Willy,” Joe said distractedly, walking over to his own desk.

Willy Kunkle was the squad’s odd man. Though he had been crippled by a sniper bullet years ago and saddled with a dangling left arm, Willy’s sour and biting personality predated any such cause-and-effect explanation. Despite the injury, the post-traumatic stress disorder following his stint in Vietnam, his tortuous recovery from alcoholism, and one wildly failed marriage, Willy—as he was the first to admit—was a self-made man.

A boss’s nightmare, he was still loyal, intelligent, and tenacious enough to have not only earned Joe’s respect but his protection as well. Several times, when Willy had been threatened with termination, Joe had found ways to keep him on board. When asked why, especially by Gail, who openly loathed the man, and even once or twice by Sam, who was currently Willy’s girlfriend, Joe usually ducked the issue. Left to their own conclusions, therefore, people considered all possibilities, from Willy’s being a substitute son to Joe’s becoming senile. There were other, less well known interpretations, however, the most telling of which was that once upon a time, as Ted Moore could have attested, Joe’s methods hadn’t differed all that much from Willy’s own. Both battle-scarred vets, they’d had difficulty reining in the style of retribution they’d witnessed all too often in combat.

Joe had eventually found a steadying mentor in his old, now late squad commander, Frank Murphy. In his heart, he was hoping that he might still serve the same role for Willy, if only partially.

“Sam tell you what I was working on?” Joe asked, pretending to be scrounging through some files.

“Something about you being so bored, you had to go back thirty years for a case?”

That was one way of looking at it. “Yeah, in a nutshell. Who would you go to if you wanted a gun?”

“Around here, anyone who wasn’t driving a Volvo or didn’t shop at the Co-op.”

Joe sighed. “Yeah—pretty much what I was thinking.”

“But you’re not talking just any piece. You’re talking about an ancient hog leg. That smacks of amateur hour to me.”

Gunther looked up at him, brightening slightly. “I have the name of one of the dead guy’s pals. Worked with him at the lumber mill as a yard gofer.”

Willy hitched his right shoulder noncommitally. “That’s where I’d start. What’s his name?”

“Dick somebody. You want to keep me company?”

Willy snorted and began extricating himself from behind the desk. “Well, shit, since you got it narrowed down to a single Dick, how can I say no?”

The mill in question was south of the Brattleboro town line—an open complex of sheds, stacks of lumber, and a railroad spur. Again recalling his failed approach with Ted Moore, a wiser Joe Gunther went straight to the office, showed his credentials, and inquired about an employee named Dick who was a friend of Matt Purvis and had a last name starting with “Ch.” The response from the secretary greeting them was happily instantaneous.

“That would be Dick Celentano. They were quite the duo. I was so sorry to hear about what happened to Matt. That’s what you’re here about, right?”

Willy had already opened his mouth to ruin this friendly, casual moment when Joe cut him off. “You’re right. Very good. And don’t worry about Dick. We just want to chat with him about Matt. I hate to wander all over the yard looking for him, though, and I sure don’t want to embarrass him any. Is there a way you can page him? Tell him he has a phone call, maybe?”

Joe gave her a conspiratorial smile, causing her to giggle. “Ooh, that’s clever,” she said. “Okay.”

She hit a button on the console before her and announced, “Dick Celentano to the office for a phone call. Dick Celentano to the office for a phone call.”

Gunther thanked her and pulled Kunkle over near the front door, murmuring, “I’ll wait for him here. Go loiter in the parking lot and discreetly shepherd him in. I don’t want him making a run for it once he finds out who we are.”

“Ooh,” Willy mimicked before heading outside. “That’s clever.”

They needn’t have worried. Dick Celentano was cooperation personified, and easily impressed. “Can I hold it?” he asked after Joe had shown him his badge. The man was completely unfazed by having been lured into the office by a ruse.

Willy rolled his eyes as Joe handed it over.

“Wow,” Celentano said, cradling it as if it were a religious icon. “I’ve read about you guys, but this is a first. You’re like the best of the best, right? Like, way better than the state troopers.”

“Yeah,” Willy said quickly, before Joe could interrupt. “Way better. Be sure to tell them that.”

His eyes gleaming, Celentano returned the badge. “Cool. You got it. So, what can I do you for?”

“We’re here about Matt,” Gunther told him.

Celentano’s face fell. “Can you believe that? Unbelievable. I heard about it on the news. I was, like, stunned. I mean, I cried, right then and there.”

“I bet,” Willy muttered.

“That must’ve been tough,” Joe added, patting the man’s arm. “You didn’t see it coming?”

“Well, I knew he was bummed out, losing his job here and all. It’s not like any of us has money to spare, you know what I mean? And he had less than most.”

“Did you know Linda?”

The man’s expression soured as he joined the general consensus. “That bitch. Yeah, we met once. She must’ve been something in the sack, is all I can say, ’cause she wasn’t much anywhere else. I never could figure that one out—what he saw in her. She treated me like shit right from the get-go.”

“No kidding?” said Willy.

Celentano glanced at him, all happy innocence. “Yeah. I mean, what did I ever do to her, right?”

“So,” Joe asked, steering him back on course, “Matt going to confront her came totally out of the blue, as far as you know?”

“Oh, yeah. Totally.”

“He had a handgun. What can you tell us about that?” Willy asked.

Dick Celentano furrowed his brow. “I only know about a rifle,” he said slowly.

Both detectives stayed silent. Their guest’s former enthusiasm had abruptly faded. He, too, remained quiet, leading Gunther to suggest, “But he was looking for a handgun.”

“Yeah,” Celentano mournfully conceded.

“And you supplied him with one,” Willy added, his voice threatening.

This time the other man correctly interpreted Willy’s meaning. “No, I didn’t. I swear. I didn’t want any part of that. I told him so, too.”

“So, you knew what he wanted it for?”

Celentano squirmed. “Linda was driving him crazy. He said he just wanted to show her who was boss. I said I wouldn’t help—turned him down flat. Just like that. He was drinking again. I wasn’t sure what he’d do.”

Willy had straightened by now and was looking out the window, his impatience showing. Joe, for his part, leaned in close, still suspicious. “You were best friends, Dick. He was in need. Even if you didn’t want any part of it doesn’t mean you couldn’t help him indirectly. What was he threatening to do? Rob a store and steal a gun? That would’ve gotten him in really hot water.”

Dick cast his eyes down. Clearly one of the world’s worst poker players. “It wasn’t a store,” he said softly. “It was a friend’s house he was thinking to rob.”

“So, what did you suggest?” Joe coaxed.

“I gave him a name.”

Willy took Joe’s cue and said with unsettling gentleness, “Dick, we didn’t jam you up here. We won’t with the next guy, either. We just have to close all the circles with this. Lay it to rest so life can go on.”

“His name’s John Moser,” Celentano confessed, looking deflated. He looked up at Joe pleadingly. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Willy abruptly dropped to one knee to better make eye contact, his demeanor hardening yet again. Celentano involuntarily flinched. But Willy didn’t raise his hand or his voice, although the impact of what he said had much the same effect: “You call a priest or a counselor, you moron. You hurt your friend’s feelings so you can keep him alive. That’s what you owe him—not access to a gun.”

Gunther never did get any closer to finding Peter Shea, although it wasn’t for lack of trying. After collecting what Ted Moore had stolen the night before in exchange for not arresting him, Joe tracked down Katie Clark—Pete’s girlfriend at the time he disappeared—waiting tables at one of the town’s ubiquitous pizza joints.

He was standing by the back door when she ended her shift.

“You Katie Clark?” he asked, showing her his badge. “I’m Joe Gunther.”

“Good for you, pig.”

Joe raised his eyebrows. She fit the profile for that kind of response: skinny; long, straight, greasy hair; dirty hip-hugger jeans and sandals; the obligatory tie-dye T-shirt with a peace symbol emblazoning one breast—every effort made to diminish a natural attractiveness. But he knew from asking around which social stratum she inhabited, and it wasn’t the protester/college dropout crowd. She was pure working class, a poseur who couldn’t care less about what was happening in Vietnam.

“I’d like to ask you about Pete Shea.”

“He’s gone.” She made to brush by him.

“You know where to?”

“Wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

He addressed the back of her head. “If we establish he killed that man, you’ll be in shit up to your ears unless you help me now.”

She turned around to face him. “Pete didn’t kill anyone. You’re the one who’s full of shit.”

“How can you be so sure?”

She hesitated a split second. “I just know.”

“You were with him all that night?”

“Yeah.”

“From eleven o’clock on?”

“Right.”

Joe made up the next line. “After the two of you got together at the Village Barn just before? We have witnesses to that.”

“Sure,” she said, but her eyes betrayed her confusion at this total fiction, and her doubts about playing into it.

“Katie,” he said, his voice softening, “Klaus Oberfeldt was assaulted just after nine, and I have no idea if you were at the Village Barn that night. If you think Pete’s innocent, help me prove it.”

She continued staring at him for a long moment, and then finally let her gaze drop. “I can’t.”

“You don’t know where he was at that time?”

“No.” She looked up again, reinvigorated. “But I know he didn’t do it.”

“He carried a switchblade, right? Used to show off how well he could throw it across a room and make it stick to a wall?”

She thought that over carefully. The police had withheld mention of the knife from the papers, as they had the missing money.

“Yeah,” she admitted slowly. “But he lost it.”

“We found it at the crime scene.”

Her lips pressed together and she stared at him angrily.

“Where did he go, Katie?”

“I don’t know,” she repeated, her fists clenched. “He just left. You want to tap my phone and follow me around, be my guest. I liked Pete—he was gentle and sweet and not an asshole. I don’t think he did it, no matter what tricks you want to pull, but I still don’t know where he is. He dumped me like a hot rock and I haven’t heard from him since. I think it was just more than he could handle. He’s had a shitty life and I don’t guess it’s getting better.” She quickly wiped an eye with the back of her hand, adding, “I gotta go.”

She turned on her heel and walked off into the night. For months thereafter, Joe did keep tabs on her as best he could. But there was never anything to indicate that she ever reconnected with Pete Shea.

“You know John Moser?” Joe asked Willy as they left the lumber yard. Whereas other people had hobbies like fishing or watching car races, Willy had two: One was pencil sketching, something Joe had discovered by accident and had been sworn never to divulge; the other, known to all, was keeping tabs on the town’s underworld. As other men tracked baseball stats, Willy collected intelligence on the activities, alliances, and interactions among likely law enforcement customers. Every other cop Joe knew was content to deal with the bad guys as they appeared on the radar scope. Willy’s interest was like a connoisseur’s; he liked to be familiar with all aspects of his subjects’ progression, from start to finish.

“I know he’s not somebody I’d send a friend to see.”

Joe scratched his head. “It’s not that big a town. You’d think I’d’ve heard of him.”

“You don’t keep up,” Willy said flatly. “He’s from Mass. Springfield. Got too hot for him down there, so he brought his business to the land of the yahoos.”

“What business is that?”

“He’s a middleman. Drugs, girls, guns, stolen goods—you name it. Cagey, though. Rarely touches the stuff himself.”

“Meaning he’ll be all cooperation when we ask him about Matt Purvis’s gun?”

Willy laughed. “Fer sher—you can count on it.”

Gunther took his eyes off the street long enough to cast him a sideward glance. “I’m not sure I like that laugh.”

Willy stayed smiling. “Then don’t worry your pretty little head about it. I’ll find him for you.”

It was late by the time Joe finished at the office, having spent several hours catching up on paperwork. Being VBI’s number two man meant that he had not only his own caseload and unit to watch over, but the activities and reports of the other four statewide unit chiefs as well, all faxed or e-mailed to him daily.

It wasn’t as onerous as it could have been. Since the VBI had been created essentially as a legislative experiment, and run by Gunther and Allard from the start, the two of them had quietly reinvented the standard paper stream common to most police agencies. Each VBI unit was given unusual autonomy, resulting in the correspondence between them being more practical in nature than the Big Brother, from-the-top-down norm. As a result, Joe spent less time checking timesheets, doing cost accounting, and going over case management minutiae, and more time staying up-to-date on investigative progress and results. It allowed him to feel more like a doting nurse checking on vitals than a bureaucrat reducing his colleagues to “little people.”