The Surrogate Thief (9 page)

Wagner gave a small jump in his seat.

“You know John Moser?”

The young man’s face closed down. “I guess.”

Joe was smiling. “There you are. A perfect show of faith. I tell you what. This’ll be like a small test. We’ve got John down the hall, being interviewed. All I want you to do is identify him—just tell me if the guy we’ve got is really John Moser—and then you’re free to go.”

Jaime looked confused. “But you know who he is.”

Joe beamed. “Exactly. No risk to you.” He leaned forward and helped Jaime to his feet by grabbing his shirt sleeve. “Look, it’s like a positive reinforcement thing. I just have to feel you’re with me on this. I gotta feel good about my commitment to you, okay?”

But Jaime was dragging his feet and shook his arm free. “Why’re you talking to John?”

Gunther’s voice hardened slightly. “That’s not your concern. What you need to worry about is still being on probation and needing to make me happy.” He gently but firmly placed his hand against Wagner’s chest and pushed him up against the wall. “Tell me something, Jaime: What am I asking you to do here?”

The boy looked at him in surprise, groping for the right answer. “Name John?”

“Did I mention in what context? Or did I just say name him?”

“Just name him.”

Joe leaned into him just a touch harder. “And what happens if you don’t do that and only that?”

Wagner was starting to look seriously baffled. “I don’t know.”

Joe stepped back and smiled. “Right. And you don’t want to. You ready to help me out now?”

Jaime’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “I guess so.”

Joe slapped him on the shoulder. “What’re you worried about? You think John might get pissed? About what? You doing anything wrong here?”

“No.” But he didn’t sound too sure.

Joe didn’t care. He knew from experience what Jaime Wagner’s path was likely to be. Playing head games with him wasn’t going to cost Joe any sleep. He therefore walked the youngster down the hallway and, just prior to opening another door near the end, asked him, “So, here’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: Is this John Moser?”

He knocked quickly and opened the door to reveal Willy Kunkle standing to one side of a small room, and Moser sitting in a chair, looking worried and straight at them.

“Yeah,” Jaime confirmed, “That’s him.”

Joe closed the door and escorted Wagner outside.

“Uh-oh,” Willy said to a surprised John Moser, who was still staring at the closed door. “That wasn’t good. I forgot to mention we’d been grilling your little pal.”

He placed his hand against his cheek thoughtfully. “Damn—now, on top of all the forensics, we got a witness. Too bad, John. Looks like you been tagged.”

Moser was looking glum.

Willy had his hand on the doorknob when he paused, and added, “Unless, you have something that might smooth things out a little . . .”

Twenty minutes later, Willy Kunkle joined Joe in the VBI office. “I didn’t know they still made ’em that dumb.”

“You got what we’re after?” Joe asked, looking up from what he’d been reading.

Kunkle sat down and rested his feet on Joe’s desk. “And then some. The stupid bastard gave me stuff I didn’t even know about. That’s what took me so long. I had to give it all to Ron: dope deals, B-and-Es, a few smash-and-grabs. They ought to be able to get half a dozen busts out of it. Very sweet.”

“And the gun?” Joe asked.

Willy smiled. “Oh, yeah. Moser sold it to Matt Purvis for seventy-five bucks. He paid twenty and some Ecstasy for it to one Derek Beauchamp, who said he found it under a floor he was sanding on some recent Yuppie rehab project.”

He contentedly patted his chest with his hand. “Sometimes this job doesn’t totally suck.”

Chapter 9

H
i. It’s me.”

Joe smiled at the phone, relief washing over him.

“Hey, Gail. How’re you doing?”

He heard her sigh. “There’s a question. You free right now?”

He was standing in his woodworking shop, a place he often retreated to when he needed extraction from the outside world. “It’ll probably break some bluebird’s heart to hear it, but yeah, I’m free. Where are you?”

Her voice was surprised. “You’re building a birdhouse?”

“It’s for my mother.”

“That’s sweet, Joe. I’m sorry I’m interrupting.”

“Don’t be. You sound like you’re on a cell phone.” He was slightly disappointed by that, suspecting that she was probably calling on the way to some official function.

“I am,” she admitted. “I’m in your driveway.”

He put down the block of wood he’d been holding and crossed to a window overlooking the front of his small rental property, actually a carriage house tucked behind a huge Victorian monster fronting Green Street. He saw Gail’s car behind his own, her parking lights still on.

He waved at her through the window. “You want to keep talking like this, or would you like to come in?”

In answer, she blew him a kiss through the windshield and killed the engine.

He met her at the front door, having crossed the living room from the shop. They didn’t say anything but embraced instead, surrendering to mutually shared lost time and frayed emotions.

Afterward, Gail pulled back just enough to say, “Damn, I was hoping I’d get to do that tonight.”

He kissed her again, very aware of their bodies together, and feeling her hands running up and down his back.

“Can you stay awhile?” he asked, mumbling against her lips.

“All night,” she answered, sliding one hand up under his shirt.

He nuzzled her neck and began lifting her sweater up over her head.

“Are you playing hooky?” he asked her later as they lay side by side in bed.

She curled one leg over his, her hand on his chest. “Oh, you bet. They’ll survive one night on their own. After a while, everyone starts thinking the slightest detail will sink the entire campaign. There’s no sense of proportion left.”

“How do you think it’s going?”

“Hard to tell,” she said, her head finding a comfortable spot in the crook of his shoulder. “I’m so surrounded by enthusiasts, half of them convinced I’ll fall apart at the first mention of bad news, that I’m having a hell of a time figuring out what the truth is. Susan’s a brick, natch, but even she has an agenda. They all just want me to press the flesh and raise money.”

“Ugh,” Joe said. “That’s gotta be fun.”

“The pressing isn’t bad. People are looking for hope. I’m happy to give them that. Fund-raising you can keep. The bigger the cats, the more obsequious they expect you to be.”

“You need the money that badly?”

It was a pertinent question. Not only was Gail wealthy by birth, but she’d made a lot of money in real estate after retiring as a hippie, now quite a long time ago.

She didn’t take offense. “I could fund it myself, but that would send exactly the wrong message, especially with Parker and the Republicans using Tom Bander as their personal J. P. Morgan.”

“What’s Bander’s deal, anyway?” Joe asked. “Leo brought him up, and I didn’t have a clue, aside from the money thing.”

“Just a rich guy,” she answered vaguely before pausing to add, “Actually, I don’t really know. I met him at a ribbon cutting years ago—didn’t make much of an impression. I didn’t even know he was into politics until he came out for Parker. The grapevine has it that he keeps a low profile, gets really good people to do his deals for him, and basically reaps the benefits. Susan thinks he’s backing Parker because he wants to step out a little—maybe join the mainstream now that he’s made his bundle.

“Which is exactly why I can’t be put in the same boat,” she continued, back on track. “I’ve got to go out and raise money by tens and twenties. My own wealth is a liability, especially since right now I’m only running against fellow Democrats. That’s the irony—it’s members of my own party I have to playact for. Assuming I win the primary, it’ll be much less dicey, even if it’s a tougher race—what my handlers don’t want me to know is that word on the street is, this whole thing is Parker’s to lose.”

She raised her head and looked at him. “You wouldn’t be willing to help me out there, would you? Call on some of your buddies—tell them I’m not the Wicked Witch of the Far Left?”

“Sure,” he said quickly, but he was instantly uncomfortable with the idea, even resentful. She knew that politics was something he worked to avoid. Now he’d been put between a rock and a hard place, having to lobby colleagues who were already leery about his new role with the VBI. It was going to be goddamned awkward, and he was angry at himself for not having said so immediately.

She seemed to sense his reservations without wanting to take him off the hook. She added, “It wouldn’t be a lie. I know your guys can’t stand all the environmental and education stuff, but you can assure them I’d be in their corner on law enforcement. I am an ex-prosecutor, after all.”

He grunted assent, but was remembering that the “ex-” part of that had to do with her locking horns with her boss, the local state’s attorney. The man was never happier than when she left.

“Maybe the Dover and Wilmington chiefs, some people at the police unions. That wouldn’t put you in a bind, would it?”

Again, the opportunity to bow out. Again, ignored.

“No. I can do that.”

She snuggled in again, kissing his chin. “God, it’s nice being here.”

He wished he could agree. But all he felt now was foolish.

Joe took Lester Spinney with him to interview Derek Beauchamp. The fourth and last member of Joe’s squad, Lester was cranelike in appearance, the unit’s sole family man, the only one to have come to them from the state police, and unique for his quiet, laid-back demeanor. It was this latter characteristic that had made him Joe’s choice for this outing.

“What’s your pleasure with Mr. Beauchamp, boss?” Spinney asked from the passenger seat as they drove north on Route 30 alongside the West River. He was reading the Oberfeldt file, which Joe had handed him in the parking lot, familiarizing himself with ancient crimes and procedures.

“I’m not looking for any problems,” Joe told him. “I did a records check and found nothing beyond some recreational drug dabbling. He got into the usual mischief as a teenager, but he’s mid-thirties now, on a second marriage with kids, and seems to get the high-end jobs, which must say something about his abilities. I phoned a contractor friend and asked him if he’d heard of the guy. He said Beauchamp was reliable and had a good reputation. He probably pads the bills a bit, overorders at the homeowner’s expense, but that was it. No red flags.”

Spinney glanced out at the passing scenery, a soothing blur of variegated green and sun-dappled water. “Reminds me of why I do all my own home improvements, regardless of how shitty they end up.” He tapped the file with his fingertip. “According to John Moser, Beauchamp found the gun under the floorboards. That makes it a theft, doesn’t it?”

“Technically,” Gunther agreed. “We could use that if necessary. You want to be good cop or bad?”

Lester slapped his hand over his heart. “Oh, that cuts. With Kunkle available, you ask me that?”

Gunther conceded his point. “All right. You’re the shining knight.”

They were driving toward Newfane, some twelve miles northwest of Brattleboro, Windham’s county seat and a village of almost pristine beauty. Joe had been told that Derek Beauchamp was working on an expensive remodeling job high on Newfane Hill, an area with a complement of very expensive real estate. Newfane was one of the towns Gail was counting on heavily, famous for its liberal leanings.

“How’s the campaign going?” Lester asked, as if Joe had been speaking out loud.

“Fine, I guess,” he answered, surprised by how little pleasure he found in the question. It saddened him that his best friend’s greatest ambition to date should cause him to have such a reaction.

“I would find that tougher than hell,” Spinney continued. “Having my better half running for office—everyone poking into her private life. You guys ever see each other?”

“Sure,” Joe said shortly.

Spinney looked at him. “Ouch. Sorry.”

“No,” Gunther protested. “I saw her last night. It is awkward, though.”

“The politicking or the gossip?”

Now it was Gunther’s turn to take his eyes off the road. “What gossip?”

Spinney looked apologetic. “Jeez. I shouldn’t have opened this can. I’ve heard mutterings that she’s making hay off of being a rape victim. Shit like that.”

“Oh, for Christ sake. Like there’s a plus side to being raped?”

Lester held up his hands. “Hey, I hear you. That’s why I asked if it was tough.”

They were quiet for a while, each ruminating on how fast a conversation could deteriorate.

“She asked me to make some calls for her,” Joe admitted as a way to apologize.

Spinney’s reaction was upbeat. “That makes sense. You gonna do it?”

“I said I would.”

Spinney paused and then added, smiling, “Well, I’m not the legendary Joe Gunther, but I’ll help you do that, if you want.”

Again Joe looked over at his partner’s open, friendly face, feeling surprised and grateful. “No shit?”

Lester Spinney waved dismissively. “No shit, but it better count for some serious brownie points.”

They saw Derek Beauchamp’s van long before they saw its owner. A virulent shade of purple, it had a flamboyant yellow and red sign reading “The Sanding Sandman—Your Floor Is My Desire.”

“Jesus,” Spinney said as Joe parked among the standard construction site collection of battered pickups. “That’s some sales pitch.”

The building they were facing had once been a traditional Greek Revival farmhouse: two and a half stories, with the most ancient section standing at the head of a line of ever smaller additions, tacked on over the ages, which now trailed out behind it like a short row of diminishing train cars. As part of the present overhaul, it had all been reclad in bare cedar, topped with copper, and refitted with brand-new, triple-glazed gas-injected windows.

“Nothing but the best,” Spinney muttered as they approached the entrance across a debris-strewn yard. “Must be nice.”

They stepped through the open door into a wall of rock music and fine dust and the smell of fresh everything: lumber, joint compound, varnish, and new plastic. A man wearing a face mask and carrying a bucket appeared in a hallway opposite them.

“Can you tell us where Derek is?” Joe shouted to him.

The man pointed, still walking across the room. “Upstairs.”

Following a broad path of taped-down protective kraft paper, they found a sweeping staircase leading up and proceeded through several grandiose rooms outfitted with built-in cherry cabinets, marble fireplaces, and other baubles. It was like stepping into a TV program of
This Old House,
minus the camera crew and the sycophant host.

Through it all, Lester kept muttering and shaking his head.

At the end of their trip, they slipped through a plastic sheet barrier and came to a large back bedroom/gym combination, filled not with the intended equipment but with a large, burly man wearing a mask, goggles, and ear protectors, who was pushing around a bulky, screaming floor sander. The air was opaque with sawdust.

Gunther, in bad-cop mode, walked across the room and stood in front of the machine, forcing its operator to stop and kill his mechanical beast.

The man tore off his protective equipment and glared at Joe in the sudden, echoing silence. “Goddamn it. If you made me fuck up this floor . . .”

Joe cut him off by flashing his shield. “You’ll what?”

His mouth still open in midsentence, the man looked from Joe to Lester.

“Sorry about that,” Lester said pleasantly, filling in. “Are you Derek Beauchamp?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you won’t mind if we ask you a few questions,” Joe suggested, his face still grim.

“No. I mean, sure. What do you want?”

Joe went straight to it. “You sold a gun recently to John Moser. Where did you get it?”

Beauchamp paled so that the previously covered parts of his face matched the dusty ones. “I didn’t sell a gun.”

Joe stepped in close enough that their chests were almost touching. Beauchamp instinctively tucked his chin in.

“That is bullshit. You sold a gun illegally for twenty bucks and some Ecstasy. Moser gave you up so fast, we’d barely asked the question.”

Just like in the movies, Lester now approached and held up his hand passively to Joe. “You mind? Just for a sec?”

Joe shrugged angrily and moved away to look out the dusty window at the scenery outside.

“Never mind him,” Lester said in a near whisper. “Very bad day. Look, nothing’ll happen here if you help us out, Derek. This is no big deal, okay? Just tell me where you got the gun.”

“I found it,” Beauchamp answered equally softly, as if their words weren’t still bouncing around the cavernous room. “Under the floorboards at another job.”

“How’s that?”

“You have to prep the floors first,” he answered. “Well, I mean, not here. This is all new flooring using old barn boards—really expensive. But over there it was more like the usual, you know? Just making what’s already down look better.”

“We get it, Derek,” Joe growled without turning around.

“Right. Sorry,” he said quickly. “Anyhow, you have to prep the surface, which means you have to go around and countersink all the nails so you won’t tear up the machine. Well, that’s when I found a loose board. It was wiggly, slightly warped. You gotta fix things like that, or it won’t look right, so I pried it up to see what I could do, and that’s when I found it.”

“Just lying there?” Lester asked.

“Yeah. It was wrapped in a rag, like a towel, but there it was.”

“Was there anything with it?”

“I swear, man. It was all alone. It looked old. For sure nobody knew about it, ’cause the homeowners had just bought the place, so I figured, you know, what the hey? Maybe I could get some money for it. I mean, I didn’t want it myself. I’m not into that. But I didn’t know it was illegal.”