by Joe Clifford
I couldn’t understand why Adam was telling me all this. If Chris had been right about damning digital evidence of malfeasance, why would Lombardi be copping to everything? And then I caught myself. Of course, Chris hadn’t been right about any conspiracy. How was this any different than the time he thought he’d been infested with botflies and poked holes in his forearm with a steak knife? Or when he was convinced that Dr. Johnson had put tracking chips in his molars? Even though I should’ve known better, I’d allowed myself to get sucked up into his drama, yet again. Standing there in front of Adam, I felt like a goddamn fool for trying to play hardball and subtly implying I was hip to some crime. Like so many supposed mysteries in this life, the answer had been right in front of me. My brother, who was always one bad hit from donning an aluminum foil helmet to stop the aliens from stealing his thoughts, had constructed a far-fetched scenario, and for the last three days I’d been acting a part in his fantasy.
“Having that hard drive floating around Ashton,” Adam said, “in some junkie’s hands, is bad for business. It contains intimate, professional details of all the transactions we’ve brokered with vendors, providers, associates—going back ten, twelve years. There are financial records, bank statements, on that thing. It makes my company look extremely unprofessional, paints the Lombardi name in a bad light. If our clients find out we’ve been so careless with their trust and private information, the company I’ve built from the ground up—that I use to put food on my family’s table—will be done irreparable harm. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”
“I don’t know what you want me to do,” I said. “I don’t know where my brother is, and not for lack of looking. Charlie and I spent a wild, crazy night down at the TC yesterday. That videotape you played, that’s the first I’ve seen Chris since I let him crash at my place three nights ago. He hasn’t called. He hasn’t stopped by. Hasn’t written a note. My apartment was broken into, my head got whacked good, and—”
Adam had stopped listening, like my reportage was yesterday’s news. He exhaled with exasperation.
I saw a Lombardi work truck round the corner, creeping toward us.
“Like I told Turley and Pat, if Chris contacts me, I’ll let you guys know. Believe me, I don’t want my brother considered a murder suspect. I know he had nothing to do with Pete Naginis’ death. As long as he’s running around, he’s putting himself in danger. We’re all on the same side here.”
Adam slapped on that politician’s grin, reaching out and giving my shoulder a tight squeeze. “Glad to hear it,” he said.
The Lombardi truck, a giant, gas-guzzling 4x4, rumbled to rest at the curb.
“Thanks for coming down, Jay,” Adam said, extending a hand.
Which I took, embarrassed for participating in the cloak and dagger bullshit of the past few days. Adam Lombardi didn’t give a damn about preserving Ashton’s history or its small-town roots. I knew he only cared about making money, no matter how many armories or motels he had to destroy to make it. But that was business. Lost in all this was that my brother, perpetual screw-up that he was, actually had a job to do too. Instead of simply erasing a hard drive like he advertised and had been paid for, he betrayed a trust, getting gacked on crank, snooping, then making up elaborate lies, and now those lies threatened someone else’s livelihood. Add to that breaking and entering? No wonder Adam was pissed and losing patience.
I heard the truck door slam shut and heavy work boots approaching on the hard snow. Shaking my head in disbelief over my gullibility, I looked up.
“Jay, this is Erik. He’s head of my security.”
I stared at the jacked biker with the shaved head and Star of David tattooed on his neck.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Are you sure it was him?” Charlie asked.
“How many other guys around here are built like brick shithouses with the Star of David tattooed on their goddamn neck?”
“Did he recognize you?”
“If he did, he didn’t show it.”
After Adam introduced us, Bowman, or Erik, whatever the fuck his name was, barely acknowledged my presence, and the two soon turned and walked away, leaving me standing in the cold with my head spinning. I felt like I was going backwards on an upside-down roller-coaster. I didn’t know what to think, except I was getting sick of trying to figure it out. I longed to be back at some dead guy’s house, where the only problems that needed sorting were packed away in the attic.
The pretty Greek waitress brought us our breakfasts: chicken-apple sausage, cheddar and mushroom omelets, hash browns, pancakes, buttered rye toast. And a basket of chicken wings for Charlie, extra sauce. I was famished. I smiled politely as she refilled our coffees. I couldn’t tell if it was the same girl from the other day or just another in the endless parade of stunning daughters.
“So, Adam had those guys waiting at the shop for what? Chris to come back? You to come poking around?”
I tore open a fistful of sugar.
“It was probably one of them who clocked you over the head too.”
“Or, maybe my brother told a fairy tale to some tweaker, who thought he could flip the golden goose for some quick cash. Who the fuck knows? But I’m done with it.”
“Nah,” Charlie said, “I’m putting my money on those bikers.” You could see his gears turning. “But, wait, so they’re not really bikers, then? I thought Turley told you they were in a gang or something?”
“Motorcycle club. The Commanderoes.”
“Same as your girlfriend’s boyfriend?”
“Jenny isn’t my girlfriend anymore, Charlie, and if she was, then Brody couldn’t be her boyfriend, could he?”
“You know what I mean.” He poured a steady stream of half and half into his mug, swirling until his coffee was as light and sweet as melted coffee ice cream. “You think this Bowman—”
“Erik.”
“You think this Erik had anything to do with Pete Naginis’ murder?”
“I don’t know.” I slathered the flapjacks with butter, smothering my plate in a thick coat of syrup. “Guys like Pete live hard. Remember that hooker they found in the dumpster a couple summers ago?”
I hoped that explanation would suffice. Charlie, however, was just getting warmed up.
“How does McGreevy fit into all this? You think Michael Lombardi sent him up here? And if Erik Bowman did kill Pete, then the order came from who—Adam Lombardi? Whoa, man. That’s huge!” Charlie paused. “But wait. What about the ski resort?”
I set down my fork. “I don’t know, Charlie. Maybe Adam hired some ex-bikers because they’re tough and construction is a tough racket. Maybe what Adam said is one hundred percent true, and someone dropped off a hard drive to be wiped clean and my brother and his druggie pal went rooting around, saw numbers that didn’t make sense, and decided to construct some elaborate scenario and cause a row. Then maybe Pete Naginis blew the wrong trucker and got his neck snapped. How the fuck should I know?”
“And the sale of the motor inn.” Charlie tapped his head. “Very strange timing.”
“A coincidence.”
“You know what Fisher said about—”
“Fuck what Fisher said!”
“Jesus. Take it easy.” Charlie motioned with both hands to keep it down.
I had been talking pretty loudly.
Charlie waited a moment. “You have to admit, there are a lot of unanswered questions. Like why would someone looking to build a sprawling ski resort buy up a little motel first and not the truck stop next door, which is, like, twenty times as big?”
I shrugged.
“And none of this tells us why Chris broke into Mr. Lombardi’s house. Or what he was doing trespassing at the construction site. Plus, you never answered why a detective from Concord is up investiga—”
“Because my brother is a paranoid, whack-job drug addict?” I could feel myself starting to grind my molars the way I did every time I got riled. “I don’t know why McGreevy is on the case or why Ada
m Lombardi has a bunch of ex-bikers working security detail. But everyone needs a job, right? You keep trying to make a mystery out of this, Charlie, but the only mystery is how I got duped into running around Ashton playing Sherlock Holmes. There is no mystery. There is no big secret. My brother got his grubby hands on something he shouldn’t have, and now he’s driving Adam Lombardi nuts. Same way he drives everyone nuts if you give him enough time. End of story.”
“Fine. But then who hit you over—”
I slammed my fist down on the table, causing the other customers and the pretty Greek waitress to whiplash and stare.
I held up my hands, smiling to let strangers know they weren’t in the diner with a madman.
“Christ,” Charlie said, as though I’d hurt his feelings. “I’m only trying to help.”
“I’m done playing this game. I don’t know where my brother is or what he’s doing. Let the cops find him and figure it out. That’s their job. Not mine.”
Charlie grew real silent. Nobody said anything for a long time. I flipped through the jukebox for something to do. I’d hated ’80s music the first time around. Charlie poked around his wings, not eating any. Tractor-trailers barreled along the boulevard, the thrum of a thousand oily gears clicking in place, faceless drivers tearing through this town on their way to somewhere better.
“You don’t think your brother could’ve killed Pete, do you?” Charlie asked.
I wasn’t sure what had gotten me so worked up, since Charlie had only been voicing the same concerns I had. Until he asked me that question, and I honestly considered my answer.
“I don’t know,” I said.
The diner’s front doorbell dinged, and I peered past Charlie’s shoulder, down the long tin corridor and over the black and white tiles pooled with muddy, melted snow to where Fisher stood.
“What’s he doing here?”
“You told me to call him,” Charlie said. “Before you went to Lombardi’s. Remember?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t—”
“Boys,” said Fisher, reaching over the table and snaring a piece of toast from my plate. He crammed it in his mouth, whole, dropping into the seat next to Charlie. “You mind?” he asked, pointing at my food. He didn’t wait for a response before he started helping himself.
Fisher extracted a manila folder from inside his winter coat and slapped it down, like a hot hand at the poker table. He craned around toward the door. “Can I get some coffee?” he called to the pretty Greek waitress, who was restocking muffins under a plastic lid at the opposite end.
Fisher panned from Charlie to me, then back to Charlie. “Who died?”
“Jay’s lost faith in the cause,” Charlie said.
“There is no cause,” I said.
Fisher double-tapped the folder. “This might restore some religion.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
Fisher picked a rye seed from his teeth. “What would you say if I told you that Lombardi just landed a new, big-money contract?”
The waitress arrived with a fresh pot of coffee and poured Fisher a steaming cup. He attempted a look. She pretended not to notice.
“I’d say, ‘No shit?’ The motor lodge sale has been all over the news, and I was just at the site of the new condos, where Adam Lombardi was talking freely about the proposed resort, like it’s a foregone conclusion and not some well-kept secret. Nothing to see here. Move along.”
“Ski resort and condos,” Fisher continued, as though I hadn’t said anything. He picked through the basket of bones. “We’re talking millions to the construction company that wins the bidding.”
“I know all about it,” I said. “I was up at the site.” I didn’t see why I needed to repeat myself.
“Okay, smart guy,” said Fisher, twirling a plump wing in my face. “But did you know that the company awarding the contract, Campfire Properties, is located out of Concord, and that one of the members on its board of directors is—”
“Michael Lombardi,” answered Charlie, who was already thumbing through Fisher’s report, acting smugly vindicated.
“Is there any law against one brother throwing business another brother’s way?” I said.
“Actually, yes,” replied Fisher. “When it’s a state or federal contract, there’s a bidding process companies have to go through. To avoid collusion.”
“The TC is privately owned,” I said.
“The TC is,” said Fisher, “but not the land it’s on; that belongs to the state. They’ve been leasing it to the Travel Center. That lease is up this year. In a couple months, in fact.”
Which made sense why there’d been an announcement for the Maple Motor Inn but nothing on the bigger truck stop. There was no acquisition needed. If what Fisher said was true, state bureaucrats simply wouldn’t renew the lease, allowing Lombardi and Campfire to wrangle control. Wouldn’t be the first time two allies with vested interests brokered a secret deal behind closed doors.
Charlie fell back, throwing open his arms, like we’d just unearthed the missing strand of cosmic DNA that would tie together the origins of the universe.
“Don’t you see?” Charlie said. “The hard drive!”
“What about it?” I replied.
“This must be what they found,” Charlie said. “A digital trail connecting Adam and Michael. I knew Adam was full of shit when he told you why he wanted that computer back. Client financial records? Michael Lombardi isn’t sending detectives six counties over because of a bank statement. Adam’s not hiring ex-bikers to raid your apartment and beat you up for a bill of lading. Biggest construction deal in the state? A state senator just giving his brother the contract? This is huge!”
“You don’t know that’s what happened,” I said.
“C’mon, Jay,” said Charlie. “I get playing devil’s advocate. I know Chris drives you nuts and that you are seriously pissed at him right now. But this—” Charlie pointed down at the folder. “This goes beyond your brother. This is the kind of money people kill for.”
“It’s a stretch.”
“No,” said Fisher, “it’s illegal.”
“We need to find that hard drive,” said Charlie. “Turley told you that Chris was ranting about Lombardi when he went down to the station, right?”
“You know my brother’s beef with the Lombardis. Been that way since senior year. And he was high as a kite that night, paranoid, delusional. As usual.”
“Maybe he had a reason to be paranoid this time,” Fisher said, flipping open the folder and sifting through. “Anytime a contract this big gets decided, it’s by blind submission. So as not to curry any favor. To stop things like a friend giving a contract to a friend.”
“Or a brother to a brother,” Charlie added, his righteous gaze burning a hole through me.
“Contracts get awarded to the lowest bidder,” Fisher continued. “There’s protocol. Nobody’s supposed to know another company’s bid. If they did know, it’d be easy to come in low.”
“Like The Price Is Right,” said Charlie. “Y’know, when someone bids $800 on a washer and dryer and the next guy goes with $799.”
“I get how it works, Charlie.”
Fisher leafed through data he’d compiled. “Got dozens of bids in here. Contractors from all over New England. It’s that lucrative a job. Wanna guess whose bid came in last?”
“How’d you get all this?” I asked Fisher.
“It’s what I do, Jay. We provide insurance to half these companies.”
I pointed at the folder. “Answer me one thing, Fisher—Anything in there prove Lombardi had prior knowledge of another company’s bid?”
Fisher didn’t answer.
“Didn’t think so. Lombardi is the biggest construction outfit up here. It makes sense they’d land the job.”
“Still need to submit a proper bid,” Fisher said. “And be sure it comes in lower than all the others. No way to guarantee that.”
“Adam’s been doing this a long time,” I said. “I’m sure
he knows how to manipulate numbers to land a job.”
“Why are you being so difficult?” Charlie asked. “Since when did you join the Adam Lombardi fan club? You were as freaked out by those bikers as I was. Someone sucker punched you in your own apartment. Pete Naginis is dead. You brother is still missing.”
“No, he’s not missing,” I said. “He was starring in a Lombardi Construction security video last night.”
“You saw these tapes?” Fisher asked.
“Yes.”
“Had the date and time stamped in the corner?”
“Yes. This morning. 2:48 a.m. I remember exactly.”
Fisher thumbed through pages, settling on a telephone log. “You see that call?”
I stared down at a local number I didn’t recognize, calling another in Concord I didn’t recognize. There were several calls between the two over the past several days.
Fisher pointed at today’s date. “Last night. 2:57 a.m.”
“So?”
“Don’t you think it’s weird that after Adam Lombardi’s construction site is broken into in the middle of the night, the first number he calls isn’t the police, but his brother?”
This time it was my turn not to answer.
“It’s three in the morning, Jay.”
“What’d you do? Get his phone records?”
“It’s not hard to do,” said Fisher.
“You don’t know what they were talking about.” It was all I had.
Charlie held up a finger in another “aha” moment. “We could find out. Don’t forget, I work for the phone company. Be easy enough to tap the line.”
“Listen to yourself. You’ve been working at the phone company for how long? You’re going to”—I lowered my voice—“illegally tap Adam Lombardi’s phone line? Forget losing your job, Charlie, you can go to jail.” I stood up and pulled out my wallet, counting out bills, then gathered my coat.
