Who’s Mob connect? M. says they wash money so can’t follow. Impossible tho?
Were they Paulie’s questions, or bits of information he’d gotten from MacMahon? It was hard to tell. I pressed a yellow sticky note on the page where those notes began so I’d be able to find them if I managed to score my own interview with the retired detective.
Lightning illuminated the street at quarter past eleven, followed by a guttural rumble of thunder. Lou yelped, reminding me she’d been patient all evening.
Stacking the dozen or so notebooks I’d examined on the far side of the table, I grabbed her leash. We walked around the neighborhood for twenty minutes, Lou sniffing at everything she thought interesting while I tried to project myself back to 1968, when Riverside was booming and Paulie prowled its dark corners. When the leaves started turning inside out, we beat feet for home, arriving moments ahead of the storm.
Chapter Seventeen
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Riverside, Maine
Lou barked in the night, something she rarely does, waking me from a dream in which I was swimming in the Cascabago River. It was hard work because the water was full of big logs—some floating, some half submerged. I was holding my own until the current began sucking me and the logs toward the mill dam.
In my sleepy state I guessed Lou was in the midst of a similarly perilous dog dream. When I called to her from across the room she hurled her aging canine self onto the bottom of my bed and settled in. Mutually comforted, we both conked out and didn’t wake up till quarter of seven.
Twenty minutes later, hair still wet from the shower, I stood in the driveway staring at my car, which was slouching backward like a low-rider, its back tires airless. A stubby ribbon of slashed rubber stuck out of the sidewall of the one on the passenger side.
A pattern of sorts seemed to be developing. First, complaints were made to the big bosses at the Chronicle. Now, two flat tires. My non-paranoid conclusion? It was making someone nervous that I was digging for fresh facts about the Saccarappa skeleton. I hoped to hell that if my insurance didn’t cover the cost of new tires, the Chronicle’s policy included a rider protecting its reporters against shit like this.
Chief Wyatt herself showed up fifteen minutes after I called the Riverside PD.
“Since when do you deal with vandalism complaints?”
“When they have your name on them.” She circled the car from a distance of twenty feet. “Yours is the only vehicle vandalism complaint this morning. They almost always come in clusters. Granted, it’s only seven-thirty. Maybe we’ll get more calls. But given the recent headlines, I’m guessing this wasn’t some bored kid raising hell. Somebody wants you to switch beats.”
“This bullshit will make me work all the harder.”
Chief Wyatt crouched and examined the surface of my unpaved driveway.
“I’ll bet you walked right up to the car and examined the tires when you saw the flats.”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s all right. Let me see the sole of your shoe.”
I pulled off one of my shoes and held it out to her. She studied the tread pattern and looked back at the gravel. Thanks to the previous night’s thundershower, it was damp enough to show footprints. Mine were easy to see, coming around the driver’s side of the car, standing behind it, squatting close to the tires. Another set—smaller than my elevens—was visible on the other side of the car.
“I’m guessing running shoes, size nine and a half,” the chief said. “Common shoe. Common size.” She walked five steps to her unmarked cruiser for a notepad. “What’d you do yesterday after you left me?”
I told her about my visit to Mike Thibodeau.
“He had only a vague memory of building the wall?”
“That’s what he said. But he was unhappy that I was asking questions. Acted like a man with something to hide.”
Wyatt said Thibodeau’s name hadn’t rung a bell when I’d mentioned it the day before, but she offered to run it through the criminal records database.
“He’s the record owner of an outfit called Casco Bay Stonework. Used to work for a company called DiRenzo Brothers, now defunct.”
“I’ll check it out.”
“This is a two-way street, right? What’d you do yesterday?”
“Scut work for the state boys. Interviewed a half dozen people who’d called the tip line. No useful information. One was an old-timer who used to run the security operation at the mill. Liked to talk but had nothing to say.”
“Let me guess. Leo Harding?”
“That’s the one. How do you know him?”
“He’s a member at the Mill Stream Golf Club, where I hack around sometimes. Hard to miss him. Big-mouth. Crude humor.”
“He showed up for our meeting wearing the ugliest pair of orange plaid pants I’ve ever seen.”
“I know the pants. They should be illegal.”
She couldn’t suppress a smile. “I’m not a golfer, so I didn’t know Riverside’s former power-brokers still hang out at the Mill Stream.”
“They have a bad case of big-shot syndrome,” I said. “When their precious country club went on the auction block a few years after the mill closed, they lost a private fiefdom. The investors who bought it took it back to basics. Filled in the swimming pool, tore out the tennis courts. Opened it to the public. But Leo and his buddies who ran things at the Saccarappa in its heyday still strut around as though it’s a private country club and they’re charter members.”
“Mr. Harding went out of his way to make sure I knew his time was valuable. He insisted we had to finish up by eleven-thirty because he had a twelve o’clock date with the first tee.”
“He, Ken Coatesworth and Jay Preble—they’re known as the Crew—play at noon every weekday. It’s a ritual. On Saturdays my pal Earl St. Pierre is their fourth, playing rings around all of ‘em. So Leo didn’t tell you anything useful?”
Wyatt began walking a big circle around my car again, her eyes on the ground.
“He was full of bluster about how no one would have been able to stash a dead body in the mill during his tenure as security chief. After ten minutes of that he admitted that in ’68 he was working the floor. Didn’t start working the security end of things until a year or so later.”
“Did he say who was in charge of security when Desmond went missing?”
“A guy named Allen. Died in 1970. Harding called him lazy and incompetent.”
“No surprise there. In Leo’s mind, he’s the best at everything. What are you doing today?”
“Mr. Preble himself is my next interview. I’m seeing him at ten.”
“He’s a good enough guy. I interviewed him not long ago about the casino proposal on this fall’s ballot. He’s one of the key movers in the Don’t Gamble With Me campaign.”
“That’s how I know him too. A group of them came to the last police chiefs’ association meeting to share their stats about gambling and crime.”
“I’ll be interested in what Preble has to say. Reading between the lines in the 1968 news articles about Desmond’s disappearance, I’d say he was one of the Chronicle’s sources. I’m guessing Preble was the only executive who understood the bank’s automated recordkeeping system—probably a primitive mainframe computer—because the FBI deputized him in its effort to follow the money back in ’68.”
“Rigoletti mustn’t realize that or he wouldn’t let me near the guy. What’s your plan for the day?”
“Beyond calling a tow truck, and forking over a few hundred bucks for new tires, I haven’t got a clue.”
“At the risk of repeating myself, if you insist on aggressively reporting this story, watch yourself. Whoever slashed your tires in your own driveway was sending an unambiguous message.”
“I’m not
easily intimidated.”
“Stupid people usually aren’t.”
* * *
When I called the newsroom to explain my car situation, Leah was not particularly sympathetic.
“Is there anybody you haven’t pissed off this week?”
“People do seem to be getting riled up.”
“Promise me you’ll take this seriously. One more incident and the boys upstairs are going to pull you off this story.”
“They’re such a bunch of old ladies.”
“Don’t insult old ladies.”
She told me to spend the morning dealing with my car problem and be in the newsroom by noon. I knew it wouldn’t take me that long to find alternative wheels, but let her think I’d be spending those precious hours filling out insurance forms and arranging for a loaner.
Earl was standing outside the pro shop wiping down golf carts when I pulled into the Mill Stream parking lot in a baby blue truck with Broadway Plumbing—Starring Rufus Smathers emblazoned on the side.
“You changing careers?”
“Decided to go where the future is. People may stop reading newspapers, but they’re still gonna need plumbing.”
“It’s a fact of life.”
“If you’ve got time to play nine holes, I’ll explain why I’m driving Rufe’s wheels.”
“Of course I’ll take you out for a lesson,” Earl said in a loud voice as we stepped into the pro shop. “I hope you’ve worked on your short game since the last time you were here.”
On the first tee Earl made a big production of commenting on my stance and grip. I hit a nice drive for once.
As we headed down the cart path away from big ears, Earl asked me what was cooking.
“Some asshole took a knife to my rear tires overnight.”
Earl jerked the cart to a stop. “Where was your car parked when this happened?”
“At my house. Tucked into my driveway. Had to be deliberate.”
“You didn’t hear anyone outside?”
I shook my head. “My guess is it was related to my interview yesterday with a guy who rebuilt the wall. You were right. The job was hired out. Your buddy Gil told me he thought a local mason named Mike Thibodeau did the work. I caught up with him at his house yesterday afternoon, but he claimed to remember nothing.”
“Mike Thibodeau the basketball player?”
“That’s the one.”
“He’s trouble,” Earl said. “Thibodeau had a temper on him and was known for throwing the first punch, sometimes a sucker punch. A couple of his pals ran into trouble with the law, breaking and entering, assault, stuff like that. Rumor was, Mike might have found himself behind bars but for a bit of witness intimidation.”
“How long ago?”
“Long time. Early 1960s. Well beyond high school. Old enough to have decided what kind of a man he was going to be.”
“Maybe marriage straightened him out.”
“Could be. But in my experience, a bully stays a bully his whole life.”
“Bringing it back to the Saccarappa, what does it mean that Thibodeau was the guy who did the repair work on that wall?”
“Hard to say. He might have been honest as the day is long, but another observation I’ve made in my life is that trouble gravitates to its own kind.” Earl stepped out of the cart and motioned for me to take my next shot.
Six iron in hand, I settled into my stance and swung smooth and easy, remembering to follow through. The ball carried 150 yards down the fairway and bounced onto the green.
“Nice shot,” Earl said. “Now let’s work on your putting.”
We played the front nine as if I was taking a lesson, talking the entire way about what the town and the mill were like in the sixties. I pressed Earl for names of guys who worked in the trade who might have inside information about Mike Thibodeau. He said he’d think about it and get back to me, and warned me to be discreet unless I wanted the other two tires slashed, or worse.
“Thibodeau might be behind the vandalism, but I don’t know for sure,” I said.
“And we don’t know for sure that it’ll snow this winter. But it’s a pretty solid bet.”
The ninth hole was a par four that led back to the clubhouse. My tee shot wound up on the side of a slope, never a good thing. As I set up for my second shot, I looked down the fairway toward the parking lot and spotted Ken Coatesworth and Leo Harding climbing out of Leo’s raven black Escalade. By the time we reached the putting green they were perched on the clubhouse porch like two crows on a power line. They gave me a big hand for my three putts.
“Gale, you need to find yourself a new sport,” Leo cackled. “Golf ain’t your game.”
Earl jumped to my defense. “You were kind of a slow learner yourself, Leo. I remember rounds when you lost more than a dozen balls.”
“How about those six-inch-deep divots?” Coatesworth said. “He should have had a surcharge on his membership, he caused so much fairway damage.”
While the old boys were bantering, I pulled my bag off the cart. Shredded tires fresh in my mind, I kept up the fiction that Earl was giving me instruction, saying I’d call him for another lesson once my ego recovered.
I was almost to Rufe’s truck when Jay Preble wheeled into the parking lot in a 1970s vintage Jaguar. He lifted his left hand in a wave and ambled over to the truck while I was putting my clubs in the bed. He had the good manners not to comment on my borrowed wheels.
“Good round, Gale?”
“A lesson with Earl. I didn’t embarrass myself until I was right in front of the clubhouse, putting out at nine. Your buddies were right there, ready to needle me.”
“If you let those guys get inside your head you’ll give up the game.”
I eased the tailgate closed.
“Do you have a moment to talk about this situation over at the mill?” Preble dropped his voice, even though no one else was in the parking lot.
“Sure, what do you know?” I didn’t expect an answer, but thought it was worth asking, if only to see whether he’d tell me the same thing he’d just told Chief Wyatt. He didn’t waste time getting to the nub of it.
“At the time George Desmond disappeared, the FBI thought two scenarios were equally plausible—that he took the money and ran or someone else stole the money, then murdered George and made him the scapegoat.”
“If so, they kept the second theory awful quiet. I read all the old Chronicle stories. None of the investigators so much as hinted at that notion within earshot of a reporter. Once the money was found to be missing, all fingers were pointed at Desmond.”
Including yours.
Preble watched the toe of his moccasin scuff the gravel, then took the kind of breath a cliff diver takes before launching himself off the rocks.
“When I was helping them figure out how money was siphoned out of the mill’s account, I overheard a top-level briefing. When the head FBI agent realized I’d been within earshot, he sat me down and made it crystal clear that if anything said during that meeting leaked out, I’d face legal consequences. Pardon my language, but the man—Wellington was his name—was a son of a bitch.”
“Who’d he think you’d leak to?”
“Paulie Finnegan, no doubt. We were drinking buddies at the time. Wellington was the kind of eyes-everywhere cop who would have known that.”
I tried to picture patrician Jay Preble and rough-around-the-edges Paulie Finnegan palling around. It didn’t compute.
“I’ve reread all of Paulie’s stories. He never wrote anything about the cops wondering if Desmond had been murdered and framed.”
“I never told him what I’d overheard. I took Wellington’s warning to heart.”
“So who were they looking at, back in 1968, when they were tossing theories around?”
“Mostly George’s boss, Ed Talcott. Whoever set up the embezzlement knew a hell of a lot about the mill’s financial practices. If it wasn’t George who took the money, it had to be someone with his level of knowledge, and the only other person in that category was Talcott. But Eddie was ill at the time, meaning he didn’t fit the profile.”
“You said ‘mostly’ they were looking at Talcott. Who else?”
“They thought a scam artist might have gotten his hooks into George, partnered up with him until the money had been diverted, then knocked him off and took off with the money.”
“You overhear any names?”
“If I did, I don’t remember. Even back in the rowdy days of my youth, that wouldn’t have been the kind of person I would have known, and an unfamiliar name wouldn’t have stuck with me.”
“If anything more occurs to you I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call.” I handed him a card. “My home number’s on the back.”
He slipped the card into his pocket. “Will do.”
When I opened the driver’s door Preble asked a self-interested question of his own.
“Is the Chronicle going to cover tomorrow’s debate in Portland on the gambling referendum? High noon. Downtown Club. I’ll be going toe-to-toe with a shill for the money-grabbing industry.”
“I’ll talk to my editor. Sounds like there’ll be some lively jousting.”
“If I were you, I’d bet on me.” Preble winked as he strolled toward the clubhouse. “Pun absolutely intended.”
Other than a brief interview a few months earlier when he was trying to mount a “decline to sign” effort to stymie signature-gatherers for the casino referendum, Preble had never said boo to me, much less offered help on a story. It was a welcome surprise, and the lead he offered was intriguing. Had there been evidence all those years ago that pointed to someone other than George Desmond?
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