“I saw him at the Warp not long before he disappeared.” Big Leo stuffed another handful of nuts into his mouth. “I couldn’t tell you if it was that week or a couple of weeks before. The nights kind of blur together in my memory.”
“Who was he hanging around with at the Warp?”
“Earl St. Pierre, the machine mechanic at the mill. Couple other guys from his old neighborhood. I dunno. He pals around with Jerry Slavicki. Bobby Finagle. They coulda been there that night.”
Harding slid off his bar stool and headed for the john. Preble took a deep sip of scotch and gave Paulie a sympathetic look.
“At some point, you’re going to have to stop looking for another explanation. I hear the FBI’s going to close up shop pretty soon. I’m sure it’ll disappoint those who don’t want to think the worst of George, but all the evidence points in one direction.”
“It’s too neat,” Paulie said. “That bugs me.”
“Joanie pushing you to check out every lead that points in a different direction?”
“Nope. My own gut tells me something’s off about this.”
“A man should listen to his gut as long as it serves his interests.” Preble signaled the bartender and tapped Paulie’s glass. “Ready for another?”
* * *
Paulie nursed his second beer and begged off when Harding proposed heading to a joint down the street for fried clams, claiming a headache that he didn’t have. What he did have was the name of some guys he didn’t want to waste any time tracking down, including school board chair Heck Finagle’s son Bobby.
He pointed the Bel Air toward Riverside, arriving in front of the Finagle Funeral Home at dusk. Bobby was out front, finishing up with the lawnmower. A short, athletic guy who seemed a lot younger than his thirty-five years, Finagle was the lifelong bachelor type, still living with his parents, albeit in a separate apartment over their four-bay garage. His summer avocation was slo-pitch softball. Two summers before, Paulie had played on a team Finagle captained, giving him a plausible reason to pull over and say hello.
“Hey, Bobby, how are ya?” Paulie said.
“Staying out of trouble. You?”
Paulie turned off the ignition and climbed out of his car, leaning against the front fender to invite conversation. “How’s the team doing this summer?”
“Not bad, but not great, either. We need a better catcher and a center fielder with an arm. But we can still swing the bats. You oughta come back.”
“I’d be third string at first base and you know it,” Paulie said. “I was a better hardball player, never could make the defensive adjustment to short base paths.”
“Guys really steam up that line, don’t they?”
As Paulie was calculating how to maneuver the conversation toward George Desmond’s disappearance, Heck Finagle swung open the big garage door and pulled a hearse out into the early evening light. While they watched him rinse a sheen of pollen off the sleek black vehicle, Paulie decided to be direct.
“By the way, I’m sorry about George Desmond,” he said. “I know you guys were buddies.”
“Since fourth grade. I appreciate that you’ve written some stories about the real George, not the asshole they’re making him out to be. People deserve the truth.”
“The FBI insists all evidence points to George.”
Bobby made a rude noise with his mouth. “Those assholes haven’t gotten around to talking with me. I guess they’re only interested in his enemies, not his friends.”
“If you know something, I’m listening. When’s the last time you saw George?”
“Night before he disappeared. We were supposed to go fishing together the next morning. Friday he swung by after work to cancel, said something came up, he had to work Saturday morning.”
Paulie continued lounging against the car, but his mind shifted into red alert. “Did he say what the crisis was at the office?”
“Something to do with the marketing department. That whiz kid over there who looks like he’s still in high school needed some budget information, said it couldn’t wait till Monday.”
“You mean Ken Coatesworth?”
“That’s the one. George was pissed that Coatesworth waited until quarter of five on Friday to make the request. If he’d told him at noon, George could have done it before the weekend, wouldn’t have had to cancel our fishing plan.”
Bells were going off inside Paulie’s head and he struggled not to show his excitement.
“What do you think happened that next day?”
“I’ve been trying to figure that out for more than three weeks,” Bobby said. “The best I can come up with is someone tricked him, or kidnapped him. I know that sounds crazy, but the whole situation’s crazy.”
“You think Coatesworth’s behind it?”
“That weenie? No way. Had to be somebody slick.”
“I’m gonna get to the bottom of it, even if the FBI throws in the towel.”
“That’d be a damn good thing,” Bobby said. “Something’s screwy if people seriously think George Desmond would steal money and blow town.”
Paulie drove aimlessly for a while, turning the facts this way and that inside his head. Big Leo’s mention of Earl St. Pierre brought back a memory of his own conversation with the lanky mechanic when the Desmond investigation was fresh. That night at the Warp, St. Pierre made no bones about being another of the missing man’s best friends.
Paulie pulled into a parking lot in front of Moriarty’s Rexall, leaving the engine running while he stepped into the phone booth and paged through the directory, looking for an address. Maybe St. Pierre would slam the door in his face. But maybe, like Bobby Finagle, he’d come to appreciate Paulie’s efforts not to paint a black hat on his buddy.
* * *
It was almost dark when Earl St. Pierre opened the front door of the downstairs apartment of a two-family house, wearing a dish towel on his shoulder and holding a baby in his arms.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I was in the neighborhood and wondered if I could talk to you for a couple of minutes about George Desmond.” Paulie looked up to meet St. Pierre’s eyes, trying to look sympathetic and serious at the same time.
“Ah, this isn’t a great time.” Earl glanced over his shoulder. By the time he looked back he seemed to have changed his mind. “Can you hang on a minute?”
Leaving the door open, he walked down a hallway toward the back of the house. Left on his own, Paulie stepped into the front hall and shut the door behind him. Indistinct murmurs came from what Paulie assumed was the kitchen.
Two minutes later, St. Pierre reappeared, still carrying the kid, who was wearing a blue sweater and matching hat. He seemed surprised to find Paulie in the foyer rather than on the porch. “Our other two are down with the chicken pox. I hope you’ve already been exposed.”
“Had them as a boy. A miserable experience, as I recall.”
“It is, and we’re hoping Junior here doesn’t follow suit. Let’s walk around the block, okay?”
Paulie had never done an interview while his subject was pushing a baby buggy, but a source was a source and St. Pierre wasn’t acting peeved. Once the little boy was safely in his stroller with a tiny quilt tucked around him, they began walking north along the sidewalk, St. Pierre stooping a bit to push the carriage.
“I’m afraid we got off on the wrong foot over to the Warp a couple of weeks ago,” Paulie said. “I wasn’t casting stones at your friend that night. I’m sorry if it sounded that way.”
St. Pierre waved his hand. “You were just the first reporter to say out loud what everybody inside the mill had been whispering. Of course, since then it’s been all over the papers. I’ve gotta say, you’ve been the fairest of the bunch.”
“You told me that night you’d never believe your friend George
was a thief. I’ve talked to a bunch of others who say the same thing. If you’re right, it means someone set him up. I’m trying to figure out who would have done that.”
“Let’s get clear of these houses, okay?” St. Pierre turned down a side street. They walked in silence until they were behind Holy Martyrs Church. “Sorry to be so squirrely, but you never know who’s sitting on their porch with their ears cocked.”
He stopped and peeked around the front of the stroller to make sure his son was still snug before resuming their walk at a more leisurely pace.
“I know for a fact George was set up.” St. Pierre was looking straight ahead. “I didn’t say anything to you before because I didn’t know what you’d do with it. In early May, maybe a week before he disappeared, George told me he’d discovered irregularities in the books, and something big would be coming down soon involving mill management. I asked what kind of big. He said, ‘Felony big.’ I asked who, but he didn’t have a chance to answer the question.”
St. Pierre stopped walking and looked at Paulie, his expression unreadable in the falling darkness. “There is no doubt in my mind he caught whoever was stealing, and somehow they turned it around on him.”
“What do you mean, he didn’t have a chance to tell you who it was?”
“Our conversation got interrupted. We were at the Warp at a table in the back, near the john. Our buddies were playing darts, so we had a few minutes to talk, just him and me. He was nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers. Eyes moving everywhere, like he was watching for trouble. I thought he’d jump out of his skin when a guy came up from behind him and dropped a hand on his shoulder.”
“Somebody who worked at the mill?”
“Yeah, Big Leo Harding. Works second shift. Know him?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Paulie motioned with his hand, suggesting another loop around the empty parking lot. “Harding pals around with Ken Coatesworth. You know him?”
“Sure. Arrogant little jerk.”
“Bobby Finagle told me it was Coatesworth’s project that George was working on the Saturday he disappeared.”
St. Pierre stopped short. “How does Bobby know that?”
“They were planning to go fishing that Saturday morning. Friday night George stopped by his house to cancel, said Coatesworth surprised him with a last-minute project. I’m surprised Bobby hasn’t mentioned it to you.”
The baby began to fuss. St. Pierre rolled the carriage back and forth. “I haven’t talked with him much since George disappeared. I’m busy with my family. He’s all wrapped up in that damn softball team.”
“Then it’s news, hot off the press. Keep it between us, okay?”
They resumed walking, silent again. When they passed under a streetlight, Paulie caught a clear look at St. Pierre’s face. His eyes were narrowed, as though he was conjuring a memory.
“If what Bobby says is accurate, last week Big Leo lied to my face. He was standing next to the time clock when I was punching out. I headed for the parking lot. He tagged along next to me, complaining about the investigators throwing their weight around. He said something like ‘Before the FBI showed up and put a gag in everyone’s mouth, Kenny told me he hadn’t talked with Desmond for weeks before he disappeared. Said they were like ships in the night.’”
“Why would Big Leo tell you about a conversation he had with Coatesworth?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it goes back to that night he saw me talking with George at the Warp. If Coatesworth was in on the financial scam, Big Leo may have figured George told me more than he did.”
“Kind of a clumsy attempt to create an alibi for his buddy.”
“Nobody ever accused Big Leo of being graceful,” St. Pierre said.
Paulie went straight home after leaving father and son at their front step, feeling the need to clear the decks and puzzle out what he knew. Stretched out on his couch, a fresh bottle of beer within reach, Paulie let all the conversations of the past few weeks run through his head, turning the pieces in every direction, fitting them and refitting them into the frame. In every coherent picture, Ken Coatesworth was at the center.
MacMahon was right. They needed to figure out how to prove the baby-faced mill vice president was a crook. Moving to the kitchen table, Paulie pulled out a notebook and jotted down a handful of questions:
How hard have cops leaned on BL?
Where did the money go?
Time to ask JP about KC’s bad-boy connections.
He sketched a couple of images in the margin of his notebook while he finished his beer, his brain on autopilot, sorting facts and details. A smiling kid with the sun shining on his face. A shadow-faced man with the moon glowing over his shoulder. Choir boy by day, criminal by night. Bobby Finagle’s speculation was Desmond had been tricked or kidnapped. Paulie hoped that was all that had happened to him.
Shivering, he scribbled one more question in his notebook.
Odds body will be found if mob tie real?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Portland, Maine
My story about getting back inside the Saccarappa wrote itself. The photographs captured the pervasive gloom of the basement hallway, the sad tale of red bricks alongside sooty bricks. All I had to do was put words to the music.
Leah was tapping her foot, waiting for me to hit the send button. While she scrolled through it, I texted Christie to let her know I’d be out of town all evening, and asked if she or Theo could look in on Lou. Then I made two phone calls. Earl wasn’t home, so I left a message on his machine saying I’d found help analyzing evidence gathered at the time of Desmond’s disappearance. I also called Helena, aware my daily check-in was what got her through the night. Instead of charging into the topic of my mill visit, I asked her how much she wanted to know. The answer: not much.
“I don’t think I can read about it. At least not yet. Please don’t take it personally, I think I’ll skip tomorrow’s paper.”
I kept my voice soft. “I understand, just wanted you to know so you wouldn’t be taken by surprise.”
She’d had a devastating week. It didn’t matter whether Helena herself ever read the story. Those who knew her—and who’d known and loved her brother—deserved the details. My job wasn’t to downplay or sensationalize, but to write it honestly. I hoped I’d pulled it off.
I told Helena I was heading back to New Hampshire to meet with Joan Slater again.
“Part of me wants to ask to tag along.” She left the suggestion hanging in the air.
“And the other part?”
Ragged breathing was audible through the phone.
“The other part knows better. I’m feeling pretty raw.”
“I’ll keep you in the loop.”
Her voice was a whisper. “Thank you for all you’re doing.”
I was about to hang up when I heard the clink of ice against the side of a glass.
“It’s time to nail whoever killed my brother,” she said.
* * *
Chief Wyatt had told me of her childhood and rookie experiences with MacMahon, and he’d acknowledged remembering her too. But for the first five minutes of our ride to New Hampshire they acted like total strangers, as if they didn’t share personal history or a common goal. I observed their elaborate dance with more amusement than alarm, leaving them to sniff at each other while I chauffeured us toward the Maine Turnpike. Chief Wyatt had agreed to let me drive and graciously offered to ride in the backseat so MacMahon could sit up front, his wheelchair tucked in the cargo area behind the backseat.
MacMahon started out with his shoulders square against the front passenger seat, but by the time we hit Wells he’d half turned to face the chief. Before we crossed the bridge into New Hampshire, he’d dropped the attitude and was laug
hing at her impression of Wrecker Rigoletti. As we rolled into Durham, they snapped to attention, asking who’d take the lead questioning Desmond’s former secretary about what she remembered from all those years ago.
“I realize I’m a mere reporter, but I’m also the only person in this car who knows her,” I said. “If you go in saying ‘Just the fact’s ma’am,’ she’s going to tell you to go to hell. She’ll be polite about it, but that’ll be the message.”
“You’re not thinking you should run the show?” Wyatt was appalled.
“Run the show? That’s such cop bullshit.” I turned from the main road onto the side street where Joan lived. “I’ll make introductions and suggest everyone put their cards on the table at the same time. Then we’ll discuss.”
I swung the car into Joan Slater’s driveway and killed the engine.
“It’s not SOP.” MacMahon’s voice carried the hint of a chuckle.
Wyatt looked at us through narrowed eyes. “Nothing about this case is SOP.”
* * *
Joan looked nervous when she opened her front door. Dressed in pressed white slacks and a pale blue blouse, it appeared she’d come home in time to freshen up before we pulled into her driveway. A carafe of coffee and a plate of sandwiches on her dining room table indicated she was aware it could be a long meeting. After helping myself to a cup of coffee, I dove in.
“The plan tonight is to swap information,” I said. “Chief Wyatt has been privy to the briefings in the current investigation. Detective MacMahon has his files from 1968. Joan, you told me you have notes from your own investigation.”
“What do you have to offer, beyond an interest in breaking a big story?” Joan lit a cigarette without asking if it bothered anyone.
“I’ve got a box of notebooks filled with Paulie Finnegan’s scrawl about Desmond’s disappearance, including three from after he was officially told to stop covering the story.”
She inclined her head toward her left shoulder as she blew out a stream of smoke, the look on her face asking me to explain.
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