Don't Look Twice

by Andrew Gross

  By eight, he had crossed into Maine, veering onto the 295 bypass around Portland. There was a trace of snow on the ground and the morning opened up into a clear blue winter day.

  It brought back memories for Hauck. He’d gone to Colby, just an hour up the road from Brunswick. Bowdoin had been the scene of one his best college games. A hundred and twenty yards rushing; he’d bowled over from the two with the game-winning touchdown with thirty seconds remaining on the clock. He could still recall the elation of dancing all the way back to the bench, the groan of the packed stands deflating. Blood on his jersey—number 22. He’d returned a decade ago for his tenth reunion. With Beth and Jessie and Norah. A rising star with the NYPD, he remembered how proud he was showing them off.

  Three years later, Norah was dead.

  He’d never come back again.

  The exit sign read BRUNSWICK. Hauck got off at the second exit. He stopped at a service station to hit the john. He plugged “2227 Capps Harbor Road” into the GPS.

  The address was a few miles out of town. Past the college on Merepoint Bay.

  It was eight thirty. Hauck drove past the college on 123, checking out the stands and the field house, everything looking different than he remembered.

  He turned on Middle Inlet Road.

  A layer of chunky snow was packed on the ground. The roads, this far from town, were not well plowed. He was heading toward the water. The houses here were upscale. Large, shingled capes and farms with renovated barns that backed onto the bay.

  Not exactly the kind of neighborhood a career blackjack dealer could readily afford. Even here.

  We dealt with that privately, Raines had said.

  Hauck made a right onto Capps Harbor, the wheels of the Explorer crunching on the packed snow. A couple of homes were up ahead. The GPS announced he was approaching his destination. He went by a blue colonial with a mailbox reading 2210.

  Hauck pulled to the side of the road. On the other side was a large white house with green shutters set back aways. Maybe once it would’ve been called stately, but now it was in need of repair. A wooden sign hung at the end of the driveway.

  MEREPOINT BAY FARM. BED AND BREAKFAST. The sign said 2227.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Hauck stared at the house a long time before pulling in. It was wear-worn, in need of several coats of paint. The driveway was all rutted. A three-bay closed garage was separate from the house.

  Pacello had bought himself a little inn.

  Hauck couldn’t see any lights on or smoke from the chimney. No car in front. He drove down the driveway toward the house.

  If we know, Raines knows, Steve’s words rang in his head. He checked his gun. Four were already dead.

  Hauck parked and stepped out, strapped the holster around his chest. He went up the chipped stone staircase leading to the front. Most of the shutters were closed. He peered in. He didn’t see any sign of life.

  He knocked on the front door. “Anyone home?”

  No answer. A gull squawked, flapping its wings out over the inlet.

  He tried a second time. No answer again. If the place was even open for business, there sure weren’t any guests.

  Hauck took out his cell and asked for the local directory assistance. He requested the number for the Merepoint Farm Bed and Breakfast on Capps Harbor Road. After a few rings a voice recording came on. “You’ve reached Paul and Katie Pacello of the Merepoint Farm B and B. If you’d like to make a reservation…”

  Hauck flicked it off. The place looked abandoned. Shuttered up. It didn’t seem as if the Pacellos had just gone out to the market.

  He dialed the office back home, finding Munoz.

  “How’s the weather up there, Lieutenant? Find Pacello yet?”

  “Cold,” he said, staring out at the gray inlet. “And no, no one’s home.”

  He gave Munoz the address and told him to do his magic. “Call the local county clerk. Find me whatever you can. When it was purchased? Who from? I was expecting more like a trailer in a retirement home. I’m looking at an awfully nifty piece of real estate for a guy who likely never made more than sixty thou a year in his life. It’s cold as shit. Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

  “I’ll be in touch, LT…”

  Pacello had just retired, around the same time Kramer had been killed. Now he was missing too.

  The dealer was in this, Hauck knew.

  He heard a noise and spotted an old black truck lumbering up the drive. He double-checked his gun.

  The truck pulled to a stop in front of the garage. The side panel read NORTHLAND ELECTRIC. A man stepped out in a blue workman’s uniform and cap. He looked up at Hauck and scratched his head. “It’s off-season, mister. Hope you’re not looking around here for a room.”

  “I’m looking for Paul Pacello,” Hauck replied.

  The man nodded, went around and threw open the back door of his truck. “You won’t find him here. He called in early this morning and said he and the wife were gone for a few days. Told me to finish the job. Blown circuit casement in the basement.”

  Hauck removed his wallet, showing the man his badge. “Any idea where he went?”

  The man grunted, “Greenwich? Connecticut, huh? I have a niece down there. Fairfield. I think it’s close by. No, no idea in the world, I’m afraid. Just told me where the key would be left, that’s all.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  The man strapped on his tool case and yanked out a carton from the bay. “Yesterday. Helped me dig out that wiring. It’s off-season now. Can’t blame anyone for wanting to get up and leave.”

  “I need to talk to him. You know anyone who might know where they went?” Hauck put his badge away. “Anything you can tell me would be of help.”

  The man shrugged. “Mister, the only thing I can tell you is never cross a black wire with a white ground. You know what I mean? Anything else, you might check with the post office back in town. See if anything’s being forwarded. But I mean, you must know that—you’re a cop.”

  The electrician moved past him toward the house.

  Hauck looked around the point, cold and dry with winter. Maybe the neighbors knew something.

  “Thanks.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  The neighbors didn’t help.

  All Hauck was able to get from a tight-lipped woman in a parka backing her Volvo wagon out was that Pacello had some family who must live locally because she had seen a couple who seemed in their thirties with a young kid helping him fix up the place from time to time.

  He drove back into town, stopped for coffee and a late breakfast at a place called the Green Horse on Pleasant Street. He checked through the local phone book and found no other Pacello. He asked around the café. No one seemed to know him there. A couple of people did know of the B and B.

  An older woman nodded. “Yes, I heard that old place changed hands.”

  It was almost one when Freddy finally called back. “Enjoying your trip up there, Lieutenant?”

  Hauck grumbled, “I’ve been up and down Main Street twice, bought Jessie some maple syrup and a pair of clogs, and now I’m standing here ogling a couple of hot-looking coeds. What took you so long?”

  “The property was bought three years ago,” Freddy said. “For $825,000.”

  Three years. That shot a hole in Hauck’s theory, that the dealer’s sudden “retirement” was connected to Kramer’s murder.

  “Seems Pacello put $275,000 down and took out a mortgage with Cumberland County Savings and Loan for the rest.”

  “Five hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That’s an awful lot to carry for a guy who deals cards,” Hauck said.

  “That’s why it took me a while to get back, LT. I had Steve check with the bank. Seems the Pacellos were three months in arrears. He had tried to refinance it twice over the past year. Lower the payments. Until last month…”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Then the mortgage was paid off, Lieutenant.”r />
  Hauck turned away from the street. “Paid off? You mean in full?”

  “Yeah, one hundred percent, LT.”

  Over half a million dollars. Hauck’s head started to spin. He thought of the surveillance video. “Maybe Pacello was in bed with Kramer and Sanger after all.”

  “I don’t think so,” Freddy replied. “That’s why it took me so long. The mortgage payoff check was from the Washington Mutual in Wallingford, Connecticut. The funds for it came from a local real estate company, Saunders Properties.”

  Hauck shrugged. “Pacello probably sold his primary home.”

  “I don’t know. We did a Dun and Bradstreet on it. Saunders is a local affiliate of a mortgage company called Heritage Financial, which is owned by a William Arthur Turner. When I ran it by Steve, he immediately recognized his name. William Turner is on the board of several large enterprises. One of them may not surprise you. You’re probably already ahead of me on this…”

  “The Pequot Woods.”

  Munoz chuckled. “That’s why they pay you the big bucks, huh, LT.”

  It was all starting to fit together. That was Pacello’s payoff. That was how they handled things privately. For his participation. Pacello was paid off, but not by Kramer and Sanger.

  By the Pequot Woods.

  For his silence.

  That whole false shuffle thing was another diversion.

  They had found the link between Raines and Vega. They’d found the payoff for Pacello. They’d killed Kramer and probably Morales and the kid in Bridgeport.

  And David Sanger.

  In itself, none of that proved anything. Nothing tied any of this to Sanger. Or to Kramer. Or implicated anyone in a murder. He still had to get one of them to come forward.

  Pacello was the key.

  “Anything else?” Hauck asked, a sense of elation mixing with uncertainty.

  “Just this—the house isn’t even in Pacello’s name. It’s in a trust. Steve figures probably for estate reasons.”

  “You have the name?”

  “Linda Ann Whyte,” Munoz said. “The Linda Ann Whyte Irrevocable Trust.”

  “Stay with me, Freddy,” Hauck said. He ran back inside the café where he’d had coffee, asked the woman at the counter for the phone book again. She bent down and handed it over. The Central Maine white pages.

  Hauck flicked to the W’s, scrolled down from “Wharton” at the top of the page.

  Until he came upon it.

  Calvin and Linda Whyte.

  The address was 495 New Morris Road, in Auburn. There was a map on the front cover. Auburn was just outside of Lewiston. About thirty minutes away.

  “We do okay?” Munoz asked when Hauck got back on the line.

  “Aces, Freddy.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  If Brunswick was idyllic, picturesque, Lewiston was its ugly older sister in shabby clothes. Run-down, boarded-up mills along the Androscoggin River. Motel 6s and Subways on the main drag instead of charming New England inns.

  Across the river, Auburn was the sister’s even plainer friend.

  It was about a thirty-minute drive from the coast. Hauck crossed over the bridge and stopped at a 7-Eleven and punched “New Morris Road” into the GPS. The guidance system took him out to East Auburn, situated on a large, unfrozen lake, then continued, following the stark, wooded shoreline. Along the road, dingy farms with rusted old tractors and pickups in front mixed with more modern shingled capes, probably home to college students and professors from Bates, which was perched across the river.

  Hauck continued on.

  About halfway around the lake, the GPS alerted him to New Morris Road, a cluster of weather-beaten mailboxes marking the intersection. He headed toward the water. The road was paved but rutted. The harsh Maine winters had had their way.

  Like to see Old Morris Road. Hauck chuckled to himself.

  Ahead, a couple of run-down farmhouses came into view: 380, 440. Some even had covered boats dry-docked in the front yard.

  At a curve, a rickety fence in front, was a white clapboard farmhouse.

  Four ninety-five.

  The house had black hanging shutters, a listing wooden porch, and backed onto the lake. There were a couple of vehicles pulled up in front, a Toyota SUV and a beaten-up Dodge minivan. Hauck saw the lights were on inside.

  He climbed out of the car and checked his gun strapped against his chest. He caught sight of a curtain parting in a downstairs window.

  They were here.

  He went up the steps to the landing and knocked. He heard voices inside.

  It took a few seconds before a heavyset woman in a white peasant top opened the door, carrying a baby in her arms.

  Hauck removed his sunglasses. “Mrs. Whyte?”

  The woman juggled the baby. “Yes.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Hauck. I’m from the town of Greenwich, in Connecticut. I’m sorry to bother you. I was hoping I might find Paul Pacello here.”

  “Pacello?” The woman seemed a bit nervous, acting as if she’d never heard the name.

  “Yes, ma’am. He used to be an employee of the Pequot Woods Casino. You know him, don’t you?”

  “No, um…” The baby started to whimper. “Yes…” Her large eyes seemed ill at ease. “Hush, Noah!”

  Hauck looked at her. “He’s your father, isn’t he?”

  The woman shook her head, unsure what to do. She jiggled the squirming baby. “Yes, he’s my father…But he’s not here. He lives about thirty minutes away. Down in Brunswick. He’s probably there. I don’t know what would have brought you up here.”

  “I’ve already been there,” Hauck said. “I was told he and his wife left yesterday in kind of a rush. A workman at the house said he was gone for a few days.”

  “Oh. I wouldn’t know anything about that…Listen, I’ve got to see to my child. You can see he’s all in a mess. I can tell them you came by. What did you say your name was?”

  “Hauck,” he said again. “You’re sure they’re not here?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” the woman said, agitated. “Now I’ve got to go. I’m sorry…”

  “One last thing.” Hauck motioned toward the silver Toyota 4-Runner parked outside the garage. “That belong to you, Ms. Whyte? The one with Connecticut plates?”

  Linda Whyte’s face flushed red.

  “Listen, Ms. Whyte, I know they’re here.” Hauck took a step up the landing. “They’re probably inside there now and I only need a few words with your father, in connection with the murder of a Keith Kramer, whom I think he knew. And the fact that he’s going to this much trouble to avoid talking only gives rise to the thought that maybe there’s something to hide.”

  “I don’t know.” Her eyes flitted, nervously. “I—”

  “Linda…” A voice sounded from inside. “It’s okay, honey…”

  Pacello came up behind her in the doorway. “I guess you’re looking for me?”

  He was dressed in a plaid flannel shirt and rumpled pants. The same salt-and-pepper crew cut and heavy oversized eyeglasses Hauck recalled from Raines’s video.

  “I don’t have to talk with you,” he said. “You don’t have any jurisdiction here.”

  “May I come in?”

  “No, you can’t come in.” Pacello eased his daughter out of the doorway. “What you can do is get back in your car there and drive on home. I don’t know anything about any murder. I barely knew Keith. Sometimes we worked in the same section. I can’t help you.”

  “How did you know I was headed up here? Did Raines warn you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister. I came to visit my family. Is that a crime? And I don’t have to continue this conversation if I don’t want to, unless you’ve got a warrant. I’m retired. I don’t work for the resort anymore. I don’t know anything about what happened to Keith. That was all too bad. So if you don’t mind, I’m sorry…”

  He moved to shut the door.

  Hauck caught it before it shut a
nd met the man’s eyes. “I can come back with a warrant if you like, Mr. Pacello. A federal one. I know about how you came to buy your inn. How you paid off the mortgage. I know precisely where the check came from. The Pequot Woods. Five hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars…That’s a little more than a gold watch for your ten years. You wouldn’t want to have to answer questions about that, would you? Sort of has the feel of someone who may have been bought off.”

  “Bought off?” Pacello opened the door wider. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister. Bought off for what?”

  “For your silence.” Hauck shrugged. “For your participation in a scheme to implicate a federal attorney in a phony gambling scam. For covering up what happened to Keith Kramer. That is how you got your little nest egg paid off, right? After falling three months behind in the payments. Now do you have an idea what I’m talking about, Mr. Pacello?”

  Lines tightened on the dealer’s face. For a second, he seemed about to lunge at Hauck.

  “I also know your place is held in a trust. For your daughter here. Your grandkids…”

  “That’s enough, okay?”

  “You don’t want to risk that, do you? So far, I’m not sure you’ve done anything really wrong. Nothing that a few smart words from you wouldn’t correct. But if you really want me to come back with that warrant, I’m not sure I can promise how someone else might look at that little transaction down the line.”

  “You don’t understand.” Pacello shook his head. His voice grew hushed. “I’ve seen what they would do.”

  “It’s too late,” Hauck said. “It’s going to come out. Four people are dead. If it’s not me, it’ll be someone else.”

  From behind him, a woman stepped into the doorway. Graying hair, kind gray eyes. She put a hand on Pacello’s shoulder. “Come on, Paul. We always knew this was going to happen.”

  “Get back, Katherine.”

  “No,” she said, “I won’t get back. I won’t let this go on anymore. What’s done is done.” She stepped onto the landing and opened the door. “Let the lieutenant in.”