by Justin Scott
I felt cool air rise from the room, grabbed the dangling taped glass, turned it diagonally and drew it up through the hole. Now, for the first time I turned on a light, a little Mag Lite, and shielding the narrow beam with my hands, discovered that I had managed to cut a hole in the roof over a hot tub.
It had a cover on it. God knew how strong it was, or if there was water in the tub. There had to be water in the tub. Brian hadn’t planned to be shot in his mausoleum. He hadn’t closed up his house. He had gone to the graveyard the Sunday before last to tour the Notables like the rest of Newbury and, unlike the rest of them, hadn’t come back. So there had to be water in the damned thing.
On the other hand, everyone knows we live in an increasingly litigious society where the lawyers make the rules. Surely, hot tub covers, like swimming pool covers, had to be strong enough to hold an elephant. Disinclined to cell phone Grace Botsford at this late hour for an insurance agent’s opinion, I swung my feet through the opening and grabbed the roof with my gloves, and took a chance. It was not a long drop so I wouldn’t accelerate that much. I took additional comfort in the fact that while I’m not a lightweight, I’m not of Dennis or Albert Chevalley proportions, either.
I let go and immediately discovered that the cover would not withstand a lawsuit by the owner of an elephant; and that, while Brian Grose did not plan to get shot to death the Sunday before last, he had apparently not planned a warm soak later in the day, either, because the hot tub was anything but. It felt like I had fallen through the Ram Pasture skating pond in the dead of winter. God it was cold. I squished out, soaked from running shoes to waist band. The air conditioning which hadn’t felt much cooler than the night breeze when I was dry, now felt like a Cape Horn gale.
I pulled off my shoes and socks and pants and wet underwear, grabbed a wonderfully thick towel from the rack and dried off. My shirt tails and the bottom of my sweatshirt clung in a chilly, wet way. I spotted a creamy white Turkish bathrobe, thick as the towel, pulled off the rest of my things, wrapped myself in the robe, and found a long hallway and padded down the stairs. If anyone asked, I was a privileged householder repairing to his library.
Which reminded me, I had left my backpack beside the hot tub. Halfway down the grand staircase I went back for the tools I would need to enter the library. Lock picking, like home alarm circumventing, was something I had been taught years and years ago, courtesy of the United States Navy, Office of Naval Intelligence. About all I remember of it was that lock picking is lot more difficult than rewiring an alarm, which was why I padded in robe and bare feet and pigskin driving gloves to the library door with little hope of opening it without a saw, though I vowed to at least try rather than wreck a perfectly fine door.
But it was not locked. The door was closed, as Lorraine had said. And the lock was the ASSA I had seen in her video. But when I tried the knob, it swung on quiet hinges. I stepped inside, cupped my Mag Lite to contain the beam and worked my way to the windows, where I found a switch that caused the drapes to slide almost soundlessly across the windows. Then I followed my Mag beam to the wall switches by the door, located a dimmer and brought the room lights up just bright enough to see shapes.
Like many modern libraries, it had no books. I exaggerate. Two narrow cases of uniformly bound leather volumes acted as a frame for a huge HDTV screen. It did house a handsome set of library steps and some beautiful library lamps and an antique library card catalog, and some library shelves filled with glass knickknacks.
A splendidly long and broad library table with carved legs and ornate, inlaid coaming filled one end of the room. On the table sprawled the reason Brian Grose had not allowed Lorraine Renner’s camera in his library.
I felt behind for the wall switch to brighten the lights for a closer look. I felt, instead, something cold touch the back of my head.
Chapter Seventeen
The only good news I could think in the first millisecond I felt the gun touch the back of my head was that if thieves who had broken in ahead of me wanted to kill me they could have done it already. In the next millisecond I thought of bad news: to thieves I must look like the homeowner in my bare feet and bathrobe. At least until they noticed I was wearing driving gloves.
I could think of no more good news. Thieves surprised by the homeowner in the middle of committing a felony would be very bad news, if getting rid of the homeowner would seem the simplest way of getting rid of the problem. In the next millisecond, which seemed to drag on like a fair portion of eternity, the person pressing the gun to the back of my head finally spoke in a voice as hard and cold as her weapon.
“Stop. Don’t move. Police.”
I said, “Hi, Marian.”
She and her partner Arnie Bender spun me around, stared in angry disbelief and said, “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I understand the house is going on the market.”
The first time I met Detective-Sergeant Arnie Bender, I had barged in on him while he was executing a warrant to search my house. He had had a rookie partner with him who hit me in the face, so I hit him back. Arnie had done the right thing: he helped the young fool stand up and told him it was wrong to abuse the subject of an investigation; then he told me that next time I hit a Connecticut State Trooper they would send me to the hospital. He had clear standards, and I didn’t expect him to slug me, even though he looked like he wanted to. Nor did I expect my old friend Marian to slug me, even though she looked like she wanted to, too. Boy was I wrong about that.
She didn’t knock me off my feet, only because the wall I bounced into kept me upright. Of course, I didn’t hit her back—not because of Arnie’s threat, I hasten to add.
“Goddamnit,” she said, “I’m sorry I did that.”
“Did what?” asked Arnie.
I said, “I didn’t see anything, either.”
My head was spinning. Not only had she hit me hard, she knew how to hit.
Marian said, “I’m not really sorry.”
I let myself sort of lean on the wall for a moment while I scoped them out. “You two look terrible.”
They did. Arnie hadn’t shaved in days. Fried food crumbs stuck to his stubble. Marian’s normally short, sleek hair cut was stringy as Sherman Chevalley’s. She had bags under her eyes and the pallor of indigestion.
I said, “It’s a stakeout.”
“It was,” said Arnie. “It just turned into a solid arrest for B & E. You want to frisk him, Marian, or shall I?”
“Only with a cattle prod.”
“Hands against the wall.” said Arnie, gesturing for me to spread arms and legs to be frisked.
I said, “Come on, I’m wearing a bathrobe.”
“We want to know what’s under it. At least I do. Spread ’em!”
Neither of them were cracking anything near a smile. Which said I had problem. Stakeouts may be boring, but they’re done with a purpose, and it looked like I had screwed it up. We went through the ritual that established that the police ruled. It reminded me too much of prison to accept it with a philosophical smile, and I had to put serious effort into containing the impulse to lever off the wall and kick him in the head. After it was over Arnie said, “All right. Straighten up. Turn around—close the robe first for crissakes.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Who what?”
“Were you staking out?”
“Ben, we just caught a fucking burglar.”
“I’m not a burglar and you know it.”
“You are not a burglar until we find evidence that you broke into this house. Then you are a burglar. Want to show it to us, or are you going to make us hunt for it?”
I began to realize I was really in a jam.
“Okay, we’ll cuff you to that table and hunt around until we find a jimmied window somewhere.”
“Skylight, second floor. In the hot tub room.”
“Now save us more trouble. Tell us why—by the way, should we be reading you
your rights?”
“I know my rights, thank you. And it is a privilege to assist you in your inquires.”
“Start by telling us why you broke in and entered this house.”
I could get out of the jam, temporarily, by demanding a lawyer—which I would get after they cuffed me, drove me across the county to their barracks in Plainfield, and locked me in a cell overnight while I waited for my lawyer to wake up so they could ask me why I had cut a hole in a murdered man’s roof. I would eventually at some expense and waste of time get the charges dropped or at least reduced, but at the additional cost that neither high-ranking State Police Major Crime Squad detective would ever speak to me again, much less trade information.
“I will confess,” I said, “that I’m clutching at straws. But I learned that Brian Grose kept that door locked all the time and would not let anyone see what was in this room. I am trying to figure out who might have killed him, other than that poor illegal whom I am sure didn’t. I have a strong suspicion you don’t either and your bosses aren’t happy about it.”
“Forget ‘little guy against the bosses,’” Arnie growled. “We’re not on your team.”
“Who told you the library was locked?” asked Marian.
“The source had nothing to do with this.”
“But the source knew the library was locked. So maybe the source was around the house. And maybe we would like to talk to someone who was around the murdered man’s house.”
“One of those little professional tricks you pick up in this business,” Arnie added.
I said, “I’m not ratting out a source.”
“Then we can’t help you,” said Marian.
And Arnie said, “Hey, Marian, let’s just call it a night. Run Ben into the barracks, go home and catch some sleep.”
I said, “I can help you with something else.”
“Doubt that. But what?”
“That.” I pointed at the long, broad library table. “You know what that is?”
“It’s a table.”
“What’s on it!”
“A model of a bunch of houses.”
“Doll houses,” I said
“What?”
“Doll houses are props in the dog and pony show developers play for potential investors. Once you’re selling units, you move them onto the sales office. And, of course, you shoot a three-sixty video pan of it for your website. If you look closely, Detective Boyce, you’ll see that in this case it’s not houses, but condominiums. It’s a huge project and it’s why he kept the library locked.”
Marian and Arnie looked at each other, looked at Grose’s doll house which depicted about a thousand densely packed condo townhouses and looked at me. “What are you talking about?”
“I heard that Brian Grose was not as retired from the real estate business as he claimed. This proves it.”
“Proves what?”
“That he was still in business, big time.”
They exchanged looks that said, Ben’s losing it. “So what?”
“Which means Grose very likely needed money. Which means he could have been having problems keeping the deal afloat. Which means he could have been butting heads with all sorts of types other than a penniless immigrant.”
They looked at the project model again, looked at each other. Arnie said to Marian, “The real estate genius did say he was clutching at straws.”
“Which turned him into a cat burglar,” said Marian.
“And therefore cut a hole in the victim’s roof.”
They walked to the table and motioned me to follow. We three stared at it for awhile. What was equivalent to an entire new town would carpet a hill from top to bottom. The higher end units were situated higher up for the views and status, and away from the traffic the project would create. At the bottom was a so-called Main Street with shops and a club house.
“Where was he building it?”
“California?” I shrugged. “Arizona? New Mexico? You could plunk this down anywhere in the Southwest.”
“Why Southwest? “
“I’m guessing from the tile roofs and the stucco. What do they call it? Mission style or Tuscan or some damned thing. Besides that’s where they do really big projects like this.”
“Wait a minute,” said Arnie.
And Marian said, “Why lock it up?”
I answered, “Same reason there’s no name on the doll houses, yet—when you’re good to go you’d put the name here, real big, ‘La Hacienda at wherever.’ He wasn’t ready yet, so there’s nothing to start rumors about what he’s doing in case somebody sees it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You don’t build a project this size without buying a heap of land and you don’t buy a heap of land without keeping it secret or you’ll pay ten times the asking price… So as soon as you two let me go, I am going to follow the money. Find out who his New York investment partners are. And see if he’s still doing business with his old friends in California.”
I watched them mull. Before they could mull too deeply, I asked, “Can I ask a question?”‘
“What?” said Arnie, while Marian lifted the roof off one of the units and peered inside.
“Who are you staking out for?”
“Come here, Ben.”
I had a sinking feeling that I was about to be driven to the county seat in a bathrobe. I padded after them to the kitchen, a money pot of yellow granite and black granite, and down a hall. I assumed we were heading to the garage where they had hidden their car. Before we got to the garage, we turned down a shorter hall to a door that opened on a staff suite, which was situated so that the servant would enter the kitchen and laundry or exit the house to shop for groceries without violating the master’s privacy.
“What do you see?” Marian asked.
It was a semi-spartan room, with a double bed and large TV. On the bedspread I counted twelve cell phones, four walkie-talkies, a police scanner, laptop computers, wigs, sunglasses, and a nylon gym bag.
“Man on the run.”
“No shit.”
“What’s in the bag?”
“Bunch of credit cards. Couple of thou in cash. Three cheap pistols.”
“Of the type that popped Mr. Grose?”
“Not likely,” said Arnie. “What do you think he was doing here?”
“Got real smart and figured nobody’ll look in the dead man’s house after the cops make their one visit.”
“You might pull a stunt like that. But the last day the computer was turned on or any of the phones used was the day Mr. Grose was shot.”
“You want another guess?” I asked, determined not to give him my best guess.
“Go ahead. You’re not usually as stupid as you’ve been tonight.”
“Okay, the guy worked for Grose. And you’ve been sitting here for days waiting for him to come back.”
“Until you scared him cutting a hole in the roof.”
“Did you hear me cut a hole in the roof? Would you even know I was here if you hadn’t been cooping in the library?”
“What are we going to do with him?” Arnie asked Marian.
“What time does the hardware store open?”
“I don’t know. Seven? Ben, what time does the hardware store open?”
“Eight.”
“Okay, so we lock him in one of the closets down in the cellar. At eight we buy a sack of cement and some cinder block and we build a wall around the closet. Who would ever miss him?”
“Let me make two suggestions to help us all get on the same page.”
“Why would we want to be on the same page with you?” Marian was looking weary.
Arnie said, “Let’s hear it.”
“Number one, I suggest that the man on the run is a fellow we’ve been calling Angel.”
“Yeah?”
“Want to hear the next suggestion?”
They said nothing.
&nbs
p; I said, “Your ICEy colleagues have somehow mixed up Angel with Charlie Cubrero. And why not? They are both illegal Ecuadorians. Couldn’t be more than ten thousand in the state.”
“Stop telling us what we know about ICE, already. What’s your third fucking suggestion?”
“Allow me to exit the way I came in. I’ll put the dome back over the skylight, keep the rain out. And hide the debris and by the time anybody notices, you’ll have arrested the perp.”
They let me go, which didn’t surprise me, for the simple reason that they were working overtime—on their own time—staking out Grose’s house, pulling an end run around their bosses and ICE and Homeland Security and the rest of the stupid apparatus that was keeping them from doing their job. As we passed the library, I said, “Could I see the doll houses again?”
We three looked them over, again.
“This is some big project,” I said. “His partners must be heartbroken.”
Arnie took the bait. “Or glad there’s one less guy to share once it gets rolling.”
With a little luck Marian and Arnie would shift serious energy into tracking Grose’s partners in a project that looked like it belonged in the Southwestern United States. It was an easy mistake to make. For one thing, the best detective team in the State Police had neither the time nor the inclination to dwell on architectural niceties. Nor could they know that Brian Grose had hustled women linked to trustees of the Village Cemetery which owned a beautiful, elm-shaded hill smack in the middle of Newbury, Connecticut.
And there was something else they did not seem to know. The name or names of his Newbury partners.
Chapter Eighteen
“Scooter, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee at the General Store. I gotta pick your brain.”
“I’m in a rush.”
“So am I.”
I had at best two days before it dawned on Detectives Marian and Arnie that Brian Grose was the sort of developer who would not think twice about using California building materials, like stucco and roof tile, in New England. Just as somewhere in some lawyer’s vault there were very likely documents naming the project “La Hacienda at Newbury.”
