Tucker Peak

by Mayor, Archer

  The chirping of my cell phone, deep inside my coat, introduced an incongruous and ineffective spring-like note.

  I groped around, my glove in my teeth, until I successfully tore the phone from its inner recesses and flipped it open, shoving my head into a doorway to hear better.

  “Joe, it’s David Hawke. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m freezing my ass off on a cell phone. What’s up?”

  “I’m sorry it took me longer than I thought to get back to you on those prints. I did get a set off of Jorja Duval’s body—textbook lift. Worked just like the guy said it would. I might have to write him a note of appreciation.”

  Why is it, I thought, that when you tell people something like you’re about to die of hypothermia, they immediately prolong what they have to say?

  “That’s great, David. Did you get a hit on the prints? Were they Marty Gagnon’s?”

  “That’s the cherry on top. I sure did. The FBI coughed it up pretty fast. But they weren’t Gagnon’s. They belong to someone named Antony Busco, nicknamed Tony Bugs.”

  All sensation of cold and discomfort vanished. “Does that mean what I think it does?”

  Hawke laughed, not often the bearer of such heady news. “You bet. Very connected man, as they say. I sent the rap sheet to your office.” He hesitated before asking, “Was that okay? I didn’t know you were on the road. You going back there?”

  “I am now.”

  Chapter 19

  THE HEATER MADE THE CAR BALMY AND COMFORTABLE and completely at odds with the weather outside, which had turned gray, cold, and blustery. The blasts of wind I’d experienced the night before in Montpelier had developed into a sustained northern blow, and weather reports were calling for more snow later in the day.

  I was happy it hadn’t started falling yet, though. Using the windshield wipers during a covert surveillance was poor form, and right now I was very interested in keeping a low profile.

  Willy Kunkle was sitting next to me, one foot propped up on the dash before him. In the distance, behind a thin screen of denuded hardwoods, was Andy Goddard’s generously sized house, which, like most of its upscale brethren, was blessed with a view of the snowbowl beyond. We were parked on the service road, near some dumpsters and a few other vehicles: pickups and sedans belonging either to guests or maintenance crews. Aside from actually being in the car, we didn’t stand out from our surroundings.

  “What the hell’re we doing here, anyway?” Willy asked. He’d left his own vehicle at the bottom of the hill and had joined me just a few minutes earlier.

  “Waiting for Mameve Knutsen,” I said, knowing the lack of further explanation would irritate him. Every once in a while, I found it irresistible to turn his crank slightly. He did it so routinely with all of us.

  He sneered at me. “Cute. Where’d you come up with that?”

  I smiled. “Didn’t, that’s her name. She’s one of the cleaning ladies around here.” I pointed at Goddard’s house, “She’s working in there right now.”

  Willy didn’t need a more detailed explanation. “Isn’t that a little risky, using her to search for us?”

  “We’re not. She doesn’t know we’re interested yet, which means she’s not acting as our agent. If we pick her brains after she comes out—and she cooperates—that puts us in the clear.”

  “Which, combined with Kurt Peterson’s affidavit about Goddard being a user, maybe gives us enough for a search warrant,” he concluded.

  “Right.”

  “Except there’s no reason she should tell us anything.”

  I checked my watch. “That’s why Linda Bettina’s meeting us here in about ten minutes.”

  Willy nodded without comment, apparently satisfied.

  “How’s Sammie doing?” I asked after a pause.

  “Good. She’s tough.”

  “Maybe. The guy did try to rape her.”

  He pressed his lips together, his eyes fixed straight ahead. I didn’t say anything, hoping the silence would work for me.

  “She did smack him down,” he finally said. “That counts.”

  I couldn’t disagree. Had Gail been able to do what Sammie had, years earlier, I didn’t doubt that the trauma of her own rape would have been easier to handle. Still, the threat alone was bad enough, and nothing to dismiss.

  I thought I might approach the subject from a different angle. “How did you feel about it?”

  He snorted. “You guys hadn’t been there, I would’ve killed him.”

  “I thought what you did was great.”

  He mulled that over awhile and eventually said quietly, “I was proud of her.”

  “It showed.”

  He didn’t respond. I was wondering what to say next, a little curious why I was even pursuing this with him instead of with Sammie, when he suddenly said, “Spinney told me we’re dealing with the Mob all of a sudden.”

  I hesitated, disappointed at the abrupt change of subject, and then conceded defeat. Sammie was right, he was a tough nut to crack. “Looks like it. We put out an inquiry on the whereabouts of Tony Bugs Busco.” I reached into my pocket and handed him a copy of Busco’s mug shot that I’d received as e-mail just before leaving the office. “Got this from the FBI. There’s a long rap sheet back at the office, too, but no current information. If it turns out he’s dead or in the joint or we get proof he’s in the South Sea Islands, we’ll go from there, but if not, I’d like him to explain how his prints ended up on a corpse in Vermont.”

  Willy grunted, staring at the picture. “In the meantime, we wait for Mameve Knutsen. What the hell’s with that name?” he said irritably.

  A pickup truck with the Tucker Peak logo on its side pulled into the lot not far from us. “You can ask her yourself. Bettina just arrived.”

  We got out of the car, buttoning our coats and turning up our collars against the cold, as Linda Bettina—tall, broad-shouldered, and seemingly immune to the weather—strode toward us wearing her usual uniform of heavy boots and insulated coveralls.

  “She out yet?” she asked. She didn’t offer to shake hands or trade amenities. We were a necessary evil, as she’d explained again on the phone this morning, and cooperating with us was just a means of getting us gone faster.

  I glanced over to Goddard’s house and saw some movement by the small car parked in his driveway. “Looks like it.”

  Bettina walked by us, heading that way, “Then let’s get this over with.”

  “Remember,” I warned her, catching up.

  “I know, I know. I’m just here to support her, not twist her arm. I got it the first time.”

  Mameve Knutsen was a small, slightly built woman with a lively face and an engaging smile, which she turned on us as we all drew near. Given Bettina’s mood and Willy’s routinely grim expression, I gave her high marks for not running to her car and locking the doors.

  Instead, she put down her vacuum cleaner and bucket in the driveway and greeted us amicably. “Hi, Linda. How’re you doin’?”

  “Okay,” Bettina said, sounding surprisingly pleasant all of a sudden. “You all done in there?”

  “Yup. Just heading off to my next stop.”

  “Great. Well, this won’t take long, but these two men would like to ask you a few things. They’re police officers, from the Vermont Bureau of Investigation.”

  To my relief, Mameve’s smile broadened. “I’ve heard of you. You’re part of that new outfit, supposed to be like the Untouchables or something.”

  “Or something,” Willy muttered under his breath.

  I shook her hand and introduced myself and Willy, explaining, “We don’t want to take too much of your time, but we’re here on kind of a sensitive mission. I understand from Linda that you have a habit of starting each job with a fresh vacuum cleaner bag.”

  Mameve looked mystified. “Yeah. I know it sounds dumb, but I like to start fresh, the vacuum works better that way, and I don’t have to stop in the middle to change bags.”

  “So y
ou started on this house with an empty one?”

  She stooped down and pulled a rectangular wrapper from the bucket by her feet. “First one out of a bag of three—got two left.”

  “And the other one’s still in the machine?”

  She glanced at Linda, as if hoping she’d explain the joke. “Sure is. I put them in my trunk and throw them out at the end of the day.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Well, here’s probably the weirdest question I have for you: Could we have that bag?”

  The smile faded. “The vacuum cleaner bag? Why?”

  Linda Bettina spoke up from behind me. “Mameve, they’re suspicious about Mr. Goddard for some reason and think you might have picked something up that’ll help them out. The bag’s your property, though, and you can tell them to get lost if you want. That’s why I’m here, to make sure that point’s made crystal clear.”

  Again, I was relieved by her reaction. The smile returned with a crafty look. “Wow, that’s great—like the crime lab on the Discovery Channel. I love that show. Is that what you’re talking about?”

  “Yeah,” I admitted, “exactly right.”

  “What’re you looking for? I may have seen something.”

  I felt more than heard Bettina let out a sigh, assuming there was either a policy or at least encouragement not to talk about the guests in such a fashion.

  Not that I was going to mention it. “Are you thinking of something specific, Mameve? I don’t want to be accused of planting ideas in your mind.”

  She turned thoughtful. “Gee, I don’t know. I know they party a lot in there. They’re pretty messy. But I can’t say I’ve seen anything I haven’t seen in other places.”

  “Nothing that would strike you as illegal?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. Sorry.”

  “Do you know Andy Goddard?” Willy asked for the first time.

  “We met a couple of times, by accident. They try to have us come by when the people aren’t here. We get a schedule every week.” She patted her pocket. “But that’s harder with permanent residents like Mr. Goddard, since they’re on-mountain all the time. Even so, I bump into guests pretty regularly, year-rounders or not, which I guess means the system isn’t working too good.”

  Linda spoke up. “What do you mean, ‘pretty regularly’? You should’ve said something.”

  “It didn’t bother me and it doesn’t seem to bother the guests, so there wasn’t much to say. I’ve always thought it was pretty silly pretending all us custodial people were invisible, anyway. Besides, I did report the schedule wasn’t working. That other man told me he’d look into it.”

  We all three looked at her with renewed intensity, causing her cheeks to flush.

  “Did I do something wrong?” she asked in a small voice.

  “What man?” Linda asked first.

  “I don’t remember. It was days ago and I forget his name. Come to think of it, I’m not sure he told me.”

  “What did he look like?” Willy asked.

  Mameve pointed at me. “About his height, rounder, light brown hair, and a mole right here.” She touched her cheek. “And he had a funny way of pulling his ear when he asked questions. I usually report to Barry—he’s my supervisor—but he was out of the office. This new man said he’d take care of it.”

  I feigned ignorance—something Willy and Linda didn’t have to do, the description meaning nothing to them. I merely shrugged and instead asked a tangential question that touched on something Lester Spinney had discovered earlier. “But you’re being told people aren’t supposed to be in these homes when they actually are, right?”

  Mameve was obviously embarrassed by now. “It’s not a big deal. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  Linda Bettina didn’t hide her irritation. “Of course you should have. This is just some screwup where one hand doesn’t know what the other one’s doing. I’ll probably get a memo in six months like it was late-breaking news.” She turned to me and explained, “Mameve’s right, it’s a PR scam. The guests are supposed to get this feeling their places are always miraculously pristine. It’s fantasy bullshit and adds to the complications, but if they want a schedule, I give ’em a schedule. I don’t know who this guy is she’s talking about—the way they hire consultants and advisors and God knows what, I’m not surprised.”

  “Who’s they?” I asked.

  “McNally, Gorenstein, the Board, the brass. I’ll have to get back to Gorenstein and sort it out. It costs us money to do it this way, so if it’s not working, we ought to can it.”

  “You don’t do both the housing and maintenance schedules?”

  “Just maintenance,” she answered. “Gorenstein does housing ’cause it’s a revenue maker. As they see it, I just spend the stuff. Anyhow, none of that’s why you’re here. Let’s get this over with.”

  “Right,” I agreed, happy to get past the subject. I faced Mameve again. “Would you be willing to give us the bag and sign an affidavit later that it was empty and factory-fresh before you entered the building today?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said. “This is really exciting.”

  “We’ll also ask you to sign a consent-to-search form allowing us to open the bag and examine its contents.”

  I was pulling the form from my inner pocket as I spoke.

  Mameve nodded eagerly. “Sure, sure.”

  Linda Bettina turned and walked away a few steps. “All right. If you don’t need me anymore, I got stuff to do.”

  I waved to her. “No, that’s great. Appreciate the help.”

  We completed the consent form, secured the bag from the vacuum cleaner, and I shook Mameve’s hand again. “It’s been a real pleasure. One last question: When you work on that house, what do you do exactly?”

  “Pretty much just vacuum, mop, do the bathrooms, clean the kitchen sink and stove. We’re told to do a thorough job, but not get into the guests’ belongings, so I don’t go poking around.” She smiled again and winked at me.

  “That’s going to be harder to do from now on. What is it you think Mr. Goddard’s up to?”

  I patted her shoulder. “This is where it gets really unfair, and I’m sorry, but we can’t tell you that. It’s just an investigation, and if it turns out we’re all wet, talking about it could cause problems. In fact, you might want to think about that yourself, in case you were planning on telling anyone about this.”

  Her disappointment was palpable. “Oh.”

  “Yeah,” I reinforced the message, “and if word does get out, since Linda was right here, she might come looking for you for an explanation, not to mention Mr. Goddard himself. He could think you’ve really done him a number. It’s your choice, of course, but I’d be careful.”

  Something in my own words suddenly made me hesitate, struck by a long shot. I touched her arm as she turned to leave.

  “Mameve? I’m sorry to keep bugging you, but I guess I lied—I have one other question.”

  She looked at me expectantly. “Sure.”

  I reached into my pocket and showed her Tony Busco’s mug shot. “You ever seen this man?”

  She glanced at it and looked at me quizzically. “You kidding?”

  I exchanged looks with Willy. “No. Why?”

  “That’s Mr. Goddard. I thought you knew him.”

  I bit down on my surprise and answered her poker-faced. “We never met. I just needed confirmation. Thanks again for your time and remember, mum’s the word, right?”

  Slightly crestfallen, given her earlier enthusiasm and helpfulness, Mameve Knutsen loaded her equipment into her car and drove away without further conversation.

  We watched her leave, Willy still holding the bag in his hand.

  “Depending on what’s in here,” he said, “let’s hope she does keep her mouth shut. Those guys wouldn’t think twice about making her disappear.”

  “Let’s not get too carried away too fast,” I cautioned. “And as for whatever we find in there,” I pointed at the bag, “I’ll make sure she’
s kept under wraps.”

  We turned and walked back to where the car was parked. “What was all that crap about the guy asking questions about the schedule?” Willy asked. “You acted kind of funny.”

  “It was Win Johnston, the private eye. I didn’t want Bettina to know it, but I’m guessing he was loitering around the office and took advantage of Mameve’s confusion to collect a little information. I sure would like to find out what he’s up to.”

  Chapter 20

  WILLY AND I DIDN’T GET BACK TO THE OFFICE UNTIL LATER that afternoon, after hand-delivering the vacuum cleaner bag to David Hawke at the crime lab in Waterbury and asking him to give it his highest priority, a request that only generated a tired smile of acknowledgment.

  We found Lester as expected, surrounded by his folders plus a few more piles of paper from his research into Tony Bugs Busco, a man I now wanted to know a whole lot more about. Surprisingly, however, Lester wasn’t alone and was about to grant me my wish—and then some—from an unexpected source.

  He stood with his guest as we entered and made the introductions, “Joe, Willy, this is Al Freeman from the U.S. Marshals Service.”

  My arm halfway out of my coat sleeve, I stared at Freeman for a split second of stunned silence. “Damn,” I then said. “Of course. What an idiot.” I freed myself of the coat and shook hands with a nonplussed young man with a broad chest and watchful eyes. “Andy Goddard and Tony Bugs, right?” I challenged him. “The Witness Protection Program—he’s one of yours.”

  Freeman smiled carefully and took a half-step backward. “Oh, hold on. That’s a big leap. I’m just here because we heard you were interested in Busco. Nobody’s saying we have him under wraps.”

  Willy let out a short, unpleasant laugh. “Give me a break.” He walked over to his desk, dropped into his chair, and slapped both feet noisily onto its hopelessly cluttered surface.

  I couldn’t fault him. Freeman hadn’t done his own credibility much good with that. “You heard we were interested?” I asked. “How’d you do that?”