by C I Dennis
“Vince, welcome aboard,” Burleigh said, extending his hand as he got out. It sounded like in his mind he’d already hired me.
“Hi, Mr. Burleigh,” I said, shaking it.
“Please, just Brooks,” he said. He had a disarming smile. “This is my friend, Tomas, and his au pair, Jenny. They’re getting a ride back with us.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, through their open window.
“Yuliana, take the back seat,” Brooks said. “Vince, up here.” He motioned me to the front passenger seat. This was a guy who was used to giving orders.
I put my tool bag on the floor in front of the seat and got in. Even with the bag there, I had approximately an acre of legroom. The Maybach was a cocoon, decked out in leather, chrome, and walnut, and designed to meet even the most demanding corporate egomaniac’s need to compensate for the fact that his parents hadn’t bought him the Little Tikes Cozy Coupe he’d coveted when he was three.
Brooks Burleigh didn’t look like he was compensating for anything. He seemed totally at ease, and his complete comfort was contagious. I began to relax.
“Nice whip, homie,” I said. His brow furrowed, and then he laughed.
“You’ll have to translate for me if you’re going to speak police-talk.”
“It means I like your ride,” I said. “Rapper-talk, not police-talk. I hang out with fourteen-year-olds too much.”
“I see,” he said. “I have a fourteen-year-old, but she’s in France, at boarding school.”
“Where do you spend most of your time?” I asked, as he drove.
“I love it here in Vero,” he said. “I’ll have to get you out to the house. But I seem to be in New York or Washington most of the time, babysitting land deals. I’m becoming a full-time lobbyist.”
“What sort of deals?”
“We buy and sell, parcel off timber rights, set up conservation easements, you name it. It’s surprisingly complex, and the law is making it more so all the time.”
“My father used to say buy land because they’re not making any more of it,” I said.
“Your father was a wise man,” he said.
“Too bad he was a drunk and an abuser.”
“It must have been very difficult growing up with him,” he said. He turned and briefly looked at me. His expression was completely sincere.
“It was.”
“I only knew the sober Jimmy Tanzi,” he said. “But he told me everything.”
I didn’t respond; the conversation was beginning to stir up memories that I didn’t want to revisit. I needed to get back to Vermont, bury my father, and get out of there. I was suddenly disinterested in whatever intrigue the Burleighs had going on, and even Junie was going to have to deal with his own problems. Something had pulled the plug and let the air out of me. I saw Yuliana looking at me from the back seat.
“You OK, Vince?” she said.
“Just a little tired, I guess,” I said.
“Rest up,” she said. “Ed’s sick. He’s going to lie down on the bench seat. You’re my copilot.”
“I’ve never flown anything bigger than a kite,” I said.
“I’ll do all the work,” she said. “You can finish knitting your hat.”
*
We were over Maryland, according to Yuliana. There was no cloud cover, and she pointed out the lights of the cities along the route. The storm stretched ahead of us, from New York to northern New England, and the Morrisville airport had already waved us off—we were going to Montreal, which was only a couple hours by car from Stowe. I wondered if I’d get any trouble from customs agents. I had some toys in my bag that I wouldn’t want examined too closely by a curious inspector.
It was too dark to knit in the cockpit, so I just drank in the scenery—a starry sky, dozens of little LED lights and digital readouts, and of course, my copilot, who mostly kept her eyes on her work, but now and then would divert them in my direction and give me a quiet smile. I still felt badly about the scene with Barbara, but she was a grown-up. Like all fights, no matter how much I wanted to believe she was wrong, she was partly right. I was attracted to Yuliana Burleigh. I had been in a monogamous marriage for twenty years before Barbara, and maybe I had jumped back into monogamy too soon. Or maybe not. Barbara was a wonderful person and was everything I could want as a friend and lover. I was confused—I had about as clear an understanding of women as I did of the myriad buttons and dials on the cockpit dash in front of me.
“Take the controls,” Yuliana said.
“Nah,” I said.
“Just hold it. Keep it steady.” I tentatively reached for the steering apparatus in front of me. Suddenly, I was flying a plane at four hundred miles an hour through a starlit night.
“That’s it. Don’t spill anyone’s coffee.”
“Where’s the throttle on this thing?” I said. “I’m having fun. Let’s see how fast it goes.”
She smiled but did not respond. Instead, she took a clip out of her pony tail and shook loose her long hair. She rose partly from her seat and turned to me, then leaned over and put her mouth on mine. Her tongue darted inside, and she put an arm behind my head and held me tightly. I could barely breathe, partly from the pressure, and partly from the shock. Finally, she released me.
“Holy shit,” I said.
“You didn’t like it?”
“You just surprised me.”
“Holy shit is not the reaction I’ve usually had when I’ve kissed someone,” she said.
I laughed. “Try again,” I said.
She tried again. This time, I kissed her back.
*
I woke up Ed before we landed. He looked gray, but he lumbered up to the cockpit and took his seat. Brooks wore half-glasses and was reading, and Tomas and Jenny sat across from each other, playing cards. I had hardly exchanged a word with them, other than to learn that Tomas was a diplomat, and Jenny was from Moldova, like Yuliana. Tomas had a house in Stowe, but said he’d probably stay the night in Montreal, and that we would too. He’d been on the phone looking for a limo that would take us to Vermont, but the State Police were telling people to stay off the roads, and no one he’d called would take the job.
Brooks put down his book. “If I can get a rental car, how do you feel about driving?” He was looking at me.
“I’m out of practice,” I said. “We don’t get many ice storms in Vero.”
“Yuliana could do it, but she’s been flying all night,” he said. “And I don’t drive.”
“Really? You drove the Maybach.”
“I was breaking the law. I lost my license. Too many DUIs,” he said. “That’s part of why I finally got sober.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Vince, can I ask you something personal?”
“Go ahead.”
“How much money do you make?”
“It depends,” I said. “Maybe forty thousand or so. And I have a pension from the Sheriff’s Department.”
“I see,” he said. “I need a driver. Full-time, not just for tonight.”
“Thanks, but I like it in Florida,” I said.
“You could drive me there, too. You’d travel with me, and I’m down there most of the time. I’m thinking two hundred thousand.”
“Two hundred thousand…a year?”
“I know. It’s a lot for a driver. The money’s not the issue with me. Your loyalty is, and I think I could trust you.”
“It’s a nice offer,” I said. “But I’d get bored.”
“No you wouldn’t,” he said. “You have a lot of valuable skills. I’ve done my due diligence. I’d keep you occupied.”
“OK,” I said. “I have a question for you, and I don’t want any bullshit.” He flinched. I wondered if anyone had ever addressed him that way. Probably not.
“Go on,” he said.
“What you do,” I said. “Is it legit?”
He thought for a moment before he responded, smiling slightly as he spoke. “The answer is mostly yes,” he said.<
br />
“Mostly?”
“Mostly, as in the things in your bag over there. Most of them are legit.”
“You looked?” I asked.
“No, I didn’t,” he said. “I didn’t have to."
“I’ll think about it,” I said. Two hundred grand was nothing to sneeze at. Besides, I actually kind of liked the guy. However, I still wondered why two of his employees had a peep show on their computers that featured a U.S. senator. And what, if anything, that had to do with my father’s death from unnatural causes.
Whatever had let the air out of me this afternoon had now blown it back in. Maybe it was Yuliana’s kiss, or maybe Brooks’ offer, or maybe it was just me being me. I don’t like loose ends. My brother was in jail for a crime that I knew he didn’t commit, and that was a major loose end. I suddenly had my mojo back, and I was eager to get back on the case.
And I liked getting kissed, although I had no clue what I was going to do about that.
FRIDAY
I lay on a bed at the Hôtel Le St-James, in the old part of the city, lights on, counting the fleur-de-lis on the wallpaper. It made a nice change from counting the water damage stains on the walls of the hotels I usually stayed in, when I was paying. The St-James was an old bank that had been converted into a super-luxury boutique hotel, and was a gem-among-gems in a city that was famous for great places to stay. A limo had whisked us here after a perfunctory customs check. Tomas had flashed his diplomatic passport, and we were suddenly transported through a bureaucratic wormhole into a different universe where there were no lines of sweaty, exhausted travelers with improperly filled-out paperwork and howling babies.
It was one AM and I couldn’t sleep. Yuliana had ordered a whole chocolate cake from Gibby’s which we’d eaten in Brooks’ suite, and I had a slight stomachache. I hoped I wasn’t getting what Ed had; he’d gone straight to bed. Brooks had booked a whole floor of the hotel, with a common salon and separate bedrooms for him, Ed, Yuliana, and me. Tomas and Jenny had decided to share a room. I figured they were probably just trying to save some money. Cough, cough.
My stomach tightened even more when I heard a soft knock. I had been thinking about Barbara and whether I should text her, but that would be admitting defeat as whoever texts first, loses. I put on a white terrycloth hotel robe and opened the door.
Yuliana stood at the threshold holding her phone in one hand, dressed in an identical robe, and from the look of it, nothing else.
“Why do you have the light on?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I said.
“Have you considered that it might be because you left the light on?”
“I—” I began, but she put a hand across my mouth.
“Don’t talk,” she said. “Let’s leave it on.” She put her phone down on a dresser, loosened her robe and let it drop to the floor.
*
I woke up at six AM after a brief but deep sleep. I was alone in the huge bed except for the lingering scent of Yuliana Burleigh’s expensive perfume. Just smelling it on the pillow gave me an erotic charge. I wasn’t sure what she saw in me, to make her come on to me like that. I wasn’t going to complain; our lovemaking had felt like one of those near-death experiences that people describe, complete with the harkening angels and the heavenly shaft of light. But whatever joy I’d had, I knew that my Catholic guilt would cancel it out before you could say hallelujah.
Brooks was in the salon and pointed me to a coffee urn. “Have you thought about my offer?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said.
“Too distracted?” He gave me a conspiratorial wink. So much for my clandestine hookup with his personal assistant.
“What’s the travel forecast?” I said, changing the subject.
“The Morrisville airport will be open soon,” he said. “We can leave in a few hours.”
“If it’s OK with you, I think I’m going to rent a car and drive,” I said. “I have a few stops to make before the wake. Are you still going to be there?”
“I’ll be there,” he said. “The concierge will get you a car.”
“Thanks for everything,” I said.
“Don’t thank me. Just give my offer some serious thought. You’d be very well paid, very busy, and I’ll treat you with respect.”
“It’s very generous,” I said. “I’ll let you know.”
“At the wake?”
“All right,” I said. I didn’t appreciate the sales pressure, but I had already made up my mind anyway.
“I’m going to shower,” he said, and I was alone in the big room. Brooks’ smartphone was on a desk. No one else was awake.
I went back to my room and opened my bag of tricks. Inside was a little black box labeled “Radio Tactics Aceso”, a high-tech, privacy-invading gizmo that was spreading like an epidemic around police departments all over the country. A cop could hook one up to your mobile phone and download your contacts, emails, texts, location records, and everything else. Scary. But for me, useful as hell. Everybody kept far too much personal information on their phone, and if the Devil ever got hold of one of these babies, St. Peter would be out of a job.
Fifteen minutes later I was downstairs, waiting for the rental car to arrive. I chatted with the concierge, who told me that the temperature was already back down to zero and the wind was coming up. So much for January Thaw. I asked him where I could find a pastry shop and he directed me down the block; there was one within easy walking distance—that is, if you were a penguin. I got as far as the front door and decided I’d just wait for the car; it wasn’t worth freezing to death for a croissant.
*
The landscape between Montreal and the U.S. border is flat farmland dotted with silos, wildly-colored houses, and churches with metal-clad steeples. The rain hadn’t reached this far north, but as I approached Vermont, the trees began to shine with a thick coating of ice that was now chipping and crackling in the weak sun. The pine trees hung low with broken boughs littering the snow, and the more supple white birches were bent over in graceful arcs with their tops frozen to the ground. The storm’s aftermath was as destructive as it was dazzling.
I got a major hassle at the Highgate Springs customs station over my gear. They analyzed and logged each piece, and ran checks on my driver’s license, my Florida P.I. license, the rental car, you name it. I would have offered my dental records and my fourth grade report card, but any wiseguy behavior would have earned me a strip search, with the optional free prostate exam. Customs agents have a whole different attitude since 9/11, and no one could blame them. When I was a teenager we’d crossed the border to get Molson Brador beer, and they’d waved us through with a “have a nice day” like your local librarian. Now, they’re badasses. Maybe they can keep out the truckloads of missiles and such, but if people really wanted to get into the country, they would find a way—which is part of what makes the United States so great, and so vulnerable.
The next town past Highgate Springs was Swanton. I took the exit and drove my little rental Chevy west through the village on Vermont 78, then wound my way across low-lying farmland and over bridges to North Hero, one of the Champlain Islands. The islands are mostly flat and are dotted with dairy cows, tiny villages, summer cottages, country stores, and state parks. At this time of year they are windswept and desolate, and the hardy full-time residents stay indoors, close to the woodstove.
I had Carla’s address programmed into the GPS on my phone. The display led me across the island to the west shore, facing New York State across the now-frozen water. I drove down a long private lane to a two-story brown house with a detached garage and a large boathouse beyond it. There were several other outbuildings, some of which looked like little cabins, and vapor rose from the chimneys so somebody was keeping them heated. A white Subaru was parked in front of the main house under a porte cochere that was supported by stone pillars. It was like a family compound, and I guessed that if it were for sale it would fetch something-point-something. But many of these p
laces never reached the market; they were handed down through the generations until the heirs started squabbling over who paid for what, and only then would they occasionally change ownership.
I saw movement inside the house as I got out of my car, but no one came out to greet me—not in this weather. However sunny and beautiful it was, the mercury still lingered at the bottom of a thermometer by the entrance. I knocked, and Carla opened a heavy wood door.
“Vince?” she said, apparently not sure it was me.
“Carla,” I answered, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She had a bruise on her forehead.
“How’d you get that?”
“Slipped,” she said. “Icy walkway. You have a tan.”
“I live in Florida.”
“Oh. That’s right. Sorry, I’m not really awake.”
I smelled the faint odor of burning rope. Same old Carla, she’d probably just finished her morning joint.
“Come in,” she said. I entered, and took off my shoes. It must have been ninety degrees inside, and a Vermont Castings woodstove was giving off waves of heat from a central, pine-paneled room. I wasn’t about to complain.
“Where’s Ginny?” Ginny was Carla’s partner. I’d met her at my mother’s house two Thanksgivings ago, and we hadn’t hit it off. She had all the social graces of a feral dog guarding a carcass.
“She’s not up yet,” she said. “She sleeps in one of the cabins. I snore.”
“All the Tanzis do,” I said.
“You’re here for Dad’s thing?”
