Red Means Run

by Brad Smith

  “Because of the daughter?”

  “What?”

  “You stayed behind because you became . . . interested in Stempler’s daughter. Kirstie.”

  “No. She wasn’t around then. She might have been in Nashville at that time, I’m not sure. I didn’t meet her until maybe a year later.”

  Brady leaned forward. “So why did you stick around?”

  “I told you,” Virgil said. “I found out Tom Stempler had ALS. I helped with the farm.”

  “Aren’t you the good Samaritan?”

  “That a question or just a snotty remark?”

  “All right, all right,” Marchand said, shooting Brady a look before turning to Virgil. “So you became something of a hired hand. Is that accurate?”

  “Hired hand,” Virgil repeated. “Yeah. That’s what I put on my résumé.”

  “We’ll need a copy of that résumé,” Joe said at once. Marchand spoke without taking her eyes off Virgil. “I think Mr. Cain is having a little fun with us, Joe. I have a feeling Mr. Cain doesn’t have a résumé.” She didn’t seem pissed off; she even smiled before continuing. “You and Kirstie Stempler did eventually become involved. When were you married?”

  Virgil put his cigarette out. “Couple of years ago, I guess.”

  “You don’t remember when?”

  “Yeah. It was . . . March, I think. Two years ago in March.”

  “And when did Tom Stempler die?”

  “About a year before that. He held on a long time. He was a tough sonofabitch.”

  Marchand hesitated before she went on. “Tell us about Kirstie and Alan Comstock. How did that situation come about?”

  Virgil shook his head. “Don’t you read the newspapers?”

  “I’d like to hear your version of it,” Marchand said.

  “Kirstie wanted to be a singer. Comstock told her he could make it happen.”

  “Did you discourage her from that?”

  “No. Why would I discourage somebody from doing something they wanted to do?”

  “How did you feel when she was killed?” Brady interjected.

  “How the fuck do you think I felt?”

  He saw Marchand give Brady another look. There was something between them that didn’t feel right. Maybe Brady was chafing at the fact that he had made the arrest and now she was the one in charge. Or maybe it went deeper than that. But there was distance between them, Virgil was certain of that.

  “Have you ever been to the city of Middletown?” Marchand asked.

  “I’ve driven through there.”

  “You were there on Tuesday. You used your credit card to buy gas at the Quik Stop at”—Marchand scanned a page in her notebook—“seven thirty-six in the evening.”

  “I bought gas there. Yeah.”

  “Why were you in Middletown?”

  “I was heading to Goshen to look at a seed bull.”

  “To buy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who owned the bull?”

  “A guy named Wayne Maklovich.”

  Marchand eyed Brady until he took the hint and opened his laptop and began to type. He stalled after a few seconds and had Virgil spell the name for him.

  “He can verify you were there?” Marchand asked.

  “No,” Virgil said. “He was supposed to be there but nobody was home.”

  “So you left?”

  “Not right away. I walked around and had a look at the bull anyway. He was in a field behind the barn with a bunch of yearling steers.”

  “What time was this?”

  “When I was there? Nearly dark. Maybe eight thirty?”

  “And you never spoke to Maklovich?”

  “He wasn’t there.”

  “Afterward, I mean. Did you call him about the bull?”

  “No. I wasn’t interested in the bull.”

  “Why not?” Brady asked. “Isn’t one bull the same as the next?”

  “They’re like snowflakes,” Virgil told him. “Or cops. Every one’s different.”

  Marchand smiled again and this time she tried to hide it by scratching the side of her nose. Brady, returning to his computer, scowled but said nothing.

  “Can anybody vouch for you being in the Goshen area at that time?” Marchand asked.

  “I never talked to anybody. I would say no.”

  Marchand came over and sat down now. She leaned close. In spite of his predicament, Virgil couldn’t help but notice how nice she smelled. He told himself to get a grip.

  “Here’s the thing, Virgil,” she said. “From the city of Middletown it’s roughly a twenty-minute drive to the Burr Oak Golf and Country Club. Somebody killed Mickey Dupree on the golf course. Somebody who took the time to learn Mickey’s schedule. At eight thirty he was seen teeing off on the sixth hole. At nine o’clock he was found dead in a bunker on the seventh. At this point I’m going to give you some really, really good advice, Virgil. The next words out of your mouth should be that you want to talk to a lawyer.”

  “I didn’t kill the guy,” Virgil said. “And the only reason I’m sitting here is because I made a dumb remark in a bar. You figure on building a murder case around that?”

  “Jesus,” Marchand said. “You seem like a smart guy. Why don’t you act like it?”

  “You seem like a smart woman,” Virgil said. “And look at the mess we’re in.”

  She shook her head but before she could say anything else, a young cop in uniform stuck his head in the door and told Marchand she had a phone call.

  She got to her feet, her eyes still on Virgil. “I was just about done here anyway.”

  She walked out. Brady leaned back in his chair for a moment, watching Virgil as he tapped his forefinger against his chin. That he was happy to be back in charge was written all over his face. It was becoming more evident by the moment that he was not an intelligent man. Virgil couldn’t see that working in his favor.

  “You just happened to be in the area,” Brady said after a time.

  “At the right time, the right day. And your past record speaks for itself. A propensity for violence. A hatred of lawyers. A habit of taking the law into your own hands. We have a pretty strong circumstantial case already—and we’re just beginning.”

  “You’re only missing one thing,” Virgil told him.

  “What?”

  “The guy who did it.”

  Claire’s office was in an open area in the front of the station, basically just a desk with a shoulder-high glass partition around it. After talking to Cain, she finished her log for the day, took the steps to the lower level, and walked out to the parking lot where her Honda CR-V was parked. Sal Delano was putting a gym bag in the back of his Camaro.

  “What happened out there today?” Claire asked.

  Sal hadn’t heard her approach and when he looked up, he glanced around, as if uncertain who she was talking to. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “You know what I mean.”

  Sal exhaled, then shrugged. “Buck fever? You know how he is. One minute I’m just talking to the guy and the next, Joe’s reading him his rights. I’m the rookie out there. What am I supposed to do? Besides, once you tell a guy he’s under arrest for murder, it’s kinda hard to back off and tell him he’s not.”

  “We don’t even have the autopsy report yet. Or any physical evidence. All we’ve got is a dead lawyer.”

  “I know. They towed Cain’s pickup in a while ago. They’re going over it now. And I guess you know there’s a team out at his house.” He paused. “You heading out there?”

  “I can’t until morning. I have to drive up to Albany to give a deposition. The boys can give the place the once-over.”

  “Maybe they’ll find a set of golf clubs missing a five iron.”

  “Yeah,” Claire said. “I wouldn’t hold my breath. Did you ask Joe why he was so quick on the trigger?”

  “Yeah. He said he had to make a snap decision. He figured Cain was a flight risk.”

  “Based on what?”


  “That he’s not a citizen.”

  “Where the hell was he going to flee to, Canada? He goes to Canada, we go up there and bring him back.”

  “Hey, you don’t need to tell me.”

  Claire turned and looked toward the station. “Well, it is what it is. Joe’s in there checking out the story about the bull up at Goshen. Not that it works as an alibi anyway.” She turned back.

  “Funny, Joe being so gung ho about going after the guy who iced Mickey Dupree. You’d think he would be down at the bar, buying rounds.”

  “I thought about that too.” Sal closed the trunk. “But then I thought that Joe gets gung ho about jaywalkers.”

  Claire nodded absently.

  “What’s the matter?” Sal asked. “You don’t think Cain is the guy?”

  “Oh, he probably is. Everything fits. The DA’s not going to have any problems establishing motive. I just wish we’d have moved a little slower on it. Guy’s clammed up now, won’t even talk to a lawyer. With a little finesse, we might have gotten a confession out of him. Save the taxpayers a bunch of money.”

  “You worried about the taxpayers, Claire?”

  “That’s me. I’m all about community. Not that the community deserves it. So I’m going to drive to Albany and do my sworn duty and then I’m going home. The medical establishment has advocated that red wine and chocolate are good for your health. I believe I’ll partake of both.”

  “In moderation?”

  “I have to put up with Joe Brady on a daily basis,” Claire said.

  “Fuck moderation.”

  Sal smiled. “Chocolate and wine. That’s what you do with your evenings, now that you’re single?”

  “I do what I want. Now that I’m single.”

  She soon realized she had jinxed herself with that last remark. She wanted to change her clothes before heading to Albany so she drove to her house on Pearl Street, on the south side of the city. She still wasn’t used to it being her house. She’d taken possession eight months earlier but hadn’t moved in until two months after that, when the renovations had been completed. The house was a story-and-a-half red brick, built in 1932, owned by the same couple for several decades. When Claire bought it the downstairs had consisted of several smaller cramped rooms, and the second floor was more of the same, with four tiny bedrooms. Claire had dropped a lot more money into the renovation than she had intended—a practice she’d been told was typical—but was extremely happy with the result. The downstairs was now entirely open, except for a back entry-way and the half bath, and upstairs were two large bedrooms with a bathroom en suite off the master. A smaller room was designed to be an office but had, also typically, morphed into a giant closet.

  Claire was still enthralled with the house—and of living alone in general—and noticed that she grew happier every time she approached the place, especially after a long day at work. Today, however, that house love was tempered more than a little by the fact that Todd was parked in her driveway when she drove up.

  Claire had to park out front so as not to block him in, which would only encourage him to stay longer. He was looking at himself in the mirror above the visor and didn’t notice her until she got out of the car and closed the door. He flipped the visor up—Claire wondered just how long he’d been admiring his own image—and got out to meet her. He was dressed, as usual, like a catalog model. But he looked tired.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “You’re in my spot.”

  “Oh. Sorry about that.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Then why are you here, Todd?”

  “Oh,” he said, as if just realizing he should have a reason.

  “Do you remember the name of the guy we hired to do the landscaping on the Taylor Road place?”

  “Canfield Landscaping. They’re in the book.”

  “Canfield. That’s it.”

  “You came here to ask me that?” Claire asked. “That’s one of those questions you can ask over the phone, Todd.”

  “Well, I was driving by. I left work early. Business is slow. You know how things are right now.”

  “Not really. We’re always pretty busy down at the shop.”

  He smiled. “Yeah. I guess you guys are recession proof.” Claire nodded and looked at him a moment, knowing she shouldn’t ask. “Everything okay?”

  “Sure. Everything’s good.” He exhaled and turned to admire the house for a moment. “I don’t know. Sometimes I miss, you know, just talking at the end of the day.”

  “Funny, I don’t remember that we ever did much of that,” Claire said.

  “Go ahead and joke.”

  “Who’s joking?” Claire asked. After a moment, she relented and smiled. “You realize you have a new wife, right? She can talk, can’t she?”

  “Of course she can. She happens to be a very intelligent woman.”

  “I never suggested otherwise. That time I actually was joking.”

  “I guess I can’t get anything right.”

  “Maybe you got that right,” Claire suggested.

  “Fine,” he said, having had enough, and turned toward his car. “I just wanted to ask the name of that landscape company. I won’t bother you again.”

  But you will, Claire thought. “See you, Todd.”

  She watched as he backed out of the driveway and drove off.

  He’d been stopping by too frequently lately and, when he wasn’t coming by the house, calling her with inane questions about nothing in particular. More troubling still was the fact that he seemed obsessed with reminiscing about the good old days of their marriage, days that existed for only a very brief period twenty years ago. Which resulted in Claire worrying about his current marriage. She wanted him to be happy, but, more to the point, she wanted him to be happy as far away from her as possible.

  SIX

  Claire drove out to the Cain farm on Windecker Road early the next morning. When she found the place, she pulled in the driveway by the house and noticed a fairly new red Ford pickup parked by the barn. The truck somehow looked out of place so she drove over to park behind it.

  There were several horses in a field in front of the barn, gathered round a water trough that was being filled at the moment by a plastic pipe that ran from a shed alongside the barn. Claire could hear the sound of a pump inside, running noisily.

  The barn door was open so she walked in and saw, through an open door on the other side, a woman standing in a corral beside a gray horse. Claire approached just as the woman was injecting the horse with a syringe.

  The woman was in her sixties, or possibly her seventies. Claire showed her badge and introduced herself, and the woman said her name was Mary Nelson and that she was a vet from Kingston. She told Claire she had rescued the gray horse the previous day and brought it here to recover.

  “She ate the hay I left yesterday so I figured she could handle a shot of B12 and some worm medicine.” She laughed, as though to herself. “Which I’m sure is more information than you need.”

  “Not at all,” Claire said. “Virgil Cain rescues horses?”

  “In a manner of speaking. It actually started with Kirstie. Virgil’s wife. She owned two quarter horses—they’re still here, in fact, with that bunch in the pasture. She called me one day; she thought her gelding had the colic. I came out, we got to talking about horses. This was right around the time that a creep named Miller Boddington was in the news for mistreating his thoroughbreds. You know about that?”

  Claire nodded. “Yeah. I know about that.”

  “Anyway,” Mary went on, “I was telling Kirstie how many abused animals I run across, and how I’m always looking for homes for them. She volunteered right away. And that started it. Most of those horses in that pasture field out front came from bad situations.”

  “And Cain kept on, after she died.”

  “Rather reluctantly,” Mary said, smiling. “I have to persuade him sometimes. Kirstie had a . . . sof
ter heart, I suppose.”

  “Cain is hard-hearted?”

  Mary shook her head at the assumption. “No, he’s not. But he might give that impression.”

  “You were friends with Kirstie?”

  “Not socially, if that’s what you mean. I knew her father because I was his vet for a lot of years. He had beef cattle. Virgil raises them now. Or he did, anyway.”

  “So you know he was arrested?”

  “I was here at the time.”

  “Oh,” Claire said. She paused. “And were you surprised?” The vet capped the needle of the syringe and put it in a plastic bag. She was not a tall woman and had to look up at Claire.

  “I’m going to assume that’s a rhetorical question. If I said I wasn’t surprised, what would your next question be?”

  “Okay,” Claire conceded. “You have a point. You were obviously surprised. Have you ever seen a violent side to Cain? Barroom brawl, anything like that?”

  “I’ve never been to a bar with him.”

  “Did you ever hear him say anything about Mickey Dupree?”

  “No.”

  “The guy’s defending the man accused of killing his wife and he never talked about it?”

  “Not to me, he didn’t. I really don’t know him very well. From what I do know, I don’t think he’s the confiding type.”

  “I kind of got that impression myself,” Claire said. “Let’s try this. From what little you do know of him, would you think he might be capable of murdering someone?”

  “I wouldn’t be bringing him horses if I thought he was capable of murdering someone. But maybe he fooled us all, right?”

  “Maybe he did.”

  “I have to get to the clinic. Is there anything else?”

  Claire said there wasn’t and both women walked through the barn and out the other side. Mary went into the pump house and a moment later the chugging of the pump stopped and she came out, got into her truck, and drove off. She didn’t say anything else to Claire.