Red Means Run

by Brad Smith

  “Well,” Jane said. “I’m going to go in and call the security company.”

  “Ten-four,” Joe Brady said.

  Claire sat at the bar in Fat Phil’s, waiting until the afternoon bartender came on shift. She’d hit all the usual watering holes in Kingston and nobody had remembered seeing Buddy Townes yesterday. Phil’s was her last chance. It was actually her best chance, as Buddy was known to frequent the place. Claire had been there earlier but the bartender said he’d been off the day before. The other bartender, who had worked a double yesterday, came on shift at five. He was running late.

  Virgil had called her cell while she was driving back from her talk with Suzanne Boddington, and he’d told her that Buddy had apparently skipped town. Claire wasn’t buying the lottery story either, and when Virgil said that it seemed as if Buddy had met with somebody the previous afternoon, Claire decided to check out his usual haunts. Buddy had become, at least in recent years, a predictable guy.

  She sat at the bar and drank a coffee and watched the Cubs and the Dodgers on the flat screen above the liquor display. When her cell rang she answered on the first ring. It was Marina.

  “Joe told me to find you.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Virgil Cain was in Kingston this morning. Looking for Buddy Townes.”

  “You sure?”

  “They found a print.”

  “Okay,” Claire said, her mind working. “So what’s the plan?”

  “Well, Joe’s got everybody out except the Girl Scouts. Cain is driving a pickup registered to a Mary Nelson. Joe’s got the woman in custody, putting the heat on her.”

  She gave Claire the vehicle’s details and Claire pretended to write them down.

  “It’s all on the down low for now,” Marina said. “Joe doesn’t want the media to know because he’s afraid Cain will go to ground again.”

  “Go to ground?”

  “Joe’s words.”

  “What is Buddy Townes saying?”

  “Nobody can find him. His landlord claims he left town.”

  “Okay,” Claire said then. “Tell Joe you found me.”

  “He’s acting all Wild West,” Marina said. “You know?”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  Claire hung up and sipped her coffee, thinking about what to do. She needed to find Virgil Cain. More specifically, she needed to find him before Joe Brady did. She didn’t care for Marina’s description of Joe’s mind-set. Wild West and Joe Brady sounded like a bad combination. Joe was running a long losing streak in the courtroom and Claire suspected he was looking to settle one without a judge and jury. And without a lawyer telling the world that he was an idiot. There was one way for Joe to do that.

  So she needed to find Virgil Cain, and she had no idea how to do that. She shouldn’t have let him go. She’d been thinking at the time that doing so could turn out badly for her. Now she had to consider that it might turn out very badly for him. She was growing more antsy by the minute, and then the bartender came in. She recognized the guy from the few times she’d been there but didn’t know his name. He was young, maybe twenty-two or so, and obviously worked out a lot, judging by the size of the biceps that bulged out of his too-small T-shirt. Claire showed him her badge and he gave her a flirtatious smile. He said his name was Cujo. Of course it is, Claire thought.

  “Buddy was here yesterday,” the kid said. “I remember because it was weird.”

  “In what way?”

  “First of all, he only stayed for one drink. That’s not Buddy. And he was with a woman. At least he met this woman.”

  “What’s strange about that?” Claire asked. “Buddy was always a ladies’ man.”

  “Not this woman. She walks in here and gives the place the once-over, and she’s got this look on her face, like, who farted? You know? Then she ordered a Bloody Mary and sat over there, waiting for Buddy. He showed a couple minutes later.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Pretty good-looking. For her age, anyway. Tall, kind of like an athlete, or used to be an athlete.”

  “Blonde?”

  “She wore a cap.”

  “Any logo on it?”

  The kid, who’d caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar, was only half paying attention.

  “Shit, I don’t know. It was just a cap, like a ball cap.”

  “How old was she?”

  “I don’t know. You women, after a certain age, I can never tell.” He was still admiring his arms.

  “How’d you like a smack on the head?” Claire asked.

  “She was older than you,” the kid said quickly, turning to her.

  “I’m thinking fifty maybe. Shit, I don’t know.”

  Claire got off the stool and put a couple of dollars on the bar for her coffee. “Did she give him anything?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I guess she could’ve.”

  “I’m guessing she did.”

  Claire crossed the street, got into her car, and started to drive without knowing where she was going. She had to determine who Buddy Townes had met with, although she was pretty sure she knew who it was; but first she had to locate Virgil Cain. And she was very aware that a whole bunch of people were out there trying to do the same thing. People with guns and somewhat different agendas than hers. She started for the station but didn’t want to run into Joe if he was there. It was too early for her to tell him anything and there was always a chance he would fuck everything up if she did. So she turned around and headed home, thinking she would change and head out to Virgil’s farm. He might be there.

  Her cell phone was ringing when she walked in the door. She took it from her pocket.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “You’ve been made,” she told him.

  “What?”

  “Somebody put you at Buddy’s place. Where are you?”

  “On the road.”

  “Good luck with that. That truck is as hot as you are. Listen, I think I’m onto something here. But you have to turn yourself in. Now.”

  “No.”

  “Virgil, listen to me. They’ve got you down for three killings and now Joe’s got everybody’s blood up. They pull you over and you as much as scratch your elbow and they’re going to start shooting.”

  “Then I’ll lay low.”

  Claire threw her purse on the table. “Chrissake, Virgil. Are you even listening to me?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Where are you?” she asked. “If you won’t turn yourself in, then come here.” She waited, imagining that he was considering it. Or hoping he was.

  “I don’t know. Why would I come there?”

  “Because nobody’s going to shoot you here, for starters,” she said. “Get over here and we’ll figure out what to do.”

  “Okay.”

  His tone was reluctant and she hurried to give him directions before he changed his mind. “Park in the garage. I’ll move my car out.”

  “Can I bring anything?”

  “What?”

  “You know. Bottle of wine. Dessert.”

  “Laugh it up. See how funny it is when the shooting starts.” She hung up.

  Claire was in need of a shower. She had left the house in a rush that morning as soon as she’d received the call about Boddington. After she moved her car, she went upstairs and had a shower, and as she was stepping out of the tub she heard him pull in the driveway. Under the spray she’d been trying to decide what to wear. It wasn’t something she should be thinking about, but she was, and it bothered her. It was like a question on some lame magazine cover—what to wear when welcoming a fugitive into one’s home? Virgil showing up so quick eliminated her concern. She threw on jeans and a T-shirt and went down to meet him, drying her hair with a towel as she did.

  She had left the back door ajar and when he knocked she told him to come in. Claire stood by the island counter that separated the kitchen from the dining room, the towel still in her hand. He smiled at he
r. She had been thinking about that smile since she’d let him go at the farm. It was a good smile, and Claire was pretty sure he used it to deflect the seriousness of the shit he was in. He wasn’t as oblivious to certain things as he let on.

  “Hey.”

  “Mr. Cain,” Claire said. “You close the garage door?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sit down. You want a beer?”

  “Sure.”

  Virgil sat down on a stool at the counter, and Claire opened the fridge and brought out two bottles of Bud Light. He looked doubtfully at the offering.

  “Got any real beer?”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” she told him as she put the beer on the counter. She walked around to sit across from him, the towel draped around her neck now, like a prizefighter.

  “You’re not going to like this but I think you should know. Joe Brady picked up Mary Nelson earlier. He’s holding her at the station, hoping she spills the beans on you.”

  “She’s got nothing to spill.”

  “She wouldn’t even if she did. She wouldn’t give you up at Hopman’s that night.”

  “What makes you think I was there?”

  “Maybe you should start giving me some credit. I’m the only one in Upstate New York who thinks you might be innocent, cowboy.”

  “Okay,” Virgil said and had another drink. “You said you were onto something.”

  “Yeah. Operating on the assumption that somebody paid Buddy off.”

  “Maybe he did win the lottery. People do, you know.”

  “I checked it out with New York Lotto. His name isn’t in their database, not as of last night. Somebody bought him.”

  “Who?”

  “He met with a woman at Fat Phil’s around five yesterday afternoon. They had a conversation and a drink.”

  “And an hour later he blows town.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So who was the woman?”

  Claire got up and went into a kitchen cupboard, rummaged around until she found a package of peanuts. She put them in a bowl and brought them over, grabbing a handful for herself.

  “You had a theory that whoever killed Mickey Dupree went through Coopers Falls Park,” she said. “And you figured that the victims knew the killer. And that they wouldn’t have feared him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Or her.”

  “Did you say her?”

  Claire took a drink of beer and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Boddington’s wife was in the park that day. They had her license plate number at the gate. And she knew Dupree, and Comstock. And you know what? She didn’t like either one of them.”

  “How do you know that?” Virgil asked.

  “She told me.”

  “She told you? Why would she do that?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe she’s trying to throw me off with her candor. She’s an intelligent woman. She claims she’s never been to the park, says she was in Boston at the time, but I’m still checking that out.” Claire took another drink. “Two things have always bothered me. One, that Mickey Dupree’s killer took time to rake the sand trap afterwards. That sand is fine, you could never distinguish one tread from another. But you could tell the size of a footprint, the difference between a woman and a man. So she raked it over. That never made sense until now.”

  “What else?”

  “This one just came to me the other night, when I was laying awake trying to figure out how to catch you.” Claire paused and had another drink. “The night Comstock was killed, somebody called him and told him that the cops had picked you up. Which meant he could send the security guard home. But they just hired the guard that day. How would anybody know? And if it was you who killed Comstock, how would you know?”

  “So tell me.”

  “Suzanne Boddington was with Comstock’s wife that night, down in the city. She would have known.”

  Virgil reached for a handful of peanuts. “What’s her motive? So she didn’t like Comstock and Dupree. That’s not a reason to kill them. And even if she did, are you saying she killed her husband? Why would she do that, just to muddy the stream?”

  “The husband,” Claire said. “Shit, I have a feeling that might have been the easy one for her. I had coffee with her today, a couple hours after she got the news. You could find more emotion in that bowl of peanuts.”

  “That doesn’t mean she killed him.”

  “Story is, he wanted to sell out and move to California. She didn’t. And look what she’s got now—a fancy house, a large fortune, and no sociopathic husband to share it all with.”

  Virgil thought about it. “You still don’t have a motive for the other two. Or is she just your run-of-the-mill serial killer?”

  “I don’t think so. Like you said, Buddy Townes is the key. Joe Brady’s been acting all along like these are revenge killings. But they’re not about revenge. They’re about keeping people quiet. I don’t know what this woman is hiding but whatever it is, Buddy must have found it. And Buddy told Dupree and Dupree told . . . well, he obviously told somebody something.

  Otherwise he’d still be alive. I’m thinking he told Miller something about his wife that even Miller didn’t know.”

  “It would have to be something big,” Virgil said. “To start killing people.”

  “Yeah, but she saw her chance. You were the perfect fall guy. Why wouldn’t you want Comstock and Dupree dead after what happened?”

  Virgil took a long drink of beer, considering what she was saying. “But why pay Buddy off? Why not kill him too?”

  “Because Buddy wouldn’t be easy to kill. Not like the others. For one thing, Buddy carried a gun every day of his life.”

  “I know that,” Virgil said. “Firsthand.”

  “That would be Buddy,” Claire said. “He would be hard to kill, but easy to buy. And his leaving doesn’t necessarily mean he can’t help us out. I applied for a search warrant for the house, should have it in the morning. I don’t know what he left behind but maybe there’s something there. We know he left in a hurry so maybe he got careless.”

  “What if he left his computer?” Virgil asked.

  “There was a computer there?”

  “There was. Not now.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In that Dodge pickup parked in your garage.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Virgil knew nothing about computers, other than he had purchased this one earlier today for fifty dollars. He sipped his beer and sat on Claire’s couch and watched her make the connections at the back of the PC that had recently been the property of Buddy Townes. They were in the living room and she had the components spread across her coffee table.

  “This thing is an antique,” Claire said. “What did you pay for it?”

  “Fifty bucks.”

  “You got ripped off. You country boys.” Claire plugged the tower in and powered it on. After a long time the desktop finally came up and an icon appeared, requesting a password.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I figured that.”

  Virgil watched as she tried typing in different variations of Buddy’s names, first and last. She muttered to herself as she worked. “Buddy, what the hell was your real name? Something old-fashioned, I think. Arnold? Yeah. Arnold. Arnie. Shit, nothing.”

  “Did he have a dog?” Virgil asked.

  “A dog?”

  “Yeah. They made me get one of those cards down at the bank when I opened an account. You know those cards, you see kids using them to buy a bottle of pop. Anyway, I needed a password so I used the name of a dog I had when I was a kid. Skippy.”

  “Unfortunately I don’t know the names of any dogs Buddy might have had when he was a kid.”

  “You don’t have to be sarcastic.”

  Claire sat back and pushed her hair away from her face with both hands. “We’ll have to leave it until morning. We’ve got a guy at the station who’ll crack it.” She looked at his empty bottle. “Grab another beer.”

  V
irgil stood up. “You want one?”

  “Yeah.”

  She waited until he walked into the kitchen and then leaned forward and typed “Skippy” into the password request. Nothing happened. She shut the computer down before he came back.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  “I am, you know.”

  Claire took the beer from him and stood up. “Do you know how to make an omelet?”

  “I think so.”

  She gestured toward the refrigerator. “Have at it. I’m going to go dry my hair.”

  They ate at the counter. Virgil had found onions and mushrooms and some sliced ham to put in the omelet. Claire opened a bottle of red wine and poured for them both.

  “So you can scramble an egg,” she said to him.

  “Can’t you?”

  “Of course I can.”

  “But you’re surprised that I can?” Virgil asked. “You seem to have this preconceived notion that I’m some sort of dumb hick.”

  “Not true,” Claire said. “I do have a notion that you’re a pain in the ass. But it wasn’t preconceived. I got to know you and then came to that conclusion. But you’re not dumb. You’re probably too damn smart for your own good.”

  “I could never figure out what that means.”

  “It means you’re a smart guy capable of very stupid behavior,” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Beating up that guy in Quebec, the one you went to jail for. That wasn’t real bright.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “So I assume you regret it?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  She gave him a look, as if checking to see if he was joking. He wasn’t.

  “How come a woman like you lives alone?” he asked her.

  “What do you mean by a woman like me?”

  Virgil had lifted a forkful of eggs but stopped before eating it. “Okay, I want to retract that part. But why do you? Buddy said you were married.”

  “Buddy’s a one-man knitting circle.”

  “What happened?”

  “To my marriage? Well, it’s a long story and as a rule I don’t share it with every escaped convict that shows up at my door.”