The surrogate thief jg-15

by Archer Mayor

  They stepped through the open door into a wall of rock music and fine dust and the smell of fresh everything: lumber, joint compound, varnish, and new plastic. A man wearing a face mask and carrying a bucket appeared in a hallway opposite them.

  "Can you tell us where Derek is?" Joe shouted to him.

  The man pointed, still walking across the room. "Upstairs."

  Following a broad path of taped-down protective kraft paper, they found a sweeping staircase leading up and proceeded through several grandiose rooms outfitted with built-in cherry cabinets, marble fireplaces, and other baubles. It was like stepping into a TV program of This Old House, minus the camera crew and the sycophant host.

  Through it all, Lester kept muttering and shaking his head.

  At the end of their trip, they slipped through a plastic sheet barrier and came to a large back bedroom/gym combination, filled not with the intended equipment but with a large, burly man wearing a mask, goggles, and ear protectors, who was pushing around a bulky, screaming floor sander. The air was opaque with sawdust.

  Gunther, in bad-cop mode, walked across the room and stood in front of the machine, forcing its operator to stop and kill his mechanical beast.

  The man tore off his protective equipment and glared at Joe in the sudden, echoing silence. "Goddamn it. If you made me fuck up this floor…"

  Joe cut him off by flashing his shield. "You'll what?"

  His mouth still open in midsentence, the man looked from Joe to Lester.

  "Sorry about that," Lester said pleasantly, filling in. "Are you Derek Beauchamp?"

  "Yeah."

  "Then you won't mind if we ask you a few questions," Joe suggested, his face still grim.

  "No. I mean, sure. What do you want?"

  Joe went straight to it. "You sold a gun recently to John Moser. Where did you get it?"

  Beauchamp paled so that the previously covered parts of his face matched the dusty ones. "I didn't sell a gun."

  Joe stepped in close enough that their chests were almost touching. Beauchamp instinctively tucked his chin in.

  "That is bullshit. You sold a gun illegally for twenty bucks and some Ecstasy. Moser gave you up so fast, we'd barely asked the question."

  Just like in the movies, Lester now approached and held up his hand passively to Joe. "You mind? Just for a sec?"

  Joe shrugged angrily and moved away to look out the dusty window at the scenery outside.

  "Never mind him," Lester said in a near whisper. "Very bad day. Look, nothing'll happen here if you help us out, Derek. This is no big deal, okay? Just tell me where you got the gun."

  "I found it," Beauchamp answered equally softly, as if their words weren't still bouncing around the cavernous room. "Under the floorboards at another job."

  "How's that?"

  "You have to prep the floors first," he answered. "Well, I mean, not here. This is all new flooring using old barn boards-really expensive. But over there it was more like the usual, you know? Just making what's already down look better."

  "We get it, Derek," Joe growled without turning around.

  "Right. Sorry," he said quickly. "Anyhow, you have to prep the surface, which means you have to go around and countersink all the nails so you won't tear up the machine. Well, that's when I found a loose board. It was wiggly, slightly warped. You gotta fix things like that, or it won't look right, so I pried it up to see what I could do, and that's when I found it."

  "Just lying there?" Lester asked.

  "Yeah. It was wrapped in a rag, like a towel, but there it was."

  "Was there anything with it?"

  "I swear, man. It was all alone. It looked old. For sure nobody knew about it, 'cause the homeowners had just bought the place, so I figured, you know, what the hey? Maybe I could get some money for it. I mean, I didn't want it myself. I'm not into that. But I didn't know it was illegal."

  Joe reapproached, his expression still hard. "It's not illegal to sell a gun, stupid, unless it's stolen and the price involves drugs. Or are you going to pretend you didn't know that, either?"

  Beauchamp actually hung his head. "Sorry."

  Spinney glanced at his boss. The good-cop-bad-cop routine had ended when Beauchamp had confessed. This last outburst of Joe's had come from somewhere else.

  Lester quickly moved to extract the last piece of information they needed. "Derek," he said gently, "where exactly was this job?"

  "Dummerston Center," came the eager reply. "Just beyond the four-way intersection on the East-West Road, heading toward Putney. On the right, in the middle of that hairpin curve they got. Super-nice folks."

  Beauchamp took a risk and looked at Joe. "I'm real sorry for what I did."

  Joe's face merely darkened. "You little jerk. You're sorry we caught you at it, and you think dancing around like some ass-kissing five-year-old will get you off the hook. You and I know damn well that three seconds after we're gone you'll be calling us assholes to our backs." He suddenly stabbed the man hard in his chest with his finger. "Tell me I'm wrong."

  Beauchamp didn't know what to say anymore. Spinney reached out and slowly lowered Joe's hand with his own. "We'll be heading out now, Derek," he said in a neutral tone. "But remember what happened here, okay? You are now on our radar. Call us whatever you like later, but if we ever hear of you screwing around like this again, we won't be coming around to chat. Is that crystal clear?"

  During this speech, Spinney was steering Joe toward the door, talking over his shoulder.

  Staring at them from his post near the silent sander, Derek Beauchamp still looked unsure. "So, I'm okay, then? This time?"

  Joe swung around. "There's going to be another?"

  Beauchamp backed up, tripping over the electrical cord behind him. "No, no. Sorry. Not what I meant. I get it. I mean, I'm cool. Everything's cool."

  Gunther hesitated, as if pondering a choice of violent options. Finally, he turned on his heel, said, "Idiot," and walked away with Spinney in pursuit.

  Spinney drove this time, allowing Joe to stare out the side window.

  "You okay?"

  Joe didn't answer at first. Didn't even move, until at last he shifted his gaze to the front and said, "You ever have those almost out-of-body experiences where you start doing something the rational part of your brain just can't believe? It's like being on autopilot and stamping on the brakes at the same time, getting nowhere."

  "You know what pushed your button?" he asked.

  Gunther sighed. "It's not like we don't deal with guys like that every day. Something just snapped this time. The futility of it, maybe. Damned if I know. I just stood there and got really pissed off-all of a sudden. I felt like smacking him." He altered his voice slightly in imitation. "'I'm real sorry for what I did.' Jesus. Give me a break. I sometimes think we're just slightly more complicated than when we crawled out of the caves. We're sure as hell no better. Me want, me take, and screw you in the process."

  Spinney didn't answer. Cops were ill disposed to think along such lines. It was almost guaranteed to undermine whatever satisfaction the job offered.

  As Joe knew all too well.

  "Sorry," he said a moment later. "Too much shit on my mind."

  The house Derek Beauchamp had described was more in keeping with the area's norm for upward mobility. No Yuppie version of a rusticated mansion, this one was a straightforward salvation of a previously worn-down farmhouse: asphalt roof, economy paint job, a repaired foundation, and, they now knew, some refinished flooring.

  Fully recovered, Joe pulled himself out of the car and smiled at the young woman who stepped from the house to greet them.

  "Hi," he said, waving toward Lester. "Sorry to bother you. We're police officers from the Vermont Bureau of Investigation. My name's Gunther, and this is Lester Spinney. We're just looking for some information-nothing bad," he added, to assuage the alarm he saw growing on her face.

  As they drew closer, he stuck out his hand. "Call me Joe."

  She shook it tenta
tively. "Margo Wilson."

  Gunther indicated the house. "What a nice job. Just what the place needed."

  Still flustered, Wilson turned and faced the house with them, as if they were all three admiring a mural. "Oh. Thanks. Did you know it before?"

  "Just to drive by. But you can tell you've given it a shot in the arm. Actually, that's why we're here. It's sort of a historical fishing expedition. We're trying to find out who used to own it."

  "The Zimmers?" she asked.

  "Maybe," Joe said. "Depends on how far back they go."

  Wilson looked doubtful. "Oh, I don't know. I don't think they lived here for more than a few years. Mrs. Zimmer turned out to be allergic to almost everything, and they ended up moving back to the city. That's why it was sort of run-down, and how we got such a decent price. Not that we haven't poured a small fortune into fixing it up," she added ruefully.

  "They'll do that to you," Lester commiserated, clearly more kindly inclined toward this homeowner than to the unknown ones they'd just left. "You love them, but they are out to ruin you, day in and day out."

  Margo Wilson began to relax. She pointed toward the still open front door. "Would you like to come in? I think I know where Edward-that's my husband-has squirreled away some of the old documents we got at the closing; maybe those'll help. Would you like coffee? It's fresh."

  They entered together, she showed them around, and they made the appropriate flattering noises before settling down in the living room with the coffee and a small, messy pile of the aforementioned paperwork.

  Spinney kept their hostess entertained while Joe began leafing through the offerings.

  There were the standard items-surveys, legal correspondence, court papers, and tax records-but of most use to Joe was a copy of the town clerk's record of successive ownership. He went through the pages, deciphering the entries, keeping track of the years as his finger ran down the list.

  Where he finally stopped short wasn't because of the date, however, but the name opposite it. He straightened and let out a small grunt of recognition, causing the other two to stop speaking and stare at him.

  "You find something?" Margo Wilson asked him hopefully.

  Joe closed the stapled sheaf and held it up. "I think so. Could I borrow this? Just long enough to get it copied? I promise I'll mail it back to you first thing tomorrow."

  He stood up, still holding it, forcing the issue somewhat. Mrs. Wilson was gracious enough merely to smile and stand in turn. "Oh, sure. I doubt we even need it, to be honest, but sure-mail it back at your convenience."

  She escorted them to the door, hesitating only as they were halfway across the threshold. "I hope this is nothing bad. I mean…"

  Joe placed his hand on her forearm. "No. Absolutely not. We're literally just trying to track someone down-kind of like connect-the-dots. Where were they when? That sort of thing. Nothing to worry about. I promise."

  Relieved, she let them go and waved as they backed down the driveway. Spinney waited until they'd covered about a hundred yards before saying, "Okay, Grumpy-spill. You look like you struck gold."

  Joe smiled. "I don't know about that, but I found a familiar name. Thirty-two years ago that house belonged to Lawrence Clark. Remember that old case file you were reading before?"

  Spinney's brow furrowed. "Yeah, but that name doesn't ring any bells."

  "His sister, Katie, was living with Pete Shea when he vanished into thin air."

  Chapter 10

  After Peter Shea went on the lam, Klaus Oberfeldt succumbed, and Ellen slipped away forever, Joe began to do some sliding of his own. He had hoped-even planned on-the newly minted homicide to distract him, maybe even afford him an emotional bridge he could use to distance himself from Ellen's death. But the frustration of Shea's total disappearance, leaving behind no alternate leads, ended up compounding Joe's sense of loss and lack of direction. He became distracted, sleepless, and could find no satisfaction in anything he did.

  It was Frank Murphy who eventually gave him a handhold at work. Without him, Joe always believed, he would have hit the ropes just as Willy Kunkle did later, and maybe worse. He'd never know for sure, fortunately, but that was in some ways precisely the point.

  It wasn't the first time Frank had come through, either. After seeing combat as a young man and then dropping out of college on the West Coast a couple of years later, Joe had found himself rootless, restless, and without a plan. By then back on the farm and attempting a fruitless return to a bygone life, he got a call from Murphy, an erstwhile older neighbor and friend and now a Brattleboro cop, and went down to take a look at what Frank was offering, as much to prove him wrong as out of any true interest.

  But interested he became. Now, several years later, Murphy again reached out and took Joe under his wing, inviting him over to dinner regularly, taking him fishing, and making him one of his own family. Nurturing him, occasionally covering for his mistakes, Frank Murphy coaxed Joe back to health, inspiring him in the process to be a better cop.

  In many ways, that was why he continued to stick his neck out for Willy Kunkle. There was a tradition at stake, and it involved the saving of one's own, no matter how obliquely.

  Except that in Joe's own case, Shea was never found, the Oberfeldt case was never closed, and Ellen's loss never fully overcome. It took years before Joe could commit to Gail, and then only because of her own interest in a completely unconventional relationship.

  Now, suddenly, these ancient wounds were being revisited in odd ways-some through the distorted lens of memory, others in light of confusing current events, but all linked to names and actions Joe hadn't thought about in decades.

  "Okay," Joe asked. "What've we found out?"

  The entire squad-Willy, Sam, and Lester-were convened at the VBI office, something that occurred with increasing rarity as the agency picked up more cases.

  "I dug into the tax records and confirmed what Margo Wilson showed us," Sam answered first. "Her place was definitely owned by Larry Clark when the Oberfeldt assault took place."

  "The same Larry Clark who then died of cirrhosis of the liver ten years later," Willy added. "Can't imagine how he came down with that, but that's when the house ended up on the market."

  Joe ignored him-usually the best policy. "Any guesses on other family members, like Katie?"

  Spinney held up a computer printout with a small flourish. "God bless the Internet," he said. "I tried every police resource we have, and in the end, it was one of those 'find your high school sweetheart' ads on the Net that finally worked. Katherine Madeleine Clark is listed as living in Orange, Massachusetts-assuming," he added with emphasis, "that she and your Katie are one and the same, which, given the common names, may be a stretch."

  "How did you match them up?" Joe asked.

  "Date of birth and where she went to high school. But like I said, Katherine Clark is right up there with John Smith."

  "That's standing by your guns," Willy commented.

  Sam threw a pencil at him, which he batted away. Out of the office, Sam and Willy formed a complicated couple, although so far, despite regular fireworks, they seemed to be lasting.

  Joe had been sitting on the edge of his desk and now leaned forward to take the printout from Lester. "Can't hurt to give it a try."

  "You going to check her out personally?" Sam asked.

  "It's not far," he answered, "and if it's the same woman, I actually met her once. Plus, you've all got more than enough on your plates to waste much more time on this. Chances are, even if I do get a fix on Pete Shea, he's been dead for years."

  "Jesus, boss," Willy said, "you sure know how to sell a thing. You better not be writing that in your expense voucher."

  Orange, Massachusetts, regardless of its own pride in self, is duplicated a hundredfold all across New England. Mill towns long ago, they are stamped as such by huge, hulking, soot-grimed architectural remnants of an era that once made the region a global industrial powerhouse. Nowadays they are crossroads wi
th brick downtowns and Civil War memorials, their efforts to survive hanging on tourism, or on being attractive to part-time city dwellers, or on trying to cope commercially in a world that time and again proves it doesn't need them anymore. Often as not, they are the places people drive through wondering, "Why is this place here?"

  Orange is healthier along those lines, what with its proximity to several recreational lakes, including the enormous Quabbin Reservoir to its south. About half the size of Brattleboro and also equipped with a river, it has a similar background of mills and factories.

  Joe located the address Lester had given him, just off the town's main thoroughfare. It belonged to a heavy brick office building long ago converted into an affordably priced and severe apartment complex, right across the street from an oddly shaped, slightly forlorn park dedicated to local World War I veterans.

  He parked his car and approached the building's front door, pausing when he heard music floating just above him. He glanced up and saw the back of a woman's head almost resting against a first-floor window, seemingly lulled by the soft classical notes emanating from her apartment.

  He proceeded to the front lobby and studied the names above the mail receptacles. "K. Clark" was attached to the only apartment on the ground floor, clearly the one he'd noticed with the music and the apparently sleeping woman. Encouraged, he pushed the bell.

  There was no answer. He hesitated, giving the lineup of names a second look to rule out any error. He rang again.

  Still no response.

  Leaving the lobby, he returned to the window and, standing tall on his toes, rapped on the glass with his knuckles.

  In almost cinematic slow motion, the head above him stirred, swung around as if on a rusty hinge, and finally revealed the round, pale face of a woman who looked as if she'd just been shaken from a very deep sleep.

  "Katie Clark?" he half shouted at the closed window, conscious of how people on the street might interpret this.

  The face showed no change of expression. It was as if she didn't see him.

  Maybe she's blind, he thought. He waved his hand at her and saw her grimace slightly, clearly in reaction. Reassured, he pointed toward the building's entrance and said, "I'll talk to you on the intercom."