by Jon McGoran
“Jesus,” he laughed. “You can’t even take a couple of weeks in the country without some kind of shit storm finding you.”
“Yeah, it’s hilarious. Anyway, whatever the guy was spraying, it settled onto my windowsill, some kind of white powder. I figured, if anybody can get away with sending an unidentified white powder in for analysis, it’s my best buddy at DEA, right?”
“White powder, huh?” He suddenly sounded serious. “You think it might be anthrax or something? I’m at a breakfast meeting with Homeland Security, should we get them involved?”
“I don’t know, Stan. They spray shit all the time out here. Could be pixie dust for all I know, but I’d really like to find out.”
“Yeah, all right. They’re a bunch of assholes anyway. You got no idea what it is?”
I didn’t want to give him any excuse to back out, so I left out the part about the neighbors trying to shoot me. “I don’t know. There’s a woman next door, has a small organic farm. There’s been some pressure on her to sell her land. Could be an herbicide or pesticide, something to kill her crops or contaminate them so she can’t sell them as organic.”
“That’s pretty obscure.”
“Maybe, but someone already torched some of her crops with gasoline. I don’t know, I’m just guessing. She’s also sensitive to chemicals, like allergic. They could be trying to hurt her that way, or make the place uninhabitable.”
“All right, I got you. I can put it in, but my guys are pretty busy. Could take a little while.”
“Even if they know it’s for you?”
“Jesus, Doyle. You’re pushing it, you know that?”
“But you love me anyway, right?”
“Yeah, but only as a friend.”
46
I had arranged to meet Stan at a Dunkin’ Donuts in a town called Hamburg, about ten miles away. I’m not a huge fan of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, but with a shot of espresso and a doughnut on the side, it ain’t bad. I was finishing my second coffee when Stan came in. He had a suit and a briefcase and an adhesive “Hello, My Name Is” tag, with “Stan” written across it in big, blocky letters.
He ordered a large coffee and brought it over to the table.
“Hope you’re not working undercover, Stan,” I said, making it obvious that I was reading his tag.
He looked down and peeled it off, then folded it up and threw it at me. “Asshole. You’ve worked cases with Homeland Security, right?”
“Couple times.”
“You know a guy there named Craig Sorenson?”
“No.”
“You’re lucky. Guy’s a complete tool.” He paused, studying my face for a moment. “Jesus, look at you. You look like you’re undercover. I’ve seen meth addicts with more color in their cheeks.”
“Thanks. I’ve been working on it.”
“Apparently. Being attacked by airplanes, huh? That’s impressive, even for you. Who’d you piss off this time, the Air Force?”
“That would explain it.”
“So why don’t you take it up with local law enforcement? I mean, apart from the obvious.”
I shrugged.
“You think they’ll fuck it up?”
I shrugged again.
“By accident or on purpose?”
One more shrug.
He shook his head. “Right. I don’t want to hear about any of that. Munschak’s dad is chief in some bumblefuck town near Scranton. Thinks these salt-of-the-earth types can do no wrong.” He took the lid off his coffee and slurped it, then put the lid back on. “So what’ve you got?”
I slid the envelope across the table.
“It’s sealed?” he asked before touching it.
I gave him a look to remind him I wasn’t an idiot, but I nodded.
He shrugged a mild apology as he palmed it and put it in his briefcase. “Like you haven’t done some dumb shit lately.”
“Point taken.”
“I’ll get it back to you as soon as I can.”
“Thanks, Stan.”
He picked up his briefcase and stood, looking down at me. “Try to stay out of trouble, okay, Carrick? Doesn’t look like suspension is agreeing with you.”
* * *
When Stan left, I ordered another coffee, to go. I didn’t know how long it was going to take to get the results back on the white powder, and I didn’t know what my next step should be. At some point, I needed to get some sleep, but I had too many unanswered questions to sleep well. For the moment, caffeine would have to do.
When I took out my wallet to pay for the coffee, though, I found the slip of paper with the information I had written from public records: Redtail Holding Company, Reading, PA, Jordan Rothe, CEO. I called the number and asked if Mr. Rothe was there. The receptionist said yes, but that he was in a lunch meeting.
“When do you expect him to be finished?”
“At least an hour, maybe a little longer. Can I ask who’s calling?”
“Thanks. I’ll try again later.”
* * *
Redtail Holding Company occupied the tenth floor of an eleven-story brick building in the center of Reading. There was a historical plaque out front, but I didn’t read it. The lobby was funky, like it had been restored on the cheap. Or maybe it had never been all that nice to begin with.
I got off the elevator on the tenth floor and was greeted by a small woman in her late sixties sitting at a reception desk. She had a sweet face and smart-looking eyes. She reminded me a bit of my mother. Behind her was a wall of pale blue glass, and behind the glass was a seating area with four low angular armchairs and a massive glass coffee table.
“Can I help you?” she asked, friendly but efficient.
“Yes, I’m here to see Mr. Rothe.”
“But you don’t have an appointment.”
“No, I don’t.”
She smiled. “You’re the gentleman who called earlier.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, your luck is good, but I don’t know about your judgment. Mr. Rothe just had several meetings cancelled, but I doubt he’ll see you without an appointment. What is your name?”
“Doyle Carrick.”
“Can I ask the purpose of your visit?”
“Some real estate over in Dunston recently came into my possession, and I understand he has an interest in that area.”
She eyed me for a second, then picked up the phone on her desk and spoke quietly into it. When she put the phone down, her face conveyed nothing.
“You can have a seat, Mr. Carrick.”
The chairs were more comfortable than they looked. After fifteen minutes I was starting to wonder if she had parked me there so Rothe could leave through the back door, but at that moment he appeared down a hallway and strode across the waiting room with his hand extended. He had a friendly face, with the more-than-skin-deep polish of someone who has been in sales from an early age.
“How do you do, Mr. Carrick?” he said.
He gave my hand a hearty shake, and I returned it. “Thanks for seeing me,” I said.
“Come on back to my office,” he said, turning. “I only have a minute. But tell me what I can do for you.”
“I understand you’re planning a development in Dunston?”
“Yes, that’s right. The Village at Mountainside Meadows. But it’s more than a plan at this point. We’re breaking ground in a few weeks.”
“Really?”
He stopped for a moment and looked back at me. “You sound surprised.”
Then he was walking again, cutting a sharp left into a spacious office with a large desk. In the middle of the room were four tables with white, three-dimensional models of houses. The walls of the office were covered with aerial photographs of existing residential developments. Rothe didn’t break stride as he went behind his desk.
I stopped in the middle of the room. “I didn’t realize you had already acquired all the property you needed for that project.”
“Not officially. A lot of it is
still under agreement. But we’ll be closed on it all by the end of the day.”
“Today?”
He nodded, a little smug.
“All of it?”
“All of it we need.”
“What does that mean?”
“Why are you here again, Mr. Carrick?”
“Actually, it’s Detective Carrick.” I paused to let that sink in, but not long enough for him to ask to see my badge, or where I worked, or if I was suspended or anything. “A friend of mine has been pressured to sell her property. She’s being harassed and her property vandalized. I’m going to make sure it stops.”
A few cracks formed in the salesman’s smile. “Ms. Watkins.”
“How did you know?”
“Everyone else sold. So, you’re not really interested in selling a property in Dunston.”
“I might be.”
“Where is it?”
“North of Bayberry. Just east of the Watkins property.”
He shook his head. “Not interested. Sorry, but it’s not contiguous. Although I think you already knew that.”
“That’s too bad. Now, I want you to make sure these bad things stop happening to Ms. Watkins. Now. Before bad things start happening to other people.”
He smiled patronizingly. “Detective Carrick,” he said with emphasis, “we are a respectable development company. We do not engage in those types of activities. We made an offer, Ms. Watkins refused, that’s that. I mean, we never made it a secret to the other townsfolk that holdouts could jeopardize the deal,” he said with a shrug. “But we’ve long since moved past that.”
“What do you mean?”
He smiled. “We game-planned around it, used it as a selling point. We figured it actually made sense to keep more of the farms. It adds to the scenic charm. Frankly, if she changed her mind at this point, I’d probably say no, because it would cost too much to change the plans.”
“And you already control all the land?”
He nodded. “We either own it or we have it under agreement. We’ll own it all by the end of the day. Next month, we’ll start digging, have people moving in before you know it. Shame you didn’t come to me earlier. Don’t worry, though.” He actually winked. “Once the development is finished, your property value will probably double.” He looked at his watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Carrick, I have to get to a closing over in Fleetwood.”
“Thanks,” I said, a little stunned that no one wanted Nola’s property after all.
Rothe grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and pulled it on. When his right hand emerged from the sleeve, it was holding a business card, which he extended in my direction.
“If you’re thinking of trading up into some new construction, though, call me and I’ll make sure you get a great deal at Mountainside Meadows.”
I took the card and by the time it was in my pocket, Rothe was standing next to the door, waiting for me to precede him out.
He closed the door behind me and then passed me down the hall. “Okay, Sara, I’m off to Fleetwood,” he said, striding past the receptionist.
She gave me a nice smile as I walked out after him.
“Okay, Sara,” I said, smiling back. “I’m off to Dunston.”
* * *
Between the shock that Redtail wasn’t interested in Nola’s property and the abruptness of Rothe’s departure, I was halfway home before it occurred to me how strange it was that Rothe expected to get all those real-estate deals done in one day. Even with the parcels consolidated, it was still a dozen sellers. I called to ask him about that, but was sent straight to voice mail. I left a message asking him to call me, and before I could put my phone away, another call came in. It was Moose.
“Doyle?” His voice sounded small and afraid, breaking a bit like he was about to cry. I could hear a lot of noise and commotion in the background.
“Moose? What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“I don’t know. I’m at Squirrel’s place. In the bathroom. The police just showed up.”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s Squirrel.” He let out a sob. “They’re saying he’s dead, and now they’re asking me all these questions.”
“He’s dead? What happened?”
“I don’t know. But I’m scared.”
“Okay, sit tight. I’ll be right there.”
47
When I got to Squirrel’s house, Moose was sitting on the curb out front. His face was pale and wet. Two patrol cars were parked outside, and two uniforms stood by the front steps, looking worse than Moose. I wondered if these were the two “sissies” who had called in sick, Mitchell and Tomkpins, if Pruitt had dragged them in anyway.
Moose stood up unsteadily when he saw me, wiping his nose and making a visible effort to get himself together.
“So what’s going on?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I drove around the usual places a few times, then came back here to see if Squirrel was going to show up.” He was obviously distraught, but I couldn’t tell if that was all. “Then that asshole Pruitt shows up, getting in my face and asking me all these questions. I didn’t know what was going on. Then … then he says Squirrel is dead. And he starts asking me what I had to do with it.”
“How did Squirrel die?”
“I don’t even know. They won’t tell me.”
“Okay, where’s Pruitt? Is he inside?”
He nodded.
“Wait here.”
The two uniforms by the front door were barely old enough to drive. They both looked pale and sweaty. Their badges said Deeley and Ford, and I couldn’t help wondering, if these guys were dragging their butts to work like that, what kind of shape were those sissies Mitchell and Tompkins in. I nodded and walked past them before they could say anything, keeping my distance so as not to breathe in any of whatever they had.
Pruitt was sitting at the kitchen table, his face drawn and his jowls hanging low. His shades were in his shirt pocket. He looked up when I walked in.
“Aw, Jesus Christ, Carrick. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Moose called me.”
“Well, get out of here and take that little scumbag with you.”
“What happened?”
He stood up and came toward me. “I don’t know. Maybe you should ask that little maggot out on the curb.” His voice was loud and sounded like it was getting away from him. “I don’t know what those two have been getting up to, but we found Squirrel under the Stony Creek railroad bridge. Looks like he was walking across and he slipped, but he’s got a fresh needle mark in his arm and puke on his shirt, and I don’t think that helped his footing any. So you tell that blubbering piece of shit out there he can either tell us what he knows, like where Squirrel got the stuff, or just get the hell out of here. And he better watch his goddamn step or I’ll lock his ass up, I mean it. Squirrel was a good kid before he started hanging around with that guy, messing around with all this shit. And if Moose had anything to do with it, I’m going to nail him for it.”
From the look in Pruitt’s eye and the way his lips were quivering, I could tell he was in a dangerous place. It didn’t seem like it would take much for him to snap, screw up both our lives for a long time.
I didn’t say a word, just turned and left. Outside, I paused a moment to collect myself, then trotted down the steps as if everything was cool.
The two uniforms waiting outside looked up at me, and I gave them the same nod as when I went in. “Where’d they take the body?”
The guy on the left looked at me suspiciously.
The guy on the right said, “St. Mark’s.”
I said, “Thanks,” and kept walking.
Moose was sitting on the curb again. He stood up when he saw me.
I walked right up to his face and whispered, “Are you stoned?”
“No!” he replied indignantly, shaking his head.
Up close, I could smell the apple hooch on his breath.
“Are you
drunk?”
“No,” he said, not quite as indignant. “I had a couple of drinks while I was waiting for Squirrel, but—”
“Are you okay to drive?”
He nodded.
“Then go home. I’ll follow you.”
48
I regretted it as soon as I said it. Maybe it was the drinks, maybe it was the grief, maybe it was just Moose being Moose, but I had suspected he would drive like an old lady, and I was right. It seemed like there was an invisible school bus in front of him; he never got above twenty miles an hour, and still he kept tapping his brakes. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought he was deliberately messing with me.
I used the down time to check in with Nola.
“Hi,” she said. Her voice sounded feeble and weak.
“You sound even worse.”
“I feel even worse. Is there any word on what they sprayed on my land?”
“Not yet. Did you ever hear back from Rupp about the corn?”
“No. I don’t think he’s taking it seriously, not that it really matters now.”
“I’m afraid I have some bad news … Squirrel is dead.”
“What?” her voice disappeared briefly into a higher pitch than her throat could handle. “What happened?”
“I don’t know all the details yet, but it looks like an accident. They think he was stoned at the time.”
“Poor Squirrel.”
“Yeah. Moose is pretty broken up about it.”
“I’ll bet … Jesus.” As she said it, she started coughing, a dry, raspy cough that sounded like it hurt.
“That really doesn’t sound good,” I said. “Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“I called my doctor.”
“You did?”
“He said there was something going around.”
“I heard,” I said. “Some kind of flu.”
She let out a small raspy laugh. “This isn’t the flu.”
“Well, there’s definitely something going around. Half the people at the funeral were coughing and Pruitt’s down to conscripting twelve year olds.…”
“It’s not the flu,” she snapped.
She said it with such authority, such finality, that it made me pause. And it made me realize that I kind of knew she was right. I kept wanting to blame the crop duster, only she hadn’t been around for that; I had, and I wasn’t the sick one.
