The Company She Kept

by Archer Mayor

  Kinnison hesitated.

  “About which I couldn’t care less,” Sam told her. “Keep going. You got hold of your source?”

  “Not really,” she answered slowly. “I don’t smoke marijuana—never have. I had to find somebody else—sort of a friend-of-a-friend thing.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, that was it. I found the source, Susan gave me money, and I bought it for her.”

  Sam settled back into her chair, her prayers of the past twenty-four hours answered. Whether it ended up having anything to do with Raffner’s death or not, at least she was getting some traction. “From the top, Maggie. Who was the source? How much money changed hands? Where did it happen? Don’t leave anything out.”

  Maggie’s face creased with anxiety. “I don’t know names. I only know my guy.”

  “What’s his name?” Sam almost shouted. “For Christ’s sake, Maggie. Get your head in the game. This is a murder investigation. We don’t give a shit about you unless you start ticking me off. Then I’ll cut you down like grass in front of a lawn mower. Is that clear enough for you?”

  There was a knock at the door and a young woman poked her head in. She opened her mouth to say something, but Sam interrupted her with, “Get out. Police business.”

  The door shut.

  “Talk,” she ordered.

  By now, Kinnison was sitting back in her chair, her hands in her lap, openly crying. “His name is Brandon Younger. He lives in Hartford, Vermont. But he gave me the number of somebody in Rutland. It was a TracFone, though, so the number’s long gone, and I never was given a name. I called it, said I had a thousand dollars for the best weed he had, preferably Canadian hydro—which is what Susan had asked for—and could we meet up? He said sure, and that’s what I did.”

  “Alone, or with Susan?”

  She shook her head. “No. That was the whole point. Susan didn’t want to take the risk, now that she was a senator. I was to be her buffer. That’s what she called it. And she paid me, too.”

  “How much?”

  “Three hundred dollars.”

  “Okay, so you go to Rutland and meet this guy. Where? What were the details?”

  “I think it was South Street, but I’m not sure. An area they call the Gut. I was told to drive slowly, until I saw a boy wearing a top hat, and then I was to pull over and park. It was night, a little scary, and that part of the block was really dark, as if on purpose. I rolled the window down and stayed in the car, like I was told. That’s when some man came up from behind, like cops do when they pull you over, and we did the sale—the money for a really big bag of grass. After that, he disappeared and I drove away. That’s all there was to it.”

  “What did you see of him?”

  “Nothing. His belt buckle. It had the word ‘Indian’ written on an Indian’s war bonnet, like in profile.”

  “He was alone? What happened to the kid?”

  “I never saw him again. But there was somebody behind the man with the belt buckle, in the dark. I could just see his outline, but that was all.”

  “What was said?”

  “Not much,” Kinnison said, calmer now. “Belt Buckle asked if I had the money. I asked if he had the dope, and we made the exchange.”

  “That was it?”

  Maggie thought back. “The man behind Belt Buckle told him to make sure it was all there, and Belt Buckle got angry and said that he had it.”

  “What did he say—specifically?”

  “‘Fuck, Stuey, I got it, okay?’ I think that was it.”

  Sammie felt the blood drain from her face. “He called him Stuey? You’re sure?”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  Sam pretended to check the recorder, making sure it was still running, while actually processing what she’d just heard. That decade ago, when she felt she’d so badly dropped the ball going undercover in Rutland, the man who’d come close to killing her after recognizing her as a cop had been Allan Steward Nichols, always called Stuey. Only Willy’s timely arrival had saved her life.

  “Do you think you’d recognize Stuey’s voice if you heard it again?”

  But Kinnison shook her head. “I barely heard it then, and I never really saw him. He was just a shadow.”

  “No problem,” Sam reassured her. “So you drove out and delivered the bag to Susan. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, but she got really upset with me a day later. She told me that I’d been ripped off and that what I’d bought was garbage. That was the word she used.” Kinnison’s voice rose into a whine. “I told her from the start I didn’t know anything about weed. How was I supposed to know if it was any good? Plus, it was all wrapped up. Did she really want me to sample the stuff? She would’ve yelled at me for that, then.”

  “I hear you, Maggie,” Sammie soothed her. “She put you between a rock and a hard place. What happened after she confronted you?”

  “Nothing, as far as I know. She asked me what you just did, for names and places and the rest, but I forgot the Stuey part ’cause she was so mad, and that was it. I said I was sorry a few more times, till she made it clear that it was a closed subject and that I was never to mention it again. That’s when I really got the feeling that my job here was sort of hanging by a thread.”

  “She threatened you?”

  “No. But I could tell she stayed pissed off. She was much cooler to me from then on. And she took her pager back.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  Kinnison thought for a moment before stating, “A week? Maybe less.”

  Sam let some thirty seconds elapse while she reflected on what she’d gathered. She then had Maggie swear to the truthfulness of her statement before ending the recording, told her to stay available for further conversation, and let her leave.

  After the door closed once more, however, Sammie remained seated, caught up in a swirl of emotions.

  In terms of facts, all she had was corroboration of something they already knew: Susan Raffner had been in possession of illegally purchased marijuana. Sam had now learned how that had come about, but it still didn’t connect to Raffner’s murder. Raffner hadn’t been at the point of sale, hadn’t known the seller, and hadn’t been given Stuey’s name afterward. According to Margaret Kinnison, she’d merely been angered by the transaction’s outcome, and then had dropped the matter.

  Which left Sam in a private quandary.

  She could report what she’d learned—as immaterial as it seemed—and fold it into the overall investigation, where everyone else would then learn about Stuey Nichols’s resurfacing in such a coincidental fashion.

  Or she could hold off on the revelation and spend some personal time checking into what more might be hovering just out of sight.

  Nichols could well be clear of anything related to Raffner, but he was obviously back to dealing drugs—if via a surrogate. And—she rationalized—despite the magnitude of this homicide investigation, it did not preclude other cases from being pursued. That was part of any cop’s job description. Thus, went her thinking, she wouldn’t be emulating Willy by going solo on this—she was simply being thorough.

  She might even bring Willy into it. That way, she wouldn’t actually be keeping Stuey to herself—or the baggage he represented.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Gail looked up from the stack of papers she’d been pretending to read. Alice Drim was standing in the doorway, more paperwork in her hands.

  “What is it?” Gail asked.

  Alice smiled sadly. “You look wiped, Governor.”

  Gail shrugged. “Yeah. Well…” She indicated the pages Alice was carrying. “That for me?”

  Alice approached and laid the pile on the desk between them. “Just for signing. They’ve all been checked and double-checked. Most of them are thank-yous for contributions.”

  “How’re we doing there?” Gail asked. “The war chest getting close to deserving the name?”

  Alice’s face cleared. “Oh, Lord, yes. We already have o
ver a million in the till. Your handling of Tropical Storm Irene was right up there with putting a printing press in the basement.”

  “Even with the lesbian fallout?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Alice conceded. “Even with. A lot of people are behind you on that.”

  Gail nodded thankfully. “Thanks. I know you weren’t so sure about it yourself.”

  Alice pursed her lips thoughtfully before responding. “I don’t have your courage. You keep doing amazing things, and even though they don’t always work out, I think people respect your willingness to try.”

  She stared at the floor for a moment, as if struggling with how to broach a new topic.

  “What?” Gail asked.

  Alice looked embarrassed. “It sounds stupid. But out in the front office, we heard that Ellen DeGeneres’s people had called about an interview. I guess somebody heard Kayla talking on the phone. Are you going to say yes?”

  Gail laughed despite her weariness and grief. “You think I should?”

  The young woman’s face opened up. “Absolutely. Are you kidding? I mean, selfishly, as your reelection coordinator, I strongly recommend it—the money’ll start really pouring in if you do. But it’s also just awesome. Ellen DeGeneres? That would be so amazing.”

  Surprisingly charmed by Alice’s eager naivete, Gail shook her head. “Okay. I’ll give it serious consideration. You hear what Rob has to say about it?”

  “I think he’s pretty psyched, but he’ll tell you himself. And he’ll probably try to make it as boring as he can. You know him. But don’t let him fool you. I mean, what’s the downside?”

  “What, indeed?” Gail agreed, adding after a pause, “How’re you doing, Alice? I heard you’ve been having a hard time.”

  The young woman shrugged. “No secrets in this office, right?” She hesitated before admitting, “I have a brother in the hospital. We think he’ll be okay, but only time’ll tell. Not like Kayla’s grandmother, though. She died. Did you hear that?”

  Gail shook her head, forced to consider all the lives around her, so often taken for granted, but each burdened with its own troubles and heartache. “No. I’m sorry to hear it. Thanks for telling me. I’ll be sure to ask her how she’s doing.”

  Alice walked to the door, flashing a sudden smile before leaving. “Sure. Don’t forget about Ellen. I hope I get to meet her.”

  * * *

  Willy groaned. “Stuey’s back? Proof there’s no God.”

  Sam passed him a piece of the pizza she’d brought home from her field trip north. “I considered not telling you.”

  “Really? Just because I almost killed him last time? How long you think I bear a grudge?”

  She answered by laughing with her mouth full.

  He smiled back. “Point taken.” He took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “How’d you find out?”

  “He had something to do with selling Susan Raffner that crappy grass,” she explained, before giving him details of her interview with Maggie Kinnison—and of the conversation she’d had with Chris Hartley before then.

  He didn’t interrupt, or do more than work his way through a second slice. After she’d concluded, however, he adjusted Emma’s pacifier—she was sitting in her carrier, on the table, watching them intently—and sat back.

  “What’re you looking for?” he asked.

  She placed her own unfinished wedge on the plate before her. “Looking for?”

  He chided her gently. “I know you, Sam. You’re working an angle. You want to tie Stuey into this?”

  “Isn’t he already there?”

  “No more than the guy who filled her gas tank that morning.”

  She was struck by the pure logic of the comment, and with the fact that he’d been the one to make it.

  “You don’t want a piece of this creep?” she asked.

  He then gave her the look to which she was all too accustomed—and which, this time, she’d been so fervently hoping he’d deliver. “I didn’t say that.”

  * * *

  “Anything?” Joe asked.

  Lester looked up from peering inside a box on the table before him. The basement room they were in was filled with similar containers—piled five deep in some cases—all brought in from Susan Raffner’s Brattleboro home, and all being pawed through laboriously by a half-dozen weary VBI investigators. Joe had just descended three flights from his office to see how they were doing. Earlier, he’d phoned Parker and Perry in Waterbury with the same question, since they were doing roughly the same thing with the contents of Susan’s apartment in Montpelier.

  There were also several computers open and running, so that they could pore over what had been collected from her electronic devices.

  Joe raised his own much smaller—but, he hoped, more appreciated—box into the air. “Doughnuts,” he announced to a generalized if feeble cheer. “I tried to make them as unhealthy as I could.”

  He placed them on a counter running the length of one wall and stepped aside to chat with Lester, whom he knew wouldn’t indulge.

  “The tough part with all this,” Lester was saying, waving a hand at the room and its contents, “is that there could be a hundred potential killers lurking behind the reports, letters, e-mails, memos, and everything else we’re digging out.”

  He pointed at the ten-foot whiteboard hanging on the opposite wall. “We’re logging each of them in, cross-indexing names and organizations, assigning threat levels as we go. But it’s starting to numb the brain and make me think it’s all basically canceling itself out.”

  “How so?”

  “She picked a fight with everybody,” Lester exclaimed, his frustration peaking. A couple of people near the doughnut box laughed and one of them chimed in, “A total pain in the ass.”

  “But no one who stands out.”

  Lester perched his long, skinny frame on the edge of the nearest table, which still left him virtually eye-to-eye with Joe. “Nobody who says, ‘That does it, bitch. You’re toast.’ But like I said, that doesn’t mean somebody in this mess didn’t finally snap and want her dead.”

  Lester pointed toward the exit. “How ’bout in the field? Anyone getting a good interview somewhere? What’s the weather like, anyhow?”

  It was in fact a spectacular day—sunny bright, with a cobalt blue sky, making a fresh overnight snowfall dazzle the eye. “It’s okay,” Joe reported instead. “But there’s no joy anywhere in Mudville. The local cops in Montpelier and Bratt are helping out, along with the troopers. So we’ve got, grand total, anywhere up to twenty-five people working this from all angles. But still, like here, we’re only getting a picture of a woman who worked nonstop to right every wrong she could find.”

  “Whether it was a wrong or not,” Lester added.

  Joe smiled. “There is that. She was opinionated, if nothing else.”

  The phone in his pocket began vibrating, and he took it out to read its screen. It was David Hawke, the crime lab’s director.

  “Speak of the devil,” he told Lester. “This, I’ll take.” He stepped out into the hallway for more quiet.

  “David,” he then said, looking around to make sure he was alone in the gloomy municipal building’s virtual crypt of a basement—usually a safe bet.

  “Considering how you guys have been bugging us up here,” Hawke said, “I thought I’d give you a sneak peek at something we just found, before I send out official notifications.”

  “I am sorry about that, David. This thing is driving us nuts. What’ve you got?”

  “As you know, along with all the other junk that’s been dumped on us, we ended up with Susan Raffner’s vehicle.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, we’ve started going through it, and I thought you should know that we found a fingernail in the rearmost storage area—behind the wire dog partition. The DNA says it’s hers.”

  “The right index,” Joe guessed, recalling the autopsy.

  “Yup, along with the smallest hint of blood, implyin
g a violent and painful removal.”

  “Where was it—specifically?”

  “You might ask,” David reacted approvingly. “I did, too. It was wedged in between the bottom edge of the rear hatch and the hinged floor cover, as if someone had been trying to access the lock release.”

  “Trying to get out, you mean?”

  “Indirectly. It’s a little tough to explain without the car, but both the Prius’s toolbox and mechanical door release are tucked in under a trapdoor in that rear floor. Nice idea, making everything neat and tidy, and maybe even accessible to an athletic leprechaun who’s crawling into the back from the inside after dropping down the car’s rear seats. But not so easy if you’ve been dumped on top of the very trapdoor you’re trying to pry open. Plus, that wire partition was professionally mounted. It’s solid. From the hair samples we gathered, I’d say she had a Corgi. Does that fit?”

  “Yes,” Joe told him. “She loved that mutt. Yapped constantly. One of her friends has him now, from what I heard.”

  “Well, anyhow,” Hawke resumed, being thorough, “none of this absolutely indicates that she was reaching for the release catch. She might’ve also been going for Toyota’s version of a tire iron, or maybe she just caught her nail at a different time for some unrelated and completely innocent reason—although the freshness of the nail fragment implies otherwise.”

  “What you’re saying,” Joe suggested, “is that it’s consistent with someone having tossed her into the back of her own car—basically into a cage.”

  “It is.”

  Joe let the image sink in for a second. “You still working on the rest of it?”

  “You know we are.”

  “Thank you, David.”

  Joe could almost hear the smile over the phone. “You’re welcome, Joseph.”

  “Oh. Wait. David?” Joe suddenly said.

  “What?”

  “You said we’d been bugging you about results. That’s not supposed to be happening. Who’s been on your case?”

  “Nah,” the director conceded dismissively, “I wasn’t complaining. I know how something like this gets everyone’s engine revving. No big deal.”