This habit, however, did make his house easy to separate from its neighbors. Located on a dirt road near the tiny village of Cambridgeport, in Rockingham Township, Dick Allen's residence came after a series of nondescript ranch-styles, tucked demurely among the trees and rolling hills that defined the general neighborhood. But his home was huge, made of logs, with a rusting metal roof, and was clearly the project that would never reach completion. Allen and his family had lived there for over twenty years, and it still looked as though the building contractor had just left for lunch. Tools, machinery, and hard-to-define equipment were scattered about the lawn and dooryard, and a half-built scaffold reached ineffectively up one exterior wall, groping toward a huge hole on the second floor that aspired to be a picture window There was a partially finished deck off to one side, several cars with their hoods up and their engines clutched by tendrils of weeds, and what looked to be an incomplete aboveground pool standing in the back lawn like a wooden boat that had been dropped from a crane with disastrous results.
This was a tinkerer's Valhalla, and from what Joe had heard, Dick Allen only left the place to fetch more supplies and to catch up with friends at the barracks nearby, where he kept current with the latest news.
He came out to the car as Gunther killed the engine, one hand available for a shake, the other predictably filled with a small electric motor.
"Joe, good to see you. I can't believe it's been so long. Not since you jumped ship to become a junior fed."
Gunther laughed. "Ouch—double-damned. I doubt the feds like us any more than the locals."
Allen was leading him toward a large picnic table set up near one of the disemboweled cars under a huge shady maple tree. "That's not what I'm hearing," he said. "Not across the board, anyway. I think you're winning hearts and minds." He added with a smile, "If maybe only one at a time."
They sat opposite one another, and Allen placed the small motor between them like a talisman, explaining as he did, "Jeanie's blender. Thought I'd take a look at it before she threw it out."
"She know that, or did you get it out of the garbage?"
Dick Allen looked hurt. "Busted. So, what's the number two man of the VBI doing way out here on a workday?"
"Looking for advice," Gunther admitted. "Maybe some help. You hear the news about the guy they found hanging from that bridge in Rutland?"
"James Hollowell? Yup. I'm impressed you've kept the lid on Sharon Lapierre this long, though. Pretty devious."
Gunther accepted this small show of bravura. Allen was establishing that he was still within the loop.
"It's not us. That's Rutland PD's doing. Didn't take you long to hear about it, though."
Allen shrugged. "Some people thought I'd find it interesting. I do, too. Is your bureau involved?"
"Not yet, but Reynolds is about to make a statement that'll throw us right into the middle."
"Without an invitation?"
"Would you have asked us in?"
Allen thought about that for a moment. "Maybe, depending on what you had to offer and on how tough the case looked. I don't have the details on this one yet—only the rumor mill headlines. But to be honest, that's just old broad-minded me. I think you're right, otherwise—there's still too much pride out there to ask for help from the likes of you guys, especially early on. Which I guess means you're about to land on a bunch of toes."
Gunther appreciated his old friend's canniness. It spared him having to be subtle about the truth. "I hate this, Dick. Our charter says we can initiate investigations, but this doesn't even qualify. It's flat-out party crashing and I can only see it coming back at us. I was telling Allard the only way I see getting any cover is if we're somehow seen as an asset, like you said. What have you heard about this case?"
"That Hollowell didn't commit suicide, that he was probably murdered where they found Sharon Lapierre, and that whoever snuffed the one probably did in the other. Nobody's told you this yet?"
"I haven't asked. I didn't want to be seen sniffing around. They're saying Lapierre was overdosed by force? How was Hollowell killed?"
"He was whacked on the head. And despite the deal with the tourniquet and the syringe, Lapierre didn't even have a fresh needle mark, so they probably killed her some other way, too."
Gunther was surprised, given what Bill Allard had told him about the girl. So much for Allen having heard only rumors. "Both the hanging and the overdose were staged? Why?"
"Beats me. I guess I should say beats them, since I'm just a fly on the wall and forensics is still doing their thing. But a wild guess would be to make a statement to someone who understands the body language, so to speak."
"And who's making the statement?" Gunther asked.
Allen picked up the motor and spun the central shaft between his fingertips, as if he were launching a whirligig. "That, I haven't heard. Don't think they've dug that deep yet. Does sound like someone rippling his muscles to make an impression, though, which isn't the norm for either the place or the drug trade in general, at least the way it's usually practiced up here."
"I was told there were underground rumblings that the Rutland scene might be getting organized. You think that connects to Holyoke somehow?"
Allen pressed his lips together thoughtfully. "I heard there's been an increase in traffic, and certainly Holyoke's the number one supplier, next to Hudson Falls, New York. Plus, the police chief down there is putting on a serious squeeze, trying to push the drug business out of his jurisdiction. He was quoted the other day as saying, 'I don't care what city they go to as long as it isn't Holyoke.' So, maybe somebody is getting something going. I've always wondered why no one's thought of that before. All these losers driving into Vermont to quadruple their money just so they can put the profit up their nose. It would seem that anyone with any sense would see the advantage of keeping clean and getting rich, fire-breathing police chief or not. It's a no-brainer."
"But you haven't actually heard they're doing that," Gunther stated.
"Nope. Does raise an interesting angle, though. One that could play to your advantage—and to the boys who don't think you're worth much right now. The Southern Vermont Drug Task Force is people-poor and overworked at the moment. They communicate well with the Holyoke PD, but basically they're country cousins begging for favors—they don't have anyone on the ground working solely for them. Your outfit would be a real asset there, especially if you're right about a Holyoke link. In a lot of these things, where the same people have been working the same problem forever, sometimes the addition of one small advantage can make the difference. Even with their prejudice, the task force will value that. Could be key, if you mind your manners."
Joe mulled that over, weighing the possibilities. "It would give us something to trade, and I already asked Allard to tell the governor not to single us out when he makes his announcement so we don't come off as a bunch of gold diggers."
"Extra money wouldn't hurt, speaking of that," Dick Allen suggested. "Coming in bearing gifts is always a safe bet." Allen smiled and shook his head. "Jesus, I can't believe I'm helping you do this."
"Why are you?"
He thought about that for a moment. "Because it's time. The majority of your guys used to work for us. They moved over because there was a chance for advancement and experience. Maybe they were right and maybe not, but it would be nice if they got a shot at it. Don't get me wrong, I still think the Vermont State Police is the best we have, and I was pretty unhappy when the VBI showed up. But the VSP can be a little hidebound and frustrating, and sometimes gets a little full of itself. And, hell, you know? Nothing lasts forever—even New Hampshire's Old Man of the Mountain finally fell off his perch—and I've seen the benefits for other states that went with an investigation bureau. Could be we're due for a change, whether we like it or not."
"That's pretty generous, Dick."
Allen tilted his head and turned devil's advocate. "Okay, but it's from a dog with no teeth. You might want to consider that handing out
money like a miserly rich uncle could backfire in the winning-friends department."
Gunther shook his head with frustration. "I know it. I just don't know what else to do. I don't want us to be the ones bringing gifts to the party just to be shut out right after we sit down. We'll earn whatever respect we get, but we have to be able to participate."
Allen straightened slightly and gave Gunther an appraising look. "You said at the top that you wanted advice and maybe some help. I take it this is the help part. You want me to put in a good word?"
Gunther leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the table before him. "Dick, we've known each other a long time, worked cases together. I'm asking you to do whatever you think is right. Of all the people who've been watching the VBI, I figure you're one of the few who really understand what we're trying to do. Sure as hell, when I think back to past conversations, you and I were pretty consistent about how we would all benefit from a lot less rivalry."
But Allen already had both hands up in mock surrender. "I hear you, Joe. Keep in mind, though, that my influence has been greatly exaggerated and barely exists among the younger generation." He got to his feet as Gunther was doing, and took up the small motor in the palm of his hand—a man only truly at ease when holding something mechanical.
They walked together toward Joe's car as Dick Allen added, "But I will keep an eye out and do what I can."
That couldn't hurt, Joe thought as he drove back down the dirt road. He didn't underestimate for a moment the true value of Allen's influence. What rankled him still, however, was that he was having to do this in the first place. As valuable as he truly believed his agency to be, he hated that it was being treated as a political pawn, and imperiled in the process.
His longing for credibility wasn't just so others would see the VBI as something of value. It was also so that its members could be awarded the respect they'd worked so hard to acquire.
In this world of self-interest at the cost of almost everything else, where the invocation of the "good old days" was too often a veil to hide inefficiency and blind chauvinism, this debate about creating a better law enforcement model had become an issue with Joe—something he hoped he could see taking root by the time he retired.
Except that like an aging knight of some idealized but mythological Round Table, he was growing both wary and weary of the ceaseless assaults of close-minded and manipulative selfishness.
* * *
Back in Springfield, on Summer Street, Lester Spinney gently closed the door to his car, as he did on surveillance when he didn't want to attract attention. Except that this time he was in his own garage, in the middle of the afternoon.
He walked through the door connecting the garage to the kitchen and stood there for a while, listening. Susan was at work, Dave at his part-time summer job, Wendy was spending a couple of days at a friend's house in Chester. The house was totally empty It suddenly occurred to him that he might never have experienced this before—being the only one here. When they'd bought the place ten years ago, they were already a family, and despite some routine comments from him about never having a moment alone, he had never seriously pursued it. Now that he had, and without telling a soul, it made him feel devious and underhanded.
He'd taken a detour from work, driving from a court appearance in White River back to Brattleboro, taking advantage of the opportunity to do something he hated to do.
Slowly, walking so his heels didn't strike the floor with any sound, Lester left the kitchen, crossed the living room, and headed toward the staircase leading upstairs. He imagined this was what it felt like to burgle someone's house, being attuned to every sound, and especially to the off chance that somebody might walk in. The fact that he knew every inch of the place, however, and could connect a dozen memories to every item in it tainted the fantasy and only increased his discomfort.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor and turned left, passing by Wendy's open door on his way to the end of the hall. He paused to glance in on her bedroom, as he'd done so often following a late night assignment when he'd missed dinner yet again—not to check on her so much as to simply listen to her breathing and take solace in her peacefulness, her barely discernible shape just visible under the covers in the night light's feeble glow.
This time the room appeared oddly disarrayed, missing its crucial element, its dolls, books, clothes, and posters merely support players on an otherwise empty stage. As with the house, Lester realized he'd never seen this room looking so utterly abandoned.
He continued to the end of the hall and the closed door barring his progress. It was covered with bumper stickers and pictures cut from snowboarding and car magazines, along with a No Trespassing sign to which the owner had added in red letters, "This means you."
This was David's room, where the door was always closed. Lester took the knob in his hand, twisted it, and pushed the door back on its hinges.
He hesitated at the threshold, as he might at the edge of a cliff, before stepping inside—a cop about to conduct an illegal search. A father about to start wrestling with an obsession.
* * *
Sammie Martens looked up from her desk as Gail Zigman entered the office. "Hey you looking for Joe? He's not here. Sorry."
Gail opened her mouth to respond when the phone rang. Sam held up an index finger in apology before answering it and launching into an arcane procedural discussion Gail paid no attention to. Instead, she wandered around the small office like a visitor to an office-life exhibition.
In fact, she was a semiregular here, to the point where Judy, the secretary in the tiny entryway they all pretended was a reception area, knew to let her through whenever she dropped by.
She enjoyed this office. Unlike most such places, with divider panels, cramped work nooks, a kitchenette, an interview room, this was all there was: four walls, four desks, the usual paperwork decorating the walls, and some standard office equipment. Bare bones. Joe's desk was no different in style from that of the newest member, Lester Spinney, who had come to VBI via the state police and AG's office, instead of the police department downstairs, as had the other three. It was, she thought, the way an investigative squad should be laid out, and probably a good many other offices as well—fewer places to hide or provide opportunities for envy and resentment.
Of course, she knew that none of this had been by choice. For the VBI, it was purely a matter of economics. Most cops saw this kind of arrangement as mostly a pain in the ass. Cops like their privacy, which is why, when they are forced to set things up in this fashion, they usually place their desks so they don't face one another.
Here each occupant sat in a corner, looking out, which struck Gail as interesting for its implied double message—they did face each other this way, true enough, but only from behind a barrier. It seemed a perfect encapsulation of the sometimes contrary emotions that made a good unit work.
Waiting for Sam to get off the phone, Gail reflected on how each desk spoke of its occupant: Sammie Martens, hers a frantically arranged landing zone for reports, directories, forms, faxes, notebooks, scattered pens and pencils, and a computer that looked threatened by it all; Lester Spinney, his desk supporting some official detritus, but mostly dominated by family photos, children's drawings, an NFL coffee mug, and a scrawny winged animal hanging from the ceiling with a sign around its neck labeling it the Spinneybird, a credit to its owner's cranelike physique; and Gail's own Joe Gunther, the one she knew best, his desk almost bare—one closed file folder, a worn pad used for taking notes while on the phone, a mug from her full of pens, a rarely used computer, and an assortment of odds and ends lined up like mystic icons. Among these latter were a smooth and weathered metal tapping spout used for maple-sugaring, a memory of his late father; a matchbox car from the fifties, the era from which his brother collected cars for real; and a uniform button from Joe's time in combat—a memento as simple in appearance as it was complex in meaning.
That accounted for three of the four desks. T
he last one was in the far corner, away from the door and the single row of windows, placed catty-corner so its owner could watch all aspects of the room, even though it made reaching the chair difficult. Its surface was littered with catalogs and magazines, some clearly unread paperwork. It was messy in appearance and looked neglected overall, as if its owner didn't visit often and, when he did, didn't attend to office work. That much was certainly true, since it belonged to Willy Kunkle, the one member of Gunther's team Gail could barely tolerate. To her, Kunkle represented all that was bad about law enforcement. She thought him an insensitive, prejudiced bully, quick to condemn, impossible to debate, and flat out rude to boot. A boor, in the fullest meaning of the word.
And he was there because Joe had all but moved the earth to get him there, seeing qualities in the man Gail had never glimpsed. The fact that he was also Sammie Martens's boyfriend—which to Gail ranked among the craziest of notions—did make, she conceded, for a typically human contrariness she couldn't help but applaud.
She was still staring at Willy's desk when Sam's voice asked from behind her, "You okay?"
She turned and sat on the edge of Joe's desk. "No," she admitted. "I just came from Laurie Davis's apartment. There was a strange man there."
Sam stared at her blankly for a moment. "Right," she finally said, "the shooting from last night. Sorry. It's not our case, so I guess I zoned out. What were you doing there?"
"She's my niece."
Sam's brows furrowed. "Ouch. Too bad."
Gail stared at her. No "I'm sorry to hear it" or "Gee, tough break." That was it: "Too bad." It was the kind of reaction Gail imagined Sam had worked long and hard to make instinctive—a tough guy's response. One of the boys.
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