"Who was he?"
"Roger Novelle. Meant nothing to me, but Willy knew him. Local bad boy. He was dealing heroin when he was shot."
Gail stared into the darkness of her bedroom for a few seconds before asking, "He was Laurie's supplier?"
"We don't know yet. Sam's talking with Tony Brandt, and VSP is doing the shoot investigation. Right now everyone's playing connect-the-dots. I wouldn't be surprised, though."
Gail laid her head back against the pillow, her expression implying that she'd come to some sort of decision. "Thanks, Joe. And thanks for coming by."
He hesitated and then stood up, hearing the dismissal in her tone. He was anxious about what he'd just witnessed, and a little irritated at being shut out. The only saving grace, if it even qualified, was that he thought she might know less about what was going on inside her than he did.
For the moment, though, he would let things lie. He leaned over, kissed her, and retreated through the dark, empty house the same way he'd arrived.
* * *
Sammie Martens turned on the car's dome light and checked her makeup in the rearview mirror. She hadn't worn the stuff since the last time she'd been undercover, at Tucker Peak, and harbored a neophyte's insecurity about how long, or even if, it would stay put. Not that she was slathered with it—just some eye shadow, a little mascara, a touch of blush, and, of course, lipstick—but it still felt like she was wearing clown paint. She then twisted the mirror to see her hair. That, she was more comfortable with—a simple blond dye job—even if the effect still startled her.
She switched off the light, drove the last eighth of a mile down the road, pulled into the driveway, and cut the engine.
She was beyond Guilford, south of Brattleboro, near the Massachusetts border, parked in front of a historical memento even her parents would have found quaint. It was an old-fashioned, 1930s motor court, the kind that mushroomed all over the country with the new rage of the affordable automobile. A string of separate wooden cabins, now swaybacked, peeling, and looking as if the earth were about to reabsorb them, still reflected the culture of their time, when people in their black Fords pulled off after a grueling day's drive up from the city and set up in their homes-away-from-home, complete with barbecue pits, glider swings, fireplaces for those chilly evenings, and individual front porches from which to socialize with the neighbors.
Once well tended and tidy, the grounds of this place had been left to disintegrate, helped along by a scraggly line of rusting eighteen-wheeler boxes standing guard alongside the road, partially blocking the view and the remnants of the long-dead neon sign advertising the place. Weeds choked what had probably been a neat lawn and colorful flower gardens, and all that was left of the curved gravel driveway was a rutted dirt trail, lumpy with tree roots and rocks, that ran ill defined before the row of cabins.
Sam got out of her car and pulled her tight sweater down over her hips, feeling constrained in a pair of stretch jeans two sizes too small. She'd felt less uncomfortable in a flak jacket, combat boots, and a forty-pound pack.
She surveyed the string of buildings fanned out before her. Once identical to one another as motel units, they'd been remodeled here and there as detached rental apartments, some with extra bedroom wings, others with a carport. A few had been destroyed altogether, leaving a jarring gap in the row, like a broken tooth. In all cases, they amounted to as cheap a form of housing as she knew—a north country version of tar paper shacks, meaning they had to at least hold up under a snow load.
Despite the late hour, she wasn't surprised to see some lights on. The place was no magnet for the nine-to-five crowd.
She walked slowly, fearful that she might twist her ankle wearing high-heeled boots. Not naturally statuesque, she'd had to compensate beyond the makeup and the clothes with a little padding in the appropriate places, making her feel like the Michelin Man on stilts.
About half way down the row, she found the number she was looking for and stood quietly for a moment, taking her bearings.
The old porch to this unit had been dismantled, so access to the crooked front door was an uneven stack of cinder blocks. From what she could see through the uncurtained windows, the door led directly into a kitchen, with what looked like a bathroom in the back. On the left was a small bedroom. All the lights were on and she could hear faint music leaking out onto the grass.
She stepped closer to the bedroom window after checking around for any movement from the neighbors. Inside, stretched out on a disheveled bed, was an unshaven man in his underwear, his head propped up on pillows, his face bathed in the ethereal glow of a TV set Sam couldn't see.
She studied his expression for several minutes, trying to gauge his frame of mind, before moving to the front door and quietly knocking on it.
She had to do this several times before a male voice finally called out, "Who's there?"
"It's Greta, Bill. From Tucker Peak. Last winter."
She heard him stumbling to get up, bouncing against the wall as he hurried to get his pants on. As she'd told Joe earlier, Bill Dancer had done everything he could in his very limited repertory to get her into bed when she'd been pretending to be a ski instructor and he'd been a grease-smeared mechanic. She had no doubts whatsoever about what fantasies had electrified his mind at the sound of her name.
In fact, when he finally tore open the door, she noted he'd put on a clean shirt, still creased at the fold lines, and was chewing a breath mint of inordinate strength.
"Greta Novak, my god. What a surprise. I mean, wow. I never thought I'd see you again."
"Which means you're going to let me stand out here all night?"
He leapt backward, making room, and almost fell over a chair pushed up against the wall behind him. "Oh, shit. No, come on in. Damn, you look really good."
She felt like crouching so she could replace her padded breasts with her face in his line of sight, except that he was already looking lower, smiling like a poleaxed cow.
"God," he murmured again as she swept past him into the tiny kitchen.
"So you said," she answered, looking around.
He followed her glance and immediately started to move things around on the cluttered counter near the sink, which was itself stuffed with dirty dishes. "I'm sorry about the mess. I don't entertain much. I wish I'd known you were coming. I would've cleaned up a little."
"Don't worry about it," she said. "I'm not staying long."
He stopped in midmotion, as if that were one surprise too many—a stunning disappointment he tried to cover with a show of hospitality. "Well, sure, would you like something to drink? I got beer, some Scotch, if you'd like." He dove at a sorry-looking armchair and cleared it of some clothes. "Have a seat, too. Take a load off."
He added a small one-liner to test the waters, always the smooth talker. "Not that your load isn't totally perfect."
Sam chose the least dangerous of his libations as she settled down, crossing her legs with a flourish and rubbing one hand along her thigh. "Give me a beer."
He opened the undersized, rusty fridge and extracted a six-pack. He tore two off and handed her one, which she merely stared at. "You wash the lid on that?"
He stared at her for a split second, as if interpreting a foreign language. "Oh, right," he then said, and made for the crowded sink. He wedged the can under the faucet, rattling the stack of dishes, scrubbed the top energetically, dried it with a quick swipe against his shirtfront, and tried handing it to her again.
She even took some pity on him at that point, accepting the can. "You just never know where these have been."
He perched on the edge of a barstool, his own beer forgotten on the counter beside him. "Greta Novak. At my house. Unbelievable. I didn't even know you lived around here. I thought you were from Europe or someplace."
Sam took a swig of beer. "Yeah, right."
"No, no. I mean it. You have to admit, the name sounds foreign."
"I don't even have an accent, Bill. And the name's made
up. I changed it so I could sell myself better."
He laughed nervously, still amazed this was happening.
"Holy shit, you hardly need that. Don't you know what you look like? I mean, Christ, you're . . ." But his voice died off as she gave him a hard look.
"Sorry," he continued in an abashed tone. "But you're a fox."
She frowned. "Don't fuck with me, Bill. We both know what I'm talking about. Getting ahead means a shit-load more than getting laid, and you can't get ahead on looks alone."
He looked confused. "Right."
"You need an edge, an angle, you know? Something they can remember about you besides a nice ass."
"Like a catchy name," he suggested, clearly groping.
She paused to let him soak up her condescending roll of the eyes. When she resumed, however, she didn't elaborate but moved the conversation along. "That's a start. But there's an attitude, too. You have to show people you're a winner."
Sam purposefully let a drop of beer fall from the can to her sweater, and made a small show of stroking her breast, ostensibly to wipe the moisture off. His eyes followed the action longingly.
"Which is what brings me here tonight," she added, drawing his attention by waving her hand where he could see it.
He flushed and self-consciously stared her straight in the eye.
"I need your help, Bill."
"Sure. Anything."
"Remember when we worked together on the mountain? All the dope that was floating around?"
He smiled. "Oh, yeah. Lots of good shit."
"Right," she agreed, "and lots of money being made, too, but not by you or me."
Again, he gave her a blank look.
"Come on. That's what I'm talking about, Bill. Turning the tables. People like us doing dope, getting nowhere fast. Time to play the other side."
She could almost see him pull back. "I don't know, Greta. I run some stuff—"
"I'm not talking running, stupid," she cut him off. "I'm talking dealing."
"Oh, shit. That can get dangerous."
Sam stood up quickly and took a step toward the front door. "Yeah, you're right. I'll go find someone else. I was just looking for a name, like a reference, but hey—no sweat."
To her disappointment all he did was hang his head and say, "I'm sorry I wish I could help."
Her hand rested on the doorknob. But that was it. He seemed crestfallen. She switched tactics.
Leaving the door, she crossed over to him, fitting herself between his splayed-out knees as he sat on the barstool. "Am I moving too fast?"
He looked up at her, not sure what to do with his hands, which from their resting place on his knees were almost touching her waist. He swallowed. "You've been here five minutes. It's hard to get used to."
Her fingertips brushed against his upper thighs. Her face was inches away from his, making her grateful he'd taken that breath mint. "I'm sorry, Bill. You know what it's like when you've been waiting for something a long, long time, so that when it finally arrives, you can barely control yourself?"
"Sure."
Sam dropped her voice to a near whisper. "It's like sex. The person you've been after is right where you want them at last. They're spread out, clothes off, can't wait to get it on, but waiting is the one thing you can't do. You're too worked up. The moment of a lifetime is ruined."
Her fingers dug into his legs. She leaned forward so that their noses brushed and their lips almost touched. "Ever had that feeling?"
His forehead was beaded with sweat. With agonizing slowness, his hands slid off his knees and just barely touched her hips.
She slipped free of his legs, ostensibly to retrieve her beer from the arm of her chair and take a swig.
He could barely breathe, much less respond.
"Well," she resumed, "that's what this is like for me. I can't wait to get laid, but instead of a guy, I'm talking money I want to get rich so bad, I can taste it."
"What can I do?" he just managed, his throat constricted.
"A name, Bill. I want to find out how it works, learn the ropes, you know? Be an apprentice or something. Maybe Holyoke'll have the person I'm after." She crossed the tiny room and put her hand back on the doorknob.
Out of the mess of mixed messages she'd thrown him, he latched onto the one key word. "I know people in Holyoke."
She moved back toward him, but not as closely as before. "You're kidding. See? I knew I was right to come here. You think I could meet them?"
Dancer looked nervous. "Greta, I want to help. But these guys are really dangerous. I can work with them. I've been doing it for years. But even so, I have to be super careful. For one thing, being white counts against you, big time. They hate our guts. If I tried to set you up with one of them, no telling how it might end up."
Sam made a baffled expression and once again slid in between his knees, taking his face in her hands. "Bill, I wasn't talking about going solo. I want you to be with me. I want us to do this together." She touched his lips with her fingertips.
He could barely sit still. She could feel the heat coming off him as from a radiator. "Greta," he half moaned, "you never gave me the time of day before. I can't—"
She kissed him very lightly. He leaned forward to get more, his hands landing with more confidence on her waist, kneading her through her thin sweater. She pulled back enough to address him. "That was then. I didn't know what I was doing, and maybe I don't now. But I want to try. I'm tired of my life. I need a change, and I need your help."
His face flushed, he managed to say, "I've done stuff for one of them—been a help. I can make a phone call."
She rested her palm on his chest. "Thank you, Bill. I knew you were the right man for this. What's his name?"
"Miguel Torres. He's one of the big movers down there. They only have three or four, so that means something. He's real good."
She gently stepped back once more, smiling and grateful. "You're a sweetheart. I wish I could stay."
He looked like she'd just stamped on his foot. "You can't?"
"Not tonight. I told you, I only dropped by for a little while. I'm so sorry, though. I didn't realize we'd hit it off so well, so fast."
"Fifteen minutes," he suggested, almost pleading.
She returned to the door, but this time she opened it and stood on the threshold, from where she blew him a kiss. "I'll call you tomorrow. See how you made out. Okay? Don't let me down."
"No, no," he said, standing awkwardly. "I'll make sure you can meet him."
She closed the door and walked into the night, crossing the wrecked front yard to her car rapidly, before he had time to summon any questions. The trick to these things, she knew from past experience, was to let the contact come up with most of the story.
She fired up her car and drove a few miles north before pulling off the road and dialing Joe's home number on her cell phone, unable to resist sharing her success.
"Hello?" Gunther's voice had the false sharpness of someone who was trying to sound wide awake.
"It's Sam. I just left Bill Dancer's place. Pretended I was Greta Novak. I think I just got an interview lined up with Torres in Holyoke."
There was dead silence on the other end.
"That's our in with the task force," she explained, surprised and a little disappointed. "Like you said, we bring an inside connection to the Holyoke crowd—something they've never had before."
"Okay," her boss said slowly. "I see what you're saying. You set a date and time yet with Torres?"
"Dancer'll call him tomorrow and nail it down. I hope."
Gunther seemed relieved at the qualifier. "So it's not a done deal. You moved right in on this, Sam—without backup."
It was her turn to pause a moment before saying, "You said time was wasting."
"Right. Well, get some sleep and we'll talk in the morning. I'm glad you didn't get in trouble."
* * *
Joe remained holding the phone receiver after Sam had hung up, staring thoughtfully i
nto the darkness of his bedroom. He'd been short with her, which he knew she'd take hard. But he didn't feel bad about that. It was typical of Sam to charge off this way, almost in righteous pursuit. She was ambitious, obviously, but she was also one of the true believers, and that, he'd often pondered, could be dangerous—depending on the circumstances.
And these circumstances were not of his choosing.
Chapter 7
Lester Spinney sat in his car, watching a three-story house about halfway down the block. He knew the owner of record, a local garage mechanic who also ran a wrecker service. Except that his knowledge of the man came more from his history of petty drug busts. Nathan Sherman, nicknamed Natty for no reason related to his appearance, had been a steady customer of the Springfield police since his early teens, and he was in his mid-forties now.
But as popular as he was with the cops, he was genuinely so with the local teens. Two of these were his own sons, the older of whom had begun to build a record all his own.
Not hard-core stuff. The son, Jeff, had been charged with disturbing the peace, petty vandalism, loitering with intent, multiple vehicular offenses. And in a perfect example of a father-son tradition, minor drug offenses. Never heroin or crack or even the higher profile pills. But certainly a lot of marijuana, called weed by the kids, had passed through the house, and that was only what the police could actually prove. The law of averages dictated that what they'd missed was the vast majority.
Spinney's problem was that his own son, David, was now inside.
He checked his watch in the dark, using a nearby streetlight to see. He wasn't in his own car. He'd borrowed a neighbor's on some flimsy excuse. He hadn't wanted Dave to see him staking him out.
It was almost ten o'clock.
He rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. He knew he wasn't acting rationally. He knew that the solution to all this was to talk to Dave and to ask him what was going on.
And yet he now sat in a borrowed car, running a surveillance as if he were building a case.
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