Gatekeeper

by Mayor, Archer

  She rose also, but kept her voice contrite, realizing she'd overplayed her hand. "Johnny, I'm sorry. I really am. I know you're the boss. I've been waiting for this for so long, I get carried away sometimes. It's like I can almost grab it—everything we've talked about—and it sort of takes me over. I'm sorry I said those things. I didn't mean any disrespect."

  He looked at her in silence, clearly pondering his choices. She could tell the temptation was great to feed her to the wolves, either from wounded pride or from just the pleasure of being able to do so. But for some reason—and it finally dawned on her possibly why—he demurred.

  He put his hand on the doorknob and said, "Go back. You'll get everything you want, but in time. Leave the thinking to me."

  She had nothing more to gain here. In fact, she was pretty sure she'd been wasting her time from the day she'd met him, which weighed more heavily on her now than any threat he could have made. For, aside from her own ambition, her loyalty was to Joe, and at that moment, she was feeling she'd completely let him down.

  "You got it, Johnny," she said tiredly and then added with more sincerity than he could have possibly known, "I just got carried away—makes me stupid sometimes."

  * * *

  Detective Sergeant Heather Hall paused on the threshold and looked at the older man staring down at the conference table before him, its surface covered from one end to the other with crime scene photos and sketches, case reports, forensics documents, and autopsy results. He had his hands in his pockets, his chin tucked in, and for all the world looked like he'd fallen fast asleep on his feet.

  This was the famous Joe Gunther, she thought. All in all, a pretty forgettable figure, really. Nothing particularly outstanding about him, except maybe his eyes, which could shift from fatherly to intense in a flash. But he didn't seem all that brilliant, had nothing about him that attracted attention, wasn't charismatic the way some of her peers were, who could enter a room and make everyone take notice.

  She liked him, though. He was quiet and kind and thoughtful. He'd asked her for her opinions with genuine interest. He was a really nice guy.

  Which meant something to her. Squarely built, with short hair and blunt features, Heather Hall had been a beat cop for seven years before anyone had paid her the slightest attention, and then it was only because another female officer had filed suit against the town for gender discrimination. That case was still tangled up in the legal system—had been for two years—but in the meantime, Heather had found herself quickly courted and then promoted to the Rutland detective squad, the so-called BCI.

  She wasn't ungrateful. She liked the new job, not to mention wearing nice clothes and not having to lug around a heavy belt loaded with gear. But it had also made her suspicious of what might come next. She'd started this job thinking she'd advance on her own merits. Now she had no clue.

  "Any luck?" she asked, placing a coffee cup on the table before him.

  He looked up at her and smiled. "Thanks. I appreciate it." He picked up the coffee and sipped from it thoughtfully, surveying the field of paperwork once more.

  "Amazing things, these cases," he said eventually. "They start out so simply—a man and a woman found dead—but the more you dig, the harder they get to figure out. You know darn well no genius killed them—that it was probably a cause-and-effect kind of scenario. But there are so many variables to the one correct answer. It's like finding a needle in a haystack, just like they say." He pretended to hold a needle up between his thumb and index finger. "When you get there, you can only shrug and say, 'Jeez, it's just a needle.'" He paused and dropped his hand. "Fascinating process."

  She nodded, figuring it was better to just let him ramble. "So I'm guessing no needle yet."

  He laughed. "Right." He leaned forward and extracted a single photograph from a stack of autopsy shots. "There is this, though."

  She moved closer to peer at it. It was a picture of James Hollowell's left hand. Along the back of it, crossing the knuckles and smearing the web of skin at the base of his thumb, was a dark smudge—like an oily stain.

  "Not the cleanest guy I ever saw," she commented. "His motel room smelled like a sewer. And look at his fingernails. Gross. God only knows what's under them."

  Gunther smiled. "If God doesn't, I know who might." He pointed at the phone. "How do I get an outside line?"

  * * *

  Chief Medical Examiner Beverly Hillstrom picked up the phone. It hadn't been a great day so far, and she suspected no great news from this. "Dr. Hillstrom."

  "Doctor, it's Joe Gunther."

  She was wrong. Few people in the world made her feel better just by being there, and Joe Gunther was one of them. It hadn't always been thus, not surprisingly given her general view of the world—which also explained the way she routinely approached newcomers. Gunther had entered her autopsy room years ago, uninvited and unannounced, and had asked her to dig deeper into a case she'd already processed. That had not been an auspicious beginning. Except that he'd been right, as he had been several times since. The man was a digger, more given to hard work than to flashes of inspiration, although she didn't doubt he had those, too. But he didn't rely on them, and didn't show off in any case. All of which made him someone she could like.

  Not that she'd relaxed her professional standards as a result. Beverly Hillstrom came from the old school, where respect was earned, but courtesy was a given. Despite her admiration for the man and his doggedness, she brooked no diminution of her own rules of engagement. She forever referred to Gunther by his title, and expected no less of him. These were ground rules she proffered to everyone, excepting her family and personal friends. And it didn't hurt her kind feelings toward him that he'd instinctively understood that from the start, without the instructions she gave to virtually everyone else. And which, quite unfairly, had given her a reputation among law enforcement as an ice queen.

  "Agent Gunther," she therefore said, the pleasure palpable in her voice. "To what do I owe this privilege?"

  Joe, for his part, was considerably less doctrinaire. He'd tried to get her to at least call him "Mister," since the "Agent" handle still made him feel like an impostor, but it was clearly of no use. On the other hand, the respect was mutual. Never before had he met someone with such a mind for detail and such an instinct to pursue it. Even if she didn't know what she was looking at, chances were that Dr. Hillstrom would take a sample. Just in case.

  "I'm on another fishing expedition, I'm afraid," he admitted. "Exactly what you probably don't want to hear."

  "Nonsense," she countered. "Right now some fishing would be right up there with a bowl of ice cream."

  "Doctor," he said with mock surprise, "I had no idea. Any particular flavor?"

  "Never mind," she said, embarrassed not only that she'd admitted to a pleasure but that she felt awkward about her embarrassment. "What do you have for me?"

  "James Hollowell, date of birth—"

  "I remember Mr. Hollowell," she interrupted briskly. "Any problem with my findings?"

  "None. Actually, this is a real long shot. No reason for you to have noticed. But I'm in a bind for ideas."

  "Stop dancing around, Agent Gunther."

  "Hollowell had a greasy smear on his left hand, along the back. Do you remember that?"

  She nodded at the phone. "I do. Let me put you on hold while I get his file."

  A minute later, she returned. "I have a photo of it before me."

  "All right. Here's the long shot: any idea what it is?"

  "None whatsoever," she stated flatly.

  After a telling hesitation, he said, "Okay. Well . . ."

  "But I kept a sample," she added.

  He laughed. "Nice. Break my heart, then bring me back around. Cruel."

  "It's been that kind of day. Sorry. I couldn't resist."

  "No, no. That's fine. Any way you could have it analyzed?"

  "I'll have it delivered to forensics today."

  They exchanged a couple of more pleasant
ries before Joe hung up the phone, still smiling.

  Heather Hall was watching him. "What did she say?"

  "She kept a sample. The crime lab'll get it later today."

  Hall nodded, still not sure why this had any bearing. "What do you think they'll find?"

  "Something to do with a car engine," he said brightly. "And if we all keep our fingers crossed, it'll be something traceable."

  Chapter 21

  "Sam, where the hell have you been? You were supposed to call yesterday. I thought Rivera had you. I was about to call the cavalry."

  Her voice on the other end sounded down and exhausted. "Sorry, Joe. I had to check something out. I've blown it big time."

  "What do you mean? Where are you?"

  "I'm at a pay phone. This whole thing's been a fraud from the start, Joe. I led us all down the wrong road."

  Joe rubbed his forehead, trying to make sense of what she was saying. "We need to meet, Sam. Get off the phone and hook up with me at . . . Shit, I don't know . . . Are you in town?"

  She hesitated. "I can meet you in an hour."

  His hand tightened on the phone. There was something about the way she was speaking. "Things've changed since you dropped out of sight, Sam. In fact, I'm thinking we ought to pull you out. Come straight to the PD."

  "What? Why?"

  "I was going over the Hollowell case, like I said I would. Couldn't find a thing. Kept going around and around. Finally, I noticed a photo of a greasy smear on one of his hands, and a shot someone took on the bridge where he was hanged of a puddle of something oily on the road. I had Hillstrom compare the sample she collected with the one they got from the bridge, and just heard back they were both power-steering fluid—from the same source."

  Sam didn't respond. He wasn't sure if that was because she was listening or had simply walked away, leaving the phone dangling. From the anxious tone of her voice, the latter wouldn't have surprised him.

  "Sam?"

  "I'm here."

  "We got lucky. Most cars use standard power-steering fluid. Hondas don't, and that's what we found. I crosschecked everyone we have on our radar right now with the cars they own, and I got one hit. Lucky the bad guys don't think much of fuel efficient imports. It was Manuel Ruiz, Sam. That's why I think we ought to shut down."

  "Manuel killed Hollowell?" She sounded stunned.

  "Looks that way. We have a lot more homework to do. But, come in, all right? It's getting too screwy and it's not worth the risk anymore."

  "You don't know the half of it," she said in her monotone.

  "What?"

  "Rivera doesn't have an organization. He's got a bunch of goons with guns in that building of his, but that's it. Until you just said that about Manuel, I thought he was Rivera's only operative. Now it looks like I was wrong about that, too."

  It was Joe's turn to fall silent.

  "You there?" she asked.

  "Yeah. Sorry, but I thought it was Torres who pointed you toward Rivera in the first place."

  "It was. Specifically, it was one of his lieutenants named Ricky. But I was conned from the start and let my ambition screw up the rest. Christ, Joe, even Bill Dancer pegged Rivera as a punk from the start, but was I going to listen to a loser like Bill? Hell no. I had to prove him wrong. I overestimated Rivera and underestimated Torres, and led us all down the wrong path as a result. I am so sorry. I'm thinking I should resign."

  "Sam, this is crazy. Come on in."

  "I will. I'm on my way—one hour."

  The phone went dead in Joe's hand.

  * * *

  Sam walked up to the house, gave the signal, and unlocked the door. "It's me," she announced to no one, knowing that as usual Manuel would be lurking.

  He was. He appeared from around the corner looking as lithe and trim as ever. "Where you been?" he asked, his voice guarded.

  She looked at him for a moment, her head slightly tilted. Purposefully, she hadn't planned this, preferring to play it spontaneously, keeping inside Greta as much as possible. As such, on impulse, she walked up to him, took his face in her hands, and gave him a long, deep kiss. He responded, but only with his mouth, with which he smiled as she finally broke away. But his eyes were still watchful.

  "Hola. Welcome home. Was it my cooking?"

  She walked past him into the living room and sat in one of its worn armchairs. "No," she said. "I was in Holyoke, seeing Johnny."

  Manuel perched cautiously on the arm of the couch. "Oh? Problems?"

  "You could say that. I found out you were playing me for a putz."

  "Sorry?"

  "A jerk. You been funnin' with me. Fucking with my head."

  He didn't respond.

  She stared at him. "What was the point? What did I ever do to you? It couldn't have been that stupid comment I made when we first met. You're not that thin-skinned. Plus, I saved your butt a few hours later. I was good. My heart and head were in the right place. I was going to make us rich. Why did you lie to me?"

  "What did Rivera say?"

  She shook her head. "Right. Get your stories straight. Well, sorry, but he didn't say squat. That's the whole deal. That's what woke me up. I went down there to ask for his contact list so I could combine it with what I've been building. Reasonable request, I thought. But only if you're being straight with your partner. Dummy me. He puts on an attitude, says I haven't proven myself yet. I have to wonder why. I mean, I already know Torres hasn't been cut out of the Vermont business—I'm running into his Blue Heaven shit everywhere I turn. So I started asking around, calling my sources, traveling the whole Holyoke, Brattleboro, Rutland corridor. That's where I've been all this time. And guess what I find? Rivera has nobody out there. You've been running a scam. Using me and my strategy to build something you could only dream about."

  "Why would we do that?" he asked.

  She looked at him sourly. "Spare me. If I'd known you were just a load of hot air, I would've gone someplace else. I was like a gift from God to you guys. Manna from heaven."

  He gave a short laugh. "Whoa. I wouldn't go crazy with that."

  She glared at him, pulling her anger from the very flip side of her argument—that she'd tried to pull a scam on them, and had been as let down as they'd been in the end. "You saying you didn't snap me up when I came through the door?"

  "All right, all right. But so what? What's the big deal? You're here now, things're going great. Who cares if we didn't have a network? We got one growing right now. We'll just start over—everything out on the table." He shook his head with a bewildered expression. "Greta, why'd you kiss me if you don't think this'll work? It's a crazy business. Nobody trusts anybody. We could've done a lot worse."

  "Like kill Jimmy Hollowell?"

  He remained looking faintly amused, but she could tell that had surprised him. An almost imperceptible cloak of stillness draped over him.

  "Sure," he said affably, after just a hair too long of a pause. "Like that. At least we aren't killing people."

  "The day we met, Johnny said that's what you do. Remember? He said you didn't have his management skills—that you just killed people."

  "He was making me look mean."

  Sam slowly felt the blood fill her face as she suddenly saw her way clearly at last. "Like Miguel Torres does."

  "What?"

  "You heard me. You know, it's sometimes handy to talk out loud like this. It helps get the thoughts out of your head so you can hold them up and look at them. You work for Torres, don't you? I mean, I know you used to, like Rivera did, but you still do. You always have."

  "Did you have another one of those pills?"

  "You wish. You know a guy named Ricky? Works for Torres?"

  "No."

  "You shouldn't have said that. You were busted with him last year. See, that's another thing I did after I left Rivera's. I stuck around town, asking questions. That's how I found you in the first place, after all. So I just did the same thing in reverse. I got curious. If Rivera was just living in a
dreamworld, then why did the Torres people—specifically, Ricky—send me over to Rivera, claiming he'd stolen Torres's route? What was in it for them? The answer was they wanted their mole—you—to see what I had to offer. I came out of nowhere, thinking I would be good for Johnny, but in fact—stupid me—I was actually perfect for you and Ricky and Torres's whole bunch."

  That was all pretty accurate, except that she hadn't discovered it in the street. She'd dropped by the Holyoke PD and consulted their computers and their drug unit.

  "That doesn't make any sense. Maybe you're drunk," he said, but she could tell he wasn't putting any effort into it anymore.

  She was actually getting excited telling her story seeing it in sharp detail at last, ignoring the danger looming ahead. She leaned forward in her chair. "No, hear me out. It was perfect. You were Torres's mole. You'd just killed Hollowell—Rivera's only man up here—and you were probably working on a way to get to Johnny next, if you could lure him outside of his fortress, when all of a sudden Bill Dancer and I walk in. Very quick thinking on your part. Well, Ricky's part, since the guy we'd talked to first, Carlos, was clueless. Carlos had just heard that Rivera had made a play and was now considered a bad guy, but he didn't have any details, and he sure didn't know you were involved. Bill and I, on the other hand, thought Ricky was just the doorman—Don Juan with the fast hands. He fed me all I needed to go to Johnny, and he was perfect. How would I know he was just taking a break downstairs, that he's in fact number two in the Torres organization? Right up there with a consigliere in the Mafia? He must've figured what the hell? Send this broad and her big ideas over to Rivera. She might draw him outside somehow. And if not, maybe she'll do what she says she will and create something from nothing—a crackerjack organization that you can inherit after Johnny's met his maker. You two must've killed yourself laughing when he called you to say I was heading over."