Lamentation (16 page)

“My friend called me from the room next door,” I said. “About ten minutes ago. But he’s not there now.”

She glanced in my general direction. “Maybe he left,” she said with a shrug. “You can come in. But close the door. It’s cold.”

Didn’t have any other leads. I stepped inside and softly shut the door.

Poor television reception flickered like a strobe. If how Pete Naginis died had startled me, then how this girl lived was outright revolting. The room stank like foul, old sponge, and despite my work boots and two pairs of socks, the carpet squinched between my toes with a moist fungus. She made no effort to conceal her addiction. A pair of charred spoons and
BIC
lighters, cigarette filter, teeth-torn and balled for cotton, rested atop an end table a few feet away.

She set her lit cigarette right on the spread and tugged the sweatshirt over her head. Plucked the smoke, swatted the ash, and fell back, reclining on elbows, bony breasts poking out. Her skirt hitched enough to reveal a stretched-out red thong that had probably been peeled more times than bulk potatoes in a soup kitchen.

She stared at me, and I got a good look into those dead eyes. In her own environment, I couldn’t even put her at eighteen.

“What are you out in this mess for?” she finally asked.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“You in a hurry?”

Good point. Besides, I couldn’t leave Charlie stranded at the TC. He’d have to come back sooner or later.

“Sit down,” she said, drawing on the cigarette, letting the long ash fall unheeded. “I won’t bite.”

I glanced over at the only place to sit beside the bed, the chair next to the drug station, giving it a quick once-over to make sure I wasn’t going to jab my ass with a hypodermic.

I pointed through the wall, as if the pantomime would elicit the answer I wanted. “You sure you didn’t hear anything next door? Anything at all?”

“I heard you calling for somebody. That’s why I poked my head out.” She held up the rapidly dissipating cigarette. “I was out.”

I pulled out my cell to check if I’d missed any calls. I felt like a teenager making sure the phone still worked because my crush of the moment hadn’t called back yet. Ridiculous. I’d feel it vibrate. I sent Charlie a quick text that I was next door, just in case.

“You don’t know Chris Porter, by any chance, do you?” I knew it was a long shot.

“Sorry,” she said, fidgeting with her legs, tugging her skirt down, all of a sudden acting self-conscious, or maybe simply cold, even though the radiator was jacked to a hundred.

“He’s my brother. He’s missing. He’s a junkie. I was hoping maybe you’d seen him around the truck stop. I heard he spends a lot of time here. A friend of his told me. She said he goes with guys, y’know?”

“I get it,” she said.

I don’t know why I’d blurted confessions to an underage prostitute in an auto court motel in the middle of a snowstorm. Maybe I needed to talk to someone, since I had a billion thoughts squirming around in my head and no other way to let them out.

“Honestly,” she said, “I wouldn’t know if I had seen him. I make it a point not to get to know people around here. It’s hard enough taking care of me.”

I got it. Unless there was a chance to make some money, what was the point? Friendships with drug addicts equated to more mouths to feed. Everyone down here was a kitten in a cardboard box, an orphan begging for more.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Does it matter?”

“No,” I admitted. “Not really.”

The girl stood and bent down, picked up an old fountain drink container at her feet and extinguished her cigarette stub. Apologetically, she asked for another. I passed her the pack. She considered her selection.

“Keep them,” I said.

She didn’t say thank you, just reached over me to snag the lighter
from the table. I could see the inside of her arm, intersecting tracks from pit through crook to wrist, a down-bound train that ran all night long.

“That was his friend they found the other day,” I said. “Dumped in the stream behind the store. He’d been strangled. Face busted up.”

“Cops came around talking to everyone.”

“What’d they want to know?”

“The usual. If anybody saw anything, heard anything, knew the guy.”

“And?”

“Nobody sees anything around here.” She attempted a smile. “I didn’t know the guy. Like I said, I make it a point not to.” She crossed her frail arm over her little boy body, twitching her legs again, knocking knees together, foot scratching calf, the jitters. “Not that it’s gonna matter much soon. I’m not long for this place.”

That might’ve sounded like a cry for help. But I knew it wasn’t. Her wounds, whatever their roots, had scarred over thick, made her hard. This girl would survive. Which was the real tragedy.

“Are you moving?” I asked.

“Don’t you keep up on your local politics?”

I didn’t get the joke.

“They’re tearing this place down,” she said. “It’s been all over the news. Putting up a ski resort or some shit.”

“Must’ve missed it.”

“Someone’s about to make a fortune. They’ve been sending thugs around the last few weeks, trying to scare off everyone, clear the place out so no one tries to claim squatter’s rights. Won’t see
that
story on your evening news.”

I remembered the soundless
News at Noon
report from the other day, the one where they interviewed the family on the slopes.

“What’s the real story?”

“Overheard one of them,” she said, “this tatted-up, muscle-bound dude, talking with Earl Hinkle—he’s the guy that owns this place. Guess it’s gonna be quite the resort. Fancy, five-star, huge.”

I don’t know what made me ask the next question, or why I thought she’d know the answer. But her response didn’t surprise me.

“You know who’s building this resort?

Her mouth twisted up. “That big construction company up here. What’s the name? Lombardi.”

Charlie still hadn’t called when I walked through my apartment door just after midnight. I’d hung around the motor lodge and TC as long as I could, which was shortly after the junkie hooker, whose name I never did get, dropped the Lombardi bombshell. Roads would be closed soon. Had no choice but to head home.

It made sense that Lombardi would be handling the construction of a new ski resort, and the news alone probably wouldn’t have registered at all, had Chris not broken into Gerry Lombardi’s house a few hours earlier. If they were demolishing the motor lodge, I could only assume that meant the truck stop was out too. Surely, I would’ve heard something about that. Wouldn’t I? Not sure a thread tied the two together, this new construction project and my brother’s break-in, but the timing sure felt odd.

I tried to recall specifics from my conversation with Chris, when he’d been blustering about secrets and hard drives, and I knew the Lombardi name had come up in my talk with Turley, although that was hardly a smoking gun; my brother had had a problem with the entire Lombardi family since high school and the wrestling team snub, or at least what he’d perceived to be a snub. When it came to my brother, trying to separate fact from fiction was a sucker’s bet and a loser’s proposition. At the very least though, this Lombardi connection spelled a weird coincidence. Which made me recall what Fisher had said last night about coincidences: In the world of investigation, there’s no such thing.

I phoned Turley. I knew he couldn’t file a missing persons report on a guy gone only a few hours, but he could at least keep an eye on the street and an ear to the scanner. Turley said his shift was over but that he’d pass the information along to Ramon.

“What were you and Charlie doing out at the TC anyway?” Turley asked.

“Looking for my brother.”

“Any luck?”

“Don’t you think I would have led with that?”

“Too bad,” said Turley. “I’d like to get McGreevy off my back. He’s really taking this case personally.”

“Isn’t it a little strange that a Concord detective would be up here investigating the murder of a junkie?”

“He’s not up here anymore,” Turley said. “Headed back down to the city. Wants constant updates, though. Driving me crazy.”

“I mean, why’s the Concord PD so interested in Chris?”

“That truck stop has always been a lightning rod. Michael Lombardi’s up for re-election in the state senate. His whole platform is pro-family and anti-drug. Won’t help his campaign to have addicts fished from streams in his hometown. Plus, y’know, there’s that whole business with those fancy new condos for the ski crowd. Don’t want to scare off potential investors. Drug-related, violent crime sorta shatters the illusion of quaint country living.”

“Speaking of which,” I said, glossing over the fact that I’d just learned about this ski resort via an underage junkie prostitute in a motor lodge an hour ago. “I hear they reached a deal to tear the place down?”

“What’s that?”

“The Maple Motor Inn.”

“Oh, yeah, I think I read something about that.”

“Isn’t that what you’re talking about? Replacing it with a new ski resort?”

“That’d have to be a pretty small resort!” Turley laughed. “No, I meant the new condos going up across town, big money trying to cash in on the Black Mountain crowd.”

“I thought they were building a new resort at the TC.”

“Not that I know of. Where’d you hear that?”

“I can’t remember.”

“The Maple isn’t owned by the same folks as the truck stop. I don’t know why anyone would want it, frankly. Kind of a dump.”

“Maybe they want some new luxury condos there too.”

“Next to the truck stop?” Turley said. “Who’s plunking down good coin to live next to that freak show?”

“These other condos you’re talking about—Lombardi’s building them?”

“Of course. Who else?”

“You know who the developer is?”

“Don’t recall. It was in yesterday’s paper.”

“That’s all right,” I said. I knew I still had the
Herald
lying around somewhere.

“Hold on,” Turley said. “Got it right here.” I heard rustling pages. “Um, it says the developer is Campfire Properties.” He paused. “Why are you so interested, Jay? Looking for some investment property?” He laughed.

“Not exactly. I’ll let you go. I should call it a day too. Just be sure Ramon calls me if he hears anything.”

“Of course,” said Turley. “I wouldn’t worry too much if I was you. Charlie’s a big boy. Probably picked up some sweet young thing at the Peachtree. So long as he didn’t mack on the wrong trucker’s girl, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

I knew Turley was joking. But the comment got me thinking about that computer shop and Charlie pissing off those crazy bikers.

“Something wrong, Jay?”

Maybe it was time to trust Turley more. “Charlie and I stopped by that computer shop.”

“When?” Turley asked.

“Couple days ago.”

“And?”

“Have you actually been in there? Felt more like a motorcycle gang clubhouse than a computer removal store. Guys were tatted, jacked up, heads shaved, looked like they’d all done lengthy stints in NH Correctional.”

“Commanderoes.”

“Common what?”

“Commanderoes. Motorcycle club. Gang. Bad dudes. Not as big or well organized as the Hells Angels or anything, but still not guys you’d want to mess with.”

“I thought you told me it was a computer shop?”

“It is. Your brother lives in a sketchy world. Attracts all sorts of undesirables.”

“Jesus Christ, Turley—and you sent me in there?”

“Hold on, Jay. I never told you to go anywhere. All I said was that Chris had a business operation. I never said to start investigating any crimes.”

“No, just that it was in everybody’s best interest if I found my brother first.”

Typical cop doublespeak. This is why I could never trust them. It was a dirty cop trick. Technically, no, he hadn’t told me to go up there. Just wound me up and pointed me in that direction.

“That stretch of the Turnpike isn’t even in our jurisdiction,” said Turley. “That’s Longmont County. Gave them a ring after all this went down. Police Captain’s the one who told me about the Commanderoes hanging out there. Probably trading hot merch for drugs.”

“Stolen electronics? Drugs? Why don’t you send somebody to arrest them?”

Turley laughed. But not like we were in on the joke together, more the way you’d laugh at a little kid who didn’t yet understand gravity or the offsides rule in hockey. “Don’t work like that,” he said. “You need warrants, there’s court orders, lawyers, wrongful arrest lawsuits. Protocol has to be followed. And, like I said, that’s Longmont’s territory, not Ashton’s. It’s not like there’s a law against being high.”

“Yes, Turley, there is. And laws against stealing and dealing drugs too.”

“I don’t know what they are or aren’t doing in there, Jay. I’m only speculating. Nobody cares about a few dopers.”

“Someone cared enough to send up a detective from Concord when one of them died.”

“Yes, because it potentially affects careers and multi-million dollar real estate deals.” Turley sighed. “If you want to know more about the Commanderoes, you really should talk to your ex’s new boyfriend.”