Presumption of Guilt (25 page)

Walter had warned Johnny—even sending him a copy of the footage. What choice did he have? He had to make sure Lucas hadn't been keeping anything that might blow up in their faces. Instead, the police showed up, and Johnny evaporated.

Goddamned disaster. Walter's only break was that he'd had the cameras taken down almost as fast as he'd ordered them up.

Frustration making him antsy, Walter left his car and walked down a sandy alleyway to where the view opened up to a distant panorama of Fire Island.

Walter hated the ocean, hated Long Island, hated the rich and their attraction to glitzy crap, and—as he glanced down at his wing tips—hated getting sand in his shoes.

“Shit,” he swore.

He knew what was getting to him. A company man from puberty, he'd always done what he was told, never asked questions, toed the party line, and had been handsomely rewarded.

Now he was dangling over the edge, between an impatient boss standing on his fingers and some country cops raising their heads like dogs on a scent. Not to mention having to find an old triggerman on the lam and being haunted by a couple of black-clad Ninjas whose origins and intentions were anyone's guess.

And it was all his to sort out. If he didn't placate the employer who didn't want to know, locate the paranoid who didn't want to listen, and identify the comic book couple and their reasons for being, his only remaining decision was going to be whether to accept the blindfold when he was placed before a firing squad, or not.

Assuming his ending was that neat.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY

Joe stepped into the dry cleaners, making an old-fashioned tiny metal bell above the door jangle. The air inside smelled faintly of sunbaked cotton, although he knew from what he'd read that, far in the back, there were toxic chemicals at work.

But they were nowhere in evidence. Instead, there was a cheerful woman at the cash register, straight ahead, and another woman—tall, razor-thin, dark-haired, and ghostly silent—operating an ironing press off to one side, located behind a different counter.

“Hey, Joe,” said the cheerful one. “Haven't seen you in a while. Not getting your clothes dirty anymore?”

Joe nodded to the thin one, who ignored him, and approached the speaker. “Hi, Holly. They're getting dirty, all right. I just stopped caring, I guess. I probably ought to bring in a few jackets, now that you mention it.”

“Always happy to oblige,” Holly said, eyeing his empty hands. “If it's not laundry, how can we help you?”

Joe partially shifted toward the other woman as he answered, “Actually, I'm here to have a chat with Patrice Celli, if she's amenable.”

The thin woman looked up, a partially pressed shirt suspended in midmotion. “Me? Why?”

“I'm looking into a bit of history,” Joe said cheerfully. “Dating back almost forty years. That be okay with you?”

Holly spoke up quickly, knowing her colleague's natural reticence. “It's okay, Patty. Joe's a regular—or used to be. And take your time—we've got a light load today.” She laughed and turned back to Joe in explanation. “The yuppies have brought back pure cotton shirts, but do they like us to press 'em and throw in a little starch? No, they do not.” She winked and added, “Whaddya gonna do? Wrinkles are in.”

Joe faced Celli fully and gestured toward the front door. “It's a nice day, and I noticed a bench outside. How would that be?”

She nodded without speaking or changing expression, making Joe wonder just how long the conversation might last. He'd met women who reminded him of Patty—shy to the point of muteness, silenced by abuse, loss, heartbreak, or all three and more.

He ushered her outside and led the way to the spot he'd referenced, which was set back from the business's driveway, and thus somewhat isolated and quiet. Nevertheless, it faced the road, and allowed for a view of continually passing traffic. Joe imagined that it was probably the store's designated smoking perch.

“Have a seat,” he offered.

She settled down stiffly. She was quite beautiful in her way, reminiscent of a Dorothea Lange photograph—lean and weathered, with intense, thoughtful, somewhat soul-dead eyes.

He sat beside her and asked, “I heard Holly refer to you as Patty. Is that what you prefer?”

“Patrice,” she said quietly but clearly.

“Patrice it is, then,” he said, grateful for any sound at all. “The reason I'm bugging you is because of a job I think you had a very long time ago—according to what I heard.”

She remained silent.

“Did you once work for Ridgeline Roofing?” he kept going.

After a pause, she murmured, “Yes.”

“In what capacity?”

Her gaze had been fixed on the traffic, and it didn't move when she asked, “Why?”

“You're not in any trouble, Patrice. I promise. I'm just trying to put together the pieces of an old puzzle. Did you hear that BB Barrett had died?”

This time, she did look at him—her eyes an almost liquid brown. “I had nothing to do with that.”

The words were flat and without inflection, but the nature of her reaction surprised him. He responded in an equally level tone. “I know that, Patrice. But you asked why I wanted to know about your past employment. That's the reason.”

“Who told you about me?”

“There are a few Ridgeline graduates still living in town,” he answered indirectly. “It was one of them.”

In fact, it had been Lacey Stringer, whom Sammie had revisited with some follow-up questions, one of which had been whether Ridgeline had ever had a bookkeeper.

Despite Joe's vagueness, Celli didn't press him for more. She simply nodded once and resumed her appreciation of the scenery.

“What was your job with them?” Joe asked.

“I did the books.”

“For how long?”

“From '67 to '71.”

“You worked directly with Barrett?”

“There wasn't anybody else.”

“There was Hank Mitchell.”

Again, the single nod. “Right.”

“Was he a problem? Bad to work with?”

She frowned as she took him in again. “Hank? No. Is that what they told you?”

“Not at all. I was just trying to read between the lines when you said there was no one beyond Barrett.”

“Hank wasn't in the office much.”

“What kind of guy was he?”

He expected something noncommittal, given her responses so far, but she surprised him by saying, “He was a good man—nice to work with, friendly, considerate. He always asked how I was doing, and if he didn't like the answer, he'd stop to find out more. Not like BB at all.”

“Describe BB.”

Like a rusty hinge in need of a few swings, Patrice Celli began loosening up, perhaps encouraged by Joe's tone or style, or perhaps simply because someone was asking something involving her. “He was decent enough. More like a typical boss—acted like you weren't in the room. He was the one with the big dreams. Hank was the nuts-and-bolts man.”

“But they got along?”

“Mostly, especially in the early days.”

“What happened then?”

“What do they say? Either money or sex.”

He gave her an appraising glance, startled by her unexpected frankness. “And this one?”

“Money.”

“Okay. Tell me about the money.”

“There wasn't much at the start. We were just a small outfit, the two guys and me, and I was straight out of high school, wide-eyed and mostly innocent. Like I said, BB was full of plans, and for a while, it looked like he was right. Hank would go out and place the bids, BB would put together the deals for the workers, subcontractors, and materials, and we began making money. It wasn't as fast as BB wanted, but it was steady.”

She lapsed into silence, seemingly lost in her thoughts, where Joe imagined she spent most of her time.

“And then?” he prompted.

Her face resumed its former mask. “Johnny Lucas,” she said without inflection.

“I heard about him,” Joe said, trying to sound vaguely chatty. “What was his story?”

“The man from nowhere,” she said slowly.

“How did he first show up?”

“Just did. One day, he walked in with BB, all smiles, and he never went away. I did, though, pretty soon, and Hank did, too—forever.”

“But Hank left before you, is that right?”

She nodded. “It took a few months for Johnny to do his razzle-dazzle.”

Joe shifted in his seat, facing her more directly, struck by her contempt. “Patrice, you probably know by now that both Hank and BB were murdered.”

“I do. That's why I'm talking to you. As soon as I read about the buried body at the nuclear plant, I wondered if it might be him.”

“And you think Lucas played a part in that?”

“Yes. I don't know anything about BB dying. I lost touch with all of them a lifetime ago. But when I heard he'd been shot, I figured it was connected to what happened to Hank.”

Joe urged her on. “Okay. And what was that? I'm asking about what you know, of course, although I don't mind hearing what you suspect, too.”

“It's not what you're thinking,” she cautioned him. “I can't tell you Johnny Lucas killed Hank—or that anybody did. As far as I knew, Hank just disappeared. That's what we all thought—that Hank and Sharon weren't getting along, and that he finally lit out. But I'd seen Lucas at work, and I knew it wasn't that simple.”

“What was he doing?”

“Conniving,” she said simply. “Almost as soon as he showed up, I saw him figuring out who was who and what made them tick. He tried to get me into bed. Lots of luck there. He was so sleazy. That's what made him the exact opposite of Hank, and why Hank ended up in his sights.”

“In what way?”

“If you ask me, he started the whole thing between Hank and Sharon. I don't know what was happening there before Johnny, but from then on? Suspicions began flying. BB was knee-deep in it, too, of course. He had a soft spot for Sharon, anyhow, so it was in his best interest to fan the flames. But Johnny was the one who got it going—rumors of girlfriends, stories about fights at home. Wasn't long before Hank had to leave home.”

She finally faced Joe directly, her eyes intense. “Hank would come to me—a teenage girl—to get me to understand that he loved his wife and kids. I didn't need convincing, but nobody else cared. All those other jerks—Stringer, Carlo, the rest—they all thought it was funny. Johnny had an office pool going, on who was the most likely girlfriend Hank had on the side. It was disgusting.”

“And then Hank was gone,” Joe prompted her after she fell silent.

“Yup,” she said. “Just like that. That's when BB really moved in on Sharon, not that it worked. I'll give her that much. After Hank disappeared, that was it for her—as far as I know. It's not like we kept in touch. I barely knew the lady. I heard a lot later that she'd done well financially, so maybe BB did the right thing by her there.”

“Speaking of finances,” Joe picked up. “You, being the bookkeeper, must've had an idea of what they were like.”

“I thought so, but I wasn't so sure toward the end. That was Johnny's doing, too, if you ask me.”

“How so?”

“I could tell he and BB were cooking something up. When Hank would be out checking on jobs, Johnny and BB would hole up in BB's office. And even there—” She suddenly interrupted herself. “How could BB afford to hire Johnny? We didn't have that kind of money. And Johnny didn't
do
anything. He wasn't a roofer. Hank and BB were partners; they shared the business. Johnny had nothing to do with that. And yet, there he was.”

“He didn't draw a paycheck?”

She scowled. “He did, which didn't make sense, either. All of a sudden, I began seeing that we were making more money than expected. I couldn't figure it out. But I was a kid. I took it at face value when BB told me that customers were paying bonuses for work done ahead of schedule, or whatever. Now I can't believe what an idiot I was, but he made it sound so convincing. And things were good. I got a new typewriter and copying machine. BB got a bigger desk.”

“Hank wasn't suspicious?”

“He was, but that's what I meant: Johnny had given him other things to worry about. Plus, he was gone before all this really got going.”

Joe thought back over what their research had yielded so far. “What was Lucas's job description during all this?”

“He didn't have one. That's what I was saying. BB made him a partner later, after Hank had been gone awhile. That was right after I left—or was forced to leave.”

“They fired you?”

“Not in so many words. I was happy to leave, and they were happy not to have me asking questions.”

“You were getting curious?”

“You would've been, too,” she said. “I don't know what was going on by then, but it sure as hell had nothing to do with roofing.”

“What kind of money are we talking about?” Joe asked.

She shrugged. “I would've been the last to know. At the end, all I did was payroll. But just the way they were living, you could tell they were raking it in—new trucks, fancy watches, throwing cash around. I always thought I'd read about them getting arrested one day. But it never happened. Instead, a long time after, there was a huge merger announced. That's when BB Barrett became a really big deal around here.” She paused before adding, predictably, “Made me sick to my stomach.”

There was a moment's silence as they both studied the distant traffic.

“I better get back to work,” she said then.

They both rose. Joe hesitated before asking, “Patrice, I know you already touched on this, and I'm not looking for you to go beyond your comfort zone, but what did you think was motivating Johnny Lucas? What kind of man was he, beyond being conniving and sleazy, like you said?”