Redemption (A Joe Burgess Mystery, Book 3) (19 page)

The sun was low by the time he headed back toward Portland, blasting his eyes with its slanting light. It was a lovely light, bringing out deep blue shadows and a palate of golds and plums across the salt marshes that made him long for his camera. Someday he would have the time to stop and memorialize all these things he saw. Someday his contact with the world would not be through car windows, office windows, and the windows of victims, witnesses and suspects. He'd spend time outside just to be there, not hurrying to a crime scene or kneeling beside a body.

October had always been his favorite month, but lately it seemed like the years were rushing by too fast and the shortening days brought a sense of melancholy. Another year almost done when it didn't feel like he'd begun to live it yet. Maybe it was just the cumulative effect of spending so many of his years living out the motto Stan Perry sometimes wore on his t-shirt: Homicide: Our Day Begins When Your Day Ends.

An ugly motto but a lot of his life
was
ugly. You didn't muck around in the dirty things people did to each other and come up smiling. You got dirty. You got tainted. Talking to bad guys and witnesses who lied and misled and generally screwed around even when it didn't cost them anything, just 'cuz you were cops, you got jaded and cynical. And today, it seemed, you got your guts reamed by the whacked-out relatives of the deceased.

He was still trying to assess what he'd learned from his visit with Star Goodall, other than the information—rather shaky, given how often she changed her stories and how openly she admitted her lies and manipulations—that she'd seen Reggie on Friday because he hadn't gone to work that day, that she was the source of the new shoes, and that she had already known he was dead. He wasn't sure of much else about her, either. Whether those letters to Reggie were threats, as they appeared, or therapy, as she claimed. And whether her interest in the land meant she might be willing to do Reggie harm to get her hands on some of it.

The coffee she'd served was clear evidence of a willingness to hurt others. He wondered what he was going to do about it. He'd brought along the contents of that cup, as well as a scoop of the grounds, and another scoop from the can, for Wink to test. She might have thought it was a perfectly appropriate way to express her displeasure with his visit, but Burgess's rule was that you didn't touch a cop and walk away from it.

Before he left, he'd walked back to the barn, wanting to be sure she hadn't just driven her car down there and hidden it. He'd also wanted to take a look at the barn itself. He'd already established that her bathroom had a nice, roomy tub. Kneeling on the hard slate floor, he'd become quite intimate with the room. He wondered if the barn had been her husband's studio, and if so, whether it might also have a bathroom.

The door was locked, but peering through the windows, he could see one huge, open space still occupied by several sculptures as large as the one beside her front walk, along with winches and chains and tanks and torches. Along one side, a row of low doors led into what might have been storage areas. At the rear, another door led into the space beyond, but when he tried see what was there, he found the windows blocked with thick black cloth.

He stopped at the house across from the end of her driveway, showed his badge, and asked the elderly man who answered if he could ask some questions about Ms. Goodall. The man had grimaced, craned his neck toward the driveway, and then refused to comment. All he would say was, "I don't know if she's a real witch or not, but folks who cross her find themselves havin' all sorta trouble. I just guess I'd rather be safe than sorry, unless you're telling me I've got no choice but to talk with you."

"No, sir," Burgess told him. "You always have that choice."

He'd tried another neighbor, gotten a sharp, "I wish the police had paid some attention when that bitch poisoned my dog, but they didn't, and beyond that, I got nothing to say to no cop," and one who just grinned and said, "I hope you didn't let her make you coffee." He wished he'd talked to this last guy before ringing the woman's doorbell. He gave up and headed back to Portland.

He was hungry and badly needed some unadulterated coffee, but his violated gut wasn't up for anything stronger than ginger ale. In an ironic way, Goodall's vicious ministrations had helped him achieve a kind of symmetry. He felt both spiritually and physically hollow. He stopped at a 7-Eleven, grabbed two sodas and a package of crackers, and headed back to 109.

There were no messages from Terry or Stan yet, so he opened the first soda, drank half, and called Clay Libby. It was Mary who answered.

"Joe Burgess, Mary. I was looking for Clay."

"He's chopping wood, Joe," she said. "It's a kind of therapy for him. I can interrupt him if it's urgent."

Urgent was two days ago, if they'd only known what they had. Urgent was following up hot leads, going hard during that initial phase. Urgent was not this maze of murky confusion. This was more like trying to read the iridescent patterns on a can of oil.

"It's not urgent, Mary. Clay mentioned that Joey had a surveyor out recently looking at Reggie's land. I wondered if he knew the surveyor's name. He can call me when he comes in."

"I can tell you that, Joe," she said. "He's a local. That's why Clay recognized him. Joey was sitting in the car, so all Clay saw was Rob Johnson out there with his equipment. He stopped to tell Rob that he was on private land and the family had no intention of selling. That was when Joey got out of the car. He told Clay it was okay. He'd hired the surveyor. Poor Clay... he's tried so hard to be a good uncle, but goodness has no effect on those people."

Mary's sigh was like a light wind. Burgess pictured her there in her warm, old-fashioned kitchen, the light fading as it had for him and Clay yesterday afternoon, shadows piling up in the corners. She would be cooking dinner. Mary was such a traditional woman. She would sympathize with her husband's grief by cooking his favorite dinner and letting him know she was available to listen.

Once, years ago, driving around the city looking for a witness, he'd found Reggie sitting on a doorstep, weeping. It would have been around three a.m., the saddest time of the night. Reggie's shopping cart, piled high with returnables, was beside him. He'd parked the car and gone to sit with Reggie and share the coffee he'd just bought. It turned out Reggie was crying because Clay and Mary had had a bad fight and Mary had moved out.

"Mary's the difference between Clay and me," Reggie had said. "Claire hates who I am and always wants to change me; used to, anyway. Now she just wants me dead and gone—while Mary likes who Clay is. She grounds him." Reggie had always held that image of Mary, always been respectful of her. He'd been relieved when she and Clay reconciled.

"You want his address and his number?" she asked. Burgess heard the rustling of pages, probably of the phone book, then a sniff and a muffled sob. "Clay says somebody did this to Reggie. That it was no accident. Is that true?"

"We're awaiting further results from the medical examiner, but it looks that way."

She pulled in a trembling breath. "Here's that information for you." She read off the surveyor's name, address, and phone number. "You're going to find out who did this, aren't you, Joe? You're not going to let Reggie be disposed of like a piece of trash?"

"I'll do my best, Mary. You know I will."

"I do," she said. "It was foolish of me to even ask. Reggie couldn't have anyone better on his side. Look, Joe... if there's anything I can do. Anything at all that you need from me, promise that you'll call me, okay. I... it's... Clay thinks..." There was a long pause. "Clay thinks for sure that Joey had something to do with this. You've mostly seen the best side of him, Joe, with the two of you trying to help Reggie. But Clay's got quite a temper, and if nothing happens, he'll brood himself into thinking maybe he'll have to fix it himself."

He could almost feel her tension, the conflict between loyalty to her husband and fear that Clay might get himself in trouble. "Just let him know you're working on it, Joe. I guess that's what I'm asking. I don't want to have to stop him from getting in his truck and coming after Joey."

"Does he know where Joey lives?"

"Only that he was staying with Claire. That's all I've heard." Burgess was disappointed. He thought Joey had to have someplace else. He'd go crazy living any length of time with Claire. She wouldn't be easygoing about him bringing women home. Maybe Stan and Terry had learned something.

"Tell him I called, Mary, and what I called about. That I'll keep in touch. And Mary? I think Clay will be okay, but will you call me if you think he's coming after Joey?"

"So you can try and keep him out of trouble?" she asked. When he didn't immediately respond, she said, "Come on, Joe. I know you. That's what you do."

He thought what he did was come in after the trouble had happened and try to mop things up, but he liked Mary's vision of him. It was something positive on a day when his black cloud was wrapped so tightly around him. "So I can keep him out of trouble," he agreed.

"Okay," she said. "Okay. I will."

He gave her his numbers—cell, office, and home—disconnected, and called the surveyor's number. He got a brisk, professional "Rob Johnson," on the first ring. Assuming it was a recording, he was starting the leave a message when the voice repeated, "This is Rob Johnson."

A real human on a holiday Monday. "Detective Sergeant Burgess, Portland CID. I had some questions about a piece of property up in Belgrade you were surveying for Joseph Libby?"

"What kind of questions?" The voice was cautious.

"What he told you when he hired you. What his intentions were for the property."

"I doubt I'm at liberty to answer those questions about a client," Johnson said.

"Let's back up, then," Burgess said. "Were you aware that Mr. Libby was not the owner of that property?" He should be doing this face-to-face. So much information could be gleaned by watching expressions and body movement. Here he was limited to listening for clues in an unfamiliar voice. But if this proved fruitful, he could always make a follow-up visit.

"He said it belonged to his father," the surveyor said carefully, "but would be his very soon. He had a buyer interested in developing it and wanted to check on the actual size of the piece, the amount of lake frontage. Put things in place to avoid delays down the road."

"Do you have a written contract detailing the work?" It was standard practice.

Another cautious silence and then, "I do."

"Can you tell me who signed that contract?"

"I'll have to look."

"You're in your office?"

"My home is my office."

"Then if you would, please," Burgess said. "I'll wait."

He heard a chair being shoved back, footsteps, the metallic opening and closing of a file drawer. Then the surveyor was back on the line. "Reginald Libby."

"What was the date that the contract was signed?" The date he was given was about four weeks earlier. Burgess made some notes, then asked, "As part of your work, do you check registry records to review the deeds to the property?"

"Of course I do. I have to," the surveyor said sharply.

Burgess didn't know whether the sharpness was because the surveyor felt his abilities were being questioned or whether he was anticipating the next question. "So you were aware, at the time that you went on the land to survey it, that the property in question was in a trust, and neither Reginald Libby nor Joseph Libby was a trustee?"

"What the fuck is this really about?" the surveyor exploded. "Are you trying to check up on my license? Is that what this is? Because that little fucker told me that it was okay with his father and okay with his uncle, who was the trustee, and I should just go ahead and do it. I'd already done part of the work. He said if I wanted to get paid, I'd damned well better finish."

"How did you stay in touch with Joseph Libby? You have phone numbers for him?"

"Just a cell," the surveyor said.

"May I have that number, please?" Burgess wrote it down. "So you never had any contact with Clayton Libby?"

"Not until he showed up out there at the property and asked what I was doing."

"Were you paid for the work?"

"Yes, dammit, I was. I get the half of it up front. Have to, these days, the way people are. Some of them ask you to do a job and then you tell them that your preliminary survey shows they don't own the twenty acres they thought they did and suddenly you're eating your time and paperin' your walls with the bills. People from away are even worse."

"Who paid you?"

"The checks were written by a Star Goodall. Libby said she was his sister. I remember wondering about that, as she had a different address and wasn't mentioned in the trust, but I figured she was a married sister. Then he gave me a different address from hers to send the contract and the finished survey." He gave Burgess Claire's address.

Suddenly, this taciturn fellow was getting voluble. Maybe what Burgess had said about ownership had spooked him and he'd decided to be completely open, just in case there was some hanky-panky here. Some papers rustled, as though he was checking his notes, then the surveyor said, "Libby told me that wasn't where he lived, either. Guess I didn't think anything of it at the time, but the kid said I should send the survey plans there because he didn't have a regular mailing address. He said he was living on his boat."