Redemption (A Joe Burgess Mystery, Book 3) (26 page)

Burgess didn't much care how his neighbor dressed. He just wanted the trash picked up. An especially loud shriek made Burgess turn just as a rising gull dropped what looked like a dirty diaper onto the hood of his car.

"You really can't see from here, can you?" he said. He grabbed the man's elbow and led him down the path to the street, Beliveau-Smythe's bare feet slapping lightly on the cement until one bare toe sank into a mush of paper plate crusted with what appeared to be potato salad.

Distaste turned the man's long face into a mask of prudish disapproval. "Oh, that's nasty," he said, scraping his toe on the grass.

"For all of us," Burgess said.

He left the man obsessively pawing the grass, plucked the dirty diaper off his car, and handed it to his neighbor. Distracted, the man took it, then recoiled. "What the hell!"

"It was on my car."

"Well, really, Joe, I don't think that justifies—"

Justifies? "Clean it up," Burgess said. "All of it. Or I'll see that patrol writes you tickets for littering. One for each goddamned piece of this shit."

He headed home, calling back over his shoulder one of those expressions he'd always hated. "Have a nice day." It was just so appropriate here.

Thus began another happy day in the city by the sea, a day that, once he was done being the trash police, caught him up in a swarm of "to-do" lists. No time for coffee or breakfast, not that he felt much like either after smelling the garbage. He had a search to organize, an outdoor search in the rain, then a zillion people to see. He caught Chris as she was heading sleepily for the shower and kissed her. "I told him to pick up the trash," he said.

"My hero," she said, batting her lashes. "I bet he was surprised."

Her hero headed out into the gray morning. The rain was falling harder now, and it had gotten colder overnight. At 109, he picked up Stan and Terry, Dani Letorneau, the evidence tech, and Sage Prentiss, their newest detective. Stan, turning his sleepless guilt into productivity, had made copies of the city maps showing the lots along that portion of Warren Avenue and annotated them with current business names. Burgess briefed them on finding the shoe and some basics on what they might be looking for, and they headed out. Perry rode with Dani in the crime scene van. Kyle and Prentiss rode with him.

For the next two hours, they searched the lot. It was an exercise in futility. In daylight, it was clear that the lot had become a dumping ground for people who didn't want to have to pay to dispose of large, unwanted household goods. The vegetation was crisscrossed with tire marks. At the back of the lot, dead sofas and chairs shared space with broken televisions, an old electric stove, a couple of refrigerators, stained mattresses and rusting bedsprings. Several chairs and a sofa had been pulled into a circle around a blackened area that marked the remains of a fire.

Last night in the dark, discarding a shoe here had seemed odd. In daylight, it joined such a mess of other trash that tossing it here seemed natural. Trash invites trash. They still had to look. The shoe might not be the only thing the killers had discarded. Someone needed to get on to the owner of this lot and get it cleaned up and chained off. Meanwhile, many more hours later, the investigation that was going nowhere nagged at him like an unscratchable itch.

Crisscrossing the lot, picking up his twentieth, fiftieth, hundredth piece of soggy paper, his nostrils were filled with the smells of crushed grass and weeds, mildew, and the sourness of rotting vegetation. Every season had its scent, and fall's crisp scents of fresh air and burning leaves were underlain by the odor of death and decay. Like his life. Spending this dismal, depressing morning looking for a needle in a haystack or, in this case, clues in a trash heap suited his mood perfectly. Between the unspeakable things people did to each other and the cases he couldn't fix, the iron that held him upright and hopeful was rusting. Depressing as Reggie's up-and-down life had been, as long as Reggie was there, he'd believed in the possibility of change. Reggie had been one of the Dumbo's feathers he clutched at to keep going.

When they'd admitted defeat and sent Dani and Sage back downtown, he and Kyle and Perry stripped off their gloves and got into his car. Their shoes and pant-legs were soaked.

"Look, can we get some breakfast," Perry said. "I'm starved. And no fast food. I don't want greasy potatoes or prepackaged eggs that have been given CPR. I want real food."

"Diner?" Kyle said.

"Sounds like a plan." Perry tipped his head back and closed his eyes. "Wake me when we get there."

"Thought you were tireless," Burgess muttered.

"I'm sleeping," Perry said. "Leave me alone." Seconds later, there was a faint snore.

If they went to breakfast, Burgess would miss Reggie's appointment with his doctor, and doctors were notoriously difficult to interview because of their schedules. But it would be good for the three of them to sit down and review their game plan. He tugged out his notebook, handing it to Kyle. "Can you find the appointment card for Reggie's doc and give him a call, see if he can see me later today?"

In a second, Kyle was on the phone, starting polite, quickly switching to firm, then to unyielding. "Ma'am, I understand the doctor is busy. This is important. We're investigating a death here and we'd appreciate a little cooperation."

There was a pause, and Burgess could hear a woman's not-too-pleasant voice trying to put Kyle in his place. He'd heard it a zillion times. Doctor This and Doctor That were always such busy, important people. Doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs, tinkers, tailors, soldiers, spies—everyone was busier and more important than a mere homicide investigator. People did so hate to be bothered by sordid stuff like crime.

Unfortunately for her, Kyle was already in his place. "Maybe I wasn't clear," Kyle said. "We're investigating a suspected homicide. As in murder? Really appreciate it if you didn't impede the investigation by giving me a hard time. Sergeant Burgess won't need long, but he does need some of the doctor's time. Today."

Kyle sighed. Murmured. Listened. Stan Perry snored. The tires hissed through puddles and the wipers whined their metronomic whine. The detective's symphony ended as Burgess swung to the curb in front of the diner and stopped.

"Doc'll see you at eleven," Kyle said.

"How kind."

They shook Perry awake and went inside.

A perky waitress with improbable magenta braids was right there with coffee and back to deliver a fresh dish of tiny creamers before Stan Perry even had his eyes open. They ordered the protein-carb overload of food typical of hungry men. As soon as she was gone, they all got their notebooks open.

"Got a witness says he saw two men dragging Reggie into a truck somewhere down by the bridge to South Portland on Friday afternoon," Burgess said.

Kyle raised his eyebrows. "No kidding. Where's he been hiding?"

"It's Benjy."

"Oh. In a bottle," Kyle said. "Fuzzy recollection. Shit-scared to tell us anything. I feel sorry for him but the guy's a weasel."

"You got it. I think he figured on a lot of free food and coffee while he 'remembered.' Guy like that sees the world as a pocket to be picked. Best he would do, when pressed, was two men and a truck. He said when Reggie saw the truck, he told Benjy to run. Benjy says there was a scuffle." Burgess drained his coffee and looked hopefully around for the waitress. "When I brought him back to 109 to get a statement, he wouldn't talk for the tape. He did say that there were some other wits. Guy stocking a box with free papers. A woman with a stroller. African guy in a Mustang with scars on his face."

Perry hit the button first. "I've seen him around."

"Good. You can track him down, then. I've got a printout of old Mustangs on my desk." He looked at Stan. "Now that you're awake again. BOLO on Joey's car?"

"Of course. It's registered to his mother."

"We've got to talk to Joey. Terry, can you do the marinas today, see if anyone recognizes Joey's picture, knows if he's living on a boat? There is a boat registered to Star Goodall's husband, Nick—"

"Thought her husband was dead," Kyle said.

"So did I. She said she'd 'lost' her husband. Told me this dramatic story of the night his heart stopped. She said Reggie kept an eye on her because she'd lost her husband. So, Stanley, when you go see her, see if you can get some clarification on that story, okay? She may have lost him, but not to eternal life."

Perry looked up from his notes. "I got a pretty big to-do list here."

"That's so Terry and I can go rain skipping." He paused while his cup was refilled. "Benjy said one of the men who pulled Reggie into the truck looked like Nick Goodall."

Perry muttered an expletive just as the waitress delivered breakfast. There was no sound for a time but chewing. Then he said, "How would Benjy know what Nick Goodall looked like?"

"Ole Terry here got a picture of the Goodalls and put it in the file. It fell out with some others when I was interviewing Benjy. I thought he was gonna ID Joey, but he went for Goodall instead. I don't know that it means anything, though, the way his brain works." Burgess checked his watch. "Sorry, guys. Gotta go see a man about a liver." He threw down some bills.

"Joe," Kyle said calmly. "You're our ride."

He looked at their full plates and hungry faces. "Keep eating," he said. "I shouldn't be long. Be lucky if he gives me fifteen minutes."

Kyle smiled as he poured a lake of syrup on his pancakes. "We'll be right here."

"Yeah," Perry said. "Talking about you behind your back."

"Don't say anything good," Burgess said. "It would make my ears burn."

He took Deering up to Bramhall, stopped in front of an old brick home that was now doctors' offices, and climbed to the second floor, arriving at a generic waiting room where listless, unhealthy patients, mostly men, drooped in uncomfortable chairs. On the coffee table lay an untouched assortment of glossy
Men's Health
beside well-thumbed
Sports Illustrated
. At the counter, he gave his name in a quiet voice. The overweight receptionist, identified by her name tag as Glenda, shoved her glasses up her nose, looked at a screen, and then past him into the room. "Sullivan?" she bellowed.

An emaciated man pushed himself up and shuffled toward her. She mimicked a smile and pointed toward a door to her left. "Just go through there, Mr. Sullivan. The nurse is waiting."

Only then did she focus on Burgess. "Yes?" she said, as though he hadn't already spoken.

This had to be the woman Kyle had tangled with. Well, he'd tried to be respectful of the doctor's privacy and patient comfort, but if she wanted to be a jerk, she'd met her match. He pulled out his badge and waved it back and forth at eye level. "Detective Sergeant Burgess, Portland police," he said, loudly. "Here to see Dr. Lyndeman."

"Well." Red rose up her cheeks like Kool-Aid poured into an opaque glass. Her breath hissed out. "Well, all right," she huffed. "Hold on."

She picked up a phone, punched some buttons with stubby fingers, and said, "The cop's here." She replaced the phone with a clatter and pointed toward the door she'd sent Mr. Sullivan through. "Dr. Lyndeman will see you now."

Dr. Lyndeman was waiting just inside the door, dwarfed by the white lab coat she wore, a tiny, pale woman who looked about twelve, with efficient dark hair. She took his hand in a surprisingly firm grip. "Detective Burgess? Dana Lyndeman. If you'll just come this way."

He followed her into a cramped little office with light wood furniture and way too many files. On the wall above her chair hung a framed photograph of two small, bright-eyed girls. She saw him looking at it and smiled. "My daughters. Hilary and Ariana."

"Cute," he said.

"They take after their father." She leaned forward. "Glenda said you needed to speak with me about Mr. Libby. Something about a suspicious death?"

"He was found floating in the harbor on Saturday," Burgess said. "When Dr. Lee did the autopsy, he observed that Mr. Libby had a severely damaged liver." He stopped. Calling Reggie "Mr. Libby" felt too strange. "Dr. Lee said Reggie's liver condition would have killed him. Reggie was a drinker. I'm sure you know that..."

Burgess hesitated, not quite sure what he was asking. The status of Reggie's health? Details about his last days? He was looking for clues. For her observations. "I guess I'm here for your views on Reggie's medical condition." When she didn't respond, he said, "If you're worried about confidentiality issues, don't. We'll be collecting his medical records anyway. With a suspected homicide, the ME's going to need to see them. I'd just prefer not to lose a lot of time going through the subpoena process right now."

She nodded as she searched through the files on her desk and opened one. "Mr. Libby was a very sick man," she said. "He came to the emergency room a few weeks ago in severe pain. We did some scans and a liver biopsy. The results showed severe cirrhosis and necrosis..." She followed that with a barrage of medical jargon he didn't understand, the long, complicated words and phrases tripping off her tongue with ease.

He had his notebook open, his pen poised, but there was nothing he could write down. Then she hesitated, looking up from the file and straight at him. "Yes, Mr. Libby admitted that he was a drinker... but we... I... suspected his condition was not entirely the result of alcohol. I, at least, suspected there might be some other exposure involved."