Redemption (A Joe Burgess Mystery, Book 3) (39 page)

Take some aspirin. Swill some good Irish whiskey. And a lost life recedes into the annoying murmur along with corrupt tenants, a high-maintenance ex-wife, a bitch with a generous checkbook, and an unwanted powerboat.

Chapter 31

They left a belligerent and unrepentant Nick Goodall at the Cumberland County Jail, wailing an unconvincing version of "what did I do?" at their departing backs. Rain was still coming down in sheets and the wind, twisting trees, showered the streets with branches and leaves. Burgess, hurting and wet after a day that had gone on too long, wished for Advil, a long hot shower, and bed. But the day was far from over. They still had to check on Stan, then pay their unannounced visit to Joey.

"We having fun yet?" Kyle asked, as they headed back to their cars.

Burgess fingered his bruised cheekbone. "There was a moment," he said.

"Yeah. You get to have all the fun."

"I do. Next time, I'm letting you fight the bad guys."

"Appreciate that," Kyle said. "I need to do something to earn my wings." They had to holler to be heard over the rain.

"Believe me, the last thing you want is wings," Burgess said. "It's a bitch to drive with wings. Driving's uncomfortable enough without that nonsense."

* * *

Stan Perry sat at his kitchen table, a glass of whiskey in front of him, holding an ice pack against his face. "You know how close we came to having everything go to hell back there?" Burgess said.

Perry shifted the ice pack.

"Christ on a cross, Stan, talk to me," Burgess said. "What the hell were you thinking? Terry and I hadn't come after you, you'd either be a dead man or in jail for homicide. You know that, don't you? Do you understand what we put on the line for you tonight?"

"I didn't ask you to."

Burgess wanted to hit him again. "Oh, to hell with it, Terry," he said. "Let's leave Stanley here to sulk and go find Joey Libby."

"I just had to... I needed to," Perry said. "It was important, okay. It was freakin' important, Joe." He rubbed his swollen jaw. "You didn't have to hit me so hard."

"More important than your job? Than the fact that someone's been killed and you're supposed to be finding out who did it? Than the fact
you
could have killed somebody... or had your fucking dick shot off?"

When Perry didn't respond, Burgess headed for the stairs, stopping at the door. "You coming, Ter? Like to get some sleep one of these days."

"You're getting soft, Joe," Kyle said. "You never used to need sleep." He turned to Perry. "Come along, Stanley. Get your gear. We've got to go catch bad guys."

"I'm not going anywhere," Perry said. "I'm on sick leave."

"Sick leave?" Kyle mimicked vomiting. "Sick leave is for wimpy patrol guys who freak out at a rash, not a hardass detective like yourself with a killer to catch. You keep this up, you're gonna be on permanent asshole leave, busted back to property crimes, if you're not out walking a beat. Now pull your head out of your ass and get your stuff. You can ride with me. I don't think Sergeant Burgess likes you very much right now."

"I don't like him," Burgess agreed. He pulled out his notebook, wrote the address of Claire's camp on a slip of paper, and gave it to Kyle. "I'll give the locals a heads up that we're coming. And we all wear vests. His MO may be picking on women, but I wouldn't trust that kid."

The long, slow ride out to Harrison would give him time to think through what they knew and devise a strategy for where to go next. There was an element, in any investigation, of responding to what was uncovered and going off in unplanned directions. Investigations were never linear—they were more like walking a maze—but this one had felt particularly unfocused. Now he felt like they were getting somewhere. That things were breaking. If he could keep his team together long enough to work that.

Reading Goodall's face and body, spotting the lies and listening for the answers behind the answers, he was sure that the man had gotten in that truck, gone along to keep Reggie under control. Been involved, somehow, at the end. When they were done with Joey, and rested, they'd have another run at Goodall, and get the whole story. He began making lists. Goodall's phone records. Claire's. Joey's. And Star's. Joey and Goodall felt like the weak links, the ones most likely to give up the others. Sooner or later, one of them would lead him to Kevin Dugan again. And it was Dugan he wanted the most.

Goodall's information, and the doors it opened, energized him, but not enough to counteract the postadrenaline letdown. He needed coffee and something sweet to get through the next few hours. They all needed energy and their wits about them to go after Joey, and to go at him once they found him. He called Kyle, suggested they stop for coffee. The amount of time and money he spent at Dunkin' Donuts, he ought to buy stock.

He was paying when his phone rang, Mary Libby's distraught voice exploding in his ear. "It's Clay, Joe. He's missing." She stumbled over that, grabbed some air, and tried to explain. "He went out... the dog was barking... something in the woods... and he hasn't—" Her voice dissolved into sobs.

Imagination put him right back in that farmhouse kitchen. "Take a breath, Mary, and tell me what happened."

"Two hours ago," she gasped. "He went out two hours ago when the dog started barking. He told me to stay in the house and lock the doors. He even... hold on... please. Excuse me."

He waited impatiently as she got herself under control. "He loaded a shotgun, Joe, and put it on the kitchen table. Told me to use it on anyone who came through the door. When he didn't come back, I took the gun and went out looking for him. I called and called. He didn't answer. The dog didn't bark. Out behind the barn, out by the edge of the woods, I found Tucker, and oh my God, Joe, oh my God, someone had—"

He could hear her sobbing and retching, trying to hold the phone away from her face. Impatiently, he willed her back, even as chill seeped into his bones. He was at least forty minutes away. He needed to know what had happened, what she'd seen. Had she called the police or just called him? "Mary," he said loudly, drawing stares from the room as he tried to draw her back to the phone. "Mary!"

They'd all moved away from the counter and Kyle and Perry were watching him. "It's Mary Libby," he told them, covering the mouthpiece. "Clay is missing."

"I'm sorry, Joe," Mary said in his ear. "Tucker is dead. Someone cut his throat. I've called... called the state police and the sheriff's patrol, they say they're on the way. But can you come, Joe? Please? I need someone here that I can trust. Someone who knows what's going on."

"Forty minutes to an hour," he said. "Keep the doors locked and that gun handy."

He turned to Kyle and Perry. "Mary says Clay went out about two hours ago because he heard something outside. He left her with a loaded shotgun and told her to use it if anyone came through the door. When he didn't come back, she went out looking. Found their dog near the edge of the woods, its throat cut. I'm heading over there." He hesitated. "You don't have to come."

"Right," Perry said. "We should go home and get a good night's sleep, right, Dad?"

"I were your dad, you'd be grounded." He headed for the door, the others right behind him. Lot of detours tonight on his way to find Joey Libby. None that could be ignored.

The visibility was terrible, but spurred by concern for Mary and Clay, he drove fast. Too fast for the weather, for wet roads, and his own diminished capacity. He was bone tired. He'd gone into the day tired, ridden the roller coaster of emotions since. None of them had had time to recuperate from that standoff in Westbrook, never mind Nick Goodall's drama-queen performance. He knew Kyle and Perry felt it, too. And they were right on his tail.

A quarter mile before the turnoff to the farm, he rounded a bend in the twisty country road just as a huge branch from an old oak crashed down in front of him. He stood on the brakes, the ABS pulsing matching the pounding of his heart. Quickly, he pulled into a narrow dirt track that led off into the woods, grabbed his flashlight, and flagged down Kyle.

As the three of them wrestled the heavy, slippery branch off the road, Burgess thought this symbolized their whole investigation. Miserable. In the dark. Exhausting. With roadblocks everywhere.

As he got back in the car, his lights picked up something red a short way down the track. He switched on his flashlight and started walking, his feet squelching through muddy gravel, the seeping water a reminder to change into boots if they were going out looking for Clay. He still hoped they'd get there and find Mary and Clay having coffee in the kitchen.

The heavy rain hadn't completely obliterated what appeared to be fairly fresh tracks. He pointed his light down the narrow road, moving it slowly from side to side, until the beam found that patch of bright red again. About fifty feet down, a red Audi was backed in under some overhanging pine branches. He didn't need to look at the plate to know whose Audi it was. His sense of urgency cranked up.

Good thing he hadn't followed his first instinct, and sent Kyle and Perry on to find Joey while he came here. It looked like they were going to kill two birds with this stone. Or maybe three. Fine with him, as long as the right birds got killed. He didn't have a good feeling about what was happening with Clay.

They were waiting back at his car, there for backup, even if he hadn't asked for it, getting wet because they wanted to be able to see and hear. "What?" Kyle said, shining a light on his face.

"Joey Libby's car."

"Man," Perry said. "This thing is so fucked up."

The track was narrow, with trees coming right to its edges, just barely room for a truck to pass, deep drainage ditches on either side where it met the main road. They didn't want Joey leaving before they got things sorted out. As a precaution, they used the fallen branch as a roadblock, then belt and suspendered it with Kyle's car. Joey, or whoever had parked this car, wasn't driving away.

They got in the Explorer and drove the last quarter mile to the farm. He stopped in front of the house behind a state police cruiser with its lights flashing, threw the truck into park, and hurried to the door. Mary answered, a hard-faced state trooper right beside her, and threw herself into his arms. "He was such a good dog," she murmured into his shirt.

He held her, letting her shed the tears she would have tried not to show in front of the trooper. She'd loved the dog, he was sure, but that wasn't what she was crying about. Over her shoulder, he caught the trooper's suspicious eye. "Detective Sergeant Joe Burgess, Portland police," he said. "We're investigating the death of Clay's brother, Reginald."

The trooper backed up a fraction of an inch, and gave up a name. Lovering. That was how the state police usually played it, sharing information grudgingly, if at all. But a freakin' name? Burgess wasn't pushing it. He was here for Mary and Clay, hopefully to avoid any more death, not to get into a pissing contest.

"Let's sit down and talk about this, Mary," he said. "I've got Terry and Stan with me. You have any coffee?"

"I could make some."

"That would be great, if you could."

She started bustling around her kitchen. "Bring them in, Joe. It's too rotten a night to leave them outside. I've got an apple cake, baked this afternoon, if you're hungry."

Not after a large coffee and two donuts, but feeding them would give her something to do, and that would help to hold her together. "I'll get them," he said. Lovering stood his ground by the door, showing Burgess who was in charge by barely giving him space to pass.

He got his boots from the truck and followed Kyle and Perry inside. With four big wet men in dripping coats in the kitchen, the room felt small and crowded. Mary, in her wilted blouse and misbuttoned cardigan, looked weary and diminished. "What do we do now?" she asked, as she set out mugs and spoons and plates, poured milk into a pitcher, and found the sugar bowl.

Burgess looked at Lovering. "What's the plan?"

The trooper shrugged. "I'm not too far ahead of you," he said, grudgingly. "I was just interviewing Mrs. Libby about what happened."

Mary spooned coffee into the pot's filter, pushed the button, and the pot began to gurgle. She came and sat at the table with them, perching uneasily on the edge of her chair. She patted her hair and twitched at her collar, then, resting her clasped hands on the table, she lowered her head, repeating for everyone a more detailed version of what she'd told Burgess on the phone.