The Company She Kept (13 page)

He glanced at the device's small screen and grunted.

“What?” she asked. “Duty calls?” She wasn't upset—another thing they shared was a fatalistic acceptance that most of their plans would be upended without notice.

“It's Gail,” he said in a neutral tone.

“Answer it,” she said, a rueful smile growing. “I can take a walk around the block. I imagine the two of you have a few things to discuss.”

He grimaced. “Oh, no. I'll let it go to the answering machine.”

Beverly's smile faded. “Joe, answer it. She's not only in pain, she's taken a huge step into the unknown. It's the right thing to do.”

He conceded. “Okay, okay, but stay. Please.” He suddenly reconsidered and added, “Unless you'd prefer to leave.”

She shook her head, but rose and headed for the bathroom. Joe hit the Receive button.

“Hey there, Governor.”

“Hi, Joe.” Gail's voice was strained and oddly flat. “You got a minute?”

Joe glanced at Beverly's departing back. “Sure. You okay? I mean, all things considered.”

“You heard about the memorial?”

He was struck by the roundabout reference. “I heard about the only memorable thing said there, if you can forgive the near pun.”

He could tell from her hesitation that he'd caught her by surprise. “And you're okay with that?” she asked.

He'd had time to consider the question in the few hours since her eulogy. He hadn't attended, not wanting that much proximity to either her or her supporters, especially on the home turf he and Gail had once shared. But he'd listened to it on the local radio, thankfully in the privacy of his car.

Beyond the initial shock of hearing something suspected said out loud, he wasn't sure he was truly surprised. Knowing both women for as long as he had—and despite sleeping with one of them for most of that time—he'd always found their friendship similar to that of a long-married and compatible couple.

It had never bothered him, although he'd never suspected a sexual liaison. He'd respected Susan, even if he'd never warmed to her—which was clearly mutual, as she'd made clear—and he and Gail had physically lived together only briefly, for a short time following the sexual assault. It had struck him, nevertheless, that in a way, Susan and he had shared the same woman.

What he'd heard over the radio was therefore more of a confirmation than an announcement out of the blue.

“You suspected,” she said to fill the silence.

“Only that she fulfilled a need I never could,” he said. “I didn't know the nature of it. I didn't need to. When you and I were at our best, I was a happy man.”

Here, he thought of Beverly, still tactfully out of the room. It struck him that while he should have felt embarrassed, he didn't—instead enjoying at last the proximity of a nonjudgmental and supportive close friend.

“Oh, Joe,” Gail uttered wistfully.

He resisted the old impulse to travel to her side, hearing such sadness.

If he, Susan, and Gail had in fact once been an oddly closeted trio of sorts, he was no longer in the mood to act the hero upon the death of one of them. It was one thing to understand and sympathize—entirely another to rush to the rescue of someone whose emotional makeup he was no longer sure he understood.

Especially now that he'd found his own happiness with a woman he trusted entirely.

“What do you plan to do next?” he asked, mainly to move the conversation along. “Rob and company must be running around in circles. Had you given them a heads-up? What you said at the memorial didn't sound like it came from a speech.”

“I told them about Susan and me, but I promised not to torpedo them in public, too.”

“Wow,” he said. “They must be looking up the meaning of the phrase.”

She laughed despite herself. “I'm afraid you're right. I did mind my manners during the Montpelier speech.”

“Right—be sure to remind them of that. What's their reaction been so far?”

“They're balancing the pros and cons of saying I'm bi versus a committed lesbian. Your name came up in that regard—not that you need to worry,” she added hastily. “It's all typical what-the-governor-meant-to-say crap. It's not gonna happen.”

It struck him how they'd instinctively steered the conversation toward the practical, letting the emotional eddies in the wake of her announcement settle down to mere ripples, if that. These were times when New England's famed taciturnity came in handy.

“Where do you stand there?” he asked along those lines.

“I've always thought the bi position to be wussy,” she stated flatly, sounding more like the Gail he knew. “It's like saying you're a vegetarian because you don't eat red meat.”

“It might be accurate, though,” he countered, not sure why he was bothering. “I wasn't the only man you knew in that way.”

As soon as the phrase left his mouth, he winced.

But Gail didn't react to the Victorianism. “I owe it to Susan,” she said. “And to myself. She was so comfortable in her skin. I was too worried about the implications to be that honest.”

He couldn't avoid seeing the self-flagellation in that statement, which also didn't mean it wasn't true.

“There's bound to be a shit storm,” he counseled. “At least from out-of-state. National media's still in the neighborhood, especially since the Newport shooting was also announced this afternoon.”

Bringing up the point made him wonder if she hadn't factored it into the equation. She was a politician, after all, and not without a natural wiliness.

He was glad when her reaction seemed to lack that level of cynicism.

“Rob made the same point,” she said. “I know I have him around for just that reason, but right now, I'm pretty sick of what's supposed to be right or wrong politically. I just know my heart's been broken, and I wanted to honor the reason why.” Her voice cracked as she added, “Joe, you've known me almost as long as she did. Both of you were there after I was raped. You know what it did to me—how I had to start from scratch. I don't want to forget that, and I sure as hell don't want to betray the vows I took—and that you both witnessed—to get where I am now.”

Joe let the air clear a moment before he said, “Then it sounds like you did the right thing. That's got to be a good feeling—even with all the hurt you're carrying.”

He could almost hear her mulling that over. “It is.” She then said, “Was that man the one who killed her, Joe?”

“I shouldn't say,” he told her honestly. “Except through so-called proper channels. But it's not looking good. That's not to be shared with anyone, okay? Act surprised when they break the news to you.”

“Okay,” she said. “But what does it mean?”

“More digging for us and probably more ducking questions by you. You're going to have your hands full with so many other things, though, that it probably won't matter. We are taking what happened in Newport as a clue, by the way, and not as a screwup, like they'll be saying in the papers. We have a feeling there was more to it, but that's all I want to say.”

“Sure, sure.”

“The people around you doing more than just handing out political advice?” he suddenly asked, despite his earlier instincts not to prolong the conversation. “You have anyone who actually cares about you?”

He was thinking of the near posse that Susan had kept by her side virtually around the clock, including people like Alice Drim, who'd come to Gail from Susan's entourage. “You have no support group nearby?” he asked. “Like Alice or Kayla?”

Gail sighed. “No, they're all here. Alice has been very sweet, but she's up to her neck raising money for the coming campaign. Plus, she's been having romantic problems. Kayla told me that Alice also has a brother or something in the hospital. Both of them are nice enough—I don't mean that—but they're young, distracted, and not as comfortable to be with as Susan was. It's just … not the same.”

Joe didn't respond.

“Thanks, Joe,” she finally said. “For listening. And everything else.”

“Anytime, Gail. Call whenever you want.”

He hit the Off button on the phone and gently laid it down.

“Oof,” Beverly said, stepping in from the next room, where she'd been keeping out of sight.

He tilted his head slightly and smiled at her. “Have I told you how happy I am we got together?”

 

CHAPTER TEN

Kunkle was taking his freelance assignment to heart, unconcerned that Joe had probably handed it out to keep the office loose cannon far from the media limelight. For one thing, Willy didn't care; for another, he agreed with the decision.

The man at the wheel of the car offered him a stick of gum.

Willy shook his head, his eyes on the motel across the parking lot.

In the driver's seat was Bob Crawford—not undercover tonight, but nevertheless ponytailed, bearded, with a tattoo on his neck and a single small hoop hanging from one earlobe. He led the Vermont Drug Task Force, a state police–run unit so established and effective that when the VBI was chartered, draining the state police's plainclothes ranks, no one had even considered challenging the task force's primacy. As Joe and Allard had urged at the time, it was good at its job and had been at it a long time. Why mess with success?

There were doubters. Other cops and a few politicians who thought that the task force had lost its edge through a lack of imagination and a rigidity of style. But Willy was not among them.

He also liked Bob Crawford, who probably wouldn't have survived in the state police if it hadn't been for this unit. The length of his hair and beard indicated how long it had been since he'd last worn a uniform. He'd resembled a biker for years by now, and while such single-mindedness wasn't truly the state police way, his bosses had realized that cutting a little slack was the only way to keep such an asset employed. Even better, by promoting him to lieutenant, they'd effectively made him the unit's leader—a convincing show of support.

“When you called,” Bob now said, his eyes straight ahead, “you said you were looking at how marijuana is being run nowadays. What're you working on? I just ask 'cause if it's drug-related, we're supposed to be inside the loop, given what we do.” He held up a hand to stop Willy from responding right off, adding, “But keep in mind that I know how you work. If this is just you being you, then this conversation never happened. I got that.”

Willy nodded, having just entered the car. They were in Brattleboro, which is why Bob had told him to come by. On any given night, Crawford could be anywhere in the state, watching out for the welfare of his multiple teams.

“Okay. Thanks,” Willy said, holding off on answering right away. “Who're you staking out tonight?” he asked instead.

His companion didn't mind. “Just documenting a buy. It's the bedrock of our business—knowing who's who and what they're up to.”

He paused to reach for a long-lensed camera as a car stopped in the motel's parking lot. A thin man in a hoodie got out and looked around. Crawford took a shot of the car and its license plate. He also murmured into his portable radio that he'd done so, hearing the reply over the earbud he had shoved into his left ear. Elsewhere in the darkness, members of his squad were in a van, running the audio and video equipment that was recording this transaction's every moment.

Willy stayed quiet as Crawford tracked the man walking over to the motel's exterior staircase and eventually climbing to the second floor.

“Come on,” Crawford urged softly, “pose for the camera.”

Almost on cue, as the man reached the balcony, he turned to check the parking lot again, exposing his face to the light—and Crawford's lens.

The camera fired. “Nice. You got real stage presence.”

“You know him?” Willy asked.

“One of our CIs. Solid guy, considering how he started. Used to be a real loser; he's one of our best now.”

The informant continued to the door they had under surveillance, knocked, waited a moment, and was caught in silhouette as the door opened and his profile was highlighted by the room's interior glow.

Crawford continued shooting as a second man filled the doorway, stepped out onto the balcony, also looked around, and then invited the newcomer in.

“Gee,” Willy commented with false amazement. “That's really subtle.”

“Doesn't have to be,” Crawford said. “The amount of this kind of activity, compared with the number of us that're out here tryin' to stop it? His chances of being caught are like one in fifteen thousand.”

Willy stared at him. “No shit.”

“No shit. We got this mope in our sights, so he'll be goin' down soon enough, but there are dozens like him who have about as much chance of being busted as I have of being hit by lightning.”

He reached again for the radio and asked, “Everything okay?” He disconnected the earphone so that Willy could hear the reply over the speaker.

“Right as rain,” came the response. “He's broadcasting loud and clear, and he should be comin' out now.”

True to form, the distant door reopened and the informant stepped back out onto the balcony, appearing as empty-handed as before.

“Light shopping day?” Willy asked.

Crawford chuckled, plugging into the radio again. “'Cause he's not carrying a grocery bag? This is not a weed buy. We don't give a shit about that anymore, unless you're talking pounds of the stuff. Nobody does.” He jutted out his chin toward the motel. “We're hitting this loser for smack.” He tapped the earphone with his fingertip. “And from what I heard, we just scored fifty bags.”

As they saw the skinny man return to his vehicle and drive away—around the corner to meet up with the task force van and hand over his wire and his heroin—Willy watched his colleague visibly relax. Bob Crawford had been at this long enough to sound casual and disengaged, but from Willy's own field experience, he knew that Bob's nerves had been on edge from the start.