The Company She Kept (22 page)

“So I grab you, I shove you in the trunk of your own car, and I drive you to the cliff…” Joe interrupted himself.

“What?” she asked.

“That's not right,” he explained. “Susan was grabbed and transported in her own car, but the tire tracks belonged to something like a pickup truck.”

“A vehicle swap,” Beverly said.

“Right, which possibly means another person was involved.”

“Or the killer just used the Prius to drive to the truck, possibly killed her at that point—perhaps because of the lack of a containment area like the Prius's dog cage—and then drove to the cliff in the truck. Of course, for that to work, the truck had to have been parked at the junkyard.”

“True. But why use the Prius at all?” Joe asked, rubbing his forehead in frustration.

Beverly remained silent.

“They must've been together beforehand,” Joe said tentatively. “Maybe carpooling.”

“In
Susan's
car,” Beverly emphasized.

“And then pinning it all on Nate Fellows,” Joe said softly.

She remained silent, waiting.

He slipped an arm around her shoulders to draw her closer. “Okay—there's a big ‘if' here—if we're right that Nate was framed, the killer would've had to have known him, or at least about him in some way. He knew where Nate lived, and he knew about Nate's prejudice.”

“If that's correct,” Beverly said, “then connecting the dots gets a little easier, mathematically speaking.”

“But,” Joe countered, “where
is
the connection between Susan, her murderer, and Nate? State politics? Some activist forum or protest group? A newspaper article referencing Susan and hate crimes? A drug angle? A large quantity of marijuana was found at her place.”

Beverly snuggled up to him. “You'll get it,” she said comfortingly. “You just need that first domino tile to tip over to start a pattern running.”

But he was having his doubts.

*   *   *

The motel that Bruce Steinmetz sent them to was a sad blemish lining one of the major approaches to Rutland, flanked by a familiarly numbing succession of gas stations, restaurants, and convenience stores. It was barely a motel at all, having taken on the more profitable and less demanding role of a way station for welfare recipients—individuals or families tangled up in the system, and needing housing “temporarily.”

Willy drove them across the marginally snowplowed parking lot, edging by a few cars that hadn't been moved in months—and were planted like empty, ice-slabbed igloos along the fringes of the central driveway.

“Cheery place,” he commented, glancing up at the low, dark, snow-clotted clouds whose arrival forecasters had been anticipating for days.

He nosed the car into a slot opposite the reception sign and killed the engine. “Time to meet the woman in Stuey's life,” he said sourly. “This should be a treat.”

They both swung out and entered a lobby that—had they actually been searching for overnight accommodations—would have made them feel that they'd stepped into a chain-saw murder movie.

“What?” asked a short bearded man from behind a cash register.

Willy sidled up to the counter. “That your version of ‘Welcome. How may I help you?' Jesus, man, you need inspiration.”

The man's face was unchanged. “What I need is a break from jerks like you. What d'you want?”

Willy revealed his badge. The man snorted. “I knew you were cops before you got out of your car. I see you people more than I see my tenants. Who're you after?”

“Jackie Nunzio,” Sammie told him, impressed that he hadn't even glanced at the badge, much less asked which department or agency employed them.

“Twenty-four,” he said instantly. “Second floor. That way.” He pointed behind them.

Willy reached into his pocket and pulled out a mug shot of Stuey Nichols. He was about to show it to the counterman when the latter stepped back, waving both pudgy hands. “No, no, no. Do what you gotta do, but I ain't lookin' at no pictures. People come, people go. I don't give a fuck who they are.”

Willy replaced the photo and said in a sweet voice, “Thank you for your courtesy, then. Do you have a feedback card I can fill out, to let your bosses know what a great job you're doing?”

The man gave him a pitying look. “Have a nice day.”

The balcony servicing the second floor was crusty with frozen snow, plastic bags of garbage, and a few scattered chairs, toys, and personal belongings. Sam and Willy picked their way with care, hearing—behind a procession of closed doors—a series of muffled arguments, crying children, blaring TVs, and the occasional instance of almost ominous dead silence. The latter was what they found at door number twenty-four.

Sammie knocked loudly. “Jackie?”

There was no response.

She tried again. The next door down the line opened and a woman with hair dyed bright red stuck her head out.

“Who're you after?”

Willy was about to answer when Sam cut in, not interested in a repeat exchange of attitudes. “Jackie Nunzio.”

“She's there,” the woman said. “Maybe in the bathroom.”

“Thank you so much,” Willy said.

The woman glared at him. “Whatever.” She slammed her door shut.

Willy made a face and crossed to the window beside the door, cupping his good hand on the glass to shield his eyes from the daylight.

“She's down,” he said, and reached for the doorknob.

Sam understood instantly and pulled her weapon as Willy pushed open the unlocked door and stood aside to draw his own gun. The two of them swept inside and spread out against the inner wall.

Before them was the body of a motionless woman, facedown on the floor at the foot of an unmade bed. The room was a shambles of things dropped without thought. It smelled of unwashed humanity, hopeless endeavor, and poverty.

And of death. A small pool of bloody purge fanned out across the cheap carpeting from beneath the woman's flattened cheek.

Willy gestured to Sam to proceed as he kept his back against the wall and covered the room—a well-trained team with plenty of past practice. She silently skirted the body, approached the bathroom, and cautiously checked it out.

“We're alone,” she announced in a calm voice.

Willy reached behind him and gently closed the door. “Bed?” he asked quietly.

She squatted to look. “It's on a pedestal. No room to hide underneath.”

She straightened as they both holstered their guns and looked around.

“No obvious signs of violence,” Sammie said, not moving.

Willy also kept his ground, not wanting to contaminate the scene any more than necessary to secure it. “In the corner, hanging from the hook, men's jeans?”

She followed his look. “I'd say so, plus, there're items on both night tables—his and hers.”

“Kids, too,” he said. “At least a boy and a girl, judging from the toys and clothes.”

She checked her watch. “School should be out, but who knows? Could be at day care, DCF, a special after-school program, or a half-dozen other things.”

Willy broke ranks and began walking across the room, picking each step carefully, heading toward the near side of the bed. “Assuming the male of this tribe is our pal Stuey, he maybe left something interesting in his side drawer. I'm sure he'd want us to have it before we call the cops on this. Protect his privacy, you know?”

She barely shook her head, smiling as she did—his obliging straight man. “I'm sure he'd appreciate it.”

Willy crouched by the night table and eased the drawer open with his pen after taking inventory of the ashtray and scattered belongings under the bolted-down lamp. For her part, Sammie straddled the dead body and compared the face pressed into the carpeting with the printout from Bruce Steinmetz.

“It's definitely Jackie Nunzio,” she said, “and the blood's from her mouth. She's been here long enough to decomp—a day or more.”

“That much, I could smell,” Willy said, before pulling on a latex glove with his teeth. “There're about six empty bags of what looks like heroin here on the table, and a couple more on the floor. She could've overdosed.”

Sammie was still looking, without actually touching the body. “That's what it looks like. Her arm's a mess. You can totally tell she was right-handed from the track marks, and there's a syringe half hidden under her torso.”

Willy turned toward her, a scrap of paper in his fingers. “Two phone numbers, one with a Massachusetts area code.”

Sam got out her cell phone and tossed it onto the unmade bed near him. “Take a picture. If they're not burner phones, maybe Lester can tell us who they belong to through that super-snooper reverse finder program he got from the feds.”

Willy flattened the piece of paper out and positioned her smartphone over it, saying, “Guess we better call the locals. Don't want the desk clerk saying we spent half an hour up here before blowing the whistle.”

“What about Stuey?” Sammie asked.

Willy gave her an all-too-familiar look. “I think I have a plan B for him.”

*   *   *

Gail gave a final wave to the cheering group at the curb and climbed into the back of her van, waiting for the door to slide shut and the tinted windows to block the view before tilting her head back and moaning, “My head's about to explode. Who's got some aspirin?”

Alice immediately stuck out her hand, two pills cradled in her palm. “I thought I saw that look on your face,” she said sympathetically.

The van had been rigged out as a mobile office, with two captain's chairs facing the back bench. As Gail reached for the aspirin, she noticed that her usual entourage of a security driver, Alice, and Kayla Robinson had been joined by a fourth woman of distinctly urban, tailored appearance.

“Governor,” Kayla said. “This is Maureen Bentsen, of the…”

Gail swung around to shake hands, ignoring the pills. “I know who you are, Maureen. I wasn't expecting you until later—it's so early in the campaign. I am truly honored by your interest in us.”

Bentsen represented a group of Washington, D.C., political consultants, with a special interest in gay and lesbian issues. She had approached the campaign just two days earlier, asking if she might be of service.

Bentsen shook hands but then indicated Alice's offering, as the van pulled into traffic. “The honor is mine, Governor, but please take your pills. I know what it feels like to be under such pressure.”

She continued speaking as Gail reached for a water bottle. “I'm sorry to drop in so unexpectedly, but things worked out that I could get here sooner than I thought.”

“No, no,” Gail countered, wiping her lips. “I'm delighted to see you. You're doing us a real favor here, so please—no apologies. How do you think we're doing? If that's not too abrupt?”

Bentsen laughed, her eyes remaining watchful. “I think I can be of some help, if that's your question. Which isn't to say that you're not doing a great job so far.”

“For a rookie out of her depths?” Gail asked.

“Not a rookie,” Bentsen differed. “Maybe a renegade, which can be good or bad. You are certainly in unknown waters since your announcement at Susan Raffner's memorial.”

Gail nodded. “Point taken. I have been surprised at the variety of outside…” She hesitated.

“Offerings,” Kayla diplomatically suggested.

Maureen Bentsen nodded wistfully. “Ah, yes. Nothing to beat this for getting all vested interests and almost every nut job to express an opinion. I heard that Ellen DeGeneres reached out, speaking of the good guys?”

“And
The Daily Show
people, along with a couple of Boston talking heads,” Gail confirmed.

“There'll be more.” Here Bentsen looked at Kayla. “Those two are obviously fine, but I recommend you tread carefully as the offers mount up—which they will. By accepting too much visibility, I guarantee that you'll be accused of thinking beyond the governorship and aspiring to greater office. Which could cost you the election. It points out the real need for you and your staff to absolutely focus on your constituents—especially in independent Vermont.”

She switched her attenton to Alice, who was sitting in one of the captain's chairs. “How's the money coming in?”

Alice looked slightly ill at ease. “I'm so sorry I don't have the figures right here. I wasn't expecting you. But, as I told the governor a couple of days ago, we're right at the million-dollar level.”

“Any noticeable change since the memorial?”

“Not really.”

“What's that mean?” Gail asked.

“It's not surprising,” Bentsen told them. “People vote with their wallets as much as with their ballots. What you've done is being seen by your base as brave and honest and worthy of support, but there are plenty of others who are less enthusiastic. The plus side is that your numbers are good, meaning that the respect you earned from past leadership will hold back the resentment or fear or whatever it is that turns people against gays.”

Bentsen shifted slightly in her seat to better address Gail directly. “I need to ask you a personal question, along those lines, and—believe me—it is relevant, given the circumstances.”

Gail looked at the others in the vehicle. “I trust Alice and Kayla implicitly,” she said. “Ask away.”

Bentsen nodded once. “Okay. How are you dealing with the death of your best friend? You came out as a lesbian after her murder. Not as a bisexual, but a lesbian, despite a long history of heterosexual relationships. People are going to connect the two and challenge your motivations.”

“What are you asking?”

“What you've done is make a commitment. It's caused a lot of people, including my organization, to lend you support, give you publicity, and contribute money. And this is just the beginning.” She gestured to the aspirin bottle. “But it's going to make your current headaches seem trivial in comparison, because the opposition hasn't even warmed up. What I'm asking is whether you've looked long and hard into your soul about what you're doing.”