The Company She Kept (24 page)

“And you told her…”

“I told her she was outta luck, that I'd given Maggie a phone number that didn't work anymore.”

Willy did one better than Sam, and sat beside Younger on his other side, so that his body was pressed up against him. The big man pulled himself together, trying to appear smaller.

“Don't give me that, Brandon,” Willy said, dragging out his name. “There is no way in hell she took that, said, ‘Thank you very much,' and walked out of here empty-handed. How'd you get her to leave?”

Younger hesitated, struggling to come up with something plausible. Willy leaned into him, his face inches from his ear. “We could've killed you back then. We can sure as shit throw you in the can for resisting arrest, attempting to escape, and assaulting two police officers, not to mention what we'll find when we toss this dump and discover what you've got for sale.”

“Oh, no,” Sammie added. “It's worse than that. He's directly tied to a homicide. His ass is ours.”

Younger began struggling to get up, which met with Sam pushing him back into place. “You can't do that. I only read about it in the paper. I didn't even
know
that broad.”

“So, tell us how the conversation ended,” Willy told him in a reasonable voice.

“I gave her a name,” Younger finally admitted.

“How'd that happen?”

“She told me she wanted to talk to the guy with the Indian belt buckle. Well, I know who that is. I mean, everybody does. That's like his calling card. They even call him The Indian. Kinda stupid, you ask me, but to each his own.”

“You're killin' me,” Willy almost whispered.

At last, he gave up the rest of it. “His name's Buddy Ames,” Brandon sighed.

*   *   *

Joe sat at his desk in Brattleboro, staring out the window, the falling snow drawing his attention with the mesmerizing appeal of a fire in a grate.

Sam stood before him, studying his profile, her emotions still sorting through the tangles of Brandon Younger's revelation. From a nonsanctioned side action with Willy in Rutland, urged on by the ghost of a ten-year-old failed covert operation, she'd become the bearer of what Joe had just enigmatically termed “the domino we needed”—a solid lead connecting Susan Raffner's last few hours with something that might explain how and why she'd died.

Joe's silence, however, had her worried. The light was fading, they were alone—Willy had gone home to Emma—and Sam had been hoping for her news to be met with actions and commands, or at least enough motion and noise to cover the unconventional nature of her information's journey to his ear.

But he was too experienced a cop to not consider precisely that, and therefore to ask, “What were you and Willy doing in Rutland?”

“Like I said, Maggie Kinnison set that going.”

“To a motel room with an overdose?”

She hesitated. “Stuey Nichols came up as a possible involvement. The girl's place was the best we could figure as his last known address.”

He kept staring at the snow. “So Willy then thought of Younger when the girl turned up dead.”

“Right.”

“And Younger in turn just gave you Buddy Ames.”

Joe swung around enough in his chair to fix her with an unblinking gaze.

She felt her face warm under the scrutiny. “Yeah—eventually. You know how it goes. Back and forth.”

“This was recorded?”

“No. Willy and I can both vouch for what was said, though. And it's in our written reports.”

“And Younger? What will he vouch?”

She swallowed hard. He could vouch, she thought, that we hit him, intimidated him verbally, and probably made what he told us inadmissible—if it ever reached court. Instead, she said, “He's cool. In exchange for what he told us, we let him walk on attempting to escape and assaulting a police officer.”

He looked at her for a couple of seconds in silence, their shared knowledge hanging between them of how often these types of encounters could quickly morph into something beyond a conversation. As boss and subordinate, mentor and acolyte, Joe and Sam had long walked a road lined with mutual respect, shared allegiance, interdependence, and even love.

Moments like this, simmering with unspoken truths, could take time to be absorbed through such layers of trust.

Time that Joe now mercifully brought to a close.

“Okay,” he said quietly, as if accepting not just her version of events, but—by having granted a risky player like Willy such independence to begin with—his own collusion in their retelling. “Let's see if we can find Buddy Ames.” He then smiled slightly and added, “Because regardless of what really happened between you and Brandon Younger, you two may have given us the kick-start we've been looking for.”

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Rutland Police Chief Peter Quayles was angular and hawk-nosed, with a penchant for moleskin trousers and tweed jackets. The look, combined with his British accent, made for a caricature of a 1940s Pinewood Studios actor. His actions and demeanor, however, spoke otherwise. The man was businesslike and direct, if a little flowery with his syntax. Joe was delighted he'd chosen not to invite Willy Kunkle to the meeting.

In fact, Joe had brought along only fresh faces—and certainly not the same two people who'd prowled around Quayles's building without introducing themselves.

Instead, it was reliable Lester Spinney who accompanied him into the chief's office, along with Bob Crawford, of the drug task force, with whom Quayles was comfortably familiar.

“VBI, eh?” Quayles said as he shook hands and bowed toward a cluster of chairs in the corner. “I've been hearing about you boys—and about you in particular, Special Agent Gunther. You are a highly respected man. Very flashy initialization, by the way—VBI. Does it earn you much respect?”

Joe was used to most variations on that comment. He tried deflecting with, “Most people think we deliver packages.”

“According to my man Bruce,” Quayles countered, his smile fading, “you recently helped to deliver a dead body.”

“We did discover one—sadly,” Joe readily admitted, wary of what their host thought of outsiders poaching on his territory.

But the chief surprised him by replying sympathetically, “Sadly is the word. Despite our attempts to address the ills of this beleaguered city, I remain staggered by its daily heartbreak. The poor woman had three children. Did you know that?”

Joe opted for playing it straight. “No. After my people briefed your response team, they took off. Jackie Nunzio had been mentioned as a conduit to another source, which obviously didn't pan out. I don't think they actually learned a great deal about her.”

“And yet”—Quayles looked him straight in the eyes—“here you are again.”

Joe nodded. “Yes. The other source turned out to be Buddy Ames—otherwise known as The Indian. That sent us full circle, back to Rutland.”

Again, the chief shifted moods, his expression creasing into a broad smile. “Indeed. Thanks so much for sending us his name.” Quayles reached out with one long arm and retrieved a file from his nearby desktop. “Bruce tells me that Buddy has quite the history around town. Bit of a swaggering brute, from what little I read—complete with that belt buckle trademark.”

He switched his gaze to Crawford, who was there mostly to smooth out this initial meeting, being a trusted ally to both parties. “You are acquainted with Mr. Ames, Bob?”

“Historically, yes,” Bob replied. “Not lately, though. Has the PD had any recent dealings with him?”

“Not according to this.” Quayles hefted the file before replacing it on his desk. “But,” he continued, “inferring from your presence here, he may be facing some new entries, is that correct?”

Joe waggled his hand from side to side. “Maybe. Maybe not. First, we just want to find him.”

“Concerning Susan Raffner?” Quayles almost interrupted. He laughed at his own cleverness, and filled in, “Hardly Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Gunther. You are the VBI's field force commander. Why else would you be slumming on my patch rather than pursuing the senator's murderer?”

“We don't have a direct tie-in between Ames and her death,” Joe quickly clarified. “But his name came up in a way that's giving us hope.”

“Very carefully put,” Quayles complimented him. “Can you tell me what to expect in terms of what they call blowback? The Raffner investigation could no longer be called low-key by even the wildest imagination. As soon as word leaks out that you're in Rutland, I'll be receiving phone calls.”

Joe and Crawford glanced at each other.

“Ames has never been violent in our experience,” Bob said, only indirectly addressing the chief's concern.

“All the same,” Joe added more expansively. “The common thread between Raffner and Ames is drugs—specifically marijuana.”

“Really?” Quayles reacted, startled.

“Yes, but it should be stressed that we have no idea where this might lead, if anywhere. To be safe, you might want to appoint someone as a liaison to keep us from stepping on any toes, and maybe to help us with local intelligence. From what I was told about your RutStat program, you have quite a finger on the city's pulse.”

Quayles laughed again. “Flattery will get you everything. Well, if you know about RutStat, then you probably also know that I prefer an all-inclusive form of management. We have invited several federal agencies to stretch their muscles down here in the past, and Bob will attest to our being open to his task force operating in town when they need to. I only ask that if any actions are contemplated that might alienate the local citizenry and imperil our community policing efforts, I be advised. Is that acceptable?”

“Of course,” Joe replied immediately.

Peter Quayles crossed his legs and steepled his fingers before him as he concluded, “If, in exchange for my support and cooperation, a few kind words could be dropped into Governor Zigman's ear, I would be extremely grateful. I hope that's not too forward of me. She has not hesitated to make Rutland the state's poster child for drug-related misfortune, and yet financial or even logistical support has been thin.”

Initially, Joe was struck by the almost oily suggestiveness of the comment. But in fact, it was a practical request. If this man was as devoted to his cause as he claimed to be, could he be faulted for using every avenue available?

“I'll do my best,” Joe promised him.

*   *   *

Willy stepped into the VBI office on the Brattleboro municipal building's second floor and looked around, stamping his feet free of residual snow.

“You could do that in the lobby,” Sammie suggested from her desk.

Willy ignored her. “The boss around?”

“He and Lester're in Rutland, rubbing noses with the chief there. Why? You got something?”

Willy hung his coat on a hook near the door with a well-practiced gesture. He reached into his pants pocket and waved a small piece of paper at her.

“Remember those two phone numbers I photographed at Jackie Nunzio's?” he asked.

“Yeah. Did Lester kick something back?”

Willy made himself comfortable behind his desk, which he'd positioned to face the rest of the room in instinctively paranoid fashion. “Never sent 'em to him,” he replied.

She wasn't surprised. That, too, fit the man's style—never show your cards if you can avoid it. Even—or sometimes especially—to your own colleagues. She sighed inwardly, the anxiety that had lessened when she'd mostly come clean with Joe earlier returned as a twinge of dread. What the hell had Willy done now?

“Okay,” she said suggestively.

He tilted his head and smiled. “Well, you know. Don't give away what you got till you know what it is, right? That's my motto.”

“Really,” she said sardonically. “I had no idea. So, what's on the piece of paper?”

He was going to milk this a little more, enjoying himself for no reason she could ascertain. “I know Lester's got his magical websites and all, but it wasn't rocket surgery to figure that the numbers were related to drugs somehow.”

“Rocket surgery?” He had made her smile with that one.

“I got in touch with a pal of mine at Homeland Security,” he continued. “A sort of under-the-table request. He ran both numbers. I chose HSI over DEA 'cause I like 'em better, but also 'cause they're getting all the funding and most of the toys lately. Anyhow, the opening news flash was hardly earth shattering: Both numbers are disconnected. But it turns out that the feds, with all their snooping hardware, keep an archive of old drop phone numbers. Christ knows why. But he called me back after a bit and said that while one of the numbers was a dud, the other had once been associated with your old sweetheart, Manuel Ruiz.”

Despite her best efforts, Sammie's face flushed. “You can't help yourself, can you?”

He laughed. “Relax. You're the only one who carries around that ancient baggage. No one else cares.”

She left it there, grateful for his evident lack of interest.

“It got me wondering about what old Manny was up to, which Bob Crawford hit on the head—the man's turned into a big wheel. You trained him well.”

Sam became genuinely curious. “Bob talked about how the business had stopped being so top-down—that the previous underlings were now moving and shaking. Is that where Ruiz fits in?”

“Not exactly,” Willy said. “Those were mostly New York guys. Manny is still operating out of Holyoke, for some reason, maybe because of Hispanic traditions, or family, or who-the-hell knows. He's still pretty old-school. Again—supposedly. But you're probably not gonna see him around Rutland anymore.”

“Meaning what?”

“He's an executive nowadays. Money's his thing. Never touches the dope. Did he dabble in the product when you worked with him?”