Three Can Keep a Secret (10 page)

Gorden Marshall was currently residing as far away from the rest of the facility as geography and architecture would allow. Eastridge's guide took Joe and Lester on an impressive hike through the complex's nether reaches until they arrived at last at a large refrigerated room to the rear of the terminal care unit
—
and one door shy of the loading dock.

"Kind of says it all, don't it?" Spinney said appreciatively, looking around. "The high-end, industrial-housing version of ashes to ashes."

Joe didn't challenge him there, and headed to the one shrouded occupant of the room, now adorning a steel gurney and draped with a white sheet. On the way, he thanked their Sherpa and promised to find their own way back
—
although how, he wasn't exactly sure.

He peeled off the sheet and folded it neatly, revealing a white-haired, oddly angry-looking man dressed in a pair of pajamas.

"Whoa," Lester said, drawing near. "Not a man to piss off, even now. Want me to poke him with a stick first?"

Joe shook his head, but with a slight smile. "Who wound you up this morning?"

Lester didn't answer, bending over to better scrutinize Marshall's face. "He doesn't look all that different from how he did in the old newspaper photo. Just older."

Joe agreed. He reached for a convenient dispenser of latex gloves and sheathed his hands in electric blue rubber. Lester did likewise, in case Joe needed help.

"What're we looking for?" he asked, positioning himself on the other side of the gurney.

Joe barely murmured, "Don't know yet," as he unbuttoned the pajama jacket.

It was cold in the room, but the body had obviously begun cooling before being moved here. The limbs and jaw were stiff, the anterior part of the body pale and its posterior mottled with pooled and congealed blood. Joe pressed his thumb firmly into a section of dark red skin and saw no blanching, indicating that livor mortis had already set in. On TV, fictional pathologists were always setting the time of death as if it were stamped on the body's forehead. Joe and Lester knew better. Time of death was an elusive standard, camouflaged by the whims of temperature and circumstance, among others, and best established by someone reliable having seen the person die. Nevertheless, estimates could be reasonably assumed, as Joe demonstrated by saying, "Well, he didn't die ten minutes ago."

Lester glanced at his watch, taking a more serious stab at it. "Last night sometime? The pj's suggest after he went to bed. If we find his sheets messed up when we check his apartment, that would support it."

"He could've been a Hugh Hefner fan," Joe said distractedly, his face inches above the body and his hands running along the man's arms, checking for defects or abnormalities. He studied the fingernails for any signs of a struggle. Lester started doing the same thing from his side.

Slowly, they proceeded from scalp to toes, sometimes comparing notes, scrutinizing the body's anatomy inch by inch and then flipping it over carefully to do the same along the discolored dorsal side.

Finally, not having found anything out of place, they returned Marshall to his original position, and Joe moved to his face. There, he delicately lifted up an eyelid.

"Any petechial hemorrhaging?" Lester asked, inquiring after the tiny blood bursts that often accompanied strangulation or asphyxia.

Joe shook his head. "Nope. It's not always there, though."

His fingers felt at the lips, barely working to pry them open. But they were frozen shut, by rigor and the bonding effect of dried saliva, and he desisted immediately, muttering, "I'll let the ME mess with that."

"We're definitely going for an autopsy?"

Joe looked up. "The guy dies just as we're about to interview him? I don't care if he was diagnosed with triple cancer. That's a coincidence I want looked at. Besides, after what it took to convince Roger Carbine, I'm not about to back down now. He was already wary of messing with a famous ex-politician, complete with a doc standing by, ready to sign a death certificate."

There was a knock at the door, and a uniformed police officer with sergeant's stripes walked in, looking irritated. "There you are. We heard you hit the premises an hour ago."

Joe walked up to him, stripping off his gloves and extending a hand in greeting, which the other man had to accept.

"I am so sorry, Sergeant
—
" Joe quickly checked the man's name tag. "— Carrier. That was unprofessional and uncalled for. Got carried away when I heard the body was still here." He stepped aside to introduce Lester. "This is Lester Spinney. I get like a dog with a bone. The apartment okay, by the way?"

Carrier was unimpressed by the apology. His mouth curled as he said, "Wouldn't know. Your colleague on the phone made it pretty clear there was no search warrant yet and we were to bar the door and not mess up the playground. You might tell her to brush up on her manners if you expect any help in the future."

Joe could feel Spinney tensing beside him. For all Lester's joking around, he was a loyalist, and perfectly ready to defend the unit's honor.

"We're flying on instinct here," Joe tried mollifying Carrier. "Not on hard evidence. But consider the odds: We're running an interview on the far side of the state, this guy's name comes up
—
out of the blue
—
and I immediately get notified that he's dead. I don't know about you, but I had to check it out. We're all working on so little sleep by now
—
just like you guys
—
that we're getting a little punchy. No offense intended."

Joe paused for half a breath and asked, "How bad did Irene hammer you?"

Carrier paused, caught off guard. "Bad enough
—
like everybody, I guess."

"Yeah. We're based out of the Brattleboro-Wilmington area," Joe said.

The reference to Wilmington softened the sergeant's demeanor, even though Joe hadn't actually been to the town.

"Shit," Carrier said sympathetically. "What's left of it?"

"Not much," Joe stated vaguely. "They pretty much got clocked. The whole downtown."

"Yeah. I saw the footage on YouTube. Amazing."

Joe took advantage to pat Carrier's upper arm lightly, as a peace gesture. "Anyhow, I do apologize. None of us needed a death investigation, and you sure as hell didn't need us getting under your skin."

Carrier took the hint and moved on, casting a glance at the exposed body. "You find anything?"

Joe raised an eyebrow. "Wish I knew. We'll send him up for a closer look, but nothing obvious so far. You want to help me with the apartment? I'll get a team up here later, but I'd love to take a quick look-see. We got permission from the next of kin."

Carrier hardly jumped with joy, but he did give a grudging nod. "I suppose. Sure."

Gail Zigman lived in a condominium overlooking Montpelier. It was a nice place, modern, with two floors, three bedrooms, and two full baths
—
part of a complex stretching out to either side. All the units had views of the capitol building's shimmering gold dome, the crooked Winooski River
—
now looking benign despite its savagery earlier
—
and the town's scattering of lights, cradled in the valley's lowlands, as if delivered by an avalanche of lightbulbs from the surrounding hills.

Of course, there was security
—
plainclothed state troopers placed inconspicuously about. The neighbors only appreciated the extra protection and enjoyed the fact that their governor lived among them.

Gail did live alone, however, as she had ever since winning one of the more bitter gubernatorial contests in recent history. She'd had a lawyer companion before then, complete with a BMW, who'd looked good on her arm and performed adequately in bed. But he'd become a casualty of practical thinking and her career, along with a rueful, late-blooming realization that she was less sentimental than she'd previously believed.

She could admit that now, much as she might have denied it earlier. And as she sat alone in the darkness of her spare and immaculate home, sipping wine in the comfort of a Marcel Breuer Wassily armchair and facing the darkened panorama through a wall-to-ceiling picture window, she could also admit that it wasn't the rape that was to blame, or her breakup with Joe. More fundamentally, despite occasionally expressing a degree of self-pity, she'd come to accept that she alone had abandoned her early communal life, not ever wanted a child, avoided settling down with Joe, and grown tired of being a local municipal politician. She had a hardness within her, she'd realized, mixed with a drive that the rape might have laid bare, but which had been hard-wired within her all along.

The doorbell rang, and she reluctantly rose from her clifflike aerie, in exchange for the gloom near the front door. It was almost midnight, she'd been up since six, and yet she approached whoever this was with more curiosity than irritation. A late-night encounter was as good a way to wrap up the day as staring into the darkness.

Still, she was pleasantly surprised at who was standing before her and happily gave the thumbs-up to the cop a half step behind Susan Raffner.

She hugged her old friend in the darkness and reached for the hallway light switch, offering to fix something for Susan to drink, but Raffner stopped her by laying her hand on her forearm. "No. Leave it dark. I like it. It's kind of wonderful."

Gail turned in the direction of Susan's gaze and saw that she'd noticed the view filling the far end of the distant living room, whose faint glitter touched the pale walls even back here.

"I've got a bottle of wine open," Gail suggested, taking Susan's hand.

"That would be perfect."

They walked together into the lofty space, and Raffner sat as at a stage play before the wall-to-wall scene while Gail fetched another glass.

Susan let out a sigh and toed off her shoes, one by one, enjoying the massage of the thick carpeting on her soles.

Gail resumed her seat and filled the glass before handing it over. "Tough day?"

Susan took a sip. "Interesting," she said afterwards. "I know we're not supposed to gloat or poke a stick at others' misfortunes, but I think, so far, that we're doing better with this mess than they did with Katrina in Louisiana."

Gail snorted. "Well, yeah. We had three deaths and have just over half a million people in the whole state. What's Louisiana got? Four and a half million? Plus, they got an ocean surge on top of the rain."

Susan took a second sip, unruffled. "You know what I mean. Pat yourself on the back, girl. You've been out in the towns, standing in the muck, talking to people in food lines, you've been shown meeting with FEMA and the Corps of Engineers. You're like the goddamn Energizer Bunny. That's good stuff, and you know it. And we've been just as good in our districts"
—
she pointed out the window
—
"working the phones and backing you up. There's no shame in taking pride in work well done."

In response, Gail simply held up her glass so that Susan could clink it against her own.

After they'd both taken swallows, however, Gail asked, "So that's it? Rah-rah for the home team?"

"That's a bad thing?"

"It's not why you're here at midnight."

Raffner's initial silence confirmed Gail's suspicion. "Well," Susan admitted, "I have been approached with something I think you'll find interesting."

"Like a snake in the grass?"

She made a face, which Gail could not have seen. "I hope not. I'm seeing this as a good thing."

Gail twisted in her chair and faced Susan's profile, attracted by something in the tone of her voice
—
a form of powerfully suppressed excitement that she'd heard only on rare occasions. "You have my interest, Senator."

Susan turned toward her, the lights outside gleaming in her eyes. "Catamount Industrial," she said. "You know about them?"

"Of course. Vermont's own fairy tale." Gail reacted slightly scornfully. "The exception that proved the rule. The founder started out as a tinkerer, began with . . . what was it? Surplus machine tools after the bottom fell out in places like Springfield? He traded that into equipment to run everything from stone quarries to ski slope operations, then branched out into farm machinery, agriculture, banking, God knows what else, before selling out to the second or third-biggest agri-corporation in the country for . . . whatever ... a zillion dollars? I miss anything?"

Susan had been nodding in agreement throughout. "Harold LeMieur," she confirmed. "On the financial high end of the national food chain, born and bred in good-old-Vermont, although he hasn't lived here in decades."

"And who's had nothing to do with us, either, if memory serves," Gail concluded dismissively. "Which is one reason I was told not to waste my time hitting him up for support. Not to mention that he's a right-wing poster child."

Susan was laughing by now. "That's the man."

Gail smiled, caught by Susan's mood. "So, why're we talking about him?"

"Because," Susan said almost gleefully, "if this works out, it'll be the exact opposite of George Bush's 'Hell of a job, Brownie' boner following Katrina. I've been contacted by LeMieur's people, who say he's interested in working with you in creating what they're calling a para-FEMA."

Gail held up her hand. "He's not one of ours, Susan."

"That's the point," Raffner exclaimed. "He wants to do this for Vermont, not us, and he's willing to work with whoever to get it done, even a bunch of liberal wackos. Which is the best part of it, you see? If it works, it'll undermine the whole right-left paradigm we've been fighting for years."

Gail scratched her head. "It doesn't make sense," she said. "What does LeMieur get out of it? He's never done anything that wasn't to his own advantage."

"That's what I asked," Susan argued. "And they said that's exactly why
—
as he's aged, he's become haunted by his own ogre image. Like what happened to John D. Rockefeller when he got old. He started donating money, handing out dimes to kids, and conning people into thinking he'd become a nice, doddering, generous old man. Totally bogus, of course, but what do we care if you get to stand up at the end of the day and say that under your administration, even the likes of Irene can be tamed through bipartisan cooperation?"

Gail laughed and took another sip of her wine. "Okay," she then said. "Assuming this isn't a total crock to make us look like fools, what's he mean by para-FEMA?"

"In short? His organization would operate as a super-low-interest bank, paralleling FEMA. Applicants to the U.S. government would get whatever money FEMA doles out, then Catamount would show up and handle what fell through the cracks or came up short. It would function as a safety net for people FEMA didn't completely take care of, or who didn't qualify in the first place for some reason."

"They'd be loans?" Gail asked suspiciously.

"Structured as such for those who could afford them. Otherwise, they'd be grants. It would work on a case-by-case basis."

Gail resumed staring out the window, deep in thought. It was a political reality that garbage strikes and snowstorms got politicians thrown out of office
—
or tropical storms. Her poll numbers had begun high, based on her covering the state like a wet sheet and showing up wherever there was a TV camera. But people standing next to the wreckage of their town and homes were beginning to complain about the lack of money, the slowness of road and bridge repair, and how she'd been acting to set things right.

Political storm clouds were gathering. And certainly, the essence of what Susan had just outlined seemed like a sudden shaft of sunlight.

"Is LeMieur open to sharing the stage?" she asked slowly. "If I used his offer to get places like IBM or Ben and Jerry's or C and S to chip in as well, would that be a deal-breaker?"

Susan remained undaunted. "I wanted to know the same thing. They made it clear that he'd like special mention for starting things rolling, but after that, sure. He'd let whoever pulled out a checkbook step onstage with him."

Gail shook her head. "And he's ready to act now? Immediately?"

"That's what they told me," Susan assured her. "Of course, none of it can happen if the state drags its feet. It's not like Catamount could simply set up shop independently. All sorts of special allowances are going to have to be cranked out to make it legal. And you'll have to be out front through it all, goading, leading, blackmailing
—
whatever it takes to make it happen."

"Right, right," Gail replied, and faced her mentor one last time. "Okay, Susan. Call them back and take the next step, but on tiptoes. Word of this gets out prematurely, we'll have so much shit on our shoes, we won't be able to move. What you've brought me is right up there with jumping out of an airplane and only hoping you've got a parachute." She slid halfway out of her chair to put her face inches from Raffner's. "We are fucked if this fails," she said.

Susan smiled, if grimly. "It won't, Gail. This is how people like us get things done. Boldly, not stupidly. I will shepherd this like it was my firstborn."

Gail smiled suddenly and kissed Raffher's cheek quickly. "Go get 'em, girl. I'll be holding my breath."

There was a pecking order of residences at The Woods of Windsor, starting with quarter-million-dollar efficiencies with no view, and culminating with segregated duplexes built apart from the madding crowd, lined up on a ridge overlooking the fields and hills of Vermont's horse country. Surprisingly to Joe, the late Gorden Marshall's apartment was not among the latter. The place that Sergeant Carrier led them to was fancy and spacious, but located alongside a string of similar apartments on the top floor of one of the complex's larger buildings. Either Marshall's resources had their limits, or his Vermont-born sense of decorum had overruled them.

To give Carrier credit, he'd positioned a single officer at the door, and made sure that, unlike himself, he was in plainclothes. Of course, he was also young, fit, uncomfortable in a tie, and sporting a high-and tight haircut. He had "cop" stamped all over him. But the effort had been made, and Joe mentioned it as they approached, complimenting his counterpart.

Carrier merely jutted his chin down the long hallway, to where an elderly man had just rounded the corner. "You'll be eating those words in thirty seconds," he said dourly. "That's one of the board members. You'll love him."

Joe was already watching the grim expression approaching them, imagining it atop a younger man in a suit, fifteen years earlier, striding toward some stockholders' meeting with fire in his belly.

"Swell," he said gently as the three cops came to a halt at the door.

The old bulldog stopped three feet shy of them and took them in with a withering glare. Joe noticed a small glob of humanizing spittle parked on his lip, along with the fact that his morning's shave had been a little haphazard. The last few years had been taking a toll.

"Who's in charge here?" he asked without preamble.

Carrier looked to Joe and made a small hand gesture of introduction.

Joe nodded and said, "Guess that's me. Special Agent Joe Gunther, of the Vermont Bureau of Investigation. This is Special Agent Spinney. I think you know Sergeant Carrier." He took in the young man by the door and added, "And this is one of his colleagues, whom
—
"

But at that point, the retired captain of industry had reached his fill. "I don't care about that. I want to know what the hell is going on."

"Sure," Joe said pleasantly. "And you are?"

"Graham Dee," the man answered. "I represent the board."

"They sent you?" Joe asked.

Dee's eyes narrowed. "I'm acting on their behalf."

Joe pulled out his notepad and clicked his pen, preparing to write. "So therefore an official representative? You're speaking for them?"

Dee's face flushed angrily. "That has nothing to do with the price of eggs," he snarled. "I demand to know what's going on.

"As well you should," Joe agreed pleasantly, closing his pad. "I tell you what. In the interests of efficiency, and since we've just spent a fair amount of time bringing Hannah Eastridge up to speed, I recommend you speak with her first. That way, we'll all be on the same page when we compare notes later."

Ignoring the rest of Dee's bluster, Joe motioned to the young officer, who quickly opened the door so they could file in. Dee made to follow them, but Joe turned on the threshold, the edge of the door in his hand. "Mr. Dee, until we clear the scene, I'm afraid this apartment will have to stay closed to the public. I look forward to chatting later."

With that, he shut the door, cutting Dee off in mid-sentence.

Carrier had a wide smile on his face. "Nice, Agent Gunther."

Joe laughed. "Joe. And I'm sure that'll cost me a pound of flesh later." He looked beyond their tightly packed huddle. They were standing in a kitchenette that led into a spacious, sun-filled living room.

"Sergeant," he began, "you know some of the players around here, like the charming Mr. Dee. What can you tell us so we'll get out of your hair as soon as possible?"

Carrier smiled slightly at the acknowledgments. "My name's Rick, and to be honest, I'm just as happy you guys are here. I hate dealing with these people." Without stepping into the living room, he began pointing out what features of the apartment they could see. This wasn't an official crime scene
—
yet
—
and the police guard had been put in place after several people came and went, no doubt tracking minute traces of evidence in and out, but Carrier had gotten the message nevertheless: Treat this as a secure area until informed otherwise.

"Like you probably heard," he said, "Marshall missed his morning get-together with some pals. One of them phoned, got no answer, tried the door, found it locked, and called for help. That's one thing you can say about this outfit
—
they take care of their own. Internal EMS responded from downstairs
—
no ambulance or 911 call
—
and they declared him dead right here. They wrapped him up, stripped the bed, transported him downstairs, locked the door again, and called the family. The doc who runs the medical wing said it was a natural, filled out the death certificate, and until you guys called us, we had no clue what might have happened."

"But you've got one now," Joe suggested.

"Not really," Carrier countered. "We got what I just told you. And I gotta say, I don't see much to this." He waved an arm before them. "I mean, look at it. The guy was found in bed, no signs of disruption, the door was locked, and not a mark on him, unless you found something."

He looked at Joe expectantly, who confessed, "Not yet. The autopsy might."

"Plus," Carrier went on, "from what I was told, he was a medical time bomb
—
bad heart, bad lungs, used a walker, was on all sorts of meds. One of the nurses I'm friendly with even said they were trying to get him moved permanently to the medical wing 'cause they knew he'd only be getting worse."

He left it at that, lapsing into silence.

Joe took advantage to suggest, "Let's take a quick look."

Carrier bowed slightly. "Be my guest. Try not to get lost."

It was a telling comment. The small apartment was composed of an office, a bedroom, the room before them, and two bathrooms. That was it.

Still, Joe couldn't shake that he was here for a reason. Slipping on one of the latex gloves he kept in his pocket, he used his right hand to ease open a filing cabinet drawer in the office. The drawer had been rigged with metal rails, designed to support hook-equipped files that could be shoved back and forth to allow easy access. As the drawer yawned open, Joe saw that the files had been pushed forcefully apart, creating a large and empty space in the middle.

It was an obvious indication of something having been removed.

He checked the tabs of the files before and after the wide gap. All the C's were missing. A glance through the remaining records showed nothing beyond bills, receipts, and assorted documents of no apparent relevance.

A cursory examination of the rest of the apartment revealed nothing out of place, and seemingly, nothing more that had been removed.

He retreated to the entryway, stripping off his glove.

"Find anything?" Carrier asked him.

"Not that jumps out," he said cautiously. "We'll seal the place for now, conduct a proper search when we have a bigger time window."

Carrier was not impressed. "Why're you so interested in this? I don't get it. You sure you're not keeping something in your back pocket?"

Joe barely smiled. "Don't I wish."