Tucker Peak (28 page)

“Yeah,” I admitted, “exactly right.”

“What’re you looking for? I may have seen something.”

I felt more than heard Bettina let out a sigh, assuming there was either a policy or at least encouragement not to talk about the guests in such a fashion.

Not that I was going to mention it. “Are you thinking of something specific, Mameve? I don’t want to be accused of planting ideas in your mind.”

She turned thoughtful. “Gee, I don’t know. I know they party a lot in there. They’re pretty messy. But I can’t say I’ve seen anything I haven’t seen in other places.”

“Nothing that would strike you as illegal?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Sorry.”

“Do you know Andy Goddard?” Willy asked for the first time.

“We met a couple of times, by accident. They try to have us come by when the people aren’t here. We get a schedule every week.” She patted her pocket. “But that’s harder with permanent residents like Mr. Goddard, since they’re on-mountain all the time. Even so, I bump into guests pretty regularly, year-rounders or not, which I guess means the system isn’t working too good.”

Linda spoke up. “What do you mean, ‘pretty regularly’? You should’ve said something.”

“It didn’t bother me and it doesn’t seem to bother the guests, so there wasn’t much to say. I’ve always thought it was pretty silly pretending all us custodial people were invisible, anyway. Besides, I did report the schedule wasn’t working. That other man told me he’d look into it.”

We all three looked at her with renewed intensity, causing her cheeks to flush.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked in a small voice.

“What man?” Linda asked first.

“I don’t remember. It was days ago and I forget his name. Come to think of it, I’m not sure he told me.”

“What did he look like?” Willy asked.

Mameve pointed at me. “About his height, rounder, light brown hair, and a mole right here.” She touched her cheek. “And he had a funny way of pulling his ear when he asked questions. I usually report to Barry—he’s my supervisor—but he was out of the office. This new man said he’d take care of it.”

I feigned ignorance—something Willy and Linda didn’t have to do, the description meaning nothing to them. I merely shrugged and instead asked a tangential question that touched on something Lester Spinney had discovered earlier. “But you’re being told people aren’t supposed to be in these homes when they actually are, right?”

Mameve was obviously embarrassed by now. “It’s not a big deal. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

Linda Bettina didn’t hide her irritation. “Of course you should have. This is just some screwup where one hand doesn’t know what the other one’s doing. I’ll probably get a memo in six months like it was late-breaking news.” She turned to me and explained, “Mameve’s right, it’s a PR scam. The guests are supposed to get this feeling their places are always miraculously pristine. It’s fantasy bullshit and adds to the complications, but if they want a schedule, I give ’em a schedule. I don’t know who this guy is she’s talking about—the way they hire consultants and advisors and God knows what, I’m not surprised.”

“Who’s they?” I asked.

“McNally, Gorenstein, the Board, the brass. I’ll have to get back to Gorenstein and sort it out. It costs us money to do it this way, so if it’s not working, we ought to can it.”

“You don’t do both the housing and maintenance schedules?”

“Just maintenance,” she answered. “Gorenstein does housing ’cause it’s a revenue maker. As they see it, I just spend the stuff. Anyhow, none of that’s why you’re here. Let’s get this over with.”

“Right,” I agreed, happy to get past the subject. I faced Mameve again. “Would you be willing to give us the bag and sign an affidavit later that it was empty and factory-fresh before you entered the building today?”

“Oh, sure,” she said. “This is really exciting.”

“We’ll also ask you to sign a consent-to-search form allowing us to open the bag and examine its contents.”

I was pulling the form from my inner pocket as I spoke.

Mameve nodded eagerly. “Sure, sure.”

Linda Bettina turned and walked away a few steps. “All right. If you don’t need me anymore, I got stuff to do.”

I waved to her. “No, that’s great. Appreciate the help.”

We completed the consent form, secured the bag from the vacuum cleaner, and I shook Mameve’s hand again. “It’s been a real pleasure. One last question: When you work on that house, what do you do exactly?”

“Pretty much just vacuum, mop, do the bathrooms, clean the kitchen sink and stove. We’re told to do a thorough job, but not get into the guests’ belongings, so I don’t go poking around.” She smiled again and winked at me.

“That’s going to be harder to do from now on. What is it you think Mr. Goddard’s up to?”

I patted her shoulder. “This is where it gets really unfair, and I’m sorry, but we can’t tell you that. It’s just an investigation, and if it turns out we’re all wet, talking about it could cause problems. In fact, you might want to think about that yourself, in case you were planning on telling anyone about this.”

Her disappointment was palpable. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” I reinforced the message, “and if word does get out, since Linda was right here, she might come looking for you for an explanation, not to mention Mr. Goddard himself. He could think you’ve really done him a number. It’s your choice, of course, but I’d be careful.”

Something in my own words suddenly made me hesitate, struck by a long shot. I touched her arm as she turned to leave.

“Mameve? I’m sorry to keep bugging you, but I guess I lied—I have one other question.”

She looked at me expectantly. “Sure.”

I reached into my pocket and showed her Tony Busco’s mug shot. “You ever seen this man?”

She glanced at it and looked at me quizzically. “You kidding?”

I exchanged looks with Willy. “No. Why?”

“That’s Mr. Goddard. I thought you knew him.”

I bit down on my surprise and answered her poker-faced. “We never met. I just needed confirmation. Thanks again for your time and remember, mum’s the word, right?”

Slightly crestfallen, given her earlier enthusiasm and helpfulness, Mameve Knutsen loaded her equipment into her car and drove away without further conversation.

We watched her leave, Willy still holding the bag in his hand.

“Depending on what’s in here,” he said, “let’s hope she does keep her mouth shut. Those guys wouldn’t think twice about making her disappear.”

“Let’s not get too carried away too fast,” I cautioned. “And as for whatever we find in there,” I pointed at the bag, “I’ll make sure she’s kept under wraps.”

We turned and walked back to where the car was parked. “What was all that crap about the guy asking questions about the schedule?” Willy asked. “You acted kind of funny.”

“It was Win Johnston, the private eye. I didn’t want Bettina to know it, but I’m guessing he was loitering around the office and took advantage of Mameve’s confusion to collect a little information. I sure would like to find out what he’s up to.”

WILLY AND I DIDN’T GET BACK TO THE OFFICE UNTIL LATER
that afternoon, after hand-delivering the vacuum cleaner bag to David Hawke at the crime lab in Waterbury and asking him to give it his highest priority, a request that only generated a tired smile of acknowledgment.

We found Lester as expected, surrounded by his folders plus a few more piles of paper from his research into Tony Bugs Busco, a man I now wanted to know a whole lot more about. Surprisingly, however, Lester wasn’t alone and was about to grant me my wish—and then some—from an unexpected source.

He stood with his guest as we entered and made the introductions, “Joe, Willy, this is Al Freeman from the U.S. Marshals Service.”

My arm halfway out of my coat sleeve, I stared at Freeman for a split second of stunned silence.
“Damn,
” I then said. “Of course. What an idiot.” I freed myself of the coat and shook hands with a nonplussed young man with a broad chest and watchful eyes. “Andy Goddard and Tony Bugs, right?” I challenged him. “The Witness Protection Program—he’s one of yours.”

Freeman smiled carefully and took a half-step backward. “Oh, hold on. That’s a big leap. I’m just here because we heard you were interested in Busco. Nobody’s saying we have him under wraps.”

Willy let out a short, unpleasant laugh. “Give me a break.” He walked over to his desk, dropped into his chair, and slapped both feet noisily onto its hopelessly cluttered surface.

I couldn’t fault him. Freeman hadn’t done his own credibility much good with that. “You heard we were interested?” I asked. “How’d you do that?”

Freeman ignored the question, resuming his seat beside Spinney’s desk. “Why’re you looking at Busco?” he asked.

I studied him quietly, considering which way to go. As trite as it sounds, relationships between agencies are pretty much what you make them, and a lot of local and state cops had stopped cutting the feds much slack as a result. The prejudices between and about both sides were common and familiar and pervaded all ranks. I had to wonder whether young Mr. Freeman was under orders and had bought the party line, or his own personal dealings had led him to his present attitude, in which latter case, my telling him he was being a jerk would merely confirm his opinion.

On the other hand, did I really care? I wasn’t sure the Marshals were going to be of much use to me right now. I had Busco’s prints on a murder victim and Mameve’s statement that Goddard and Busco were one and the same. If the vacuum bag’s analysis came back with evidence of illegal drugs, I had more than enough for search and arrest warrants both. In fact, if Kathy hadn’t recommended waiting for the analysis, just for the extra credibility it would give us, I would’ve been knocking on Goddard’s door right now.

“It’s Al, right?” I finally asked.

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“You mind taking a little walk with me, Al? Just out in the hallway, no need for a coat.”

He hesitated a moment, both Willy and Lester staring at him—Willy with his smirk still in place—before slowly getting to his feet. “Sure.”

I opened the door for him, muttered to Judy that I’d be back in a few minutes, and escorted him out into the hallway.

“Where’re we going?” Freeman asked.

I strolled over to the window at the end of the corridor, which overlooked a snow-blanketed parking lot between the Municipal and State Office buildings.

He joined me hesitantly, his arms crossed before his chest.

I spoke as if addressing the small cars below. “I asked you out here so we could stand on neutral ground. I know what it’s like being in the other guy’s office, surrounded by his people. It can make you dig in your heels a little.”

“I—”

I interrupted him with an upheld hand. “Let me finish. I also know the Marshals are professional, hard-working, good at their jobs, and give ‘tight-lipped’ a whole new meaning. So don’t think I’m about to start laying into you, okay?”

His reflection in the window nodded without comment.

“That having been said,” I continued, “you did come to see us, not the other way around, and I seriously doubt you did that without having something to trade.”

I now turned and handed him the picture I had of Tony Busco, looking him directly in the eyes. “Start trading. Is this the man we’re calling Andy Goddard?”

He smiled very slightly and nodded. “He’s one of ours.”

“Thank you. That confirms what his cleaning lady just told us. Given Busco’s nickname, I can guess his background, and I could tell from Lester’s face in there that he was dying to give me what he’s dug up so far—you want to beat him to the punch?”

“You going to tell me why you’re interested?” Freeman countered.

“Yup.” But I offered no more.

A slight pause swelled up between us. “Okay,” he conceded, “Tony Bugs was West Coast, deep into medical-waste dumping and the theft and redistribution of controlled pharmaceuticals—part and parcel of the same thing, since it all involved hospitals. Anyhow, DEA and EPA hooked up, nailed him, and got him to turn against the Mob. They collected a bunch of convictions, and we got to tuck him away as Andy Goddard.”

“What did they use to squeeze him initially?” I asked. “They just catch him red-handed?”

“No. It was unrelated. He was peddling drugs. They were about to arrest him on that when one of his customers OD’d on a bad batch, so they tacked a manslaughter charge on him, too. They leaned on him pretty hard. He’s a two-time loser.”

“And probably told him what a great life he could have afterward under your wing,” I suggested.

Freeman bristled a little. “If you have him doing something crooked, that’s a contract violation. He’s on his own. We don’t screw around with that. Ninety-five percent of the people in the program have criminal backgrounds. Only twenty percent of them relapse into old habits. And none of them end up with us unless they’ve sent a ton of people to jail. It’s a good program.”

I patted his shoulder. “Relax. I don’t give a damn, anyway—it’s out of my hands. I’ve just got a good suspect I want to build a case against. That’s all.”

“What kind of case?”

“Well, with your appearance, a pretty serious one now. We thought Goddard was just distributing coke, but now that you’ve confirmed he and Busco are the same guy, it looks like he’s graduated to murder. We lifted a print of his off the corpse of a girl named Jorja Duval.”

Freeman’s eyes widened slightly. “I read about that. Jesus Christ. How many people know about this?”

I knew what had him concerned. “That Busco’s involved and that he’s in the program?” I pointed down the hall. “Those two and me. There’ll be a few others: the sheriff, my boss, our special prosecutor, another of my field agents. We’re not much chattier with the press than you are, but if you want to stay discreet and help us both out, we can keep it that way by working together.”

He looked at me without comment for several seconds, clearly hearing the implied threat behind my offer. “You got it,” he finally said.

I bowed slightly and swept one arm toward the VBI office like a welcoming maître d’. “Then let’s get back to the party and work out a plan.”