The police station was brand-spanking new, part of the recently remodeled Town Centre. A few years ago, Ashton placed a measure on the ballot to allocate more police funds. Lombardi Construction got behind it, so it passed without a fight. Why wouldn’t Lombardi support the measure? They’d be building the damned thing. With Michael Lombardi in the state senate and Adam Lombardi running the construction business, the family was the closest thing to royalty we had. Their dad, Gerry, even coached the high school wrestling team, on which Chris used to star back in the day, and the old man served on the board of UpStart, a mentoring program for at-risk boys throughout northern New Hampshire. Whenever he’d had too much to drink, Chris invariably would evoke the slight of having been left off the All-State team as the reason for his downfall. My brother never ran out of injustices to blame.
Besides the precinct, the renovated Centre also included a senior living facility, the library, and town hall. In a town of under three thousand, adding extra squad cars and a new holding cell smacked of overkill. But the drug epidemic up here was getting out of hand. At least that had been the posturing by local media. A recent poll in the Herald claimed that over half of high school students had admitted to trying some narcotic before tenth grade, if nothing more than popping the occasional painkiller from mom’s stash. According to the paper, drug use had become “a blight and a scourge on the community.” That may’ve been hyperbole, but it didn’t take much to put the fear of God into God-fearing people.
Not that there wasn’t a drug problem, especially at the truck stop, which was where most of those people seemed to congregate, setting up shop next door at the Maple Motor Inn, or in one of the sleazy motels along the Desmond Turnpike, waiting for their welfare checks on the first and fifteenth of every month. I’d seen firsthand the drug problem in Ashton, but giving cops shiny new toys to play with wasn’t going to change anything; people were going to do whatever the hell they wanted to do.
When I stepped into the police station lobby, the bright fluorescents stabbed the backs of my eyeballs, and the jacked-up heat gave me an instant headache. Remnants from the holidays adorned the office-homemade Frosty the Snowman cards from Willard Elementary, half a sleigh bell streamer hanging from an eave-even though Christmas had been over a month ago. The septic smells of warmed microwaved foods overpowered the small space and only made my head hurt worse.
I clomped my boots on the mat by the door, drawing the attention of Claire Sizemore, who’d graduated with my brother, ten years ahead of me. She was the only one in the office, sitting at a desk in a neat row of three by the window, doing a sudoku puzzle or something. She gave me a sheepish wave and hefted herself to her feet. Her dull, brown hair frizzed in a do-it-yourself dye job, and her languid eyes drooped like maple syrup from a freshly tapped tree. Each time I saw Claire, I’d recall the time I caught my brother fingering her behind the fried dough booth at the Chesterton Bazaar.
The Chesterton Bazaar’s a big deal when you’re in the third grade and don’t know any better, the rinky-dink rides and games only growing lamer each passing year. I was just a kid and didn’t know exactly what Chris had been doing, but by the way Claire squealed it was clear she liked it. The clanking, old Ferris wheel chains chugged overhead and the hot oil of frying dough sizzled, as I watched him probe deeper and deeper. When he finally turned and saw me, my brother didn’t look like he was having any fun.
“How are you, Jay?” Claire asked, leaning over the counter. “How’s Aiden?”
“Getting big.”
“Almost, what? Two?”
“In April.”
“I ran into Jenny and Brody the other day at McDonald’s. Aiden wasn’t with them. Jenny said he was at her mom’s?”
“Lynne babysits some mornings so Jenny can catch up on sleep after work.”
“That Brody’s an interesting character.” Claire waited for my response.
I gave a halfhearted nod.
Claire’s face sagged like an old hound dog. “I always liked you two together,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness. “Jay and Jenny. Sounds cute, don’t it?”
“Turley around?”
She motioned behind her. “Went for some coffee in the break room. Should be back in a minute. You here about your brother?” There was that look again.
I forced a grin, but probably couldn’t hide my aggravation. I mean, why the hell else would I be there?
A moment later, Rob Turley rounded the corner, coffee in hand, aw-shucks smirk on his puffy face. Seeing me, he paused to hitch his pants higher, wiggling the belt around his paunch. He tried to look serious as he strode forward with renewed, big-boy purpose.
Never would get used to seeing Turley in his police uniform. Back in high school, that guy dropped more acid than anyone I knew. We used to throw huge parties up at Coal Creek Reservoir. I’m talking four, five kegs, bonfires, boom boxes, the kind of parties that would last three days and wouldn’t end until everyone had puked at least once. I remember at one of these parties, Turley was tripping so hard he thought he was an alligator and dove into the reservoir, snapping his teeth and trying to catch invisible fish. This was in the early thaw of spring; water had to be forty degrees. Would’ve frozen to death if a couple guys from Longmont hadn’t jumped in and dragged his fat ass out. He lay on the shore as they tried wrapping him in a blanket, flopping hysterically, his big, white belly pale as the underside of a toad in the harvest moonlight. Now, here he was, one of Ashton’s finest.
He stuck out his hand with pretentious formality. When I didn’t return the gesture, he slung an arm around my shoulder instead, like my reluctance to touch him had been an invitation for more intimacy. He kept his arm there, pulling me awkwardly closer, luring me down the hall with him.
“Claire,” he said over his shoulder, a little too loudly, “I’ll be down in Interrogation Room 1 if you need me.”
Turley ushered me into a cramped space reminiscent of a small high school classroom. There was even a TV and a DVD player sitting on a rolling cart, the kind you used to be thrilled to see in science or history class because it meant a day of doing nothing. I could picture Turley and the rest of Ashton’s tiny force huddled around endless hours of “Amphetamines and You” educational videos, as Sheriff Pat Sumner drew up strategies on the EZ Erase board to combat underage drinking at the strip mall with the simplified Xs and Os of a peewee squad’s limited playbook.
“Can I get you something?” he asked. “Coffee?”
“No.”
“Tom tell you I called?”
“Why else would I be here, Turley?”
He shifted in his seat and propped up straighter, wiping his expression of any lingering familiarity. I could appreciate what he was trying to do. But it’s hard to take someone seriously after you’ve seen him pretending to be an alligator in his tidy whities.
“Got him cooling in a cell,” Turley said, jabbing a thumb backward. “Didn’t know what else to do.”
“Drugs?” I asked, matter-of-factly.
“Not this time,” Turley said, reaching for his Styrofoam cup. “I mean, I’m sure he’s gacked to the gills. Your brother usually is.”
The fluorescents buzzed overhead.
“Why’d you pick him up then?”
Turley’s face twisted up.
“Spit it out, man.”
Turley exhaled, rubbing the back of his meaty neck. “Your brother got in a fight with his business partner. Now, the guy ain’t been home for a couple days. His mama called us this afternoon, freaking out. Chris was shooting off at the mouth. Made some threats, I guess. Pat had me pick him up, see if I could get to the bottom of it. Found Chris at the Arby’s, sitting curbside, no jacket. Had to be fifteen degrees out-”