I couldn’t understand why Adam was telling me all this. If Chris had been right about damning digital evidence of malfeasance, why would Lombardi be copping to everything? And then I caught myself. Of course, Chris hadn’t been right about any conspiracy. How was this any different than the time he thought he’d been infested with botflies and poked holes in his forearm with a steak knife? Or when he was convinced that Dr. Johnson had put tracking chips in his molars? Even though I should’ve known better, I’d allowed myself to get sucked up into his drama, yet again. Standing there in front of Adam, I felt like a goddamn fool for trying to play hardball and subtly implying I was hip to some crime. Like so many supposed mysteries in this life, the answer had been right in front of me. My brother, who was always one bad hit from donning an aluminum foil helmet to stop the aliens from stealing his thoughts, had constructed a far-fetched scenario, and for the last three days I’d been acting a part in his fantasy.
“Having that hard drive floating around Ashton,” Adam said, “in some junkie’s hands, is bad for business. It contains intimate, professional details of all the transactions we’ve brokered with vendors, providers, associates-going back ten, twelve years. There are financial records, bank statements, on that thing. It makes my company look extremely unprofessional, paints the Lombardi name in a bad light. If our clients find out we’ve been so careless with their trust and private information, the company I’ve built from the ground up-that I use to put food on my family’s table-will be done irreparable harm. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”
“I don’t know what you want me to do,” I said. “I don’t know where my brother is, and not for lack of looking. Charlie and I spent a wild, crazy night down at the TC yesterday. That videotape you played, that’s the first I’ve seen Chris since I let him crash at my place three nights ago. He hasn’t called. He hasn’t stopped by. Hasn’t written a note. My apartment was broken into, my head got whacked good, and-”
Adam had stopped listening, like my reportage was yesterday’s news. He exhaled with exasperation.
I saw a Lombardi work truck round the corner, creeping toward us.
“Like I told Turley and Pat, if Chris contacts me, I’ll let you guys know. Believe me, I don’t want my brother considered a murder suspect. I know he had nothing to do with Pete Naginis’ death. As long as he’s running around, he’s putting himself in danger. We’re all on the same side here.”
Adam slapped on that politician’s grin, reaching out and giving my shoulder a tight squeeze. “Glad to hear it,” he said.
The Lombardi truck, a giant, gas-guzzling 4x4, rumbled to rest at the curb.
“Thanks for coming down, Jay,” Adam said, extending a hand.
Which I took, embarrassed for participating in the cloak and dagger bullshit of the past few days. Adam Lombardi didn’t give a damn about preserving Ashton’s history or its small-town roots. I knew he only cared about making money, no matter how many armories or motels he had to destroy to make it. But that was business. Lost in all this was that my brother, perpetual screw-up that he was, actually had a job to do too. Instead of simply erasing a hard drive like he advertised and had been paid for, he betrayed a trust, getting gacked on crank, snooping, then making up elaborate lies, and now those lies threatened someone else’s livelihood. Add to that breaking and entering? No wonder Adam was pissed and losing patience.
I heard the truck door slam shut and heavy work boots approaching on the hard snow. Shaking my head in disbelief over my gullibility, I looked up.
“Jay, this is Erik. He’s head of my security.”
I stared at the jacked biker with the shaved head and Star of David tattooed on his neck.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Are you sure it was him?” Charlie asked.
“How many other guys around here are built like brick shithouses with the Star of David tattooed on their goddamn neck?”
“Did he recognize you?”
“If he did, he didn’t show it.”
After Adam introduced us, Bowman, or Erik, whatever the fuck his name was, barely acknowledged my presence, and the two soon turned and walked away, leaving me standing in the cold with my head spinning. I felt like I was going backwards on an upside-down roller-coaster. I didn’t know what to think, except I was getting sick of trying to figure it out. I longed to be back at some dead guy’s house, where the only problems that needed sorting were packed away in the attic.
The pretty Greek waitress brought us our breakfasts: chicken-apple sausage, cheddar and mushroom omelets, hash browns, pancakes, buttered rye toast. And a basket of chicken wings for Charlie, extra sauce. I was famished. I smiled politely as she refilled our coffees. I couldn’t tell if it was the same girl from the other day or just another in the endless parade of stunning daughters.
“So, Adam had those guys waiting at the shop for what? Chris to come back? You to come poking around?”
I tore open a fistful of sugar.
“It was probably one of them who clocked you over the head too.”
“Or, maybe my brother told a fairy tale to some tweaker, who thought he could flip the golden goose for some quick cash. Who the fuck knows? But I’m done with it.”
“Nah,” Charlie said, “I’m putting my money on those bikers.” You could see his gears turning. “But, wait, so they’re not really bikers, then? I thought Turley told you they were in a gang or something?”
“Motorcycle club. The Commanderoes.”
“Same as your girlfriend’s boyfriend?”
“Jenny isn’t my girlfriend anymore, Charlie, and if she was, then Brody couldn’t be her boyfriend, could he?”
“You know what I mean.” He poured a steady stream of half and half into his mug, swirling until his coffee was as light and sweet as melted coffee ice cream. “You think this Bowman-”
“Erik.”
“You think this Erik had anything to do with Pete Naginis’ murder?”
“I don’t know.” I slathered the flapjacks with butter, smothering my plate in a thick coat of syrup. “Guys like Pete live hard. Remember that hooker they found in the dumpster a couple summers ago?”
I hoped that explanation would suffice. Charlie, however, was just getting warmed up.
“How does McGreevy fit into all this? You think Michael Lombardi sent him up here? And if Erik Bowman did kill Pete, then the order came from who-Adam Lombardi? Whoa, man. That’s huge!” Charlie paused. “But wait. What about the ski resort?”
I set down my fork. “I don’t know, Charlie. Maybe Adam hired some ex-bikers because they’re tough and construction is a tough racket. Maybe what Adam said is one hundred percent true, and someone dropped off a hard drive to be wiped clean and my brother and his druggie pal went rooting around, saw numbers that didn’t make sense, and decided to construct some elaborate scenario and cause a row. Then maybe Pete Naginis blew the wrong trucker and got his neck snapped. How the fuck should I know?”
“And the sale of the motor inn.” Charlie tapped his head. “Very strange timing.”
“A coincidence.”
“You know what Fisher said about-”
“Fuck what Fisher said!”
“Jesus. Take it easy.” Charlie motioned with both hands to keep it down.
I had been talking pretty loudly.
Charlie waited a moment. “You have to admit, there are a lot of unanswered questions. Like why would someone looking to build a sprawling ski resort buy up a little motel first and not the truck stop next door, which is, like, twenty times as big?”
I shrugged.
“And none of this tells us why Chris broke into Mr. Lombardi’s house. Or what he was doing trespassing at the construction site. Plus, you never answered why a detective from Concord is up investiga-”