“Because my brother is a paranoid, whack-job drug addict?” I could feel myself starting to grind my molars the way I did every time I got riled. “I don’t know why McGreevy is on the case or why Adam Lombardi has a bunch of ex-bikers working security detail. But everyone needs a job, right? You keep trying to make a mystery out of this, Charlie, but the only mystery is how I got duped into running around Ashton playing Sherlock Holmes. There is no mystery. There is no big secret. My brother got his grubby hands on something he shouldn’t have, and now he’s driving Adam Lombardi nuts. Same way he drives everyone nuts if you give him enough time. End of story.”
“Fine. But then who hit you over-”
I slammed my fist down on the table, causing the other customers and the pretty Greek waitress to whiplash and stare.
I held up my hands, smiling to let strangers know they weren’t in the diner with a madman.
“Christ,” Charlie said, as though I’d hurt his feelings. “I’m only trying to help.”
“I’m done playing this game. I don’t know where my brother is or what he’s doing. Let the cops find him and figure it out. That’s their job. Not mine.”
Charlie grew real silent. Nobody said anything for a long time. I flipped through the jukebox for something to do. I’d hated ’80s music the first time around. Charlie poked around his wings, not eating any. Tractor-trailers barreled along the boulevard, the thrum of a thousand oily gears clicking in place, faceless drivers tearing through this town on their way to somewhere better.
“You don’t think your brother could’ve killed Pete, do you?” Charlie asked.
I wasn’t sure what had gotten me so worked up, since Charlie had only been voicing the same concerns I had. Until he asked me that question, and I honestly considered my answer.
“I don’t know,” I said.
The diner’s front doorbell dinged, and I peered past Charlie’s shoulder, down the long tin corridor and over the black and white tiles pooled with muddy, melted snow to where Fisher stood.
“What’s he doing here?”
“You told me to call him,” Charlie said. “Before you went to Lombardi’s. Remember?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t-”
“Boys,” said Fisher, reaching over the table and snaring a piece of toast from my plate. He crammed it in his mouth, whole, dropping into the seat next to Charlie. “You mind?” he asked, pointing at my food. He didn’t wait for a response before he started helping himself.
Fisher extracted a manila folder from inside his winter coat and slapped it down, like a hot hand at the poker table. He craned around toward the door. “Can I get some coffee?” he called to the pretty Greek waitress, who was restocking muffins under a plastic lid at the opposite end.
Fisher panned from Charlie to me, then back to Charlie. “Who died?”
“Jay’s lost faith in the cause,” Charlie said.
“There is no cause,” I said.
Fisher double-tapped the folder. “This might restore some religion.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
Fisher picked a rye seed from his teeth. “What would you say if I told you that Lombardi just landed a new, big-money contract?”
The waitress arrived with a fresh pot of coffee and poured Fisher a steaming cup. He attempted a look. She pretended not to notice.
“I’d say, ‘No shit?’ The motor lodge sale has been all over the news, and I was just at the site of the new condos, where Adam Lombardi was talking freely about the proposed resort, like it’s a foregone conclusion and not some well-kept secret. Nothing to see here. Move along.”
“Ski resort and condos,” Fisher continued, as though I hadn’t said anything. He picked through the basket of bones. “We’re talking millions to the construction company that wins the bidding.”
“I know all about it,” I said. “I was up at the site.” I didn’t see why I needed to repeat myself.
“Okay, smart guy,” said Fisher, twirling a plump wing in my face. “But did you know that the company awarding the contract, Campfire Properties, is located out of Concord, and that one of the members on its board of directors is-”
“Michael Lombardi,” answered Charlie, who was already thumbing through Fisher’s report, acting smugly vindicated.
“Is there any law against one brother throwing business another brother’s way?” I said.
“Actually, yes,” replied Fisher. “When it’s a state or federal contract, there’s a bidding process companies have to go through. To avoid collusion.”
“The TC is privately owned,” I said.
“The TC is,” said Fisher, “but not the land it’s on; that belongs to the state. They’ve been leasing it to the Travel Center. That lease is up this year. In a couple months, in fact.”
Which made sense why there’d been an announcement for the Maple Motor Inn but nothing on the bigger truck stop. There was no acquisition needed. If what Fisher said was true, state bureaucrats simply wouldn’t renew the lease, allowing Lombardi and Campfire to wrangle control. Wouldn’t be the first time two allies with vested interests brokered a secret deal behind closed doors.
Charlie fell back, throwing open his arms, like we’d just unearthed the missing strand of cosmic DNA that would tie together the origins of the universe.
“Don’t you see?” Charlie said. “The hard drive!”
“What about it?” I replied.
“This must be what they found,” Charlie said. “A digital trail connecting Adam and Michael. I knew Adam was full of shit when he told you why he wanted that computer back. Client financial records? Michael Lombardi isn’t sending detectives six counties over because of a bank statement. Adam’s not hiring ex-bikers to raid your apartment and beat you up for a bill of lading. Biggest construction deal in the state? A state senator just giving his brother the contract? This is huge!”
“You don’t know that’s what happened,” I said.
“C’mon, Jay,” said Charlie. “I get playing devil’s advocate. I know Chris drives you nuts and that you are seriously pissed at him right now. But this-” Charlie pointed down at the folder. “This goes beyond your brother. This is the kind of money people kill for.”
“It’s a stretch.”
“No,” said Fisher, “it’s illegal.”
“We need to find that hard drive,” said Charlie. “Turley told you that Chris was ranting about Lombardi when he went down to the station, right?”
“You know my brother’s beef with the Lombardis. Been that way since senior year. And he was high as a kite that night, paranoid, delusional. As usual.”
“Maybe he had a reason to be paranoid this time,” Fisher said, flipping open the folder and sifting through. “Anytime a contract this big gets decided, it’s by blind submission. So as not to curry any favor. To stop things like a friend giving a contract to a friend.”
“Or a brother to a brother,” Charlie added, his righteous gaze burning a hole through me.
“Contracts get awarded to the lowest bidder,” Fisher continued. “There’s protocol. Nobody’s supposed to know another company’s bid. If they did know, it’d be easy to come in low.”
“Like The Price Is Right,” said Charlie. “Y’know, when someone bids $800 on a washer and dryer and the next guy goes with $799.”
“I get how it works, Charlie.”
Fisher leafed through data he’d compiled. “Got dozens of bids in here. Contractors from all over New England. It’s that lucrative a job. Wanna guess whose bid came in last?”
“How’d you get all this?” I asked Fisher.
“It’s what I do, Jay. We provide insurance to half these companies.”
I pointed at the folder. “Answer me one thing, Fisher-Anything in there prove Lombardi had prior knowledge of another company’s bid?”
Fisher didn’t answer.
“Didn’t think so. Lombardi is the biggest construction outfit up here. It makes sense they’d land the job.”