“Kenny. He said that we should split up and that he’d contact me later.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“No.”
“Does he know how to get in touch with you here?”
“No.” Her head had slumped so far forward by now, we could only see the top of it.
“Then how could he have contacted you later?”
There was a long silence, during which, from the dark, liquid spots appearing on the pillow against her stomach, I knew that Paula Atwater was crying.
Norm and I exchanged glances. “Paula, you realize you’ve broken a few laws-that you’ll be held accountable?”
She nodded wordlessly.
“Tell your mother what we talked about when she gets home. The two of you can find a lawyer and maybe something can be worked out so you won’t have to go to prison. But listen to me.” I crossed the room and squatted down before her, forcing her to look at me. “You’re going to have to concentrate on saving yourself. Kenny and you are over, not just because you got caught, but because he set you up.”
She began to respond, but I held up my hand. “Don’t talk, just think. Regardless of how you feel now, you’ll find out Kenny was more interested in the money than in you, and that he played you for a loser. The only way you can save yourself is to prove him wrong. Remember that, okay?”
She stared at me, her eyes red and swollen, her face expressionless. I held her gaze a few moments longer, wondering if my words would have any effect later on when she’d need them most.
But there was no way to tell.
I rose and headed for the door, leaving her to soak in her newfound puddle of reality.
28
The smoke in Brandt’s office hung in the air like a veil, the still box-fan in his window a silent rebuke to the computer repairman’s recommendation. I’d been wording a warrant for Kenny Thomas’s apartment with the reunited Ron and Sammie when the chief’s summons had come through on the intercom. His tone of voice had left no room for delay.
Brandt was clearly irritated. “What the hell is going on? I spent half the afternoon getting my ass chewed off by Luman Jackson and Tom Wilson again. Not that I’m not getting used to it, but I don’t expect to be left in the dark by my own people. Why the hell are you hassling the goddamn building inspector? And apparently Tucker Wentworth has complained to Jackson that you accused him of improprieties regarding ABC Investments.”
I stared at him in stunned silence. My mind was too busy playing connect-the-dots to be offended by Brandt’s tone of voice. Besides, since I hadn’t updated him, he had a right to be pissed off. What worried me was that somehow every move we made, every lead we pursued, became public knowledge within hours. It was as if we were conducting an investigation under a microscope.
I parked myself on the low filing cabinet by the door. “I interviewed McDermott this morning. He’d been in Crawford’s building at the time of the killing, and poking around Toby’s hideaway just before he disappeared. It was a legitimate inquiry. McDermott claims he received anonymous phone calls luring him to both places. He may be telling the truth. On the other hand, it’s awfully convenient that both times the callers refused to identify themselves. As for Wentworth, I didn’t accuse him of anything, but I sure as hell asked him to explain his connection to Charlie Jardine and ABC Investments. It is true he got a little pissed off at me, but it sounds like you got the National Enquirer version of both stories.”
He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips until I thought he might do himself some damage. He finally slouched way back in his chair. He sounded exhausted. “Jackson blew in here, spitting nails about Wentworth. I guess they talked on the phone or something right after you left him.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t think he was in the mood to talk to anyone when I left him. How did he and Jackson become such pals?”
Brandt shrugged. “Beats me; small town. In any case, Jackson’s now convinced we’ve totally lost our minds, running around accusing prominent citizens of being horse thieves and ax murderers. He said we’re exposing the town to lawsuits that’ll bury us; he even dragged in Nadeau at one point to quote me some legal mumbo-jumbo.”
I could now understand why Brandt was upset. I knew Luman Jackson all too well and could read between the lines of Brandt’s abbreviated account. Jackson’s style was like that of a hell-bent bible thumper, full of spittle and rhetoric, shifting from accusation to innuendo. He also had a bloodthirsty appetite for other people’s throats. The few run-ins I’d had with him had left me breathless.
Brandt got up and paced around his office a bit. “Look, this may not be the end of it. Jackson said he was going to assemble the selectmen for a closed-door meeting, presumably to fry the police department. He has to get three out of the five selectmen to play along before it’ll happen, but it still might, so be prepared.”
I rose and opened the door. “I’m prepared now. They can kiss my ass anytime they want.”
Tony stopped me just as I was about to close the door behind me. “Joe?”
“What?”
“Sorry I jumped down your throat.”
I smiled at him. “Don’t worry about it. Occupational hazard.”
Our little chat had thoroughly shaken me. Increasingly, throughout this investigation, I’d felt control being wrested from our grasp, first by events and the lack of manpower, and then by the attending publicity. But the growing political pressure was making it difficult to maneuver at all.
Initially, my plan had been to refocus on Blaire Wentworth and Arthur Clyde, to see if the knowledge I’d acquired since my first chats with them might be used to further crack their shells.
Now, however, I had but one idea in mind. In the time-honored tradition of an attacking force trying to destroy a strong, largely unknown defensive position, I was going for a secret weapon. I was sick and tired of having everyone know what I was doing.
I left the Municipal Building by the front door and cut to the right along a walkway that led to the town library’s rear entrance, which, because of the steep slope down to Main Street, was also their top floor.
Inside the library, I traveled the length of the building, down one flight of stairs, and out onto the second-floor mezzanine. Standing slightly back of the railing to avoid attracting attention, I surveyed the large reading room below me, looking for the man I was after. From my vantage point, I could see the typing room, the microfilm tables, most of the first-floor stacks, and the reference desk. I didn’t see him anywhere.
I walked along the balcony to the glass door of the local-history room, normally kept locked to protect the archives shelved inside. There was no one at the reading table in the front room, but a light was on in the stacks beyond. I turned the door handle and entered.
The local-history “stacks” amounted to just one moderately sized, windowless room divided into rows by several floor-to-ceiling shelf units. The aisle directly opposite the door was empty, but I could hear sounds off to the left.
There was the sudden loud slap of a book hitting the floor, followed by an equally explosive, “Fuck.”
I knew I’d found my man.
Willy Kunkle was in his early forties, of medium height, with a muscular, barrel chest, a head of thick, black hair, and a permanent scowl. A tough New York-born Vietnam vet who’d brought with him more emotional baggage than he could civilly carry, he’d moved to Brattleboro, married a local girl, and joined the police department as a patrolman. The armed forces had trained him well; he rose quickly through the ranks to join the detective squad within two years and in the process had become one of the most difficult men to work with I’d ever known. Indeed, it had often occurred to me during his tenure that many of the people he busted were kinder and more compassionate than he was.