“What were you doing at two o’clock the day Benny died?”
“He didn’t die the day before yesterday.”
“Answer the question.”
Vince shook his head, regaining confidence. “I was with a girlfriend and another guy.”
“Give me times.”
He pretended to think back. “Maybe from ten to four that afternoon.”
“And the day before yesterday?” I repeated.
He gave me a glare and began to get up. I caught his shoulder and pushed him back. “What the fuck do I care about the day before yesterday?” he growled at me angrily.
“You don’t know what you were doing at two in the afternoon? Who you were with? Where you were, even? Think hard.”
“I was around, okay? I was on the street, maybe, or visiting friends.”
I didn’t speak for a long time, but turned to look out over the slightly rippled surface of the broad river beside us, enjoying the cool breeze. “It’s funny how you know exactly what you were doing when Benny died almost a week ago, but have no idea about the day before yesterday. I guess that’s because you didn’t need an alibi.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Benny was pretty spooked the night before he died. What did you tell him the next morning to get him to stay in town?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but I interrupted him. “You say you hadn’t seen Benny for days. How many days, Vince? And be careful. Don’t make a mistake. The two of you were seen together.”
He licked his lips.
I cut him off again as he started to speak. “Whoa, Vince. You look like you’re getting nervous. Don’t mess this one up. This could be important.”
“I don’t remember,” he shouted at me, again trying to stand up.
I pushed him back a second time, toppling him from his seat. “Not good enough, Vince. The alibi’s got to stick all the way. Hanging out with your girlfriend for a few hours won’t cut it. Didn’t Sonny tell you that? Shit, yes. If we find out you and Benny were together too close to the time he died, you’re still in it up to your neck.”
“What the fuck’re you talking about?” he screamed.
I stepped forward and stood over him, staring down, gaining confidence from the fear in his eyes, knowing I was pinning him down. “I’m talking accessory to murder, Vince. Not actually being there doesn’t matter. You set Benny up. You swallowed Sonny’s line of bull, but Sonny fucked you over. He needed someone to hang this on in case things got hot, and who better than old Vince-the dumb number-two man?”
He shook his head, incredulous. “You talked to him?”
I crouched down, my face close to his. “Don’t you know how it works, you dumb bastard? What does he give a shit about a zero like you? He didn’t tell you what he was going to do to Benny, did he? And when Benny gave him the slip and had to be chased down, what was Sonny supposed to do? Cover his ass, that’s what. Pull in Plan B. Guess who Plan B is, Vince?”
I pulled away suddenly, leaving him sprawled out on the ground, looking awkward and small. He gathered his legs under him and sat up, rubbing his head, trying to think.
“You’re full of shit.”
“Sonny told you to get hold of Benny before he split town, and tell him you had to talk-just the two of you, at the Rivière place. That’s what the alibi was for, right? Give you some cover for when Sonny met up with Ben. And you actually believed the alibi was to protect you from being tied to an illegal conversation? Boy, oh boy, Vince, Sonny must’ve thought you were a gift from heaven, you’re so stupid.”
Vince sprang up from his crouch and threw himself at me. Anticipating it, I sidestepped, cupped the back of his neck with my hand as he went by, and gave him a helpful shove, letting his own momentum finish the job for me. He fell face-first into the shallow, muddy water by the bank.
Unfortunately, the gymnastics played against me. The cold water cleared his head, and while he grappled back onto shore, spitting and cursing, he also emerged holding the one flaw to my approach. Looking up at me with his hair plastered to his face, he demanded, “Are you going to bust me?”
But I, too, had a Plan B. I gave him a big smile. “Bust you? Vince, you’re a nobody-Sonny’s right on that one. Think of the paperwork, the time, the wasted money. Much easier to let Sonny finish chewing you to little pieces-that way I’ll have more on him when I bust him. You’re much more useful as bait.”
I turned away then and quickly retraced my steps through the brush.
Sol Stennis was standing guard by the tracks. “Have fun? I heard a splash.”
I thought about the gauntlet I’d just thrown at Sharkey’s feet. “The first of several, I hope.”
7
Geographically, Hartford Township is a hard item to pin down. Of the five villages that form it, three-Hartford, White River Junction, and Wilder-are so seamlessly joined as to be the same entity, while Quechee and West Hartford, economically and physically removed, are like far-distant satellites. Adding to the confusion is West Lebanon, New Hampshire, a stone’s throw across the Connecticut River, whose high-pitched commercial bustling makes all the others look like suburbs.
But even the village of West Leb, as it’s called, falls prey to competition. Its tax-free commercial advantage is in turn subverted by the most highly developed shopping strip within a forty-mile radius, stretched out along Route 12A about a half mile to the south.
The Hartford Township-West Leb hub, therefore, suffers a bit from second-class status. It’s not quite where the bargain buyers flock, and with high-class Hanover just to the north, home of Dartmouth College, it’s not where the elite shop for designer wear or hobnob over micro-brewery beer in expensive, tasteful, low-fat eateries.
It is, on the other hand, a major crossroads, marking the juncture of two interstates and Vermont’s Route 4, which, according to Detective Heather Dahlin, was a distinctly mixed blessing.
“We’re a transient stopover-a place to take a leak, grab a burger, sleep a few hours, and get back on the road. If you’re an illegal alien heading south or a flatlander going skiing, chances are you’ve stopped here. We’ve got more motels, hotels, and fast-food joints than anywhere between Burlington and Concord. For the type of Asians you’re talking about-the ones who go from place to place, work for peanuts, and live like hamsters, it’s a custom fit. We might not have a hundred Asians in town at any one time, but whenever we check them out, it’s always a new batch.”
“They’re all illegal?” I asked, surprised at the high number.
“Oh, no. Fewer than ten percent have no papers at all, and maybe ten to twenty percent more have counterfeit documents. But we don’t have the expertise to tell the real stuff from the fake. And by treating them all the same, moving them constantly from one place to another, their handlers make it even harder for us to separate the ones who should be here from the ones who shouldn’t.”
“And most of them live there?” I asked, looking to where she was pointing. We were slowly driving by a large, neglected, empty-looking pile of a building on one of White River Junction’s least affluent streets-White River already being the poorest of the township’s five cousins.
“We’ve counted forty at a time in that one, stacked like cordwood, sometimes ten mattresses to a room. We’ve basically got three types of Asians in this whole area-year-round residents who just happen to be Oriental, transients who live in places like that-illegal and other-wise-and the dirt bags that control ’em. The first group’s the majority, and they’re no more trouble than anyone else.”
“What do you do about the others?”
Dahlin shook her head. She was a tall, muscular, attractive woman, with short blond hair and a permanently determined expression. She was one of only three detectives on a force of twenty sworn officers, and I had no doubt she’d honed her personality meeting any and all opposition on its own ground.