It was true, however, that despite its antiquity and its almost militant anti-asceticism, Ed’s did fit in. Route 7, south of Burlington-the same Route 7 that blemished Rutland farther down the road-was one of South Burlington’s major arteries, and yet another perfect example of a “miracle mile” run amok.
I pulled into the pot-holed parking lot, reached back in for my ever-expanding mug-shot book, and headed for Ed’s front door.
Considering the cluttered windows, I was surprised by the spaciousness inside. The broad, bare wooden floors were free of the piles of junk I’d expected, and the long counter facing me was surmounted by colorful advertising posters. Parked along its polished surface were small displays of drill bits and screwdrivers and behind it endless racks of gleaming, heavy-duty tools, many of a size suitable for your average offshore oil rig. In the distance, vanishing into the gloom, were row upon row of stacked metal pipes.
A pot-bellied, red-faced, white-haired man stood near the register looking at me, his hands flat on the counter like a bartender between clients. “Help you?”
“Yeah-is Greg Binder here?”
There was a moment’s hesitation, the eyes as cool as the smile beneath it was friendly. “Sure. He done something wrong?”
“You Ed Binder?”
“Yup. Who’re you?”
I showed him my identification. “United States Deputy Marshal. I’d like to ask him some questions.”
A look of weariness crossed his face. “Oh, boy. What’s he done now?”
“That’s why I want to talk to him.”
He nodded slightly and chewed his bottom lip briefly. “Okay.”
He turned around and bellowed toward the back of the building, his voice reverberating among the metal racks. “Greg.”
There was the bang of a door, the sound of something heavy being dropped on the floor, and the scuffing sound of sneakers shuffling their way toward us. From out of the darkness came a short, skinny man in his early twenties, disheveled and acne-scarred. As soon as he saw me-and his uncle’s expression-he stopped in his tracks.
“What’s wrong?”
“Good question,” Ed Binder answered. “This man’s a Deputy U.S. Marshal. Wants to talk to you.”
Greg’s eyes shifted from one of us to the other. “What about?”
I removed the pipe cap I’d retrieved from Tyler, still in its white, clearly marked evidence envelope, and dumped it out onto the counter. “You sell this item here?”
Ed leaned forward slightly, not touching it. “We sell things like it-same manufacturer.”
“A lot of them?”
“Depends. If it’s a job order, yeah. We could sell dozens of ’em at a shot. We don’t move many as a single item, though. We mostly supply contractors.”
“Why’re you asking?” Greg wanted to know, still lingering a few feet back among the aisles.
I decided to show my cards, relying on what I’d heard from Digger about the relationship between the two men before me. “This cap was attached to a pipe bomb that killed a Brattleboro police officer.”
Ed grew very still. Greg’s eyes widened with fear. “Holy shit. I heard about that. What’s that got to do with me? I don’t know nothin’ about it.”
“Your thumbprint’s on it.”
Greg straightened as if hit with electricity. Both his hands flew up in front of his chest. “Oh, fuck. Uncle Ed, I swear to God, I don’t know what’s goin’ on. I only been to Brattleboro a couple of times-years ago. I wouldn’t do this-nothin’ like this.”
“Slow down, Greg,” his uncle cautioned, his eyes on me hard now. “Nobody’s said anything yet.”
I made that my cue to switch tacks and laid the mug book, closed, upon the counter. “If I were to buy a pipe cap, maybe two, how would I go about it? Are you the only one who works the counter, Ed?”
The older man shook his head. “It’s luck of the draw. Could be either one of us, or my wife-she’s the bookkeeper.”
“And any of you could fill the order? Locate it in the stock and bring it out?”
“Right.”
“Within the last few weeks-could even be the last few months-do you remember selling a pipe cap to any Asians?”
Greg’s face flooded with relief. “Yeah. It was like two days before that bomb, more or less. I remember him because he made me do a custom cut-said he only wanted a foot of pipe. I told him we didn’t sell that short-even told him where he might go to get a piece. But he didn’t want to. Told me he’d buy the shortest length we sold, pay extra to have it cut, and then give us back what was left. He was in a hurry.”
“So you did it?”
“Sure. I had nothin’ else going-things were slow, and I thought Uncle Ed would be okay over it. I mean, hell, it was almost like selling it and getting it back at the same time. A foot’s not much to take off a piece of stock.”
“What else did he buy?” I asked.
“Just the two caps and the piece of pipe. And he asked me where the nearest Radio Shack was.”
“Where is it?”
“’Bout a half-mile that way.” He pointed to his left. “On the other side of the street.”
“He paid cash?”
“Yup.”
Ed shook his head disgustedly. “My God, Greg. Didn’t all that sound a little suspicious?”
His nephew stared at him wide-eyed. “What do I know about bombs?”
“Was he alone?” I interrupted.
“Yup. I saw him drive up. One of those new Mustangs-bright red.”
“You get the license plate?”
Greg Binder shook his head.
“All right.” I spun the mug book around and opened it to its first page. “I want you to look at these photographs. Take your time. Tell me if you see the man you waited on.”
Greg stepped up to the counter and began leafing through the pages. He stopped on the third one. “That’s him.”
“No doubts in your mind? It’s not a great shot.”
He actually grinned at that, his sense of relief complete. “Damn-it’s just like in the movies. I’d swear to it in a court of law.”
“Cut the crap, Greg,” Ed muttered to him.
The young man grew agitated again. “I do swear, Uncle Ed. That’s definitely the guy. I’m not shittin’ you-honest.”
I closed the book. “You still have that shortened length of pipe?”
Ed Binder shook his head. “No, Greg told me about it. I put it with the odd sizes and sold it as part of a lot. It’s probably mixed in with somebody’s plumbing by now.”
I thanked them both and took my leave, heading for the Radio Shack Greg had mentioned, wondering what Edward Diep had been up to, all by himself, buying parts for a bomb.
An hour later I was in Walt Frazier’s office. “Radio Shack remembered him, too and had a sales slip to boot-listed him as ‘John Sing, Main Street, Burlington.’ He bought wire, some alligator clips, and a nine-volt battery. The sales clerk had no more trouble than Greg Binder did in picking him out of the book.”
“Okay.” Walt was taking the cautious route, waiting for me to make my case.
“The more we find out about Diep, the more of an independent operator he becomes, working all sides of the game. It got me thinking, how that would go down with his pals-at least the ones affiliated with Truong. I called the St. Albans prison to find out how Nguyen’s been doing. Turns out, ever since that explosion in Newport, he’s gotten several phone calls. I talked to the guard who sees him most, and he says he’s more fidgety-blows his cool with the other inmates. The way I saw him in Bratt, he was an icicle.”
“So what d’you think’s going on?”
“If we’re right, he’s losing confidence. He felt he was on the fast track, guaranteed to beat Da Wang. Now, he’s not so sure. Truong’s stash goes up in smoke, the pipeline is shut down thanks to Spinney and the VSP, and we’re breathing down everybody’s neck. All of a sudden, Da Wang’s looking stronger, and Nguyen’s looking to make a deal.”
“You hope.”