“You threw him out?” I guessed.
There was a telling change of tone. “We had a disagreement.”
I tried a more oblique approach. “Look, I won’t tell you my interest in Patty isn’t official, but I want to be straight with you, too. We talk to lots of people in our work. What they tell us is always received in the strictest confidence.”
I could hear her sigh. “Okay. We did let Patty stay here for a while. That’s something Patty does-live off other people. But we’d done the same favor for other musicians and artists in the past. It used to be our way of saying thank you.”
“I take it Patty overstayed his welcome,” I prompted, noting that she’d put the entire practice of housing guests in the past tense.
“You could say that. Richard-my husband-went on a business trip several months ago, leaving Patty and me alone in the house. Patty tried to get a little friendlier than I felt comfortable with.”
The hairs rose on the back of my neck. I sensed Ron watching me carefully. “Did he assault you?”
“No. It never got that far. But he visited me in my bedroom after I’d gone to sleep. He didn’t… Do anything… But it took a while to get him out of there. I called my husband in New Jersey-I was pretty upset-and Richard drove back that night. We asked Patty to leave the next morning. Telling you now, I feel pretty stupid. This won’t get Patty into trouble, will it?”
I almost winced at her concern. “Don’t worry about him, Linda, and don’t ever apologize about some guy coming on to you. It’s against the law if they don’t stop immediately. To be honest, you ought to press charges-it could stop him from putting other women in your position.”
Her reaction was immediate, and sadly predictable. “Oh no. I mean, I did lead him on a bit-I let him make me dinner-and no harm was done. He is a wonderful musician, Joe. He’s just got some growing up to do. I’m sure he doesn’t make a practice of this.”
I bit back the urge to challenge her on that. Neither of us needed me haranguing her over the phone, making her even more defensive. Instead, I would ask Gail to talk with her soon. I doubted Linda Feinstein had stopped having people stay over because of a small misunderstanding-maybe Gail could get her to admit what actually happened. “All right, Linda. Do you know where he went after he left your place?”
“I know he’s still in town. I heard a rumor he’s staying with Francis Bertin, the pianist, but I don’t know for sure. I wish I could be more helpful… ”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ve been a big help. And remember, any trouble Patty might be in is of his own making. You did nothing wrong.”
“Thank you,” she said, obviously eager to get off the line.
“Thank you, Linda,” I said, but the phone was already dead.
I sat back in my chair and looked at Ron. “Want me to call Bertin?” he asked softly.
I hesitated, weighing my options. Rationally, his suggestion was sound. It made little sense to drive to Bertin’s house late at night, on the off chance Patty Redding was still there, just to ask him if he’d ever met Shawna Davis.
On the other hand, I wanted to meet this clown face-to-face, if only to introduce myself. I got up and killed the lights. “Let’s make it a personal visit. Check the computer first to see if Redding’s on file anywhere. I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”
Brattleboro is a distinctly topographical town. Sprinkled over a cluster of hills, ravines, and stream beds, it impresses first-time visitors not with sweeping vistas-it keeps its back to a panoramic view of the Connecticut River and Wantastiquet Mountain-but with the ability of some of its inhabitants to perch their houses in defiance of gravity. Homes and businesses alike cling to hillsides, hover over waterways, and otherwise stack themselves in any nook and cranny available, frequently with a view of the top of their neighbor’s roof.
Francis Bertin’s address was a perfect case in point. Located on a steep, narrow track named Elliot Terrace, in the heart of town, it had all the accessibility of a Himalayan hut. Furthermore, it was crowded by others just like it-turn-of-the-century, New England-style dwellings that looked as if they’d been dropped from a plane.
Ron nosed the car carefully down the hill, steep enough in parts to make us both wonder if the tires would hold on the compacted, slippery snow. He finally parked to the side of the road, his bumper inches away from a sturdy-looking tree trunk.
“Which house is it?” I asked.
He pointed to a three-story multi-dwelling across the street. “Third floor. Lights are on.”
“The computer tell you anything?”
“Yeah. Redding’s been slapped for possession twice-both times marijuana; both times minimal amounts. They were party busts-not residential. I think we can assume the guy likes his dope.”
We stepped out into the frigid night air, hearing the snow squeak under our feet-as good a sign as any thermometer of sub-zero-degree weather. The sounds of the surrounding town were as sharp as the icicles hanging from the branches, which clicked softly against one another in the barely perceptible breeze.
Access to the third-floor apartment was by an exterior, walled-in staircase, carpeted and warmed by the building to which it was attached. We both stepped quietly, inbred instinct dictating wariness. Also, given Linda Feinstein’s admission, I was not inclined to give any advance warning to a man I already disliked. As much as she’d down-played her story, I knew Redding must have scared the hell out of her. There wasn’t much legally I could do about that, but I was perfectly willing to make him sweat.
Guitar music filtered through the top apartment’s door, obviously from a recording. We positioned ourselves to either side of the landing as I knocked.
The music was turned down, and moments later the door opened to reveal a thin young man with long hair and a wispy beard, a joint dangling from his lips. The rich, pungent odor of marijuana wafted out from behind him, embracing us all. “Patty Redding?” I asked.
“Yeah. Who’s asking?”
Unable to resist, Ron and I reached into our pockets and showed him our badges, like synchronized G-men. “Brattleboro Police.”
He stared at us in stunned wonderment, his eyes moving from one to the other. “Does this mean I’m fucked?”
Ron slowly reached out and removed the joint from between Redding’s lips, knocking its hot tip off against the door frame and crushing the tiny ember underfoot.
“Could be,” I answered. “May we come in?”
I motioned him to precede us into the apartment’s hallway. “You alone at the moment?”
“Yeah. Frank’s visiting his girlfriend.”
“That’s Francis Bertin?” Ron asked, “the legal tenant of this apartment?”
Redding’s response came warily. “Yeah.”
“And you are his guest?”
“Yeah.” He’d reached the end of a short hallway leading into a comfortable, pleasantly appointed living room.
“In fact,” I added, “you’re sort of a professional guest, aren’t you?”
An irrepressible arrogance surfaced in his voice. “So what?”
I crowded him, standing almost nose-to-nose, and pointed to a chair with its back against the wall. “Sit.”
He sat.
Without stepping back, I looked down at him. “You understand the position you’re in right now, don’t you?”
He was craning his neck to look up at me, his Adam’s apple shifting as he swallowed. “I guess.”
“Then you should also understand that feeding us an attitude might not be the smartest thing to do, right?”
“Yeah-okay. Sorry.”
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Redding?” Ron asked from one side.
“I’m a musician. Could I have a cigarette?”
“No. Is that a living?”
“It’s what I do, all right?”
“Patty,” I cautioned quietly, stretching out his name.
“Okay, okay. It doesn’t pay all the bills.”
“How long have you lived in Brattleboro?” Ron resumed.