Not the most subtle of dismissals, and one I pretended to only half-comprehend. I pressed my back against the cement wall to let them pass. “Absolutely-go on ahead. I might join you, if that’s all right.”
Willy squeezed by them and continued downstairs, while NeverTom’s eyes once again zeroed in on me.
Paul Hennessy glanced at his boss, who barely nodded. “Of course,” he said. “Happy to have you.”
I tailed along, listening to Hennessy describe the upper floor-a series of penthouse suites reserved for the privileged, or for groups pooling their resources. As project manager, he knew the site in more detail than Jim Carroll, who was obviously along as a willing piece of window dressing-as was Harold Matson. This was the town’s biggest financial crap shoot yet, and one they’d almost seen vanish into bankruptcy, lawsuits, job losses, and political fallout. The parade I’d hitched onto was a ceremonial victory tour for the conquering hero, Ben Chambers-or at least his self-serving proxy.
We wandered down the hallways, ducking into different rooms. The bulk of the conversation was between Hennessy, Carroll, and Chambers. As relieved as I’d thought the bank president would be by Ben Chambers’s eleventh-hour rescue, Matson seemed curiously subdued.
Eventually, Hennessy threw open the door to what I’d mentally labeled “Milo’s suite.”
“And this is the pièce de résistance,” Paul Hennessy announced. “Three rooms, including a bedroom mezzanine-bathroom, whirlpool with a view of the mountains, fireplace, small bar with fridge. It’ll have two televisions, with optional sound piped into the bathroom, and phones everywhere. Of course, it’s a little hard to imagine at this stage.”
He turned toward the spiral staircase and came to a dead stop before my crude sign.
“Sorry about that,” I said quietly. “Just a couple of things we want to go over. Our forensics guy should be in and out in an hour or so, and the place’ll be all yours again. Hope it’s not an inconvenience.”
NeverTom’s jovial voice took on a slight edge. “I thought you hadn’t found anything.”
In the corner of my eye, I saw Ted McDonald scribbling furiously in a notepad. “I said we hadn’t found much,” I answered. “But we like to collect the odd scrap now and then. You never know what might come in handy.”
“Interesting use of taxpayer money,” Chambers said somberly. “Isn’t it a bit unusual for two detectives to be doing this kind of work? I thought you people prided yourselves on the skills and independence of your patrol officers.”
“We do,” I answered simply.
My lack of an explanation forced him to supply his own. “You just happened to be in the neighborhood?”
“That’s right.”
Harold Matson filled the awkward silence that suddenly stifled the lofty space. “Well, Mr. Hennessy… Mr. Carroll… I ought to be getting back. I want to thank you for the tour.” He shook hands all around, stopping before Tom Chambers. “Thomas, again, thanks to you and your brother for your incredible commitment to our town. The two of you make an invaluable team.”
The room’s invisible spotlight had cynically settled on the rotund Ted McDonald, the only person there they were all pretending to ignore, who had a small, knowing smirk on his face.
NeverTom pumped the banker’s hand. “Nothing to it, Harry. Junior and I are happy we could return some of the good fortune Brattleboro has blessed us with.”
I stepped out of the way, ignored in this flurry of mutual congratulations, and let the group file out the door without me. Only Ted stayed behind, stowing his pad, pen, and a small recorder into various pockets.
He joined me by the huge, plastic-sheathed window. “Amazing guy, old NeverTom.”
I played dumb, always on the watch with Ted, despite a friendship dating back decades. “How so?”
But he wasn’t fishing. He crossed his arms and stared out at the filmy view. “Oh… Little things, like referring to his brother as ‘Junior.’ Ben Chambers hates that-as much as his brother hates ‘Tom.’ Makes you wonder what kind of relationship they have, living together in that big house, both unmarried, both so totally different.”
“You know Ben well?”
“No. I’ve met him a couple of times. I’m not surprised he wasn’t here today. Very shy. He’s definitely the brains of the family, though. Maybe that’s why Tom treats him like shit.”
Ted McDonald had been born and raised in Brattleboro, as had his parents and grandparents. There was no one I knew who could better track the town’s genealogy.
“What was Ben Senior like as a father?” I asked him.
“Competitive, egocentric, intolerant, judgmental. His wife died giving birth to Tom, and he never remarried, so it was just him and the boys. That’s why they both hate their nicknames-their father used them to put them down. Now everyone else does the same thing behind their backs. I always thought they were a little strangely wired.”
“Successful, though,” I added. “Or are they just spending the old man’s money?”
“No-as far as anyone knows.” He glanced around. “You couldn’t buy this unless you were doing something right. And NeverTom looks like he’ll be taking Montpelier by storm before long.”
“State representative?”
Ted shook his head. “Nah-this project is Senate material. If they play their cards right, he could even use it to get to Washington. I think that’s what he really wants. This ‘blessed Brattleboro’ shit is just that. He can’t wait to get out of here.”
“With his brother funding him all the way?”
“Yup. Each one helping the other-Ben with the brains and Tom with the balls. Catch is, I don’t think they like each other.”
He turned to face me, our small moment’s musing at an end. “So what’s this crap about ‘collecting the odd scrap now and then’? What’s up there?” he gestured toward the mezzanine.
Figuring the best resistance was none at all, I crossed over to the staircase. “I’ll show you.”
I removed the sign and led the way up. “Just don’t walk around. We want to preserve the footprints.”
He reached the top and stood next to me, looking around without expression. “That’s it?” he finally said.
“’Fraid so. We’re trying to track someone’s movements, and we think he might’ve spent the night here.”
“What’s he wanted for?”
“Nothing.” I turned and paused at the top of the stairs. “I’ll be as honest as I can be, Ted, but you’ve got to keep it under your hat.”
Ted was never one to run the Constitution up the flagpole.
“Sure,” he said without hesitation.
“We think Milo Douglas-the bum that died of rabies-might have spent the night here.”
Ted smiled. “And?”
I shrugged. “That’s it for now. We’re trying to track his last movements.”
He laughed. “I think I can keep that confidential. If you find something interesting, let me know, okay?”
“Will do.”
I waited until I was sure he was gone, and then followed him as far as the fifth floor. I had been wondering how we’d missed Paul Hennessy’s tour group when Willy and I had been climbing to the top. Given the echoes supplied by all these hard, flat surfaces, I figured there had to be an enclosure of some kind on the penultimate level that had absorbed the sounds as we’d passed by.
The hallway, as I remembered it, was in rougher shape than the one above. There were gaps in the wall panels, and some of the rooms had no definition at all. There wasn’t a single door in place-except at the entrance to one room.
I walked down the corridor, noticing how the dust had been brushed away by heavy traffic, even after a month’s worth of downtime, and paused before the door, listening.
Hearing nothing, I knocked, and let myself in.
Beyond was an office of sorts-same plywood flooring as elsewhere, same untreated sheetrock on the walls-but there was glass in the window, an extinguished fluorescent fixture hanging from the ceiling, and several boards spanning sawhorses to make a desk. Blueprints were thumbtacked everywhere, along with artist’s renditions of the finished convention center. A row of clipboards, each heavy with paperwork, hung from an orderly parade of nails under the window, near a dusty, well-used office chair and a small table holding a coffee machine. The desk was littered with the expected paraphernalia-a phone, a fax machine, two walkie-talkies in rechargers, a scattering of papers, and a coffee cup filled with brightly colored ballpoint pens, all labeled “Carroll Construction.” I slipped one of these into my pocket.