Across several of the documents littering the desktop, the name “Paul” was written in Magic Marker. It was, by all appearances, the project manager’s operations center, located not practically in one of the modest trailers by the property fence far below, but ostentatiously, high inside the building he was overseeing. By the assortment of folding guest chairs and dirty cups, I guessed Paul Hennessy had been entertaining his party here when Willy and I had overheard them.
Which revealed another small connection to Milo Douglas, much like the cup full of free pens. As best as I could figure, this room was directly beneath where Milo had camped out.
A small point in itself, perhaps, but to me, one coincidence too many.
15
J.P.was in and out of Milo’s luxury suite within the hour I’d stated to Paul Hennessy. Having made no similar claims concerning Willy and me, however, the two of us took our time checking out the rest of the complex, not leaving until well into the afternoon. Our results, unfortunately, didn’t match the effort. Apart from what J.P. had tucked away into a variety of envelopes and recorded on film, we came away empty-handed.
This included a second surreptitious visit to Hennessy’s office, where I had J.P. conduct a fast but careful survey, hoping his specialized training might help him see something I’d missed. It didn’t. While he did find hair and fiber samples aplenty, we both knew too many people had been through the place to give them any relevance.
My fallback strategy, therefore, became the paper trail I’d assigned to Ron the day before. To find out how he was faring, I had Willy drop me off at the office building of Justin Willette, investment counselor and CPA, next door to the public library.
The address was representative of Brattleboro’s frugal solution to an expanding business district. Once an overtaxed, poorly maintained Greek Revival mansion, with a full, deep, wraparound porch, it had been remodeled to house five separate businesses. The only external sign of this potentially destructive invasion, however, was a new, eye-catching, multihued coat of paint.
Willette’s offices were on the second floor front, and his own inner sanctum was dominated by a large dining room table in the center of the floor. It was seated here that I found both Willette and Ron Klesczewski, side by side before a spread-out heap of manuals, Xeroxes, faxes, reports, and minutes, all generated by or for the small battalion of committees, commissions, and boards that Gene Lacaille had gradually conquered on his way to obtaining the various permits for his convention center dream.
Justin Willette was small, rotund, totally bald, and equipped with a pair of glasses so thick, they looked like the bottoms of Coke bottles. He was one of an unsung group of citizens who routinely lent the department their expertise. Not a flashy man, he had done well wearing his two professional hats and had come to my attention through Gail, who’d regularly benefited from his abilities.
Right now, however, both he and Ron were looking a little worn, and I realized without asking that they’d probably taken their task overly to heart, spending more hours than I cared to know about pursuing it. The overtime on what technically remained a low-flying case was going to be a sticky item to defend, especially with NeverTom at the head of the current fiscal clamp-down. Maybe that, however, was why I really didn’t give a damn.
As I sat down opposite them both, Justin pushed his glasses high up on his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Ah, I was wondering when you might appear, seeking words of wisdom.”
Ron smiled apologetically. “I may have pushed Justin beyond recovery.”
Willette dropped his heavy glasses back in place. “Nonsense. It’s been a fascinating glimpse into how the system works. I never knew there were so many ways for subjective influences to bear fruit.”
I smiled at the wording. Justin could be as flowery as he was short. “Meaning what? Corruption?”
He waved his stubby hands in the air before him. “No, no-not at all, or at least not obviously. I’m talking about situations where certain people made choices from among several options, but always to the benefit of the project.”
“Someone got to them?” I tried again.
Willette made a painful expression, indicating I’d missed again.
Ron explained. “It’s not that cut-and-dried. It’s been a little like planning a trip, and then figuring out all the various ways to get from one place to another. We found a few obstacles-Mary Wallis and her group, for instance, or aesthetic concerns that had to be addressed, like how the complex would look from the interstate. But each time an obstacle cropped up, it was avoided-after only a token bit of maneuvering.”
“So it’s the maneuvering that’s got you worried,” I finally understood.
“Exactly,” Willette said, satisfied at last.
“You’ve identified all these trouble spots?”
“Well,” Ron answered slowly, “all we could see. This only gives you the official view of things. Most of these people are fully aware when they’re on the record. There’s a lot that has to be going on behind the scenes.”
An obvious solution occurred to me. “Would it help to talk to someone who knows both the players and the process?”
Willette tilted his head to one side, considering the point. “Sure. It might tell us who went against their own past principles.”
I reached for the telephone.
Gail met us in the reception area and led us down a hallway to a small conference room. “Derby’s willing to cut me loose for a half hour or so, but that’s it. He’s starting to wonder if you’ll ever have anything to prosecute.”
I squeezed her arm as she pulled out a chair. “Tell him it’s in the bag.”
She gave me a dour look.
Justin Willette began with a short speech on what we were after. Gail listened without interruption, smiling occasionally at his enthusiastic body language. At the end, she merely asked, “Okay-what or who do you have problems with?”
Willette leaned across the table and laid several sheets of paper before her. “There are three we are questioning. First, when Gene Lacaille brought his initial proposal to the town planner, there was a lot of enthusiasm. Gene was well liked, there was a perceived need to counter Burlington’s domination of the conventioneering market, and the land, which Gene already owned, was commercially zoned and bracketed on both sides by shopping malls and stores. It seemed a natural fit. The town planner invited the site-plan committee, and Lacaille bent over backward to accommodate them. Through the committee, the fire chief got his hydrants, Public Works chose where the sewers would be, and Tony Brandt called the shots on traffic layout. Of course, the fact that three of the other members of the committee also sat on the planning commission wasn’t missed by anyone. The summation reports were glowing, so Gene started out fast and well backed.”
Willette interrupted himself as he came across a separate sheet of paper. “Okay, this is a little off the track, but it did trigger the first of our concerns. All this early enthusiasm was purposefully low-key. No one wanted to alert any potential opposition too soon. But Lou Adelman, as director of community development, was tipped off. He came up with the idea of a town loan for the project, financed with state money. There’s no indication Gene Lacaille had anything to do with that, which made Ron and me a little curious about how it happened.”