“Because of local political pressure,” I stated flatly, reliving the recent past from a whole new perspective.
“Local and state,” Sheila agreed. “Don’t forget that the state had a vested interest, too. The governor picked up the phone a few times to remind people of that. At which point, Ben Chambers suddenly appeared out of the blue, almost as soon as the project got stalled, and offered Matson a fused deal-meaning it was tied to a deadline. His three-part proposal was that the bank, having by now invested four million, forfeit one of them; that the town, having spent both of its millions, forfeit one also; and that Lacaille sign over all his interests to Ben, including the land, worth close to another million. In exchange, Ben would assume some twelve million in loans by the date of completion, having acquired almost four million in equity without spending a dime of his own. The catch was that the fuse would burn for one month only-Matson and company had only thirty days to beat the deal, or Ben would retire his offer.”
“So Matson sat on his hands for one month and signed on the dotted line?” I suggested.
“No way,” she protested. “He would’ve been crucified. Not only would the other banks have jumped on him, not to mention his own stockholders, but the feds would’ve, too. No, he and his officers all busted their humps looking for an alternate white knight, but Ben’s offer had an element no one else would match, and which was too politically volatile to ignore. His proviso that the town would have to eat half of its two-million-dollar loan was actually a pure gimme-a gift of a million bucks. Any other white knight would’ve told the town to eat it-why pay for somebody else’s mistake? By coming up with that gimmick, Ben all but guaranteed himself success. That one million had nothing to do with the bank, but it had everything to do with good will, and the bank didn’t want to look so mercenary that it would willingly stiff the town-and through the town the state and our telephoning governor-for that huge an amount. It was very cleverly done.”
“The time fuse also worked in Ben’s favor,” J.P. added, “because Carroll Construction still had its equipment on site. Had the bank delayed, Carroll would’ve packed up and left, and the bank would’ve had an even tougher package to sell.”
I was rubbing my forehead. I had never been big on finances, figures, or even talk about banks. “So Ben Chambers got something for nothing. But he did assume twelve million dollars of debt. Why’s that such a great deal?”
“Because he’ll sell it in the end,” Sheila said simply, “and possibly triple his current net worth. In this state, that would transform him from a local rich guy to a major player, especially if his brother keeps climbing the political ladder and ends up in Montpelier or Washington.”
The ambition of the scheme filled the room. “All right,” I finally said, “but what laws have been broken? Or if nothing else, what rocks do we look under, besides sweating Harold Matson and hoping he fingers NeverTom?”
“We’ve got some other options,” J.P. said with a small smile, “the best being the pollution in Keene.”
I raised my eyebrows, and Sheila joined in. “J.P. gets full credit for this one-what caught us there was the timing. Not only was the mall about to open, and supply Gene Lacaille with a steady cash flow, but the B of B half of the funding was about to run out. The partner banks were just about to step up to the plate. Had that happened, the weight of the decision about which white knight to accept would have shifted from Matson to them. Plus, they might’ve put their investigators to work if they’d smelled something fishy. We called a couple of those banks yesterday, and asked them if they’d gotten sweaty palms at the time. The answer, of course, was no-since they hadn’t invested a nickel so far, they wouldn’t have cared if it had gone belly-up.”
“The kicker,” J.P. continued, “is that the Keene mall closed down because someone made an anonymous phone call. No PCB would’ve been found otherwise, and the quantities the EPA has located are randomly and widely spaced.”
“As if they’d been planted,” I suggested, caught by the mention of yet another signature phone call to the press.
“Exactly.”
“How easy is PCB to get?” I asked.
“It’s all over the place,” J.P. answered. “Most of the industrial motor oil used fifteen years ago contained the stuff-that means almost every transformer or capacitor made from the early fifties to the late seventies. PCBs were added to oil as a stabilizer so it wouldn’t break down in violent temperature changes. Tons of your older motors are full of it-even some water well pumps, if you like irony. Not only that, but because of its very design, PCB is basically permanent-it doesn’t degrade. The only way to dispose of it is either through environmentally safe incineration or legally sanctioned storage, both of which are incredibly expensive. That’s what’s killing Lacaille right now.
“To answer your question, the reason it’s so easy to get hold of is that lots of people-in electrical supplies, for example-have just opted to park whatever contaminated equipment they might have in a back room somewhere, and ignore disposing of it altogether. You could also find an old transformer and drain it, if push came to shove.”
“How much are we talking about?” I asked, my imagination suddenly stimulated by this last statement.
“Twenty-five gallons, tops. One man in a pickup, driving around that site for an hour, dropping a little here, a little there, would do the trick. PCB contamination is quantified at fifty parts per million. That’s not much. In fact, nowadays, you wouldn’t need any at all. PCB is such a buzzword that the phone call alone would’ve been enough to temporarily stop construction-of course, whoever did this wanted more than that.”
“And the phone call was made how?” I asked.
“To the Keene Sentinel, on the morning of January tenth.”
My smile matched their own. “And if I’d just spent the evening creeping around spiking a building site, I’d make sure people knew about it first thing.”
“Meaning the PCB was probably dumped the night of the ninth,”
J.P. concluded. “And that if the call was made from here,” Sheila added, “it’ll appear on somebody’s long-distance phone bill.”
“All right,” I said. “Get it all into a report, and tell Sammie about that date. She’s putting together a time line, and we can all cross our fingers that one of the alibis we have on file will fall apart right there.”
They both stood and prepared to leave. “I also think,” I added, stopping them, “if you’re comfortable with the idea, that you ought to bring in Harold Matson for a talk-sweat him a little. If you do, make sure he knows he doesn’t have to say anything, and that he can have a lawyer present if he wants one. You’ll need to coordinate what time you can use the interview room with Sammie-she’s pulling in Eddy Knox this afternoon.”
They both nodded, their faces reflecting their pleasure at the offer.
Interviews of this importance were usually handled by the other members of the detective squad and rarely by anyone from Patrol. J.P. had always shied away from them in the past, preferring his world of scientific detachment. Reading his expression now, I was glad to be giving him another shot.
Gail’s usually cool demeanor fractured at the notion. “Joe, for crying out loud.”
“It’s got to be an old cat, or a dog-anything that’ll just sit there and be petted.”
“Are you sure he saw anything?”
“In my gut? Yes. But we’ve got to get it out of him.”
“And my looking like his daughter and holding a cat will do that?”
“No-he gets to hold the cat. We’ve got to win him over as much as possible-make him feel secure.”