"What's your pleasure with Mr. Beauchamp, boss?" Spinney asked from the passenger seat as they drove north on Route 30 alongside the West River. He was reading the Oberfeldt file, which Joe had handed him in the parking lot, familiarizing himself with ancient crimes and procedures.
"I'm not looking for any problems," Joe told him. "I did a records check and found nothing beyond some recreational drug dabbling. He got into the usual mischief as a teenager, but he's mid-thirties now, on a second marriage with kids, and seems to get the high-end jobs, which must say something about his abilities. I phoned a contractor friend and asked him if he'd heard of the guy. He said Beauchamp was reliable and had a good reputation. He probably pads the bills a bit, overorders at the homeowner's expense, but that was it. No red flags."
Spinney glanced out at the passing scenery, a soothing blur of variegated green and sun-dappled water. "Reminds me of why I do all my own home improvements, regardless of how shitty they end up." He tapped the file with his fingertip. "According to John Moser, Beauchamp found the gun under the floorboards. That makes it a theft, doesn't it?"
"Technically," Gunther agreed. "We could use that if necessary. You want to be good cop or bad?"
Lester slapped his hand over his heart. "Oh, that cuts. With Kunkle available, you ask me that?"
Gunther conceded his point. "All right. You're the shining knight."
They were driving toward Newfane, some twelve miles northwest of Brattleboro, Windham's county seat and a village of almost pristine beauty. Joe had been told that Derek Beauchamp was working on an expensive remodeling job high on Newfane Hill, an area with a complement of very expensive real estate. Newfane was one of the towns Gail was counting on heavily, famous for its liberal leanings.
"How's the campaign going?" Lester asked, as if Joe had been speaking out loud.
"Fine, I guess," he answered, surprised by how little pleasure he found in the question. It saddened him that his best friend's greatest ambition to date should cause him to have such a reaction.
"I would find that tougher than hell," Spinney continued. "Having my better half running for office-everyone poking into her private life. You guys ever see each other?"
"Sure," Joe said shortly.
Spinney looked at him. "Ouch. Sorry."
"No," Gunther protested. "I saw her last night. It is awkward, though."
"The politicking or the gossip?"
Now it was Gunther's turn to take his eyes off the road. "What gossip?"
Spinney looked apologetic. "Jeez. I shouldn't have opened this can. I've heard mutterings that she's making hay off of being a rape victim. Shit like that."
"Oh, for Christ sake. Like there's a plus side to being raped?"
Lester held up his hands. "Hey, I hear you. That's why I asked if it was tough."
They were quiet for a while, each ruminating on how fast a conversation could deteriorate.
"She asked me to make some calls for her," Joe admitted as a way to apologize.
Spinney's reaction was upbeat. "That makes sense. You gonna do it?"
"I said I would."
Spinney paused and then added, smiling, "Well, I'm not the legendary Joe Gunther, but I'll help you do that, if you want."
Again Joe looked over at his partner's open, friendly face, feeling surprised and grateful. "No shit?"
Lester Spinney waved dismissively. "No shit, but it better count for some serious brownie points."
They saw Derek Beauchamp's van long before they saw its owner. A virulent shade of purple, it had a flamboyant yellow and red sign reading "The Sanding Sandman-Your Floor Is My Desire."
"Jesus," Spinney said as Joe parked among the standard construction site collection of battered pickups. "That's some sales pitch."
The building they were facing had once been a traditional Greek Revival farmhouse: two and a half stories, with the most ancient section standing at the head of a line of ever smaller additions, tacked on over the ages, which now trailed out behind it like a short row of diminishing train cars. As part of the present overhaul, it had all been reclad in bare cedar, topped with copper, and refitted with brand-new, triple-glazed gas-injected windows.
"Nothing but the best," Spinney muttered as they approached the entrance across a debris-strewn yard. "Must be nice."
They stepped through the open door into a wall of rock music and fine dust and the smell of fresh everything: lumber, joint compound, varnish, and new plastic. A man wearing a face mask and carrying a bucket appeared in a hallway opposite them.
"Can you tell us where Derek is?" Joe shouted to him.
The man pointed, still walking across the room. "Upstairs."
Following a broad path of taped-down protective kraft paper, they found a sweeping staircase leading up and proceeded through several grandiose rooms outfitted with built-in cherry cabinets, marble fireplaces, and other baubles. It was like stepping into a TV program of This Old House, minus the camera crew and the sycophant host.
Through it all, Lester kept muttering and shaking his head.
At the end of their trip, they slipped through a plastic sheet barrier and came to a large back bedroom/gym combination, filled not with the intended equipment but with a large, burly man wearing a mask, goggles, and ear protectors, who was pushing around a bulky, screaming floor sander. The air was opaque with sawdust.
Gunther, in bad-cop mode, walked across the room and stood in front of the machine, forcing its operator to stop and kill his mechanical beast.
The man tore off his protective equipment and glared at Joe in the sudden, echoing silence. "Goddamn it. If you made me fuck up this floor…"
Joe cut him off by flashing his shield. "You'll what?"
His mouth still open in midsentence, the man looked from Joe to Lester.
"Sorry about that," Lester said pleasantly, filling in. "Are you Derek Beauchamp?"
"Yeah."
"Then you won't mind if we ask you a few questions," Joe suggested, his face still grim.
"No. I mean, sure. What do you want?"
Joe went straight to it. "You sold a gun recently to John Moser. Where did you get it?"
Beauchamp paled so that the previously covered parts of his face matched the dusty ones. "I didn't sell a gun."
Joe stepped in close enough that their chests were almost touching. Beauchamp instinctively tucked his chin in.
"That is bullshit. You sold a gun illegally for twenty bucks and some Ecstasy. Moser gave you up so fast, we'd barely asked the question."
Just like in the movies, Lester now approached and held up his hand passively to Joe. "You mind? Just for a sec?"
Joe shrugged angrily and moved away to look out the dusty window at the scenery outside.
"Never mind him," Lester said in a near whisper. "Very bad day. Look, nothing'll happen here if you help us out, Derek. This is no big deal, okay? Just tell me where you got the gun."
"I found it," Beauchamp answered equally softly, as if their words weren't still bouncing around the cavernous room. "Under the floorboards at another job."
"How's that?"
"You have to prep the floors first," he answered. "Well, I mean, not here. This is all new flooring using old barn boards-really expensive. But over there it was more like the usual, you know? Just making what's already down look better."
"We get it, Derek," Joe growled without turning around.
"Right. Sorry," he said quickly. "Anyhow, you have to prep the surface, which means you have to go around and countersink all the nails so you won't tear up the machine. Well, that's when I found a loose board. It was wiggly, slightly warped. You gotta fix things like that, or it won't look right, so I pried it up to see what I could do, and that's when I found it."