"Just lying there?" Lester asked.
"Yeah. It was wrapped in a rag, like a towel, but there it was."
"Was there anything with it?"
"I swear, man. It was all alone. It looked old. For sure nobody knew about it, 'cause the homeowners had just bought the place, so I figured, you know, what the hey? Maybe I could get some money for it. I mean, I didn't want it myself. I'm not into that. But I didn't know it was illegal."
Joe reapproached, his expression still hard. "It's not illegal to sell a gun, stupid, unless it's stolen and the price involves drugs. Or are you going to pretend you didn't know that, either?"
Beauchamp actually hung his head. "Sorry."
Spinney glanced at his boss. The good-cop-bad-cop routine had ended when Beauchamp had confessed. This last outburst of Joe's had come from somewhere else.
Lester quickly moved to extract the last piece of information they needed. "Derek," he said gently, "where exactly was this job?"
"Dummerston Center," came the eager reply. "Just beyond the four-way intersection on the East-West Road, heading toward Putney. On the right, in the middle of that hairpin curve they got. Super-nice folks."
Beauchamp took a risk and looked at Joe. "I'm real sorry for what I did."
Joe's face merely darkened. "You little jerk. You're sorry we caught you at it, and you think dancing around like some ass-kissing five-year-old will get you off the hook. You and I know damn well that three seconds after we're gone you'll be calling us assholes to our backs." He suddenly stabbed the man hard in his chest with his finger. "Tell me I'm wrong."
Beauchamp didn't know what to say anymore. Spinney reached out and slowly lowered Joe's hand with his own. "We'll be heading out now, Derek," he said in a neutral tone. "But remember what happened here, okay? You are now on our radar. Call us whatever you like later, but if we ever hear of you screwing around like this again, we won't be coming around to chat. Is that crystal clear?"
During this speech, Spinney was steering Joe toward the door, talking over his shoulder.
Staring at them from his post near the silent sander, Derek Beauchamp still looked unsure. "So, I'm okay, then? This time?"
Joe swung around. "There's going to be another?"
Beauchamp backed up, tripping over the electrical cord behind him. "No, no. Sorry. Not what I meant. I get it. I mean, I'm cool. Everything's cool."
Gunther hesitated, as if pondering a choice of violent options. Finally, he turned on his heel, said, "Idiot," and walked away with Spinney in pursuit.
Spinney drove this time, allowing Joe to stare out the side window.
"You okay?"
Joe didn't answer at first. Didn't even move, until at last he shifted his gaze to the front and said, "You ever have those almost out-of-body experiences where you start doing something the rational part of your brain just can't believe? It's like being on autopilot and stamping on the brakes at the same time, getting nowhere."
"You know what pushed your button?" he asked.
Gunther sighed. "It's not like we don't deal with guys like that every day. Something just snapped this time. The futility of it, maybe. Damned if I know. I just stood there and got really pissed off-all of a sudden. I felt like smacking him." He altered his voice slightly in imitation. "'I'm real sorry for what I did.' Jesus. Give me a break. I sometimes think we're just slightly more complicated than when we crawled out of the caves. We're sure as hell no better. Me want, me take, and screw you in the process."
Spinney didn't answer. Cops were ill disposed to think along such lines. It was almost guaranteed to undermine whatever satisfaction the job offered.
As Joe knew all too well.
"Sorry," he said a moment later. "Too much shit on my mind."
The house Derek Beauchamp had described was more in keeping with the area's norm for upward mobility. No Yuppie version of a rusticated mansion, this one was a straightforward salvation of a previously worn-down farmhouse: asphalt roof, economy paint job, a repaired foundation, and, they now knew, some refinished flooring.
Fully recovered, Joe pulled himself out of the car and smiled at the young woman who stepped from the house to greet them.
"Hi," he said, waving toward Lester. "Sorry to bother you. We're police officers from the Vermont Bureau of Investigation. My name's Gunther, and this is Lester Spinney. We're just looking for some information-nothing bad," he added, to assuage the alarm he saw growing on her face.
As they drew closer, he stuck out his hand. "Call me Joe."
She shook it tentatively. "Margo Wilson."
Gunther indicated the house. "What a nice job. Just what the place needed."
Still flustered, Wilson turned and faced the house with them, as if they were all three admiring a mural. "Oh. Thanks. Did you know it before?"
"Just to drive by. But you can tell you've given it a shot in the arm. Actually, that's why we're here. It's sort of a historical fishing expedition. We're trying to find out who used to own it."
"The Zimmers?" she asked.
"Maybe," Joe said. "Depends on how far back they go."
Wilson looked doubtful. "Oh, I don't know. I don't think they lived here for more than a few years. Mrs. Zimmer turned out to be allergic to almost everything, and they ended up moving back to the city. That's why it was sort of run-down, and how we got such a decent price. Not that we haven't poured a small fortune into fixing it up," she added ruefully.
"They'll do that to you," Lester commiserated, clearly more kindly inclined toward this homeowner than to the unknown ones they'd just left. "You love them, but they are out to ruin you, day in and day out."
Margo Wilson began to relax. She pointed toward the still open front door. "Would you like to come in? I think I know where Edward-that's my husband-has squirreled away some of the old documents we got at the closing; maybe those'll help. Would you like coffee? It's fresh."
They entered together, she showed them around, and they made the appropriate flattering noises before settling down in the living room with the coffee and a small, messy pile of the aforementioned paperwork.
Spinney kept their hostess entertained while Joe began leafing through the offerings.
There were the standard items-surveys, legal correspondence, court papers, and tax records-but of most use to Joe was a copy of the town clerk's record of successive ownership. He went through the pages, deciphering the entries, keeping track of the years as his finger ran down the list.
Where he finally stopped short wasn't because of the date, however, but the name opposite it. He straightened and let out a small grunt of recognition, causing the other two to stop speaking and stare at him.
"You find something?" Margo Wilson asked him hopefully.
Joe closed the stapled sheaf and held it up. "I think so. Could I borrow this? Just long enough to get it copied? I promise I'll mail it back to you first thing tomorrow."
He stood up, still holding it, forcing the issue somewhat. Mrs. Wilson was gracious enough merely to smile and stand in turn. "Oh, sure. I doubt we even need it, to be honest, but sure-mail it back at your convenience."
She escorted them to the door, hesitating only as they were halfway across the threshold. "I hope this is nothing bad. I mean…"
Joe placed his hand on her forearm. "No. Absolutely not. We're literally just trying to track someone down-kind of like connect-the-dots. Where were they when? That sort of thing. Nothing to worry about. I promise."
Relieved, she let them go and waved as they backed down the driveway. Spinney waited until they'd covered about a hundred yards before saying, "Okay, Grumpy-spill. You look like you struck gold."
Joe smiled. "I don't know about that, but I found a familiar name. Thirty-two years ago that house belonged to Lawrence Clark. Remember that old case file you were reading before?"