"Bottom line is," she continued, "that I sometimes lose sight of who I am and of what really counts in my life." She looked at him and took hold of his hand again. "In a more clear-sighted moment, it never would have crossed my mind to ask you to make those calls, Joe, especially while we were lying naked in bed."
She held up her hand to quiet the response she saw forming on his lips. "You would argue the point because you're a nice person, but I see what I did as emotional blackmail, and I don't want you to cater to it. So, promise me you won't make those calls, okay?"
He fought the instinct she'd already quelled twice, to downplay her words and make light of the perceived injury. Because in fact, she was right, and he was grateful for her perception and honesty. But despite his desire to, he still couldn't match her eloquence.
"Okay," he said simply. "Thanks. And don't worry. No matter how you're feeling now, you are the good guys. Don't forget that."
She leaned over and kissed him once more. "That's me-Wonder Woman. Oy." She rolled her eyes dramatically. "Would you be up for a late-night visitor in a few hours?"
"Absolutely," he said instantly, but just as immediately felt a renewed unspoken frustration. As he left her car and waved good-bye, he swore under his breath at his own weakness. Just as Gail had run roughshod over him because of her own ambitions, he'd just now shot himself in the foot so as not to hurt her feelings.
In fact, he didn't want company tonight. He wanted to be on the road. The AFIS printout in his pocket told him that Peter Shea's fingerprints currently belonged to a man named Norman Chesbro, and that Chesbro had been arrested for a chronic failure to pay parking tickets just two months ago in Gloucester, Massachusetts.
Once again, Joe found himself caught in tendrils of his own making.
He let out a puff of air in resignation and headed toward his car. What the hell. A few hours now wouldn't make that much difference.
Chapter 12
Gloucester, Massachusetts, is one of the grand old New England towns, as renowned in maritime history as Cape Ann-on which it is perched-was famous among vacationing artists of old. The same holds true for both places today, though mostly for sentimental reasons. Gloucester, while still fully functional as a fishing port, is but a pale glimmer of its past. And to Joe's jaundiced eye, Cape Ann's genteel and frugal Yankees were being overrun by Hummer-equipped megaconsumers seemingly bent on proving they had more cash than sense.
The population shifts reflect this latter aspect. From a year-round total of some 30,000 locals, the region bloats up to three times that number over the summer.
But he couldn't really blame either tourists or part-timers. Even if addicted to the latest trend in vehicle or cell phone, the most hopeless among them could only be impressed by Cape Ann's simple, breathtaking charm. It is a perfect commingling of history, good food, soothing scenery, and proximity to Boston. Despite the traffic, the boutiques, and a cheek-by-jowl crush of million-dollar homes, the whole place remains wedded to the basics preceding them: the gulls, the fishing boats, the smell of salt in the shifting air, and the huge, swelling, slightly ominous sea supporting it all.
Not surprisingly, there is a parallel arc of economic extremes, from the mansion owners spending most of their time away to the dock and fish-factory workers inhabiting Gloucester's ancient heart. It is the latter who continue the traditions of lore and trade and who occupy, in a feudal comparison, the role of peasants on whom the lords rely for food. Similarly, they also bear the brunt of a dangerous and unstable profession and are as exposed to the vagaries of the sea as their landlocked medieval forebears were to drought, disease, and foreign invasion.
In light of all this, it almost goes without saying that Gloucester is a hard-drinking town, run through with a steady stream of nameless people of no particular address.
An ideal place for someone on the run.
The Gloucester Police Department is perched along with the county's district court in a modern, largely windowless redbrick atop Main Street's modest humped back. Joe parked on the street, noticing as he did how the crest of the hill marked a social watershed of sorts, with the eastern slope leading toward the wharves, the older businesses, and some of the cheaper housing, and the western slope hosting more upscale, trendy shops and outlets. The majority of the pedestrian crowd, still clad in summer brights, was clearly weighted toward the latter.
Joe found the police department located off the building's lobby, in a dark room fronted by a bulletproof glass panel. He could just dimly make out what looked to be a dispatch center beyond. A phone was mounted to one side of the window.
"Hello? Gloucester Police."
"Hi. My name's Joe Gunther. I'm from the Vermont Bureau of Investigation, in town running a check on an outstanding warrant."
There was a pause from the other end, followed by "Hang on. A detective will be right out."
In three minutes, a barrel-shaped man in a polo shirt and khakis appeared at the far door. His expression was guarded as he stuck out his hand. "I'm Sergeant Wilkinson. May I help you?"
Joe reintroduced himself, presenting his credentials at the same time.
"Long way from home," Wilkinson said, opening the door wider and smiling thinly at last. "Come on back."
Joe followed him down a couple of dark, cluttered hallways and into a tiny office. For all its exterior clean lines and modernity, the building's innards seemed cramped and oddly designed. Wilkinson waved Joe to a guest chair wedged between his desk and a side table loaded with portable radios in chargers. Joe had to watch out for his knees as he sat.
"They told me you're looking for someone," Wilkinson stated.
Joe pulled an updated arrest warrant from his pocket and placed it before his counterpart. "Peter Shea. Suspected of homicide thirty-two years ago in Brattleboro, Vermont. I got an AFIS hit last night that you folks arrested him for unpaid parking tickets a couple of months ago."
Wilkinson's whole expression changed from reserve to bafflement. "You're kidding me."
Joe smiled. "Yeah-long story. Talk about a cold case. You have him in your files under the name-"
"Norman Chesbro," Wilkinson finished.
Just hearing the name out loud was a relief. After all this time and his own misgivings and self-doubt, Joe suddenly began to believe that the end might be within grasp. He wondered how it would feel to finally speak with the elusive ghost of half a lifetime.
"I guess you two met."
But Wilkinson was looking unhappy. "You could say that. We fished him out of the water early this morning. With a hole in his chest."
Gunther stared at him.
The Gloucester cop opened a file before him and slid a Polaroid picture over without comment.
Joe picked it up and saw a drenched man, his face pale as bleached rubber, lying on a stretcher on a dock. In one of those moments when shock calls out for distraction, he also noticed how the body was ringed by the tips of people's shoes, all caught in the margins of the photographer's frame.
"Sorry to ruin your day," Wilkinson said. "Was that your guy?"
Joe returned the picture. "I don't know. Last I saw him, he was barely twenty. His fingerprints checked out, though, right?"
"Yeah. And I was the one who arrested him for the tickets."
Joe sat back in his chair, struggling with the sheer mass of his disappointment. "Any idea when he was killed?"
"Must've been last night. He was seen alive around one this morning, at a bar-no surprise. He was a major-league juicer."
One in the morning, Joe thought. Long after when he would have been here had he chosen not to spend the night with Gail.
Unwittingly, Wilkinson then added exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time. "Too bad his prints weren't in the system. If I'd gotten a hit when I booked him for the parking tickets, I would've held on to him."