Sue quickly turned, her arm still around Joe’s waist, and spoke before her husband could respond. “He’s kidding. The doc explained they had to get in there and check you out. Look on the bright side, honey-we can always shave the other side and turn you into a cool dude. Your son would love it.”
Lester gave her a lopsided smile. “It’s an idea.”
Joe sat by his hospital bed as Sue left the room to get them coffee. Sergeant Carrier had called an ambulance after seeing Spinney’s injury, and they’d transported Les to what the MedEvac chopper pilots nicknamed the Emerald City-the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center-a vast green and white boxy sprawl tucked in among New Hampshire’s wooded hills. Fortunately, Lester proved to have a hard head.
“I heard the description you gave of the man who whacked you,” Joe told him. “Anything to add?”
“Only that he must’ve had a key,” Les said. “I locked the door behind me, so I wouldn’t get disturbed by the crotchety old guy who yelled at you that first day.”
“Mr. Dee,” Joe recalled. “Wasn’t there a guard at the door?”
“Not when I got there. I asked Carrier about that afterwards, and he admitted they dropped the ball. I doubt that’ll happen again. Anyhow, I was checking out the dresser, as part of a general search, thought I’d found something that needed documenting, and turned to reach for my camera when-standing right behind me-there he was. Split second later, he beaned me and took off.”
“What did he hit you with?”
Lester smiled weakly. “Something hard. He was wearing a stocking over his head-like in a bank robbery comedy.”
“White guy?” Joe asked.
“Ecru,” Lester countered.
Joe gave him a look. “You did get hit on the head.”
“Something else,” Les added. “When I went after him, kind of seeing double, I thought he might be carrying something, but maybe it was whatever he used to smack me.”
His boss stared off toward the far corner of the room, deep in thought. “How long had you been there, grand total?”
“Not long. I started in the bedroom. Maybe fifteen minutes. I checked the floor and under the furniture; the obvious surfaces. I had just begun on the dresser when he showed up.”
Joe nodded absentmindedly before asking, “What had caught your eye, that you were reaching for the camera?”
“Marshall had a jewelry box-cuff links, tie pins, junk like that. Some of it looked commemorative-stuff you get for being an Elk or a Shriner. I was gonna take a picture of it so I could ask somebody what was what later on.”
Joe’s attention sharpened. “What else was in that drawer?”
“Handkerchiefs, a couple of watches. I forget what else. Why?”
“I went to the apartment afterwards,” Joe explained. “To see if I could get an angle on your guy. The drawer was still open. There was no jewelry box.”
Lester stared at him. “Big as a book, maybe, but square?”
Joe suggested, “Could be what he was carrying when you chased him.”
Les looked chagrined. “I can’t believe I was staring right at it. Damn. Two more minutes and I would’ve had it documented. Who the hell’s gonna tell us what I was looking at?”
“Maybe his daughter, Michelle,” Joe suggested. “How old do you think Mr. Ecru was?” he asked, changing subjects.
“Not a resident,” Lester answered quickly. “He was a jackrabbit-kind of ran like one, too, a little weird-and dressed like a maintenance guy. I never got to ask Carrier … or maybe I did. I don’t remember, but did they see anyone leaving the complex?”
Joe shook his head. “No, which doesn’t tell us much. If he was ballsy enough to sneak up behind you, he could’ve hung around the parking lot long enough to drive out with the flow of traffic later. It doesn’t mean he works there or is a relative.”
“He did have a key, though,” Lester reminded him.
“True,” Joe agreed. “We’ll look into that. But why was he there? Was it the box?”
Les volunteered, “If he was the same guy who smothered Marshall, maybe he forgot it when he cleaned out the filing cabinet.”
“Big risk to come back for it,” Joe mused.
In the silence that followed, he added, “But at least it tells us something.”
“Like?” Lester asked.
“Well,” Joe answered. “I don’t know about you, but I’m officially comfortable calling Marshall’s death suspicious. Your little run-in with Stocking Mask gives us more freedom to pull off the gloves.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Joe found the place without much trouble, beyond South Woodstock, along Route 106. A huge barn with smaller offspring, several fenced-in pastures and exercise rings, and lots of open, empty space, thickly buttered-as was the current norm-with a smooth, gray coating of what Joe had come to call “flood mud.” The solid muck was interspersed with deep ragged fissures and fingerling ravines, carved and salted with white stones, and decorated with garnishes of uprooted trees, a tossed-aside pickup truck, and scattered pieces of broken barn and shattered fencing, among other wreckage.
It was raining ineffectually now, ironically without great effect, making the sky match the earth, and prohibiting any action by the heavy earthmovers and other equipment Joe could see strategically spread across the visible acreage, in preparation for rebuilding the facility, virtually from scratch.
This was wealthy horse country-reportedly, one of the most densely horse-populated regions in the United States, which Joe found hard to believe, especially now, as he pulled into the deserted parking area and took in the surrounding devastation. Specifically, this was the Green Mountain Horse Association, the center of the area’s equine culture. Since the 1920s, Joe had learned earlier, the GMHA had grown to become the go-to place for riders of all stripes, appealing to everyone from backcountry trail ramblers in jeans to folks in hard hats, cutaways, glossy boots, and a fondness for dressage.
But it was all a post-combat battlefield now, littered, gouged, battered, and abandoned. He was here-suitably or not, he didn’t know-to meet Michelle Mahoney, the late state senator’s heir.
It had struck Joe as interesting, however, that when Hannah Eastridge had told him of Michelle’s arrival from Connecticut, she’d added that his best bet for meeting her was to head straight to GMHA. It seemed that Michelle’s primary devotion in Vermont, at least lately, had not been her father, but her investment in-and love for-horses.
He wasn’t about to be the judge of that. At least not yet. From the little his team had pulled together concerning the late senator, his daughter may have been well advised to prefer animals.
He crossed the lot toward a low-slung, ranch-style building with a shingle hanging out front and entered an informal reception area with a computer-equipped desk and nobody tending it. He heard voices in the back and took his cue from the relaxed look of the place to follow wherever his ears led him.
That was a small, cluttered office in the back containing two athletically trim middle-aged women with sensible haircuts. They were wearing the kind of minimal jewelry that speaks of the wealthy’s flair for everyday baubles whose trade-in value might purchase a good used car.
The one at the desk looked up as he appeared at the edge of the door.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “I was told I might find Michelle Mahoney here.”
Her guest chimed in-tellingly, he thought-with, “Who are you?”
He smiled thinly, his guess all but confirmed, and entered introducing himself, “Joe Gunther. Vermont Bureau of Investigation. I’m here about your father.”
The desk owner was already rising. “Michelle,” she said. “Use the room. I have to talk with Jimmy anyhow. Take all the time you need.”
Without waiting for a response, and not receiving one from Michelle in any case, she squeezed by Joe and closed the door behind her.