“I don’t actually have proof of that, Ms. Mahoney,” he said. “And I told it to you because tongues are already starting to wag. You had a right to know.”
“Plus,” she added, “you wanted to find out if I’d done it.”
“Did you?” he asked.
She looked at him contemplatively, “No. I considered it when I was a teenager. Not very realistically, but still. He was such an arrogant bastard, treating my mom like he did and walking around like God’s gift. But, to be honest, now that he’s dead-especially if you’re right about how-it’s more of a pain than anything else. I’d just as soon he’d died of having no heart. Now there’s guaranteed to be a stink.” She shook her head. “He would have loved that.”
Joe considered what she’d told him-and how-and was left with a grudging respect. He didn’t think that he could ever truly like Michelle Mahoney as a person. There was too much anger and privilege combined, despite her obvious appreciation for the simpler, kinder aspects of life. But he liked her mettle, and her willingness to appraise herself honestly.
He was also thinking that she might be a good source of information.
“You mentioned,” he began, “that he helped create The Woods. You also suggested that my colleague was mugged by one of ‘the inmates,’ as you put it. Could you flesh that out for me?”
“The first part is easy,” she said. “Gorden spent most of his political career catering to the rich and powerful. He was Old School with a vengeance-the very politician that everyone thought died with Boss Tweed and James Curley. People forget what Vermont used to be like before World War Two-ultraconservative, hyper-parochial, provincial, and isolationist. There are plenty of reasons that there’s not more industry or big business in this state, but some of the major ones stem from the old-timers wanting nothing to do with the outside world. You could argue that quite a few of today’s tree-huggers toe the same line, despite their ‘think global’ bullshit.”
Joe watched her speaking, her words at such contrast with her Greenwich, Connecticut, look. She’d referred to shadowing her father down the corridors of power. She’d obviously been one hell of a student-stimulated, according to her, by her disgust with what she was witnessing.
“When the inevitable came crashing in on them,” she continued, “when the war cracked the shell and allowed young men to escape and restless veterans to return-and Vietnam then made a lie of so much that we’d taken for granted-people like my father saw a chance to cash in like never before. There was a sudden chasm between the horrified old conservatives and the dope-smoking, commune-living, back-to-nature bunch. The shift from Republicans to Democrats in the ’60s was less uniform or universal than people remember today, and for opportunists like dear old Dad, it meant that some Republicans became pragmatic-if they couldn’t have the statehouse, they would control the money that was coming in at last with the postwar tourist boom. They slipped into that gap between paying lip service to the wide-eyed, crunchy-granola newbies, and doing deals with the hard-eyed capitalists who were figuring out how to make a buck in this new reality. Old Gorden-bless his cynical little heart-took the money from one side, finessed the idealists on the other with carefully crafted legislation, and made out like a pirate. There was no good cause that he wouldn’t embrace, and no cash deal that he wouldn’t consider.
“Long story short,” she concluded, “even before his drinking and bad habits took their toll, he’d been looking at ‘the plight of the elderly’ and saying all the right things in committees and on the stump-while greasing the skids to turn The Woods into a viable project. Old IOUs got called in, from politicians and millionaires alike, and a bunch of seemingly minor and even unrelated bills slid through the legislative process until the first silver shovel hit the dirt at the ground-breaking.”
Michelle Mahoney sighed and delivered her punch line: “The Woods of Windsor is what it is, Mr. Gunther-a retirement home for people rich enough to pay the entry fee; but it’s also a snake pit of a few bastards like my father who may look like their fellow residents, but who are in fact unrecognized and untraceable founders and beneficiaries of a highly lucrative business venture. And that,” she said, “is why I said what I did about the inmates. There are secrets galore at that place, and I wouldn’t doubt that in the minds of a few of those old coots, some of those secrets are worth killing for.”
By now, Joe could no longer resist betraying a bit of his ignorance about her background. “What kind of lawyer are you, Ms. Mahoney?”
The smile she gave him was wry and self-deprecating. “Corporate, Mr. Gunther. The apple fell close to the tree.”
“I don’t know,” he complimented her. “It doesn’t sound like your father was blessed with your integrity.”
“Why did you want to know?” she asked.
“I don’t usually get such an organized and clearly delivered summation.”
“You’re being polite,” she said. “My colleagues tell me I’m a bully and a bore.”
“You may be the first,” he agreed in part. “I don’t know about that. But you certainly aren’t the second. Have you been to your father’s apartment since he died?”
“No,” she replied. “Why?”
“Before I answer that,” he said, “I’m wondering if you were ever there.”
Her face expressed surprise. “Of course I was. I dropped by every time I came here. I didn’t like him, but he was my father, and he’s all I have, or had left.”
“How old were you when your mom died?” Joe asked.
“Eleven,” she replied softly. “She was a poor, hapless, bullied creature, but a good heart. I don’t think she ever knew what to do with me, but she did try-I’ll give her that. That’s why I took her last name when I reached majority.”
Joe nodded and moved on. “The reason I asked if you’d ever been to your dad’s apartment is because I’m hoping you’ll go there with me and tell me if you think anything’s missing or different from what you’re used to.”
“You want to find out what was stolen when your cop got mugged.”
Joe didn’t want to prejudice her beforehand. “In part, maybe. Would you be willing?”
She answered by standing, flattening the front of her jeans with her hands. “Let’s go. I can finish with Judy later.”
The drive took under twenty minutes, and they went in separate cars, Mahoney predictably navigating a high-end Lexus SUV. At the apartment, Joe was at first disappointed to find that his request for a guard on the door had gone ignored-until he used the key and discovered one of Carrier’s men inside.
He laughed at him. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “Let me guess.”
“What?” the man answered.
“Rick parked you inside to spare you from Graham Dee.”
The cop smiled. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”
“So you’ve met the man.”
“Oh, yeah. He tags us every time we roll into the parking lot. Quite the unit.”
Joe stood aside and introduced Michelle Mahoney. After arranging for a time to return, the cop left them to get some air and a coffee.
Michelle stood looking around. “Kind of funny,” she said quietly.
“What?”
“It’s over,” she said. “It didn’t really strike me till now, but seeing this, and smelling him in the air…” She left the sentence dangling.
Joe was struck by the same realization-that her matter-of-factness had overshadowed what had actually befallen her. She was an only orphan, and was now confronted with having to forage through her father’s belongings, deal with funeral homes and lawyers, all while confronting a lifetime of complicated, not-so-fond memories.
“Would you like to do this later?” Joe asked. “There’s no rush.”
That was all she needed. She faced him, her eyes shining but dry. “Of course there is. You have a man wounded and a homicide to solve. What would you like me to do?”