Bellows Falls

Chapter 15

WHEN WE WALKED INTO THE SQUAD ROOM the next morning, Harriet Fritter gave me a broad smile and a slip of paper that said, “Call Greg Davis ASAP.” She also told me I should get more sleep.

I closed the door to my small corner office and sat, exhausted, looking at the note from Davis. The urge to follow Harriet’s advice and rest my head on the tabletop was suddenly hard to resist. I sensed only bad news lurking behind the “ASAP” in the note.

Reluctant to stir up the anxiety and despair that clung to this case like ground fog, I dialed his home phone number, suddenly worried that I hadn’t voiced my concerns about Brian Padget by telling Davis the young cop needed counseling-and wondering if I was about to be told the consequences of that oversight.

“We’ve got a small problem,” he said after I’d identified myself. “Your connecting Emily Doyle to those calls to Bouch’s place has spread like wildfire. There’s all sorts of rumors you’re investigating her, too. What’s going on?”

I remembered wondering whether Davis or that quiet dispatcher had been the one to spill the beans. Davis’s obvious irritation seemed to clear that up. Nevertheless, I kept my response tactfully vague. “Too many people are shooting their mouths off. Bill Deets was in my face last night about Doyle and Padget both, not long after you and I were seen fiddling with the computer.”

In the brief silence following, I could hear him connecting the dots. Only then, and only briefly, did I feel sorry for the dispatcher’s coming fate. “Can you tell me about Doyle?” he finally said.

“Only that we have a whole lot less than what her supposed friends are dishing out. She’s come up on the radar screen a few times, and we are checking those events out. That’s standard procedure… ”

I stopped, hearing his weary, “I know, I know,” echoing in the background. I volunteered, “Would it help if I came up there and talked to them?”

He was hesitant. “Probably not. The chief and the town manager have already gotten hold of this. I don’t think anything you could say now would make any difference.”

“What have they done?” I asked, stunned that things could get so bad so fast.

“Nothing yet. I just know they’re keeping an eye on us. They haven’t called a press conference or anything, but it won’t be long before Shippee caves in and briefs at least the president of the village trustees. After that, it’ll be public knowledge in about five minutes.”

“Is the department even vaguely functional right now?”

He sounded faintly insulted. “Of course it is. Morale stinks, but the job’s getting done. Christ, we don’t have any choice with Deets at the task force and Brian out on leave. We’re using the part-timers more, so that’s helping a little-it disperses some of the depression. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say this whole thing’s put Emily in a pretty tight spot.”

“I’m going to have to talk to her, you know.”

“When?”

“Could be as early as today. Depends on some other things I have going.”

“Could that take place outside the building?”

“Sure. You name it. And I’ll give you some warning on the timing. How’s Brian doing? He seemed a little better when I left him yesterday, but I meant to tell you, I think he ought to find a counselor soon. He doesn’t seem to realize what kind of freight train he’s facing.”

Davis’s voice was grim. “He’s finding out. I dropped by last night and found him passed out drunk on his living room floor. He’s drying out in my guest bedroom right now.”

I hoped Bellows Falls knew what they had in Greg Davis. “All right. I’ll do what I can to wrap things up, for everyone’s sake, but it’s starting to get complicated.”

“I read the paper,” he said sympathetically.

That sat me up straight. “I haven’t. What did it say?”

“Just that a presumed homicide had been discovered at an abandoned motel, and that Lavoie’s gun probably played a part. I take it that was Jasper Morgan?”

“We think so, but it does up the ante on finding out who killed him. Our forensics guy thinks it was an acquaintance killing. He was on the bed when he caught the first bullet.”

“Well, if it was Norm Bouch, I’ll do anything I can to help. Just let me know.”

“I appreciate that.” I was about to hang up when I suddenly remembered a question that had been rattling around my head for days. “There is something, since you’ve got Brian nearby. When he wakes up, ask him who his mechanic is.”

Breakfast at Dunkin’ Donuts is something I enjoy all too rarely nowadays, with Gail’s constant mutterings about the sanctity of a healthy body. So when Harriet told me Willy Kunkle was stopping there on his way to the office, I jogged down the block to catch him before he left.

Typically, he was positioned at the far end of the curved counter, his back against the wall and his eye on the front door. I took the stool next to his and ordered the largest cinnamon roll they sold, along with a cup of coffee to help ease it down.

“The old lady out of town?” he asked with a sarcastic smile.

“Business breakfast. I’m allowed. What’ve you found out about Jasper Morgan?”

“That why you’re here? You’ll get more out of that doughnut. From what I could find out, Jasper Morgan came, raised hell, sold dope, and then disappeared. Nobody knows who his contacts were, where he got his stuff, or what he did with the money.”

“How ’bout his runners? You talk to any of them?”

“Sure, and they’re pretty chatty, too. But they got zip to offer. Morgan dealt with them one on one, never in groups. He did the contacting and always met at a location of his own choosing. He’d give ’em the dope and an address and strict orders not to take any money-their cut of the profits always came in the mail later-cash only.”

“How’d he get paid, then?”

“I went to a couple of the addresses myself. The people weren’t too thrilled to see me, but I got ’em to open up.” He paused to take a swig from his coffee mug, obviously hoping I’d ask how he’d pulled that off. I kept silent.

“He collected the money himself,” he continued. “He’d phone and tell whatever customers to carry the cash at all times for the next few days, and then he’d appear out of the blue-on the street, at their jobs, wherever-and hit ’em up for it. Very cagey.”

“Very trusting. Wasn’t he ever ripped off?”

“I heard he was once-but only once. One of his little rug rats tested him and was never seen again.”

I stopped chewing and gave him an incredulous look. “He knocked off a kid? And we didn’t hear about it?”

Willy rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. There’s a ton of shit we never hear about. Some back-alley kid gets whacked and buried. His parents, if they care, take a six-second break from the bottle to look around and assume he’s split town. End of story. His buddies got the message, though, and Jasper Morgan could trust ’em with the crown jewels from then on.”

Cynical, but unarguable. “None of the runners ever saw him make a phone call or get a letter or hang out with his boss? Sounds a little unlikely.”

Willy tilted his head meditatively. “Normally, I’d agree with you. Little bastards can’t wait to squeal on each other, especially to us. But that’s where Morgan’s system really stood out. He kept switching runners-use one for a little while, give him a bonus, and kiss him off. He stayed away from the gang bit. It meant using more people overall, but no one person got too ambitious, and Morgan could keep the details to himself. I think he was making a killing-for this town-with nobody the wiser ’cause he kept a low profile and let ’em all think he was playing for peanuts. Smart.”

“Or well trained,” I said. “Rumor has it that exact same type of operation is working in Burlington right now.”

I finished my coffee, wiped my mouth, and stood up. “You coming?”

His own cup was empty, and his doughnut long gone, but his answer didn’t surprise me. “Later.”

My next stop was Sammie Martens, whom I found with Ron Klesczewski in the squad’s conference room, using its long table to lay out a series of labeled folders. The precise methodology clearly spoke of Ron’s influence.

“That the Morgan case?” I asked, sitting on a nearby filing cabinet to stay out of the way.

“Yeah,” Sammie said glumly, “although I think we’ll end up with more folders than paper to fill ’em, the way things’re going.”

“I know. I just talked with Kunkle. What did you find out about Emily Doyle?”

She made a face and turned to Ron. “You okay with the rest of this? I gotta dig that out of my desk.”

“Sure. Go,” he said.

She spoke over her shoulder as we walked to her cubicle in the next room. “I really hated doing that, poking into another cop’s life. Gave me the creeps.”

I didn’t answer. Such sensitivities were the least of my concerns now.

She sat in her chair, unlocked a drawer, and removed a thin file.“Here,” she said, handing it over.

“Thanks.” I leaned against the partition facing her desk. “Run it down for me.”

I wasn’t being a hard-nose-not entirely. A verbal report is usually preferable to its written equivalent, since you can immediately expand it with questions. On the other hand, I was making a small point-you can’t always choose the kind of police work you do.

She let out a sigh. “Emily Doyle was born in St. Albans. Father Quebecois, mother American. Dad was a hardheaded, heavy-handed construction worker, moved around southern Canada and the U.S. border states for years before settling down in Burlington. He drank a lot and beat on his wife and kid-Emily was an only child. She uses her mother’s maiden name as her own. The cops used to drop by the house regularly to sort things out. From what I heard, she began hanging out with them as a result-they sort of tucked her under their wing.”

“The Burlington PD?”

“Right. She was about ten when they hit town. In school she showed a preference for structured organizations-team sports, the Girl Scouts, the PD’s Junior program-and she turned into a wicked jock. Super aggressive, super competitive, and not real good at accepting defeat or criticism. When she finally applied to join the department, they turned her down, as did Rutland. That’s how she ended up in Bellows Falls. The people I talked to thought she went there for the action and to build up a good résumé so she could reapply to Burlington.”

“How was she in school?”

“Indifferent student, terrific athlete, and an on-again, off-again discipline problem. Far as I know, she never did drugs or alcohol, but she got into fights all the time, and always with boys.”

“Padget told me her father wanted a son.”

“Well, she’s done everything in her power to satisfy him there.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Yeah. He migrates between the bar and whatever job he’s working. His wife still lives with him, what’s left of her. She’s not too outgoing socially-surprise, surprise.”

I ignored the bitterness. Sammie had her own struggles with aggression and competition with men. “But she never did anything crooked, right?”

“Not that I could find. ’Course, I was treading lightly here, calling in favors, telling people to keep it under their hat.”

“It’s interesting, though,” I mused. “A woman with that background, responding time after time to the residence of a submissive woman and her abusive husband. It must’ve been like stepping into her own family movie, only this time as the authority figure.”

Sammie watched me carefully. “Which leads you where?”

I pushed away from the partition and began moving toward my office. “Eventually, to a conversation with the lady herself. Thanks. I know that wasn’t much fun.”

After weeks of warm, dry weather, the forecast was warning of a major rainstorm, which prophecy proved true as Jonathon Michael and I approached Bellows Falls early that afternoon. The lead gray sky pressed low upon the broad interstate, making me feel I was racing between two immovable masses-a bug running like hell to escape a descending shoe. The rain was heavy enough to overtake the wipers and made me wary of hydroplaning the tires.

“You get anything on that computer search of Bouch’s assets?” I asked Michael, more to ease the tension than to learn what he would have told me hours earlier had it been relevant.

“Nothing beyond what we already knew,” he said. “No big surprise, of course-if he has any brains, he’s got half a dozen dummy fronts to hide behind. I did get the report back on Padget’s urinalysis. It doesn’t match the sample you found in the toilet tank. What he was carrying around inside him shows no cutting agent whatsoever.”

“It was pure coke?” I asked.

“So they said. What I know about chemistry you could feed to a tick. The bagged stuff was supposedly cut with procaine, and there was none of that in his system. It’s too bad, in a way. Sometimes what they use is exotic enough to trace, but procaine’s pretty common. It’s unregulated and you can buy it through any vet supplies outlet-it’s a topical anesthetic.”

“Huh,” I muttered. “The paper’s informant implied it was all one and the same. I don’t know how or why, but this could be good news for Mr. Padget.”

I entered Bellows Falls from Route 5 and continued on to Atkinson Street. About halfway to the police station at the town’s north end, I turned left onto a rough, dead-end street lined with small, scabby-looking old warehouses. The road was so full of water-filled potholes and patches, it was like driving across a rock-filled pond. At the far end, we stopped next to a cobbled-together, one-story building with a rusting metal roof. A hand-lettered sign over sagging garage doors read “Al’s Auto.”

Jon gave me a questioning glance.

“Quick stop,” I said. “Davis told me this is where Padget had his car fixed when Emily Doyle was taking him to work.”

We got out and ran, hunched over, toward a narrow entrance next to the garage doors. It was no more than a ten-yard dash, but we were drenched by the time we ducked inside.

On a normal day, the building’s interior would have felt dark and hazardous-an evil-smelling hospital for decrepit, oil-bleeding cars. Today, it was almost embracing, its quirkily placed bare bulbs and the thundering rain on the roof giving a sensation of domestic warmth and protection.

We glanced around, seeing no signs of life and hearing nothing over the sound of the rain. I finally made a megaphone of my hands and called out, “Is anybody here?”

The answer came from disturbingly close by. “Yeah.”

We both instinctively stepped back in alarm as two legs appeared from under a pickup I’d been near enough to touch. A man dressed in filthy blue overalls rolled out on a creeper and lay looking up at us. He was holding a flashlight in one hand and a wrench in the other.

“What can I do you for?”

I showed him my badge. “We’re police officers. I was wondering if you could answer a couple of questions.”

The man scowled. “Am I in trouble?”

“Not with us. It’s about a car you serviced-for Brian Padget.”

He pursed his lips, rolled off the creeper onto his hands and knees, and slowly rose to his feet. With blackened fingers, he groped in his breast pocket for a pack of cigarettes and lit his selection from a book of paper matches. I let him take his time.

“What about it?”

“You told Padget there was water in the gas tank. You know how it got there?”

He scratched his cheek, looking from one of us to the other, transparently pondering his best approach. “They say sometimes dealers spike the gas with water to stretch a buck.”

“From what we could find out, Padget buys most of his gas from the same place. There’ve been no other complaints.”

He tilted his head slightly, putting on a philosophical air. “I’ll tell you what I tell some of my customers about that. I warn ’em to stay away from any gas station-even their regular one-when there’s a gas truck filling up the underground tanks. People don’t realize, every one of those storage units has some water in it. Just the nature of the beast. And it’s no big deal as long as nobody stirs it up, ’cause water sinks like lead and stays on the bottom. But you get a big tanker dumping all that gas in there, mixing everything up, and you put that stuff into your car two minutes later, you’re going to be takin’ on some serious water.”

Jonathon spoke from just behind me. “Do you know that’s why the water was in the tank?”

The man pushed out his lower lip and shook his head. “Nope. I dropped it out of the car, emptied it, dried it, bled the lines, and hooked her back up. I checked the container where I poured the gas and saw there was water mixed in. She ran good afterwards, so I told Padget that’s what the problem was.”

“Is this common?”

“It happens, usually when the tank starts to rust through, or after a tanker truck refill, like I told you. But it’s not too often it gets so bad you notice it.”

Jonathon looked around the large room. “What kind of container do you empty the gas into?”

“Big plastic see-through thing. I got it around here somewhere.” But he did no more than glance over his shoulder, as if to summon the container by magnetism.

Jon pressed on. “So you saw exactly how much water there was.”

“Yeah, sure. Maybe a gallon, maybe more.”

“Isn’t that a lot?” I asked.

“Enough to mess things up. The feeder line to the engine comes off the bottom. You get a little water sitting there, no big deal. Maybe you hear a ping now and then, maybe not even that. More water, more of a problem. When you get into a couple of gallons or more, then you’re sucking water and nothin’ else, so the engine doesn’t even fire.”

I looked at Michael and raised my eyebrows. He shook his head slightly. “Okay,” I told the mechanic, “thanks for the help.”

We were almost back to the narrow door when his voice caught up to us. “He in big trouble, Padget?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” I told him.

Back in the car, the dampness rising from our clothes like a mist, I began driving toward the Island, between the canal and the bend in the river.

“What’d you think?” Jonathon asked.

“By itself, not much. Combined with everything else, it makes for one hell of a handy way to get Emily Doyle into Padget’s house.”

The directions Greg Davis had given me led us past where we’d parked to see the petroglyphs, and down a narrow, tree-choked lane that dead-ended at an enormous, ancient red-brick building that loomed out of the surrounding rain-soaked woods like an ominous vision from a fairy tale.

Jon craned his neck to see the roofline high above us. “I take it this is one of the famous mills? It’s creepy enough.”

I turned left down an embankment, picking my way through the weeds, and rounded the building’s corner. There, the lane widened to a broad, grassy parking area, opposite a row of enormous wooden doors, one of which swung back on its hinges as we stopped.

Backlit by a string of bare light bulbs hanging from the ceiling behind him, Greg Davis gestured me right into the mill’s embrace. Like Jonah entering the whale, I drove past him, and saw the grayness of the day vanish as the ponderous door slammed shut with a reverberating echo.

Michael and I emerged from the car slowly, taking in the shadowy archways looping high overhead, the broad, blackened, iron-hard oak floors, and the massive ribbons of ceiling-mounted conveyor belts, once linked to the river’s thunderous power, now as silent and still as sleeping juggernauts. Everywhere we looked, there were electrical lights strung like Christmas ornaments, each one bright individually but cumulatively smothered by the sheer weight of the surrounding gloom. Incongruously small, as well as out of place, a dusty 1930s fire-truck sat parked to one side.

“Boy,” Jonathon said softly as Greg approached us. “You sure know how to pick your spots.”

Greg shook hands. “I’m friends with the owner. It was the one place I could think of where no one would walk in on us. Emily’s waiting upstairs.” He gestured toward a broad flight of worn wooden steps.

Jon was still looking around like a star-struck tourist. “Your friend like paying utility bills?”

Greg laughed. “It’s free. Years back, when the power company bought the land, the man who owned this building demanded that part of the deal be free utilities in perpetuity. The lights burn day and night. It’s not a bad security system, although I know the guy would like to see the place put to better use. He’s tried to interest people in starting a business here, maybe a small manufacturer, but it’s been like moving a mountain with a spoon.”

We reached the top of the stairs and stood in a gigantic empty room, the size of a football field. It was clear of debris or obstacles apart from an orderly forest of regularly spaced steel pillars supporting the flat wooden ceiling. Every wall save one was covered with enormous paned windows, making the room as washed with light as its predecessor had been dark. Near one of these banks of windows was a small cluster of chairs, and sitting in one of them was the compact shape of Emily Doyle. She rose nervously as we approached.

Jonathon stepped ahead of me, as we’d agreed earlier. Given the mood of my previous encounter with Emily, I saw no advantage in being the point man. “I’m with the attorney general’s office, Officer Doyle. My name is Jonathon Michael. You’ve already met Lieutenant Gunther.”

She nodded, but made no comment. The fire I’d seen in her earlier had ebbed now that she felt herself in Padget’s shoes-a loss of spirit I took no joy in seeing.

Jon gestured for everyone to sit. Outside, mingling with the rain’s steady hiss was the throaty growl of the nearby river, visible at the bottom of the gorge as a frothing, lethal tumult. Fall Mountain opposite was lost in a veil of colorless mist.

“Before we begin,” he said, “I want to make one thing very clear. Despite what you might feel, you are under no obligation to be here, nor to speak with any one of us. Sergeant Davis is here so he can testify to that later if need be. You are absolutely free to walk away right now, and nothing will be made of the fact.”

A bit of the old Emily flashed across her face. “I doubt that.”

Jonathon didn’t let it pass. “You doubt what, Officer Doyle?”

“That if I walk out of here, it won’t be held against me. You guys’ll think I’m hiding something.”

Jonathon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his low, calm voice barely containing a sudden passion. “Your name has come up enough times that we wanted to talk with you. If you don’t want to be part of that process, fine, but don’t start thinking you know what’s going on in my head. I happen to know what it’s like being hung out to dry. I know you get distrustful and isolated. I know how conversations die when you enter a room. I won’t be wondering what you’re hiding if you hightail it out of here, because to me that would be the most natural thing in the world. Are we straight on that?”

I had to hand it to him. She merely nodded and said, “I’m sorry.” I did wonder, however, at the allusion he’d made, and the implication that so many of us had at one time or another found ourselves on the outside of a demanding, often stratified system.

He sat back and crossed his legs. “Don’t be. Now-do you want to be here or not? Simple yes or no.”

Now Emily Doyle surprised me. She smiled lopsidedly and said, “No and yes.”

Jon matched her smile and shook his head. “Point taken.” He paused a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, and continued. “One last technicality. As Sergeant Davis is your immediate superior, you might feel more comfortable with him out of earshot. That would also not be held against you.”

Here she was unequivocal. “No. I’d like him to stay.”

“All right. We’ll get started, but keep in mind that we’re groping for answers here, not trading accusations, so try not to get your back up. It is our understanding that you and Brian Padget were intimately involved with one another. When you broke up, was it amicable or were there bad feelings?”

The kaleidoscope of emotions that swept across her suddenly red face was painful to watch. Given the emotional strain this woman had endured, and her inexperience in dealing with it, I was half surprised she didn’t yield to her famous physical prowess and deck Jonathon Michael where he sat.

In fact, once her shock and anger had settled back down, like a suddenly disturbed flock of birds, her response, while tense, was delivered calmly. “We were friends before, and we still are.”

“Did you know early on about his affair with Jan Bouch?”

She pursed her lips briefly. “Soon enough, I guess-town this size.”

“How did you feel about that?”

“It wasn’t any of my business.”

Jon shifted in his chair, becoming slightly more pointed in his body language. “Let’s try that one again.”

“We’d already broken up. It was his choice.” She paused. No one else filled the silence. “I thought he was nuts, risking his career.”

I sensed in a slight widening of her eyes that she wanted to add something. But the moment was so quickly overtaken by Jon’s next question, I wasn’t even sure what I’d seen.

“Did other members of the department feel likewise? Was it a topic of conversation?”

“I knew they were talking about it, but not around me, since Brian and I had been going together. Sergeant Davis approached Brian unofficially, not that it did any good.”

Davis moved slightly, his eyes on the floor. He hadn’t told me of any such conversation and was no doubt feeling awkward. Unnecessarily, I thought-the talk had been confidential, and he’d honored that promise.

“You know Brian pretty well,” Jonathon went on, “and you seem to think highly of him, even if his relationship with Mrs. Bouch was perhaps poorly thought out. Were there other times he might’ve acted inappropriately?”

Her expression darkened. “Did he do dope, you mean? No fucking way… I’m sorry. I mean, he’s like a regular straight arrow. He won’t even drink a beer because he doesn’t want alcohol in his system just in case there’s an emergency.”

“How about his dealings with Norm Bouch?”

Again, I thought I saw that desire to say more, but all she said was, “I didn’t know he had any.”

Jonathon Michael frowned. “If he didn’t have any contact with Norm Bouch, how did he meet Jan?”

This time, the body language was more eloquent. Her eyes swept across all three of us, and she wet her lips before answering, “I guess it was just around town.”

“Not during a domestic to the house? The log shows the PD went over there pretty regularly.”

She nodded emphatically. “Sure. They could’ve met during a call.”

“Except that Brian’s name doesn’t appear in the log once, not as a primary, not even as backup.”

There was a long, awkward silence. Her voice, when it came, sounded tinny in the vast empty space around us. “Then I guess they didn’t.”

Jon continued as if nothing had happened. “Do you and Brian talk shop a lot?”

“As much as anybody.”

“But you implied you didn’t discuss the risks he was running by dating Mrs. Bouch, despite your friendship.”

Her eyes narrowed angrily. “That was personal. It wasn’t shop.”

“What do you think of Norm Bouch? You were on more calls to his house than anyone.”

She crossed her arms defensively. “So?”

Jon made a show of raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Surely that’s a reasonable question. Dominating husband, abused wife who won’t ever file charges, kids left to fend for themselves. What did you think of all that?”

What I thought was that Jonathon Michael had made a quick study of my briefing about Emily Doyle. He’d painted an approximation of Emily’s own household as a child.

“I think it stinks,” she answered him. “Not that it matters. We’re paid to pick up the pieces after the wife’s been beaten to death, or the kids have been pounded on so bad their bodies are walking proof of it. Even then, the son of a bitch who caused it ends up with a pat on the ass from some judge who doesn’t know shit from Shinola about what’s really going on.”

Jonathon avoided the debate, keeping on course. “Is that what you see happening in the Bouch home?”

“Worse, since we all know Norm deals drugs, too, and got his wife hooked on ’em.”

Jon turned philosophical. “Why do you think that’s been allowed to continue?”

She was animated by now, her suspicions blunted by his drawing her out. “Look at this whole town, for Christ’s sake. It’s full of people like Norm. Maybe not on his scale, but people who live by their own rules, playing the system for all it’s worth. They get paid for their rent, their food, their kids’ education. And then they get tax-free jobs under the counter, buy and sell dope, fuck themselves brainless, and think that’s A-okay. How can we do anything about all that when the same system we’re working for started it in the first place?”

It was a textbook simplification, the embodiment of what I’d been told upon entering Bellows Falls. The hopes and hard work of the citizens struggling against Emily’s complaints were all but lost on her-reduced to occasional articles in a newspaper she barely glanced at.

“But if as you suggest,” Jon prompted her further, “the Norm Bouches of the world are the worst of the bunch, what would you propose for them?”

“The same as for any tactical threat. Target ’em and take ’em out. You can’t do much for most of the rest, but bringing Bouch down would send a big message.” Her face soured. “Unfortunately, not everyone agrees with that approach.”

Jon feigned ignorance. “Who do you mean?”

She looked at us all belligerently. “I know you’re trying to get me to stick my neck out on the chopping block. But the Chief wimped out on this, and I don’t care who knows it. I told him what I told you, but he just wants to retire nice and peaceful. And we’re supposed to keep things quiet in the meantime. Might as well give Bouch a license to operate.”

Jonathon nodded like a psychoanalyst taking notes. “You and Brian talk a lot about this?”

Her face shut down after a quick glimmer of surprise. “Not much.”

He let out a small sigh, feeling he’d circled this spot before. “Thank you, Officer Doyle. We appreciate your time and cooperation.”

She looked confused for a minute, then surprisingly disappointed. She rose awkwardly from her chair, muttered, “Sure,” and walked toward the distant stairs. Greg Davis hesitated and then followed her.

Jonathon Michael and I waited until we could no longer hear their footsteps echoing below us. I rose and went to the old, wavy-glass windows and looked out. The rain cut across the scenery in diagonal sheets, sprinkling the glass with tear-shaped drops.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“Something’s going on,” he admitted, “but I’m damned if I know what.”

“Or what to do about it,” I added.

“Maybe nothing for the moment. Your squad is handling the homicide investigation in Brattleboro all right, aren’t they?”

“Yeah.”

“Then let’s drop this for the moment and go to Burlington.”