Gatekeeper

Chapter 14

Gail braced herself for the inevitable. Her sister, Rachel, hadn't been in the house for five minutes, and already the familiar patterns had begun to surface. The two of them were standing together in the small study off Gail's living room.

"What is that girl doing here?" Rachel demanded in a whispered hiss.

After moving her in and cleaning her up, including a change of clothes, Gail had settled Debbie Holton on the living room couch opposite the TV set, surrounded by pillows, blankets, and an ignored plate of fruit.

"She's my guest, like you," Gail answered levelly, knowing it would only cause a fight.

Rachel's face reddened. "You're comparing us? My God, Gail. You are so perverse. That girl-"

"Debbie," Gail interjected.

"— probably sold heroin to Laurie. What were you thinking, putting us in the same house? I can't believe you'd be that thoughtless, so typically confrontational. Did you think I'd benefit from some epiphany here?"

"I didn't think of you at all, Rachel. I reacted to a human being in trouble."

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Oh-right. You forget that I know you, Gail. So, it was pure coincidence that this particular human being was also the same one doing drugs with Laurie? I really believe that." She shook her head. "You've really outdone yourself this time, I must say. Subtle as a fucking crutch."

Gail crossed to the window and looked out onto the lawn. "Have you been by the hospital yet?" she asked, not turning around.

Rachel's long silence substituted for the shocked expression Gail knew from experience she'd be wearing.

"I'm going there now," was the frosty reply. "I thought I'd settle in first, see my sister, find out how she was doing. What a great idea. You'd think I'd wake up."

Gail turned and faced her, repressing a knee-jerk reaction before saying formally, "I'm sorry. You're tired and upset. I should have been more sensitive. Go see Laurie. Stay there as long as you want. I've got all sorts of food I can warm up in no time for dinner whenever you get back."

They stared at each other for a few moments, leaving things where they were, choosing Gail's starchy politeness as a way out. Rachel merely muttered, "Okay," and left through the side door into the hall, avoiding the living room.

Gail stood alone for a while, hearing the muffled TV through the closed door, then her sister's oversized SUV starting up in the driveway They were Mutt and Jeff, she and Rachel. Gail was the elder, the more relied upon by their parents, historically the built-in baby-sitter for a sister eight years her junior, and in return, the substitute punching bag for when Rachel wanted to lash out at her parents while maintaining her angelic reputation. Spoiled, lousy at school, lucky in a marriage to an upwardly mobile furniture chain scion, Rachel had been allowed to believe that trendiness mattered, that social status was proof of Darwin's theory, and that motherhood could be done by proxy through nannies, summer camps, and prep schools. She reminded Gail of a Rhode Island yacht-sleek, beautiful, very expensive, and perpetually moored for all to see in a safe harbor.

With a small sigh, Gail opened the door to the living room and walked in on Debbie, who was randomly pushing buttons on the remote.

"You feeling better?" Gail asked, sitting at the far end of the couch.

"I feel like shit," Debbie answered, not looking at her. "And your sister hates my guts."

"She doesn't even know you. You're just a symbol to her."

"Thanks. That sounds great."

"You're like a neon sign of her own poor parenting. At least that's how she sees it."

"It's not my fault Laurie's in a coma." Debbie's voice was petulant.

Gail rubbed her forehead, wondering if this conversation was going to be as taxing as its predecessor. "Nobody's saying it is."

Debbie looked at her, her expression curiously vulnerable. "But you're still going to throw me out, right?"

Suddenly understanding, Gail rose and crossed over to her, crouching by her side and taking up her hand. "No, I'm not. You're safe here, Debbie, and welcome to stay for as long as you like."

Debbie glanced at the TV and hit the Off button on the remote. In the abrupt silence, her next words sounded all the more fragile. "Why didn't your sister come up before?"

"To see Laurie? She was busy-had a lot of commitments she felt she couldn't break. My sister's very practical in her way. She knew Laurie was in a coma, she knew I was here in case something came up. She's always managed things like that well."

"Like her own daughter was a pet or something-maybe not even."

"No," Gail admitted. "Rachel loves Laurie, but I think maybe she was waiting for Laurie to get older so the two of them could have a really good time together."

"Fat chance of that now."

"You never know," Gail countered, trying to sound hopeful.

Debbie didn't respond, staring out the double glass doors that led onto the broad deck with the huge maple tree growing through its middle. Gail allowed for the silence to prompt whatever might come next.

"My mom would've been drunk," Debbie finally said.

"When?"

"If I'd been in a coma," the girl explained.

Gail didn't argue the point. Chances were too good Debbie was right. "What about your father?" she asked instead. "Where's he?"

"In Florida. He's married to somebody else. I don't see him."

"Any brothers or sisters?"

"Yeah-a few. We don't get along. Different dads and stuff. You got anything good to eat?"

Gail smiled at the abrupt change of topic. "You want to order some pizza?"

* * *

Sam got out of the car with Manuel and surveyed the building before them critically. They'd been at this for several hours already, looking at houses, duplexes, and apartments as potential bases of operation. In each case, she'd found things to object to-proximity to neighbors, not enough or too many exits, poor floor layout for clandestine activities and/or self-protection if things went wrong. Manuel had been reasonable throughout, even agreeable at times. Sam had been surprised at how mellow he'd become, despite the lean, almost feline sense of quiet menace he carried like a scent. The lethality was real-of that she had little doubt-but it almost seemed as if it was a reluctant burden to him, like a badge might be to a peace-loving lawman.

"So far, so good," she said, knowing full well this was the house Gunther and the task force had already filled with eavesdropping equipment. "I like the way it sits back from the street."

As usual, Manuel stayed quiet, looking around, standing slightly to her rear, like a bodyguard. The traditional mannerisms of macho dominance appeared lacking.

A round, bearded man in a spattered work shirt emerged from the house and clattered down from the front porch using a noisy set of stairs. "You the people looking to rent?"

Sam shook his beefy hand and then wiped her own against her jeans. "Yeah. You Mr. Badamo?"

"Julius Badamo. That's right. Rutland born and bred." He eyed Manuel suspiciously. "You from around here?"

"Our money is," Sam answered shortly. "You want to show us around?"

Badamo considered this for a moment before saying, "I suppose I could do that."

Gunther had told Sam in one of their scheduled furtive phone calls that the landlord had no idea what was afoot. The surveillance equipment had been installed during a phony municipal inspection conducted by a team led by Lester Spinney.

"House was built in the 1860s," Badamo was saying, leading the way. "As if you give a damn about that. It's got five bedrooms and two and a half baths. The building code people just gave it a clean bill of health a couple of days ago, in case you're thinking of burning the place down and then blaming me."

He led them inside and toured them around. Above and beyond being wired by the police, the place had its own built-in appeal, Sam thought, and was perfectly suited to their needs. And her colleagues had done a good job. She saw not one sign of their visit-or of the toys they'd left behind. Several times, still pretending to be critical, she cast a look over her shoulder at Manuel, who also nodded his approval. They were in if the landlord didn't turn thumbs down, and given their first exchange, she began worrying that might happen, if only to prove that Murphy's Law was alive and well.

Badamo finally threw open a kitchen door to reveal a large garage, one wall of which was lined with an oversized fluorescent green rendering of a lumbering giant in torn clothing, his teeth bared and fists clenched.

"The Incredible Hulk," Manuel said in astonishment, speaking for the first time since their arrival.

Badamo turned and looked at him. "It speaks," he said, but Manuel's outburst had obviously pleased him. "You a fan?"

"Oh, sure," Manuel admitted, approaching the huge drawing. It was more like a set piece, old and stained and battered around the edges, crudely painted on plywood. "I loved all the Marvel and DC characters."

Badamo laughed. "Look behind it."

Sam watched, amazed, as Manuel's aloof and chilly manner melted into something closer to that of an enthusiastic kid coming face-to-face with an old friend. He tilted the painted panel toward him and craned to look behind it.

"Oh my God: It's Thor. These are wonderful." Manuel shifted the Hulk aside to reveal a blond-haired, muscular Viking carrying a massive hammer in one hand. "Why are they here?"

"Old souvenirs," Badamo explained. "From years back. We have an annual parade in Rutland-every Halloween. In the old days, writers and artists from Marvel and DC would come up from New York dressed in costume to ride the floats we put together. Those things were part of it."

"Why?" Sam asked, incredulous.

"For fun. There was a guy named Tom Fagan who worked for the paper who also knew Stan Lee and a couple of other comic bigwigs. He invited them up and I guess they thought it was loopy enough to accept. They did it for years. Basically, just a way for a lot of people to get drunk and stoned, but it got to be quite the tradition. The parade was even mentioned in a few of the comic books, along with Fagan himself."

Manuel was shaking his head. "Wow. I learned to read from these things. My uncle used to have them by the hundreds. I couldn't get enough of them."

Sam watched them looking at one another like long-lost cousins, wondering at life's odd twists.

Julius Badamo waved a hand toward the house behind them. "So, you interested?"

Manuel glanced at Sam, who'd been so picky all day. She smiled and said, "Who can argue with the Incredible Hulk? Works for us if it works for you."

Badamo looked a little rueful. "You said your money's good. You got it."

* * *

After they'd sealed the deal with both a security deposit and a down payment in cash, which Badamo did a poor job of pretending to take in stride, Sam and Manuel retired to their car.

"A comic book fan?" she asked him before starting the engine.

He was staring straight ahead. "How soon do we start operations?"

"A comic book fan?" she repeated, laughing now.

His face reddened. "I was a kid once. Drive."

She still didn't turn the key. "Where did you grow up?"

"In an apartment."

"In Holyoke?"

He hesitated. "Nobody grows up in Holyoke. I was born in the Bronx."

"Holyoke's got to be better than that."

He tilted his head equivocally, his eyes still fixed ahead, as if this entire conversation were taking place inside his head. "Better," he conceded. "That's still not saying much."

"You're upwardly mobile," she argued. "If Johnny pulls this off, you'll be sitting pretty."

He didn't answer.

She watched him a moment before asking, "You don't think?"

For the first time since they'd entered the car, he looked at her. "I hope so."

She waited expectantly, but that was it. The next thing he said was, "Drive."

* * *

Joe pulled into the gas station parking lot off the immaculate and picturesque village common of Rochester, Vermont, roughly halfway between Rutland and Waterbury-the agreed-upon meeting place that he'd set up with Bill Allard on the phone an hour earlier.

Neither one of them bothered leaving their cars. Old-time cops both, they'd instinctively parked door-to-door and simply rolled down their windows to have a comfortable and private talk.

"Too restless to use a phone?" Joe asked his boss, smiling.

"Yeah-a little. Good day for a drive," Allard answered. "I didn't want anyone hearing this, either, even if it is total horseshit."

"Sounds political."

Allard let out a short, mirthless laugh. "Yeah. You could say that. Governor Reynolds is getting twitchy about seeing results."

Gunther raised his eyebrows. "Twitchy? When was the last time we put together an operation this fast, much less one involving an undercover?"

Allard was sympathetic. "He's running for office, Joe. You know how they get. He wants a headline he can claim credit for."

Gunther repressed his irritation. "Can't give him one. Not yet."

Allard tried a more general approach. "Where do we stand overall, starting with Sam?"

"She's in place, and all the surveillance equipment is working fine, although audio ain't the best-too much echo. Usable, though. But nothing much has happened yet. She and Manuel are still setting up shop, scoping out the neighborhood, getting a feel for the competition. They don't want to start selling until they know the ground. Hollowell's murder is still a fresh memory."

"Anything new on that?"

"You mean, anything new on who killed Lapierre?" Joe countered. "Not a whole lot. Sam finally got Manuel to admit that Hollowell was their guy in town, so I guess that means Rivera didn't kill him."

"What was Hollowell's job?"

"Rutland BCI is running that. I have access to their reports and can sit in on their briefings, but I don't know what's being kicked around in the squad room. Last take I heard is that Torres or one of his Holyoke buddies did in Hollowell to shut down Rivera before he got started. But that doesn't explain Sharon Lapierre. If she just happened to be in Hollowell's motel room when he was hit, why the rigmarole with the tourniquet and the syringe? Why not just make it look like Hollowell killed her? Or, for that matter, why care about her at all? They probably didn't know her grandfather was connected to the governor."

"What's the less obvious take, then?" Allard prompted.

"Still no clue about Lapierre," Gunther continued. "But an alternate theory for Hollowell might be that it had nothing to do with the Holyoke crowd. All these people are screwed up enough to eat their young for lunch. And Christ knows, Torres, Rivera, and the others are just the ones we happen to know about. There're a ton of freelancers out there, too. Hollowell may have just pissed off the wrong guy."

Allard didn't look happy. "What about forensics. They find anything?"

Joe shook his head. "The motel room was a hole-in-the-wall-had more prints, hair samples, and body fluids than a bus depot bathroom. They gathered stuff, as usual, but nobody I talked to thinks it'll come to anything. The best hope is the interviews they're conducting with Sharon's friends and contacts, and so far, all of them are playing dumb. Murder makes them skittish."

"Go figure," Allard muttered to himself.

"By the way," Gunther added, "we ever going to get to the part where you explain why we're meeting out here other than the pretty-day-for-a-drive line? I know it's not because we're dumping on the governor-everybody does that. The people downstairs upset with us again?"

The tiny VBI offices in Waterbury were on the top floor of a building largely filled with the Vermont State Police.

"They're not too thrilled," Allard admitted. "There's some bitching that we went around the outside and slipped in the back door."

"They don't know about Sam, do they?" Joe asked in alarm. "I figured McCall for better than that."

"No, no," Allard assured him. "That's not where this is coming from. McCall seems perfectly happy, as does the Rutland chief. This is just the brass chasing its tail while the field troops are getting the job done. Sam's safe and I think you guys are secure in the task force. But people are grumbling, and unless I can get the governor calmed down, they might find a way to his ear. If that happens, any thing's possible. Reynolds is already unhappy I made him downgrade his 'end of drugs in Vermont' spiel."

"Christ," Gunther said softly.

"Don't worry about it, Joe," his boss reassured him. "This is all pure FYI material. Ignorance ain't bliss when the lions are circling the compound, but at least it only counts if they find a way in. I'll do everything I can to stop that from happening. Okay?"

"All right."

"More to the point," Allard went on, "how's Sam doing emotionally?"

"So far, so good, as far as I can tell. She's charged up about the job, feels she has a handle on the players, and is settling in with the man Rivera partnered her up with."

"Tell me about him," Allard requested.

Gunther recited what he'd gleaned from the computer search they'd conducted on Manuel as soon as Sam had forwarded his name. "Manuel Ruiz, age twenty-seven, born in the Bronx of Puerto Rican parents. High school dropout, ex-gang member in New York, list of petty crimes as a juvenile, ramping up to assault, weapons charges, drug possession, et cetera. He's also suspected of having been the bad guy in a fatal knifing down there. The feeling is he moved to Holyoke to get out of the heat. The NYPD was interested to hear we were asking about him."

"But they don't have a case?"

"Right."

"You comfortable with him being with her?"

"She is, and that's all I can go by. I mean, Christ, Bill, none of these guys are virgins. They shoot each other in cold blood in Holyoke, right on the street in the middle of the afternoon. Sam tells me Ruiz is a comic book fan. I think she likes him."

Allard stared at him. "Likes him? What the hell's that mean?"

Gunther laughed, in part to discharge the tension. "Just what I said. The woman sleeps with Willy Kunkle, for crying out loud. You surprised she'd take a shine to a loony with a knife who reads comics? Get real."

Bill smiled despite himself. "Sorry. Still. ."

"I know," Gunther admitted, getting serious again. "To be honest, I'm not too thrilled about Ruiz myself. I think he's dangerous as hell. But she does have to work with them-all of them-and that means getting friendly. It's a risk of the job."

He held his hand up to stop Allard before he responded to that. "I'm not saying she's falling for him. Stop reading into this. I'm suggesting we have to let her act it out as she sees fit. She knows what she can and can't do legally. She knows the line that'll be drawn in court. The rest is up to her. We have to trust her here."

"She is pretty levelheaded," Allard commented, as if to comfort himself.

"Right," Gunther reinforced him. But, in fact, he wasn't being entirely truthful. Sammie Martens was reliable, loyal, dedicated, and as true to her job as a bloodhound to a scent, but "levelheaded" implied something she was not. She could work up a passion bordering on zealotry sometimes-and he'd seen it affect her judgment.

Were he to be absolutely honest, he just hoped he wouldn't be questioning his own in the end.