Gatekeeper

Chapter 20

Sammie opened her eyes at the sound of the doorknob turning. Joe stepped inside the hospital room and quietly closed the door.

"Hey, Sam. How're you doing?"

She smiled lopsidedly. "A little sore. My pride took it worse."

He crossed the room, sat down on the edge of the bed, and placed his hand on hers. "Yeah. Your fairy godfather told me."

"Really? I thought he'd stay in the woodwork."

Gunther laughed. "Willy? And spare reaming me a new asshole? I don't think so."

"I am sorry," she said.

"Those things happen, Sam, and he was right. I should've dug into those names deeper-found out where everyone had been busted and who by."

"Nothing went off in my head, Joe. Not even Stuey's name. I hate to think-if Willy hadn't showed up."

Gunther squeezed her hand. "His full name's Allan Steward Nichols. He was calling himself Al when we knew him. I checked. 'Stuey' is part of his new, cool image. Should serve him well in jail. And even Willy conceded he'd changed his appearance."

"Is my cover still good?" she asked.

"Sure. Nichols is under wraps, in isolation for as long as we can get away with it, and you're in here under an alias. The doc said he had one more test coming back and that if it clears, he'll kick you loose in half an hour. You think you'll have a problem with Manuel?"

She shook her head. "Don't see why. I'll come up with something. If they're doing a blood test, by the way, it'll probably come up dirty. I had to take something when I interviewed Ralph Meiner. He said it was Ecstasy, but I don't know for sure. I kept a few extra for analysis. He held a gun on me and put the damn thing in my mouth himself. I couldn't get out of it. I was going to tell you at our next check-in."

"You do all right with it?" he asked, concerned.

"It was weird. I hope I don't have to do it again."

"Bad, huh?"

"No," she admitted. "Too good, I mean, it's not my taste, but I could see what people get out of it."

He gazed at the floor. "Yeah-that's the irony, isn't it? It's like telling a bunch of kids they shouldn't eat ice cream 'cause it'll kill them."

A meditative silence fell between them, after which Sam confessed, "I think something's a little screwy with this case."

He looked at her carefully "What?"

"I told Willy about it last night. It's the pale blue bags the heroin's being packed in. I saw ones just like it when we visited the Torres headquarters in Holyoke. First time I've ever seen colored baggies. I knew they weren't Rivera's, so I called the Holyoke PD's drug unit an hour ago to find out what they knew about it. It's Torres's trademark, like I thought. He calls it Blue Heaven."

"And that's what Nichols had?"

"And Meiner," she added. "Willy thought maybe they were leftovers from when Torres dominated the route, but heroin has a short shelf life-sold within a couple of days of arrival. I mean, I know Manuel and I are stocking it in quantity, but that's supposed to be revolutionary for around here. Otherwise, it's first come, first served, bim-bam and you're out of town for more."

Gunther scratched his cheek thoughtfully. "What do you think?"

"I don't know. I can't figure it out. And there's another thing: After Meiner thought I'd passed his undercover test by taking the Ecstasy, he asked me what I thought Torres would do if he found out we were setting up shop here. I was surprised, 'cause despite Jimmy Hollowell getting killed, Rivera had told me he now owned the route, at least for the moment."

"I remember," Joe commented.

"Well, Meiner said that Hollowell had thought the same thing and that I should ask myself what had happened to him."

Gunther scowled. "We figured he was a combat casualty, that there might even be more. Do you have any idea who else Rivera has in place? I know he wouldn't tell you because you had to pass muster, but it seems now would be the right time to bring everybody together."

"I could go down there and rattle his cage," Sam agreed. "Be a reasonable question to ask. I might as well do it now, so I can tell Manuel that was the plan when I disappeared last night."

Joe glanced at her stomach. "You up for that?"

She flipped the cover off and swung her legs off the far side of the bed, looking like a kid in her hospital johnny. "It's sore," she said, moving around, touching her toes, "but if the doc clears me, I think I'm good to go. What'll you be doing in the meantime?"

Gunther stood up and moved toward the door. "I think I'll drop by the Rutland BCI unit. Find out where they are on the Hollowell case."

Sam looked up sharply and saw him smiling at her. "Thanks, Joe. And thanks for not being ticked off."

* * *

Lester had called his wife at work from his cell phone, so by the time he and David reached home, she was only ten more minutes from joining them.

They were sitting in stony silence at the kitchen table when she entered, wearing her usual nurse's uniform and a concerned expression on her face.

"Is everything all right?" she asked. "Where's Wendy?"

"She's fine," Lester said. "I sent her over to Louise's for a while." He pulled out a seat facing the third side of the table, between his son and himself. "Sit down, Susan. David's got something to say."

Tentatively, she joined them, looking at Dave as if he might break apart before her eyes. Dave stayed silent and withdrawn, staring at his clasped hands.

"Dave?" she asked fearfully. "What's up?"

"Dad found me at Craig Steidle's house."

Susan glanced at her husband, the name meaning nothing to her.

"The guy he was picked up with that night at the Zoo. The one we told him to stay away from. There's more."

"What else?" she asked her son, touching his hand with her fingertips.

He moved his hand away. "There were drugs."

She covered her mouth. "Oh my God. Were you taking any?"

"You bet," Lester said.

Dave looked up quickly. "It was only weed. I wasn't doing anything else."

"Only weed?" his father burst out. "What the hell were you holding when I walked in-after I cuffed the guy downstairs for coming at me with a knife?"

Susan's mouth dropped open.

"Jeff was showing me what he had, Dad. I wasn't doing anything."

"What was it?" Susan asked in a small voice.

"Cocaine," Lester said.

"Oh, sweetheart. What were you thinking?" She looked at her husband again. "And someone came at you with a knife? Were you hurt?"

"Not physically. I don't know about professionally."

She turned her head from one to the other of them, as if they were lobbing a ball back and forth. "What do you mean?"

"Ask Dave."

Their son sighed, still watching his hands. "Dad covered for me."

"Les," she exclaimed, "what've you done?"

"I had them collect all the dope, and I dropped it in a Dumpster near the town offices. That way, Steidle will have to stand for assaulting a police officer, probably with mitigating circumstances, but the cops can't nail him on the drugs. Not this time, anyway."

"But why?" she asked, dumbfounded.

Dave broke in harshly, "It was a deal, Mom. He let Craig off the hook so he wouldn't tell the cops Jeff and me were handling dope."

She put her hand on her forehead. "Jesus. So, what's going to happen?"

"Don't know," Lester answered her. "Time will tell. I told Steidle our story was that I came looking for Dave because I'd heard he might be at Steidle's from Natty Sherman, who was with me to get Jeff. Steidle denied Dave was there-despite his bike being outside-so we got into an argument, he pulled a knife, and I brought him down. Which is pretty much the truth, as far as it goes."

"But what about the drugs? What happens to them? Couldn't someone else end up with them?"

Here her husband looked shamefaced. "An anonymous phone call was made to the PD fifteen minutes ago, telling them where to find them. When we were pulling in, we heard on the scanner that they picked them up."

"That was taking a big chance, wasn't it?" she pushed.

His expression darkened. "That's hardly what's important here, is it?"

A strained silence filled the room.

"Why, honey?" she finally asked David. "Did we do something wrong?"

"No," he said reluctantly.

"We must've," Lester stated flatly. "Otherwise, why slap us in the face?"

Dave looked up. "I didn't."

"The hell you didn't. What the fuck do you think just happened?"

"Les," Susan said sharply.

But Lester paid her no attention. "We both bust our humps to feed you, clothe you, send you places on vacation. You got a computer, a new camera, CDs up the wazoo-"

"Thank you very much," Dave shouted at him, his face red and contorted. "And I make the beds and shovel snow and do the laundry. I'm the only kid I know who does the whole family's laundry, for Christ's sake. And why? Because I'm the only one who lives here most of the time."

"Your sister-" Lester began, but his wife stopped him with her hand.

"Wait. Hang on. This is important. Dave, is that really how you feel? Like you're living alone?"

Dave rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Mom, look around."

Spinney stiffened at his son's tone, but Susan grabbed his wrist to keep him quiet. "Go on."

"Dad and you are never here. Yeah, you feed us and send us on vacations and all the rest, but when was the last time we did anything together?"

"That's what you want?" Lester asked incredulously. "For us to go on vacation together?"

David looked like he'd been caught in a trap. "No. I mean. . No, not to Disney World or anything dumb. I just meant. . I don't know. Nothing. Stupid idea."

"I don't think so," Susan said quietly. "I know you wouldn't want to go to Disney World, but a family meal now and then wouldn't be so bad, would it? Or a trip to the movies?"

"You wouldn't like the movies I like."

Lester could see what was happening, even through his anger, disappointment, and fear. Wasn't that why he'd just put his job on the line? He swallowed hard and commented, "How do you know?"

* * *

Sam drove into Holyoke late in the afternoon, marveling once again at the contrast between this stained and beaten pile of asphalt and brick, and the green hills and sun-dappled waterways she'd just left in Vermont. It wasn't a fair comparison. It wasn't meant to be. Vermont had its blighted areas, just as Massachusetts had the Berkshires. But imagining her home as a pristine counterpoint to an urban combat zone helped in the attitudinal shift she needed to get herself back into Greta.

She parked in front of Johnny Rivera's large, shuttered apartment building, watched as always by the several men loitering near the entrance.

"Hey, boys," she said, recognizing two of them. She slammed her car door and crossed the sidewalk toward them. "Watch my car, okay? Unless one of you wants to wash it or something. There might be a bonus in it for you."

Most of them stared at her sullenly, but one of them actually laughed and said, "I don't think so, muchacha. I heard what a good time you gave Flaco. He's still walking with a limp."

"He deserved it," she said, stepping inside.

She took her time wending through the building's maze of staircases and corridors, still uncertain of the way. By now, she'd made the trip several times, but, as intended, it was still not easy, and slow going in any case, given the many holes in the walls she had to step through carefully.

She finally found herself in Rivera's outer sanctum, the windowless room with the armed guards, where she waited as usual as one of them announced her.

Rivera immediately appeared at the door beaming and waved her inside. "Good to see you. What a surprise. Everything's okay, right?"

He shut the door behind her and ushered her toward the couch. She took the chair next to his desk.

He laughed and sat where he'd been herding her. "Still playing with me, eh? Time will come. Nothing wrong up north?"

"No. Everything's fine. Manuel been complaining?"

Rivera shook his head forcefully. "No, no. He thinks you're great. You're not buying his vote somehow, are you?"

Christ, she thought. Give it a rest. "Just a blow job now and then."

He laughed a little too forcefully. "That is bad. You shouldn't do that to me. You want a drink?"

"No thanks. What I want is some cooperation, now that you're so happy with me."

He knit his eyebrows. "Cooperation? What d'you mean?"

"Things're getting going in Rutland. Manuel's moving product, I'm working on the local dealers. It's time you hand over your contact list so we can work on an overall strategy."

"So fast?" he said, smiling. "You haven't been there long. You must still have lots to do. We move too fast, we could lose everything."

"Meaning you don't trust me?"

He laughed. "Don't trust you? I'm sending you the goods, no? I'm paying you a bunch of money. Of course I trust you. But I'm not stupid, either. You have a business plan-very big, very impressive. But you're not the only one with brains. I think things are just great the way they are."

She frowned at him. "Torres is still moving product up there."

Rivera shrugged. "He's not the only one. I didn't put him out of business all the way. You have to be careful with a man's pride-something you wouldn't understand. Guys like him should be allowed to work a little. Otherwise they get mad, try to get even, and now you got a fight instead of dollars coming in. Dumb idea."

"Why did Hollowell get killed, then?"

"Why does anybody? You know who did that? I don't. People are saying Torres, but I don't see it that way. That's narrow thinking. Doesn't do any good. Till I'm told otherwise, he got killed 'cause he pissed somebody off. That's all."

"So, you're not going to give me those names? You're going to force me to duplicate our efforts, waste time and money, risk exposure to the cops, and maybe let the wrong people get in behind us, all because you claim you have brains? Get out and smell the roses, Johnny. When was the last time you left this building? You're like a rat in a steel box in here. You have no clue what's going on."

His face darkened during this outburst, and his eyes hardened. "Careful, girlie," he said threateningly, accentuating the second word. "You work for me. That means I do this"-he snapped his fingers-"and you're dead. That's all you need to know till I decide to tell you more."

He stood up, all pretense of pleasantry gone. "Now, you can get the hell back to Vermont and do your job, or I can hand you over to the men outside this door. They're not too crazy about you, after what you did to Flaco. They wouldn't mind paying you back their own way."

She rose also, but kept her voice contrite, realizing she'd overplayed her hand. "Johnny, I'm sorry. I really am. I know you're the boss. I've been waiting for this for so long, I get carried away sometimes. It's like I can almost grab it-everything we've talked about-and it sort of takes me over. I'm sorry I said those things. I didn't mean any disrespect."

He looked at her in silence, clearly pondering his choices. She could tell the temptation was great to feed her to the wolves, either from wounded pride or from just the pleasure of being able to do so. But for some reason-and it finally dawned on her possibly why-he demurred.

He put his hand on the doorknob and said, "Go back. You'll get everything you want, but in time. Leave the thinking to me."

She had nothing more to gain here. In fact, she was pretty sure she'd been wasting her time from the day she'd met him, which weighed more heavily on her now than any threat he could have made. For, aside from her own ambition, her loyalty was to Joe, and at that moment, she was feeling she'd completely let him down.

"You got it, Johnny," she said tiredly and then added with more sincerity than he could have possibly known, "I just got carried away-makes me stupid sometimes."

* * *

Detective Sergeant Heather Hall paused on the threshold and looked at the older man staring down at the conference table before him, its surface covered from one end to the other with crime scene photos and sketches, case reports, forensics documents, and autopsy results. He had his hands in his pockets, his chin tucked in, and for all the world looked like he'd fallen fast asleep on his feet.

This was the famous Joe Gunther, she thought. All in all, a pretty forgettable figure, really. Nothing particularly outstanding about him, except maybe his eyes, which could shift from fatherly to intense in a flash. But he didn't seem all that brilliant, had nothing about him that attracted attention, wasn't charismatic the way some of her peers were, who could enter a room and make everyone take notice.

She liked him, though. He was quiet and kind and thoughtful. He'd asked her for her opinions with genuine interest. He was a really nice guy.

Which meant something to her. Squarely built, with short hair and blunt features, Heather Hall had been a beat cop for seven years before anyone had paid her the slightest attention, and then it was only because another female officer had filed suit against the town for gender discrimination. That case was still tangled up in the legal system-had been for two years-but in the meantime, Heather had found herself quickly courted and then promoted to the Rutland detective squad, the so-called BCI.

She wasn't ungrateful. She liked the new job, not to mention wearing nice clothes and not having to lug around a heavy belt loaded with gear. But it had also made her suspicious of what might come next. She'd started this job thinking she'd advance on her own merits. Now she had no clue.

"Any luck?" she asked, placing a coffee cup on the table before him.

He looked up at her and smiled. "Thanks. I appreciate it." He picked up the coffee and sipped from it thoughtfully, surveying the field of paperwork once more.

"Amazing things, these cases," he said eventually. "They start out so simply-a man and a woman found dead-but the more you dig, the harder they get to figure out. You know darn well no genius killed them-that it was probably a cause-and-effect kind of scenario. But there are so many variables to the one correct answer. It's like finding a needle in a haystack, just like they say." He pretended to hold a needle up between his thumb and index finger. "When you get there, you can only shrug and say, 'Jeez, it's just a needle.'" He paused and dropped his hand. "Fascinating process."

She nodded, figuring it was better to just let him ramble. "So I'm guessing no needle yet."

He laughed. "Right." He leaned forward and extracted a single photograph from a stack of autopsy shots. "There is this, though."

She moved closer to peer at it. It was a picture of James Hollowell's left hand. Along the back of it, crossing the knuckles and smearing the web of skin at the base of his thumb, was a dark smudge-like an oily stain.

"Not the cleanest guy I ever saw," she commented. "His motel room smelled like a sewer. And look at his fingernails. Gross. God only knows what's under them."

Gunther smiled. "If God doesn't, I know who might." He pointed at the phone. "How do I get an outside line?"

* * *

Chief Medical Examiner Beverly Hillstrom picked up the phone. It hadn't been a great day so far, and she suspected no great news from this. "Dr. Hillstrom."

"Doctor, it's Joe Gunther."

She was wrong. Few people in the world made her feel better just by being there, and Joe Gunther was one of them. It hadn't always been thus, not surprisingly given her general view of the world-which also explained the way she routinely approached newcomers. Gunther had entered her autopsy room years ago, uninvited and unannounced, and had asked her to dig deeper into a case she'd already processed. That had not been an auspicious beginning. Except that he'd been right, as he had been several times since. The man was a digger, more given to hard work than to flashes of inspiration, although she didn't doubt he had those, too. But he didn't rely on them, and didn't show off in any case. All of which made him someone she could like.

Not that she'd relaxed her professional standards as a result. Beverly Hillstrom came from the old school, where respect was earned, but courtesy was a given. Despite her admiration for the man and his doggedness, she brooked no diminution of her own rules of engagement. She forever referred to Gunther by his title, and expected no less of him. These were ground rules she proffered to everyone, excepting her family and personal friends. And it didn't hurt her kind feelings toward him that he'd instinctively understood that from the start, without the instructions she gave to virtually everyone else. And which, quite unfairly, had given her a reputation among law enforcement as an ice queen.

"Agent Gunther," she therefore said, the pleasure palpable in her voice. "To what do I owe this privilege?"

Joe, for his part, was considerably less doctrinaire. He'd tried to get her to at least call him "Mister," since the "Agent" handle still made him feel like an impostor, but it was clearly of no use. On the other hand, the respect was mutual. Never before had he met someone with such a mind for detail and such an instinct to pursue it. Even if she didn't know what she was looking at, chances were that Dr. Hillstrom would take a sample. Just in case.

"I'm on another fishing expedition, I'm afraid," he admitted. "Exactly what you probably don't want to hear."

"Nonsense," she countered. "Right now some fishing would be right up there with a bowl of ice cream."

"Doctor," he said with mock surprise, "I had no idea. Any particular flavor?"

"Never mind," she said, embarrassed not only that she'd admitted to a pleasure but that she felt awkward about her embarrassment. "What do you have for me?"

"James Hollowell, date of birth-"

"I remember Mr. Hollowell," she interrupted briskly. "Any problem with my findings?"

"None. Actually, this is a real long shot. No reason for you to have noticed. But I'm in a bind for ideas."

"Stop dancing around, Agent Gunther."

"Hollowell had a greasy smear on his left hand, along the back. Do you remember that?"

She nodded at the phone. "I do. Let me put you on hold while I get his file."

A minute later, she returned. "I have a photo of it before me."

"All right. Here's the long shot: any idea what it is?"

"None whatsoever," she stated flatly.

After a telling hesitation, he said, "Okay. Well. ."

"But I kept a sample," she added.

He laughed. "Nice. Break my heart, then bring me back around. Cruel."

"It's been that kind of day. Sorry. I couldn't resist."

"No, no. That's fine. Any way you could have it analyzed?"

"I'll have it delivered to forensics today."

They exchanged a couple of more pleasantries before Joe hung up the phone, still smiling.

Heather Hall was watching him. "What did she say?"

"She kept a sample. The crime lab'll get it later today."

Hall nodded, still not sure why this had any bearing. "What do you think they'll find?"

"Something to do with a car engine," he said brightly. "And if we all keep our fingers crossed, it'll be something traceable."