Gatekeeper

Chapter 9

"I've been following Dave, putting him under surveillance, going through his room-like I was getting ready to arrest him."

Susan Spinney put her things down on the kitchen table and sat opposite her husband. It was late. She'd just returned from the hospital and had found him sitting in the glow of a single lamp, staring into an empty coffee cup as if it held an oracle's solution.

"Why?" she asked quietly, a chill settling in her chest. "What's going on?"

"That call I got from the PD, when I had to pick Dave up? I told you it was just an open container bust and that I'd talk to him. Well, it wasn't, and I didn't. I mean, I asked him if he knew what he'd done wrong, and he said he did, and I asked him if he'd do it again, and he said he wouldn't. And that was it. Got us both off the hook. But there was more. Stuff I didn't tell you."

He paused. She resisted pounding the tabletop to get his attention, asking calmly instead, "What stuff?"

"The driver was a loser named Craig Steidle. He had some pot on him as well, and when the cops drove up, it looked like he was about to score some crack off a local hooker who hangs out near the Pearl Street walkway."

Susan felt her irritation growing. Despite Lester's profession, she'd always felt she was the family cop, having to enforce the rules and mete out the punishment. Being the bad guy while he came off as the Dad from central casting.

"And you figured you wouldn't tell me for what reason?" she asked, unable to disguise her anger.

He continued addressing the coffee cup. "I don't know, Sue. I'm sorry. It wasn't 'cause I was trying to duck the issue. I searched his room when no one was here, I staked him out when he was at the Sherman place last night. I can't get it out of my head."

"You staked him out? What the hell does that mean? What's he been doing?"

Spinney finally met her eyes. "Nothing-not that I know of. That's what I realized last night-why I quit and came back home. I saw I was losing it over this."

Susan furrowed her brow, trying to sort it out. "Les, for crying out loud. You were losing it because you thought maybe Dave was getting into stuff like crack cocaine? What's not to lose? Do you think he's been doing this for long? What did you find in his room?"

Lester was already shaking his head. "Nothing, and I have nothing to make me think he's done anything other than hang out with the wrong kids."

Susan sat back in her chair and looped one arm over its back rail. "No shit. I feel like wringing his neck."

Lester said barely audibly, "I felt like wringing my own neck."

Susan sighed with exasperation and stood up, looking for something to occupy her hands. She poured some water into a cup and placed it in the microwave. "Jesus, Les. Sometimes I can't believe you. How the hell do you figure that? That this is somehow your fault? Or are you including me, too?" She punched the micro wave's keypad angrily, setting it to humming.

Lester reacted instantly, straightening and waving his hands in protest. "No, no. That's not what I meant. It's not a fault thing. Not exactly. I just meant. . It's just that when you think your own child has made that big a mistake, you gotta wonder." He paused before adding, "It started me thinking about my dad and what happened to him-how it affected me. I don't know. Maybe it's like what they say about how you're going to act in a crisis-you never know till it happens."

He passed a hand across his face. "Christ, I shot a man last year when he sicced that dog on me and Joe." He snapped his fingers. "Just like that. But this time. ."

Susan sat back down across from him and took up his hand, her frustration quieted by the anxiety in his voice. She knew what he carried from his childhood, and had watched him deal with it-very well for the most part-from the first day he'd become a father himself. "Les, you're muddling it all up. You carry so much around inside, never letting anyone see what's going on, I'm not surprised you get confused sometimes. This is not rocket science." She smiled suddenly. "We just corner the little bastard and beat the crap out of him."

Lester stared at his wife for a split second before they both burst out laughing. It was a tension breaker, of course, and typical of her abilities in that department. It was partly what made her a good nurse. Nevertheless, through the laughter, they watched one another carefully.

* * *

Joe entered the conference room late, having gotten stuck behind a truck on the road from Brattleboro to Rutland. He was in the modern brick building on Wales Street housing both the sheriff's office and the police department. Sitting around the table were representatives of both those agencies, Rick McCall, the VSP sergeant in charge of the Southern Vermont Drug Task Force, and Mara Coven, the task force prosecutor. He knew them all, thankfully-some better than others-from his decades on the job. In the center of the large table, pointedly angled so Joe could read it upon crossing the threshold, was a copy of the Rutland Herald with the headline "Gov Declares War on Heroin."

"Sorry I'm late," he apologized, pulling out a chair. He'd seen the Brattleboro paper's treatment of the same news earlier, noting with relief that Bill Allard had apparently done his job. Despite the headline, Reynolds had "declared war" only at the very end of his statement, after specifying that the opening salvos would take place in Rutland. Sharon Lapierre's death was also revealed, as an overdose only and not in connection to Hollowell. Her fate was simply described as accidental, the investigation as ongoing, and the family-"close political allies of the governor"-as grieving. Apparently reversing his initial strategy, Reynolds was up-front about Lapierre's death being a major catalyst in his decision-a move no doubt designed to beat his political opponents to the punch. Most interesting to Gunther, however, was that the VBI was mentioned but once in the article as a support unit only.

So far, his struggle to maintain discretion-and therefore acceptance-was working. Today would be the acid test.

"I just got here myself," Mara Coven admitted, "and when I walked in, they were all talking motorcycles. Don't let them tell you otherwise."

"She cranked up the volume there," McCall protested. "Saying Harleys aren't worth a damn. Jeez, Louise."

They laughed and traded a few more barbs as Joe pulled out a chair. At least the mood was looking good, he thought.

"Okay," McCall finally spoke up again. "Much as I'd like to debate this topic at length, I guess we're here to earn our living." He pointed at the newspaper. "Looks like with their usual leadership style, the politicians are leading from the rear, telling us stuff we've known about for years and promising the voters what we probably can't deliver. It also looks like they're pretending this whole heroin epidemic is centered here in Rutland, when we also know that Rutland's just a hot spot, like Burlington or Brattleboro or even around St. Johnsbury for that matter."

"Except those places aren't where Sharon got whacked," Peter Bullis said softly. He was a short, square, muscular man, one half of Rutland's small but effective drug squad. An ex-task force member himself, he was a New York transplant and a true believer about the widening spread of drugs. One of the reasons he worked here instead of in the big city was that he thought-just maybe-that places like Vermont might have a chance in stemming a tide he'd seen drown his old hometown. The Rutland PD's drug team, now two years old, had been his idea, although Gunther had heard rumors that Bullis was beginning to despair. Vermont might have the opportunity to avert disaster, but the manpower and the money were lacking-the disadvantages of being one of the tiniest states in a country beset by this plague, standing last in line at the federal trough.

"True," McCall agreed, "which brings us to why we're here. The way things have developed ever since we found Hollowell swinging from the bridge and Lapierre dead in his motel room, we're now facing three situations. The first I hope we can do something about, the second we might be able to do something about, and the third is a pure pipe dream."

He paused for theatrical effect-always a bit of a ham-before explaining, "Of course, I mean the double murder as the first, putting a dent in the Rutland drug trade as the second, and ending drugs in Vermont as the third. Fortunately," and here he picked up the newspaper and held it up, "the governor put his mouth behind the second and only paid lip service to the third, so maybe-just maybe-we might have a chance."

No one else said a word. Joe was biding his time before representing his agency's role in this whole scheme, waiting until he'd tested the waters some more.

"When Sharon was killed," McCall went on, "we were told to call it an accidental and to throw Hollowell at the press to keep them busy. In the meantime, her old man went to the governor, who went to the commissioner of Public Safety, who went to my lieutenant, who, of course, went to me. That was predictable enough. At the same time, though, the governor apparently thought that we could do with a little help from the VBI, which explains our friend Joe being here, too." McCall bowed in Gunther's direction. "Of course, we always appreciate extra manpower, but that makes for a pretty crowded playing field." Here he addressed the two Rutland agencies. "Especially when the home team's already been at it for a while."

This was clearly Joe's prompt to jump in and explain his presence in concrete terms, except that an investigator from the sheriff's office, named Tom, spoke first. "If it's okay, I'd like to speak for the sheriff on that. Our office is ready and willing to supply equipment, manpower, intel, and material support whenever it's requested, but we're not here to get in the way. We're entirely support, straight down the line, unless you specifically ask us to be otherwise."

Joe still didn't speak up. He could have ridden Tom's coat tails, saying much the same thing, but he was curious that McCall had used the VBI's presence to avoid explaining his own agency's role here-or why he was the one running this meeting. Technically, the task force's charter was much like VBI's. They ran their own investigations, but a certain diplomacy was expected when on someone else's turf. Like now. Joe sensed that privately, Rick McCall felt he was standing on thin ice.

In the awkward pause following Tom's comments and Joe's silence, that issue obviously remained to be addressed.

"That's great," McCall began, caught off guard. "Always good to hear. I guess that brings up a chain-of-command question we should probably kick around a little. In the past,without this kind of political pressure, we've always worked the Rutland drug cases through the PD, either by acting as backup or by letting them know we were operating in their backyard."

Gunther glanced at Peter Bullis, expecting and getting the slight grimace he saw. It was no secret that while the task force probably intended to be as clear-cut in its arrangements as McCall had just described, the truth was often a bit more tangled. More than once, Joe knew, Bullis had felt muscled out of the way either by the task force's greater brawn or through the overly aggressive personalities of some of its members. It had never developed into any large bone of contention, but it allowed Gunther the comfort of not being seen as the only outsider, which was exactly what he'd been hoping for.

"In this situation, though," McCall was saying, "since our marching orders come straight from Montpelier, I had to meet with your chief earlier"-he focused on the Rutland City cops-"to figure out how best to proceed. It was his feeling-on paper only, of course-that the Southern Vermont Drug Task Force take the lead on the drug investigation, leaving the homicides to the detective squad and relying on you and your partner, Pete, to help us out with any local contacts and information that might come in handy."

McCall didn't give Bullis time to react before adding, "But I did say 'on paper,' meaning that, in fact, I'm hoping we'll just basically work as an integrated unit."

"I don't mind you taking the hot seat, Rick," Bullis said with a small smile, riding the current Joe's silence had put into motion. "My unit was designed to get rid of drugs in Rutland City only. We don't have the time or money to run a big operation. You've got half the state to cover, so you're used to this. I'm a happy camper the way things are."

Faced with Joe's stubborn unwillingness to explain VBI's role, McCall was forced to reveal his own view instead.

"So, last but not least," he therefore dutifully resumed, "we also have the help of the VBI, who will be bringing in more money, people, and resources than we usually have, which'll be a big help once the heat builds up." McCall finally laughed and shook his head at this point, caving in and candidly admitting, "I got to be honest, though. I know it's part of my job to make sure everybody's happy and nobody's toes are being flattened, but, Joe, when I heard you guys were being thrown into the mix, I had a hard time figuring out why." He held a finger up for emphasis. "Until I got a call from Dick Allen. He was pretty clear we'd only benefit from your involvement, which was really good to hear."

Joe gave him a big smile, happy they'd finally stopped dancing around the issue. "I appreciate that, Rick, and like Tom"-he nodded toward the sheriff's investigator-"I want to stress that we're here entirely as a support group. I don't know what the grapevine might have told you, but Governor Reynolds first had it in his head that VBI was going to do this all on its own, since he sees us as his private caped crusaders. But we put the kibosh on that. It's not who we are or how we function.

"However," he added, shifting slightly in his seat, "we did think we might be able to do more than just supply cash and troops, so one of my people went down to Holyoke to sniff around a little, having heard there might've been changes in how the strings were being pulled up here. Is that true, Pete?"

"Yeah," Bullis admitted. "Could be this double homicide ties into it, too, but we're not sure yet. We've only been able to grill the locals, and they've only told us that something's going on in Holyoke. But it's still really vague." Bullis indicated the room with a sweep of his hand. "One of the problems we all have, being stretched so thin, is that we can only look after our own backyards. Plus, there's not much intel that crosses the border. Some, but not a lot, and it can be pretty dated."

McCall nodded silently in agreement.

"The name Johnny Rivera ever come up?" Gunther asked.

"The name Johnny has. One of the runners we pinched last week talked about somebody named Johnny as if he might be a player, but we weren't sure what to make of it."

"I've heard the name," McCall said. "He's a street dealer down there, I think. One of Torres's crew, maybe?"

"Was," Gunther corrected him, having spent two hours that morning debriefing Sam. "Johnny Rivera decided to move up, but instead of starting a turf war, he just grabbed Torres's piece of the Holyoke, Brattleboro, Rutland corridor, or at least is in the process. Nobody's happy with his screwing up the status quo-in fact, he lives in an apartment with armored windows-but for the moment at least, Vermont's his shot at the big time."

"That's some sniffing around," McCall commented. "How'd you get that?"

Gunther smiled ruefully, careful of how he played this. "New informant we dug up."

McCall gave him a sharp look and then made a show of checking his watch. "Well, we can always stand for a new one of those. I'm really sorry, but I've got to make a phone call in a couple of minutes. I couldn't get out of it, but it won't take long. Be all right if we took a ten-minute break?"

They all stood and either stretched or made for the bathroom or the coffee machine outside. McCall made a discreet gesture to Joe to follow him into an office down the hall, unnoticed by the others.

"Nice piece of swordplay in there. You are a crafty old bastard."

Gunther patted him on the shoulder. "Just keeping you honest."

McCall laughed. "That'll be the day. So what the hell're you pulling now-outsider to outsider? No way I'm swallowing the 'new informant' bit. You got something cooking."

Joe nodded his concession. "One of my people went a little over-the-top when it looked like we'd be brought into this case. I didn't sanction it-said we should take more time to set it up-but as things've turned out, I think we now have someone on the inside."

"We're not talking just an informant, are we?" McCall stated, his surprise evident.

Gunther shook his head. "A cop-undercover, working for Rivera."

McCall's shock was understandable. Popular fiction notwithstanding, running an undercover was a rare, risky, stressful undertaking, and not one that most Vermont law enforcement agencies had tried in decades. It was common to use an officer to make a buy, and not unheard-of to have one act as a bad guy over a period of days from time to time, as in pretending to be a fence for stolen goods. But as Sam and Joe had constructed it early this morning, largely on Sam's insistence that she be allowed to run it on her terms, this was a deep-undercover assignment-she was to commit herself to the role of Greta Novak for however long it took to nail Rivera and his operation.

"Full-time?" McCall persisted.

Gunther nodded. "It's Sammie Martens, which I'd like to restrict to you, me, Peter Bullis, and the Rutland chief and deputy chief, if that's all right."

"You bet," McCall said without hesitation. "Loose lips we can live without." He shook his head. "Christ. I can't believe you set this up so fast. It's amazing. How far along is Rivera to replacing Torres?"

"Just beginning. That's how Sam got in. She gave him some razzle-dazzle about setting things up along more business-oriented lines, and he bit-or I should say, he's in the process, since she hasn't shown her stuff yet."

"So was Hollowell his, or did Rivera take him out because he belonged to Torres?"

"That's one of the sixty-four-thousand-dollar questions. We're not sure yet."

McCall let out a short laugh and scratched his head. "Wow. This is cool. Sam is something else."

Joe was a little more rueful. "She has her moments."

McCall put his hand on Gunther's shoulder. "Okay. Well, thanks, Joe. I appreciate it anyhow, even if it did creep in the back door. And rest assured, there's nothing we'll do to compromise her. You need anything, you got it. We better get back in there."

Gunther kept his pleasure to himself. He'd ducked being seen with suspicion, resentment, or envy by this group. Whether because of Dick Allen's influence, Joe's clearly stated support role, or most likely because working an undercover was too good to resist, Rick McCall had obviously accepted the bureau as an integral part of the team.

Joe let out a small sigh of relief. Now all he had to worry about was Sam not getting herself killed.

Back in the conference room, McCall placed a briefcase on the table and opened it up. "Thanks for your patience. Bureaucratic bullshit, but has to be done. I've drawn up some preliminary paperwork on how to divide the labor and duties among us." He began handing out packets to everyone. "As you can see, we've been labeled the Heroin Task Force. Not too original, but it gets our purpose across. After we hash out the details and make sure everybody's happy-or maybe just equally pissed off-notifications will be sent to all law enforcement agencies statewide, announcing our existence." He paused and pointedly looked at Joe. "That does bring up something, though. If we are to refer to all this outside this room, it might be useful to have a less obvious code word, for discretion's sake. Any suggestions?"

"I thought about that," Gunther answered him. "At the risk of sounding corny, how 'bout Gatekeeper?"

McCall hesitated a moment before smiling. "I like it."