Three Can Keep a Secret

CHAPTER TWENTY

Dave Spinney was almost as tall as his father, having reached his later teens, and liked to walk alongside him more in public than he’d used to, especially in Springfield, where they’d lived his whole life. Back when he was a kid, with his old man younger and more full of fire-and a trooper for the Vermont State Police-it hadn’t been much fun. Dave’s friends steered clear of him whenever father and son appeared together, and Lester made comments anyhow, if he recognized any of them from a distance-referring to whatever trouble they might have gotten into, or just avoided, or the company they were keeping.

That had been a real drag. Worse than having a dad who was school principal.

But now that Lester had been with the VBI for several years, fewer people knew him, he didn’t chase after them in a cruiser anymore, and-his son could grudgingly admit-Dave had also grown up considerably. Especially after Lester had risked his job to save Dave’s butt when the latter had gotten tangled up with a bunch all destined for jail.

That had been a confusing time, a chance to make some hard choices, and an opportunity to recognize his parents in a more mature light-with their fears, their vulnerabilities, and their love for him and his sister clear to see. He wasn’t happy that he’d gone through it, but he was pleased with the end results-enough to have announced an interest in joining the state police in a couple of years.

They were at the local supermarket, doing the weekly grocery shopping, which Dave’s mom often couldn’t do because of her hours at the hospital.

That was fine with the men, since they had their own style and taste in food, with which Sue didn’t argue.

“You having any more headaches, Dad?” Dave asked as they walked behind their cart.

“From when that guy bonked me?” Lester asked. “No. That only lasted a couple of days. I’m good now. I can’t deny that I’m happier running interviews for a while, though. I tried jogging this morning and could still feel where he hit me.” He tapped his head, now sporting a recruit’s high-and-tight haircut to balance out the tonsorial damage left behind by the ER nurses. “Good thing it’s not a vital organ, huh?”

He poked his son in the shoulder, grabbed a loaf of bread as they walked by the bakery section, and tossed it to Dave like an underhanded football. Dave snatched it out of the air and diverted it into the cart as they laughed.

“Ice cream?” Lester asked as they neared the end of the aisle.

“Cherry Garcia,” Dave answered without pause.

They rounded the corner and aimed for a row of glass-fronted freezers when a young man appeared out of the end of an adjacent aisle, carrying a six-pack of beer.

Lester took no particular notice of him, until he saw him freeze in midstep and stare, as if caught in a searchlight at night. Instinctively, Les also stopped, reaching out to grab Dave by the back of his shirt.

Dave twisted, smiling, to ask what was up, while the young man dropped the six-pack on the floor with a dull thud and took off running in the opposite direction.

That did it. Lester, having not recognized the man’s face, definitely remembered his awkward running style. This was the guy who’d smacked him on the head.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, “it’s him,” and took off in pursuit.

Dave didn’t hesitate. He followed his father, abandoning their groceries as they all headed for the broad bank of doors beyond the checkout counters.

“POLICE,” Lester called out. “Stop.”

Lester glanced over his shoulder. “Stay back, Dave. I want you safe. Phone 911. Officer in pursuit.”

Dave dropped out of his father’s peripheral vision while staying in the chase and pulling out his cell to make the call.

One by one, they dodged and weaved through the thin crowd, bursting out into the parking lot like successive coins shot from a slot machine.

The supermarket was located on the edge of downtown Springfield, in a shopping plaza built on a small peninsula, bounded on three sides by the Black River. A major roadway capped it across the top. Aside from an access drive to the road, far from the store’s entrance, there was a single narrow pedestrian bridge spanning the water between the plaza and an old mill site.

This is where the runner headed.

Lester knew this part of town from driving around in search of a parking place. Dave, on the other hand, had hung out here as a kid every Saturday night with friends. He knew it as he did his own living room. Instinctively, therefore, with no word to his father, he split off at an angle, using his youth, his long legs, and the lay of the land to best advantage, and went to cut off their prey from reaching the footbridge.

Their target saw him coming-as did Lester, whose caution shifted to pride at the sight-and veered off toward an awkward juncture at the edge of the plaza, where the river, the road’s embankment, and a row of tangled trees all met up in an ignored and jumbled eyesore behind another building.

“Stop where you are,” Les repeated, now panting with exertion. “Police.”

Of course the other man didn’t stop, and, judging the underbrush near the trees to be impenetrable, he plunged down the embankment through a tangle of storm rubbish and mud, toward the water.

“Damn,” Lester swore under his breath as he and David followed suit.

Fortunately, they were spared anything beyond wet and muddy feet, as the guy before them slid on the loose talus of river rocks and went sprawling into a filthy mixture of water, mud, and urban trash that swirled lazily in a small eddy. Without comment, Lester and David each took hold of a leg and dragged their prize back to dry land, where-finally defeated-he just lay on the ground, looking up at them.

Expressing himself via gesture only-still gasping for air-Les reached out, smiling broadly, and slapped his son on the back.

* * *

“At the grocery store?” Joe asked, incredulous.

“It happens,” Lester told him. “It’s not that big a state. His name is Travis Reynolds. I ran his criminal record. Typical stuff-nothing over the top. He’s a bad boy heading for worse. I have him locked up at the Springfield PD right now. Thought you might like talking with him.”

Joe was back home in Brattleboro and checked his watch instinctively, not that he had anywhere else to go, or anything else to do just then. “You think he’ll play?” he asked.

“I think he might with you,” Les told him truthfully. “If you were introduced as the big boss holding a deal in his hand. I’ve let him know that we could lock him up for a very long time on what he did to me. He has no clue I couldn’t pick him out of a lineup if you paid me.”

“Sold,” Joe said. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

* * *

Springfield was less than forty miles north of Brattleboro, one among a scattering of industrial-era towns lining the shores of the Connecticut River-all once reliant and dependent on the water as a power source and a conduit to urban centers like Hartford and beyond, and now largely left to their own wits, surviving in a very post-industrial world.

As if reflecting this downturn, Joe’s journey was thin on traffic and shrouded in darkness, in contrast to similar trips that he’d taken into Massachusetts and beyond, where signs of commerce and manufacturing burned late into the night. It was Vermont’s particular burden to be the envy of its powerhouse neighbors-whose residents flocked to relax in its pastoral spaces-while it aspired to acquire at least a fragment of their capitalist musculature.

A burden that had been thrown even more into contrast by its beauty being devastated by Irene.

Springfield itself, however, had suffered little. A community founded on the force of its river, which carved through the heart of downtown, it had long ago harnessed, dammed, and confined the water’s force between fortified embankments-and thus escaped most of the storm’s rage this time. As Joe pulled into the police department’s parking lot, the town looked much as it always had.

This was more than Joe could say for Lester Spinney, who greeted him in the lobby looking like a slime-fouled clam digger from the knees down. Behind him, Joe also noticed the poster telling of Carolyn’s having gone missing, prominently displayed on the public bulletin board.

“I take it he ran,” Joe suggested.

“You take it right,” Lester confirmed, gesturing toward an inner door. “This way.”

They located Travis Reynolds in a small windowless room, sitting on a steel chair at a bolted-down table, with one wrist handcuffed to a large ring mounted in concrete beside him. His entire body looked like Lester’s shoes.

“Hey, Travis,” Joe said cheerfully, entering the room alone and shutting the door with a theatrical clang.

“I’m Joe Gunther, second-in-command of the VBI,” he said as he sat opposite the encrusted young man and began methodically laying out a pad, pencil, and a voice recorder. “Heard you’ve had better days, is that right?”

Travis made to ignore him until, startlingly, Joe half rose from his seat, leaned into his face, and shouted from inches away, “Is that right?”

Travis pulled back, his eyes round. “What the fuck, man?”

Joe followed, resting his hands on the tabletop to loom over him. He kept his voice loud. “What the fuck? Is that what you just asked me, Travis? What the fuck? Really? Is that what you’re offering? Answer me.”

Travis was pressed against his chair back, his chin tucked in, his cuffed hand pulling on the ring. His voice was plaintive and whiny. “Are you crazy? What do you want?”

Joe sat back down and looked at him pleasantly, his voice back to normal. “I want you to be very practical, Travis,” he said. “I want you to think about what’s best for you when you talk to me.”

“I don’t have to talk to you,” Travis replied, but his voice lacked conviction.

“Oh, Travis,” Joe said. “Do you want to take that chance? I mean, you’re the one who put a cop in the hospital. Not something the state’s attorney or any judge is going to like.” He stopped, as if in thought, before continuing, “Let’s see … what are you? A two-time loser? Damn. Not a great bargaining position. You never know, of course. You might get lucky and duck the hangman. It happens. Once in a blue moon.”

Travis stared at him, clearly flummoxed by what he was hearing. In fact, he wasn’t a two-time loser, nor was he facing any hangman, metaphorically or otherwise. Judges tended to belittle assaults on police officers, even with the additional charges Reynolds was facing.

“Travis?” Joe asked, his voice growing rich with warning. “I’m not a patient man, and I am seriously pissed off at you.”

Travis swallowed, once. “What d’you want?” he asked quietly.

“To balance the books,” Joe told him. “You tell me everything that got you in this jam, and I’ll see what I can do to cut you some slack with the state’s attorney.”

Travis made a face. “You’d make my putting your cop in the hospital go away? I really believe that.”

“Okay,” Joe said, counting off the charges. “Aggravated assault, assault on a police officer, breaking and entering, theft, evading arrest, failure to obey a police officer…” He looked up. “That’s just off the top of my head. I got more to play with, and I won’t take any of it off the table unless you give me something. How good that is dictates how much I take off. Your choice.”

Reynolds stared at him, but without defiance this time.

“No tricks,” Joe said. “You do the math. This is a straight-up deal, ’cause I know you have something to give me.”

Still, the young man resisted.

“Tell you what,” Joe went on. “I’ll add murder to the list for good measure, since you’re the only guy we have for that, too.”

“What?” Travis exclaimed. “I didn’t murder nobody.”

“Why do you think everybody’s so interested in that fancy apartment?” Joe asked. “The old-timer who lived there was killed, Travis. Now, I don’t know if you did that or not, but do you really want me to think you have something to hide?”

Joe slapped his hand loudly on the tabletop, making Travis jump in his chair.

“Now’s the time to talk,” Joe yelled.

“I didn’t kill nobody,” Travis said quickly. “It was just a grab job.”

Joe smiled supportively, his voice again conversational. “Something you were paid for?”

“Yeah.”

“Who paid you?”

“Some guy. I don’t know his name.”

“Tell me about that.”

Travis pressed his lips together briefly, and then began his confession. “I got a call, like out of the blue. This guy said he heard I do odd jobs, and did I want to pick up five hundred bucks.”

“He say how he heard of you?” Joe asked.

He shook his head. “And I didn’t ask. What do I care?”

“Of course,” Joe agreed.

“Anyhow, I said cool, and he tells me to go to the old folks’ home, to go behind a Dumpster near the back, and find a cardboard box with a uniform in it and a key.”

“How were you going to get paid?”

Travis tapped his temple with his finger. “Right, right. There was an envelope, too, with half the money in it.” He laughed suddenly. “And I mean it,” he added. “It was cut in half. Five one hundreds, cut in two. A note said I’d get the other half afterward.”

“You keep the note?” Joe asked.

“Huh? No. Why?”

“How ’bout the money?”

Travis smiled. “Hey, man. Like that was a long time ago. That’s long gone.”

Joe nodded, resigned. “What else did the note say?”

“Told me to go to one of the apartments-gave me the number-told me to use the key, and told me to do stuff.”

Joe merely raised his eyebrows in inquiry.

“Right,” Travis repeated. “Let’s see. There was a photograph in one room I was supposed to take. He told me to erase the answering machine. And there was a box in the dresser, in the bedroom, with a pin or something in it I was supposed to grab. That’s where I bumped into your cop.”

“How about some files, from out of the desk?” Joe asked, caught by the omission.

Travis looked at him. “Oh yeah. I forgot. Them, too, but they were already missing. It was just those three things.”

“You’re saying you were already in the apartment when the police officer entered?” Joe asked.

Travis registered surprise. “Oh, yeah. Scared the shit outta me. I was in the office, doin’ the picture and the phone, and I heard him come in. I thought for sure he’d find me, but then he went the other direction.”

“Why didn’t you leave then?” Joe asked.

“And miss out on the five hundred?” Travis protested. “I don’t think so.”

“You knew he was a cop?”

“Oh, sure,” Travis replied without thought. “You know, he had the camera case. Plus, he looked like one.”

Joe moved on. “What did you do then?”

“Snuck up behind him and whacked him.”

“With what?”

“I don’t know. Some heavy statuelike thing I grabbed off the hallway table when I went in. I put it back when I ran out with the box.”

Joe shook his head despite himself, thinking of the multiple errors. No one had even glanced at the marble figurine still sitting on the side table, not thinking that Reynolds might have done something so spontaneous to begin with, and so orderly afterwards. And he could hardly believe that Lester hadn’t double-checked the apartment-except that it was all too human a mistake.

“You grabbed the whole box?” he sought to confirm.

“After that, I did, sure,” Travis admitted. “I wasn’t about to hang around with him on the floor.”

“Yeah,” Joe concurred. “But what exactly had the man told you to take?”

“A pin. A round one, like they wear on a lapel. You know, like those little American flags politicians have. But it was dark purple and had two gold letter C’s on it.”

“He tell you what they stood for?”

“The C–C?” Travis asked. “Nope-no clue. But I found it in the box later, after I got away.”

“What about the picture?” Joe asked. “You said he wanted that, too.”

“Yeah. I grabbed it,” he said. “It was pretty small. Not much to look at.”

“Describe it.”

Reynolds shrugged. “Like I said, small. Black-and-white. The frame was kinda cheap. It was just a group of people.”

“Recognize anyone?”

“Nah.”

“Tell me about it,” Joe urged him.

He looked faintly irritated. “I don’t know-bunch of old people. Well, old people now, I guess. It was an old picture-the clothes, the hair-you could tell.”

“How many?”

“Five, maybe?” he answered. “Men and women. It wasn’t great. Looked like a party snapshot to me. They were drinking, lifting their glasses. That kinda stuff.”

Joe stood up. “Hang on a sec.”

He stepped outside to retrieve his case, which he brought back with him, sitting down to rummage through several folders he had within it. He extracted a single photograph and laid it before Travis.

“This one of the people?” he asked, pointing to a copy of the picture of Marshall posing alongside Carolyn Barber in the Governor-for-a-Day shot.

“That’s two of them,” Travis confirmed.

“You’re sure?” Joe asked.

“Yup. I remember her ’cause she was pretty, even for an old picture, and him because there were other shots of him around the room.”

“And there were two or three others?”

“Yeah. At least one more woman-not much to look at-and a couple of dudes. So, yeah-I guess that does make three. I wouldn’t know the other ones, though. Like I said. I just noticed these two ’cause of what I said-they kinda caught my eye.”

“Like you said,” Joe echoed quietly. He replaced the photograph thoughtfully. “Go back to the files that were missing. What were you told to steal, had they been there?”

“Everything in the C section. I didn’t like that part, since I didn’t have anything to carry them in, so I was just as happy they were missing.”

“Tell me what happened after you lost the cop who was running after you,” Joe said.

“I went back to the Dumpster and picked up the rest of the money.”

Joe straightened. “It was already there? The missing halves?”

“Yup. Just like he said. I left the picture, the clothes, and the box-after I looked into it to make sure the pin was there, which it was.”

“Then what?”

“Then I walked outta there,” Travis said.

“You didn’t drive there in the first place?”

“Nah. That’s not how I work. Never leave the car near the hit-that’s what I say. Makes for a slower getaway, but a cleaner one. Admit it,” he said cheerfully, his eyes bright. “You never would’ve found me if I hadn’t bumped into that cop, right?”

Joe shook his head sadly. “Wrong, genius. We never would’ve found you if you hadn’t taken off. That cop had no idea who you were. It was your running away that he recognized. You forget you had a stocking on when you clubbed him?”

Travis stared. “Oh, shit. You’re kidding me. Really?”

“Why were you wearing that anyhow?” Joe asked. “If you didn’t expect to meet anybody?

“It’s my trademark,” he said. “I never work without it.” He sighed and slumped in his chair. “I can’t believe I forgot that.”

Joe let him stew while he reviewed what they’d discussed. “You said that the man called you,” he said then. “How was that? You have a cell phone?”

“Sure. You guys took it when you busted me.”

“That a disposable phone or a regular cell?” Joe asked.

“Nah. It’s a regular one. I finally splurged.”

Joe smiled. That meant that they might be able to trace its incoming calls.

“And he didn’t say how he got your name?”

“Nope.”

“You have any guesses about that?”

Travis hitched a shoulder. “I know a lotta people. Coulda been anybody.”

That, Joe thought, was unfortunately true.

“He didn’t introduce himself?”

“Nope.”

“How ’bout later?” Joe asked. “After he found out that the files were missing. He must’ve called you back for an explanation.”

“Yeah, he did,” Travis said. “But he didn’t seem to care once I told him. He just heard what I said and hung up. He sounded funny, but he didn’t say any more.”

“How do you mean, ‘funny’?”

“Different, you know? Like he had a cold or something.”

Joe frowned as he considered another possibility. “A cold?” he then asked. “Or maybe wasn’t the same guy?”

Travis nodded receptively. “Oh, yeah. That would work. It wasn’t a great connection-like a bad cell phone. But sure. It mighta been somebody else. I didn’t think of that, ’cause we were talking about the same thing. But that would explain it.”

Glad it explained something to you, Joe thought.

* * *

He met Lester outside, who immediately said, “I was listening from next door. I’ve already started the paperwork to get into his phone. Who do you think it’ll be?”

Joe shook his head. “Damned if I know at this point. Someone who’s clearly hoping to erase the past, along with Carolyn Barber’s role in it.”

Lester looked at him steadily before he asked, “You think she’s dead, don’t you?”

Joe’s own cell phone went off as he replied, “I wouldn’t be surprised. If I were some of these people, I wouldn’t want her alive with her name plastered all over the state.” He hit the ANSWER button without looking at the screen. “Gunther.”

“It’s Beverly.”

He broke into a broad smile and moved away from his colleague, crossing to an adjacent office. “Hey, there. How’re you doing?”

“Actually, pretty well,” she answered in her precise language. “I’ve discovered something I think you’ll find valuable.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’m all ears.”

“Following our last conversation,” she told him, “I returned to the two house fire victims from Shelburne. I couldn’t let it go.”

He nodded appreciatively at the phone. “God, you are good.”

She responded, “I don’t know about that, but I like to be thorough. As you know, I was troubled by my inconclusive findings concerning Mr. Friel. So I tried a few things that lie just a bit outside the protocols.”

“Yes…,” he encouraged her.

“Well, one of the by-products of the fire was that his heart suffered from charring and shrinkage, as did the rest of his body. I therefore took several of his major organs and analyzed them more carefully, including the heart, which I rehydrated so that it would return-at least in part-to its original dimensions. It was far from perfect, of course, but it was an improvement over what I’d first analyzed.”

“You did find that bullet,” he stated, now only half joking.

This time, she remained serious. “Not quite. It was a hemorrhagic wound track.”

He tightened his grip on the phone. “A knife wound?”

“More like a skewer,” she answered, “as in a shish kebab. I was thinking of an ice pick, except that those have become virtual antiques by now.”

“You’re sure?” he asked. “I mean, enough that you’ll be amending the death certificate?”

“Oh, yes. That’s why I wanted to tell you first.”

“You are something else, Beverly. Nicely done.”

“You’re very welcome, Joe. My pleasure.”

He snapped the phone shut and returned to where Spinney was filling out paperwork.

“Good news?” Les asked at his boss’s expression.

“Depends on who you are, I guess,” Joe said. “Hillstrom just figured out that William Friel was stabbed in the heart.”