Chat (19 page)

“No sweat,” he said, liking her more and more as this went on. He made a gesture to the people behind them before saying, “And now that you are here, we got a little extra comfort to throw you.”

She looked over at the van as the others swung open its rear doors and pulled out a long, bulky, brightly colored tarp with bundled aluminum tubing, a generator, and an oversize space heater. She recognized the package immediately and smiled at her host. “A heated tent. Sweet.”

Steve Wilson bowed. “We try.”

Some 250 miles to the south, following a seven-hour drive from Vermont, a stiff and tired Lester Spinney crossed a sidewalk in Ardmore, Pennsylvania, near Philadelphia, and entered the Lower Merion Police Department, where he’d been told to check in on arrival.

“Help you?” the man behind the bulletproof glass asked.

Les pulled out his badge and held it against the window. “I’m here to see Detective Cavallaro. Lester Spinney from Vermont.”

He studied the man’s face, expecting the usual Vermont-directed one-liners, but got nothing for his effort. The dispatcher merely glanced at the ID, picked up a phone, and said over the tinny loudspeaker between them, “Have a seat.”

Five minutes later, a tall woman with short-cropped hair stepped into the lobby, smiling. “Agent Spinney? Detective Cavallaro. Call me Glenda. You have a good trip?”

He shook her hand. “Lester—Les is okay, too. And the trip was fine. More people than I’ve seen in a while, though.”

She looked at him quizzically. “Where? On the road?”

“The road, the streets, the towns, even the sidewalk outside. We only have about half a million in Vermont, and a third of them are clustered around one town.”

She visibly had no appreciation for what he was saying. “Huh,” she said. “Interesting. I was born and brought up around here. Never saw it as crowded. New York—
that’s
bad. Most of what you drove through is tied into there, one way or the other.”

Spinney chose to drop it. No one outside Vermont could be expected to understand a setting where starlit skies, complete silence, and empty downtown streets at four in the morning were the norm. Except maybe far out west. He’d heard that even a Vermonter could get lonely in Wyoming.

“You want to find a motel and start on this tomorrow morning?” Cavallaro was asking him.

Lester checked his watch. It was five o’clock. “Seems a little early,” he murmured.

“Not a problem,” she said immediately, with enough enthusiasm that he took her word for it. “Let me get my coat and bag and we’ll head out.”

It was barely a minute before she reappeared.

“I can’t believe they didn’t put you on a plane instead of making you drive down,” she said, slipping into her coat as they crossed the lobby.

“We don’t have much of a budget,” he admitted.

“Really?” She looked at him. “The Vermont Bureau of Investigation? Sounds rich enough.”

“Yeah—well, we’re kind of new. Still muscling our way into the pack.”

She turned right out of the door and headed for a parking lot to the side of the building. “Where did you work before?”

“State police.”

“No kidding? Didn’t like them?”

“Loved them. But I thought I was running out of options. Numbers again.”

She pulled keys from her pocket and aimed toward what was clearly an unmarked cruiser—the kind of thing street kids love to decorate with “Narc,” written on the dusty side panels.

“How so?” she asked.

“They hover around three hundred and fifty people in uniform, depending on the year and the budget,” he told her. “Upward mobility gets tight. When the Bureau came up, it looked more interesting, less bureaucratic, and now I’m working with the field force commander. Plus, I keep all my benefits and retirement.”

She was already laughing. “Three fifty? We’ve got almost half that in this department alone.”

She unlocked the doors and they both got in, their bodies jarred by the frozen hardness of the seats. Apparently, the car hadn’t been out all day.

She started it up as he changed the subject. “You said on the phone that the IP address I gave you for Mr. Rockwell was an Internet café. You ever have any problems with them before?”

Glenda Cavallaro shook her head. “Nope. And I checked every database we have. Nothing. Just for kicks, I also looked up N. Rockwell. There’re more than a few with that name, but nothing for any cyber crime or sex stuff. That’s what you’re looking for, right? Child predator shit?”

“We think so,” Spinney answered cautiously, looking out the side window as they pulled into traffic and headed west along Lancaster Avenue.

He watched the buildings slide by, mostly brick clad and older, few above a couple of stories tall. Soon, on the left, the view opened up, and a large, deep expanse of cold-bitten lawn appeared, with a frozen pool in the middle and a row of imposing buildings skirting its borders.

“Haverford College,” Cavallaro explained. “Pretty good place.”

He’d noticed it earlier, having come this way to reach the police department from the interstate. He’d also gone by both Villanova University and the village of Bryn Mawr, home to that college, where he’d also noticed dealerships for Ferrari, Hummer, and Maserati. Despite the main drag’s almost pedestrian, weathered brick appearance, there was obviously serious money lurking just beyond sight, here and there.

Cavallaro snapped him from his reverie. “The café is up ahead.” She pulled into a shopping area parking lot and killed the engine, pointing through the windshield. “Over there.”

They got out and crossed the asphalt to the place she’d indicated, its windows fogged by moist heat and the presence of a sizable crowd. Spinney suddenly realized that coming at this time of the early evening was probably not a good idea. His companion, however, didn’t seem fazed.

She walked up to the counter and asked to see the manager, showing just a glimpse of her shield. As they waited, Les took in their surroundings—a sprinkling of small tables, each adorned with a computer, catered to by a counter stuffed with coffee choices and sweet comestibles. Adrenaline times three, he thought, watching the largely young crowd, the majority of them men, quietly hunched over their keyboards. The room was filled with the tinny clatter of fingertips stuttering across plastic keys.

“May I help you?” a smooth voice said from behind him. “I’m the manager, Bruce Fellini.”

Cavallaro was already staring at the short, goateed man in a black turtleneck who’d appeared from the back room. She displayed her shield again, along with a folded piece of paper. “I’m Detective Cavallaro of the Lower Merion PD. This is Agent Spinney of the VBI, and this”—she waved the document—“is a subpoena for the contents of one of your computers. We have reason to believe that one of your customers was using your place to sexually pursue underage girls.”

She placed the subpoena in front of him. Fellini looked down at it, otherwise not moving.

“How’s this work?” he finally asked. “I’ve never been involved in something like this before.”

Both cops looked at him carefully, their instincts immediately sharpened by the line.

Spinney removed another piece of paper from his pocket before slipping out of his coat. It was hot to stifling for him in here, although he noticed that Cavallaro hadn’t even unbuttoned hers yet. Cultural differences, once more.

He laid the sheet beside the subpoena and placed his finger on the line that John Leppman had highlighted in yellow, back in Vermont. “This is the computer’s address, along with the time and date it was being used.”

Fellini studied the line of type briefly. “Officers, I’d be happy to help. I’ll show you the computer and do whatever else you’d like me to, but I gotta warn you: You’re not going to find anything. Our computers get used all the time, by dozens of people a day, and that’s day after day. You might get a time-date stamp somewhere from the guy you’re after—I’m not saying that.” He tapped the sheet of paper with his finger. “But you got that already. Otherwise, that computer’s going to be blank, or covered with gibberish. We set the temp files to be overwritten immediately, and I also happen to know that the settings on that particular instant-messaging program are defaulted to wipe the record clean whenever the user exits the program. It’s what we do to keep clutter to a minimum.”

“So you don’t want us to tear into the computer?” Cavallaro asked.

Bruce Fellini held up both his hands in surrender. “Hey, I’ll even let you take the whole thing out of here, for as long as you want, if you give me some paperwork. We got insurance for things like this. I was just warning you, is all.”

Spinney had lost interest in the conversation a few sentences ago and was back to surveying the room. Now he returned to the manager and asked him, “Your security camera working?”

Fellini stared at him for a blank second before his brain kicked in. “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

Lester pulled out the photograph of Rockwell that they’d circulated to the newspaper, and displayed it. “This is the guy we think used your computer. He look familiar?”

The small man shrugged. “Vaguely, I guess.”

“How far back do you keep the security tapes?” Lester asked next.

This time Fellini smiled, pointing to the date on Spinney’s printout. “Long enough.”

Chapter 18

“
B
utch—hand me another beer.”

Willy reached over the side of his bedraggled armchair, flipped open the lid of the cooler parked on the floor, and fished around in the cold ice slurry for a can, which he then handed the older man.

E. T. took it from him, peeled back the tab with a snap, and brought it to his lips in one smooth, well-practiced gesture. He didn’t put it down until it was half empty. On the wooden floor by his feet, scattered among other discarded trash, were the rattling remains of most of a twelve-pack.

They’d settled on the unfinished but enclosed back porch of E. T.’s shambles of a house, dressed in coats, accompanied by two glowing parabolic space heaters and an old sleeping dog of confused lineage.

They were surrounded by frosted glass on three sides and perched on the edge of an enormous gravel pit that fell away from the rear of the building like a meteor crater, revealing a snow-covered assortment of piled stones, sand, and rock, and a haphazardly parked collection of ten-wheelers, a stone crusher, and two enormous backhoes. Willy understood that this was E. T.’s working-class version of a landed lord taking some time to enjoy a small drink while surveying his hard-won worldly assets. Had the setting been conventionally staged, and the old man’s son here instead of an undercover cop pretending to be a newfound friend, the next line would have been a variation on “In a few years, my boy, all this will be yours.”

But E. T. Griffis was not a man of conventional trappings. True to his roots, and regardless of his accumulated wealth, he was happiest—or perhaps least unhappy—when in proximity to the world that had given him birth: trucks, cheap beer, and the fruits of hard labor. New and shiny things, not to mention the commercial world that hawked them from all sides, were not for him, including a new roof on his house, or a truck built in the current decade, or any clothing from somewhere other than Goodwill. Money had become a way to keep score or, perhaps, to exact revenge on ancient devils Willy knew nothing about, but it was not to be used on glitzy frivolities—like insulation or central heating. Or cell phones.

Willy had heard that E. T.’s first and only legal wife had walked out on him so long ago, few people recalled what she looked like. Now that he’d become the man’s newest drinking buddy—following a week of nightly encounters at the bar—and been allowed into the sanctum sanctorum of his home, he didn’t doubt it.

Which wasn’t to say that he didn’t like the guy. For all his renowned faults as a father and husband, E. T. was the proverbial salt of the earth—honest, practical, hardworking, and, at long last, much to Willy’s present benefit, becoming sentimentally philosophical.

“So, anyhow,” he was saying. “Dan’s mother wasn’t Andy’s, and Andy’s mother and me weren’t ever legal. Not that it mattered. She had the first one beat all to hell, and that was everybody’s opinion, including Dan’s.”

“What happened to her?” Willy asked, sipping from his hip bottle of amber fluid. This was the third time they’d ended up here to share an afternoon drink—presumably in preparation for the standard evening encounters—but the first that he’d gotten E. T. to open up personally. And, as was so common with otherwise taciturn people, it seemed to Willy that he would never shut up.

“She died,” he said simply, taking another deep swallow.

“Must’ve been hard on the boys.”

“Hard on Andy. He was like her. Dan didn’t give a shit. He’s like the first one.”

Joe’s mother had described that death as a suicide. Willy now wondered if even the method had been similar for mother and son. He wasn’t about to ask E. T., but he made a note to check into it.

Given the broad nature of Joe’s assignment to him, Willy was in the comfortable position of considering everything E. T. said to be of potential value. After all, from Andy’s fate in prison to Dan’s side business in drugs, to the car crash that had hospitalized Joe’s family, even to the true story about why Andy had pleaded guilty in the first place, Willy and his colleagues had nothing but unanswered questions.

“How long ago was that?” he asked.

“Ten years.”

“That when Dan started acting up?”

E. T. paused then, staring out at how the ebbing light was casting his pit into shadow, almost like a premonition.

“Nah, Dan was always a bad kid,” he said darkly. “Annie’s death only took off the last set of brakes. What was yours named?” he asked suddenly.

Willy hesitated, at first wondering what he meant, before remembering his own cover story. He then couldn’t resist answering, “Joe.”

“Huh,” his companion grunted.

Willy then realized the fringe benefit of his private joke.

“That mean something?”

“Just a coincidence. I got a guy named Joe causing me problems.”

Willy pushed his advantage, trusting E. T.’s inebriation to have dulled his perceptiveness. “Gunther? The Mackies were telling me there was bad blood there. He’s a cop, right? VSP or something?”

“Yeah—something. Not state police. The new one. Bureau of something. Anyhow, a pain in the ass.”

“I hate cops,” Willy said. “He after you for the business? Is he like the Better Business Bureau?”

E. T. looked at him with widened eyes. “Better Business Bureau? Jesus Fuck, Butch. You don’t get out much, do you? The Better Business Bureau is a bunch of limp dicks. They don’t have cops. I don’t know what this prick is after. He’s just chewin’ on me, is all—fucking dog with a bone.”

Willy took another pull on his bottle of tea, wincing at its bitter taste. E. T.’s response didn’t imply that Joe was much more than a generalized pest. But if Willy kept probing, even Griffis was likely to notice. He decided not to respond, but to do some of his own silent gazing out the window, not that the sunset was allowing for much of a view anymore.

“He’s the one who got Andy in trouble,” Griffis finally said in a low voice, having obviously been mulling over the subject for the past couple of minutes.

“Andy got in trouble?” Willy asked. “I thought he was your good kid.”

“He is,” E. T. answered angrily, throwing his empty can into a corner. “Was,” he added a moment later. “Give me another beer.”

Willy complied without comment.

“Gunther arrested him on a bullshit charge a few years back. Got him sent to prison. That’s why he killed himself.”

“I thought you said it was a woman,” Willy protested.

“You said that,” E. T. countered, knocking off another half can.

“What kind of charge gets you to jail first time out?” Willy asked. “I thought Vermont was super soft there—never putting anybody behind bars.”

“You thought wrong,” Griffis replied.

Willy was starting to worry how much he should pursue this line of inquiry. He’d gotten a fair amount so far. But that was part of the game—how much to pay out versus how much to reel in.

He went for one more try and then figured he’d give it a rest. “I did time once,” he said. “Wasn’t too bad. Three hots and a cot, like they say. Mostly boring. Your kid must’ve been the sensitive type.”

That hit a chord. E. T. swung on him in a rage, spilling beer on his pants. “What the fuck you know about it? Three hots and a cot? Like it was some fucking summer camp?” Griffis lurched to his feet and half fell toward Willy, trying to take a swing at him, the forgotten can still in his hand. “He was fucking raped, you asshole.”

Willy easily swiped away the punch with his good hand, which threw E. T. off balance and sent him stumbling straight into Willy’s lap, breaking the arm of his chair. They collapsed into a pile on the floor.

“Get off me, you son of a bitch!” E. T. yelled, thrashing around.

Willy kept his composure, speaking clearly but quietly into the other man’s ear, “You’re on top of me, E. T. Take a breath. I didn’t mean any harm. I didn’t know.” He repeated slowly, “I did not know.”

Griffis settled down, still lying across Willy like a dropped bear, staring at the ceiling with a wondering expression. “Shit,” he finally muttered. “I know that.”

Willy planted his hand against E. T.’s back and pushed him to an upright position, rising behind him. He decided to go for broke then and there, figuring the opportunity would never come up again.

“Who did it, E. T.?” he asked softly. “Who really killed your son?”

There was no response at first. Griffis just sat there, his legs splayed, his hands in his lap, staring at the floor. For a split second, Willy wondered if he might not have passed out, or whether he was even breathing.

But E. T. proved him wrong with two words. “Wayne Nugent,” he said.

The name Sam hadn’t been able to uncover. Griffis couldn’t see the smile on Willy’s face. Well, that was at least one puzzle solved.

In Ardmore, Pennsylvania, and outside Waterbury, Connecticut, Lester and Sammie, respectively, in the company of their host police agencies, conducted separate searches of the homes of the two men they’d once referred to as Wet Bald Rocky and Dry Hairy Fred.

Lester had gotten lucky with the videotape in the Ardmore Internet café. On film, the same man in the postmortem mug shots that Spinney was carrying around was seen sitting at the right computer and at the same time and date that John Leppman had dug up. Bruce Fellini, the café manager, still didn’t know the man by name, but he did recognize the teenager at the neighboring console. That boy, a regular, was then located and told Lester that the person he was after was Norman Metz. With Detective Cavallaro’s help, the last step to finding Metz’s address—a single room in a house he shared with others in a run-down neighborhood—had been easy.

For Sam, the journey had been farther but easier still. The car abandoned at the Springfield bus depot had been eloquence itself, containing all the myriad details of its owner’s vital records and habits, from his address to his birthdate, to his taste in music and candy. It had also confirmed the name that Detective Wilson had found through its registration—Frederick Nashman—whose identity was confirmed photographically by comparing Sam’s mug shot with Connecticut DMV computer records.

Unlike where Lester was searching in Ardmore, however, Nashman’s home outside Waterbury was a sedate, middle-class two-story house. Unfortunately for Sam, it also came equipped with a wife and teenage child.

Joe sat on what Lyn and he now viewed as his traditional perch, established when they’d first met in Gloucester—at the end of the bar, with his shoulder against the side wall and his hand around a Coke. He watched her traveling along the line of noisy, appreciative drinkers, chatting, laughing, making small talk and change as she served drinks, waved away compliments, and kept an air traffic controller’s eye roaming across the room. He remembered what she’d told him then, after he’d plied her with a milkshake and a lobster roll. She’d said that the bar—the actual physical object—was like a barrier that allowed her access to the public while protecting her from it, thereby becoming the perfect platform for a shy person who longed for company. It had been a comment both intriguing and startling, since he’d always believed—as he figured most people did—that anyone in this business had to be a glutton for bad jokes, other people’s miseries, and attention in general.

It was Friday night and the place was packed—a harbinger, he hoped, of her business prescience. He knew that many were here out of curiosity, of course. She’d even warned him about that. Not to mention the offer of opening night discount beer.

Bars weren’t really his preference. He spent most days out in the public eye. Rest and relaxation for him came in isolation, most happily in the woodworking shop that he’d attached to his house on Green Street. He’d supplied almost everyone he knew with lazy Susans, birdhouses, and magazine racks as a result, and himself with some substantial furniture.

But he recognized the value of bars, and their historical place, as among the earliest of democratic gathering places. Vermont’s own independence, it could be argued, found birth in Bennington’s Catamount Tavern, where the likes of Ethan Allen—an archetypal barroom bully—took time off from being a lout to act like a leader.

Joe’s gaze swept across the crowd. There were Allens aplenty here tonight, if appearances were telling, from the brooders to the boisterous. But, in Lyn’s favor, they remained a minority, vastly outnumbered by those simply seeking a good time and companionship.

If she was able to maintain the present mood and clientele, her prospects looked good.

“How’s it going, boss?” Sam asked, having appeared at his shoulder.

Joe waved at the activity before them. “See for yourself. A runaway success. You come home with the bacon?”

But she wouldn’t be so easily derailed. “Dispatch said I’d find you here, with what they called your ‘person of interest.’”

He smiled, shaking his head. “That sounds like Maxine. God, what a small town.”

“So, where is she?”

Joe finally turned in his seat to look at her. “You that much out of the loop?”

Sam punched him gently in the shoulder. “Come on, boss.”

Joe faced forward again and gestured to Lyn, who’d been subtly keeping tabs on him.

She came down the length of the bar with a smile.

“Lyn Silva,” he said as she drew near, “this is Sam Martens, my right hand. You don’t call her Samantha, and she won’t call you Evelyn.”

The two women exchanged greetings, laughing at the introduction and eyeing each other carefully.

“I have to go,” Joe told Lyn. “Duty calls. Congratulations again on making the deadline.”

Lyn leaned over the bar and kissed him on the cheek, which he felt was as much for Sam as for him. There were a couple of moans and whistles from nearby customers.

“Thanks for coming, Joe. If you’re still up at two, come back.”

“I will,” he said, sliding off his stool and heading toward the door with Sam.

“Dishy,” she said, grabbing the knob and letting in a blast of cold air.

“
Dishy?
” he asked, incredulous.