Chat (5 page)

He nodded, knowing she was right. “All right. Thanks for the advice.”

She laughed. “That’s a first. I don’t think I’ve ever done that for you before.”

He joined her. “Don’t sell yourself short, Sam. You have no idea what an influence you are. Keep Willy from burning the place down till I get back.”

“Roger that.”

Joe closed the phone, reviewing his situation. Sam was right, of course, and perhaps wiser than she knew. He was between a rock and a hard place emotionally. The John Doe needed his full attention, but to ride shotgun with Deputy Barrows on a doubtlessly futile case would keep him busy, near the hospital, and out of his team’s way.

He stepped out into the snow, which, as expected, had tapered off to just a few desultory, drifting flakes, and scuffed down the path between the house and the barn, enjoying kicking through the fresh crystalline cover and sending it flying into tiny swirls of white.

At the barn door, he fumbled with the clumsy hasp and put his shoulder to the door, swinging it open on groaning hinges, just wide enough that he could slip inside.

It was a typically cavernous barn, open in the middle, soaring up to half-seen rafters high overhead, and surrounded by long abandoned animal stalls, now filled with junk. Joe groped for the old-fashioned light switch and turned on a bank of haphazardly placed fluorescent tubes that dangled from the cross beams. Leo was an impatient and practically minded electrician.

Joe smiled at the scene: a virtual car park of dusty vintage vehicles, some of them dented and scratched, none of them covered. Leo loved them and collected them for the memories they evoked and for the hours he could spend tinkering with them. He wasn’t the least bit interested in museum-level preservation. He drove these things when he could get them to run, and he didn’t mind if they got dinged now and then. It was a casual man’s casual love affair.

Joe shook his head and switched off the light again.

Christ, he hoped they got home in one piece.

Goth Gurl:
hi

Jiminy:
how are u

Goth Gurl:
great u

Jiminy:
same - how u like the snow

Goth Gurl:
it sucks

Jiminy:
why

Goth Gurl:
cause i dont want to shovel

Jiminy:
well don’t

Goth Gurl:
u tell my mom that

Jiminy:
ok i will

Goth Gurl:
u will what tell my mom

Jiminy:
i will tell her that u won’t shovel

Goth Gurl:
k - u like to shop

Jiminy:
yeah why

Goth Gurl:
that is like my favorite thing

Jiminy:
ok

Goth Gurl:
u like shopping for clothes

Jiminy:
yes

Goth Gurl:
kool - o what u doing now

Jiminy:
nothing

Chapter 5

D
eputy Sheriff Rob Barrows was a compact man, as if whoever created him had run out of room at the last minute and sat on him before snapping him shut for delivery. He was in no way fat but seemed, from head to foot, as bunched up as a clenched fist. This was in total contrast to his manner, which Joe found almost gentle. Joe’s wild guess was that Barrows would be a good man in a bar fight, and perhaps not just for his musculature.

They met the following morning back at E. T. Griffis’s car yard, where, as they emerged from their separate vehicles, they were greeted by the hirsute Mitch, who didn’t look as though he’d changed a molecule of his appearance since Joe first laid eyes on him.

“Back, huh?” he said as Joe came within earshot.

It was an inarguable comment, which Joe didn’t bother contending.

Barrows, however, didn’t hesitate, shaking hands, introducing himself, and even pulling a Dunkin’ Donuts bag out of his marked cruiser and offering them coffee and doughnuts all around, apologizing for not knowing their particular tastes.

It proved to be no obstacle. Mitch and Joe filled their hands and voiced their appreciation. Rob’s gesture was all the more thoughtful because of the kind of day it had become—crystal clear and bitterly cold, where even breathing in sharply hurt your nostrils.

As their host put it, leading them toward the warmth of the garage, “Colder than a well digger’s pecker.”

Given Mitch’s appearance, the garage was predictably strewn about with cast-off debris. In fact, Joe had rarely seen worse. The whole interior looked as if a metallic glacier had burst through the far wall, with the only efforts at reclamation being a narrow path and a couple of small semiclear oases directly before the two closed overhead doors. Mitch led the way into its midst with the practiced ease of an archaeologist navigating a dig he’d known for decades, which, in fact, he may have.

Barrows explained as they went, “This is one of the few secure places we have for vehicles around here. The sheriff’s got a contract with Griffis.”

Mitch reached a door on the far wall, indistinguishable from its neighbors aside from the large padlock barring its use.

“It’s all yours,” he said, stepping aside. “Let me know when you’re done.” He pointed at Joe. “And like I told him, the sooner we can get this bay back, the happier the boss’ll be.”

“I’ll let him know, Mitch,” Rob tried soothing him. “Shouldn’t be much longer.”

Mitch shambled back into the garage’s gloom while Rob pulled a set of keys from his pocket and selected one for the padlock. “We have the only copy,” he said. “Maintains the chain of custody.”

Joe nodded, having figured that out for himself. In addition to the lock, someone had signed, dated, and attached crime scene tape across the doorjamb, which Rob broke through as he twisted the knob and pushed back the door.

“Like maybe I told you on the phone yesterday, we don’t usually do this—secure a car after a ten-fifty—not unless there’s been foul play.” He stepped inside and hit the lights. “And for all the crime tape and lock, this chain of custody wouldn’t hold up in court. I didn’t do this till after you called me. Before then, it was just in the yard where the wrecker dumped it. Sorry.”

Joe brushed that aside. “Doesn’t matter. You said you’d give it a closer inspection. Were you able to do that?”

He was no longer looking at Barrows, being distracted by the familiar car, bent and sagging as if exhausted, standing in what was clearly the garage’s paint room—as pristine and bare as an operating theater, and almost as well lighted by a double bank of color-balanced fluorescent tubes. Having just emerged from the clutter behind them, Joe found the contrast startling—and the sight of the car dismaying.

Barrows picked up on his mood, saying softly, “I meant to ask, Agent Gunther: How’re they doing? Your family, I mean.”

Slowly, Joe turned away from the car, where, in the glaring light, he’d just seen some of his mother’s blood on the passenger seat. “They’re hanging in there, Rob. Thanks. And call me Joe.”

Barrows nodded. “Right.” He gestured toward the car. “I checked it out about an hour after we talked.”

He crossed over to a control panel mounted to the wall, and pushed an oversize button. There was a loud whirring sound and a slight trembling underfoot before the car began hovering into the air on a lift. Once the tires were at about eye level, Barrows took his hand off the button, returning the room to its otherworldly quiet.

He then removed his flashlight from his duty belt and crooked a finger at Joe. “I think I found out what happened,” he said, leading the way underneath the battered car and switching on the light.

Once Joe joined him, he pointed to a spot inside the crumpled right front wheel, which was frozen at a grotesquely unnatural angle. “See that?” he asked.

Joe squinted at where the light’s halo was holding steady. He was struck by how much debris was clinging to the undercarriage—souvenirs of its trip down the embankment.

“That’s your tie rod,” Barrows was explaining. “Or what’s left of it. It’s missing the nut that holds it in place. As soon as that sucker drops off and the arm goes free, you lose your steering.”

Joe paid closer attention, now clearly seeing and understanding the mechanics involved. “Christ,” he muttered. “Seems an iffy way to hold something that important together. Don’t the nuts work free all the time?”

“They’re usually locked in place with a cotter pin,” Barrows told him significantly.

Joe cast him a glance and raised his eyebrows.

His guide kept talking. “Of course, cotter pins can break, or rust off, or be forgotten during reassembly. If that happens, it’s just a matter of time before the car’s vibrations or hitting a good bump make the nut do what this one did.”

Joe nodded thoughtfully before suggesting the obvious. “But that’s only true if the car’s old enough to have that rusty a cotter pin, or if the tie rod end’s been worked on by somebody.”

Both men fell silent before Barrows supplied the requisite rejoinder: “And in theory, this car’s too new for either one.”

Joe returned to studying the broken part. “Well, you never know. We should check out the car’s repair history. Leo always had the same folks work on it—Steve’s Garage in Thetford Center.”

“Huh,” Barrows grunted.

“What?”

“Coincidence is all,” the young deputy explained. “Steve’s and this place are owned by the same person.”

Joe straightened, glancing his head against the car frame and instinctively ducking back down, although he hadn’t incurred any damage. “E. T. owns Steve’s? I didn’t know that.”

“That and a dozen other outfits. You just don’t see his name on the door too often. Old E. T. likes his privacy. You know him?”

“Yeah—I grew up around here. Arrested his son once.”

Now it was Barrows’s turn to be surprised. “Andy?”

“Yeah. Down in Brattleboro.”

“You know he’s dead. Killed himself.”

Joe stared at him. “My God. He was just a kid.”

But Rob was studying the damaged wheel again. “E. T. was really broken up about it, and Dan went ballistic. You know Andy’s brother?”

Joe nodded. “Used to be a hothead.”

“Still is. Tore up a local bar when he heard Andy’d died. Spent the night in jail. That’s how I know.”

He reached out and touched the car’s undercarriage with his fingertips. “I bet your name was mud in the Griffis household that night.”

Joe frowned at the comment. “What’re you saying?”

Barrows shrugged. “I’ve lived here my whole life. The Griffis clan makes things personal, which can definitely be good news, bad news. They’re great if they like you, but they got a lot of money and know a lot of the wrong people if they don’t.”

Joe gestured at the car overhead. “And you think one of them did this because I busted Andy?”

But Rob shook his head. “I’m saying they wouldn’t forget who you were if they blamed you for his death.”

“What’s the scuttlebutt?” Joe demanded, growing angry.

Barrows remained placid. “That’s what I’m saying. I haven’t heard a word. I didn’t even know about you and Andy.” He slapped the tire hanging by his head. “You asked me to take a closer look, remember? So, I’m not the one saying the Griffis bunch is after you. But if you’re thinking this was done on purpose, I’d sure have an idea where to start digging.”

Norma Wagner peered up from her crossword as the motel’s front door set off the quiet chime behind her counter.

“Good evening, sir. Are you checking in?”

The man on the threshold looked as if she’d just asked the one question he hadn’t been anticipating. He glanced around the empty lobby nervously. “Yes.”

Norma smiled, both at him and to herself. He was a decent enough looking guy—trimmed beard, not too fat, okay clothes—but homely. A work mouse, as she’d come to consider men like him—processed forms in an office building, went to the movies once a month, ate at the local Bickford’s on Friday, and had a wife he’d grown so used to, he barely knew she existed.

And now, she thought to herself, this one was in the big city—or whatever Brattleboro might be considered. She watched him check the lobby a second time before hestitantly approaching her counter. Instinctively, after fifteen years in the motel business, she checked his left ring finger. The indentation of a wedding band was there, but the actual item was missing.
Ah,
and he was stepping out, as well.

Norma blended her satisfied laugh into her official greeting. “Welcome to the Downtowner, sir. Do you have a reservation?”

“No.” He spoke barely above a whisper.

Of course not, she thought, eyeing the small overnight bag he kept clutched in his hand.

“That won’t be a problem. We have plenty of room at the moment. How many nights will you be staying?”

“Just one.”

But what a night, she imagined vicariously, typing into her computer, at least in
his
wildest hopes. She wasn’t faulting him. She’d been married for twenty-five years to a man she saw as little as possible. She hoped this round little guy was going to have the night of his life.

“And how will you be paying tonight?” she asked.

He pulled out a billfold and laid three twenties on the surface between them. “Cash.”

“Cash, it is,” she said cheerily. “Do you have Triple A or another type of discount?”

He cast down his eyes even farther. She was starting to feel bad for him and wanted to get him into that room before he changed his mind and bolted.

“Not to worry, sir. That’ll be forty-three ninety-five, with the businessman’s discount. My treat.”

He looked up partway at that and managed a weak smile, although his beard made it hard to see. “Thanks.”

She placed a registration card before him. “Not a problem. If you could fill this out, we’d sure appreciate it.”

As he put pen to card, she added, “And if I could have a credit card for both our security and any additional incidentals, that would be great.”

He stopped and looked at her straight-on for the first time. Nice brown eyes. “I don’t have a credit card.”

Right, she thought. No more than you have a nose on your face. But, again, he was looking twitchy to her, so she cut him some slack. “That’s all right. It’ll be my job if you mess up, though, so you better promise to be good.”

That broke eye contact. His gaze dived for the card before him again. God, she was having way too much fun with this poor bastard.

She decided to cut him loose with her final zinger. Smiling broadly, she collected the finished registration card and asked, “Two key cards or one?”

“Two, please.”

Yes,
she forced herself not to say aloud, instead handing over the keys while she glanced at the card he’d filled out. “Your room’s at the end of the corridor, to the right of the vending machines. Have a nice night, Mr. Frederick, and thank you for choosing the Downtowner.”

He nodded quickly and moved away. She watched him, the small bag still tight in his fist.

And have the night of your life, she mused again. Glad I could help.