Chat (9 page)

Joe stood on the sidewalk, his hands buried in his coat pockets, looking across the street at the bar. It was a far cry from the place in Gloucester where he’d first met Lyn Silva, whom he’d known then only as Evelyn. That had been a notorious dive, well known to the local cops, and literally home to an ever-changing tide of anonymous people who lived on the top two floors in rented rooms that looked like jail cells. Included among those residents had been the dead man Joe had come down there hoping to interview.

This was a serious step up. A handsome, elaborately carved sign over the door advertised “Silva’s,” the bay windows to either side of the door had been framed with nicely worked wooden casings in the style of a century ago, and he could see, behind the glass, tables placed on raised platforms to afford patrons a better view of the street.

He crossed over and saw a paper sign on the door reading “Not open yet, but hold that thought.”

He paused at the foot of the three steps leading up, startled at how well that phrasing reflected his own situation. His attraction to Lyn was not at issue, nor was her clear interest in him, despite his wondering at that good fortune. What was stalling him was old baggage—his age, his past with Gail and its lingering emotional fallout, his near miss at losing his mother and Leo. He was gun-shy and unsure and more inclined to pulling in than to exploring a new relationship. His one night with Hillstrom had been a defining moment, though in large part appreciated precisely because it had no future.

Proceeding through the door ahead of him could be much more than he wanted to handle right now—if ever again.

“Does he dare?” came from behind him.

He turned around sharply, struck as much by the wording as by the voice. Lyn Silva stood in the street, carrying three precariously balanced cardboard boxes, a half smile on her face.

“I serve Coke, too,” she added.

He wondered if her opening line, as insightful as it had seemed, had in fact meant something more mundane. It was possible, given the Coke follow-up, but he’d learned not to sell her short. Her canny instincts about people—including herself—had struck him all the way back in Gloucester. She was just as possibly allowing them both a little leeway.

“Looks like it’s really coming along,” he said blandly, instinctively reaching for the top two boxes of her stack.

She nodded, glancing up at the sign. “I was about to ask if you wanted to come in, but if you don’t now, you’ll be stealing my stuff.”

Almost surprised, he looked down at what he’d just taken into his arms. “Sorry. That was a little—”

“Much appreciated,” she interrupted. “Come on. It’s open.”

She cut around him and led the way, bumping the door open with one slim blue-jeaned hip.

The interior was warm and smelled of old wood and leather, with a scattering of tables and upholstered stools paralleling the long bar stretching into the gloom ahead. The room was narrow, high-ceilinged, and deep, with an unusual balcony high and to the back, overhanging what seemed fated to become a small stage for musicians. The decor largely consisted of more wood detailing, old mirrors, and framed photographs and portraits, some of which were still propped against the baseboard. There were also several dartboards.

“Just dump those on the bar,” she told him, doing the same. “
Would
you like a Coke? I’m about to have one. Long day. Take your coat off.”

He pulled over a stool and settled down as she circled the bar to get to a small fridge tucked under the counter near the cash register. “Lucky you have a thing for Coke. I had a deal with the Pepsi distributor until we got into a fight, so I dropped them for the out-of-town Coca-Cola dealer. Not that I’ve gotten the equipment and supplies yet, so we’ll see. Anyhow, I keep a few basics on hand, just in case. Be crazy not to have anything except water, even if the place isn’t officially open.”

She quickly crouched and extracted two cans of soda from the fridge in one clean movement, reminding him of how habituated she was to this environment. Looking around again at the boxes and the gentle disarray, he thought this might be like visiting a magician backstage, before the curtain rose and the lights blocked out all but the main attraction. He recalled sitting at the end of the bar in Massachusetts, admiring how she simultaneously worked the clientele while balancing the multiple tasks of her profession—taking orders, pouring drinks, making change, washing glasses, refilling nut dishes, keeping the bar top clean and free of clutter—all without missing a beat. And by Vermont law, all bars had to serve enough food to supply at least 20 percent of overall sales, so he knew she had the basics of a kitchenette somewhere, as well.

She popped the tabs on both cans simultaneously and poured the contents into two ice-filled glasses she’d conjured up, seemingly out of thin air.

“Lime?” she asked.

He laughed at the automatic request dovetailing so perfectly with his line of thought. “No, I’m fine. Thanks. How long till you open?”

She took a long pull on her own drink and looked around, as if at a museum exhibition under construction. “Couple of weeks, tops. It’s been an amazing haul—just filling out paperwork for over a month, for one thing. Inspections, license applications, tax forms, contracts—none of which had anything to do with the actual work of painting, sanding, buying furniture and fixtures, rigging the sound system, you name it. And there’s still a ton of piddly stuff left. But most of the heavy lifting is done. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.”

“It must be like reaching a life goal,” he suggested. “Being able to work for yourself.”

By now she was leaning with the small of her back against the counter behind her. “I wouldn’t go that far. It is just a bar. But it’s nice to be out of Gloucester. I was way too long in that place.”

He smiled and suggested, “Things look good after a few years, but maybe for all the wrong reasons?”

She nodded. “Yeah, exactly. A bunch of habits you start thinking are a life.” She gave him a thoughtful look. “I have you to thank for waking me up, at least partly.”

He was genuinely surprised. “Me?”

“That night we met at the end of the pier, after my shift. You were looking for the guy that killed poor old Norm, so you bought me a lobster roll and a milkshake to butter me up—you probably don’t even remember that.”

“Sure I do,” he said, his own memory being much sharper than she could know.

“Well, call it the right gesture at the right time. I don’t know,” she mused. “But that hit me right where it counted. Made me think how I was about to make a really big mistake and probably take a huge step backward.”

He looked at her inquiringly.

She frowned and stared at the floor for a moment. “I’m not making much sense. You remember seeing a kind of slimy guy at the bar earlier that night—long hair, tattoos?” she asked. “You commented about him—how I gave him a free drink to make him look good to his buddies.”

“Kenny,” he said.

Her mouth dropped open. “You remember his name?”

His face reddened. “I might’ve been a little envious.”

She touched her lips with her fingertips, assessing this revelation, which he now wished he’d withheld.

But her conclusion set him at ease. Her face softened and her shoulders slumped slightly. She stepped up to the bar and laid her hand on his. Their faces were close together as she said, “You had nothing to worry about.”

He didn’t know what to say.

“I kissed you that night to thank you for being nice to me,” she explained. “But there was more. I had almost decided to make a play for Kenny, even though every bone in my body told me I shouldn’t. You woke me up.”

“With a lobster roll?”

She laughed and stepped back, accepting his offer of humor to regain her balance.

“That’s when I decided to pull up stakes. Coryn, my daughter, was out of the house and on her own; I’d saved up enough money to make a new start. It was time. When this place came on the market, and it was in your hometown, I couldn’t believe it. The coincidence was too much to ignore.”

“Like a sign?” he suggested.

She made a face. “I don’t believe in that junk. But I wasn’t going to ignore it, either.”

“Christ,” he told her, waving a hand around at the clutter, “I’m going to feel pretty bad if it goes belly-up.”

“It won’t,” she said simply. “I did my homework, too. I’m not a total romantic.”

“But a bit of one.”

“Yeah,” she conceded after a pause. “I guess.” She was silent before adding, “That’s why I drove up to Thetford to find you, after reading about the accident. I wasn’t really going shopping.”

“I wondered,” he admitted, sitting very still.

“I did want to offer any help I could,” she said quickly. “I meant that. Still do. But I suppose I wanted you to know I was in the area, too, for what it was worth.”

“A lot.”

She’d been staring into the middle distance at that point, but his rejoinder made her look at him directly. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said simply.

She pursed her lips. “Wow. I thought for sure you’d already have someone in your life . . .” She abruptly held her hand to her forehead. “Hold it. That came out wrong. I mean, not that you wouldn’t, but that if you don’t, that I wouldn’t be—”

“I don’t,” he said, hoping to end her embarrassment.

Her face was by now bright red. “Okay. Sorry. I’m not a stalker or anything.”

“I know.”

“I just—what with the bar being in Brattleboro, and what I said about your getting me to leave Gloucester—sort of—well . . . it just seemed stupid not to get in touch somehow.”

Now it was his turn to stand up and at least lean in her direction, since the bar was between them—the very safety barrier she’d once told him was a blessing for most barkeeps. “I’m glad you did, Lyn. It means a lot to me. Kind of a right time, right place thing, if you know what I mean.”

“Those aren’t too common, right?” she asked, taking a half step toward him.

“So they say.”

They stood there for a few seconds, seemingly frozen by in-decision, before he finally moved back, undraped his coat from the back of the adjacent stool, and said, “Well, I’ve got to get back north.”

“Oh, sure,” she said, leaving her post and heading back around the end of the bar to meet him. “Give your mom my best.”

He was close to the door, moving reluctantly, slipping his coat on. “I’m glad you came up when you did, when I was on the sidewalk.”

She reached him and laid her hand on his arm. “You’ve got a lot on your mind right now.”

He nodded silently, welling with emotion that he’d been suppressing for days.

“That’s okay,” she said. “I’ll be here.” She took his hand, removed a pen from her breast pocket, and wrote a phone number on his palm. “That’s my home. Call anytime. I mean it.”

He opened the door with his other hand, letting in a sharp sliver of cold air. “I will.”

He quickly leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek, and let himself out.

RadMan:
so wut u do for fun

Suze:
soccer and shop

RadMan:
ur parents strict

Suze:
there assholes

RadMan:
oh why

Suze:
cause they r

RadMan:
i drive

Suze:
i cant no licens

RadMan:
so wut do u like to chat about - do u have any wishes

Suze:
yeah i wish i had a car

RadMan:
why

Suze:
so i could drive ya

RadMan:
well i got a car

Suze:
can i have it

RadMan:
only gfs can use my car

Suze:
so what does that mean

RadMan:
u really want my car

Suze:
for real

RadMan:
what do i get then

Chapter 9

“
O
h, please. Parole and Probation? You have got to be shitting me.”

Sammie Martens sat back in her chair and studied the ceiling without response, well used to her colleague’s harangues, which, for him, passed for humor.

“Those guys are such cowboys. Not even cops, for Chrissakes.”

Willy Kunkle looked across the small office they all shared, to see what effect he might be having. “Run around like they own the place,” he added for good measure.

She didn’t move, refusing his bait despite the temptation he was clearly counting on.

“Not to mention there’s not a rule they don’t break.”

He saw her face crinkle in pain, as she absorbed this last crack. She straightened, put her elbows on her desk, and studied him as if he’d just emerged from a test tube. “What did you just say?” she asked, caving in at last.

He smiled at her innocently. “Not that I have a problem with any of that. When do we leave?”

She groaned and got to her feet. “Now.” She pointed at his withered left arm, an appendage he usually kept anchored to his side by shoving its hand into his pants pocket. “Why didn’t you join
them
after you lost that thing, instead of coming back to the cops?”

He rose, too, and joined her at the coatrack near the door. “You and I weren’t an item back then,” he explained. “I had to come back to irritate you.”

“And that’s changed now that we are?”

He patted her butt on his way to grabbing his parka. “Yeah. ’Cause now you love it.”

She headed out the door. “You are such a jerk.”

He laughed and followed her into the overheated second-floor hallway of Brattleboro’s municipal building, where the VBI had a one-room office for its four regional agents. “So, what’s the deal?”

“With P and P?” she asked. “We gotta interview Dave Snyder about one of their ex-parolees—someone named Andy Griffis.”

“Griffis?” Willy commented, following her toward the stairs. “He’s dead. What do we care?”

She half turned to respond, “How did you know that?”

He poked her in the small of the back. “You gotta keep up, girl. Plug into the gossip.”

Say what you might about Willy Kunkle—that he was irascible, disrespectful, impolitic, and prone to cutting corners—he was still a cop’s cop and made an art form of knowing everything about everybody who’d ever had a run-in with the law. He had an encyclopedia in his head about the people you’d never want to invite home.

As if to prove the point, he added, as they headed down the stairwell, “He was Gunther’s case from when we all used to work downstairs. He hung himself.”

Downstairs meant the Brattleboro Police Department, where Willy had also once been a detective. Of their squad, only Spinney had come from outside.

“Hanged himself,” Sam corrected.

“Whatever, and you didn’t answer the question.”

“Joe asked me to look into Griffis because of the car crash that put Leo and his mom in the hospital.”

Willy reached out and grabbed her arm to slow her down. “Whoa. I thought that was an accident.”

“It is on paper,” she answered, still walking toward the door to the parking lot.

“Meaning what?”

She shrugged. “Not sure. He didn’t go into details. Just asked us to get what we could on Griffis.”

Which vagueness, of course, only appealed to Willy’s sense of balance. “Cool,” he said as they stepped outside.

In the town of Brattleboro, Parole and Probation was housed in what used to be a bright pink chocolate factory, adjacent to both a popular restaurant and a stunning view of the confluence of the West and Connecticut Rivers. It was wrapped in greenery and appointed with enough small architectural details to make it look like an Italian villa designed by someone who had never traveled overseas.

To many observers—and many in law enforcement—the setting and history of this halfway house for the unfortunate was apt for both the town and the state in general, given Brattleboro’s and Vermont’s reputation for being less than draconian in their treatment of the legally wayward.

That said, the facility’s interior was pretty standard office building, and nothing about its layout or the attitude of its occupants implied any coddling of the clientele. This was immediately demonstrated by the receptionist behind the bullet-resistant window when Sam and Willy walked in—especially after she caught sight of the latter and leaped to a reasonable conclusion.

“Sign in and have a seat.”

Sam smiled brightly and flashed her badge. “Understandable mistake. We’re here to see Dave Snyder.”

The receptionist reacted with a deadpan “Don’t sign in and have a seat.”

Snyder, when he appeared a couple of minutes later, was a small, intense man with a hard handshake and a ready smile, who ushered them down a tangle of narrow hallways, up a half flight of stairs, and finally into a truly minute office with not even an air vent for circulation, much less a window. So much for the Italian villa.

The three of them conducted a facsimile minuet getting seated without bumping into each other, after which Willy, with his usual grace, opened up with a small conversational ice breaker.

“Christ. Either somebody really hates you or you need lessons on sucking up.”

Snyder laughed. “I spend about an hour a day in here. It’s actually kind of restful. And nobody ever bothers me.”

Even the walls were blank, completely free of pictures, calendars, or a bulletin board.

“Go figure,” Willy agreed.

Snyder fired up the computer monitor on his desk and addressed Sam. “You wanted to know about Andy Griffis?”

“Yeah,” she told him. “He was arrested by the Brattleboro PD, but then we let him drop off the radar—until we heard he’d committed suicide, of course,” she added quickly, addressing Snyder’s look of surprise.

He nodded. “I was going to ask if you knew.” He waved a hand at the screen. “Well, I don’t know. To be honest, the guy who actually handled this case is gone, so I’m pretty much the tour guide here. I never met Griffis. What’re you after?”

Sam took pity on the man, since she was in much the same boat, given Joe’s vagueness. “Tell us the overall first, then maybe we can get more specific.”

Snyder slowly began scrolling down and reading, highlighting his findings in a descriptive monologue. “Okay. Let’s see. Wow. Talk about no luck—first-time offender and he goes straight to jail. Oh, okay. I get it, kind of. Proprietor gets hurt during a burglary, and she’s an old lady to boot. Media must’ve been all over that. Still, tough for him. Got five to ten with all but three suspended. Bet he wasn’t expecting that.”

He hit a few more commands and moved elsewhere within his database. “Started out jail in Springfield,” he resumed, “then got moved to St. Albans. Indicators are he was generally compliant and cooperative. In her notes, the prison case worker mentions a depressive period toward the end, basically lasting till he was released. Don’t know what that was about. Probably just bummed. Our interactions with him afterward were routine. He got a job working up north first, around Thetford. His family has a bunch of businesses there. Says here he was a mechanic. Wasn’t long before he headed back to Brattleboro, though, which is how we wound up with him. According to this, he said things weren’t working out in Thetford. That happens often enough, where the family shakes out after one of them comes back from inside. Maybe that’s what happened here.”

He started reading more carefully, his own interest growing. “We picked up his check-ins,” he resumed, “which he seems to have met. His conditions weren’t too onerous—pretty much the usual. Oh, I was wrong; he did miss a check-in, right at the end. After that, nothing. He was found hanging from the crossbar in his apartment closet after he failed to show up at work two days in a row.”

“He leave a note?” Willy asked.

“Doesn’t say here, but that’s no surprise. We get notification of a parolee’s death, but the local PD and the ME’s office have the actual details. You’ll have to ask them.”

“Any mention of close friends?” Sam asked.

“There’s a Beth Ann Agostini,” Snyder read. “Her name pops up in the last few months. Lives on Canal.” He quickly scribbled her address down on a pad, adding, “Or used to. These folks move around a lot.”

“That’s it?” Willy asked incredulously.

Snyder was almost apologetic. “Yeah. Griffis wasn’t adjusting all that well after he got out, but he kept within our guidelines.” He sat back and studied them. “He was a probationer, not a parolee. That would’ve put him on a tighter leash. But on probation, as long as you check in and don’t get caught doing anything foolish, you’re part of a big pool of people. It’s easy to fall through the cracks.”

He passed his hand through his hair abruptly, his frustration showing, and added, “We get a lot of flack for trying to keep people out of prison, or letting them out on conditions too soon and too easily. But, believe me, it ain’t high school, and some of these younger guys get really screwed up. Always drives me nuts when people go on and on about more jail cells and tougher sentences when they have no clue what they’re talking about.”

Sam and Willy didn’t respond, both of them just staring back at him.

Snyder smiled awkwardly. “Sorry. Guess that was a little overboard. No offense, I hope.”

Willy dragged out his response, making a mockery of it. “Naaaah.”

Sam pulled out a subpoena she’d secured just to be on the safe side. “Any chance we could have a printout of the case notes?”

As if defeated by some inner debate, Dave Snyder merely placed the subpoena on his desk and set to work at the keyboard.

Leo remained in the ICU, looking increasingly reduced by his standing retinue of monitors and IV hangers clustered around like skeletal mourners. And now he spent all his time asleep.

“I thought he was getting better,” his mother said softly, sitting in the waiting room, her shoulders slumped.

Leo’s primary physician crouched down before her wheelchair to better make eye contact, a gesture Joe appreciated. His name was Karl Weisenbeck, and so far, he’d been attentive, honest, and compassionate, seeking them out more often than they’d asked for him over the previous few days.

For Joe, the man’s soothing presence was doubly welcome. Not only had Leo’s downturn come as a surprise, but so had Gail’s unannounced return. In fact, Dr. Weisenbeck had been talking to her alone upon their entrance, creating in Joe’s mind an awkward jarring, as if he’d accidentally walked in on something inappropriate. Given the multiple emotions he was then balancing, the addition of this unusually loaded one had been a shock.

Not that her being here was a bad idea. The greeting between the two women had made that clear, reminding him of a loving daughter and mother after a long separation. Now, especially given Weisenbeck’s announcement of Leo’s reversal, Joe had to concede that his mother’s coping ability was strengthened by Gail’s presence. Over the years, these women had become close friends, driving home Joe’s occasional sensation of being the odd man out.

None of which mattered at the moment, he forced himself to remember as he leaned forward to hear the doctor’s explanation.

“It’s a delicate time for your son,” Weisenbeck was saying. “As you know, he suffered initially from a collapsed lung and flail chest, which is a breaking away of an independent part of the rib cage. The lung issue we resolved pretty easily, but the combination is what made it so difficult for him to breathe, and why we were helping him out with the nasal cannula at first. Unfortunately, the extent of his injuries has now led to what we call shock lung, or more technically, post-traumatic respiratory distress.”

There was a small, almost indistinguishable intake of breath by his elderly listener, which prompted the doctor to take her hand in his own before continuing.

“Leo was no longer able to oxygenate his blood on his own, Mrs. Gunther,” Weisenbeck said. “Which meant that we had to put him on a respirator.”

She nodded slightly. “I understand.”

But he wasn’t done. “I wish that were the extent of it, but I’m afraid there’s more. As a result of the multiple bone fragmentation, Leo’s also suffering from fat embolization. This has affected his brain function, among other things, which is why he’s asleep for the moment.”

She began to ask a question, but he gently held up a finger in order to keep going. “I know—for how long? Right?”

She nodded silently.

“I’m not sure,” he answered. “We are treating him with blood thinners and steroids and time, and we are monitoring him every second of every day. I came to work at this hospital because of its level of patient care, Mrs. Gunther, and I’ve never been disappointed with my decision. I will do everything in my power to make sure that will be true for your son as well. Leo is a strong, resilient, middle-aged man. That is a huge plus in his favor.”

There was a long, painful lull in the conversation before her voice rose quietly into the silence. “Will he be okay?”

Weisenbeck leaned forward and squeezed her fingers again. “He’s resting. You will hear the word coma. That’s true, also, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing. Our bodies are much more intuitive than we doctors in knowing what to do and when. You went through much the same thing when you came to us, remember? Your body needed rest, and so it went to sleep for a while. Better than what any of us could have ordered.”

Joe’s mother took it in like the psychological medicine it was meant to be, but then asked pointedly, “What dangers is he facing?”

He hesitated, gauging his best approach while looking her straight in the eyes. There seemed to be no breathing in the room.

“He is walking right at the edge. He is susceptible to stroke, pneumonia, and pulmonary embolus, as well as catheter-induced sepsis and several other threats. I will not pretend that it’s not a long list.” Here he added emphasis to his voice and intensified his gaze. “But I must stress with the same honesty that my optimism outweighs my fears.

“In the end, though,” he added, slowly standing back up, “we all just have to wait and keep our hopes up.” He smiled as he concluded, “While we watch him like the proverbial hawk. Okay? When he begins to come around—and I stress
when,
not
if—
the initial first signs will be neurological. He will most likely first respond to pain stimuli. His breathing will also improve as the ribs begin to knit, increasing his body’s oxygen saturation, and that, in turn, will help clear out the fat emboli and allow him to emerge from the coma.”