Cutter's Run (13 page)

Dickman nodded. “So you think someone went up there, grabbed her, and painted a swastika on her outhouse.”

I shrugged. “Something like that, I guess.”

“Or maybe she heard something and decided to skedaddle.”

“I don’t know what to think,” I said. “But something happened.”

“Maybe I should put the fear of the law in that spray painter.”

I shook my head. “He promised to see what he could find out. Maybe we should give him a couple days.”

“What about that girl at the vet’s?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “She might talk to you.”

“Sounds like I better go take a look at that cabin myself.” Dickman took a sip of coffee, then turned to me. “Normally, I’d tell you to leave law enforcement to those of us who are paid to do it. You’ve been doing a helluvalot of snooping.” He grinned. “I did some checking. You’ve been in some interesting scrapes, for a man who specializes in family law.”

“You checked up on me?”

“I talked to a state police lieutenant down in Boston. Guy named Horowitz.” He arched his eyebrows.

“Horowitz and I are acquainted,” I said neutrally.

“He told me you were a pain in the ass,” said Dickman. “I gathered he admired you. Anyway, I’m inclined to trust you. Work with you, if you’re willing.”

I held up a hand. “Whoa,” I said. “I’m really worried about Charlotte Gillespie, yes. And I do not like having swastikas painted on my car, or threatening messages on my answering machine. But I’m no cop, Sheriff. I’ve got a busy law practice in Boston. I just come up here on weekends, and that’s to spend time with Alex. I drive up on Friday nights and go back Sunday. When I’m here, it’s to relax. I like to drive the back roads, chop some wood, do a little fishing. If you think…”

He was smiling at me. “Last I looked,” he said, “today’s Monday.”

“Sometimes I stay an extra day.”

“Heading back tonight, then?”

“Actually,” I said, “I’m taking a couple extra days.”

The sheriff nodded. “Horowitz said you couldn’t resist getting involved. He also said you’d deny it. He said if it was him, he’d try to keep you in line, but he knew he couldn’t.” Dickman leaned toward me. “I don’t know what we’ve got going on here,” he said, “but I don’t like it any more than you do. If I had my way, I’d put a full-timer on this situation and tell him to stay on it until he solved it. Preferably, that man would be me. But I also know that I’m spread all over York County, and I don’t have anybody I can spare to investigate a case of petty vandalism.”

“But it’s hardly—”

He held up his hand. “I know. Swastikas. Plus a missing woman.” He sighed. “Except she’s not missing. No one’s reported her missing. Except you, and you don’t count. As far as anybody knows, she’s just not home. How can I justify investigating that?” He shook his head. “That’s the way it is.”

“What about that message? And—”

“You have any idea how many reports of telephone threats we get every week?”

“Sure, but—”

“The point is, Mr. Coyne, the only actual criminal complaint we’ve received has been the vandalism of a very old and banged-up automobile, and we know who’s responsible for that.”

“I reported that telephone message to you.”

“True. That you did. But—”

“You can’t ignore it,” I said.

He narrowed his eyes and stared at me for a moment. “You’re absolutely right,” he said. “I really have to do something.” He pushed himself up from the rocker. “Stand up, please.”

I looked up at him. “What?”

“I asked you to stand up.”

I shrugged and stood up.

“Raise your right hand.”

“Huh?”

“Do it.”

I smiled and raised my right hand.

“Now,” he said, “repeat after me. I, Brady Coyne, do solemnly promise—”

I lowered my hand. “Come on—”

“—to uphold the Constitution of the United States and the laws of the State of Maine, so help me God.”

“Listen—”

“Just repeat those words, Mr. Coyne.”

I shrugged, raised my right hand again, and repeated his words.

Dickman reached up, took my hand, and shook it. “Congratulations,” he said. “Now you work for me.” He took something from his pants pocket and handed it to me. It was a thin black leather folder, about the size of a small wallet. I flipped it open. It held a round silver badge with the words “Sheriff’s Deputy, York County, Maine” on it, along with a four-digit number.

I looked up at him. “You’re joking.”

“We sheriffs don’t joke about things like this,” he said.

“I’m really a deputy?”

He nodded.

“Can I form a posse? Arrest outlaws? Shoot ’em if they draw on me?”

“You can’t pick your nose without checking with me first. The pay is lousy—which is to say, nothing—and there are no benefits, unless you consider figuring out what’s going on around here a benefit. You can quit anytime. Want to quit?”

I shook my head. “No, I guess not. This is a helluva nice badge.”

“Keep it in your pocket. And remember. Now I am your boss. You do what I say, and if I say not to do something, you can’t do it. If you learn anything, you’ve got to tell me. Got all that?”

“I got it,” I said. I jiggled the badge in my hand. It had a pleasant weight to it. “Horowitz never tried to deputize me.”

“Lieutenant Horowitz,” said Dickman, “has never been elected high sheriff of York County.” He drained his mug, then stood. “I’ve got to hit the road. Get me that tape.”

Dickman followed me inside. I removed the little cassette from the answering machine and gave it to him, and we went out the front door. He climbed into his truck and started up the engine. Then he stopped and leaned out the window. “You forgot to give me the name of our spray painter.”

I shook my head. “I didn’t forget. I’m not going to tell you.”

“You want to break the record for the shortest tenure as sheriff’s deputy in the history of York County?”

“Look,” I said. “He’s just an ignorant kid. He didn’t do the outhouse or the sign. He’s going to try to find out who did. I threatened to tell you, and that seemed to motivate him. Once I do tell you, we lose that motivation. So can we leave it that way for now, boss?”

“Ignorant kid, maybe,” he grumbled. Dickman put the Explorer in gear. “Suppose you ought to know that we located the place where Ms. Gillespie used to live. It’s in Falmouth, just north of Portland.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“It took some pretty fancy police work.” He smiled. “Looked her up in last year’s phone book.”

“Mighty clever. Did you search the place?”

“Search it for what?”

I shrugged. “Clues.”

“Right,” he said. “Clues. Of course.” He rolled his eyes.

“What we found out,” he said, “is that the place is in a nice condo development. She was renting it. She’s not living there anymore. It’s all rented out to someone else now, so there’s not much sense in searching it for clues. Anyhow, Falmouth is in Cumberland County. Out of my jurisdiction.” He glanced at his wristwatch and frowned. “Listen,” he said. “I do want to know what happened to her. See what you can find out, Deputy.”

He backed down the driveway, waved out the window, and drove off.

I slipped my hand into my pants pocket and fished out the leather folder with my badge inside. It felt solid and important in my hand.

I couldn’t wait to show it to Alex.

A
FTER THE SHERIFF LEFT,
I gave the hood of my Wrangler two coats of black Rustoleum. Up close, you could still see the outline of the swastika, but from a distance it just looked like somebody had dumped a can of black paint on the hood.

Leon was right. I should’ve bought three cans and done the whole thing.

I waited until after lunch, when Alex and I were sitting on the deck sipping iced coffee. “Got something to show you,” I said casually. I took the badge folder from my pocket, flipped it open, and held it in my palm.

She laughed. “Where’d you get that, from a Cheerios box?”

I handed it to her. “Just heft this sucker. It’s made of real metal.”

She took it and bounced it in the palm of her hand. “I’ll be damned,” she said.

“I’ve been formally deputized,” I said. “Sheriff Dickman himself administered the solemn oath.” I shook my head. “Cheerios box. Humph.”

“Oh,” Alex said, fluttering her hand over her heart. “A solemn oath.” She shook her head. “Seriously, Brady.”

“What do you mean, ‘seriously’? There are serious things going on around here.”

“I know,” she said. “Of course there are. But a badge?”

I held out my hand and she put my badge in it. I stood up and slipped it into my pocket. “Well, I got work to do, woman.”

She looked up at me and smiled. “Go git ’em, Deputy.”

I went inside, found the portable phone, and sat at the kitchen table. I opened my wallet and fished out the business card that Charlotte had been using for a bookmark. Harrington, Keith & Co., Certified Public Accountants. I dialed the number.

A woman answered. “William Keith,” she said. “This is Ellen. How may I direct your call?”

“Is this the accounting firm?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m looking for Harrington, Keith and Company.”

“You’ve got the right place, sir. Mr. Harrington retired. Our name is now William Keith and Company.”

“Oh, dear,” I said. “How long has Mr. Harrington been gone?”

“Over a year. Can we help you?”

I tried to think. Charlotte Gillespie’s bookmark was old and outdated. Suddenly, this business card did not appear to be such a great clue.

But I’d come this far. I decided to push forward anyway. “Well, actually,” I said, “I’d like to speak with Charlotte Gillespie, please.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Ms. Gillespie is no longer with the company.”

“But this is where she worked?”

“Oh, yes. She was with us for over two years.”

“Boy, I’m really behind the times,” I said. “Do you happen to know how I might reach Ms. Gillespie?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t.”

“Can you tell me when she left you?”

She hesitated. “Several months ago. May I connect you to someone else, sir?”

“Thank you anyway,” I said, and hung up.

I sat there smiling. The sheriff had been smart to deputize me. I was a helluva deputy. I didn’t know if it would help me actually find Charlotte, but I knew my duty. I had a case to pursue, and I had to follow every lead, however slim.

I poked my head out onto the deck. Alex was sitting there in her rocking chair with her eyes closed. “Hey,” I whispered.

Her eyes fluttered open. She turned her head and smiled. “Hey,” she said.

“Wanna go to the big city?”

“New York?”

“Would you settle for Portland?”

“Why?”

“I gotta do some sleuthing.”

She pushed herself out of the rocking chair. “It sounds almost like a date,” she said.

By asking directions, we found the street in downtown Portland where the William Keith accounting firm was located. I left the car in a parking lot, and Alex and I agreed to meet in an hour at a little café on the corner. She said she intended to go buy herself a frock.

I found the Keith offices in a newish glass-fronted building halfway down a steep hill, on the ocean side. At the foot of the hill stood a row of old brick warehouses that had been renovated into chic bistros and boutiques. Portland, Maine, like Newburyport, Massachusetts, and Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and other old New England cities with “port” in their names, had enjoyed resurgences over the past twenty-five years after a century or more of decline and neglect. Nowadays, these old seafaring deep-harbor cities capitalize on their settings. They thrive on high-tech industry and yuppie trade, and it takes a lot of accountants to keep them going.

William Keith occupied a suite of offices on the first floor. I opened the glass door and stepped into a waiting room decorated with hanging ferns and low-backed sofas and glass-topped coffee tables strewn with
Forbes
and
Business Week
magazines. A string quartet played softly from hidden speakers, and a back-lit aquarium was built into one wall. A receptionist behind a large desk guarded the gateway to the inside offices where, I assumed, an army of accountants marched numbers around on their computer screens.

Her name, according to the plaque on her desk, was Mrs. Sanderson. She had dark hair with some gray in it piled up on her head, reading glasses perched out toward the tip of her nose, and, when I approached her, a well-practiced smile. “Yes, sir? Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Charlotte Gillespie.”

She plucked her glasses off her nose and frowned. I noticed that Mrs. Sanderson did not wear a wedding ring. “Are you the gentleman who called earlier?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I believe I told you, Ms. Gillespie no longer works here.”

“You did say that, yes. I’m trying to track her down. It’s rather important.”

“I don’t think anybody here knows where she went. We haven’t seen her since—oh, back in June sometime.”

“Did she quit?”

“Well…” She looked up at me and shrugged.

“She was fired,” I said.

“Look, Mr.—”

“Coyne,” I said. “Brady Coyne.”

She nodded. “I really can’t talk about it.”

“Who can?”

She hesitated for a moment, then said, “Is Charlotte in some kind of trouble?”

“‘Danger,’” I said, “would be a better word for it.”

She cocked her head and frowned at me. Then she nodded. “Why don’t you have a seat. I’ll see if Mr. Keith can talk to you.”

“Thank you,” I said. I sat on one of the sofas, picked up a copy of
Down East
magazine, and thumbed through it while Mrs. Sanderson spoke softly into the telephone.

After a minute she hung up and said, “Mr. Keith will be able to see you in a minute.”

“I appreciate it,” I said.

Nearly fifteen minutes later a tall athletic man in his fifties emerged from the offices and approached me. “Mr. Coyne, is it?” he said.

I stood up and held out my hand. “Brady Coyne,” I said.

We shook. “Bill Keith,” he said. “Come on in.”

I followed him past Mrs. Sanderson’s desk, through an open room full of copy machines and file cabinets, and into a large corner office. Half a dozen diplomas hung behind his desk, and a shoulder-high bookcase was stuffed with manila file folders, three-ring notebooks, and, dull-looking Volumes similar to the books of case law that lined the shelves in my own office back in Copley Square. On top of the bookcase stood a large framed photograph of a Labrador retriever holding a dead duck in its mouth. A considerably smaller photo—a posed K Mart portrait—showed William Keith about twenty years younger standing with a plain-looking woman and two small boys.