Don't Look Twice (20 page)

I
n a darkened bar called the Alibi, off I-91, south of Hartford, Ira Wachman, Joe Raines, and Warren Hauck sat in a back booth.

“This is one of those little tête-à-têtes,” Wachman said, “that no one is ever going to know existed, but where the fates of a handful of very important individuals swing in the balance.”

“And then there's the rest of us,” Warren said, draining the last of his scotch.

“Yes.” Wachman nodded philosophically. “And then there's
us
.”

He looked at Raines. “I understand they know about this accomplice of yours? This dealer…”

“
Ex
-dealer. But that's nothing to worry about. I've got that under control.”

Wachman chuckled gloomily. “Since my friend Warren here was kind enough to introduce us, you've said you had a number of things under control, and I haven't slept through the night since. This Pacello…This
ex
-employee of yours, he knows precisely what?”

“He knows this gambling thing between Sanger and Kramer
is just a sham. He knows that Kramer had nothing to do with it.”

“No.” Wachman shook his head. “It would not be good for that to come out at all.” He sipped his Coke. “Is there some way we can, how to put it—step up the situation?”

Raines looked at him.
“Step it up?”

“Ensure things don't go south any farther. Put a stamp of certainty on it.”

“You mind telling me what that means?” Warren came to life, flicking an ash.

“You know precisely what it means, Warren. Shut this little line of inquiry down. We let this whole thing play out as a form of misdirection…” He looked at Raines. “All that shit you learned in Iraq, right? Problem is, it hasn't worked any better here than it did there. Now it's time to just get a little more direct. Up the tempo. What is it we don't understand?”

“Tell me precisely how you want it
upped
?” The casino security man shrugged, seemingly without concern.

“Hold it a minute.”
Warren didn't like where this was going. “You and I have an understanding, Ira. Personally, I don't give a flying fuck what happens to this guy up there, but you and I agreed from the start certain people were hands-off. And as far as I'm concerned that still goes. I've got stuff in the works. Give me a week, ten days, max. I'll get Ty off this.
My
way. It just needs a little finesse.”

“I'm not sure if we have ten days,” Wachman said to him. “I can't say I relish the idea of spending the rest of my life in federal prison, Warren. Do you?”

“Five days then. A week.” Warren took hold of the government man's wrist as he went to pick up his drink. “Listen, you came to me, Ira, you asked me to play this out. I'm in this as deep as you. As deep as anyone.” He turned to Raines. “You
keep this Pacello dude under wraps, whatever you have to do. I'll handle my brother. I'm not the one who dropped this thing right in his fucking backyard.” He shifted back to Wachman. “I said I would work it out. I still will.”

His voice traveled across the darkened bar.

Wachman glared. “We're all in equally deep, Warren. It's just that some people have more to lose. Anyway, relax…Never leave it to a political hack to go back on an agreement, right? A week, ten days…Maybe you're right. I don't see how that makes a difference. But whatever you have had better work.”

“It'll work.” Warren nodded, exhaling a ring of smoke and leaning back. “Jesus, you're starting to make me jumpy, Ira…” He slid out of the booth. “I'll be right back. I'm going to take a pee.”

Wachman watched the door to the men's room close, then said to Raines, “My group may not be as committed to our earlier understanding as my friend here. You understand?”

Raines nodded. “That'll get messy.”

“
It's already messy, Mr. Raines.
A government prosecutor is dead. Several other people have been killed to protect that. But it'll end up the-fucking–Ninth Ward–messy if the rest of this shit hits the fan. My people met a couple of nights ago. We're all in agreement. Whatever has to be done, just get it done.” His gaze was determined and unmistakable. “Don't worry about the mess, Mr. Raines. Just shut this investigation down.”

The casino man downed the last of his drink. “Any need for me to hang around?”

“No.” Wachman adjusted his tweed cap. “Sometimes a rising tide sweeps up everything in its path. I'll explain it to my friend as best I can.”

H
auck made it on the road before four, only the high beams of fast-moving truckers cutting the darkness on the thruway. He put on some Van Morrison.

By six, he had beaten the morning rush into Hartford, with Imus on the radio.

An hour later he was well into Massachusetts. Daylight brought the old mill towns of Auburn and Worcester passing by.

He wasn't sure what he would find up there. This had the choreographed feel of another cover-up. Josephina Ruiz, Raines's video, those pictures with Josie—all trying to ward him off. Both gang members who orchestrated the initial drive-by were dead. Vega was free. Someone was going to a lot of trouble and risk to tie up loose ends.

By eight, he had crossed into Maine, veering onto the 295 bypass around Portland. There was a trace of snow on the ground and the morning opened up into a clear blue winter day.

It brought back memories for Hauck. He'd gone to Colby, just an hour up the road from Brunswick. Bowdoin had been the scene of one his best college games. A hundred and twenty
yards rushing; he'd bowled over from the two with the game-winning touchdown with thirty seconds remaining on the clock. He could still recall the elation of dancing all the way back to the bench, the groan of the packed stands deflating. Blood on his jersey—number 22. He'd returned a decade ago for his tenth reunion. With Beth and Jessie and Norah. A rising star with the NYPD, he remembered how proud he was showing them off.

Three years later, Norah was dead.

He'd never come back again.

The exit sign read
BRUNSWICK.
Hauck got off at the second exit. He stopped at a service station to hit the john. He plugged “2227 Capps Harbor Road” into the GPS.

The address was a few miles out of town. Past the college on Merepoint Bay.

It was eight thirty. Hauck drove past the college on 123, checking out the stands and the field house, everything looking different than he remembered.

He turned on Middle Inlet Road.

A layer of chunky snow was packed on the ground. The roads, this far from town, were not well plowed. He was heading toward the water. The houses here were upscale. Large, shingled capes and farms with renovated barns that backed onto the bay.

Not exactly the kind of neighborhood a career blackjack dealer could readily afford. Even here.

We dealt with that privately,
Raines had said.

Hauck made a right onto Capps Harbor, the wheels of the Explorer crunching on the packed snow. A couple of homes were up ahead. The GPS announced he was approaching his destination. He went by a blue colonial with a mailbox reading 2210.

Hauck pulled to the side of the road. On the other side was a large white house with green shutters set back aways. Maybe once it would've been called stately, but now it was in need of repair. A wooden sign hung at the end of the driveway.

MEREPOINT BAY FARM. BED AND BREAKFAST.
The sign said 2227.

H
auck stared at the house a long time before pulling in. It was wear-worn, in need of several coats of paint. The driveway was all rutted. A three-bay closed garage was separate from the house.

Pacello had bought himself a little inn.

Hauck couldn't see any lights on or smoke from the chimney. No car in front. He drove down the driveway toward the house.

If we know, Raines knows,
Steve's words rang in his head. He checked his gun. Four were already dead.

Hauck parked and stepped out, strapped the holster around his chest. He went up the chipped stone staircase leading to the front. Most of the shutters were closed. He peered in. He didn't see any sign of life.

He knocked on the front door.
“Anyone home?”

No answer. A gull squawked, flapping its wings out over the inlet.

He tried a second time. No answer again. If the place was even open for business, there sure weren't any guests.

Hauck took out his cell and asked for the local directory assistance. He requested the number for the Merepoint Farm Bed
and Breakfast on Capps Harbor Road. After a few rings a voice recording came on. “You've reached Paul and Katie Pacello of the Merepoint Farm B and B. If you'd like to make a reservation…”

Hauck flicked it off. The place looked abandoned. Shuttered up. It didn't seem as if the Pacellos had just gone out to the market.

He dialed the office back home, finding Munoz.

“How's the weather up there, Lieutenant? Find Pacello yet?”

“Cold,”
he said, staring out at the gray inlet. “And no, no one's home.”

He gave Munoz the address and told him to do his magic. “Call the local county clerk. Find me whatever you can. When it was purchased? Who from? I was expecting more like a trailer in a retirement home. I'm looking at an awfully nifty piece of real estate for a guy who likely never made more than sixty thou a year in his life. It's cold as shit. Don't keep me waiting too long.”

“I'll be in touch, LT…”

Pacello had just retired, around the same time Kramer had been killed. Now he was missing too.

The dealer was in this, Hauck knew.

He heard a noise and spotted an old black truck lumbering up the drive. He double-checked his gun.

The truck pulled to a stop in front of the garage. The side panel read
NORTHLAND ELECTRIC.
A man stepped out in a blue workman's uniform and cap. He looked up at Hauck and scratched his head. “It's off-season, mister. Hope you're not looking around here for a room.”

“I'm looking for Paul Pacello,” Hauck replied.

The man nodded, went around and threw open the back door of his truck. “You won't find him here. He called in early
this morning and said he and the wife were gone for a few days. Told me to finish the job. Blown circuit casement in the basement.”

Hauck removed his wallet, showing the man his badge. “Any idea where he went?”

The man grunted, “
Greenwich?
Connecticut, huh? I have a niece down there. Fairfield. I think it's close by. No, no idea in the world, I'm afraid. Just told me where the key would be left, that's all.”

“When did you see him last?”

The man strapped on his tool case and yanked out a carton from the bay. “Yesterday. Helped me dig out that wiring. It's off-season now. Can't blame anyone for wanting to get up and leave.”

“I need to talk to him. You know anyone who might know where they went?” Hauck put his badge away. “Anything you can tell me would be of help.”

The man shrugged. “Mister, the only thing
I
can tell you is never cross a black wire with a white ground. You know what I mean? Anything else, you might check with the post office back in town. See if anything's being forwarded. But I mean, you must know that—you're a cop.”

The electrician moved past him toward the house.

Hauck looked around the point, cold and dry with winter. Maybe the neighbors knew something.

“Thanks.”

T
he neighbors didn't help.

All Hauck was able to get from a tight-lipped woman in a parka backing her Volvo wagon out was that Pacello had some family who must live locally because she had seen a couple who seemed in their thirties with a young kid helping him fix up the place from time to time.

He drove back into town, stopped for coffee and a late breakfast at a place called the Green Horse on Pleasant Street. He checked through the local phone book and found no other Pacello. He asked around the café. No one seemed to know him there. A couple of people did know of the B and B.

An older woman nodded. “Yes, I heard that old place changed hands.”

It was almost one when Freddy finally called back. “Enjoying your trip up there, Lieutenant?”

Hauck grumbled, “I've been up and down Main Street twice, bought Jessie some maple syrup and a pair of clogs, and now I'm standing here ogling a couple of hot-looking coeds. What took you so long?”

“The property was bought three years ago,” Freddy said. “For $825,000.”

Three years.
That shot a hole in Hauck's theory, that the dealer's sudden “retirement” was connected to Kramer's murder.

“Seems Pacello put $275,000 down and took out a mortgage with Cumberland County Savings and Loan for the rest.”

“
Five hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
That's an awful lot to carry for a guy who deals cards,” Hauck said.

“That's why it took me a while to get back, LT. I had Steve check with the bank. Seems the Pacellos were three months in arrears. He had tried to refinance it twice over the past year. Lower the payments. Until last month…”

“Then what happened?”

“Then the mortgage was paid off, Lieutenant.”

Hauck turned away from the street. “
Paid off?
You mean in full?”

“Yeah, one hundred percent, LT.”

Over half a million dollars
. Hauck's head started to spin. He thought of the surveillance video. “Maybe Pacello was in bed with Kramer and Sanger after all.”

“I don't think so,” Freddy replied. “That's why it took me so long. The mortgage payoff check was from the Washington Mutual in Wallingford, Connecticut. The funds for it came from a local real estate company, Saunders Properties.”

Hauck shrugged. “Pacello probably sold his primary home.”

“I don't know. We did a Dun and Bradstreet on it. Saunders is a local affiliate of a mortgage company called Heritage Financial, which is owned by a William Arthur Turner. When I ran it by Steve, he immediately recognized his name. William Turner is on the board of several large enterprises. One of them may not surprise you. You're probably already ahead of me on this…”

“The Pequot Woods.”

Munoz chuckled. “That's why they pay you the big bucks, huh, LT.”

It was all starting to fit together. That was Pacello's payoff. That was how they handled things
privately
. For his participation. Pacello
was
paid off, but not by Kramer and Sanger.

By the Pequot Woods.

For his silence.

That whole false shuffle thing was another diversion.

They had found the link between Raines and Vega. They'd found the payoff for Pacello. They'd killed Kramer and probably Morales and the kid in Bridgeport.

And David Sanger.

In itself, none of that proved anything. Nothing tied any of this to Sanger. Or to Kramer. Or implicated anyone in a murder. He still had to get one of them to come forward.

Pacello was the key.

“Anything else?” Hauck asked, a sense of elation mixing with uncertainty.

“Just this—the house isn't even in Pacello's name. It's in a trust. Steve figures probably for estate reasons.”

“You have the name?”

“Linda Ann Whyte,”
Munoz said. “The Linda Ann Whyte Irrevocable Trust.”

“Stay with me, Freddy,” Hauck said. He ran back inside the café where he'd had coffee, asked the woman at the counter for the phone book again. She bent down and handed it over. The Central Maine white pages.

Hauck flicked to the W's, scrolled down from “Wharton” at the top of the page.

Until he came upon it.

Calvin and Linda Whyte.

The address was 495 New Morris Road, in Auburn. There was a map on the front cover. Auburn was just outside of Lewiston. About thirty minutes away.

“We do okay?” Munoz asked when Hauck got back on the line.

“Aces, Freddy.”