Open Season (34 page)

About Henry Stark, Wilson revealed nothing from Danvers’s report. He conceded that the colonel’s rash actions had caused a reopening of the case, but he was not to be construed as some avenging angel, as one New Hampshire reporter implied. He was a dangerous killer, and he would be “tracked down and brought to justice.” A series of redundant questions concerning the progress of this tracking met with: “The situation is increasingly under control.”

He took an unusually nasty beating from the reporters, none of whom was remotely satisfied with his comments, and I must admit I grudgingly tipped my hat to him for maintaining his cool, if not his control over the English language. That calm demeanor was reserved for reporters only, however; the rest of us gave him wide berth when he walked fuming back into the building.

Not that many of us were there to get in his way. Even with the added help from the state police and the Windham County Sheriff ’s Department, we were stretched so thin we had meter maids out directing traffic—a breach of rules we were bound to hear about at some later date.

The rest of us were either tucked away in offices, scrutinizing every scrap of Cioffi’s belongings, or out on the road asking questions about his background. At the rate we were going, his anonymity wasn’t going to last for long.

Steven Cioffi, we slowly gathered, had been employed at Leatherton for twenty years. He’d begun as a young clerk at their previous factory near Bellows Falls, working out of the accounting office. According to the office people we interviewed, all in the company of the rotund Mr. Kleeman “from legal,” his personality through those years remained as Dr. Duquesne had described it—dull, humorless, and utterly without charm. An early orphan, he had been raised by his stern maternal grandparents until they were both killed in a car crash when he was sixteen. His only sibling was an older sister, still living in Bellows Falls, with whom he had little contact and who, on the afternoon we talked to her, showed no interest in him whatsoever.

He graduated from high school, living off a small sum of money he’d inherited from his grandparents, and then embarked on an unremarkable round of local odd jobs until he landed the position at Leatherton, which had just moved to town and was hiring people from the area.

He worked hard, if without visible inspiration, and his efforts were traditionally rewarded. With the relentless energy of a growing weed, he infiltrated up through the ranks of the accounting department, suddenly leaping to his present unrelated position three years ago. Curiously, none of the people we interviewed could explain the career jump, nor could they remember a single outstanding feature about the man.

So what he did as vice-president of “industrial relations” remained an enigma. It had something to do with conventions, as his secretary had vaguely pointed out. It also involved keeping in touch with—and keeping friendly with—the various unions working for the Leatherton network of factories. But primarily, as one disenchanted observer remarked, Cioffi was a case of deadheading; he had worked his way into a crack in the corporate wall, closer to the top than to the bottom, and had effectively disappeared. It was this man’s opinion that the wall was full of such cracks and that all of them were stuffed with Cioffis.

One interesting but unprovable comment surfaced late in the day linking Cioffi’s financial well-being to his ties with the unions. The allegation was that Leatherton’s peaceful relationship with its work force was maintained by something more tangible than corporate harmony. What that meant precisely was never explained and would demand more than a scant few hours of research.

What was gnawing at me by the end of the day, however, wasn’t the possibility of under-the-table payments between management and labor—with Cioffi and God knew who else skimming off the top—but rather, where that money was stashed. The only bank accounts we could find in Cioffi’s name were negligible—enough to keep his bills paid, but in no way reflective of his obviously expensive tastes.

Willy Kunkle, on temporary bright-eyed leave from his manic depression, gave me the answer at ten o’clock that night. He poked his head around my door and gave me a grin I’d never before seen, “I think I found the loot.”

“Where?”

He waved a thick sheaf of papers. “Phone records, going back over the past four years. Most of it’s crap, but there’s one number that pops up as regular as rain.”

He came in and laid the papers on my desk. On sheet after sheet, sometimes in clumps, sometimes singly, but never separated by more than a week, was the same New York City number.

“Who’s it belong to?”

“Timothy Cramer. He’s a stockbroker.”

I smiled. “Bingo.”

· · ·

I was on the first flight to New York the following morning, traveling under an assumed name. I’d had Kunkle tail me all the way to the Keene airport to make sure I wasn’t followed. If Timothy Cramer did in fact have Cioffi’s money, I was convinced it would lead me to the man himself. Considering Cioffi’s lack of personal attachments—hobbies, interests, or people—money seemed the only lead left, and judging from the number of calls he’d placed to Cramer, it was obviously a big one.

I found Cramer in an enormous, brightly lit room on the fifteenth floor of the headquarters of a large, well-known brokerage house. He sat in one of a long line of cheek-by-jowl cubicles, each equipped with a metal desk, two chairs, and a computer. It reminded me of someone’s pessimistic vision of the future.

He was an affable man, still in his twenties, and very much impressed by the sight of a badge. I explained to him it was utterly worthless in New York and that he was under no obligation to speak with me.

“No, no,” he said, getting up and leading me to another row of glassed-in conference cubicles lining the wall. “This is a nice break. Unconventional, too, which is saying a lot for this place.”

He opened the door and ushered me in. The silence after the glass door had closed was eerie, as if all the activity within our sight had suddenly had its sound unplugged.

We sat in opposing padded plastic chairs, like contestants in a game show.

“So, what can I do for you?”

“I gather you handle the account of a man named Steven Cioffi.”

“That’s right.”

“Would you be able to tell me how much it comes to?”

“I could but I can’t, if you know what I mean.”

“Sure. Could you tell me at least if it’s big or small?”

He gave me a lopsided smile. “Those are relative terms, especially around here, but I could say that I personally don’t consider it small.”

“And is it still in place? Has he liquidated yet?”

He looked at me curiously, his face suddenly still. “No, I’ve still got it. Why do you ask?”

“He’s wanted for murder.” I watched for his reaction, hoping I could tell if his surprise was genuine or not.

His mouth fell open. “Holy shit.”

I believed him. “He knows we’re after him. He’s already cleared out of town, taking everything with him, but I was hoping things had been a little slower at this end. Has he asked you to liquidate?”

“Yes, about a week or so ago. In fact, I was getting ready to mail him a check for a large chunk of it.”

“Where to?”

“A post office box somewhere in New Hampshire. I’d have to look at my notes to tell you where exactly. It didn’t mean anything to me. Who did he kill?” He suddenly looked embarrassed. “Is that all right to ask?”

“Sure. About three years ago, we think he was involved in the rape and strangulation of a young woman. Have you ever met him?”

“Never set eyes on him. He just called up—about three years ago, now that you mention it—and started doing business. I didn’t have anything to do with it, really. He calls—he called—his own shots; I just carried them out.”

“Did he do well?”

“Extremely well. He really does his homework.”

“How did he strike you as a personality?”

Cramer held up his thumb and index finger and formed a circle. “Zip. He didn’t strike me as anything. At first, I tried being friendly, you know? Maybe a light comment or two? But there was nothing coming back. I felt like I was pitching pennies into an empty well, so I stopped. It was all business.”

“And a lot of business, according to his phone records.”

“You bet. He calls me more than any of my other clients, giving me orders and asking for research.”

“Did he send you a lot of money to invest?”

“Oh, yes, regular installments would come every month. That’s not unusual, though. Lots of people take a set sum out of their monthly paycheck or whatever and put it on the Street.”

“When did he contact you last?”

“Just a couple of days ago. He asked if I had the money yet and I said, ‘Almost,’ and then he gave me the post office box number.”

“Could I have that?”

For the first time his face clouded. He looked doubtful. “That would probably get me fired. Is there any way you could get a warrant?”

“Yes, but it’ll take time, and I’m not sure we have it. So far, he thinks he’s covered his trail; if he senses something’s wrong, we may lose him.”

“Is there any way you could just keep me out of it?”

“Sure. It’s just an address. I could have gotten it from any confidential source, as they say. Of course, if and when we catch him, the State’s Attorney might want to ask you about Cioffi’s dealings with you, but that’ll all be through proper channels. This conversation will never come up.”

He quickly nodded once—a man used to making fast decisions.

“Okay. Follow me.”

The name of the town in New Hampshire was Gorham, a small pinprick on the map just north of Mount Washington, high in the middle of the state. The name Cioffi had told Cramer to use on all correspondence was John Stanley.

I arranged to have Cramer send an overnight letter in twenty-four hours to Cioffi stating that he would Express Mail the first check in two days. With any luck, that would give us three days to infiltrate the Gorham area without attracting attention and to be in place when Cioffi came to collect his loot.

On the surface, it looked pretty straightforward. But as I sat on the tiny lurching seat of the puddle-jumper flying me back to Keene, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d hooked something unusual swimming in murky waters. Whether I could reel it in—or it would pull me overboard—was something I wouldn’t know until it actually happened.

I had gone from having too few pieces of this puzzle to having an excess. How did shady union dealings, a sudden promotion, Cioffi’s lucrative interest in the stock market, and Pam Stark’s jump in income and subsequent death all coincide? And the fact that Cioffi graduated from the accounting department—had Cioffi discovered something scaly in the numbers? Did it have anything to do with unions? Who would decide a promotion like that, and how did they tie in? And was Pam more than a simple gold digger? And what about the fact that the fetus within her belonged to neither Davis nor Cioffi? Despite the scant attention it attracted, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the pregnancy was more than a biological penalty being paid by a modern promiscuous girl.

There were other things nagging. Why the elaborate frame, assuming Davis was indeed framed? Why not a simple bullet in the head—clean, efficient, unsensational?

And finally, what about Stark? Was he simply a neurotic father run amok? Or did his intelligence background have something to do with all this? Who were the people he’d warned me about—the people who’d killed Frank? And what had become of them? Since Frank’s death, things in that quarter had been totally still—lurking like some wild animal waiting for the kill.

But Stark consumed my thoughts most, as he had done from the start. This was his play we were acting out; he was the director. I was utterly convinced that from his precarious relationship with his daughter, he’d created a cause as big or bigger than anything he’d ever undertaken.

I looked out the window at the darkening black-and-white landscape below—shadowed fields and stark forestland, the flat pale disks of frozen ponds, an occasional house, its lights just beginning to glimmer. I floated between two realities: one serene and unreachable, being swallowed up by the night, the other violent and calculating, lurking just beyond my comprehension.

I GOT BACK TO THE OFFICE
around six that evening. It was already dark, and moonless. The radio cautioned about heavy snow in the near future; how far in the future was uncertain. Very helpful.

By the sounds that greeted me as I pushed through the Municipal Building’s double doors, I wouldn’t have guessed quitting time had come and gone an hour ago. The place was as jammed as it was in preparation for George Bush’s little pre-election pep rally in the eighties.

I sought out Brandt in his cloudy office, leaving the door half-open to allow some minimal circulation.

He looked up at my knock. “Close the door. What’d you find?”

“You might think I’m losing my marbles, but I’d like to tell you that outside in the parking lot, if you don’t mind.”

Brandt glanced around and smiled. He got up and put on his overcoat, and we both went into the dark, cold night.

He stopped when we were about equidistant from everything but cars. “We did have the place swept, you know—never found a thing.”

“Humor me—he’s screwed us enough times. I don’t want to underestimate him now.”

“All right. What have you got?”

“Cioffi will be waiting for his money, addressed to John Stanley, at a post office box in Gorham, New Hampshire, in three days.”

Brandt positively grinned. “Hot damn.”

I gave him the details, which he absorbed with little nods and grunts, his shoulders hunched and his hands jammed deep in his pockets. I also filled him in on the peculiar swirl of coincidences that had so changed Cioffi’s life three years ago.

Brandt continued nodding. “Yeah. Complicated fella all of a sudden, isn’t he? By the way, your friend Kees called in his report on those blood samples you had delivered.”

“So soon?”