Presumption of Guilt (23 page)

“I am.”

“Doesn't sound like it. The same man who was putting moves on your mom, Greg. I wouldn't want to ask you about that?”

Greg was shaking his head. “Ancient history, man.”

“Ancient when you thought Dad had stepped out on the whole family, maybe. But after you found out he'd really been bumped off? That changed things, didn't it?”

Mitchell didn't respond.

Willy leaned forward suddenly and smacked him on the knee, making him jump.
“Didn't it, Gregory?”
Willy yelled.

“Fine,”
Greg shouted back, his face flushed.

Willy sat back just as abruptly. “Struck a nerve?” he asked in a normal voice.

Greg struggled for composure. “What do you think I've done, anyhow? Why're you here?”

“Isn't that obvious? BB was killed right after it was revealed your father was murdered. Either Barrett killed himself out of remorse—pretty unlikely, considering how many times he was shot—or somebody offed him because they thought he'd killed Hank. It is what it is, Greg—straight up and down. Where were you? Sitting in the bushes, waiting for BB to present the right target?”

Mitchell stared at him, openmouthed. “What?”

“Where were you when BB was killed, Greg? Not that complicated.” Willy half rose and pulled his chair closer, still speaking. “And you know what? When we hear somebody dance around a direct question like that, it's a dead giveaway they're cookin' up a lie.”

“I didn't kill anybody.”

“Too late. I don't believe it.” Willy shifted gears, smiling and crossing his legs. “Don't get me wrong. I totally sympathize. The son of a bitch fucked up your life—and everybody else's. Am I wrong? Your mom never remarried, your sister's a shadow of what she should be, and you … Well, look at you.” Willy gestured with his hand. “One guy, one selfish act, and everybody gets screwed. You think I don't get that?”

In a sudden, well-practiced move, Willy reached across his body and pulled his withered hand free of his pants pocket, flopping his arm like a dead animal between them. “It happened to me, Greg. I'm reminded of it every … single … goddamned … day.”

He released the arm, it thudded into his lap, its palm landing face-up and looking like a sun-bleached starfish. Greg's eyes darted to find something else to stare at.

“I know what it's like, having someone ruin your life. BB Barrett destroyed everyone you loved.”

“It's not the same.” Greg was barely audible.

“Where were you?” Willy asked again.

“I was at a meeting.”

“What meeting?”

“AA.”

“Where?”

“The Unitarian church.”

“Who saw you?”

Greg's eyes flashed with anger, very briefly. “It's AA. It's anonymous.”

“It's Vermont, stupid. There're twelve people in the whole state. Everybody knows everybody else. Who else was there?”

“I don't know,” Greg said slowly. “The usual.”

“How'd you know that?” Willy asked out of the blue. “I don't know where I was when Barrett got popped. It's not like the Twin Towers going down, when everyone remembers where they were. The news didn't cover the shooting till way later.”

“But they said when it happened, and I thought it was lucky, 'cause I knew I'd be asked,” Greg countered reasonably.

Willy stopped abruptly and fixed him with an analytical look. “That's very calculating,” he said slowly, sounding impressed. “You've given this some thought, after all.”

“Go away, Detective,” Greg said at last. “I didn't do anything, and you can't prove I did.”

Willy knew he was right, and stood up as a result, saying nevertheless, “Not right now, but I gotta tell you, Mitchell: You left me with a bad feeling last time we met, and it's worse now. You're up to your neck in this, somehow or other, and I will figure it out. I promise you.”

Greg let out a long breath, his face slack. “Do what you gotta do.”

*   *   *

David Spinney was back at his post, watching Steve Hobart's house. This was his third night in a row, and despite his lack of success, he was still convinced he'd eventually get to prove that he was no man to cross.

The problem was that he'd also begun to doubt his methods, his reasoning, and even his self-confidence. He'd been able to reflect—following Hobart to the convenience store for beer, or the Laundromat, or even, last night, to nowhere at all—about the value of all this hormonal posturing. He'd received nothing but courtesy and support from the sheriff, his father, and the few other senior officers who knew the details of his mishap. On the flip side, he'd sensed some snickering from a couple of peers who'd added two and two, even though he knew to discount such criticism. So, did his supporters deserve his possibly making things worse?

By keeping on this course, he was withholding evidence in an ongoing investigation—a detail that would no doubt reduce any success to less than Pyrrhic, to the point of costing him his career.

He let out a sigh, wrestling with this niggling bit of maturity, when he was abruptly slapped out of his reverie by the truck's passenger door flying open, the dome light coming on, and the dark figure of a man sliding onto the seat next to him.

“Fuck,”
he yelled in alarm, his hands flying up to no purpose.

His father laughed good-naturedly. “You oughta kill the dome light when you're on stakeout. Really gives you away.”

“Dad. For Chrissake. What're you doing?”

Lester raised his eyebrows. “Shouldn't that be my line?”

David passed his hand across his face. “Jesus. You knew?”

Lester smiled. “I get the big bucks for this stuff, Dave. Be pretty embarrassing if I didn't notice it inside my own house. Your mom got concerned, I made a few quiet phone calls about your whereabouts, and then I went looking for your distinguished mode of transportation.” He reached out and patted the truck's dashboard. “That's the short version, anyway. It only took a couple of nights.” He pointed ahead with his chin. “Anything yet?”

Recovering somewhat, Dave managed to say, “Nope,” while his brain groped for what might be coming next. This was only a variation on his earlier fears. His father had become a hero to him, only in part because he'd once risked his job to extract Dave from the fringes of a drug investigation. Disappointing him once more—again through poor judgment—made him queasy.

But Lester seemed to be on a completely different plane.

“I take it something dawned on you once everybody stopped asking questions,” his father said pointedly. “Like maybe the name of one of the guys who grabbed you?”

“No,” David answered bluntly. “It was his tattoo.”

“Ah,” Lester said, his wording almost theatrically pointed. “So, again, with the passage of some time and reflection, you remembered enough about it to want to confirm that it belonged to whoever's living over there?”

Dave hesitated, perceiving what the old man was up to. “Right,” he said slowly. “I wanted to bring a name to the investigators, and not just a description of some cartoon figure.”

“Right,” his father agreed happily, watching him closely.

Dave flushed, embarrassed and grateful. “Probably a little dumb, huh?”

“A little enthusiastic,” Lester agreed. “But not over the top, especially since this just came to you tonight, before you were planning to share your sudden recall tomorrow morning.”

This time, David smiled slightly. “How did you know?”

Lester pointed ahead of them. “That him?”

While Dave had been following Lester's line of thinking, he'd forgotten to keep an eye on Hobart's address, where his quarry was now getting into his car.

“Yeah,” he said. “Steve Hobart. When I remembered about the dragon tattoo, I ran it through the computer, and out came this guy.” He patted the binoculars, resting on the console between them. “I confirmed it using these, three nights ago.”

“You mean tonight,” Lester corrected him. “With me.”

Dave nodded. “Yes. Thanks, Dad.”

Hobart's backup lights came on as he eased into the street.

“Wanna keep him company?” Lester asked.

His son fired up the truck's engine.

Hobart didn't go far. He drove to the south end of Bellows Falls, headed west on Route 121 into neighboring Westminster, and pulled into the gouged-up, dirt dooryard of a dilapidated rooming house a few minutes later. Dave killed his headlights, drifted over to the side of the road a hundred yards away, and stopped under the cover of a large and scraggly bush, allowing just enough room for his father to train the binoculars through the windshield on the building. As luck would have it, the nearest streetlamp cast enough light on the scene to throw everything into sharp relief.

“Huh,” Lester grunted, adjusting the glasses. “He's not getting out. Good for us, maybe.”

The rooming house's front door opened and three men stepped into the light. Both Spinneys watched as Hobart emerged to greet them, exchanging complicated and formulaic handshakes—imitations from urban neighborhoods that would have eaten these four alive in minutes.

“I recognize the older one,” Lester stated. “Who woulda thunk it? The some'bitch got outta jail without telling me.” He turned to his son. “Any of them ring a bell besides Hobart?”

Dave nodded. “Kind of. The one with the thick leather wrist thing, with spikes on it? I remember something scratching my ankle when they picked me up and tossed me in the trunk. I couldn't figure out what it could be, but that would fit.”

Lester handed over the binoculars and reached for his phone as the group by the car began filing into the building. “I'm calling for a warrant and a backup team, with high hopes these guys'll be in there for a while.”

“Who caught your eye, Dad?”

“William ‘Bullfrog' Kruse,” his father answered, dialing. “I arrested him seven or eight years ago, for Internet porn. He swore he'd get back at me when he got out. I'm calling his parole officer, too. That'll make disturbing their party in there all the easier.”

He paused before adding, “You may have just figured out how and why you were grabbed by these jackasses, Dave. Nice work.”

*   *   *

It took them over two hours to get everything organized—so much for the oft-televised version of law enforcement's speediness, and the reality of rural cops getting the right people in the right place with the right paperwork in short order. Nevertheless, as Lester had hoped, time was on their side—Steve Hobart and Bullfrog Kruse were no doubt happy to spend the evening indoors sampling drugs rather than roaming the neighborhood making pests of themselves.

Whatever the truth, Dave Spinney accepted that he'd been relegated to a spectator seat. As both the victim of this case and the one who'd stretched protocol to crack it open, he knew it behooved him to play no active role in corralling these suspects.

But it didn't mean he couldn't watch.

As a result, he was still in his pickup truck, sitting alone, still under the shaggy bush by the road, when the signal was given and the night lit up with blue strobes, bright lights, and shouted commands issued by a heavily armed entry team.

Of course, not everything went as planned, which was almost the rule in such operations. As Dave sat watching people running about, he saw a second-floor window suddenly explode, blown out by a catapulting body tucked into a ball. It curved through the air like a discarded bag of trash before crashing onto the roof of Steve Hobart's already battered car and bouncing onto the ground.

Dave let out a short laugh of astonishment before realizing not only that the person was still moving—even getting up and struggling to open the car door—but that it was Steve Hobart himself.

“Shit,” Dave said, seeing the distance the nearest cop had to cover in order to stop Hobart from driving off. “I bet they forgot to take his keys out.”

Sure enough. An oily plume of smoke spewed from the car's exhaust, seconds before Dave started his own engine and threw his truck into gear as Hobart spun his tires and began squealing toward the street.

His heart sinking with the knowledge of what he had to do, Dave launched himself at a tangent toward the quickly approaching rust-stained beater, slamming into Hobart's vehicle, forcing it across the dooryard, and folding it around the light pole by the edge of the road.

Dave leaped out, pulled out his off-duty weapon, jumped onto his own hood, and jammed the gun into the neck of the semiconscious Hobart.

“
You are such a dick,
” Dave screamed at him. “You made me fuck up my truck.”

*   *   *

“I don't care if Bullfrog copped to grabbing Dave to scare Lester,” Willy complained to Sammie at home later, after hearing of the Westminster raid's outcome. “There still may be something else goin' on, and I am goddamned if I'm gonna expose our kid to danger just because we're all singing ‘la-di-dah, it's just a bunch of loser woodchucks beating off as usual.' No fucking way.”

Sammie was nodding patiently. “You got it,” she said soothingly. “We'll keep Louise on the job and make sure she's still packing. Emma doesn't care, and it's fine with me.”

Willy, however, wasn't finished. He chose his next words carefully, and voiced them calmly, to better make his point. “Sam, you don't have to tell me I'm the wacko paranoid around here. I got that. But high-tech cameras coming and going? Guys who get born at twenty years old? And a jailbird so dumb his nickname is Bullfrog putting together the only kidnapping of a cop in Vermont history? Along with two homicides we can't figure out? Grant me there's more goin' on than meets the eye.”

Sam considered the point, knowing him well enough to distinguish a rant from his uncanny insight.