Scent of Evil (22 page)

Tyler hesitated. “Well, that would be on the fat side, and I’m guessing a lot here. Still, he would have cleaned up.”

“I take it you got the results back on the Jardine sample?” I asked.

Tyler shook a sheet of paper before him. “This morning.”

“Is there any way you can prove Milly processed it?”

“Not prove like in a court of law, but I’m pretty sure he did. It was cut in the same proportion as the few prepared samples we found at Milly’s apartment, and they were both cut with mannitol.”

The numbers Tyler had rattled off put a depressing pall on the group. Kilos of cocaine were what Tubbs and Crockett played with on “Miami Vice,” complete with fast boats, submachine guns, and rock-and-roll theme music. Earlier, the mere mention of a single kilo in Brattleboro, Vermont, would have struck a similar fictional chord.

I turned to Klesczewski. “Ron, you’re our resident expert in drug affairs. Why would Milly need that much? There aren’t twenty-eight-hundred coke-sniffers in this town.”

“There probably are throughout the state.”

Again there was silence. The suggestion had been obvious, and the fact that I hadn’t thought of it revealed how hesitant I was to truly grasp the significance of all this.

Ron continued. “You might want to talk to Willy Kunkle, Joe. He knew the drug scene inside out when he was here. I’m just learning still.”

I nodded. He was right. Kunkle had made the town’s underbelly his specialty, applying his mercurial moods and brutal methods where we could see them least. In the office, he’d been a dark beast of sorts, sour and distrustful, supposedly given to hitting his now-divorced wife during his off hours. Many of his fellow officers had been delighted when a sniper’s bullet permanently disabled him and forced him into retirement. But Ron was right. In his way, Kunkle was an educated man, and I would have to visit him. Later.

“All right,” I said. “Here’re a few things to think about, then. Milly Crawford was sitting on enough coke to make him a wealthy man. Where and how did he get it, along with the money to buy it in the first place? Someone killed him just before we could talk to him. Why? Furthermore, assuming the drugs were part of the reason he was killed, why were they left in his apartment? Why was his death more important to his killer than a quarter-million-dollars’ worth of dope? Was Jardine the moneyman and Milly the processor? If so, then who killed them—a third partner wanting more, or a competitor? Keep all that in mind as we go along, as well as J.P.’s suggestion that we may be dealing with two separate, unrelated homicides whose coincidences are screwing us up. It’s not impossible that while Milly and Jardine were somehow linked, Jardine’s killer might merely have been a jealous husband who knew nothing about his dope dealing.”

There were some murmurs at that and some comments about both cases in general. I wrapped up the meeting by asking what else might be worth sharing before we broke up.

Harriet handed me some legal paperwork. “This is the affidavit for a search warrant for Jardine’s business records. I had Sue Davis at the SA’s office review it; she wasn’t thrilled but said that was the judge’s business. So,” she smiled sweetly, “you have an appointment with Judge Harrowsmith in twenty minutes across the street.”

I thanked her, took the papers, and checked my watch. “Ron, are you and Dennis available to grab those papers as soon as I get the warrant?”

They both nodded.

“Okay. We’ll meet back here in half an hour. I want Dennis to dig into that stuff as soon as you get it. Harriet, maybe you can help out. Call Justin Willette if you run into anything that throws you. He’s in the book under stockbrokers; he’s helped us in the past.”

We all rose and began filing out of the room. I stopped Ron Klesczewski at the door. “How did you manage with those four names on Milly’s list?”

“I got a line on Mark Cappelli at E-Z Hauling. He’s a truck driver, due back from a trip later this morning. I was planning to meet him when he arrived.”

“I might join you, if that’s all right.”

He seemed pleased. “Sure. Thomas and Atwater are still at the bank—the one listed in the directory—and I figured we could chase them down at our convenience. Hanson I still don’t know.”

“How about Jardine’s phone records?”

“I’ve got a list going. Nothing I can nail directly to…” His voice dropped and he looked around for eavesdroppers. “You know… John, but there’re about fifteen numbers that crop up regularly; most of them are women, but about a third are men.”

I shook my head. Even considering the number of people I’d come to know outside this town over the decades, I would have been hard put to collect a list that big from my long-distance phone records. Ron was going to have his work cut out for him interviewing them all, with or without help. “Is Blaire Wentworth one of them?” I remembered Plummer saying the Wentworths lived outside of Brattleboro.

He looked surprised. “Yeah. How did you know that?”

“She’s the owner of the blouse. I should have mentioned that at the meeting; it’ll be in my daily report Harriet is typing up. I’m going to see if I can chase her down after I see Harrowsmith, so you can cross her off your list.”

He grimaced. “Thanks a heap. She’s probably the best-looking in the bunch.”

“I hope so.”

The District Courthouse had been built on the sharp point of the isosceles triangle formed by Park Place at the base, and Putney Road and Linden Street on the sides; it was also right across Linden from the Municipal Building. Despite certain similarities, such as the fact that they were both built of red brick and had oversized dormers defining their rooflines, the new courthouse was as different from its former abode as Charles Dickens is from Harold Robbins. Where the older building exuded a sense of creaky antiquity and cooped-up dusty nooks and crannies, the newer one looked fresh and airy and sunlit.

Which it was, for the most part. It was also a rabbit warren of hallways, offices, and dozens upon dozens of doors. Keeping the public from the staff, and both of them from the inhabitants of the holding cells, necessitated a staggering number of locked barriers. I walked and/or parlayed my way through six or seven of these before I was ushered into the antiseptic wool, wood, and whitewalled retreat of the Honorable Alfred J. Harrowsmith.

He greeted me noncommittally and read through the affidavit. Watching his profile—bushy eyebrows, hawk nose supporting half-glasses, a strong lantern jaw over a skinny, sinewy neck—I felt like a small boy in knee socks presenting a report card to his grandfather. The rules all but require the requesting officer to present the affidavit in person so he can answer any questions the judge might have, although it is wise to have already anticipated those questions in the wording of the application. The goal of the process is to establish that “more probably than not,” there is justification for the issuing of a warrant. In other words, fifty-one-percent or more probable cause. I was hoping I had that much.

Harrowsmith stopped reading, looked ahead for a moment as if collecting his thoughts, and then turned to me. “Any reason to suspect that Mr. Jardine’s business dealings had anything to do with his death?”

“Suspect? Absolutely, but we can’t be certain till we look at his records. Certainly the connections between Jardine and Wentworth grow stronger the more we dig, and Wentworth played a major part in the creation of ABC Investments. He introduced the two partners and might have had a hand in supplying some of the start-up funds.”

I knew I’d stumbled as soon as the words came out. “Might? I might have invested in that myself, or I might even have murdered Mr. Jardine. Why else should I sign this? Right now, it sounds like a fishing trip.”

Knowing Harrowsmith, I actually took hope from his words. Had he thought the request was trash, I would already be standing on the curb. “Your Honor, as I pointed out on page two, the circumstances surrounding the birth of ABC Investments are extremely suspicious, more so than any other aspect of Mr. Jardine’s life.” I’d omitted any prejudicial references to Charlie’s bedroom and the coke. “From a one-time glorified bottlewasher, Mr. Jardine was abruptly catapulted to the protégé of a finance hotshot, hooked up to a veteran stockbroker, and encouraged to set up shop for himself in a business he didn’t seem to know existed just a few years earlier. We strongly suspect the roots of his death can be located in those business files.”

Harrowsmith grunted. “You realize this warrant has to stand on its own merits, not on whether your suspicions are borne out later.”

“Yes, sir, I realize that.”

“And that if it doesn’t, chances are good it’ll be suppressed by a later judge and all the evidence you collected under it thrown out.”

I didn’t answer. He stared at me for a moment, and finally signed his name. “I can live with seeing one of my warrants suppressed. You better think how you can live with seeing your whole case destroyed in court because you jumped too fast.”

I thanked him and took the warrant. He had a good point. Too many cops thought that if they got the proper paperwork, their asses were covered and their cases were sanctified. But this instance didn’t weigh as heavily on me as Harrowsmith thought. Unless we found a letter written by the killer telling Jardine his days were numbered, I seriously doubted his business papers would hold any earth-shattering news. What I was hoping for was a crowbar—some piece of information I could use to pry either Clyde or Wentworth or whoever else cropped up off balance.

But I would leave the finding of that crowbar to Ron, Justin Willette, if he agreed to help, and Dennis, to whom I delivered the warrant, while I went instead to the Brattleboro Museum and Art Center, where Blaire Wentworth, according to the woman who answered her home phone, was working as a volunteer.

The BMAC, as it was locally known, was a converted railway station, built of solid stone on the bank overlooking the railroad tracks and the river below. Its front entrance, with a stolidly attractive wrought-iron and glass awning, was located on the Canal Street level; its rear, with the platform still serving the once-a-night Montrealer, was two flights lower down.

I found Blaire Wentworth at a desk on the middle level, in a dark and narrow hallway, typing some correspondence. Behind her, extending into the gloom, were piles of boxes pushed to one side so that the corridor was reduced to half its already restricted width. There was a single strip of dusty fluorescent tubing overhead. Despite knowing where we were in the building’s overall scheme, I felt we were meeting in the fourth sub-basement of some large and ancient penitentiary.

“Miss Wentworth?”

She looked up from her typing, her almost platinum-white hair shining in the light. “Yes?”

She was stunningly attractive, which made me instantly think back to Klesczewski’s comment. Her eyes were pale blue, her cheekbones high, her mouth full and mobile, quick to smile. She was slim and angular and stylishly dressed and reminded me of a racing yacht ready to unfurl its sails to the wind. There was no air-conditioning in the hall, but she looked cool and fresh. Seeing her that way made me wonder how I looked, which was rarely a concern of mine.

“My name is Lieutenant Joe Gunther. I’m with the police department.”

She stuck out her hand, but stayed seated. “I’ve heard of you.”

Her voice was subdued, which made me study her more closely. Indeed, behind the initial impression of fashion-model imperturbability, I sensed she was at once tense, sad, and very tired—a woman grieving.

I jumped in with both feet, spurred by her appearance and my own pure instinct. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

She looked at me for a long few seconds, her face unchanged by the sudden turmoil of thoughts I was convinced were crowding her brain. This was no Rose Woll. Behind the distress was a mind in motion, analyzing the reasons for my presence and pondering the appropriate responses. The intelligence in those very attractive eyes sharpened my own mental focus; I instantly sensed that unless I was lucky, I wasn’t going to leave this interview with more than she wanted to give me.

“Thank you,” she finally answered, in a neutral voice. “I will miss him.”

There were no questions concerning who we were talking about, or how I had known to come see her, or even how I knew she’d be in the bowels of this building.

“How long had you known Charlie?”

“Four years.”

She still hadn’t moved from her seat, nor had she offered me one, which would have been difficult in any case. I gingerly parked myself on one of the wooden crates, my back against the wall.

“You knew him well?”

She pursed her lips before speaking. “You know most of the answers to your questions before you ask them, don’t you?”

I had to smile at that. “Sometimes. So you were lovers.”

“Friends and lovers.”

I nodded. “A good combination. Maybe you can help me out a little then. I’m trying to get a handle on Charlie—find out what made him tick.”

“Life made him tick, Lieutenant, and that’s over with. What do you really want to know?” The tiredness I’d seen in her eyes earlier tainted the harsh tone, making it more despairing than hostile. In fact, I half sensed a double meaning to her question, as if she were undecided whether to thwart me or pump me for whatever information I might be holding.

I decided to work from the outside in. “I want to know who killed him and why.”

Her face tightened. “I can’t help you then.”

“Maybe not directly, but you can tell me something about his habits, his other friends, his general lifestyle. People rarely kill strangers; they kill people they know. The more I can learn about Charlie’s life, the better my chances are of finding out why he died, and who did it.”

“That won’t do him much good, will it?”

Now it was my turn to be irritated. “Come on, Miss Wentworth, his death doesn’t mitigate finding his killer, you know that. I’m not preaching revenge or justice here—just about righting a wrong.”

“Not putting ‘an animal behind bars’?” She was taunting me.

I looked at her straight, making sure my voice stayed calm and quiet. “I have no idea what kind of person killed him. People kill out of love sometimes.”