“Did you find anything personal belonging to Morgan in that motel room?” I countered.
“No.”
“No pants or shirt or anything else, right? The place was cleaned out, just in case people like Marie Williams came snooping around later. Assuming Morgan ran for it right after he’d been shot, there probably wasn’t much blood on the blanket. So why waste it, when all it needed was a small repair?”
Jonathon was smiling. “Might be a question to ask Jan tomorrow morning. She was probably asked to patch it.”
“And in the meantime, we can get another search warrant and pick it up for a lab analysis.”
He began moving away. “I’ll call Kathy.”
“I’ve got a courier going to Burlington in a few minutes if she needs something signed by either one of us.”
He waved acknowledgement over his shoulder and vanished into my office.
“Even if Jan identifies it,” Sammie warned me, “it won’t take you far.”
I smiled at her, sensing at long last the first spidery signs of a real break developing. “Every bit counts, Sam, even the little ones.”
· · ·
Early the following morning, Jonathon Michael and I were sitting on a bench in an inner hallway of the Windham County Courthouse, outside the spacious office of Judge Rachael Aumand. Inside were Jan Bouch, the judge, Kathy Bartlett, a stenographer, and the battered electric blanket we’d retrieved from the Burlington apartment.
When I’d picked her up just after sunrise, Jan had looked terrible—pale, nervous, teary, and obviously sleepless. She’d protested that she’d changed her mind, which I’d been expecting, and proclaimed Norm to be the victim of a miserable childhood. It had taken me an hour to turn her around, and I was by no means convinced the conversation would last three minutes into the inquest.
It had been over an hour, however, and we hadn’t heard a peep yet.
“If she does nail that blanket to Norm,” I said quietly, my voice echoing off the bright, pristine walls, “maybe we should issue that BOL on him.”
“Why?”
“Jasper’s dead, Lenny’s under wraps, Jan and the kids are in protective custody, Steve Kiley’s got every task force CI working to find out where Norm is and what he’s up to, and Greg Davis has the whole BFPD interviewing everyone who ever knew him. He’d have to be on another planet not to know we’re after him. And if he did pop Jasper, he’ll be twitchy as hell and prone to use a gun again. I don’t want anyone approaching him without knowing all that.”
“Works for me,” Jonathon said after a short pause. “What did your toxicologist friend come up with?”
I’d told Jonathon of Padget’s theory about the aftershave, but I hadn’t heard back from Isador Gramm until early this morning. “Brian was right. It was laced with pure coke—a perfect match to what they found in his system, and nowhere close to the stuff in the toilet tank.”
“Which makes it ‘Good news, bad news’?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “A plausible scenario for how it got inside him, but not proof he didn’t spike the aftershave later and pretend he suddenly had a bright idea. Still, it doesn’t hurt him any.”
A woman poked her head through a doorway halfway down the hall. “Phone for you, Joe.”
I followed her into a large room with several desks scattered about. She ushered me into a glass-walled cubicle along the wall, told me to push the blinking button on the phone, and closed the door as she left.
I picked up the receiver. “Gunther.”
“It’s Kiley. We put feelers out as soon as you called last night. The only thing we got so far is some guy who sounds like he pulled the same stunt Bouch did. He dropped out of sight yesterday—totally. His name’s Peter Neal, works mostly out of the Montpelier/Barre area. There’s a chance he’s one of Bouch’s lieutenants. We heard he runs kids like the others did.”
“Could he have left the state to make a buy or something?”
“That’s what I asked, but disappearing without warning doesn’t fit his routine. There’s a buzz about it in his social circle.”
“You think he might’ve been hit?” I asked.
“Things’ve been peaceful in that area. I called the local PDs to see what they had. They confirmed Neal’s a probable dealer, but he’s known to keep his cards to himself—neat and tidy. All I got is the coincidence of Bouch and this guy pulling a vanishing act at the same time.”
I thought for a couple of seconds. It was interesting information—it was also payback in the subtlest of forms. In Steve Kiley’s eyes, we’d run roughshod over his task force. His revenge had been to deliver the goods in a timely, effective manner. “Point taken,” I thought.
Out loud, however, I said, “It can’t be coincidence. He must’ve cut and run.”
“From us?”
“From us, from Bouch. From what we’ve found out, you don’t want to be near Norm when things go sour. I don’t guess the local PDs have bothered finding out where Neal might be.”
“Nope.”
“Could I ask you a big favor, then?”
I could almost hear him smiling at the phone. “You can try.”
“If we’re right about Neal, then he’s probably run to neutral ground where he hopes nobody can find him—from either side. I’d love to get this one. You think you could squeeze his contacts till one of them fesses up? He has to have left a forwarding address somewhere.”
“I think we can do that.”
“Thanks Steve. I owe you a big one.”
“Yes, you do.”
I returned to join Jonathon on the bench, filling him in on Kiley’s discovery, including the latter’s satisfied sense of irony.
Twenty minutes later, the door to Judge Aumand’s office opened, and Kathy emerged with a tear-stained Jan Bouch. Kathy caught my eye from behind Jan’s back and gave me a thumbs-up.
I rose and took Jan’s hands in my own. “You feeling okay?”
Looking at the floor, she merely shook her head.
“You’ve done a harder thing than most people will ever have to do. We all appreciate it. It’ll get easier from here on. You’re with good people—they’ll see you and the kids get what you need.”
One of the Women For Women staffers appeared at the far end of the corridor to take Jan back to the shelter, apparently summoned by Kathy from inside the judge’s chambers. I released Jan’s hands and patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t hesitate to call if you want, okay?”
She kept silent as the staffer gathered her up and escorted her back up the hallway. The three of us waited until she was gone.
“Arsene Gault. That name ring any bells?” Kathy asked immediately.
“It does with me,” Jonathon answered. “We’ve nailed him before for fraudulent business dealings. He’s a Realtor in Springfield.”
Kathy Bartlett explained. “Jan said his was the one name she heard time and again in connection to Norm, either when he’d mention it in passing, or when Gault would leave phone messages. As far as she knows, he never came by the house, and she never saw Norm meet him when they were out and about together. But the phone calls were frequent.”
“Money laundering?” I asked.
“It would fit,” Jonathon answered. “Gault deals mostly in dumps, selling to people with no sense and less money. He’s got the scruples of a cockroach.”
“Did Jan ever see Norm dealing drugs?” I asked Kathy.
She rolled her eyes. “Not that she told me. I must admit, I’ve had better witnesses. Most of the time, I was handing her Kleenexes. I didn’t get a hell of a lot more than what I just told you. The blanket was a home run, though. About the time Morgan disappeared, Norm dumped it in her lap and told her to wash and mend it. She said she didn’t notice any blood on it at the time and had no idea where it came from or ended up. Still, a jury loves that kind of thing.
“I think Gault’s the next domino to push over, in any case. I got the judge to grant an extension on this inquest, so the sooner you two can round him up—and all his paperwork—the better. My suggestion, Joe, since Jon and I do this all the time, is that he and I corral the legal forms and signatures, while you locate Gault so we can grab him when we want him. Is that agreeable?”
It was definitely that. With one amendment. “I think I might do more than just locate him,” I said.
Jonathon instantly took my meaning. “A surveillance?”
I shrugged. “Norm’s out there somewhere—maybe heading for Tijuana—but given what we think he did to Jasper, and how Lenny reacted to being exposed, chances are he’s nearby, sharpening his claws. If Gault’s as tied to Norm as we hope, he’s probably a walking target.”
Jonathon looked at me thoughtfully, too experienced to dismiss the idea. “Watch your back. We’ll be as fast as we can.”
ARSENE GAULT’S WEATHER-BEATEN OFFICE
was located on Wall Street in Springfield, a town three times the size of Bellows Falls, and a mere sixteen miles north of it. Once an industrial powerhouse, and birthplace of everything from steam shovels to gravel roofing to the jointed doll and the mop wringer, Springfield, despite harsh economic times, had managed to keep its head more successfully above water than Bellows Falls, if barely, and had certainly avoided its smaller rival’s bruised reputation.
Not that I could currently tell that I was in any kind of town. While Wall Street was fully within Springfield’s municipal embrace, this stretch of it was only sparsely inhabited and boxed in by a tree-choked embankment, making it look like a rural road.
It was the morning following the inquest, I was fighting the effects of too little sleep, and it was raining again. I stretched and looked across the street at Gault’s office. A product of the 1960s, it was one-storied, flat-roofed, clad in brick, and generally looked like a single floor of a New York tenement, except that it was much smaller.
I’d been parked here for three hours, having tailed Gault from his home that morning, and having babysat him most of the night. From what I could tell, he worked without associates or a secretary, and during the time I’d been watching, he hadn’t received a single customer. If he wasn’t wrapped up in crooked deals with Norm Bouch, I couldn’t imagine how he made ends meet.
I straightened slightly in my seat. Ahead of me, where the road curved away to the south, I saw something move. There had been sporadic traffic during my vigil, but none of it unusual—until now. This hint of motion, which should have grown into an oncoming car, had stopped.
I strained to peer through the water coursing across the windshield. All I could see was grayness and mist.
I hit the wipers once.
A dark shadow emerged from the washed-out backdrop of the distant embankment.
I slid over to the passenger side of the car, eased the door open, and slipped out, keeping the car between me and the shape in the distance. The rain pounded me on the back, and I pulled an old baseball cap out of my pocket to shield my eyes. I also pulled my gun from its holster and kept it in my hand.
Still bent over double, I worked my way along the ditch, my shoes filling with water as they had when we’d found Jasper Morgan. The dark shadow ahead gradually emerged as a black van with tinted windows, parked so its driver could just see Gault’s building from the corner. As I got nearer, I saw a misty plume feathering out from the exhaust pipe.
Fifty yards shy of my goal, the ditch became a culvert running under a driveway. I was on the other side of the road from the van, and there was no cover to be had anywhere.
Pausing to memorize the license plate, I rose from hiding and stepped onto the road, my gun tucked behind a fold in my raincoat.
The reaction was instantaneous. Its rear wheels spinning, the van leapt forward, making a halfhearted stab at running me over. I stepped aside like some urban toreador, the driver’s side mirror barely missing my head, and watched it fishtail into the gray distance. The van’s darkened windows had prevented me from seeing the driver.
I jogged back to my car, soaked and cold, and called Dispatch on the cell phone.
Maxine Paroddy answered on the first ring. “Brattleboro Police.”
“Max, it’s Joe. I need a Springfield area bulletin issued on a late-eighties black Ford van with tinted windows, possibly being driven by Norman Bouch. There’s already a BOL out on him. Add a possible armed-and-dangerous to that.” I recited the license number to her.
“You okay?” she quickly asked.
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Stay put.”
She put me on hold and issued my request. Chances were slim anyone would spot the van. With so few police officers covering the entire state, it was a miracle when one of these bulletins worked on an abandoned vehicle, much less one in motion whose driver knew we were after him. Still, it was the thought that counted. It also made me hope that if the driver had been Norm Bouch, he’d keep low at least long enough for Jonathon to reach me so we could put Gault under wraps.
Maxine came back on the line. “You want the registrant for that van? You better be sitting down.”
In a puddle of water, I thought. “Fire away.”
“Jasper Morgan.”
I smiled grimly at Bouch’s sense of humor. “Thanks, Max. Keep me informed.”
The cell phone chirped a few seconds after I’d hung up. “Gunther.”
“It’s me,” said Jonathon. “I’ve got all the paperwork and I’m coming into Springfield now. You got him in your sights?”
“Yeah, but I’m not alone.” I gave him Gault’s address and brought him up to date.
Jonathon appeared ten minutes later. I left my car, noticing the downpour was finally easing up, and crossed the road to meet him.
“Jesus,” he said, checking me out, “Did Norm get away by boat?”
“Almost.”
“How many’re inside?” he asked, nodding toward the building.
“He’s alone.” We went in together, Jonathon leading, entering a small waiting room with a couple of old armchairs, a dirty rug, and some calendar art on the walls. Arsene Gault, stooped, potbellied, and with a few strings of hair draped across an otherwise bald head, appeared at the only other door, a sour look on his face.
“Who’re you?”
Not a man used to seeing customers.
Jonathon introduced us and proffered two documents. “We’re from the attorney general’s office, Mr. Gault, and these are subpoenas—one a Duces Tecum granting us access to all your business records, and the other requiring you to appear at an inquest at the time and date stated on the front.”