Most of them stared at her sullenly, but one of them actually laughed and said, "I don't think so,
muchacha
. I heard what a good time you gave Flaco. He's still walking with a limp."
"He deserved it," she said, stepping inside.
She took her time wending through the building's maze of staircases and corridors, still uncertain of the way. By now, she'd made the trip several times, but, as intended, it was still not easy, and slow going in any case, given the many holes in the walls she had to step through carefully.
She finally found herself in Rivera's outer sanctum, the windowless room with the armed guards, where she waited as usual as one of them announced her.
Rivera immediately appeared at the door beaming and waved her inside. "Good to see you. What a surprise. Everything's okay, right?"
He shut the door behind her and ushered her toward the couch. She took the chair next to his desk.
He laughed and sat where he'd been herding her. "Still playing with me, eh? Time will come. Nothing wrong up north?"
"No. Everything's fine. Manuel been complaining?"
Rivera shook his head forcefully. "No, no. He thinks you're great. You're not buying his vote somehow, are you?"
Christ, she thought. Give it a rest. "Just a blow job now and then."
He laughed a little too forcefully. "That is bad. You shouldn't do that to me. You want a drink?"
"No thanks. What I want is some cooperation, now that you're so happy with me."
He knit his eyebrows. "Cooperation? What d'you mean?"
"Things're getting going in Rutland. Manuel's moving product, I'm working on the local dealers. It's time you hand over your contact list so we can work on an overall strategy."
"So fast?" he said, smiling. "You haven't been there long. You must still have lots to do. We move too fast, we could lose everything."
"Meaning you don't trust me?"
He laughed. "Don't trust you? I'm sending you the goods, no? I'm paying you a bunch of money. Of course I trust you. But I'm not stupid, either. You have a business plan—very big, very impressive. But you're not the only one with brains. I think things are just great the way they are."
She frowned at him. "Torres is still moving product up there."
Rivera shrugged. "He's not the only one. I didn't put him out of business all the way. You have to be careful with a man's pride—something you wouldn't understand. Guys like him should be allowed to work a little. Otherwise they get mad, try to get even, and now you got a fight instead of dollars coming in. Dumb idea."
"Why did Hollowell get killed, then?"
"Why does anybody? You know who did that? I don't. People are saying Torres, but I don't see it that way. That's narrow thinking. Doesn't do any good. Till I'm told otherwise, he got killed 'cause he pissed somebody off. That's all."
"So, you're not going to give me those names? You're going to force me to duplicate our efforts, waste time and money, risk exposure to the cops, and maybe let the wrong people get in behind us, all because you claim you have brains? Get out and smell the roses, Johnny. When was the last time you left this building? You're like a rat in a steel box in here. You have no clue what's going on."
His face darkened during this outburst, and his eyes hardened. "Careful, girlie," he said threateningly, accentuating the second word. "You work for me. That means I do this"—he snapped his fingers—"and you're dead. That's all you need to know till I decide to tell you more."
He stood up, all pretense of pleasantry gone. "Now, you can get the hell back to Vermont and do your job, or I can hand you over to the men outside this door. They're not too crazy about you, after what you did to Flaco. They wouldn't mind paying you back their own way."
She rose also, but kept her voice contrite, realizing she'd overplayed her hand. "Johnny, I'm sorry. I really am. I know you're the boss. I've been waiting for this for so long, I get carried away sometimes. It's like I can almost grab it—everything we've talked about—and it sort of takes me over. I'm sorry I said those things. I didn't mean any disrespect."
He looked at her in silence, clearly pondering his choices. She could tell the temptation was great to feed her to the wolves, either from wounded pride or from just the pleasure of being able to do so. But for some reason—and it finally dawned on her possibly why—he demurred.
He put his hand on the doorknob and said, "Go back. You'll get everything you want, but in time. Leave the thinking to me."
She had nothing more to gain here. In fact, she was pretty sure she'd been wasting her time from the day she'd met him, which weighed more heavily on her now than any threat he could have made. For, aside from her own ambition, her loyalty was to Joe, and at that moment, she was feeling she'd completely let him down.
"You got it, Johnny," she said tiredly and then added with more sincerity than he could have possibly known, "I just got carried away—makes me stupid sometimes."
* * *
Detective Sergeant Heather Hall paused on the threshold and looked at the older man staring down at the conference table before him, its surface covered from one end to the other with crime scene photos and sketches, case reports, forensics documents, and autopsy results. He had his hands in his pockets, his chin tucked in, and for all the world looked like he'd fallen fast asleep on his feet.
This was the famous Joe Gunther, she thought. All in all, a pretty forgettable figure, really. Nothing particularly outstanding about him, except maybe his eyes, which could shift from fatherly to intense in a flash. But he didn't seem all that brilliant, had nothing about him that attracted attention, wasn't charismatic the way some of her peers were, who could enter a room and make everyone take notice.
She liked him, though. He was quiet and kind and thoughtful. He'd asked her for her opinions with genuine interest. He was a really nice guy.
Which meant something to her. Squarely built, with short hair and blunt features, Heather Hall had been a beat cop for seven years before anyone had paid her the slightest attention, and then it was only because another female officer had filed suit against the town for gender discrimination. That case was still tangled up in the legal system—had been for two years—but in the meantime, Heather had found herself quickly courted and then promoted to the Rutland detective squad, the so-called BCI.
She wasn't ungrateful. She liked the new job, not to mention wearing nice clothes and not having to lug around a heavy belt loaded with gear. But it had also made her suspicious of what might come next. She'd started this job thinking she'd advance on her own merits. Now she had no clue.
"Any luck?" she asked, placing a coffee cup on the table before him.
He looked up at her and smiled. "Thanks. I appreciate it." He picked up the coffee and sipped from it thoughtfully, surveying the field of paperwork once more.
"Amazing things, these cases," he said eventually. "They start out so simply—a man and a woman found dead—but the more you dig, the harder they get to figure out. You know darn well no genius killed them—that it was probably a cause-and-effect kind of scenario. But there are so many variables to the one correct answer. It's like finding a needle in a haystack, just like they say." He pretended to hold a needle up between his thumb and index finger. "When you get there, you can only shrug and say, 'Jeez, it's just a needle.'" He paused and dropped his hand. "Fascinating process."
She nodded, figuring it was better to just let him ramble. "So I'm guessing no needle yet."
He laughed. "Right." He leaned forward and extracted a single photograph from a stack of autopsy shots. "There is this, though."
She moved closer to peer at it. It was a picture of James Hollowell's left hand. Along the back of it, crossing the knuckles and smearing the web of skin at the base of his thumb, was a dark smudge—like an oily stain.
"Not the cleanest guy I ever saw," she commented. "His motel room smelled like a sewer. And look at his fingernails. Gross. God only knows what's under them."
Gunther smiled. "If God doesn't, I know who might." He pointed at the phone. "How do I get an outside line?"
* * *
Chief Medical Examiner Beverly Hillstrom picked up the phone. It hadn't been a great day so far, and she suspected no great news from this. "Dr. Hillstrom."
"Doctor, it's Joe Gunther."
She was wrong. Few people in the world made her feel better just by being there, and Joe Gunther was one of them. It hadn't always been thus, not surprisingly given her general view of the world—which also explained the way she routinely approached newcomers. Gunther had entered her autopsy room years ago, uninvited and unannounced, and had asked her to dig deeper into a case she'd already processed. That had not been an auspicious beginning. Except that he'd been right, as he had been several times since. The man was a digger, more given to hard work than to flashes of inspiration, although she didn't doubt he had those, too. But he didn't rely on them, and didn't show off in any case. All of which made him someone she could like.
Not that she'd relaxed her professional standards as a result. Beverly Hillstrom came from the old school, where respect was earned, but courtesy was a given. Despite her admiration for the man and his doggedness, she brooked no diminution of her own rules of engagement. She forever referred to Gunther by his title, and expected no less of him. These were ground rules she proffered to everyone, excepting her family and personal friends. And it didn't hurt her kind feelings toward him that he'd instinctively understood that from the start, without the instructions she gave to virtually everyone else. And which, quite unfairly, had given her a reputation among law enforcement as an ice queen.
"Agent Gunther," she therefore said, the pleasure palpable in her voice. "To what do I owe this privilege?"
Joe, for his part, was considerably less doctrinaire. He'd tried to get her to at least call him "Mister," since the "Agent" handle still made him feel like an impostor, but it was clearly of no use. On the other hand, the respect was mutual. Never before had he met someone with such a mind for detail and such an instinct to pursue it. Even if she didn't know what she was looking at, chances were that Dr. Hillstrom would take a sample. Just in case.
"I'm on another fishing expedition, I'm afraid," he admitted. "Exactly what you probably don't want to hear."
"Nonsense," she countered. "Right now some fishing would be right up there with a bowl of ice cream."
"Doctor," he said with mock surprise, "I had no idea. Any particular flavor?"
"Never mind," she said, embarrassed not only that she'd admitted to a pleasure but that she felt awkward about her embarrassment. "What do you have for me?"
"James Hollowell, date of birth—"
"I remember Mr. Hollowell," she interrupted briskly. "Any problem with my findings?"
"None. Actually, this is a real long shot. No reason for you to have noticed. But I'm in a bind for ideas."
"Stop dancing around, Agent Gunther."
"Hollowell had a greasy smear on his left hand, along the back. Do you remember that?"
She nodded at the phone. "I do. Let me put you on hold while I get his file."
A minute later, she returned. "I have a photo of it before me."
"All right. Here's the long shot: any idea what it is?"
"None whatsoever," she stated flatly.
After a telling hesitation, he said, "Okay. Well . . ."
"But I kept a sample," she added.
He laughed. "Nice. Break my heart, then bring me back around. Cruel."
"It's been that kind of day. Sorry. I couldn't resist."
"No, no. That's fine. Any way you could have it analyzed?"
"I'll have it delivered to forensics today."
They exchanged a couple of more pleasantries before Joe hung up the phone, still smiling.
Heather Hall was watching him. "What did she say?"
"She kept a sample. The crime lab'll get it later today."
Hall nodded, still not sure why this had any bearing. "What do you think they'll find?"
"Something to do with a car engine," he said brightly. "And if we all keep our fingers crossed, it'll be something traceable."
Chapter 21
"Sam, where the hell have you been? You were supposed to call yesterday. I thought Rivera had you. I was about to call the cavalry."
Her voice on the other end sounded down and exhausted. "Sorry, Joe. I had to check something out. I've blown it big time."
"What do you mean? Where are you?"
"I'm at a pay phone. This whole thing's been a fraud from the start, Joe. I led us all down the wrong road."
Joe rubbed his forehead, trying to make sense of what she was saying. "We need to meet, Sam. Get off the phone and hook up with me at . . . Shit, I don't know . . . Are you in town?"
She hesitated. "I can meet you in an hour."
His hand tightened on the phone. There was something about the way she was speaking. "Things've changed since you dropped out of sight, Sam. In fact, I'm thinking we ought to pull you out. Come straight to the PD."
"What? Why?"
"I was going over the Hollowell case, like I said I would. Couldn't find a thing. Kept going around and around. Finally, I noticed a photo of a greasy smear on one of his hands, and a shot someone took on the bridge where he was hanged of a puddle of something oily on the road. I had Hillstrom compare the sample she collected with the one they got from the bridge, and just heard back they were both power-steering fluid—from the same source."
Sam didn't respond. He wasn't sure if that was because she was listening or had simply walked away, leaving the phone dangling. From the anxious tone of her voice, the latter wouldn't have surprised him.
"Sam?"
"I'm here."
"We got lucky. Most cars use standard power-steering fluid. Hondas don't, and that's what we found. I crosschecked everyone we have on our radar right now with the cars they own, and I got one hit. Lucky the bad guys don't think much of fuel efficient imports. It was Manuel Ruiz, Sam. That's why I think we ought to shut down."