Playing God (8 page)

"Prints on the weapon?" Melia asked.

"Too rough."

"Anything off the money?" Burgess asked.

Devlin stared at him. "Money?"

Burgess pulled out the preliminary sketch and pointed to the crumpled bills on the passenger seat. "This money."

"I didn't bag it. Dani?"

"Not me."

"Well, someone must have. Track it down," Burgess said. "It must be somewhere." This was bad, stuff disappearing already. Nothing pushed his buttons like missing evidence. "Okay." He slapped his palms down on the table, watched 'em all jump. "Wink, you and Dani have plenty to do. Keep me posted as you go. Terry, you start talking with the ladies. As soon as he's done with our witness, Stan will help." He gave them copies of Pleasant's picture. "Ask if they know this guy. Terry, see if the paper's got an archive photo of Jennifer Kelly." He answered their puzzled looks. "Pleasant's wife. Long blonde hair and an unfaithful husband."

"And Ted Shaw's daughter," Melia added. "So we don't have to tell you how sensitive this is."

"You sound like Cote," Burgess said.

"I sound like a realist."

"Shoot," Wink said. "Does this mean I'll have to practice my curtsy?"

"We'll keep you out of sight," Melia growled. Wink sketched a salute, waiting for Dani's slower rise from her chair. "Letorneau, Wink... no heroics, okay? Give us what you can, then get some rest. We're in this for the long haul. Tomorrow, the next day. Can't have you sick."

When everyone had gone, Melia said, "So what do you think, Joe?"

"Gonna be a bitch, Vince. Not just the politics. It feels planned."

"Planned how?"

"My gut says this isn't about sex or money. Not just sex and money." He hunched his shoulders forward. It was too soon for this, but Melia was waiting, and Melia was his kind of cop—a careful, observant detective who did things by the book but could read between the lines. Melia understood about gut instincts like Cote never would. The real world was messy. You learned to read it by being in it, not by sitting behind a desk and studying numbers.

"I've only talked with two very guarded people, his wife and his boss, and already I know Pleasant was a self-absorbed, arrogant, ambitious, insensitive and greedy man whose patients were at the most critical points in their lives. His wife's home with a new baby and he's out screwing around. I bet I don't find anyone who liked him."

"You don't kill because someone's miserable to work with. Money and sex aren't enough?"

"They can be. But whose money? And whose nose was out-of-joint? Cote's talking about stepping on toes. So, whose toes was Pleasant stepping on? I'm talking gut, Vince. It feels deliberate."

"But the hookers are our window?"

"Right. But our window onto what?"

"You'll find out." Melia shoved back his chair. "Callahan's your AAG. Keep me in the loop."

"That's what Cote said, too."

Melia rolled his eyes. "Like Wink said. Practice your curtsy."

"I've got a bum knee."

"You've got a bum attitude."

"Appreciate the support."

Remy Aucoin waited outside the door, holding a greasy brown bag. Kid might grow into a good cop yet.

"Sit down," Burgess said, taking the bag. "Not Salerno's, right?" He grabbed a fistful of napkins from his drawer, unwrapped the sub, and took a bite. Good as a shot of morphine. He could feel the throbbing in his head subside. Mumbled, "Thanks," around a mouthful. His mother would have been scandalized. Controlling himself, he set the sub down and popped the top on the can. Good way to ruin your digestion—bad food on an erratic schedule, eaten too fast. Part of the cop's life, just like the long, dull patches interrupted by adrenaline surges. It was why cops wore out quickly. "How long you been on late out?"

"A month, sir."

"And before that?"

"Early out."

"You've seen Pleasant's car before?" Aucoin nodded. "Late, like last night?"

The boy shook his head. "Not since I got on the later shift. I used to see him around eight or nine, sometimes earlier. He'd roll up with some girl. Her head would stay down a while. Then he'd drive away."

"How often?"

"Sometimes once a week. Sometimes twice. Sometimes not at all."

"You're driving by in a marked cruiser and that doesn't bother him?"

Aucoin fiddled with his belt, trying to settle it more comfortably on his hips. He was tall and lean like his Uncle Guy. Nothing to cushion the weight. Even with the lighter web belt, all that equipment was heavy. No hips. No ass. Not a problem Burgess had ever had. "Maybe he had his eyes shut."

Maybe he had an arrangement with the cops. Maybe he expected to be left alone. Aucoin didn't seem nervous enough for that to be the case, but it happened. "No complaints from the neighborhood?"

Aucoin shrugged. "He was discreet."

"Guy in a Mercedes was getting a blow job under my window, couple times a week, I wouldn't think that was discreet. Lot of people park there for sex?"

"Teenagers sometimes. When the weather's warm."

"That's it? It's not a spot the girls are using?"

Aucoin shook his head. "Not to my knowledge, sir."

"You knew who he was," Burgess said.

"Yeah." Aucoin shifted nervously and eyed the door.

"How?"

"License plate."

Burgess shook his head. The uncles should teach the kid to be a better liar. "Car's registered to the business. You call the plate in, that's what you would have gotten back."

Aucoin's face flamed red. Another thing to learn. Cops don't blush. Feel what you feel, but keep it off your face. The public's watching. You don't let 'em inside, they'll poke you full of holes. Cop lets people get to him and he ends up with a soul like Swiss cheese. Burgess had a few holes himself. Most of it, he'd worked 'til it was tough as tanned leather, but there were those thin spots.

Aucoin shifted his belt again. "I followed him one night. Couple months ago."

"You left your shift and drove to Cape Elizabeth?"

Aucoin's head came up, pride warring with deference. Pride won. "No, sir! I'd never... I... on a day off. I waited until he dropped the girl, then followed him home."

"Why?"

"Just curious. It was odd, what he did. Most guys, they picked a girl up, they'd drive around the corner, park, get it done, and drop her off. Or else find someplace real private. He always came back to the same spot."

"Maybe he liked the view. Same girl?"

"Different girls."

"Recognize any of them?"

"A couple. Little dark haired girl. Young blonde named Candy. Alana Black. Lotta times Alana Black." He said her name with reverence.

Burgess understood. He was going to be talking to Alana pretty soon. It might be impossible for a man to talk to Alana without a physical reaction. A heterosexual man. Even cops, and they were used to having tits and asses and other female anatomy shoved in their faces. Kyle, who was modest, put his coat over his lap. Burgess figured what the hell, if he stood up when Alana came into the room, at least it proved he was still alive. A polite cock, a bum knee, and a pounding in the back of his head. He had a hell of a physical repertoire. If he could fly, he'd be Superman.

"Notice anything else about Dr. Pleasant? Other than his fondness for girls?"

"He got a lot of phone calls."

"
In medias res
? In the middle of things?" Aucoin nodded. "And he took them?"

"He was a doctor."

"Bummer, huh, having a radiological emergency in the middle of a blow job. Do yourself a favor, Aucoin?" The kid was holding his breath. "Next time, break the window. And watch where you're walking." Aucoin swallowed. Nodded.

"One more thing. You think someone's in a car getting a blow job? Turn on your lights and knock on the window. Not your job to make it easy for them. You can go. Thanks for the sub." He didn't offer to pay for it. He grabbed another bite, picked up the phone, and called Rita Callahan in the Attorney General's office.

"It's Joe Burgess, Portland PD, the Pleasant case. Can you get me a subpoena for Pleasant's cell phone records?"

"Sure. Anything else I can do for you, detective?" A voice like Brillo on a screen.

"I may need his office phones as well. Depending on their level of cooperation. I'm betting they scream patient confidentiality. Hell, I probably need his financial records, too. Bank, accountant, credit card. You name it. Guy had an expensive lifestyle and an ex-wife nagging him about support. I'd like to see the whole picture."

"Why don't I put them on the list, save us all some time."

"Sure. He had offices in Auburn, Damariscotta and Portland. Betty Ling was his appointments secretary. She can probably give you addresses. I've got his card here." He read her the info.

"I'm on it," she said, and disconnected. At least she wasn't big on small talk. Some AAGs, especially the new ones, were into trying to make connections. Fine in an ideal world, but this was the world of life gone wrong. He didn't have the time or the interest in making new connections. He liked the idea of disconnections. The night shift. Solitude.

He found the number and called Jen Kelly. A man's voice answered. Strong Maine accent. Easy, with a slight twang. In a longer sentence, the voice would have dropped to a mumble, the words being swallowed up. He asked for Jen.

"She's feedin' the baby right now. Can I take a message?"

"This is Detective Burgess, Portland Police. Jack Kelly?"

"Ayuh." Half-swallowed. He could see the man nodding. In Nam, as a tough 19-year-old, hearing Maine in another man's voice could bring tears to his eyes.

"Two things, Mr. Kelly. First, can you tell her that her husband's wallet is missing, probably stolen. She needs to notify his credit card companies and I need a list of the card numbers so I can see if anyone's using them. I know this is a difficult time for her, but the sooner we can get that, the better. If she calls when it's ready, I can have someone swing by and pick it up." He heard the scratch of pencil on paper. Waited to let Kelly get it down. He liked it that Jen Kelly's father was humble enough to need to write things down. Lots of people were too arrogant to bother and too scattered to remember later. "And the medical examiner's office will release the body this afternoon. She can arrange to have a funeral home collect him."

He gave his own number and the ME's number, and disconnected, a little disappointed at not having spoken to her. The memory of her face, the vulnerability of that twist-tie in her hair, the small bare breast, all lingered in his mind. Jen Kelly had a story and it looked to be a complicated one. He hoped it wouldn't lead where he thought it might. He took a few more bites of sandwich, but now that the edge was off his hunger, weariness and work had shoved it aside. Hercules might have cleaned the stable by diverting a river through it, but Burgess had found you missed a lot that way. Stand there and keep shoveling. It was stinking, hard work, and it hurt your back, but that was the way to get to the bottom of things. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

Chapter 7

Alana Black wasn't surprised to find him on her doorstep. "Heard you guys were doing a sweep," she said. She waved an arm toward the kitchen. "I could make coffee, unless you'd like something stronger."

"Coffee's fine."

He stepped in, smiling. She'd positioned herself so he couldn't get past without brushing against her. "After you," he said.

"Party pooper."

"Saving myself for marriage," he said.

He followed her into the kitchen and put his coat over the back of a chair. Alana stuck a filter in her coffee maker and spooned in some coffee. Daylight began and ended today in the kitchens of lovely women making coffee. But there the similarity ended. If Jen's had a theme, it was glossy or sterile. Alana's was shabby kitsch. Big-eyed animal magnets covered the refrigerator. On top lodged a cluster of mangy bears. A row of tiny bears lined the windowsill by the sink. Alana's hair was jet black and wildly curly, Gypsy hair. And while Jen's pale skin, cheekbones and baby-fine hair personified the WASP princess, Alana's mixed heritage had given her tawny skin, full lips, and dark, seductive eyes. Jen had small, pink-tipped breasts with a tracing of blue veins, Alana's were high, proud melons with jutting brown nipples.