Reality Check (2010) (27 page)

Pegasus Partners. For that Cody needed a computer. He drove to the barn. He'd forgotten to turn in his key; Cody took that for a good sign. He let himself into the office, switched on the computer. A few minutes later he'd learned that Pegasus Partners was a recently defunct hedge fund that had been run until its demise by Nedland W. DeWitt, "former golden boy of the derivatives world." Due to "bad bets in the subprime securities market" and "heavily leveraged put positions in precious metal commodity futures" plus several other reasons also not understood by Cody, Pegasus Partners had gone under on the Friday before the Columbus Day weekend, resulting in huge losses for its investors and also in dozens of lawsuits against Nedland DeWitt, who was selling off all his possessions--including his yacht, his collection of Persian art, his houses in Aspen and Easthampton--and filing for bankruptcy.

Cody switched off the computer. Townes, a bettor like his dad, was no longer rich, couldn't pay his debts, had fallen down the economic ladder to Cody's level, a level that didn't bother Cody, but it was the only level he'd ever known; a big difference.

In his mind, everything stopped realigning and clicked into place at last. Among other things, he now knew, almost for certain, that Big Len had a .38. He, Cody, did not, meaning this was the time for the mole to surface. A fistfight was one thing, a gunfight another. He took out the card Sergeant Orton had given him and called the number.

across the town line, where Cody had eaten the bear claw. The doughnut place was closed, no lights showing, nobody around. That strange light snowfall was still happening, almost not a snowfall at all, and the starless, moonless sky still held that strange glow. Sergeant Orton, not driving the cruiser tonight but in an unmarked, soccer-mom-style minivan, waved Cody over. Cody parked beside him, left his car, got into the minivan.

The sergeant wasn't in uniform, wore an old parka with sewing-repair stitches on the upper arm of one sleeve, same spot where a uniform badge would be. There was something wrong with him, visible even in the weak light that came from the dashboard instruments. Cody couldn't put it into words, but he saw it right away. Somehow the sergeant looked older, bonier, and his bushy mustache--up to now a jolly kind of touch--seemed like just a dismal add-on. He gave Cody a quick glance. "What happened to your face?" he said, his tone oddly dull, as if he actually didn't want to know the answer.

"Whatever you say," said the sergeant. "Said you had something for me. What's up?"
"I . . . I think I understand the whole thing," Cody said. "What happened to Clea."
Sergeant Orton's eyes closed for a moment. He opened them, turned to Cody, now spoke with more energy, the corners of his lips turning up in what might have been a smile except that his eyes didn't join in. "Sounds promising. I'm all ears."
"It turns out you were right," Cody said. "One of your theories, or part of it, at least. This is all about gambling."
Sergeant Orton nodded, the barest little movement.
"Is that what you thought all along?" Cody said.
The sergeant reached forward, turned up the heat. "Go on," he said.
There was something modest about Sergeant Orton; Cody liked that. He was getting a fix on the man at last. "Do you know Len Boudreau?" Cody said. "The guy who owns Big Len's, the bar on Governor?"
"Heard of him," the sergeant said.
"Guess what," Cody said, sounding, even to himself, like an excited little kid. But he was excited, couldn't hide it. "Big Len's a bookie. A big-time bookie."
Sergeant Orton fumbled in the pocket of his parka. He took out cigarettes and matches, lit up, cracking the window an inch or two. No reason the sergeant wouldn't be a smoker, but it surprised Cody just the same. Maybe he read Cody's mind, because he said, "Trying to quit." He took a deep drag. "Bookie, huh?" he went on. "What makes you think that?"
"I don't think--I know," Cody said. "I've even seen him in action."
"How do you mean?"
"Taking the money," Cody said, leaving out Deirdre and the rest of it. Any reason Sergeant Orton had to know that about her? Not that Cody could see.
"Where was this?"
"Right in the bar."
"You were in the bar?"
"Big Len served me himself."
"Booze."
"Yeah."
"Underage," Sergeant Orton said. "I could pop you for that."
"Huh?" Agent Brand had said the same thing; what was with these cops and their obsession with underage drinking? Best to leave Brand out of this. Brand wanted him long gone, believed he was long gone; no good could come of him getting together with Sergeant Orton.
The sergeant tapped ash out the window, turned to Cody, this time with a smile that looked real. "Just jerking your chain." He squinted at Cody's face. "Big Len do that to you?"
"No," Cody said. "That part doesn't matter. What matters is that it's a gambling thing, NFL point spreads. Len made a big mistake--he thought Townes was rich."
"The boyfriend?"
Yes and no. According to Alex, Clea had been about to dump Townes; there was a slight chance she had dumped him, that Wednesday afternoon at the barn. A complication, but of the personal kind, almost certainly having nothing to do with the case. "Yeah," Cody said. "The boyfriend. My guess is he did some betting last year, back when he was rich, and either won or paid up when he didn't, so Big Len got the idea he'd always be good for the money. But now the money's gone, Townes must have made some bad bets, gotten in deeper--and couldn't pay." "Fucking idiot," said Sergeant Orton.
"Townes, you mean?" Cody said; no reason he should have been surprised by the sergeant's language, but Cody was; and even more surprised by his sudden anger.
"Just tell your goddamn story," Sergeant Orton said. He took a deep breath, went on more mildly. "Sorry. This is a bit of a shock, that's all. If true."
"Oh, it's true," Cody said. "I can even--" Cody felt a strange sensation, a sort of brainpower surge. Weird and unaccustomed: He didn't want to trust it.
"You can even what?" Sergeant Orton said.
"Maybe this sounds crazy," Cody said, "but I think I can predict that Big Len owns a .38."
Sergeant Orton took another drag. "Yeah?" Exhaled smoke swirled like a sickly green cloud in the dashboard lights.
"That's what he shot Bud with," Cody said. "And you were right about that, too. It was about sending a message, not stopping me from taking Bud out."
"What message?"
"That Clea was in danger if Townes didn't pay up fast."
"Lost me."
"Don't you see? It's a kidnapping, but not exactly like any of the kinds you mentioned. Big Len took Clea hostage. Because he thought--" Forget that.
Focus.
Whether she was still Townes's girlfriend or not didn't matter at all. "Because she was his girlfriend. You see what this means?"
"Tell me," said Sergeant Orton, ramping up the heat a little more.
"She's alive," Cody said. Wasn't that obvious? "Big Len will free her as soon as Townes pays him back. And Townes--" Maybe not a totally bad kid: At that moment Cody realized the kinds of threats Big Len must have made to keep Townes from going to the police. "--And Townes is trying to come up with the money. That explains Midnight."
"Midnight?"
"Townes's horse, the best horse in the stable--Big Len owns him now," Cody said. What else could that be but a partial payment? "But he won't wait forever--that's the message of what happened to Bud."
"Getting me a little confused with all these horses," the sergeant said.
"What's so confusing?" That question, sharp and irritated, just came popping out and Cody didn't regret it. Big Len wasn't going to wait forever.
"Seems simple to you?" the sergeant said.
"Not simple, but--"
"Nothing simple about it."
"What do you mean?"
Sergeant Orton just shook his head, remained silent for a few moments. "The part about Len Boudreau owning the horse--how did you figure that out?"
Cody explained--all about the inventory book at the barn, and the framed note from the Christmas parade committee.
"Very nice," said Sergeant Orton. "Passed this scenario on to anyone else?"
"No," Cody said. "But it's not just a scenario--it's what actually happened, just has to be."
"No offense," said Sergeant Orton. "Bad choice of words on my part. Have to check all the details, but I'm inclined to believe you--which is why I need to know who else you've told. Can't be putting myself in a position of ignorance with any potential interview subjects. No way to conduct an investigation--one of those things I learned the hard way. Nothing worse than seeing some scumbag walk on a technicality."
That made sense to Cody. "I haven't told anyone. You're the first."
"Sure about that?"
"Yeah."
"Then let's roll," Sergeant Orton said. He spun his cigarette butt out the open window, its red end pinwheeling into the darkness. Snow fell, perhaps a little denser now, and harder.
"Want me to follow you?" Cody said.
"Better stick together for now," said the sergeant. "Your car'll be safe here." He paused. "In fact, maybe I should have the keys--I can send a patrolman over, pick it up for you."
Cody handed over his keys. "Where are we going?" he said.
Sergeant Orton drove the minivan out of the doughnut place lot, crossed back over the North Dover town line. "First," he said, "we might as well swing by the barn."
"Why?"
The sergeant's window slid closed. "Pick up that ledger you mentioned," he said. "Can't risk having evidence disappear on us, can we?" Cody, unsure, tried to figure that one out. "Not when we're this close to cracking the damn thing wide open," Sergeant Orton went on. Cody nodded. Cracking the damn thing wide open: He couldn't wait.

Safe side of what? But then Cody remembered Agent Brand:
You're in danger, Cody.
He saw that Sergeant Orton had his gun strapped on, even though he wasn't in uniform, and felt safe.

Cody opened up the office, reached for the light switch. "No need for that," the sergeant said, switching on a pencil flash. The beam roamed around the room, came to rest on the desk. "In there?" said Sergeant Orton.

They moved to the desk. Sergeant Orton held the light. Cody opened the top drawer, didn't see the ledger. He riffled through some papers and folders; no ledger. Cody tried the other drawers, then the file cabinet beside the desk, finally a stack of documents by the copier, all without success.

"What the hell's going on?" said Sergeant Orton. "I don't know," Cody said. "It was here, in the top drawer." The sergeant shone the light in Cody's face. "You making

Cody held up his hand, shielding his face. "No," he said. "Why would I?"
"That's a tough one," Sergeant Orton said, lowering the light.
They went outside and got in the minivan. The snow fell more heavily now, and the wind was rising. Sergeant Orton put the minivan in reverse, twisting his head to see out the back. The headlights swept across the barn, and as they did, Cody saw Ike's face in one of the windows. Cody glanced at the sergeant, still peering out the back. Should he say something? Cody didn't know. Sergeant Orton wheeled out of the parking lot, onto the road, and the moment passed.
The sergeant looked at him. "Something on your mind?"
The answer was that image of Ike's face in the window; but Cody said, "Did you want to go question Townes?"
"That's on the list," the sergeant said. He turned onto Spring Street, passed the Rev, closed for the night. "Townes do that number on your face?"
Cody shrugged.
"Bet he ended up worse," Sergeant Orton said. "If I was a betting man." Cody didn't answer. "You a betting man, Cody?"
"No."
"Stay like that." He turned onto Governor, drove past the boarded-up gas station, the run-down houses, the vacant lot. For a moment Cody thought they were headed to Big Len's, but Sergeant Orton didn't slow down. As they went by the bar, the door opened and Phil--substitute bartender but also on Brand's payroll--stepped outside. He shivered, zipped up his jacket, glanced at the minivan. "Only so much trouble you can handle in life," the sergeant said.
"Um, what do you mean?"
"Talking about gambling," Sergeant Orton said. "Takes over some people's lives." He hung a left onto a side street, poorly lit and rutted, junk in some of the front yards. Cody had been here before, the night he'd followed the big black pickup with the Smith & Wesson bumper sticker. "Gets in their goddamn dreams," the sergeant said. It took Cody a few seconds to realize he was still talking about gambling. Snowflakes swirled in the headlights; Sergeant Orton increased the wiper speed and hunched over the wheel.
"Where are we headed?" Cody said.
The sergeant gazed straight ahead. "Time to play a hunch," he said, "maybe speed things up a little."
"You have a hunch where Clea is?"
"Didn't say that."
But Cody believed it anyway. His heart seemed to beat harder in his chest; he even thought he could hear it.