“We’re trying to locate a musician named Pascal Redding, nicknamed Patty. He doesn’t show up in any directories, but he’s supposed to be living in town—at least he was. You think any of your artsy crowd might know about him?”
“What kind of music does he play?”
I pushed the speakerphone button and repeated Gail’s question for Ron.
“Jazz guitar,” he answered.
“That ought to narrow it down. You think he’s a guest at someone’s house?”
I hadn’t thought of that, but it sounded likely. “Could be.”
“Try Linda Feinstein. She and her husband put people up sometimes, and they’re up to their necks in that world. When do you think you’ll be home? I need my daily squeeze.”
I killed the speaker as Ron retreated from my office, laughing. “I don’t know. I was shooting for ten, but if we get a fix on this Patty character, I might try to check it out tonight.”
I could hear the disappointment in her voice. “Okay. I’ll keep a light on.”
“Thanks. Don’t work too hard.” I was leaning forward in my chair, about to hang up, when I suddenly stopped. “Hold it. You mentioned something this afternoon in Tony’s office I wanted to ask you about—something about a bum who died of old age?”
“They found him last night under the Whetstone bridge. You didn’t hear about that?”
“Nobody told me,” I answered, slightly annoyed.
“One of your sergeants checked it out. Carol Green signed off on it once the Assistant ME declared it a natural death.”
Carol Green was one of Derby’s Deputy SAs—the same position Gail was hoping to land after passing the bar. What Gail had just described was mundane enough—most natural deaths were similarly and expeditiously handled. But I was embarrassed by my own ignorance. I hadn’t been reading the dailies filed by each patrol shift lately.
“What did he die of?”
Despite her earlier relief at being interrupted at work, I could sense a faint impatience in Gail’s response now, exacerbating my own discomfort. “I don’t know, Joe, and I didn’t get his name. I guess it was a heart attack, or cirrhosis of the liver.”
I got the message. “Okay. I’ll let you go. Thanks for Linda’s name.”
I called Ron back in and dialed Linda Feinstein’s number, reactivating the speakerphone.
The hesitation in Linda’s voice when I asked about Patty Redding told me more than her carefully worded response. “We haven’t seen Patty for a while. I think he needed some time to himself.”
“You threw him out?” I guessed.
There was a telling change of tone. “We had a disagreement.”
I tried a more oblique approach. “Look, I won’t tell you my interest in Patty isn’t official, but I want to be straight with you, too. We talk to lots of people in our work. What they tell us is always received in the strictest confidence.”
I could hear her sigh. “Okay. We did let Patty stay here for a while. That’s something Patty does—live off other people. But we’d done the same favor for other musicians and artists in the past. It used to be our way of saying thank you.”
“I take it Patty overstayed his welcome,” I prompted, noting that she’d put the entire practice of housing guests in the past tense.
“You could say that. Richard—my husband—went on a business trip several months ago, leaving Patty and me alone in the house. Patty tried to get a little friendlier than I felt comfortable with.”
The hairs rose on the back of my neck. I sensed Ron watching me carefully. “Did he assault you?”
“No. It never got that far. But he visited me in my bedroom after I’d gone to sleep. He didn’t… Do anything… But it took a while to get him out of there. I called my husband in New Jersey—I was pretty upset—and Richard drove back that night. We asked Patty to leave the next morning. Telling you now, I feel pretty stupid. This won’t get Patty into trouble, will it?”
I almost winced at her concern. “Don’t worry about him, Linda, and don’t ever apologize about some guy coming on to you. It’s against the law if they don’t stop immediately. To be honest, you ought to press charges—it could stop him from putting other women in your position.”
Her reaction was immediate, and sadly predictable. “Oh no. I mean, I did lead him on a bit—I let him make me dinner—and no harm was done. He is a wonderful musician, Joe. He’s just got some growing up to do. I’m sure he doesn’t make a practice of this.”
I bit back the urge to challenge her on that. Neither of us needed me haranguing her over the phone, making her even more defensive. Instead, I would ask Gail to talk with her soon. I doubted Linda Feinstein had stopped having people stay over because of a small misunderstanding—maybe Gail could get her to admit what actually happened. “All right, Linda. Do you know where he went after he left your place?”
“I know he’s still in town. I heard a rumor he’s staying with Francis Bertin, the pianist, but I don’t know for sure. I wish I could be more helpful… ”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ve been a big help. And remember, any trouble Patty might be in is of his own making. You did nothing wrong.”
“Thank you,” she said, obviously eager to get off the line.
“Thank
you
, Linda,” I said, but the phone was already dead.
I sat back in my chair and looked at Ron. “Want me to call Bertin?” he asked softly.
I hesitated, weighing my options. Rationally, his suggestion was sound. It made little sense to drive to Bertin’s house late at night, on the off chance Patty Redding was still there, just to ask him if he’d ever met Shawna Davis.
On the other hand, I wanted to meet this clown face-to-face, if only to introduce myself. I got up and killed the lights. “Let’s make it a personal visit. Check the computer first to see if Redding’s on file anywhere. I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”
· · ·
Brattleboro is a distinctly topographical town. Sprinkled over a cluster of hills, ravines, and stream beds, it impresses first-time visitors not with sweeping vistas—it keeps its back to a panoramic view of the Connecticut River and Wantastiquet Mountain—but with the ability of some of its inhabitants to perch their houses in defiance of gravity. Homes and businesses alike cling to hillsides, hover over waterways, and otherwise stack themselves in any nook and cranny available, frequently with a view of the top of their neighbor’s roof.
Francis Bertin’s address was a perfect case in point. Located on a steep, narrow track named Elliot Terrace, in the heart of town, it had all the accessibility of a Himalayan hut. Furthermore, it was crowded by others just like it—turn-of-the-century, New England-style dwellings that looked as if they’d been dropped from a plane.
Ron nosed the car carefully down the hill, steep enough in parts to make us both wonder if the tires would hold on the compacted, slippery snow. He finally parked to the side of the road, his bumper inches away from a sturdy-looking tree trunk.
“Which house is it?” I asked.
He pointed to a three-story multi-dwelling across the street. “Third floor. Lights are on.”
“The computer tell you anything?”
“Yeah. Redding’s been slapped for possession twice—both times marijuana; both times minimal amounts. They were party busts—not residential. I think we can assume the guy likes his dope.”
We stepped out into the frigid night air, hearing the snow squeak under our feet—as good a sign as any thermometer of sub-zero-degree weather. The sounds of the surrounding town were as sharp as the icicles hanging from the branches, which clicked softly against one another in the barely perceptible breeze.
Access to the third-floor apartment was by an exterior, walled-in staircase, carpeted and warmed by the building to which it was attached. We both stepped quietly, inbred instinct dictating wariness. Also, given Linda Feinstein’s admission, I was not inclined to give any advance warning to a man I already disliked. As much as she’d down-played her story, I knew Redding must have scared the hell out of her. There wasn’t much legally I could do about that, but I was perfectly willing to make him sweat.
Guitar music filtered through the top apartment’s door, obviously from a recording. We positioned ourselves to either side of the landing as I knocked.
The music was turned down, and moments later the door opened to reveal a thin young man with long hair and a wispy beard, a joint dangling from his lips. The rich, pungent odor of marijuana wafted out from behind him, embracing us all. “Patty Redding?” I asked.
“Yeah. Who’s asking?”
Unable to resist, Ron and I reached into our pockets and showed him our badges, like synchronized G-men. “Brattleboro Police.”
He stared at us in stunned wonderment, his eyes moving from one to the other. “Does this mean I’m fucked?”
Ron slowly reached out and removed the joint from between Redding’s lips, knocking its hot tip off against the door frame and crushing the tiny ember underfoot.
“Could be,” I answered. “May we come in?”
I motioned him to precede us into the apartment’s hallway. “You alone at the moment?”
“Yeah. Frank’s visiting his girlfriend.”
“That’s Francis Bertin?” Ron asked, “the legal tenant of this apartment?”
Redding’s response came warily. “Yeah.”
“And you are his guest?”
“Yeah.” He’d reached the end of a short hallway leading into a comfortable, pleasantly appointed living room.
“In fact,” I added, “you’re sort of a professional guest, aren’t you?”
An irrepressible arrogance surfaced in his voice. “So what?”
I crowded him, standing almost nose-to-nose, and pointed to a chair with its back against the wall. “Sit.”
He sat.
Without stepping back, I looked down at him. “You understand the position you’re in right now, don’t you?”
He was craning his neck to look up at me, his Adam’s apple shifting as he swallowed. “I guess.”
“Then you should also understand that feeding us an attitude might not be the smartest thing to do, right?”
“Yeah—okay. Sorry.”
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Redding?” Ron asked from one side.
“I’m a musician. Could I have a cigarette?”
“No. Is that a living?”
“It’s what I do, all right?”
“Patty,” I cautioned quietly, stretching out his name.
“Okay, okay. It doesn’t pay all the bills.”
“How long have you lived in Brattleboro?” Ron resumed.
I could tell Patty’s neck was getting tired, but he didn’t want to look straight ahead at my groin. “Five years. I come from Hartford, Connecticut.”
“Where were you living last May?” I asked, the emphasis on the month.
“May? I think… I guess I was staying with Robbie Messier.”
“And spending time with Shawna Davis?”
Genuinely startled, he tried to stand up. By simply refusing to retreat, I forced him back into the chair. “That bitch.”
My first thought was that drugs formed the link between them, as they probably did between Patty and most of his “friends.” J.P. had told me the lab had found traces of occasional marijuana use in Shawna’s hair. But the word “occasional” was what caught in my craw. In the split second open to me, I decided to hedge my bet with a deliberately loaded implication. “Did she tell you she was eighteen?”
He ran his fingers through his hair, his head dropping briefly. “Oh, Jesus.”
Ron and I exchanged glances, suddenly unsure of which button we’d pushed—statutory rape, drug pushing, or murder. Whichever it was, I had to make a critical choice. Given his mood, he was liable to confess to something, and I had to ensure it would hold up in court. My two choices were either to make it clear he was free to go—and therefore not in legal custody—and then take advantage of his sudden relief to coax out an indiscretion, or to build on the pressure he was already feeling, inform him of his rights, and let him think we could do more right now than simply give him a tap on the wrist for smoking a joint.
I opted for the latter. “I better advise you, Mr. Redding, that you may be facing criminal charges, and that you have the right to remain silent, and to retain the services of a lawyer if you wish, free of charge if you don’t have the money. Do you understand that?”
Now the other hand joined the first in holding his head. “
Man
.”
“Do you understand what I just said?” I pressed him, increasingly satisfied with my choice.
“It wasn’t my fault—”
“Mr. Redding.” I bent over and put my face into his again. “Do you understand what I said?”
“Yes.” His voice was almost a croak.
I straightened, backed off, and sat in a chair across from him. “Good. Then do you want to tell us about Shawna Davis, or do you want to wait till you get a lawyer?”
He dropped his hands and slumped back into his chair, looking at me through a scraggle of hair hanging across his eyes. “I don’t have a goddamn lawyer.”
“We can get you a public defender.”
He stared at the ceiling a moment. Regardless of the outcome, I didn’t mind stringing this out. If he did opt for the lawyer, we’d take him down to the SA’s office, nail him for the roach, get a warrant to search this apartment, and maybe hit him with a felony if we found a big-enough stash. On the other hand, there was nothing quite like the spur of the moment to open a guilty conscience, so if he had something truly incriminating to say, I wasn’t about to stop him.
What he finally did say sent a faint chill down my back. “What the hell, it’s all over anyhow.”
“What is?” I asked, suddenly anticipating the resolution to Shawna’s death.
“The deal. It’s history, and if she wants to get me for rape, what the hell. She’s no fucking virgin, if that’s what she told you.”
My hopes crumpled within me. This wasn’t to be a murder confession.
Ron sensed my disappointment and took the lead. “Let’s start from the top. When and how did you two meet?”
Redding let out a big sigh. “Like I said, I was crashing at Messier’s place, playing gigs wherever I could. Shawna dropped in out of the blue. A friend of mine named Hugh Savage had given her my address. They went to high school together or something. Anyway, one day she showed up and just kind of moved in.”
“What’s that mean?” I asked.