“His buddy told me Milo usually spent the night at the north end of Putney Road before working his way back downtown the next day. If I were a bum, this would seem like a perfect place to crash.”
Willy looked a little incredulous. “You’re going to check this whole place out, just to see where he might’ve spent the night?”
I began crossing over to where three men were clustered around a worktable covered with blueprints. “With a little help.”
“Excuse me,” I called out, introducing myself, “I was wondering if there’d been some kind of cleanup crew early this morning, looking things over.”
“That would be Larry Amirault,” one of them said. “He’s one of the assistant supers—downstairs somewhere.” He pointed to a door in a wall about a football field’s length away.
I thanked them and headed off, Willy in tow.
Downstairs, the scene was similar to the one we’d just left, but without the daylight, the high ceilings, or the sense of burgeoning glamour. This was the building’s practical heart, with cement floors and walls and multiple concrete rooms housing the necessary machinery to fuel the needs of future patrons. Sounds of hammering, sawing, and welding ricocheted off a maze of hard surfaces. The overhead lighting—countless strings of undulating caged bulbs—gave the entire area an oddly disturbing feel.
I stopped one of the first people we came to and asked for Larry Amirault, shouting over the din. The response was the soundless pointing of a finger down one of the wide, gloomy hallways. Eventually, repeating this routine several times, we reached what I took to be the basement of the hotel, where we found a small man standing in front of an enormous, disemboweled breaker panel, a walkie-talkie in his hand.
“You Larry?”
He gave me a slightly weary look. “Yeah—what can I do for you?” The emphasis was on the last word.
I pulled out my badge. “Guess you must be a little under the gun, first day back.”
He smiled apologetically. “It’s okay. That’s what they pay me for. But the place is crawling with VIPs asking dumb questions—slows everything down. What’s up?”
I made my answer as low-key as possible. “We had reports the site might’ve been used by bums during the past month. You seen any evidence of that?”
He shook his head. “Not down here. I found a few cans and bottles in the lobby area—” He suddenly laughed. “And a pair of women’s underwear. You gotta be crazy. The place wasn’t even heated this last month.”
That didn’t sound like Milo. “Anything else?”
“What about the upper floors?” Willy asked suddenly.
Larry looked at Kunkle. “No and I don’t know, in that order. I haven’t had time to check upstairs. I wouldn’t doubt it, though. People like crawling around construction sites at night. I did, as a kid.”
His radio squawked and he told the caller to hang on. “You want to check it out, be my guest—just try not to get killed. The stairs aren’t closed in all the way up.” He hesitated a moment, looking suddenly concerned. “I didn’t report what I found ’cause it was junk, you know? Nothing was broken or stolen.”
I waved my hand at him. “Not to worry. This is strictly routine.” He nodded, relieved, and showed us to another set of stairs before turning to his radio.
“If we find anything, I bet it’ll be up there,” Willy said, trudging up behind me. “If Milo’s going to break in here, he’s going to want a room with a view.”
“Good point,” I agreed.
One floor up we came to the future lobby—wide, soaring, with one wall and part of the ceiling, now covered in plywood, obviously destined to receive atrium-style windows. We hunted around for more stairs and found them far to the back, only partially walled in.
The trip took us through a series of variously gutted floors, reminiscent of a model ocean liner I’d seen as a child—large and carefully detailed, protected inside a museum’s glass case—in which one half of the hull had been removed to reveal the ship’s innards. I’d spent half an hour studying it, trying to memorize it all, and had finally walked away dazed by a blur of uncountable stacked decks. I’d never been able to think of a large ship since as not having one side missing.
Here, as in the model, the normal partitions were gone and I could see as if through translucent walls, from one end of each floor to the other. Farther up, however, things began to change. Walls appeared, hallways took shape, and the vague outlines of the hotel’s future look began to emerge. Ironically, in contrast with its more finished appearance, the top floor seemed utterly deserted.
Willy was breathing like a consumptive eighty-year-old by the time we reached the top. His attitude, however, was as solid as ever. “I don’t know how that asshole got this far, but I still bet this is where he camped out.”
Though dusty, uncarpeted, and raw, this level was essentially completed, making for a huge number of unpainted, sheet-rocked rooms to check out. We each chose a wing and split up.
Willy’s opinion of Milo’s instinct for luxury wasn’t just because this floor had the best view. Unlike what we’d bypassed to get here, this one was laid out to appeal to the well-heeled. The rooms weren’t just cubicles with bathrooms and closets, but suites, with bay windows and balconies and fixtures for whirlpools. The fanciest even had a mezzanine overlooking a living room—along with a tidy pile of building scraps, pulled together to form a human-sized sleeping pallet.
I returned to the hallway and shouted Willy’s name. It took him under a minute to find me.
“Was I right?” he asked.
“On the money.” I ushered him into the room and up the spiral staircase to the half-floor above. No railing was in place yet, so the sense of space—further emphasized by the gauzy, plastic-sheeted, floor-to-ceiling window on the opposite wall—was dizzying. We both found ourselves warily eyeing the platform’s edge, even though neither one of us got close to it.
The hammock I’d discovered consisted of a scrap of sheetrock suspended between two stacks of wood and cushioned with torn cardboard boxes. “
Somebody
slept here.”
Willy was not to be dissuaded. “You kidding? Had to be Milo. Probably left a shitload of trace evidence.” He pointed around the mezzanine. “Plus there’re enough footprints in the plaster dust to fill a scrapbook.”
I held up my hand suddenly. “You hear something?”
“People talking on the floor below.” Willy smiled. “They better improve the sound insulation or they’re going to have some pretty pissed-off honeymooners.”
We climbed off the mezzanine, satisfied it had only the one access. At the bottom, I picked up a broken piece of sheetrock, wedged it across the bottom step, and wrote on it, “Police Scene–Do Not Pass–Brattleboro PD.” I added my name and the date underneath it and said, “That ought to hold them for thirty seconds. Let’s get J.P. over here.”
“You want to check anywhere else?” Willy asked.
“Yeah, but only after we’ve got this under wraps.” I shook my head slightly, looking back up the staircase. “I’ve got a gut feeling Milo’s got something to tell us.”
· · ·
Entering the main stairwell, our path to a phone was interrupted by a peal of laughter from the landing below us, coming from a group obviously heading upstairs. Willy was about to ignore it and head on down, but a recognizable voice made me suddenly stop. Remembering the sensationalist headlines I had no interest in feeding, I felt suddenly exposed—and for a juvenile instant even contemplated flight.
The debate was settled, however, when the first of the party rounded the corner at our feet and fixed us with a surprised expression. He was tall, slim, and well dressed, albeit in jeans and construction boots, with wisps of dark red hair peering out from under his hard-hat, which, under the Carroll Construction logo, was labeled “Paul.”
“Hello?” he said in a politely startled voice. “May I help you?”
The second member of the group—the owner of the voice I’d winced at—appeared by his shoulder, his face split open by the trademark good ol’ boy, friend-of-the-people grin that had garnered him so much favor at the polls. “Uh-oh, Paul, we better cheese it—it’s the cops,” he said, after which Thomas Chambers let forth an uproarious laugh.
“What’re you boys doing here?” he then asked, his cold eyes the only harbingers of candor in his artificially happy face.
“We had a report of some vandalism,” I answered blandly. “Didn’t find much, though.”
The man in the “Paul” hat frowned. “I didn’t hear anything about that.”
“Not much to hear,” I continued. “A few cans and bottles—looks like maybe a bum spent the night. No damage. I’m Joe Gunther, by the way, from the Bratt PD. This is Willy Kunkle.”
The other man shook my hand. “Paul Hennessy. I’m the project manager for this job. Glad to meet you.” He glanced nervously at Willy, who didn’t smile, comment, or offer a hand.
The rest of the group had joined us in the stairwell by now and were standing awkwardly behind and below one another—Harold Matson, the Bank of Brattleboro’s president; Jim Carroll, who owned the construction company; Ted McDonald, of WBRT—no doubt scooping the
Reformer
—and a couple of younger attendants, poised to act on the wills of their masters.
“Where’s your brother?” I asked NeverTom. “I would’ve thought he’d be along on something like this.”
Chambers laughed again. “Oh, you know Junior—likes to keep to himself. I’m the family representative today.” He jerked his chin in the direction Willy and I had come from. “I take it the top floor is safe to visit?”
Not the most subtle of dismissals, and one I pretended to only half-comprehend. I pressed my back against the cement wall to let them pass. “Absolutely—go on ahead. I might join you, if that’s all right.”
Willy squeezed by them and continued downstairs, while NeverTom’s eyes once again zeroed in on me.
Paul Hennessy glanced at his boss, who barely nodded. “Of course,” he said. “Happy to have you.”
I tailed along, listening to Hennessy describe the upper floor—a series of penthouse suites reserved for the privileged, or for groups pooling their resources. As project manager, he knew the site in more detail than Jim Carroll, who was obviously along as a willing piece of window dressing—as was Harold Matson. This was the town’s biggest financial crap shoot yet, and one they’d almost seen vanish into bankruptcy, lawsuits, job losses, and political fallout. The parade I’d hitched onto was a ceremonial victory tour for the conquering hero, Ben Chambers—or at least his self-serving proxy.
We wandered down the hallways, ducking into different rooms. The bulk of the conversation was between Hennessy, Carroll, and Chambers. As relieved as I’d thought the bank president would be by Ben Chambers’s eleventh-hour rescue, Matson seemed curiously subdued.
Eventually, Hennessy threw open the door to what I’d mentally labeled “Milo’s suite.”
“And this is the pièce de résistance,” Paul Hennessy announced. “Three rooms, including a bedroom mezzanine—bathroom, whirlpool with a view of the mountains, fireplace, small bar with fridge. It’ll have two televisions, with optional sound piped into the bathroom, and phones everywhere. Of course, it’s a little hard to imagine at this stage.”
He turned toward the spiral staircase and came to a dead stop before my crude sign.
“Sorry about that,” I said quietly. “Just a couple of things we want to go over. Our forensics guy should be in and out in an hour or so, and the place’ll be all yours again. Hope it’s not an inconvenience.”
NeverTom’s jovial voice took on a slight edge. “I thought you hadn’t found anything.”
In the corner of my eye, I saw Ted McDonald scribbling furiously in a notepad. “I said we hadn’t found much,” I answered. “But we like to collect the odd scrap now and then. You never know what might come in handy.”
“Interesting use of taxpayer money,” Chambers said somberly. “Isn’t it a bit unusual for two detectives to be doing this kind of work? I thought you people prided yourselves on the skills and independence of your patrol officers.”
“We do,” I answered simply.
My lack of an explanation forced him to supply his own. “You just happened to be in the neighborhood?”
“That’s right.”
Harold Matson filled the awkward silence that suddenly stifled the lofty space. “Well, Mr. Hennessy… Mr. Carroll… I ought to be getting back. I want to thank you for the tour.” He shook hands all around, stopping before Tom Chambers. “Thomas, again, thanks to you and your brother for your incredible commitment to our town. The two of you make an invaluable team.”
The room’s invisible spotlight had cynically settled on the rotund Ted McDonald, the only person there they were all pretending to ignore, who had a small, knowing smirk on his face.
NeverTom pumped the banker’s hand. “Nothing to it, Harry. Junior and I are happy we could return some of the good fortune Brattleboro has blessed us with.”
I stepped out of the way, ignored in this flurry of mutual congratulations, and let the group file out the door without me. Only Ted stayed behind, stowing his pad, pen, and a small recorder into various pockets.
He joined me by the huge, plastic-sheathed window. “Amazing guy, old NeverTom.”
I played dumb, always on the watch with Ted, despite a friendship dating back decades. “How so?”
But he wasn’t fishing. He crossed his arms and stared out at the filmy view. “Oh… Little things, like referring to his brother as ‘Junior.’ Ben Chambers hates that—as much as his brother hates ‘Tom.’ Makes you wonder what kind of relationship they have, living together in that big house, both unmarried, both so totally different.”
“You know Ben well?”
“No. I’ve met him a couple of times. I’m not surprised he wasn’t here today. Very shy. He’s definitely the brains of the family, though. Maybe that’s why Tom treats him like shit.”
Ted McDonald had been born and raised in Brattleboro, as had his parents and grandparents. There was no one I knew who could better track the town’s genealogy.
“What was Ben Senior like as a father?” I asked him.
“Competitive, egocentric, intolerant, judgmental. His wife died giving birth to Tom, and he never remarried, so it was just him and the boys. That’s why they both hate their nicknames—their father used them to put them down. Now everyone else does the same thing behind their backs. I always thought they were a little strangely wired.”