Three Can Keep a Secret (16 page)

Joe watched her speaking, her words at such contrast with her Greenwich, Connecticut, look. She'd referred to shadowing her father down the corridors of power. She'd obviously been one hell of a student
—
stimulated, according to her, by her disgust with what she was witnessing.

"When the inevitable came crashing in on them," she continued, "when the war cracked the shell and allowed young men to escape and restless veterans to return
—
and Vietnam then made a lie of so much that we'd taken for granted
—
people like my father saw a chance to cash in like never before. There was a sudden chasm between the horrified old conservatives and the dope-smoking, commune-living, back-to-nature bunch. The shift from Republicans to Democrats in the '60s was less uniform or universal than people remember today, and for opportunists like dear old Dad, it meant that some Republicans became pragmatic
—
if they couldn't have the statehouse, they would control the money that was coming in at last with the postwar tourist boom. They slipped into that gap between paying lip service to the wide-eyed, crunchy-granola newbies, and doing deals with the hard-eyed capitalists who were figuring out how to make a buck in this new reality. Old Gorden
—
bless his cynical little heart
—
took the money from one side, finessed the idealists on the other with
carefully
crafted legislation, and made out like a pirate. There was no good cause that he wouldn't embrace, and no cash deal that he wouldn't consider.

"Long story short," she concluded, "even before his drinking and bad habits took their toll, he'd been looking at 'the plight of the elderly' and saying all the right things in committees and on the stump
—
while greasing the skids to turn The Woods into a viable project. Old IOUs got called in, from politicians and millionaires alike, and a bunch of seemingly minor and even unrelated bills slid through the legislative process until the first silver shovel hit the dirt at the groundbreaking."

Michelle Mahoney sighed and delivered her punch line: "The Woods of Windsor is what it is, Mr. Gunther
—
a retirement home for people rich enough to pay the entry fee; but it's also a snake pit of a few bastards like my father who may look like their fellow residents, but who are in fact unrecognized and untraceable founders and beneficiaries of a highly lucrative business venture. And that," she said, "is why I said what I did about the inmates. There are secrets galore at that place, and I wouldn't doubt that in the minds of a few of those old coots, some of those secrets are worth killing for."

By now, Joe could no longer resist betraying a bit of his ignorance about her background. "What kind of lawyer are you, Ms. Mahoney?"

The smile she gave him was wry and self-deprecating. "Corporate, Mr. Gunther. The apple fell close to the tree."

"I don't know," he complimented her. "It doesn't sound like your father was blessed with your integrity."

"Why did you want to know?" she asked.

"I don't usually get such an organized and clearly delivered summation."

"You're being polite," she said. "My colleagues tell me I'm a bully and a bore."

"You may be the first," he agreed in part. "I don't know about that. But you certainly aren't the second. Have you been to your father's apartment since he died?"

"No," she replied. "Why?"

"Before I answer that," he said, "I'm wondering if you were ever there."

Her face expressed surprise. "Of course I was. I dropped by every time I came here. I didn't like him, but he was my father, and he's all I have, or
had
left."

"How old were you when your mom died?" Joe asked.

"Eleven," she replied softly. "She was a poor, hapless, bullied creature, but a good heart. I don't think she ever knew what to do with me, but she did try
—
I'll give her that. That's why I took her last name when I reached majority."

Joe nodded and moved on. "The reason I asked if you'd ever been to your dad's apartment is because I'm hoping you'll go there with me and tell me if you think anything's missing or different from what you're used to."

"You want to find out what was stolen when your cop got mugged."

Joe didn't want to prejudice her beforehand. "In part, maybe. Would you be willing?"

She answered by standing, flattening the front of her jeans with her hands. "Let's go. I can finish with Judy later."

The drive took under twenty minutes, and they went in separate cars, Mahoney predictably navigating a high-end Lexus SUV. At the apartment, Joe was at first disappointed to find that his request for a guard on the door had gone ignored
—
until he used the key and discovered one of Carrier's men inside.

He laughed at him. "Don't tell me," he said. "Let me guess."

"What?" the man answered.

"Rick parked you inside to spare you from Graham Dee."

The cop smiled. "Don't think I don't appreciate it."

"So you've met the man."

"Oh, yeah. He tags us every time we roll into the parking lot. Quite the unit."

Joe stood aside and introduced Michelle Mahoney. After arranging for a time to return, the cop left them to get some air and a coffee.

Michelle stood looking around. "Kind of funny," she said quietly.

"What?"

"It's over," she said. "It didn't really strike me till now, but seeing this, and smelling him in the air . . ." She left the sentence dangling.

Joe was struck by the same realization
—
that her matter-of-factness had overshadowed what had actually befallen her. She was an only orphan, and was now confronted with having to forage through her father's belongings, deal with funeral homes and lawyers, all while confronting a lifetime of complicated, not-so-fond memories.

"Would you like to do this later?" Joe asked. "There's no rush."

That was all she needed. She faced him, her eyes shining but dry. "Of course there is. You have a man wounded and a homicide to solve. What would you like me to do?"

He took her through the apartment, room by room, asking her to stop and consider each view as they came upon it. He asked her about furniture moved, pictures missing, objects disturbed, files gone astray. They wound up before the dresser, where he pulled open the drawer and asked her to check its contents. Sadly but not surprisingly, she merely gave him a blank look.

"You think I know what was in my father's sock drawer?"

He indicated the space before her. "It's not socks, for one thing. Take a look."

Amused, she did as he'd asked, even poking her finger in among the odds and ends. "Okay," she then announced.

"Did he have a jewelry box?" he asked her. "With cuff links, tie tacks, things like that?"

Her brow furrowed slightly. "I think my mom gave him one. He used to scatter those things across the top here." She patted the dresser's flat surface, which was clear aside from a decorative lamp. She added, "Where we used to live. It drove her a little crazy. She was kind of a neatnik."

In the end, she fell short of being the oracle he'd hoped for, including about the contents of the stolen box. She did tell him of a politically oriented photograph that was missing from the office wall, and that the telephone must have been voided of messages by someone not her father
—
she claimed he would never have done that, since he'd habitually used the answering machine as a form of to-do file, stacking up to twenty messages there on a regular basis.

"Do you remember who was in the photograph?" Joe asked, standing before the spot it had occupied, as if willing its ghost to reappear.

She stood beside him. "It was a group shot, with my father. The governor at the time may have been in it. But there were others
—
men and women, both. I just don't know who. Not sure if I ever did, to be honest."

"You say, 'at the time.' So it was old?"

She considered the question before responding, "It looked old
—
black-and-white, a little contrasty because of the flash. I'd say a half century, more or less. It was back when my father was at his peak. He looked very pleased with himself."

"You ever see a copy of it elsewhere?" Joe asked hopefully. "In a newspaper, maybe?"

But she announced what he didn't want to hear. "Nope. That might've been it. Probably gone for good now."

Joe had brought along a file of documents related to the case. He fetched it from the kitchen counter and extracted a copy of the photograph that he and Lester had found in Barb Barber's album in Shelburne, of Carolyn and Michelle's father facing the cameras during the Governor-for-a-Day event.

He laid it on Gorden's desk. "This the missing picture?"

She barely glanced at it. "No. As I said, it was a group shot."

Disappointed, he picked it up and handed it to her for closer scrutiny. "That is your father, though, correct?"

"Oh yes," she said, taking the copy. "And this was around the same time. That girl may have even been in the other picture." She waved it gently in the air, adding, "But this isn't it."

"Did you ever hear your father refer to anyone named Carolyn Barber?" Joe asked.

"Never," she said.

"Or hear him mention an event from about that time, called Governor-for-a-Day?"

Again, she couldn't help him. "No," she said. "Sounds pretty silly."

He took the picture back. "Yeah. I thought so, too. Once."

Rob stepped off the elevator on the third floor and looked around. He'd been to Sheldon Scott's office building before, but only at ground level, where the conference rooms and reception staff were located. He knew that the firm owned the entire building
—
it was that kind of operation
—
but he'd gotten the clear impression that people sharing his political philosophy weren't likely to be invited upstairs.

That had always been the projected image of Scott & Company, as the business was officially called. From the formidable turn-of-the-century building to the formal dress code adhered to by everyone down to the lowest-ranked employee, the place smacked of a generally anachronistic attitude
—
displaying the sensitivity of an upper-crust manor in a land of tepees and yurts.

Not that Montpelier was lacking in monumental architecture
—
or suits, dresses, and business attire. It was the state capital, after all, even if that state was small and rural. Still, for all the effort exerted in the form of gold domes and urban "power-wear," Perkins had nevertheless spotted a Vermont Supreme Court justice wearing clogs under his robes. "Mr. Perkins?"

He turned to find a young woman, immaculate from toe to head, standing in an unmarked entrance halfway down the otherwise empty mahogany-paneled hallway.

"Mr. Scott will see you in here."

Perkins approached and followed her into the room she'd appeared from. Having entered, however, he heard the door closed behind him and found himself alone in one of the largest offices he'd ever visited
—
as big as the entire end of the building, with towering windows on three of its fifteen-foot walls. He was instantly reminded of the set for
My Fair Lady.

"Rob. How nice to see you."

He glanced about, unable to locate the source of the voice.

"Hi, Mr. Scott," he said nevertheless, the man's age advantage earning him the title
—
a reflection of Rob's traditional upbringing.

"Up here," replied the disembodied voice, drawing Perkins's attention to the two-story, balcony-equipped bookshelves directly behind him. He walked farther into the room and turned to look up at his host.

Sheldon Scott, in pinstripe suit, red tie, French cuffs, and trademark thick mane of snow-white hair, smiled down on him like the cross between a TV evangelist and an emperor of Rome. Perkins half expected to receive an imperial thumbs-down as a tiger was set free from under the truck-sized desk near the far wall.

Instead, Scott walked the length of the balcony and nimbly descended a wrought-iron spiral staircase, emerging from it with manicured hand extended.

"How long's it been?" he asked.

"Nine months," Rob answered, having checked the fact in his calendar before coming here. "The Cross-Border Conference reception at the Hilton."

"Really?" Scott gestured for him to proceed to the other end of the room, where a cluster of leather armchairs was gathered before a cavernous fireplace. The walls at this end were adorned with books as well, but allowed, too, for a scattering of carefully framed photographs
—
each of them featuring Sheldon Scott with some conservative luminary, dating back to Richard Nixon and Barry Goldwater. A large shot of Scott and then Senate President Pro Tern Gorden Marshall caught Perkins's eye, if only because of an article in the morning paper stating that Marshall had died at his retirement home in eastern Vermont.

"Then we're overdue for a catch-up," Scott was saying. "Would you like anything to drink?"

"No, thank you. I'm all set."

Scott waved him to one of the chairs and settled down himself, crossing his legs and shooting his cuffs with the grace of a seasoned actor. Perkins had long considered that one of the weapons in this man's arsenal was this almost theatrical aristocratic bearing. For a country that had violently broken from a monarchy, the United States had, in Rob's opinion, forever-after harbored a longing for royalty, which the likes of Sheldon Scott exploited to the hilt.

"Having a good time working for the governor?" Scott asked airily, as if making conversation.

"An excellent time."

The older man nodded thoughtfully. "This storm has certainly added to your headaches, though. Terrible thing."

"We're managing," Perkins said cryptically.

"So, what brings you to see me?" Scott asked his guest with an expansive gesture of hands, apparently tiring of a game of manners that clearly had no traction.

Rob had expected this opening gambit, and so didn't hesitate to respond, "You wouldn't be seeing me in your inner sanctum if you didn't already know. For that matter, one could say that you indirectly asked to see
me.
So why don't we start there? Why am I here, Mr. Scott?"

The lobbyist gave him an avuncular smile as he lamented, "Ah, Rob. I love it. How I wish our politics were more compatible. I would hire you in a New York minute."

Perkins made no comment.

Scott steepled his fingers before his lower lip, allowing Rob to see that his gold cuff links were stamped with something suspiciously reminiscent of the presidential seal. "All right. Since the topic of Irene has already been broached, let's talk about that. It is hardly my own opinion that Governor Zigman is taking a beating because of FEMA, among other things
—
deservedly or not. Can we agree on that?"

"I will agree that people have their facts wrong and are blaming us and FEMA for their problems," Rob said cautiously.

"Ah, ha," Scott responded, one finger in the air. "Still, that suggests that a little help proffered in that area might be seen as a real advantage."

"Depending on the ins and outs attached to that help, sure," Rob agreed. "What are we talking about, exactly?"

"Philosophically?" Scott immediately evaded. "Let's call it the common man's readiest complaint: I need money and I want it now." He laughed at his own wit. "That's their frustration in a nutshell, is it not? Vermonters think FEMA has the cash, and they want it faster than it's being produced. Already, the papers are filling with nightmare stories about the size and complexity of the government's aid applications. All the more poignant with the first twinge of fall in the air."

Again, Rob kept silent.

"The proposal I'm imagining," Scott continued, "would result in a noncompetitive, legislatively backed, but privately funded program that would effectively address those delays and the overall cash availability surrounding the present situation."

Perkins couldn't resist smiling at the careful phrasing
—
each word chosen for its apparent precision and its vagueness.

He responded in kind. "Well, of course you know that the governor's office can't speak for the legislature."

Scott laughed artificially, making Rob wonder how it was that so many people fell for this man's supposed charms. "Oh, come, come, Rob. We Republicans are barely allowed access to that building. Between the Democrats, the Libertarians, and the Progressives, I'm half surprised Gail Zigman hasn't been proclaimed governor-for-life."

"And yet she hasn't been," Rob said, "which leaves us with an old-fashioned democracy, as clunky as that can be. Which also, by the way, includes FEMA itself. I imagine they'll be fascinated to hear of this project, and more than happy to withdraw their own money if Vermont comes up with a benevolent billionaire to replace them." He seemed to ponder the thought of that possibility, and then asked, "Putting that aside for the time being, where are you proposing the money come from?"

Scott raised his eyebrows. "Was Susan Raffner that poor a messenger that she didn't tell you?"

"I'm just asking for confirmation," Rob said stiffly, beginning to thoroughly dislike the roundabout, quasi-devious, pie-in-the-sky nature of the conversation. He was feeling himself increasingly among the shoals.

"Who did she say was offering his generosity?"
Scott asked innocently.

Rob sighed. "Harold LeMieur."

Scott spread his hands wide. "Well, then
—
there you are."

Perkins frowned. "Are you his official representative with this proposal?"

"I represent Harold on all his affairs in Vermont, and many others elsewhere."

Rob held up a hand, as if in protest, struggling to remember that he was here on assignment, and not to air his own opinions. "I get that. Look. Don't get me wrong. We like the sound of this. It would be good for us, reflect well on LeMieur, and help the entire state get past this mess far more quickly
—
if,"
he emphasized, "we're all very clear on who's offering what and how. To be perfectly honest, Mr. Scott, there is nothing in Mr. LeMieur's past that would make me believe he's being genuine with this offer. It just stretches credibility."

Scott was nodding sympathetically. "Totally understandable. You merely repeated what I said when I first heard of this, Rob. There is a factor here, however, that you're unaware of, and I think it may help to change your mind
—
Harold is not in the best of health."

Rob's mouth fell open, as much stunned by the message as by its manipulative undertone
—
assuming it was true. "He's dying?" he blurted out.

"He's not well, and you know how sentimental people can get, especially if they've lived a long and full life and feel that they need to give back before it's too late."

"You're telling me
that's
what this is?" Rob asked. "A dying man's guilt trip?"

Scott's polite smile froze. "That's a bit harsh. He is my dearest friend. But it may be one way of looking at it, from your perspective. I see it in a more sentimental light
—
a man lending a hand to his birth state in its time of greatest need."

Perkins couldn't sit still anymore, he was feeling so uncomfortable with the various covert possibilities
—
most of them bad. He rose from the clinging embrace of the large chair and crossed to a window to stare sightlessly out onto the Montpelier traffic below. Sheldon Scott let him take his time quietly.

Eventually, Perkins turned and faced the owner of this elaborate scheme. "Mr. Scott," he said. "I'll have to get back to you on this. The ramifications, the logistics, the sheer number of players that would have to sign on to make it happen are staggering, not to mention that the need for money and action is right now
—
today."

Scott nodded sagely and seemed to
carefully
consider what Perkins had said before replying, "Of course you're right, Rob. I had mentioned all of this to Harold. It does seem as if we may have knocked on the wrong door. Your mention of FEMA's possible response to this philanthropic gesture makes me think that we should perhaps speak to Vermont's Washington delegation. They are, after all, right there at the seat of power, even controlling FEMA's purse strings. This entire matter may in fact be more than a mere governor can address."

Rob Perkins stared at the man in wonder and horror, fully realizing with that last pitch the true nature of the trap that had begun with Susan Raffner and ended with him. He felt light-headed and slightly nauseated as he heard himself say, "I've got to go. We'll be back in touch soon," while feeling like a man who'd just told his own firing squad that he would in fact enjoy the shortlived respite of a last cigarette.

Sheldon Scott didn't protest, nor rise to see him out. Instead, as if by magic
—
and reeking of prearranged orchestration
—
the far door opened and the same tailored woman appeared to usher Perkins from the room. As he passed her by, Rob made a conscious effort to memorize her features, suspecting that he'd see her again, most likely as a witness to his having met with her boss in a clandestine, closed-door setting, no doubt to be portrayed in the worst of all lights.

"Hey," Joe said into the phone.

Beverly Hillstrom chuckled on the other end
—
a side of her that he had rarely glimpsed. "Hey, yourself. Are you calling about your two burned special deliveries from Shelburne?"

He let out a laugh, startled by the phrasing. "Not actually. I really just wanted to hear your voice."

"Ahh," she let out slowly. "Now, that's very nice. How are you feeling, Joe?"

"Truthfully?" he replied. "Very happy. The whole state is under three feet of silt, you're buried in bodies, and I have an asylum escapee wandering loose, an old folks' home straight out of Agatha Christie, and somebody who's missing his coffin, but I feel as if something fundamental has just slipped into its proper place. I'd like to thank you for that. How 'bout you? Is that way more than you wanted to hear?"

"It's pure music, Joe. I'm very happy about what's happening."

"I'm sorry I had to leave so e
arly," he said. "All this stuff
—"

She cut him off. "If you start apologizing for that, then I'll have to join in, and there will never be an end to it. A pinkie swear, Special Agent-in-Charge Joe Gunther: Never let that be a problem. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Would you like to hear about your two cremated bodies? It's preliminary, but it's fine with me if it's acceptable to you."

He wasn't about to turn her down. "Absolutely, Doctor. Proceed."

"The female
—
Barbara Barber
—
clearly died of smoke inhalation, and her body was then consumed by the fire. From the report and photographs I received, I have no problem with the police suggestion that she died sitting in her wheelchair. William Friel, however, is a little more problematic, in that I found no signs of the same COD. His throat and lungs were clear of the soot I found in his mother, and his carbon dioxide level was within normal limits. His body did suffer extensively from the fire, making some of this hypothesis only approximately accurate, but right now, I'm thinking that in his particular microenvironment during the conflagration, Mr. Friel died of inhaling super-heated air
—
a flash fire
—
rather than of any products of combustion, such as smoke. In some cases, I can find perhaps a cardiac event to explain findings like these, but Mr. Friel appears to have had a perfectly normal middle-aged anatomy. He didn't even have much alcohol in his system, which is something else I look for, especially in house fires."

"And naturally, you didn't find a bullet," Joe said.

"Nor a bashed-in skull, nor a ligature around his neck," she agreed. "As always, the toxicology screen will be coming back in a few weeks and may have something not readily apparent today, but right now, I'm afraid I'm going to have to label this one the same way I did Mr. Marshall."

"Undetermined," Joe concluded.

"Sadly, yes," she concurred. "There is a lingering question deserving of further analysis, however," she added hopefully.

"Oh?"

"It's not much. But, again, it's among the details I search for in cases like this. I always ask myself, 'Why didn't they get
out?'
That's
usually answered by circumstances, as with Ms. Barber, who couldn't move from her wheelchair, or by things like alcohol, drugs, or pre-conflagration death or disability. But as far as we know, Mr. Friel suffered from none of those. So, why did he stay in the building? It had to have been reeking of gas, given the way it went up."

Joe was nodding at the phone in agreement, enjoying in part how the back-and-forth between them
—
always a natural part of their friendship
—
felt only enhanced by their personal relationship having reached a new level. It served him as a tiny confirmation of the good feeling he'd been carrying around all day.

"Have you considered suicide?" Hillstrom asked suddenly.

"What?"

"It's not unheard of. You feel your world is at a dead end, you're caring for someone whose suffering is only going to worsen . . ." She left the rest of her sentence unfinished.

Instinctively, he rejected the idea, but he recognized her scientific process. And he'd been to the house. It wasn't a stretch to superimpose her scenario onto the life of William Friel.

Still, considering their other death of interest
—
and Beverly's similarly unsatisfactory finding
—
it was unlikely that Friel, with his roundabout connection to Gorden Marshall, should all of a sudden choose this moment to park himself and his mother with Marshall at the morgue.

Somebody lethal was controlling events here, from deep within the shadows, and as far as Joe knew, the only likely victim left
—
with direct ties to all three deaths
—
was Barb's demented sister, wandering around on the loose. They'd circulated the "Be on the Lookout" press release, and it had been getting coverage in the media, but the state remained semi-crippled and distracted by the storm's aftereffects, and Joe was suspicious of the publicity's true impact.

"Thanks, Beverly," he told Hillstrom. "You've left me thinking, as usual."

"Coming back north soon?" she inquired seductively.

"Count on it," he replied.