Red Herring (21 page)

Crazy old lady. He dug a cigarette from the pack in his breast pocket and lit up, enjoying the smoke being pulled down deep into his lungs. Why couldn’t she just let go of Benny? Son of a bitch had never done squat for either one of them.

He drew in again on the cigarette, looking out at the leftover snow still frosting some of the car innards, where the sun couldn’t reach. But there was no getting away from Benny.

There was only putting him in the shade. He was stealing Ike’s limelight. Like always.

Ike’s eyes settled on the morning paper lying before him, where he’d dropped it in disgust earlier. Stupid cops. You try to make things interesting, and all they do is drop the ball. No wonder there was so much crime in the world.

Ike Miller reached for the disposable cell phone on the table, looked up a number in the phone book, and dialed.

“
Brattleboro Reformer
. How may I direct your call?”

“I want to talk to the editor.”

“He’s not in at the moment. Would you like to speak with someone in the newsroom?”

Ike hesitated. “Is he any good?”

The woman at the other end paused. “I’m sorry?”

“Sure. Put him on.”

There was a moment’s silence, followed by, “Newsroom. Patrick.”

“I got a story for you.”

“Who is this?”

“You don’t need to know. I’m about to make your day.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You people have a serial killer running around you don’t even know about.”

“Joe, that’s not how this works. I do not spill my guts and then have you say, ‘No comment.’ The very fact that you’re still on the line means I got something here, so don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

Joe stood at the corner of High Street and Main, Brattleboro’s commercial heart, and found himself thinking about the Dunkin’ Donuts that used to stand there for what seemed like years eternal, before being replaced by a community park and a Thai restaurant.

He really had a hankering for a doughnut, bean burritos notwithstanding.

“You there? Hello?”

“I’m here, Stanley. I’m considering your offer. I’m also still recovering from the shit you dumped on us about depriving the public of what they’ve got a right to know. Isn’t that a little worn-out, even for you?”

“I didn’t make you an offer,” the editor protested, completely ignoring that last comment. “I called on you to confirm or deny. That’s it.”

It was a good restaurant. Joe would concede that. He and Lyn ate
there often. And the whole corner looked better than when it had been the remnants of a long-forgotten, 1930s garage.

Maybe he missed the working-class tackiness of the scene more than the doughnut shop itself. He’d lived in Brattleboro for so many years, and knew so many of its down-and-out from his decades on the police department, that he’d come to see all that as its reality, more than the chamber-of-commerce gleam of new restaurants and spiffy community parks.

“Spare me, Stanley,” he told his phone. “You’re going to run a front-page screamer based on one anonymous wacko telling you Jack the Ripper is back? I don’t think so.”

“Something’s up, Joe,” Stan Katz insisted. “I can hear it in your voice. A good cop you are; an actor you’re not. I can still write a front-page piece making you and your fancy outfit look like cow manure. There’s an election on the horizon, Joe, in case your old girlfriend hasn’t told you, and VBI is a political creation. You hearing what I’m saying?”

“I hear you talking, Stan. I don’t hear much substance.”

But he knew Katz was right. All the sparring aside, they would have to meet.

And Katz knew it, too, which is why he didn’t respond.

Joe sighed and crossed the street, leaving the Dunkin’ Donuts memorial park behind. “I’ll see you in a few minutes, Stanley.”

The
Reformer
had once been shoved into a few rooms on Main Street, not far from the Latchis Hotel and Theatre, a 1930s art deco landmark, and right in the middle of the town’s bustle.

Now, it was relegated to a single-story, flat-roofed, mostly windowless brick slab, wedged between a cemetery and the interstate, and so removed from the community’s center that—if anyone even knew where the building was—they’d have to drive to get there.

It had been a sound financial move, no doubt, but—perhaps as with the passing of the doughnut shop—one Joe had forever rued.

Not that he was particularly sentimental about the newspaper. Like most cops, he saw the press more as a business dependent on sensationalism than as a bastion of free speech and liberty. On the other hand, he had to concede that the
Reformer
was hardly a mud slinger, and that Vermont’s media in general had a gentility about it that almost smacked of the 1950s.

For that, he wouldn’t complain, which was in large part why he pulled into the
Reformer
parking lot a half hour after receiving Stan Katz’s call, and ten minutes after phoning Bill Allard, whom he’d felt honor-bound to warn.

Allard, no surprise, had not been happy.

The building’s interior was no more inspiring than its outside—essentially an out-of-the box, open-floor layout with a few walls for offices, conference rooms, and probably an outmoded darkroom, the move from downtown having predated the Internet and digital photography by several years.

That being the case, Joe saw Stan immediately upon entering, seated at a computer somewhere in the middle distance, pounding on a keyboard as if it were on fire. Joe gave his old nemesis that much—upon being promoted to editor, he had eschewed a corner office to stay with his reporters.

Of course, that also meant they had to go shopping for a place to talk privately, and finally ended up in an office belonging to someone with an unhealthy addiction to cat-related paraphernalia.

“Celia won’t mind,” Katz said upon entering. “She’s out sick.”

Joe looked around, frowning. “I can see why.”

Katz shoved a chair his way and settled opposite him.

“So, what’ve you got?” he asked.

Joe laughed. “Right—this where I tell you everything we have on Jimmy Hoffa because we’re friends and I trust you?”

Stanley smiled and shrugged. “You look tired. I thought I’d try.” He paused to collect his thoughts a moment before resuming. “Okay,” he then said, “let’s do this by the numbers. One of my reporters got a phone call earlier from a man who didn’t identify himself, but who said that the police were working on three deaths that were in fact homicides committed by the same person. Those deaths were Doreen Ferenc, whom we know, and two more named Mary Fish and Robert Clarke. Do you care to comment?”

“Not yet,” Joe answered. “Can I ask a few questions?”

Embodying the very attitude Joe had just been considering regarding the Vermont media’s soft touch, Katz replied, “Shoot.”

“Did you trace this guy’s number?”

“It was a private call, and Pat—the reporter who took it—said it sounded like a cell. Probably a drop phone. Was he lying?”

“What did he sound like?”

“Young. Was he lying?”

“Were there any background noises?”

Katz sighed. “No. You’re killing me.”

“Was the call recorded?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Joe allowed at last. “What do you know about Fish and Clarke?”

Katz nodded. “Fish we heard was a suicide; Clarke I know nothing about. The AP wire had something about a car crash up north, so I’m guessing that was him. Were they murdered?”

Joe studied him in silence for a moment. The two of them first met back when Joe was a lieutenant detective and Katz a fired-up
cops-and-courts reporter—both far more ambitious, Type A, and antagonistic than now.

“Ground rules first,” Joe said.

Katz sighed. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Aren’t we beyond that crap?”

“You wish,” Joe told him. “You know goddamn well what we’re talking about here. You print your kind of headline and we’ll not only have a panic, but you’ll have done exactly what this nutcase wanted you to do. You actually want to be that easily manipulated?”

“So they are murders and he is the serial killer.”

Joe leaned forward to make better eye contact. “Focus, Stanley. You’re not going to get shit unless you deal with me.”

Katz laughed. “Why? Because you’ll call the
Rutland Herald
out of spite?”

“No,” Joe spoke slowly. “Because he will unless you and I come to an agreement.”

Katz furrowed his brow. “Lay it out for me.”

“We’re both screwed here. This guy is going to let the cat out of the bag. If you don’t produce a story, he’ll go elsewhere; if you produce a story with my help, then maybe we buy some time with my personal guarantee that I’ll let you interview me for an exclusive after it’s all said and done.”

“All said and done?” Katz asked incredulously. “Like when the guy’s in jail two years from now, after trials, appeals, and every other goddamn delay? Such an offer.”

“If I don’t cooperate, you got nothing,” Joe stated.

Katz rubbed his forehead. “All right, all right. Let’s push that aside. What’re you putting on the table?”

“I give you that all three murders are connected to a single killer, but I hold back a few details that’re key to the investigation and will
make the prosecution that much easier. You and I have done that before.”

Katz acknowledged the point with a slight tilt of the head.

“In addition,” Joe continued, “you print that we’ve got a good handle on the bad guy’s identity and that the killings were absolutely targeted and not even remotely random. Nobody’s at risk in the general public.”

Katz was scowling. “Is that true? Any of it?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“You always have.”

Joe sat back and looked at him silently.

“That’s it?” Katz demanded.

“It makes your story official,” Joe said. “You can write about the guy calling it in, and you can quote me responding to it. It gives you the scoop, maybe satisfies the wacko, and doesn’t cause a stampede.”

“Because in fact,” Katz suggested, “you have no idea who this is and the killings were totally random.”

“Wrong on both counts,” Joe said with a straight face. “And if you go there, I’ll make sure you look like a total idiot before it’s done—right up there with the
National Enquirer
.”

Stanley swiveled his borrowed chair around and looked beyond a row of porcelain cats on the windowsill to the silent traffic on the distant interstate outside. Joe let him ponder.

“All right,” the editor finally said, not bothering to look back. “Let’s give it a try.”

Sammie killed her car engine and let her hands drop into her lap. She’d been more tired on other cases, more stressed, and more doubtful of success. This time, they had troops to spare, a clear-cut
perp to pursue—even if they didn’t know his name—and a strategy linked to the Brookhaven findings that made sense. But she still felt exhausted.

It hadn’t been fun, visiting funeral homes and rescue squads and hospital administrators, sometimes doubling back to get warrants for a simple list of employees or customers. But she’d been there before. Mind-numbing research and digging were often part of the job. It beat working at a desk, and it sometimes led to unexpected successes. She’d solved more than one case by stumbling across a key missing piece while examining something unrelated.

Still. She was bushed.

She swung out of the car and approached the barn labeled “Thurber’s Undercoating.” At least this time, she wouldn’t be dealing with a blank-faced bureaucrat. Schuyler “Sky” Thurber and she went back a few years.

She entered the barn through a small side door, into a large warm cavern, pungent with the sweet, cloying smell of the fine, light oil used to protect car underbodies from road salt and sand. In a far corner, corralled off for safety with a steel grate, stood an enormous woodstove, flanked on both sides by attending rows of piled wood.

“Sky?” she shouted, not seeing anyone around. In the middle of the huge space was a large, semitransparent, plastic campaign tent, big enough to seat fifty people. But in its midst, poised on a lift, was a Subaru station wagon.

“In here,” came a baritone voice. “Who’s that?”

“Sam Martens,” she answered, approaching the tent. “I didn’t see you in there.”

She gingerly peeled back a flap and glanced inside. The odor associated with the whole place was thicker in here, explained by the walls of the tent being slick with a thin film of oil.

“Careful,” the slightly muffled voice said. “You’ll trash your clothes.”

She saw a pair of legs approaching from the far side of the elevated car, encased below the knees in green rubber boots. A man stepped around the corner, his head covered with a filthy ball cap and his face blocked by a respirator. As he neared, he gestured to her to step back, and then followed her outside to the barn’s main room.

There, he peeled off a long pair of rubber gloves and removed the respirator with a single, long-practiced sweep of his hand, revealing a broad Scandinavian face sporting a perfect row of large, white teeth.

Sky Thurber leaned far over and kissed Sam on the cheek. “How’s the girl?” he asked brightly. “You look like you could use a little beach time.”

She laughed and squeezed his hand, the only part of him she dared to touch. “You look like you just got back from some.”

He laughed in turn. “I did. Margaret and I went on a cruise. Can you believe that? Just like the ads—fancy meals, swimming pool, gambling. I didn’t see any of those pretty girls. They musta been on a different boat. But it was great. We’re thinking of doing it next year, too.”

He led the way to a small cluster of chairs located near the woodstove. In the background, a small squad of parked vehicles was visible, no doubt waiting their turn in the tent.

Sky pointed to one of the chairs. “Sit anywhere you want. That one’s mine, though—only one that’ll guarantee your butt’ll never get rusty.”

He burst out laughing as they both settled down. She’d known and loved this man and his family ever since she’d helped them out fifteen years earlier on an embezzlement case. For some reason, they’d all just clicked, and had stayed friends forever. Sammie Martens had
no family, and the Thurbers, among few others, had been quietly enlisted.