Sally was impressed with Kirk. She’d always considered him to be kind of a pussy, although he made up for it with his computer smarts, but he’d shown some spirit when Souliere fought back. Still, the bitch had hit Sally hard, and she was now sporting a hell of a bruise, which she’d have to hide with makeup.
They had Souliere’s laptop, and a box file of her material on the Martyrs. Kirk went out and bought coffee with sausage and egg sandwiches for breakfast, and together they set to work on Souliere’s laptop and documents. Sally was shocked at just how much Souliere had discovered about the Martyrs’ past, including aspects of their history of which even she was unaware. More worryingly, Souliere had made some progress on tracing family lines among the Brethren, undaunted by changes of name, and aided by gossip and hearsay. It was clear that her information, combined with Eklund’s, had brought the investigator to their door, although Eklund realized too late just how close to the Brethren he actually was.
Kirk copied anything that might be useful from the computer before removing the hard drive and piercing it repeatedly with a screwdriver. He would toss it in the furnace when they got home, along with Souliere’s papers. The laptop itself he’d take to Steven Lee’s junkyard.
Eklund’s laptop, on the other hand, he had retained, although not by choice. The investigator had collated so much data that Sally was still working her way through it, but to safeguard the material, Eklund, who was smarter than he appeared, had employed someone to build him an OS and install it in a Frankenstein machine made from the salvaged parts of others. The system was incompatible with any driver that Kirk could find, and even with the authentication codes tortured from Eklund, any attempt to copy the files risked a fatal crash. Kirk was afraid that if he screwed around too much with the laptop, they might lose everything on it. Finally, to ensure that the hard drive couldn’t be removed, Eklund had stripped the screw heads holding the case together. It was a perfect storm of protection, and so Kirk was stuck with dragging the bitch device around with him, in case either Souliere or Thayer gave up information that needed to be cross-checked.
During their time with Souliere, Sally had taken the opportunity to go through the contents of the woman’s iPhone. They didn’t bother taking it with them – they knew how easily it could be traced, which was why they were carrying only primitive burner phones themselves; they didn’t want to risk even removing the iPhone from the house and dumping it somewhere along the way – but she deleted all the messages after listening to them, just as a precaution. Kirk tried telling her how easily they could be retrieved, but she told him to shut the fuck up. Most of the messages related to college business, and one to Souliere’s proposed book on the Capstead Martyrs.
A book! A fucking book!
But a couple of the messages, along with a bunch of missed calls, came from a man named Charlie Parker, who’d been due to meet with Souliere on the evening she died. Sally was concerned he might try to come by Souliere’s house, which was why she’d gone to work with the knife so quickly, once Souliere had given up her laptop password and cell phone passcode.
The Parker name was familiar to Sally from somewhere, but she couldn’t recall how, not at first. She had to wait until they were in the motel, and Kirk had finished copying the material from Souliere’s computer, before she could access the Internet. Now she googled Parker, and the cell phone number he had left with his message. She did so almost absentmindedly. She was thinking about taking Kirk to bed before they left. It would be a reward for both of them.
A page of results came up. As soon as she began scrolling through them, all thoughts of sex with Kirk left her, and she recalled where she had first come across Parker’s name.
It was on Jaycob Eklund’s laptop.
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’
71
Richard collected Sumner shortly after five a.m. Initially there had been some discussion about using a vehicle other than Richard’s, perhaps a salvage from Steven Lee’s yard, but Steven Lee didn’t have anything reliable on hand, and the last thing anyone wanted was a breakdown either heading to or, worse, leaving Thayer’s place, so Richard’s Chevy Blazer it was.
Richard had picked up two coffees at a Dunkin’ Donuts before he arrived, along with some crullers, and that kept them going for a couple of hours. Richard told Sumner that he usually listened to political discussion programs while he was driving, but Sumner didn’t have time for that talk radio shit, liberal or conservative. If he wanted to hear folk agreeing with their own opinions for hours on end, he could just stay at home and listen to his wife. They settled on Deep Tracks for the first part of the drive, stopped for a late breakfast at an IHOP off the highway, then switched to Classic Rewind for something a little more modern. They agreed that pretty much all music made after 1983 sucked, even if it meant they were becoming a pair of stubborn nostalgists.
Richard had always taken Sumner for a loudmouth. Richard concealed a secret terror of those who could build and fix things, as they made him feel less masculine by comparison. But Sumner turned out to be quite the thinker, and if he was loud then it was because his was a big, generous personality. Richard discovered that Sumner was planning to head over to South Africa at the end of the fall to build houses for some charity. Jesse would be going with him, although Sumner said she was kind of nervous about it, which he understood. Richard wasn’t sure just what Jesse would be doing when she was over there, since she was even less adept with a hammer and nails than he was. Sumner confessed he wasn’t sure either, but she didn’t want to stay home alone.
Sumner, in turn, had never spent a lot of time in Richard’s company, but gradually found that what he had mistaken for standoffishness, or even superiority, was actually a kind of shyness. Richard didn’t strike Sumner as the kind of guy who’d cheat on his wife, but if there was an adulterous type, then greater minds than Sumner’s had failed to pinpoint it. It was Richard who raised the subject of his affair, as they were nearing the Ohio-Pennsylvania line. They were passing one of those wedding venues, the sort Sumner always associated with Irish marriages: lots of guests, bad food, and buyer’s remorse once the hangovers wore off. The sight of it seemed to spark a series of associations in Richard.
‘It’s been a shitty year or so,’ he said. ‘Real shitty.’
‘Yeah?’ said Sumner, because what else could one say to that? ‘Work, or …’
He let it hang.
‘The “or” part,’ Richard confirmed.
The affair was common knowledge among the Brethren. The closeness of their relationships meant they could have few secrets. Affairs were regarded as unwise, and were tacitly discouraged. Any unhappiness had to be tackled – they couldn’t risk the urge to confess that might come with analysis, or conversations with pastors or priests – but flaws in marriages carried very particular risks: no extramarital affair could survive without some degree of pillow talk, and who knew what confidences might be exchanged at such moments?
When Sophia found out about her husband’s dalliance, it was to Sally she turned, and pressure was immediately placed on Richard to put an end to the relationship. The girl was young, too. She wasn’t one of Richard’s students, but she’d graduated a few years earlier from the high school at which he taught. They’d hooked up after some Lions Club event for underprivileged kids, which the girl was attending with her younger sister. Their home life was a mess, and Sumner could only assume that Richard had taken pity on her, and then one thing led to another, as one thing often did.
‘Jesse said she thought you and Sophia were getting on better now.’
‘Yeah, we’re okay,’ but the way he uttered the word okay spoke only of sadness and regret. ‘But we don’t … you know. We have separate rooms.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. She’ll come around. She’s just angry and hurt.’
‘It’s been six months since we last slept together.’
‘How long have you been married?’
‘Fift
een years come April.’
‘Then six months isn’t so long.’
‘No, I suppose it isn’t.’
Richard continued to stare out the window, watching fields and trees and life pass him by.
‘I miss her.’
‘Sophia?’
‘No, Lucie. The girl. I miss her.’
Sumner resisted the urge to smack Richard across the back of the head. For a teacher, he wasn’t very bright.
‘I wanted to contact her again,’ said Richard. ‘Dumb, I know. I just needed to tell her I was sorry for how it ended, and find out how she was.’
And fuck her one last time for the road, Sumner wanted to add, but didn’t. Instead he said, ‘And did you?’
‘This between us?’
Sumner nodded, and he meant it, for now. They were on their way to kill someone, and a degree of trust was imperative in such situations.
‘I tried,’ said Richard, ‘but she’d moved somewhere else. Her father was an asshole, and her stepmom wasn’t much better, so she’d always talked about getting away from them. I feel sorry for Vicki, her sister, but I think she’ll be all right. She’s stronger than Lucie was.’
‘Do you have any idea where she went?’
‘I spoke to Vicki, but she didn’t know. Lucie just told her to finish high school. Once Lucie was settled, and had a place to live, then Vicki could come join her. Vicki said she’d like that.’
I bet she wouldn’t, thought Sumner, not unless she wants to be crushed and buried somewhere in Steven Lee’s wrecking yard. You killed her, Richard. Donn Routh might have been the one who strangled her, tracking her down to some shithole apartment in Jersey, but she died because you couldn’t keep your pecker in your pants. Whatever you did or didn’t say to her wasn’t the issue: she was your weakness, and an end had to be put to her.
‘Did her sister know about the two of you?’ Sumner asked.
‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I made it clear to Lucie that no one could know. I told her that when we first started seeing each other. I said I might be able to take care of her and her sister, but I wouldn’t be able to do it if anyone found out. I needed time to make a plan and move some money around.’
‘You mean you told her you’d leave Sophia for her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you mean it?’
Richard’s voice cracked.
‘Yes.’
What an idiot.
‘Christ, Richard, if her sister even suspected there was something between the two of you, it could cause problems.’
‘You mean if the police came looking for Lucie?’
Sumner turned to stare at him. Their eyes met, and in that instant Sumner understood that Richard knew the truth about what had befallen his lover, or suspected it. Maybe Sophia had thrown it at him in the course of an argument, or he was just smart enough to realize that a girl who loved her sister, and wanted to protect her, wouldn’t just head into the sunset, breaking off all contact.
‘Why would they do that?’ he asked, but it wasn’t a question to which either of them expected an answer, and they didn’t speak again until they neared Greensburg.
72
Philip and Lastrade met Stevie in Newburyport. It meant a drive of almost two hours from Providence, but they didn’t care, and it was smarter not to meet in Boston. Newburyport in February was quiet, and the chances of being seen by anyone known to the parties involved were next to none.
Stevie was waiting for them at Angie’s on Pleasant, which was all black-and-white tiles and clean Formica, and reminded Philip of vaguely recollected diners from his youth, when he still regarded Mother with adoring eyes. He’d avoided her that morning, just in case she started asking him about his plans for the day.
Philip thought Stevie looked more like an Italian lizard than last time: leather jacket, jeans that hung too low on his ass, a big patterned sweater to ward off the cold. He was also a lot less relaxed, which, oddly, made Philip trust him more. Over coffee and eggs, Stevie explained how he respected his uncle Bernardo, but that sometimes he was too cautious, and it was time for new thinking if all that was to be left of a great criminal heritage was more than a couple of bakeries in the North End.
Frankly, Philip could have given two fucks for Stevie’s talk of Italian heritage and tradition, because what it came down to was goombahs fighting for territory with spics and Africans and Russians and anyone else with a dog in the fight. What mattered to him was that Stevie’s pitch wasn’t a million miles away from his own, and a man’s greed could always be relied on. But it was clear that old Uncle Bernardo, the patronizing, soup-slurping fuck, tended to frown on people going behind his back and cutting deals after he’d laid down the law. This had to be kept between the three of them. Also, Stevie didn’t have the same financial resources as his uncle, so he’d be coming in at a lower level, but Philip was farsighted enough to recognize that profits from the first deal would be plowed into the next. He was in this for the long haul, and it sounded like Stevie was, too. And, like Mother, Uncle Bernardo couldn’t live forever.
As a sign of his bona fides, Stevie paid the bill and walked them to his car, a Dodge Challenger in black and red that couldn’t have done more to invite unwanted attention from the law if it spewed crack smoke in place of exhaust fumes. But Philip decided to be forgiving of this particular quirk when Stevie produced a block of bills encased in plastic wrap: $100,000, including a contribution from Anthony, who also saw no reason to pass up a good thing because their uncle couldn’t tell one Muslim (the good kind that sold drugs) from another (the bad kind that flew planes into buildings). Philip, who took an interest in affairs beyond the borders of New England, didn’t bother to explain to Stevie that those Muslims were pretty much one and the same, because it wouldn’t have made the Italian any happier, and would probably just have confused him.
‘How long?’ asked Stevie, once they’d stowed the cash away in Lastrade’s latest rental.
‘The stuff comes in by ship,’ said Philip. ‘Three weeks. Could be a little more, could be a little less.’
‘Three weeks is good,’ said Stevie.
They shook hands. The deal was on. Philip didn’t bother to tell Stevie that the three-week estimate was probably bullshit. He was sure that the heroin was already in the country, which meant that Stevie could be supplied within days, not weeks. Philip would keep him waiting for a week at least, though. Stevie would still be happy when the heroin reached him sooner than anticipated, but Philip didn’t want Stevie to start thinking the whole business was too easy for his partners. He wasn’t concerned about Stevie trying to discover the identity of Philip’s supplier in the hope of cutting a better deal behind his back. The men involved didn’t break bread with Italians, or Hispanics, or anyone else. They dealt only with their own, and Philip was one of them. He’d proved it with blood. That was how they worked, these people.
No, not these people.
His people.
73
Sumner and Richard had performed a considerable amount of due diligence on Tobey Thayer. They knew he kept his office at the main store and warehouse on Greensburg’s west side, so they parked in a lot across the street and made the call from there. When a woman answered, Sumner asked to speak with Mr. Thayer and was told he wasn’t available. Sumner gave her some bullshit about wanting to make a bulk purchase from the damaged stock in Thayer’s warehouse to replace a quantity of his own that had been lost in a fire. He was informed that Thayer might be in later, but it would probably be tomorrow.
After he laid on the charm, she revealed that Thayer was working from home that day, although she couldn’t give out either Thayer’s residential or cell phone number. If Sumner left his own number, she assured him, she’d be sure to pass it on. Sumner, seeing no harm in supplying the burner number, gave it to her. He figured that if Thayer did call him back, they’d be able to glean a little more information from him, and confirm that he was a
ctually home like the woman claimed. Then again, why would she have lied about something like that? So there it was: Sumner and Richard now knew where Thayer could be found, and they had his home address, thanks to the late Jaycob Eklund.
‘What do you think?’ Sumner asked Richard.
Richard, who had read enough about Tobey Thayer’s business and personal life to ghost his memoirs, was watching a girl walk by, her hair tied up in a loose bun, a pair of big headphones acting as makeshift ear muffs. She wore a white padded jacket that came down only to mid-thigh, just above the hem of her navy skirt. Her legs were clad in white tights, her feet hidden by impractical ankle boots. Nice-looking kid. Nineteen, maybe twenty.
She must, thought Sumner, be fucking freezing.
The expression on Richard’s face as he followed the girl’s progress was equal parts regret and lust. Richard, Sumner decided, had severe problems. He’d have to talk with Jesse about him when all this was over, and maybe even Sally and Madlyn, too. His opinion of Richard might have softened, but he still didn’t care enough about him to miss him if he disappeared. Right now, he wasn’t sure if Sophia did either. If Richard were to fuck up again …
Then what? Routh was dead. It didn’t matter that his body hadn’t shown up yet. Sally said he was gone. Eleanor had told her so, and you could take that to the bank right there. It was because of the Cousin’s demise that he and Richard were about to kill Tobey Thayer, but Sumner didn’t plan on making a habit of doing the Brethren’s dirty work. There was always Steven Lee, but he wasn’t much of a planner. Richard, meanwhile, had done an efficient job of dispatching Eklund, but Eklund was under restraint when the blade was taken to him, and already on nodding terms with death as things stood, thanks to Sally. Nevertheless, how things went with Thayer would go some way toward determining if Richard could be relied on in the future – assuming he could keep his dick in his pants for five minutes – although Sally had promised that this spate of killings, even if born out of necessity, could buy them years of peace.
A Game of Ghosts Page 29