“Do you know if his family stuck around?”
She shook her head. “I barely knew the man. You’ll have to find out about him from somebody else.”
“It was a three-person department, as far as you recall?”
“I’m sure of it. Three people, but George and Joan carried the load.”
We sat in silence for a full minute.
“The Chronicle had a crackerjack reporter covering the story in 1968. I’ve been reading the stories he wrote. There were a lot of theories about how the embezzlement was carried out.”
Helena cocked her head. “Who was the reporter?”
“Finnegan,” I said. “Paul J. Finnegan.”
Her eyes flashed a momentary spark.
“I knew Paulie Finnegan. He called me every week for about a year, asking if I’d heard from George. I finally asked him to stop, because it hurt so much to talk about it.”
“Did he leave you alone after that?”
“Nope, but he switched tactics. Asked me for a date, saying he’d grown keen on me over the months.” She loosed a wry chuckle. “He was persistent, that one. But I had no interest in dating him. The man couldn’t turn the reporter part of himself off for even a minute.”
* * *
I couldn’t turn off the reporter part of myself for a minute either, not if I wanted to stay ahead of the Tweeters, bloggers and TV news readers. After spending another hour on Helena’s porch reinforcing that we shared the same goal, I hustled to make the next ferry back to town. Halfway across the bay the internet connection on my phone evaporated, but not before I found an address and phone number for Joan Slater, still living in Durham, New Hampshire.
I waited until I was back in the newsroom to dial her up, having learned the painful lesson of wandering into a cell phone dead zone when cold-calling a potential source. You only got one shot at someone who didn’t know you and probably didn’t want to talk to you.
She picked up on the third ring, a little breathless, as though she’d just run up two flights of stairs. Her tone grew cautious when I identified myself and the purpose of my call.
“That was a long time ago.” The cadence of her words was Maine, through and through. “Are you doing an anniversary story or something?”
“No, ma’am. Perhaps it hasn’t been in the New Hampshire headlines, but human remains were found inside the mill this week. There’s been no official confirmation yet, but it’s believed they may be George Desmond’s.”
The silence on the other end of the line lasted a good fifteen seconds.
“This better not be a prank,” she said.
I assured her it wasn’t but didn’t offer her the option of hanging up and calling me back, having been burned before by people who used that as a ruse to get me off the phone. I gave her the web address for the Chronicle and heard clicking computer keys on the other end of the phone. A gasp was followed by a choking sound. It took me a minute to realize she was crying.
“Ms. Slater, are you okay?”
“My head’s spinning.”
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of painful news. I understand you were close to Mr. Desmond.”
“Very close,” she said. “You’d best come see me. It’s not the kind of thing I’m willing to talk about on the phone to someone I’ve never met.”
Chapter Twelve
Thursday, May 23, 1968
Riverside, Maine
Three days in a row Paulie’s byline was above the fold on page one. Determined to defend George Desmond’s good name, Joan Slater convinced his family and closest friends to talk to her reporter friend. A half-dozen on-the-record interviews provided a picture of the missing man in sharp contrast to the police briefings.
Desmond’s poker buddies told how he set aside his winnings throughout the year and donated every penny to charity at Christmas. His high school math teacher said Desmond was the brightest student he’d encountered in his thirty-two years at the blackboard. His minister said the Saccarappa’s finance manager had a knack with money, but wasn’t preoccupied by it.
“He liked the simple things in life—family, friends and fishing,” the minister told Paulie. “Those were his priorities. He wanted to be successful, but had no appetite to be rich.”
Paulie was grateful to Joan for providing him with entrée to all of these people. It gave him an advantage over the other reporters, who did a good job covering what the cops were saying but struggled to find Desmond confidants who would talk on the record. Still, having an inside track on the pro-Desmond story didn’t mean he could ignore the Desmond-is-a-scoundrel chorus that the FBI continued to sing. The speculation about Desmond’s misdeeds was growing louder by the day and Joan Slater didn’t want to hear it, especially from the only reporter with whom she’d let down her guard.
“Why do you listen to that jerk Curtis Wellington?” she asked when Paulie called her Thursday night. “His goal isn’t to solve the crime, just to pin it on George.”
“Part of my job is to report what the cops are saying. Doesn’t mean I believe it. Public officials make bullshit statements all the time and readers see right through ‘em. The mayor says he didn’t know his wife carried a flask in her pocketbook. Sure he didn’t. The school board says there’s no evidence kids make out in the woods behind the gym. Right-o. Point is, it’s not up to me to decide if what they’re saying is true or not. My job is to write it all down and put it in the paper. Trust me, readers figure it out.”
Mollified for the moment, Joan agreed to let Paulie take her to dinner the next evening. “It’ll be good to put all of this out of your mind,” Paulie said. “Give yourself a little break.”
At eight o’clock the next morning Paulie was walking back to the Chronicle after his morning check-in at the cop shop. Lost in thought, he moved toward the curb to sidestep a giggling mother-daughter pair tumbling out of Gleek’s Children’s Shoppe, arms full of shopping bags. The revving of an engine broke his reverie.
“Finnegan!” Jay Preble called from his convertible, gesturing up the street where several open parking spaces were shaded by broad elms. “I need to talk to you.”
Preble killed the purring engine when Paulie slid in to the passenger seat.
“What’s goin’ on?”
“You’re kicking ass, that’s what’s going on,” Preble said. “The Chronicle’s coverage of this Desmond story has been great all week.”
“Thanks in part to you. I don’t know why you did it, but hooking me up with Joan Slater has given me a big leg up on the competition.”
“I suspect more than just your leg’s up. My sources tell me you’ve been spending a lot of time with her, looking hungry for more than news.”
“It’s been all business.” Paulie paused. “So far.”
“Why are you dilly-dallying? She’s a beautiful girl.”
“I’ve got it covered. No one else is going to move in on her.”
Preble laughed. “Don’t count on that. She’s not just good-looking, she’s smart. I’ve been impressed by her when I’ve been over at the mill going through records.”
“Desmond relied on her to do more than secretarial work. He needed the help. Ed Talcott’s been ill for most of the past year.”
“I’m surprised she didn’t pick up on his skimming game.”
Paulie shifted in the leather seat. “She’s not convinced Desmond was skimming.”
“Typical woman.” Preble shook his head. “She might not be able to reconcile the idea that her boss was a thief, but the money trail’s as clear as a bear barreling through the woods.”
“Couldn’t someone have manipulated the evidence to make it look like it was Desmond diverting the funds?”
“Theoretically?” Preble cut his eyes sideways at Paulie. “I guess so. But it’d have to have been
someone awful slick. Diabolical, really. It’s not just the bank records. From what I’m hearing, there’s all kinds of evidence at his house that makes it pretty clear he scammed and ran.”
“She still believes he’ll show up with hat in hand and a good explanation in his pocket.”
“That’d make for a hell of a tale,” Preble said. “Sell you a lot of papers.”
* * *
All the FBI press conferences were the same. Top dog Curt Wellington dispensed information as though he were being charged a hundred bucks for each fact, leaving no doubt he believed telling the public what was happening would boomerang on him and screw up the investigation. Paulie knew there were a whole lot of people in addition to the G-men sifting through the evidence—state police, local cops, mill managers and bank experts. Most seemed intimidated by Wellington’s vow to punish leakers, but in Tommy MacMahon, Paulie had found himself a steady stream of solid information.
It was a cloak-and-dagger relationship, worthy of a pair of hooligans trapped in nun school. MacMahon would call Paulie at home and say a few terse words. “High school. Under the visitor’s bleachers. Eleven o’clock.” Or “Sebago Basin boat launch, dawn tomorrow.” Every time, Paulie jumped like a seaman apprentice caught napping by a chief petty officer. In the darkness and in the early morning light, Tommy Mac divulged facts in the same hushed voice he used in a confessional.
Bless me Paulie, for I’ve stood silent while the FBI has sinned.
Twice this week they deliberately gave you the wrong impression.
Three times, they out-and-out lied to you.
Because I’m a cop who believes my job is not to score points but to serve the public, I pray for forgiveness and as my penance, I’ll tell you what we really know.
The state police heard about some atypical goings-on at the Saccarappa around the time Desmond disappeared. Mill men in white shirts and dark ties crossed over to the blue collar side of the street, asking questions about things they’d never cared about before. It could have meant a lot of things, depending on the timing.
Wellington and his FBI minions put no stock in the chatter. They believed it was idle gossip, said following it back to its source would be as futile as a hundred-pound weakling tailing an attractive woman down the street. Plenty of excitement. All for naught.
MacMahon tried to suss it out anyway, asking friends and cousins and friends of cousins what they knew. Were there unscheduled deliveries to the loading docks in the darkness of third shift? Was someone known to be short on cash driving a new car? Had somebody’s sister-in-law really seen George Desmond boarding a New York-bound train at Boston’s South Station?
Like a priest lending an ear to a kneeling boy in a dimly lit box, Paulie’s end of the deal was to keep the source of his information between the two of them and God. Confessing the details absolved Tommy of his sin of complicity.
Later—out from beneath the bleachers, away from the boat ramp—the hard-nosed cop and the tenacious reporter picked up the fiction that they were adversaries not friends, that Lt. MacMahon had never told Paulie of the conceit and the deceit that threatened to make Desmond’s disappearance an unsolved crime.
Paulie examined each morsel of information he got from MacMahon, separating out what could stand up on its own from those bits that needed corroboration before they could show up on page one. It was slow going, but with Joan and Tommy Mac’s help, Paulie was outdistancing the rest of the pack day in and day out. True, he still didn’t know where George Desmond was, or what had happened to him. But he was making headway.
That evening Paulie and Joan started out sharing an antipasto plate at an Italian joint in Portland. The Chianti was mellow. The background music was romantic. Paulie was hoping to discuss something other than the Desmond investigation but Joan was energetically spinning out theories, hoping to find one that would vindicate her boss.
“In the decade before you were hired, was anyone fired from the finance department—or maybe quit on their own—who’d have inside knowledge about how accounts were managed?”
“I don’t know of anyone, but I’ll ask Eddie. I’ve been trying to leave him out of this as much as possible, given how sick he’s been with the cancer.”
“You think he’d be willing to talk with me?”
“Maybe. If Mr. Wellington doesn’t forbid it.”
“Why would the FBI even have to know?”
“They seem to know everything. They’re sneaky too. Get you talking about your life—you know, where you grew up, where you live now, what you like to do for fun. Then you realize that while they’re not taking notes, they’re not just chatting you up, either.”
“Who was doing that, Wellington?”
“No way. He doesn’t chat. Just barks orders. It was the other guy, the tall one with the nice smile.”
“He probably was trying to make time with you.”
Joan’s laughter was warm. “Not interested. Cops aren’t my type.”
“Are reporters?”
“I’ve never dated a reporter.”
“What do you think this is? We’re drinking wine. Listening to Frank Sinatra. In a minute we’re going to order our dinner. So I need to know one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Should I avoid garlic, or will we both indulge?”
“Oh, indulge,” she said. “Life is short, always indulge.”
Chapter Thirteen
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Portland, Maine
It was after six-thirty when I left to see Joan Slater in New Hampshire, having sat across the desk from Gene for a full hour, rechecking every line in my story breaking the news the Saccarappa skeleton might be George Desmond’s. My credibility and that of the Chronicle rode on the story being rock solid.
I’d memorized the phone number for the Michael Thibodeau who lived in Scarborough, hoping he was the bricklayer identified by Gil Parker as the one who rebuilt the basement corridor wall. As soon as I was clear of the Portland traffic, I punched the digits into my cell. The phone rang four times before an old-fashioned answering machine picked up. A woman’s voice said I’d reached the home of Mike and Peg. I hung up without leaving a message. No sense tipping my hand to a guy who’d likely need face-to-face convincing before he’d talk about something he might have been well paid to ignore in 1968.
Tooling down the Maine Turnpike, windows down because the air conditioner was having another off day, I considered my approach to Joan Slater. I was curious to know Desmond’s daily routine at the time he disappeared, whether she’d sensed anything odd in the last weeks of his tenure at the mill, if she knew whom he’d been interacting with during or after the workday. Recalling that Helena said Joan moved to New Hampshire because she had a breakdown, I prepared myself for an interview that might be an emotional tightrope walk.
It was a few minutes after eight when I pulled up at Joan Slater’s house, a neat bungalow set back from the road. The air was still hot and thick. A riot of just-watered flowers lined the driveway and flanked the front door. As I headed up the brick walk, I shoved my damp shirttail into the waistband of my khakis and wished I’d thought to shave or at least comb my unruly hair. By my math, Joan Slater was about seventy. Too old to appreciate the scruffy look.
The striking woman who met me at the door sure didn’t look seventy. She was tall and voluptuous, with hair far too blond to be natural in anyone except a young child. She wore a pale yellow top and green slacks, the kind that stopped well short of a woman’s ankles.
“Ms. Slater?”
“That’s me.” She spoke through the screen.
“Joe Gale, Portland Daily Chronicle.”
“Do you have identification?” She laughed, half nervous, half apologetic.
I pulled my wallet out of my hip pocket, thumbed out my press pass
and pushed it through a crack she’d allowed between the door and its frame.
She squinted at it, then at me, before opening the door. We nearly collided in the tiny old-fashioned foyer. Whatever air freshener she’d sprayed didn’t cover up the stale odor of cigarette smoke. She nodded toward a living room dominated by a floral-print couch and coordinating easy chairs.
I accepted her offer of iced coffee. She rattled around in the kitchen for a minute and returned with two glasses. I took a deep swig as soon as she handed one to me. No sense letting the caffeine get watered down. She set hers on a glass-topped side table, dug a long cigarette out of a blue leather case and lit it with a slender lighter.
“You should know right off, I’m not crazy about reporters.” She looked me in the eye, her mouth set in a tight line. Up close, in better light, the wrinkles scoring her face were sharp.
I held her gaze, thinking she wouldn’t have invited me to her home if she didn’t intend to talk to me. After ten long seconds, I pulled an ace from my deck.
“Helena Desmond—George’s sister—told me you’d worked with Mr. Desmond at the time he went missing. She suggested I give you a call.”
“Helena spoke with you?”
“Several times in the past few days. She never believed George ran away with the mill’s money. Now it appears she may have been right.”
“Have they confirmed the remains are George’s?”
“Not yet, but that is pretty much everyone’s working assumption at this point.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“The police, Helena, me.”
She ground out her cigarette in a crystal ashtray. Her hands were shaking. “Where in the mill was the skeleton found?”
I told her, watching her face for clues to her thoughts, but she was a poker player. I took a sip of iced coffee. We sat in silence for a while.
“They were desperate to pin the theft on him, and certain I knew something about it.” Her voice was low and breathy. “I kept telling them I had no idea where he’d gone, that I’d never seen anything to make me think he was diverting money. They insisted I knew more than I was telling them.”
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