Tucker Peak

by Mayor, Archer

  · · ·

  Spinney had set up two long tables in the middle of the room and covered them with dozens of differently colored file folders, each one labeled with someone’s last name. He and I were alone in the office.

  “Okay. Red names are primaries, like Marty Gagnon, Richie, Jorja, the TPL crowd, and all the homeowners that were either known to have been robbed, or who appeared on that list we found in Richie’s apartment in Dover. Blue names are secondaries, mostly people only associated with the first group but with interesting wrinkles to their makeup, like an old rap sheet.” He pointed to one. “Shayla Rossi, for example, and a bunch of other folks who used to run with either Richie, Jorja, or Marty. Finally, we have the yellows, made up of cleaning people, caretakers, co-workers, etcetera, none of whom appear to be involved in all this, but who might have something to offer anyhow, such as being witnesses to events they maybe didn’t understand at the time.”

  “Okay.” I nodded, waiting for more, standing beside him and considering what amounted to hundreds of hours of research.

  “In the red category,” he continued, “we still have a few gaps among the homeowners. Turns out a lot of condos belong to people who’ve never set foot in Vermont and just keep them as investments and as sources of revenue through timesharing leases arranged through the resort.”

  “Tucker Peak handles all that?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that’s apparently pretty typical. The places are rented out on a forty-sixty basis, with the resort getting forty percent for management and maintenance—things like arranging leases, handling custodial care, and seeing to any necessary repairs, as well as supplying electrical, plumbing, and cable services. Also, snow removal in winter and lawn care the rest of the time.”

  “Pretty big operation. They have a separate division handling that?” I asked.

  “No. It comes under Conan Gorenstein’s responsibilities—the CFO. I guess once you’ve got it all computerized, it’s not that bad. At least that’s what I was told. They have whole staffs handling it at the larger mountains, but I guess, so far, they haven’t seen the need here.”

  “You dug up anything interesting among the owners or renters?”

  He smiled and raised his eyebrows. “You bet—no great surprise, I guess, but they turned out to be the best part of the whole deal. The more we dug, the more I thought of inviting any one of a half-dozen federal agencies to join in, starting with the IRS. We came across multilayered corporations, wives and kids owning things I doubt they even know about, PO box addresses by the handful in places like Delaware and abroad, and Christ knows how many lists of officers that may or may not be alive and kicking. It was almost weird to come across a Mr. and Mrs. Jones or Smith who just had a condo and a home in the flatlands and nothing else. Our old pal William Manning, for example, looks as crooked as a dog’s hind leg, he’s got so many irons in the fire.”

  Unfortunately, I could see the bad news coming. “But nothing connecting to Marty’s B-and-E operation.”

  He surprised me then. “I’m not so sure. Nothing that slaps you in the face, that’s true. But there are a couple of things we could go after.” He leaned across the table and plucked a folder from its midst. “Smallest nibbles first—remember when we did the preliminary go-round after finding Richie’s secret paperwork, when we talked to everyone on the target list? At least one of them said he’d noticed something missing, along with a broken window, but hadn’t thought he might’ve been robbed till we suggested it.”

  I remembered what Willy had thought of the man. “Yeah.”

  “Well, one reason he was so dense was that he was used to finding stuff damaged or missing, even when the place hadn’t been leased out during his absence.”

  I looked at him carefully. “What?”

  “People were in his place when it wasn’t being rented, more than once. He thought it was the caretaker or maybe some of the resort staff taking advantage of an empty house to screw around a little, have a party or something. He said it hadn’t bothered him because he’d come from a blue-collar background himself and could sympathize with a few folks wanting a piece of the rich life. He told me it had never been too bad and that he’d chosen not to report it.”

  Lester replaced the folder onto the table. “There was something about this that caught my eye—I mean, it is kind of weird. So once I got a list of dates from the homeowner, I went to his neighbors, to find out if they’d seen or heard any activity next door when the place was supposed to be empty. They had, but nothing like the guy had thought. It hadn’t been rowdy employees having a good time on the sly, it had been what looked like regular renters: people with cars and skis and kids and what-have-you spending a few days on vacation.”

  “It was being rented without his knowledge?” I interpreted.

  Spinney smiled. “Sounds like it. Only he wasn’t making any money off it.”

  I mulled that over for a moment, for the first time in quite a while thinking back to Win Johnston, the private investigator, and wondering if this had anything to do with his being on the mountain. “It is odd. You look into it more?”

  “Nope. I just thought I’d mention it. I figured I had bigger fish to fry.” He picked up another folder. “Like this one. Andy Goddard. Age forty-five, retired stockbroker, year-round resident. He was one of the ones on Richie’s list, complete with exterior photographs of the house, but no sheriff’s report and no complaint from the homeowner of any break-ins when we asked during that first canvass. The man is squeaky clean—no hits anywhere. Pays his bills, minds his manners, been up here about three years. Unmarried, no kids, no steady girlfriend that we could find, and no complaints from the neighbors.”

  I knew I was being set up. “All right, all right—a saint.”

  “Except we found that the resort’s maintenance department had replaced a shattered bathroom window right after the date that was electronically burned into the corner of Richie’s pictures of the house. Using bathroom windows is the same MO we’ve seen with most of the other burglaries.”

  “Suggesting Goddard was robbed but didn’t report it.”

  Spinney’s enthusiasm grew. “Right, which made us dig a little deeper. The guy’s a local, right? At least a permanent resident, which is rare with this bunch. We started asking around, found out not only was he a regular at the Tuckaway, like all the other marks, but also that he had the rep of being a coke-tipper.”

  “A user?”

  “No, no. I meant literally. He tips people with little samples of cocaine. He’s known as the local high flyer—flashes his cash, makes with the ladies, and hands out little samples to the ones he favors.”

  “We have someone on record saying he did this?”

  “No such luck,” but his expression didn’t dim. “This falls under what you might call credible hearsay. This morning, though, we found out that one of his best buddies is an acquaintance of ours: Kurt Peterson.”

  I thought back a moment, my brain temporarily drawing a blank. “Richie’s best friend among the ski instructors,” I finally recalled.

  Spinney laughed. “Damn, good memory—didn’t know you had it in you. But you’re right, which is why we think he’d be worth squeezing a little. Sammie loved hearing that, so she’s busy right now trying to get enough dirt on Peterson to make him talkative.”

  I remembered Sammie’s distaste of Richie’s manner with every woman he encountered. “Is Kurt Peterson the same level of operator? We never bothered checking him out after we discovered Richie’s apartment. He fell by the wayside.”

  “A poor man’s version, maybe. From his rap sheet, we think he could be Goddard’s supplier, or at least one of them, but we’re hoping that what Shayla told you about quote-unquote druggies coming after Richie might have something to do with Andy Goddard. You gotta admit, the dominoes line up nicely.”

  “Except that aside from recreational coke, Goddard looks like a bored premature retiree, not a killer. Any reason we’re not trying to squeeze h
im instead of Peterson? Sounds like the long way around.”

  “No argument, ’cept that Goddard’s more careful than he seems. All we heard were rumors of this coke-tipping thing. One guy told us that no one would ever fess up to it, either, ’cause Goddard makes sure the people he favors pass his scrutiny first. That’s where we figured Kurt would come in handy—from his record, he’s obviously not as discriminating.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. “I’ll go along with that.” I waved my hand over the spread of files before us. “Anyone else look promising?”

  Lester tilted his head to one side. “Not as promising, but if Goddard peters out, I got other options.”

  “What about our favorite missing person?” I asked. “Does Marty Gagnon have any ties to Kurt, maybe through Richie?”

  “If he does, we haven’t found them,” Spinney admitted. “Whatever role Gagnon might have in all this, he’s keeping it well under wraps.”

  I recalled what Lester had said about Sammie’s present activities, and a quasi-parental concern crept into my head. “You said Sammie’s getting dirt on Peterson. What’s she doing, exactly?”

  He looked at me like an ambivalent confidant, unsure of how much he should divulge. “Exactly? I’m not sure. She did say something about knowing just how to get to him, though.”

  “And you were happy to let her do that?”

  The true source of his discomfort surfaced. “Willy’s with her.”

  “Swell,” I muttered. “You better take me there.”

  Chapter 17

  WE FOUND SAMMIE AND WILLY IN THE BASEMENT of the Mountain Ops building in a back room of the Tucker Peak security office. He was taping a mike wire from just under her brassiere, around to the back, and down her spine to a transmitter below her waist. It was now early evening, and already dark outside.

  I leaned up against the doorjamb, knowing Sammie’s lack of modesty on the job, and pointed at the mike. “At what point in this operation were you going to clue me in? Tomorrow morning?”

  Willy laughed, his eyes on his work, his one hand moving expertly. “Only if we hit the jackpot.” He tore some tape in his teeth and pressed it against her skin.

  “Assuming you hadn’t gotten her killed by then.”

  He glared at me as Sammie cut in, “It was my idea.”

  “I don’t care whose it was,” I told her. “It’s half-baked and rushed. That’s a lethal combination.”

  “You don’t even know what it is,” Willy said.

  I looked at her instead. “Gee, let me guess. You’re going to pretend to be a talent scout for a recording studio and ask Kurt Peterson to sing into your cleavage?”

  Willy glanced at Lester for support. Lester merely spread his hands to both sides, palms up, and raised his eyebrows.

  “It’ll work,” Sammie said, pulling her sweater down and smoothing it into place. “I’ll tell Kurt I’m hard up for some drugs, make a buy, and bust him. I know he’s using the Tuckaway as a drugstore.”

  “Sam,” I tried explaining, “you haven’t been on the mountain for a couple of days, you’ve been helping Lester. How’re you going to explain your absence?”

  “That’s what makes it perfect. I need a fix—I’m strung out, on the prowl. That’s where I’ve been—lookin’ to score.”

  “You don’t think word’s gotten out that there were cops undercover here?” I asked. “I was on the mountain last night and got ribbed for it.”

  “Did my name come up?”

  “There was no reason for it to, Sam, but what would you think? Two new employees appear out of nowhere and then vanish almost as fast. One turns out to be a police officer and suddenly the other, looking like an Olympic athlete, starts bar crawling, claiming she’s a hophead. What would that smell like if you were a bad guy?”

  “It’s worth a shot,” she persisted.

  “I’m not saying Peterson’s not worth a shot,” I said. “I’m saying you’re too high profile to deliver it. Why not switch with Willy? Have him go in after we take the time to set it up properly.”

  She gave me a scornful expression. “He’s the wrong sex, Joe. Kurt has the hots for me. He spent so much time ogling my ass when I was Greta Novak, he barely took time to do his job. And I played with it, too, figuring it couldn’t hurt to fake being friendly, just in case. The man thinks with his pecker. I know it. He won’t make me, and he’d make Willy in a heartbeat. Besides, Willy’s been around here as a cop, he’s more exposed than I am.”

  “I don’t like it,” I said, adding, “I don’t guess you got a wire warrant.”

  Now they were standing side by side. Willy tapped his breast pocket. “Signed and sealed by the judge.”

  “It’ll go down in the Tuckaway,” Sammie explained. “He asks me to step outside and we pull the plug. I’ll be watched all the way.”

  “That’s where you think he’ll do the deal?” I asked incredulously, “right at the bar where everyone can see him? Of course he’s going to ask you outside.”

  But she was shaking her head. “No, no, he doesn’t. We know that. We’re not going in blind here. We have done our homework, Joe. I promise. Peterson does do all his business in the Tuckaway, probably for his own safety—and in front of everyone, literally under the table, money for dope, tit for tat.”

  “She’s just going to fan his cock a while,” Willy chimed in, “do the deal, and we’ll bust him, right there. No muss, no fuss.”

  I passed my hand across my face, every instinct fighting this scenario. I finally glanced at Spinney. “What do you think?”

  He shrugged. “Sounds okay to me. We don’t do it now, we will lose Sammie’s cover story and any inside track to this guy.”

  · · ·

  Spinney and I sat in the car, the engine on to run the heater, a radio receiver plugged into a tape recorder between us. We were positioned out of the lights on the edge of the parking lot behind the Tuckaway. The only sound came from the recorder’s small speaker—the monotonous ruckus of voices common to all bars, and the steady back-and-forth between Greta Novak and her date—made scratchy and hard to hear by the typically poor reception of all undercover wires. In addition to the two of us outside, Willy Kunkle sat at a table inside, silent and alone and watching from a distance, a minuscule earphone in his ear through which I could reach him on a radio. He was pretending to tie one on with a string of ginger ales, which, as a recovering alcoholic, was an act he had down pat—I’d seen him do it.

  We’d been there an hour already, listening to Sammie and Kurt Peterson play mental tag—he trying to get her out of the bar and into the nearest bed, she trying to get him to supply her with the coke she claimed would make the experience all the more memorable.

  They were beginning to get on each other’s nerves.

  “Come on, Kurt,” she pleaded. “Give me something. I’m hurtin’. I’ll pay you, if that’s your problem.”

  He laughed. “Oh, I want payment, all right, but not with money.”

  Spinney and I heard a sudden scraping on the microphone that made us both jump in our seats.

  “Hey,” she said. “Hands off. You want to turn this into a business deal, that cuts both ways.”

  He didn’t seem fazed. “Ooh, the brass cupcake surfaces. And I thought you liked me for my potential. Maybe we could swap a sample first. I get a feel, you get a teeny, weeny sniff.”

  “You got some on you?” she asked.

  I winced slightly in the dark, worried she’d push him too hard. Deals like this took patience, sometimes several repeat encounters, and this had been moving at breakneck speed from the start.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he answered her. There was the familiar rattling of ice in a glass, followed by, “Boy, who knew? Greta Novak, a cokehead. First time we met, I pegged you as a total jock. Figured you were probably a vegetarian, too—body a temple and all that shit. Not that I’m complaining about the body. I’d just like to see more of it.”

  “I am a vegetarian,” she lied. �
�Coke comes from a plant, right?”

  He laughed. “Good point. All right, you win, but you better be as good in the sack as you are on skis. I’m talking major league here. You do that and I’ll not only not charge you, I’ll make this a standard arrangement.”

  “You kidding me?” She made her voice soft and seductive, “It’ll be the best deal you ever made. You won’t be sorry.”

  “You got it, babe. Let’s get outta here.”

  I looked sharply at Spinney.

  “Give it to me here,” Sammie said. “I’ll do it in the bathroom.”

  Peterson laughed unpleasantly. “Oh, right. And then tell me to fuck myself. I don’t think so, Ice Queen. I got ‘stupid’ written on my face somewhere? No, no. We do this at my place or you can get somebody else to powder your nose.”

  “Come on, Kurt. You won, okay? I do it now, I’ll be in the right mood when you’ll really appreciate it, instead of waiting around. I mean, where’m I going to go? We work together. You’ll see me tomorrow morning on the mountain. I won’t stiff you. I just gotta have it now.” She tried softening her voice again. “I won’t let you down.”

  But it wasn’t working. We could hear his voice grow distant as he stood up. “Sorry Greta—my ball, my game.” Now was the time to either call his bluff or break off the engagement, either way guaranteeing that Sammie stayed inside the safety of the nightclub. Predictably, she did neither.

  “All right, but don’t bitch to me later that I wasn’t in the mood.”

  His voice was closer now, and we could hear the background noise varying as they worked their way through the crowd. “Don’t you worry about the mood, sweet meat. I got enough for both of us.”

  I picked up the radio I had cradled in my lap. “Willy, you on them?”

  There was a pause during which I could visualize him digging his own radio out of his pocket and finding a discreet place to use it. “What do you think?”

  Just before he keyed off, Spinney and I both heard a loud crash. Then Willy’s radio went dead.