Snowjob

by Ted Wood

  Perhaps a month or even a week later he would have risen above the accusation. He hadn’t said anything incriminating. Some cops might even have missed the clue he’d dropped. A good lawyer could have laughed the case out of court. But too much had happened to him in the last week. He sat down wearily and spoke to Maloney. “Frank, I want to retain you on this,” he said.

  NINETEEN

  Maloney reached out and rested one hand on his shoulder. “Count on me, Paul.” Then he turned to me, his face filled with sadness. “Have Mary call Chief Williams to come over, would you please?”

  I did, then waited on the street until the chief turned up, with Pat Hinton beside him in the car. The chief got out and strode up to me. “What made him open up? Did you pressure him?”

  “No, sir. I asked about the bomb and he said, right away, it would be no problem, even in a town as law-abiding as this, for a man to get his hands on four sticks of dynamite.”

  The chief rubbed his chin. “That’s not a case.”

  “I know. But it seemed obvious to me that he knew about the bomb and I went on. I suggested that he’d killed his own son, to reclaim the money from the shack. That’s when he turned to Maloney and asked him to represent him.”

  “If Maloney tells him to dummy up, we’ve got nothing,” Hinton snapped.

  “I know. But Maloney was the one who suggested I call the chief. I think he wants his client to cooperate.”

  “Jesus Christ,” the chief said. “Come on, Pat. Let’s go check what’s happening.”

  I watched them go, then let Sam out of my car and walked down the street to a phone. My wife answered on the second ring. Her voice was music.

  “Hi, Fred. It’s your wandering boy.”

  “Reid. Lovely to hear your voice. I was beginning to think you’d found yourself a bouncy little ski bunny and settled in for the winter.”

  “I had to beat them away with a stick, but no sweat. How’s Louise?”

  “The world’s most incredible infant. Mensa material, I’m sure. Plus she’s going to be an Olympic athlete. She’s beautiful, Reid.”

  “So are you,” I said. “I’ll be home tonight, late and weary but all yours.”

  “I’ll prepare a warm welcome.” She laughed. “Two warm welcomes, if you include a late dinner.”

  “You can skip the dinner. It’s not meals I’ve been missing.”

  She laughed again. “Can’t say too much, old spot. Peter Horn’s here, talking to Mom, playing with Lulu, drinking coffee. He’s been dropping in a lot the last few days.”

  “I asked him to. Wanted to keep all the marauding Murphy’s Harbour bachelors away from your door.”

  “They’re staying away in droves.”

  “Well, that’s good. Everything’s going well here. Doug is free and clear. The case is all wrapped up. I’ll tell you about it when it’s not long distance.”

  “I can’t wait. Drive carefully. I want you here in one big oversexed piece.”

  “Be there around midnight, I’d say.”

  “Fine. You can change your daughter when she wakes up atone.”

  “Be glad to. Bye, love.”

  “Tell Doug I’m glad it’s over. Bye, dear.”

  She hung up and I did the same and paced slowly back to Maloney’s office. The chief’s car was still there so I sat in my own and cranked up the heater for a while. It eased the stiffness in my back and I was half dozing when the chief and Hinton came out with Grant walking between them. I got out of my car and stood there until Pat ducked away to have a quick word with me.

  “I think Maloney’s going for an insanity plea. He let Grant ramble away without stopping. And when Grant said he didn’t want him to come to the station he said ‘Okay’ and sat down.”

  “Grant say anything worth listening to?”

  “Did he? Christ! I’ve never seen such a can of worms. He killed the girl because she got in the way when she heard what he wanted his son to do, which was to dig up the money for him. Then he took his son up the hill. The kid said he would squeal to us about Wendy Tate being killed so he knifed him.”

  “Who killed Cindy Laver?”

  “Jack did, and planted the money in Doug’s car.” Hinton glanced over to where the chief was letting Grant into the back seat of the car. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Quick question. Just for my satisfaction. What’s Grant senior using for an excuse? Does he say he was avenging Cindy Laver, or what?”

  “Pretty much.” The chief had got into the passenger side and was beckoning to Hinton who pulled himself away from me. “Sounds like a crock to me. I figure he did it because the kid wouldn’t stop gambling and was still involved with Manatelli. He came at you that night in the parking lot on Manatelli’s say-so.”

  The chief waved again, this time angrily, and Hinton ran to the car. I watched them drive off and went upstairs to talk to Maloney.

  He was sitting in his office with a Bible open in front of him. He looked old and sad. “Matthew 7:1. The King James Version,” he said, and I could see tears in his eyes. “Judge not, that ye be not judged.” He left his finger on the text as he spoke to me. “Ironic, isn’t it. I want to be a judge but I can never get that text out of my mind.”

  “I guess it means we shouldn’t judge people by our own standards. The Indians put it differently. They say ‘Never judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his moccasins.’”

  “It’s so hard to sympathize, you know,” he said. “Money was at the back of all of it. Cindy Laver? Killed out of greed. Jack Grant told his father that he felt so bad killing her he cleaned up the mess and laid her out on the bed. But he did it, nevertheless. For money. To settle a thirty-thousand-dollar gambling debt with Manatelli.”

  “There weren’t any betting slips that big in his papers.”

  “I know,” he said. “Paul and I had a long talk while we were waiting for the police to arrive. He told me he pulled out all the heavy betting slips before he let the police search the room. He wanted enough evidence that they would think Jack had a motive, but not enough to make anybody think that he himself had a reason for killing his son.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a crazy man talking. Sounds like a businessman.”

  “That’s what he is,” Maloney said. He closed the Bible and put it back into his desk drawer. “I’ll be pressed to make an insanity plea stick. He was clever enough to call on you when the police didn’t find the secret drawer. He thought you’d be more thorough than they were.”

  “It’s a tangle,” I said.

  “It’s untangled now. The chief took a call while he was here. They’ve arrested Ms. Corelli at the bank. She put the transaction through and was heading out to her car when they picked her up.”

  “So it’s all wrapped up,” I said. “Doug’s free and clear. The bank’s safe. There’s a warrant out for Manatelli and Grant’s inside. Time for me to go home.”

  He stood up and thrust out his hand. “Thank you for coming here. Without you, this would have gone very differently.”

  “Maybe.” I shook hands with him. “I think you’ve got a pretty good department here. A guy like Pat Hinton wouldn’t have let things rest. Especially after the bank folded. That would have got everybody reopening the case. They’d have cleared Doug.”

  “That would have been after the fact of the bank collapse. This way is much better, for the town, for everyone.” He came around the desk to pat me on the shoulder and walk me to the outer door. He was a good man, courteous, compassionate. I hoped he made it to judge.

  I went back to the station house to turn in my badge and gun and talk to Doug Ford. The chief was still busy with Grant but Doug was free. He seemed flat, overwhelmed by the pace of things, I guessed, but he got us a couple of coffees and we went into the detective office.

  “There’s a new development,” he said soberly.

  “If you mean the bank, I heard, from Maloney.”

  “Yeah, that too,” he said. “More than that. This w
as a flash from New York.”

  “They’ve picked up Manatelli?”

  “They picked up a stiff, from the first-class lounge at Kennedy. Middle-aged Latin-looking businessman. Keeled over while he was waiting for the flight to the Caymans.”

  “Manatelli?”

  “That wasn’t the name on his ticket and passport. But the cop was sharp. He dug through the guy’s pockets and came up with his real passport. Manatelli. He just happened to stop in for a coffee. Just happened to drop dead. Waddya make of it?”

  “I don’t believe in divine justice. Sounds to me like there’s a leak in the New York police organization and our friend Mucci got wind of what’s been happening.”

  Doug pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Not their trademark, is it? Bullet in the head is more their speed.”

  “That’s the old way. They’re in a lot of legitimate business now. Bloodstains are messy. They could have dropped something in his drink.” I shrugged. “He’s just as dead.”

  We sat down and looked at one another, but without focusing, the thousand-meter stare of combat fatigue. Doug spoke first. “That makes five killings.”

  “You’re not feeling sad about Manatelli?”

  He looked away and blew his nose before he turned back. I got busy examining my coffee cup until he spoke again. “I wanted a peaceful life when I got back from Nam,” he said softly. “I tried other jobs but it was hard in the seventies. A vet was a goddamn outcast then. I couldn’t get anything worthwhile. I was laboring on a building site with a bunch of assholes who couldn’t even read. Melody didn’t mind. She was finishing up her degree. She never put me down. But I needed something I could take pride in. So the parish priest pulled some strings for me. I took the exam and joined the police department. And from then on it was the war all over again.”

  “It was pretty much the same way with me, Doug. Face it. We’re a couple of soldier ants. Other people do other things. We protect them. It’s what we do. What we are.”

  “I guess you’re right.” He set down his cup and stood up. “Hey. You heard Cap’n Schmidt give me the week off. I’m goin’ home, dean up before Melody and the kids get back.”

  “Good thinking.” I stood up. “Soon’s I’ve seen the chief I’m gone.”

  “You coming by the house before you go?”

  “Yeah. To grab my bag. Then I gotta go. It’s a long drive home.”

  “Yeah,” he said. He came around the table. “Thanks, Logger.” My nickname from the Marines. Canadian, therefore a lumberjack, as far as my fellow grunts were concerned. Nobody had called me “Logger” in years.

  “You’re welcome, Bro.” His own nickname, in a largely white platoon.

  He reached out to shake my hand and we gave one another an impulsive hug.

  We disengaged and I said, “See you at the house.”

  “Right,” he said and went downstairs.

  I stood at the window and watched him walk to his car. He was carrying a burden. I knew that, but he walked proud. No one else was going to know. Me, and Melody when she got home. But he was in command again.

  The chief summoned me downstairs a little later. He was brisk and businesslike. I listened while he gave me the same news I’d heard from Maloney and Doug. I didn’t interrupt. He was too happy about it, although he was trying not to let it show. It took only a couple of minutes and I could see he was rehearsing for the reporters who would be pouring in when the bank story got out.

  When he’d finished he sat back. “So it’s all wrapped up. Long and bloody, but it’s over.”

  “Well done, Chief,” I said. Everyone likes to be stroked. He was no exception.

  “Thank you. And I have to return the compliment.” He looked at me levelly. If I’d been a member of his department I would have been holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He went on. “Without your assistance, this case could have dragged on. It might even have been too late to save the damage to the bank. This town is in your debt.”

  “I came here to look out for Doug Ford. He’s reinstated with no blots on his record. That’s all the thanks I was looking for.”

  “It’s not enough,” he said quickly. Then he realized his tension was peeping out so he tried a smile. “And besides, I want to keep everything in the family.”

  I waited and he opened his drawer and took out a piece of paper. “Read this please, and sign it.”

  It was short but had been drafted by somebody who knew some law. It was on Chambers PD letterhead and said, as I remember it, “In acknowledgment of remuneration received I herewith absolve the town of Chambers from any further financial liabilities to me. Further, as a sworn member of the Chambers Police Department, I will keep confidential all knowledge of procedures and events within the department’s jurisdiction before and during my tenure.” My name was typed below, along with a date and time and a space for a witness.

  “Fine by me, Chief. Do you have a pen?”

  He handed one to me and I checked the clock and wrote down the time and the date, signed it and handed it over. He witnessed it and put it back in the drawer, bringing out a check.

  “This will be satisfactory, I hope.”

  I glanced at it, expecting a few bucks. It was made out for one thousand. Not a fortune but out of a police budget, something that would create questions among the city fathers. “This is very generous, Chief,” I said.

  “You’ve probably saved us ten times that much in overtime pay. I wish it could be more, but you know how it is in a small town.”

  “I surely do. Thank you. And I’ll give you back your gun and badge. And your gym card.” I laid them all on his desk.

  “I just need the gun and the card,” he said. He pushed the badge back across the desk to me. “We’d like to have you as an honorary member of the department.” He smiled tightly. “Unpaid, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said and we laughed and shook hands and I left.

  When I got to Doug’s house, I found him vacuuming. He had a pile of girlie magazines on the hall stand. “Found these in Ben’s room. He’s starting to grow up.” He was grinning.

  “Nothing changes,” I said and he laughed.

  “What the hell am I going to do with him?”

  “Don’t embarrass him. Put these back where you found them and keep him busy playing sports.”

  “He’s a’ready in every damn thing in the school.”

  “Then buy him a cornet and a couple of Wynton Marsalis records.”

  Doug slapped his knee. “Well, damn. Yeah. If he’s horny, buy him a horn. Good thinkin’.”

  I picked up my stuff and came downstairs. He had my bottle of rye on the table. We had done a fair bit of damage to it. “Here, take this.” He handed it to me.

  “Nah. I’ll pick up a whole one at duty-free. Get something nice for Fred.”

  “Good thinking.” He fell silent. We were getting down to the hard part, saying goodbye, while demonstrating what big tough guys we both were.

  “Listen. Pickerel season opens May 15. Why’n’t you bring Ben up, the whole crowd if Melody can get away? Fred would love that.”

  “I’ll try,” he said. “Depends on Melody’s work.”

  I hoisted my bag into my left hand. “Okay. So, I’m on my horse.”

  “Right.” He came with me to the car. I let Sam out for a minute and Doug fussed him. “You done good, old buddy,” he said.

  Then he stood up. “You too, Logger.”

  “What are friends for?” We stood and looked at one another for a moment. Then Doug held up his right hand and we did our dap and laughed like nineteen-year-olds. An old lady was walking by with her dog and she paused to watch us. She looked like she might be frosted by our high jinks but she surprised me, calling out, “Nice to see you, Doug. When’s Melody getting home?”

  “Nice to see you, Brenda. Melody’s home tonight. I’m picking her up at the airport at ten.”

  “Then you’ll need some dinner,” she said firmly. “Geor
ge is home at six. Come on over then. Otherwise you’ll have some dreadful hamburger or something. And bring your friend.”

  “This is Reid Bennett. He’s on his way home. But thank you. I’ll be there.”

  I smiled at the old lady and we told one another we were pleased to meet and she waved and walked on.

  “Looks like you’re back in the social register,” I said.

  “Sure does.” Doug said. “And I want you to know that lady’s one awesome cook.”

  “Then enjoy.” I got in the car. “Take care, eh.”

  “Yeah. Drive careful.” Doug stood and waved while I backed out and turned down the street, honking as I passed the old lady and her dog.

  I was lucky with the weather. It was overcast but it didn’t snow and I drove into the flatter country in New York State and headed north on Highway 81 toward the Thousand Islands bridge and the last couple of hundred miles home.

  I was in that comfortable driving trance, cruising just above the limit with the radio tuned to some country station and my mind in neutral. It fell dark around five and I put my lights on. I’d planned to pull off the highway at Watertown for dinner and a cup of hundred-mile coffee before crossing the bridge into Canada.

  There wasn’t much traffic and most of it was local, trailing along at the posted limit. I passed all of them. Not in a cloud of dust, but creeping up until I had to slacken speed or go by. I figured the state troopers wouldn’t stop me for my extra five miles an hour. If they did I could always pull the brother officer stunt. It works.

  Then, just south of the Watertown exit an unmarked car passed me. It slowed ahead and a hand came out of the passenger side and put a red flasher on the top. An unmarked patrol car. I slowed obediently, preparing to make fellow-cop noises. It slowed further and a big light shone out of the rear window into my eyes. I blinked and saw the car’s turn signal flicking, pulling me over.