“Unhappy is hardly the word,” Dee began again, before Joe cut him off.
“Be quiet, Dee. Enough is enough. I have listened to you politely. Now you get to do the same. If you interrupt me again, I’m leaving. Do not think for one second that I’m not aware that you asked for this get-together exactly when Hannah Eastridge was called out of town.” He held up his hand to shut down Whitby’s protest. “I don’t want to hear it. I also want no part of your insider politics. A crime has been committed at this facility. We are being unobtrusive, polite, efficient, and working almost around the clock, given the schedules of the staff and residents. If you push me any harder with your complaints, I will fill this place with cops, pull off the gloves, and really give you something to bitch about. And if you’re worried now about bad publicity and losing new applicants—as Mr. Dee has stated several times—then you are on a slippery slope of your own making, gentlemen, not mine.”
Joe rose and headed for the door of Whitby’s office, stopping there to conclude, “This is an official police investigation. Consult your lawyer about what it means to interfere with it.”
With that, he walked out and closed the door behind him, finally releasing the smile he’d been suppressing while watching Dee’s face change color throughout his speech.
* * *
He found Sammie in the break room adjacent to where they’d been conducting most of their interviews.
“Got an aspirin?” he asked her as she was fixing a cup of coffee.
“George Whitby?” she asked, not looking up. “I saw you go into his office.”
“Whitby and Graham Dee. Apparently, we’re ending the world as they know it, putting anyone and everyone under hot lamps and beating them with hoses.”
She dug around in her bag and handed him a small bottle and a glass of water from the sink beside her. “God, if they only knew.”
“Meaning what?” he asked, taking a couple of pills.
“Meaning ninety percent of the people we’ve interviewed so far are loving this. Most of them disliked Marshall, so the gloves are off there, but they dish dirt on each other like nobody’s business. It’s all Les and I can do to keep them on track. If we weren’t so interested in a silly murder of someone nobody liked anyhow—to quote one of them—we’d have a full caseload of extramarital affairs, food thieves from the dining room, old lechers putting their hands where they don’t belong, and a closet full of scofflaws, cheats, tightwads, and tax dodgers. This is like Peyton Place meets Dallas.”
She took a sip of her fresh coffee and raised her eyes at him. “And sex. You should hear about it.”
He smiled at her. “Meaning I should sign up?”
She looked startled and then embarrassed. “Oh, boss.”
He quickly reassured her. “Down, girl. Just kidding. Is Lester with one of them now?”
“Yeah. I was waiting for my next one to show up, so I thought I’d grab a cup.”
“Great. Do you have time to give me a quick breakdown of where we are?”
They’d been given two interview rooms, access to the break room, and a back office they were using for a temporary squad room, to which only they and Hannah Eastridge held the key. Sam now led him there and briefed him on their progress, showing him a chart on the wall listing everyone of interest and how each related to one or more of the others, complete with photographs when available.
Gorden Marshall appeared all alone, near the top, marking the apex of a galaxy of residents, along with a few outsiders Joe recognized, like Michelle Mahoney. Above Gorden’s name was a small cluster of outsiders, including the last Republican governor and other illustrious Vermont politicians and financiers from the past half century. Among those was one of the richest men in the country.
“He knew Harold LeMieur?” he asked Sam.
“Best buddies, from what we’ve been told. Harold’s influence and money helped get Gorden where he got.”
Joe walked up to the small photograph tacked to the end of the line drawn from Marshall’s name to LeMieur’s. It had been taken at a dinner and featured several men sitting at a long table, wearing tuxedos.
“Who’s the Silver Fox?” he asked, tapping on the picture. “Next to LeMieur.”
Sam squinted slightly. “Oh—Sheldon Scott. The biggest conservative lobbyist in Vermont, which means he spends a lot of time out of state, where the right-wing oxygen makes him happier. He and LeMieur are joined at the hip.”
She sat down at the table in the room’s center and opened a master file. “Okay, this is what we have so far, which isn’t much.”
Although she and Lester had been conducting interviews for only a couple of days, they had made remarkable headway. One advantage was the locale—they didn’t often have the luxury of an entire community being under one roof. For another, its population didn’t wander much or far—thus, while the interview schedule had accommodated the odd meeting or bridge game or doctor’s visit, by and large, it had functioned like an assembly line.
Sam, in her typically energized style, slid the file of accumulated interviews over to him, rose to her feet again, and stood beside the chart, in order to guide her boss through their discoveries to date.
“We decided to break the whole into categories, given the total number of people, versus just the ones who had anything to do with Gorden Marshall, which turns out to have been quite a few.”
She tapped her finger on one group of names. “These are people who knew him before he came here to live—fellow politicians, businessmen, lobbyists, and the like. Over ninety percent of them are men, but most of them have spouses or companions, which doubles the interview number for us, since we don’t want to miss any potential pillow talk.”
She continued in this vein, guiding him through her atlas of possible players, segregated into groups and subgroups like offshoots of an animal species. In the end, she stepped back to encompass the overall effort, and concluded, “The interconnecting lines tell us who’s sleeping with whom—whether married or not—who had what kind of relationship with Marshall, and in what context, and who we think is most likely to have had a financial tie to him. In general, the guys have been pretty tight-mouthed, and the spousal/companion route has been a gold mine. The ladies are very happy to throw dirt at each other and the guys, both. But it’s early yet.”
Sammie shook her head. “Sad to admit, the whole deal isn’t much different from what we’re used to in the streets. These people just bathe more often.”
“Amazing work,” Joe complimented her. “Have you been able to figure out how many you have left to interview?”
“Not yet. Everyone we talk to adds somebody we didn’t know about. Of course, many of those are duds—or too polite to talk freely—but a few have told us quite a bit. We’ve got a ton of homework left to do, and then we have to go over it again to make sure we’ve caught all the connective tissue.”
Joe was flipping through the cover sheets, nodding. “Okay. I’m assuming you’ve found nothing so far fingering whoever killed him. We don’t want to lose sight of why we’re here.”
“No,” she admitted.
“You have a chance to check Marshall’s phone records?”
“Yeah. We were hopeful when Michelle told you about the answering machine being empty when it shouldn’t have been, but so far, we found nothing surprising or unusual in the numbers he called.” She waved her hand at the board with all the names. “Whoever left an incriminating message must’ve been one of these—blended right in. We did apply extra pressure on whoever we found in the phone record, but so far, nobody’s standing out.”
She sat back in her chair and let her hands drop to her lap. “Really frustrating, to be honest. To have so many suspects and none of them measuring up.”
Joe closed the file. “Just have to keep digging. Any word from Willy?”
“He was at home last night with Emma. We’re switching off tonight so he can go to Burlington. After that, he’ll probably join us here.”
/> “He and I talked about that. He said he wanted to finish up on the Rozanski thing, even though he has it on good authority that Herb’s still alive.”
Sam looked thoughtful. “Yeah, he mentioned it.”
“And?”
She sounded quizzical. “I’m not sure. There’s something going on with him and this case. He should have wrapped it up fast, and it’s not really his kind of thing. But he’s been talking about it, which he also doesn’t do, and he’s been super attentive to Emma since it started.”
She smiled at that. “Not that I’m complaining. Don’t get me wrong. He’s a great dad and really helpful with watching her and all. But it’s like he’s going through something private that Emma alone can make better. Only since Rozanski.”
Joe stood up. “You know all the devils he lugs around inside. He probably fell over something that hit home. That’s why I cut him some slack. He actually asked me permission. That’s a first.”
Sam laughed, despite her concern. “Yeah. The boy’s going off the tracks. Next thing, he’ll stop kicking dogs and torturing suspects.”
Joe joined her. “Naaaah.” He checked his watch. “Speaking of which, why don’t you head off home early and let me take over your interviews. I should’ve been on them sooner anyhow, so this’ll give me an opportunity to get my feet wet.”
Sam didn’t need to hear the offer twice. “Thanks, Joe. I really appreciate it.”
* * *
Willy closed the door of his car and looked up at the address number opposite. He was in Burlington’s North End, on a block of nondescript, largely windowless buildings—warehouses and small wholesalers clinging to solvency like shipwreck survivors to flotsam.
He checked the location against the scrap of paper in his hand, crossed the street, and cautiously twisted the knob of the unmarked door in the cinder block wall before him.
He entered a shabby, poorly lighted office with three desks, two of them piled high with old catalogs and computer printouts. Seated before the third was a slender man, before the screen of a dusty, battle-scarred computer monitor covered with columned figures.
He turned at Willy’s appearance, his face registering surprise. “Whoa,” he said. “I’m sorry. We’re not really open. I mean, not to the public. This isn’t a business—not retail, anyway.”
“Herb Rozanski?” Willy asked.
The man froze and the color drained from his face.
“I’m sorry?” he asked in a whisper.
“It’s not what you call yourself now—Jon Fox; very Hollywood, by the way—but you’re Herb Rozanski.” Willy extracted his badge and displayed it.
The man swallowed hard. “Not actually. No, I’m not.”
“You changed it legally. I get it,” Willy said conversationally. “I might’ve done the same. Are we alone here?”
Rozanski pushed away from his desk and stood up, his right arm hanging limply by his side. “Yes. I’m the bookkeeper. The owner, he … he doesn’t come by much.”
Willy pointed at the arm, smiling slightly. “Saw blade. Mine was a bullet. But neither was an accident.” He patted his left shoulder. “We’re sort of mirror images.” He waved casually at Rozanski and urged, “Sit, sit. I’m not here to upset your applecart, Herb. Eileen says hi, by the way.”
“Eileen? You spoke to her?”
“Yup,” Willy confirmed, pulling another chair over and settling down, thereby encouraging Herb to do the same. “How do you think I found you?”
“She told you?” He was stunned.
Willy crossed his legs. “What do you think? That you’re John Dillinger? You’re a dead man. Nobody’s looking for you. Probably nobody cared when you disappeared. You’ve been living a paranoid fantasy for decades now, looking over your shoulder for no good reason.”
Herb’s mouth tightened. “What do you want?”
“Don’t blame Eileen,” Willy continued, ignoring the question. “She’s never told anybody else, and not just because they didn’t ask. She’s good people, and except for Nate, you’re all she has left.” Willy smiled. “And Nate’s a basket case. Living in the woods for over twenty years hasn’t done him any good at all.”
Herb stared at him. “You talked to Nate?”
“That’s how I convinced Eileen to open up about you—took me a home visit and two follow-up phone calls to get her there. She’s very protective of you. I would’ve talked to Bud and Dreama, too, if they’d been available. You probably don’t know this, Herb, what with all the fuss and bother over Irene, but your coffin came up full of rocks. After all this time, you’re officially out of the closet, so to speak.”
“What?”
“Storm water eroded the cemetery, exposed the coffin you were supposed to be in. Imagine how people felt.”
Herb stared at him, speechless.
Willy grunted. “You’re right. They didn’t feel anything.”
“Why’re you here?” Herb asked, reacting to Willy’s tone.
Willy gave him a hard look. “Good question. What’ve you done since you limped off into the wilderness?”
“What do you care?”
Willy’s relaxed posture didn’t change. “Don’t give me ’tude, bro. I’ve wasted a lot of time hunting you down. This is when it better count for something.”
Rozanski scowled. “What?”
“Tell me what you’ve been up to.”
Herb was visibly thrown off. “I don’t know. I moved here, to melt into someone else, mostly. I did odd jobs—whatever I could with one arm. Then I found this place.”
“That’s it? No family? No love life? What do you do when you’re off the clock?”
Herb took in his murky surroundings. “I don’t…”
“Hey,” Willy suggested. “Gay guys can have a life, in this town, especially.”
Herb refocused on him. “You know that?”
“Isn’t that why Nate tossed you onto the saw blade?”
He hesitated before answering. “In part.”
“The other part being what you and Nate each wanted out of your piece-of-shit old man.”
“He took care of me,” Herb said stubbornly.
“Tell me how,” Willy challenged him.
“That whole thing with the empty coffin; throwing Nate out; taking me to Doc Racque to be patched up.”
“And then throwing you out, too, because he couldn’t live with the embarrassment of his own screwup.”
“What screwup? He wasn’t the one who cut me up.”
“Wasn’t he?” Willy asked. “Didn’t he force the two of you to compete for his attention, whatever that was worth? Didn’t he peg you as gay, maybe even before you did, and start driving that wedge between you and Nate? He fucked you up, good and proper, and then tossed the two of you out so he could play the martyr. Your fight with Nate was like manna from heaven. There was no reason for Bud to fake your death, except that it let him cut bait and forget about you and your brother.”
“No.”
“Your mom knew it,” Willy persisted. “That’s what killed her. Your father was a narcissistic bully, Herb—his way or the highway. And when he was faced with his own failures, he just slammed the door on them. You and Nate and Eileen, too, to a lesser degree—you were all three told to just figure it out on your own. Only Nate went into the woods to live like a hermit, but isn’t that what you all did, in the end?”
Tears were running down Herb’s cheeks. He rubbed them away with the heel of his one hand. “Why’re you doing this?” he asked.
“’Cause I’m pissed off, is why,” Willy said, leaning forward and grabbing Herb’s hand in his own and holding it up between them. “’Cause of this and what it represents. You think you’re the only one with a sob story? Stand in line.”
Herb pulled away and glared at him. “That’s what this is? Suck-it-up time? What a crock. You swagger in here with your crippled arm and brag about how quote-unquote people like us should just shrug off the past and get on with it? ‘Gay guys can h
ave a life’? What the fuck do you know about being gay? You clearly aren’t.”
It was a watershed moment for Willy—who knew too well that he was in the midst of transition. The old Willy would have kept the battle going, challenging this man for each foot of advantage. But that’s not why he was here—not in whole. Part of him was angry and frustrated. But not at Herb Rozanski.
Willy sat back, relieved by Rozanski’s outburst. He stated quietly, “No, I’m not. I’ve got other labels. I suppose everybody does, somehow or another, real or made up. I have a boss who can figure out shit like that. But me, I just get mad, and I get alone, and then I turn into a black hole.”
To Herb’s credit, he smiled, and said, “I know the feeling.”
Willy nodded and stood up, moving toward the door. He opened it partway before looking back. “Jon Fox? Reach out to Eileen. She misses you. You could get to know her kids. And what the hell? Maybe Nate, too. He’s changed, and could really stand some help. I always thought other people were around to mess me up. I was totally wrong. Don’t make the same mistake.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Joe looked up at the knock on the doorframe. The interview room was open, allowing him to see a slim, attractive, gray-haired woman, probably in her seventies, standing tentatively on the threshold.
“Hi,” he said, rising and coming around the table.
“I was told that someone wanted to talk to me about Gorden,” the woman said.
Joe escorted her to the chair facing his. “Yes. Thanks so much for coming. My name is Joe Gunther. I’m a policeman. Are you Nancy Kelley?”
“Yes, that’s right,” she said, sitting down as he returned to his seat. He’d been handling Sammie’s scheduled interviews for several hours by now, making this number four. It had not been a productive evening so far, whittling down his expectations.
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