The surrogate thief jg-15

by Archer Mayor

  And, to a great extent, you did it alone. When Joe became one of the few in this beleaguered department, it had two cars, one huge portable radio that barely reached base, and a flashing red light system located at the three major crossroads downtown, used to let the beat guys know they were being summoned. Cops learned to keep an eye peeled, depend on their wits, and interpret the law as it suited their needs. Countless disputes every weekend never even appeared in the paperwork, much less made it to court on Monday morning.

  It was against this backdrop, driven by guilt and coping with sorrow, that Joe set out to find Ted Moore.

  According to his police record, Moore was an itinerant carpenter, and according to the people Joe found loitering outside Moore's run-down apartment building on Canal, he was helping build an extension onto the town garage on Putney Road.

  The present Putney Road is a traditional "miracle mile," cluttered with chain stores, gas stations, and motels-as unique to Vermont as to suburban Iowa. When Joe Gunther went to meet Ted Moore, virtually the entire western side of the road was farmland. Not so the eastern, however, which is why Joe was never surprised by how the strip finally ended up. Directly across from the farm, like an urban metaphor for a slow-moving prairie blaze, stood restaurants, a drive-in, a dairy, and a couple of hamburger stands, all poised by the curb like a row of flames straining to jump a firebreak. Once that tourist-laden interstate appeared in the late sixties, just beyond the fields, Joe knew that the farmers' days were all but done.

  The town garage occupied the southern edge of those fields. It was a large wooden structure, with a shed big enough for a winter's supply of salted dirt, next to a few stalls housing the salt and the plow trucks. The "few" part was why Moore and others had been contracted to expand the garage.

  Joe pulled off next to several pickups and took his bearings. Adjacent to the salt shed was the equivalent of a wing, and at its far end were several men wearing tool belts, working on the roof. Below them, the walls of the extension shimmered in clean, new pine siding.

  Gunther walked the length of the building and nonchalantly addressed the first workman he came across. "Is Ted Moore around?"

  The man's reaction came as a surprise. Instead of answering directly, he turned and bellowed toward the roof crew, "Hey, Ted, you've got a visitor."

  It was neither what Joe had wanted nor expected, and standing flat-footed in the parking lot while his hoped-for interviewee straightened up like a startled gazelle put him at precisely the disadvantage he'd been hoping to avoid.

  Sure enough, Ted Moore unbuckled his tool belt, dropped it with a crash, and vanished over the far side of the roof.

  "Thanks a lot," Joe muttered as he set off in a sprint around the corner, hoping to cut the other man off.

  But there was no chance of that. By the time Joe caught sight of him, Moore had already leaped from his perch and was hotfooting it south down the length of the garage. Cursing his own stupidity for having parked where his quarry was now headed instead of driving straight to the site, Joe picked up his pace, praying that he was faster and in better shape than the carpenter.

  But running wasn't Ted Moore's only tactic. About halfway along, and urged on by the incongruous cheers of his distant coworkers, he paused, doubled over from the exertion, and picked up a three-foot length of rebar from the littered ground.

  Joe didn't hesitate. Still coming on at full tilt, he pulled his snub-nosed revolver from his holster and took aim.

  Moore dropped the metal rod and resumed running.

  This time, however, knowing he was athletically outclassed, he veered toward the towering salt shed beside him, and a small exterior staircase angling toward a narrow access door at its apex-used during the winter to reach the top of the salt pile inside. Joe could see Moore's plan: If he got through that door and blocked it from the inside, Gunther would have to go around, allowing Moore ample time to reach his pickup and escape. Even if Joe didn't try following, he'd probably still be too late to make up for the shortcut.

  Joe took the stairs two at a time, the ringing of his shoes against the metal steps matching Moore's high above him.

  But not that much higher. Already flagging, Moore was clearly finding his uphill option a real challenge. Gasping for air, helping himself along with both hands on the railing, he was stumbling every few feet, reducing the gap between them.

  By the time he reached the door, he didn't bother trying to block it behind him. He merely threw it open and disappeared from sight, Gunther barely ten feet below.

  Inside, there was a small platform leading to a ladder that dropped into the salt pile like a straw into a milkshake. The drop would have been thirty feet had the shed been empty. Right now, in preparation for the coming winter, it was over half full.

  Ted Moore staggered toward the ladder's top, swung around to face it, and tried to descend. Gunther took a more practical approach. He ran to the platform's edge and kicked Moore in the head, sending him sailing backward through the air to land with a thud ten feet below.

  Gunther then climbed down the ladder at a leisurely pace to crouch by the other man's side.

  Moore's arms and legs were moving slightly, as if he were keeping afloat in the water. His eyes were wide and fixed on Joe's.

  "You almost killed me," he said in a whisper, the air knocked out of him.

  Joe rolled him over, handcuffed him, and rolled him back. Moore's sweaty face was now caked with salty sand.

  "And what were you going to do with that rebar, asshole?" he asked.

  "I didn't know who you were."

  "Bullshit. Why'd you run?"

  "I thought you were the brother of some girl I knocked up."

  Joe picked up a fistful of sand and dumped it onto Ted's face, blinding him and making him choke.

  His hands bound, Moore thrashed around for half a minute, spitting and catching his breath. "What the fuck're you doing?" he complained.

  Joe picked up another fistful and held it where Moore could see it. "Trying to have a conversation. Why'd you run?"

  Moore was blinking furiously against the sting in his eyes. "You can't do this."

  Gunther moved to open his hand.

  "No, no. Okay. I'll tell you. I ripped off a store last night. I thought you were after me for that." He paused for a moment, his brains almost making noises as he realized his admission. "Weren't you?" he added plaintively.

  Gunther smiled and sat back more comfortably, noticing that a couple of workmen had appeared far below, looking up the hill at them from around the edge of the open bay doors. He waved cheerfully and gestured to them to leave.

  "I am now," he answered.

  Moore closed his eyes tiredly. "Shit."

  "Actually," Joe admitted, "I just wanted to ask you about Pete Shea."

  The other man grimaced. "What the fuck do I know about Pete?"

  "I don't know. Educate me."

  Moore tried to look surprised, but the gesture let more dirt into his eyes. "Ah, shit. Come on. Let me sit up."

  Gunther pulled him to a sitting position.

  Ted hung his head and shook it violently a couple of times. "Jesus, that smarts."

  "Talk to me about Pete," Joe said again.

  Moore's voice was angry. "Pete, Pete… The son of a bitch isn't even around anymore. Hasn't been for months. What's the big deal?"

  "Where'd he go?"

  Ted looked up at him and slowly enunciated, "I do not know."

  Joe pushed him flat onto his back again, swiveled around, and placed his forearm against the man's throat, making him gag.

  This time, Joe was the one speaking slowly and clearly. "Cut the crap, Teddy, or you'll be grateful for a mouthful of salt."

  "I don't know. Honest," Moore half croaked.

  Joe pulled him up again roughly. "Why did he leave town?"

  "He was spooked. Said you guys were after him. He said you were going to pin the storekeeper beating on him."

  "Did he do it?"

  "
Like he'd tell me. Of course he said he didn't do it."

  "What do you think?" Joe asked him.

  "Me? I don't know. It wasn't Pete's style, but what's that worth? A guy gets juiced, somebody pisses him off, then suddenly it's not his style, but he does it anyhow. He was pretty cranked last I saw him."

  "What're they saying on the street?"

  Ted Moore shrugged. "They're saying he did it. But nobody knows squat. They say Paul McCartney's dead, too."

  "Was Pete flashing around any cash before he took off?"

  "Nah. He was just acting paranoid. I didn't know any money was involved. That wasn't in the papers."

  Joe ignored him. "You were seen spending a lot right after the old man went down."

  Moore looked innocent. "Me?"

  Joe only had to reach for Moore's throat to make the man concede, "All right, all right. Jesus H. Christ. I had some money. Fine. It had nothing to do with that shit."

  Joe looked into his face and believed what he heard. He reached around and opened the handcuffs. Moore massaged his wrists and then rubbed his face with both hands, brushing the sand away.

  "You're not bustin' me?" he asked cautiously.

  "You still have what you stole last night?"

  "Yeah. It's at home."

  Joe tilted his head slightly. "Then, no-not if you hand it over. We'll do it now." He stood up and yanked Moore to his feet, not admitting that since he'd cuffed him and had him confess without Mirandizing him, there wasn't a bust to speak of.

  "Is there anyone else in town Pete might've confided in?" Joe asked as they sidestepped down the slope.

  "Not Pete. Kept to himself, pretty much."

  "No girlfriend?"

  The other man looked surprised. "Hey, there's always a girlfriend-Katie Clark, if you're interested. They even lived together, but that'll be a dead end, too."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Chemistry. Pete's been gone for months, and Katie started hanging with somebody else a week later-no love lost, if you ask me. If he'd contacted her or anyone else, I would've heard. This crowd isn't big on keeping secrets."

  He paused and eyed Gunther as if struck by something wholly original. "That's a first, you know? I mean, sooner or later, you always hear about where a guy ends up, even if it's dead. But not Pete. Not so far."

  Chapter 7

  Joe Gunther was thinking back to that unorthodox salt pile interview when he entered the VBI office, his brain still working on how to link two events separated by three decades.

  "Deep in thought?" came a voice. "Better not strain yourself."

  Joe glanced over to the one desk in the room that was wedged into a corner. That quasi-defensive positioning combined with the mess spilling over the desk's surface made its occupant look as if he were hunkered behind sandbags. Psychologically speaking, the image fit perfectly.

  "Hey, Willy," Joe said distractedly, walking over to his own desk.

  Willy Kunkle was the squad's odd man. Though he had been crippled by a sniper bullet years ago and saddled with a dangling left arm, Willy's sour and biting personality predated any such cause-and-effect explanation. Despite the injury, the post-traumatic stress disorder following his stint in Vietnam, his tortuous recovery from alcoholism, and one wildly failed marriage, Willy-as he was the first to admit-was a self-made man.

  A boss's nightmare, he was still loyal, intelligent, and tenacious enough to have not only earned Joe's respect but his protection as well. Several times, when Willy had been threatened with termination, Joe had found ways to keep him on board. When asked why, especially by Gail, who openly loathed the man, and even once or twice by Sam, who was currently Willy's girlfriend, Joe usually ducked the issue. Left to their own conclusions, therefore, people considered all possibilities, from Willy's being a substitute son to Joe's becoming senile. There were other, less well known interpretations, however, the most telling of which was that once upon a time, as Ted Moore could have attested, Joe's methods hadn't differed all that much from Willy's own. Both battle-scarred vets, they'd had difficulty reining in the style of retribution they'd witnessed all too often in combat.

  Joe had eventually found a steadying mentor in his old, now late squad commander, Frank Murphy. In his heart, he was hoping that he might still serve the same role for Willy, if only partially.

  "Sam tell you what I was working on?" Joe asked, pretending to be scrounging through some files.

  "Something about you being so bored, you had to go back thirty years for a case?"

  That was one way of looking at it. "Yeah, in a nutshell. Who would you go to if you wanted a gun?"

  "Around here, anyone who wasn't driving a Volvo or didn't shop at the Co-op."

  Joe sighed. "Yeah-pretty much what I was thinking."

  "But you're not talking just any piece. You're talking about an ancient hog leg. That smacks of amateur hour to me."

  Gunther looked up at him, brightening slightly. "I have the name of one of the dead guy's pals. Worked with him at the lumber mill as a yard gofer."

  Willy hitched his right shoulder noncommitally. "That's where I'd start. What's his name?"

  "Dick somebody. You want to keep me company?"

  Willy snorted and began extricating himself from behind the desk. "Well, shit, since you got it narrowed down to a single Dick, how can I say no?"

  The mill in question was south of the Brattleboro town line-an open complex of sheds, stacks of lumber, and a railroad spur. Again recalling his failed approach with Ted Moore, a wiser Joe Gunther went straight to the office, showed his credentials, and inquired about an employee named Dick who was a friend of Matt Purvis and had a last name starting with "Ch." The response from the secretary greeting them was happily instantaneous.

  "That would be Dick Celentano. They were quite the duo. I was so sorry to hear about what happened to Matt. That's what you're here about, right?"

  Willy had already opened his mouth to ruin this friendly, casual moment when Joe cut him off. "You're right. Very good. And don't worry about Dick. We just want to chat with him about Matt. I hate to wander all over the yard looking for him, though, and I sure don't want to embarrass him any. Is there a way you can page him? Tell him he has a phone call, maybe?"

  Joe gave her a conspiratorial smile, causing her to giggle. "Ooh, that's clever," she said. "Okay."

  She hit a button on the console before her and announced, "Dick Celentano to the office for a phone call. Dick Celentano to the office for a phone call."

  Gunther thanked her and pulled Kunkle over near the front door, murmuring, "I'll wait for him here. Go loiter in the parking lot and discreetly shepherd him in. I don't want him making a run for it once he finds out who we are."

  "Ooh," Willy mimicked before heading outside. "That's clever."

  They needn't have worried. Dick Celentano was cooperation personified, and easily impressed. "Can I hold it?" he asked after Joe had shown him his badge. The man was completely unfazed by having been lured into the office by a ruse.

  Willy rolled his eyes as Joe handed it over.

  "Wow," Celentano said, cradling it as if it were a religious icon. "I've read about you guys, but this is a first. You're like the best of the best, right? Like, way better than the state troopers."

  "Yeah," Willy said quickly, before Joe could interrupt. "Way better. Be sure to tell them that."

  His eyes gleaming, Celentano returned the badge. "Cool. You got it. So, what can I do you for?"

  "We're here about Matt," Gunther told him.

  Celentano's face fell. "Can you believe that? Unbelievable. I heard about it on the news. I was, like, stunned. I mean, I cried, right then and there."

  "I bet," Willy muttered.

  "That must've been tough," Joe added, patting the man's arm. "You didn't see it coming?"

  "Well, I knew he was bummed out, losing his job here and all. It's not like any of us has money to spare, you know what I mean? And he had less than most."

  "Did you know
Linda?"

  The man's expression soured as he joined the general consensus. "That bitch. Yeah, we met once. She must've been something in the sack, is all I can say, 'cause she wasn't much anywhere else. I never could figure that one out-what he saw in her. She treated me like shit right from the get-go."

  "No kidding?" said Willy.

  Celentano glanced at him, all happy innocence. "Yeah. I mean, what did I ever do to her, right?"

  "So," Joe asked, steering him back on course, "Matt going to confront her came totally out of the blue, as far as you know?"

  "Oh, yeah. Totally."

  "He had a handgun. What can you tell us about that?" Willy asked.

  Dick Celentano furrowed his brow. "I only know about a rifle," he said slowly.

  Both detectives stayed silent. Their guest's former enthusiasm had abruptly faded. He, too, remained quiet, leading Gunther to suggest, "But he was looking for a handgun."

  "Yeah," Celentano mournfully conceded.

  "And you supplied him with one," Willy added, his voice threatening.

  This time the other man correctly interpreted Willy's meaning. "No, I didn't. I swear. I didn't want any part of that. I told him so, too."

  "So, you knew what he wanted it for?"

  Celentano squirmed. "Linda was driving him crazy. He said he just wanted to show her who was boss. I said I wouldn't help-turned him down flat. Just like that. He was drinking again. I wasn't sure what he'd do."

  Willy had straightened by now and was looking out the window, his impatience showing. Joe, for his part, leaned in close, still suspicious. "You were best friends, Dick. He was in need. Even if you didn't want any part of it doesn't mean you couldn't help him indirectly. What was he threatening to do? Rob a store and steal a gun? That would've gotten him in really hot water."

  Dick cast his eyes down. Clearly one of the world's worst poker players. "It wasn't a store," he said softly. "It was a friend's house he was thinking to rob."