The surrogate thief jg-15

by Archer Mayor

  "Come around," she urged him. "It's cold out."

  He circled the car and waited while she cleared her passenger seat so he could slide in beside her.

  "What's going on?" he asked after closing the door.

  She reached for his hand, her face glowing from the dashboard lighting. "I have an apology to make."

  He waited, confused.

  Her words almost tumbled over one another. "I heard about the case you're working on-the one you had when Ellen died. I'm so sorry I didn't ask what you were doing. I've been so tunnel-visioned with this stupid campaign. It must be so hard for you, reliving all that."

  He squeezed her hand. "Slow down. It's okay. How'd you find out, anyhow? Nothing's been in the paper."

  But she maintained her manic pace. "In this town? You're kidding, right? 'Confidential' isn't even in the lexicon around here. Someone leaked it to Ted McDonald, so WBRT's been running it all afternoon, meaning the Reformer will have it tomorrow. I just couldn't believe it when I heard. You came by the house that night, probably to tell me, and I barely said hi. That was it, wasn't it? Why you came by?"

  Joe was embarrassed, not to mention stunned by her revelation about the news getting out. He now had a pretty good idea what most of those unread call-back slips were about on his desk. "Oh, well, not really. Maybe a small reason. I just wanted to see you."

  "And share a little of what was going on in your life," she finished. "Hardly a huge request, but too big for me." She leaned over suddenly and kissed him. "This thing has turned me into a total jerk."

  He pulled back to see her better. "You're making too much of it. I would've mentioned it, sure, but I saw you were busy. And it's not like we haven't seen each other since. This thing's not as bad as it sounds. A lot of time has gone by. In some ways, it's like working any other case. It's just got some weird echoes attached to it."

  That wasn't quite true, but he was touched by her concern, and didn't want her feeling any worse.

  "What's McDonald been saying, by the way?" he asked.

  "Just that the police have reopened an old murder case dating back thirty-plus years, based on some new evidence they won't discuss, and then a recap about Oberfeldt. How's it coming, anyhow?"

  "Up to five minutes ago, not too well, but I just got some fingerprints out of AFIS that look pretty promising. How 'bout you? The primary's getting close. You feeling good about it?"

  Gail made a face. "Not too good about some of the company I have to keep." She checked her watch. "I have to meet with Rene Charbonneau in ten minutes. Guy makes my skin crawl."

  Joe looked at her in surprise. Rene Charbonneau was a county bigwig-a self-made man who ran a soft drink and beer distributorship and a small string of convenience stores and owned God knows how much commercial real estate.

  "Charbonneau?" he asked. "What's that about?"

  "Money. What else? He's the top Democrat in that category-a miniature version of Ed Parker's Tom Bander. Sooner or later, everybody stands on his rug on their way to Montpelier, at least if they're coming from Windham County."

  Joe was impressed by how little he knew of this world. "I've never even met the guy. No surprise there, I guess. I thought you were going after the tens and twenties of the unwashed masses."

  She looked a little shamefaced. "I know I said that, but assuming I win the primary, I have to start planning for the next stage. Different game, with King Kong as an opponent. I play the same role-maybe a little more centrist-but I have to make sure the major movers are taken care of. I'm not after Charbonneau's money so much-more the support it represents. Parker's going to be really hard to beat." She paused to sigh wearily. "Christ, I can't believe what I'm saying. I sound exactly like all the politicians I used to hate."

  He tried steering her away from such thoughts. "Is Charbonneau really bad news?"

  "Oh, no. He's pretty progressive for a hard-core capitalist. He just sees himself as a ladies' man, and he gives me the creeps. Takes my elbow, pats my shoulder, guides me around by the small of the back. I wish he'd just grab my ass and get it over with."

  Joe laughed. "That would be the end of somebody's career, sure as hell."

  There was a momentary stillness, which she followed in a more muted voice. "That brings up something else, Joe."

  "What?"

  "It's the real reason for the apology. I did something I'm even more embarrassed about than having ignored you the night you came over. Have you started calling your law enforcement contacts yet, telling them about me?"

  Joe felt his face get warm in the darkness of the car's interior. "No. I'm sorry. I talked to Lester about it, and he said-"

  She put her hand on his arm. "Don't do it."

  "Don't call?"

  She looked out the windshield, avoiding eye contact. "I've been aiming at this campaign for a long time-a lot longer than I'll admit. I don't know if it's ambition or a need to be admired, or maybe, God forbid, because I actually believe in what I keep preaching about."

  "Gail," he cautioned.

  "No," she said with a quick smile. "It's okay. I spend so much time telling people what they want to hear, it's nice to just be honest with someone. Especially you." She took a breath. "Anyway, the point is that getting here has taken a lot of time and effort, and the actual campaign has rubbed my face in things I never dreamed of-like the allegations that I'm milking the rape for sympathy, or using my gender to advantage, or soaking my flatlander parents for money. It's all made me a little crazy, and turned winning the election into a kind of Holy Grail, especially against a guy who's starting to look damn near unbeatable. It's like a vendetta. I don't listen so much to all my friends and supporters anymore. I listen instead to the bastards who don't even know me and treat me like shit, and I want to win so I can shove it up their noses."

  Joe didn't respond to any of this, recognizing not only its cathartic benefit but also that it probably reflected a much broader truth. He suspected that most politicians, if only in the secret recesses of their hearts, shared many of the same sentiments.

  "Bottom line is," she continued, "that I sometimes lose sight of who I am and of what really counts in my life." She looked at him and took hold of his hand again. "In a more clear-sighted moment, it never would have crossed my mind to ask you to make those calls, Joe, especially while we were lying naked in bed."

  She held up her hand to quiet the response she saw forming on his lips. "You would argue the point because you're a nice person, but I see what I did as emotional blackmail, and I don't want you to cater to it. So, promise me you won't make those calls, okay?"

  He fought the instinct she'd already quelled twice, to downplay her words and make light of the perceived injury. Because in fact, she was right, and he was grateful for her perception and honesty. But despite his desire to, he still couldn't match her eloquence.

  "Okay," he said simply. "Thanks. And don't worry. No matter how you're feeling now, you are the good guys. Don't forget that."

  She leaned over and kissed him once more. "That's me-Wonder Woman. Oy." She rolled her eyes dramatically. "Would you be up for a late-night visitor in a few hours?"

  "Absolutely," he said instantly, but just as immediately felt a renewed unspoken frustration. As he left her car and waved good-bye, he swore under his breath at his own weakness. Just as Gail had run roughshod over him because of her own ambitions, he'd just now shot himself in the foot so as not to hurt her feelings.

  In fact, he didn't want company tonight. He wanted to be on the road. The AFIS printout in his pocket told him that Peter Shea's fingerprints currently belonged to a man named Norman Chesbro, and that Chesbro had been arrested for a chronic failure to pay parking tickets just two months ago in Gloucester, Massachusetts.

  Once again, Joe found himself caught in tendrils of his own making.

  He let out a puff of air in resignation and headed toward his car. What the hell. A few hours now wouldn't make that much difference.

  Chapter 12

&nbs
p; Gloucester, Massachusetts, is one of the grand old New England towns, as renowned in maritime history as Cape Ann-on which it is perched-was famous among vacationing artists of old. The same holds true for both places today, though mostly for sentimental reasons. Gloucester, while still fully functional as a fishing port, is but a pale glimmer of its past. And to Joe's jaundiced eye, Cape Ann's genteel and frugal Yankees were being overrun by Hummer-equipped megaconsumers seemingly bent on proving they had more cash than sense.

  The population shifts reflect this latter aspect. From a year-round total of some 30,000 locals, the region bloats up to three times that number over the summer.

  But he couldn't really blame either tourists or part-timers. Even if addicted to the latest trend in vehicle or cell phone, the most hopeless among them could only be impressed by Cape Ann's simple, breathtaking charm. It is a perfect commingling of history, good food, soothing scenery, and proximity to Boston. Despite the traffic, the boutiques, and a cheek-by-jowl crush of million-dollar homes, the whole place remains wedded to the basics preceding them: the gulls, the fishing boats, the smell of salt in the shifting air, and the huge, swelling, slightly ominous sea supporting it all.

  Not surprisingly, there is a parallel arc of economic extremes, from the mansion owners spending most of their time away to the dock and fish-factory workers inhabiting Gloucester's ancient heart. It is the latter who continue the traditions of lore and trade and who occupy, in a feudal comparison, the role of peasants on whom the lords rely for food. Similarly, they also bear the brunt of a dangerous and unstable profession and are as exposed to the vagaries of the sea as their landlocked medieval forebears were to drought, disease, and foreign invasion.

  In light of all this, it almost goes without saying that Gloucester is a hard-drinking town, run through with a steady stream of nameless people of no particular address.

  An ideal place for someone on the run.

  The Gloucester Police Department is perched along with the county's district court in a modern, largely windowless redbrick atop Main Street's modest humped back. Joe parked on the street, noticing as he did how the crest of the hill marked a social watershed of sorts, with the eastern slope leading toward the wharves, the older businesses, and some of the cheaper housing, and the western slope hosting more upscale, trendy shops and outlets. The majority of the pedestrian crowd, still clad in summer brights, was clearly weighted toward the latter.

  Joe found the police department located off the building's lobby, in a dark room fronted by a bulletproof glass panel. He could just dimly make out what looked to be a dispatch center beyond. A phone was mounted to one side of the window.

  "Hello? Gloucester Police."

  "Hi. My name's Joe Gunther. I'm from the Vermont Bureau of Investigation, in town running a check on an outstanding warrant."

  There was a pause from the other end, followed by "Hang on. A detective will be right out."

  In three minutes, a barrel-shaped man in a polo shirt and khakis appeared at the far door. His expression was guarded as he stuck out his hand. "I'm Sergeant Wilkinson. May I help you?"

  Joe reintroduced himself, presenting his credentials at the same time.

  "Long way from home," Wilkinson said, opening the door wider and smiling thinly at last. "Come on back."

  Joe followed him down a couple of dark, cluttered hallways and into a tiny office. For all its exterior clean lines and modernity, the building's innards seemed cramped and oddly designed. Wilkinson waved Joe to a guest chair wedged between his desk and a side table loaded with portable radios in chargers. Joe had to watch out for his knees as he sat.

  "They told me you're looking for someone," Wilkinson stated.

  Joe pulled an updated arrest warrant from his pocket and placed it before his counterpart. "Peter Shea. Suspected of homicide thirty-two years ago in Brattleboro, Vermont. I got an AFIS hit last night that you folks arrested him for unpaid parking tickets a couple of months ago."

  Wilkinson's whole expression changed from reserve to bafflement. "You're kidding me."

  Joe smiled. "Yeah-long story. Talk about a cold case. You have him in your files under the name-"

  "Norman Chesbro," Wilkinson finished.

  Just hearing the name out loud was a relief. After all this time and his own misgivings and self-doubt, Joe suddenly began to believe that the end might be within grasp. He wondered how it would feel to finally speak with the elusive ghost of half a lifetime.

  "I guess you two met."

  But Wilkinson was looking unhappy. "You could say that. We fished him out of the water early this morning. With a hole in his chest."

  Gunther stared at him.

  The Gloucester cop opened a file before him and slid a Polaroid picture over without comment.

  Joe picked it up and saw a drenched man, his face pale as bleached rubber, lying on a stretcher on a dock. In one of those moments when shock calls out for distraction, he also noticed how the body was ringed by the tips of people's shoes, all caught in the margins of the photographer's frame.

  "Sorry to ruin your day," Wilkinson said. "Was that your guy?"

  Joe returned the picture. "I don't know. Last I saw him, he was barely twenty. His fingerprints checked out, though, right?"

  "Yeah. And I was the one who arrested him for the tickets."

  Joe sat back in his chair, struggling with the sheer mass of his disappointment. "Any idea when he was killed?"

  "Must've been last night. He was seen alive around one this morning, at a bar-no surprise. He was a major-league juicer."

  One in the morning, Joe thought. Long after when he would have been here had he chosen not to spend the night with Gail.

  Unwittingly, Wilkinson then added exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time. "Too bad his prints weren't in the system. If I'd gotten a hit when I booked him for the parking tickets, I would've held on to him."

  "That's true," Joe admitted mournfully. "It's always what you don't do that bites you in the ass later. Damn."

  Wilkinson was looking sorry for him. "I wish I had some good news to balance the books, but we've got nothing so far. No clue on who killed him-or why, for that matter."

  Joe rubbed his face vigorously with both hands and took a deep breath. "Okay, maybe there's some other angle. What was behind the parking ticket thing?"

  Wilkinson made a dismissive gesture. "Like I said, he hit the bottle, hard and regular, along with a few hundred other people in this town. He had a car stolen a while back and claims he didn't know it was missing. It was being ticketed all over town; notices were being sent to Chesbro's address, but he never got them. That part, I half believe. He never collected his mail, including the final letter that told him to show up in court or else. I was the 'or else.' He was pretty surprised to see me. I'll give him that."

  "Maybe more than surprised?" Gunther asked. "Did he act nervous you might find out he was flying under different colors?"

  "I didn't notice it if he was," Wilkinson answered. "And we never did tumble to that. He had a license, a social security number. We were happy. It's still pretty easy to get a new identity in this country, especially if you're living low-profile."

  "He have a job?"

  "At a fish-packing plant. Don't ask; don't tell. We talked to them. Barely knew who he was. Just another face."

  "Are you the investigator?" Joe asked.

  "One of them. We have a team approach on these-one each from our department, the state police, and the DA's office. For all practical purposes, the state police take the lead."

  Joe nodded thoughtfully. "I don't suppose there'd be any way I could look at where he was living? Check out his personal belongings?"

  Wilkinson stood, taking his keys off the desk and pocketing them. "I don't see why not, assuming you fill me in on why you're here and what Chesbro meant to you. Could be we're after the same thing somehow."

  Driving anywhere in Gloucester doesn't take long. It's more the traffic than any distance that usually
gets in the way, and in this instance, neither was a factor. The place Pete Shea had been calling home as Norman Chesbro was a rooming house above a bar located only a couple of blocks down from the police department, on the "wrong" side of Main Street, assuming you preferred boutiques to dead fish. Joe barely had time to explain his interest in Shea before Wilkinson pulled his car over hard by the harbor and killed the engine.

  "Home, sweet home." He gestured across the street at a largely windowless, stucco-clad blockhouse of a building, capped by two floors of a completely different type of construction. It looked as if a motel had been airlifted onto a warehouse, except that the warehouse in this case had a Budweiser sign decorating the door.

  "He lived up there?" Joe asked.

  Wilkinson hefted himself out. "Yup. The anonymous Dew Drop Inn. People live there from half an hour to ten years, and nobody knows nuthin'. It's a cold fact that half the people upstairs and down are wanted for something somewhere, but anytime I step inside, they all pretend they're in a library." He pointed to a collection of moored fishing boats of various sizes and shapes. "That's where he was found this morning by a local fisherman about to head out."

  "Any guesses on how he was killed?" Joe asked. "You said he had a hole in the chest."

  "The autopsy's being done in Boston, as usual, but I'm guessing a knife-a big one. Looks like the killer caught him under the ribs and aimed straight up into the major vessels." Wilkinson squinted at him in the bright sunlight. "Anybody you know who might've wanted to get that up close and personal?"

  Joe thought back to the morning's Brattleboro Reformer, which had run an article on the old Oberfeldt killing on the heels of the radio reports the day before. But all he could give Wilkinson was a hapless look. "It's all such ancient history."

  The other cop nodded thoughtfully. "So, it's probably just a drunk getting knifed. Most of the people we find in that shape have a bad history-doesn't mean any of it played a part in making them dead."

  He glanced across the street at the bar and waved to a man who'd just stepped out onto the sidewalk and was putting on dark glasses against the sudden light. Even at that distance, Joe pegged him as cop, from the shoes to the haircut.