The Company She Kept

by Archer Mayor

  “He’s also the one we have a definite eyewitness for,” Sammie said. “Maggie Kinnison can put him there.”

  Joe asked Bruce, “We know that Ruiz and Nichols are lying low. But do we have a location on Buddy Ames, or an easy way to quietly grab hold of him? I’d like to have a chat about the company he’s keeping, but without tipping anyone off that we’re hovering overhead.”

  For the first time, Bruce looked away from the distant screen and smiled directly at Joe. “I think we might.”

  * * *

  Tim Dugan was at the wheel. Joe had no problem ceding control to a man who was Rutland born. For some reason, although he’d been crisscrossing Vermont for his entire adult life, Joe had always found Rutland’s streets to be a mazelike tangle. This was all the truer now that many of the familiar landmarks were hidden under a thick cover of fresh snow.

  “We have the subject in sight, leaving the building,” said a metallic-sounding voice.

  Dugan spoke softly into his cell phone, which he’d put on speaker, for Joe’s sake. “Ten-four.”

  “Amazing, those things,” Joe commented.

  Dugan hefted it in his hand. “Don’t know how we functioned before. Damn things are a miracle—take pictures, download records, access data banks, and talk to each other securely without radio chatter. Who knew? And all in a couple of years.”

  “Except when they don’t work,” Joe couldn’t resist saying.

  Dugan chuckled. “Right. Well, that’s your problem, traveling the whole state. Me? I’m stuck in an urban hole. It may not be much, but it’s got good cell service.”

  “He’s heading north, as discussed. Nothing hinky yet,” the voice said.

  Dugan stayed put, his engine running but his lights out. There were three teams out tonight—Sam and Willy in one vehicle, Lester and another Rutland cop named Robert Marshall in the other. It was this second unit that was tailing Buddy Ames at the moment, fresh from leaving his place of work at a pizza place on Route 7.

  It was after midnight, in the middle of the week, during a time which—thanks to Bruce Steinmetz—they knew Rutland’s population and traffic flow were in a traditional lull, a statistic only enhanced by the recent bad weather. By and large, Buddy and his police tail were almost alone on the streets.

  This was the third night in a row that they’d had Buddy Ames under surveillance, establishing his habits. So far, he’d consistently left work, headed toward the Gut, dropped by a late-night bar for a few drinks, and then continued on—weaving slightly—to his humble home on the edge of town. It was the sort of routine they’d been hoping for, and which Bruce had suggested they might find. Buddy, he’d guessed, was a man of regular habits.

  They left the neon glitter and open spaces of Rutland’s most commercial area—Route 7—Marshall swapping positions with Willy in order not to become too omnipresent in Buddy’s rearview mirror. The snowbanks lining the streets thereafter acted as sound-absorbing walls, boxing in the cars and combining with the bitter cold and abrupt darkness to heighten a sense of isolation.

  Winter in northern New England could sidle up to you that way—presenting as an eye-pleasing postcard while seeking out your vitality. Volcanic lava and ash were in-your-face threats to survival; snow and light-refracting ice—soft, seductive, rounded, and smooth—were subtler, slower, but no less lethal.

  Joe and Dugan were waiting on the edge of the Gut, out of sight at the end of a still and somber block of darkened homes. In the past twenty minutes, they hadn’t seen a single sign of life, and had heard only the two other teams exchanging details of their ever-changing locations.

  “This might actually work,” Dugan said softly, almost to himself.

  “Happens, sometimes,” Joe commented.

  The last communication indicated that Sam and Willy were cutting around the block, in order to appear in front of Ames’s car. The plan was for them to plant themselves in the middle of the street just below Joe and Tim—faking a breakdown, complete with Sammie acting the distressed motorist—so that the other two vehicles could then box in their quarry and grab him.

  “We’re in place,” said Willy shortly, announcing the first step.

  “He’s heading down the street,” Marshall reported from behind.

  Tim instinctively moved the phone closer to his mouth as Buddy’s beater slid by before them. “He just passed by us, going your way,” he said, before turning on his headlights and entering the road in front of Spinney and Marshall’s car.

  From the passenger seat, Joe saw Buddy’s dim headlights slowly revealing an SUV blocking the way ahead, flagrantly decorated by a young woman dressed in skintight jeans, her coat open to reveal her figure, waving at him for help.

  Unconcerned about who might be behind him, Buddy stopped and eagerly emerged into the night to approach her. She was babbling about how her car had quit, as Joe, Tim, and the two behind them all stepped into the street, fanned out to both sides, and quickly closed the distance. Buddy hadn’t begun speaking before he was surrounded by powerful men who bundled him up, piled him into Sammie’s car with Joe, Willy, and Lester, while Sam and the others redistributed themselves among the remaining three cars, including Buddy’s.

  In less than a minute, the street was as empty, quiet, and dark as before.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Who are you people?”

  Joe smiled broadly and sat down. “We’re in a police station, Buddy.”

  “You kidnapped me. Where’s my car?”

  Joe made a vague gesture. “You’ve been a bad boy, so we picked you up, which is when, by the way, you agreed to cooperate. Remember? Your car’s in the lot outside, safely locked up. And you’re not even under arrest, Buddy—yet. Do you want to leave now? You can if you want.”

  Ames didn’t move from his chair. He looked around the small room suspiciously, taking in Joe, the half-open door near him, the mirrored window beside it, and the camera mounted high in the corner, its beady red light blinking steadily.

  “What d’you want?”

  “To discuss your options.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “More than you might think. You’re a local boy, aren’t you?”

  “So?”

  “You’ve gotten used to the way things work here. Good guys, bad guys, the patsies in the middle. Kind of a comfortable routine.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “How many times’ve you been arrested, Buddy?”

  “I don’t know. Five or six.”

  “Maybe fifteen?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You ever make a deal, to lighten your time, or reduce a charge?”

  “I’m not a rat.”

  Joe feigned surprise. “Is that what I said?”

  “It’s what you meant.”

  “Totally wrong. I’m talking about the times you gave us something and we gave you a little less to worry about. No rats. Just common sense.”

  In the leading silence following, Buddy finally said, “Okay.”

  Joe rose just enough to hitch his chair slightly closer to Buddy’s. The other man straightened, as if reacting to an odor.

  Joe lowered his voice threateningly. “Well, this ain’t one of those times.”

  Ames pursed his lips. “Why?”

  “You may not know it, but you really stepped in it this time.”

  Buddy’s voice rose in protest. “I haven’t done nuthin.”

  “Have you heard about the woman found hanging over the interstate?”

  “Who hasn’t? That’s got nuthin to do with me.”

  Joe leaned forward, further closing the distance between them. “You see? That’s the crazy thing. It really does—enough to cook you alive.”

  “I never met that lady. Wouldn’t know her if she walked in the room.” He pointed to the door.

  “You know what a conspiracy is?” Joe asked him.

  Buddy’s eyes narrowed. “So?”

  “So you know that when the Titanic went d
own, its innocent passengers went with it, even though they had nothing to do with hitting that iceberg.”

  Buddy hesitated, confused. “What?”

  “You’re not the least bit innocent, Buddy. You’re driving your boat,” Joe told him. “According to your record, you’re a regular menace—even selling drugs.”

  “Yeah?”

  “A lot of drugs, in fact. You’re a connected man, with a source on one side and customers on the other. You’re responsible for what you do.”

  Ames didn’t respond.

  “They call you The Indian,” Joe said, pointing at Buddy’s belt buckle. “Because of that. Which is why you were contacted by Brandon Younger awhile back and asked to sell some weed to a woman. She met you in her car on the street, when you were with Stuey Nichols. She really remembers that buckle. In fact, she remembers a bunch.”

  Buddy self-consciously touched his waist. “Lot of people have this.”

  Joe hitched his chair close enough that they were almost touching knees. “We’re just talking about you. And so is she. Anyhow, that dope—that particular bag of marijuana, Buddy, the one you sold to that woman—it’s been directly linked to Susan Raffner’s death.”

  Ames opened his mouth slightly, as if preparing to comment, but then closed it.

  “And here’s the kicker,” Joe said. “This is all about to go federal, and we local guys are going to disappear. That means no more people like me, willing to talk a deal. It means the death penalty gets put on the table.”

  Buddy looked pained. “For selling grass?”

  Joe smiled. “You don’t have to go down like those innocent passengers.” He touched Buddy’s knee gently. “You could be maybe one of the lucky ones. But there’s something I’m disappointed you didn’t mention, right off the bat. Makes me think you’re fucking me around, and that maybe you deserve to drown.” His hand now squeezed Buddy’s knee hard, making him flinch and try to move away.

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “A second woman came by to see you, after you sold that bag to the first one.”

  Buddy licked his lips and swallowed. “No,” he barely whispered.

  Joe was relieved by the reaction, since his statement had been a purely calculated gamble. “Oh, yes,” he reassured him. “And that second woman was Susan Raffner, who ended up dead right after. You do understand what kind of jam that puts you in?”

  Joe lessened his grip. “Nod if you understand.”

  Buddy Ames nodded.

  Joe let go and sat back, if only slightly. “For the record, you also understand that you can still leave anytime you want? And that you’re speaking to me now freely and willingly?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good man. That helps me think maybe you didn’t kill Susan Raffner—or at least that you didn’t do it alone.”

  “I didn’t do it at all,” Ames protested. “I mean, sure. I sold her a bag—the other lady, I mean. But I didn’t kill the next one—the older one. I barely had nuthin to do with her.”

  Joe was nodding throughout. “But you did meet her.”

  “Yeah. That stupid bastard Brandon put her onto me.”

  “Take me through it, Buddy. Describe what happened.”

  “He gave her my home address. Can you believe that? She came right up and pounded on the door. In the middle of the night. I didn’t know what the fuck was happening—thought it was the cops. And it was that crazy bitch.”

  “You talked with her.”

  “She wasn’t gonna take no for an answer. Sure I talked to her. She threatened to call you guys if I didn’t. How weird is that?”

  Joe leaned forward again, causing Ames to draw up nervously. “Tell me what happened clearly, Buddy, without the theatrics. Don’t forget how important it is that you describe everything in order and accurately—down to the last detail. You have a lot riding on this.”

  “I’m trying,” he whined.

  “I know. So she came knocking on your door in the middle of the night. About what time?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe two? I was asleep, and I don’t get home till after one, mostly.”

  “Did she know who you were when you opened the door?”

  “Sort of. She called me by my name. ‘Are you Buddy Ames?’ is what she said.”

  “You live alone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you see her car out front? In your driveway, if you have one?”

  Buddy looked thoughtful for the first time, becoming more at ease. “Yeah. It was one of those fancy eco-things, I think. I could barely see it. She’d left it near the street.”

  “All right. You let her in?”

  “I didn’t want to. I was telling her to fuck off. That’s what got her worked up, threatening me like she did. After that, she just pushed her way in, like she owned the place and I was the trespasser. Unbelievable.”

  “What did she want?”

  “Her money back,” he said, his frustration rising. “Like I was Walmart.”

  “Okay,” Joe soothed him. “Again, one step at a time. Give me details.”

  Buddy clamped his lips tightly for a moment, in a show of self-control, before letting out a breath and saying calmly, “She said she was the one who sent that first woman out, and what the hell was I thinking—that I could sell her bad dope for that much money? Those’re her words. I’m not making nuthin up.”

  “What did you say?”

  Buddy surprised him by actually looking embarrassed. “I told her I didn’t have it anymore, but that maybe we could work something out.”

  “Really?” Joe asked, despite himself.

  “She wasn’t wrong about the weed,” Buddy admitted. “It was crap. I knew we shouldn’t’ve done it.”

  “You and Stuey?”

  Buddy seemed surprised, as if caught out, although Joe had mentioned Stuey once already. “Yeah.”

  “So why did you?”

  “She was no regular of ours—neither her or the one in the car earlier. From what I know, Brandon used to service one or the other, but he moved out of the pot business, like most people have. So Stuey didn’t care, not from the get-go. He said he had some lousy stuff on hand, the customer was raring to go, so what the hell.”

  “And you didn’t like it.”

  “I didn’t like that he was gonna charge her full freight—hydro prices for Mexican cow shit. That’s not good for business, you know?”

  “What happened next? When you told her you no longer had her money?”

  “She went ballistic. Said she didn’t need this kind of hassle, today of all days.”

  Joe almost cut him off. “She explain that?”

  “Nah, but she was pissed. I mean, she came in loaded for bear, and I didn’t think it was about some stupid marijuana.”

  “Okay. Go ahead.”

  “So, like I said, I told her maybe we could work somethin’ out. That’s when she said that getting all her money back and keeping the stuff we sold her would be just fine. Well, that kinda got under my skin. You know—fair’s fair—but screwin’ us ’cause she got ripped off didn’t seem right, neither. We coulda split the difference or somethin’.”

  “What happened?”

  He shrugged. “I couldn’t do nuthin. Stuey had the money. So I called him.”

  Joe tried to imagine the scene—the angry, entitled, self-righteous politician versus the pizza-slinging, street-level drug dealer, calling for arbitration from a sociopathic criminal. If the results hadn’t already been made so dreadfully clear, it might have sounded like the makings of a TV soap opera.

  “Did he come over?”

  “No,” Buddy told him. “He told me to give her the phone and they talked. After that, she left and that was it.”

  Joe hid his disappointment. “What did you overhear? Did he give her directions on where to meet him?”

  “He coulda. I wouldn’t know. When I gave her the phone, she stepped outside—I don’t know why. All I heard her say was,
‘Who’s this?’ as she was leaving. She was talking as she walked around—I could hear that—but I couldn’t make out what she was saying.”

  “And then she left.”

  “Yeah. Handed me the phone back, through the door, and took off.”

  “You talk to Stuey after? To find out what happened?”

  “I tried, but he’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Gone, gone. I don’t know, man. Just disappeared. Nobody knows where he’s at. I thought maybe you guys had him.”

  “Because you added up two-plus-two?” Joe asked him. “And figured the woman you saw that night was found dead the next day?”

  Ames hesitated, unsure of his footing. “Maybe,” he hedged.

  “What was she wearing, Buddy?”

  He stared at him a moment. “Wearing? You mean clothes?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ames scratched his cheek. “Uh, a long coat. Dark. Maybe wool.”

  “Underneath?”

  “Pants. Like fancy, though. Not jeans. They were dark, too. And a white shirt.”

  “Shoes?”

  He paused. “I don’t remember. They weren’t like winter boots or anything. I woulda remembered that. I guess they were lady things. I dunno.”

  Joe nodded to himself. The description fit what he’d seen on Susan when they’d pulled her off the cliff—minus the long coat. At the time, they’d believed she’d been grabbed while indoors. Now, that was less clear.

  “Talk to me about Stuey,” Joe asked. “Where was the last place you know he was living?”

  “Motel on Route Seven,” Ames told him. “Some dump. Used to be called one thing, then it changed names, so now I don’t know what to call it. Next to the Irving station, and the KFC.”

  “You remember what room?”

  “It’s on the second floor, about halfway along. He was living with a girl, like usual.”

  “She have a name?”

  He thought a moment. “Jackie somebody. She’s dead, though, so that’s not gonna do much for you.”

  The news came out as if they’d been discussing an old car.

  “Jackie Nunzio?” Joe asked, less for clarification and more to grant her a fragment of relevance.

  He should have known better. “Yeah. That’s it. Skanky bitch—real smack whore, complete with rug rats. I didn’t see the appeal.”