The Company She Kept

by Archer Mayor

  “I’d offer you a drink,” he told her. “We have a bar in here. But I doubt you’d accept.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “You’ve done okay for yourself, all this razzle-dazzle.” She indicated their surroundings. “And we have good information telling us that Rutland’s become a hard habit to break, even after all these years.”

  He waited patiently in silence.

  “The problem with an outfit like yours, though,” she went on, “is that it’s tough to be too picky about your employees. You been paying attention to the headlines in Vermont lately?”

  He frowned slightly. “The senator? I didn’t have anything to do with that. I heard it was a hate crime—antigay or something.”

  Sam shook her head. “That was a dodge. It’s coming home to you, Manny.”

  He pursed his lips, as if suddenly lost in thought, and then gave her a whimsical look. “You used to call me Manuel.”

  She smiled slightly. “Times change.”

  He nodded. “You implied that a business associate of mine may have stepped out of line.”

  Sam glanced out the window again, thinking hard. Sentimentality had prompted Ruiz to speak with her, which was unlikely to happen again. As had been the case a decade ago, she was finding herself in too deep, too fast with this man, and having to improvise. Was there a way to simultaneously get a location for Stuey Nichols and bring down Manuel Ruiz? Certainly not if she uttered Stuey’s name now. Ruiz would simply have him killed. Similarly, telling Ruiz of the HSI investigation hanging over him wouldn’t work—she was not a fed with powers to broker a deal, and it would just encourage him to thwart their efforts.

  She considered her options realistically, rather than with high hopes. That, in part, was what had tangled her up last time—she’d sacrificed tactics for ambition and opportunity. She’d always been a cop to value the might of right, and considered it her mission to correct all ills. But Ruiz—despite the guilt she bore for having failed to bring him down—was no longer her problem. He was on Homeland Security’s list of things to do.

  Sam’s concern had to be Stuey Nichols—alone—and not his welfare at his employer’s hands. The truth was that word would be seeping out that Nichols was of interest to the cops. In Manny Ruiz’s sanguinary view of the world, that alone was enough to make Stuey one of the earth’s short-term residents. The only missing piece for Manny, therefore, was to hear from her directly how much of a liability his underling had become—along with the man’s name. That, as she saw it, would conclude Stuey’s career as a federal informant, force HSI to protect him, and encourage him to open up to VBI.

  Having weighed her options, she cast her die, hoping to hell that HSI had a location on Stuey.

  She gave Ruiz a level stare. “You want to know who I’m talking about, you have to let me out to make a phone call.”

  Ruiz smiled, his eyes betraying his own inner calculus. “Why would I do that?”

  “You don’t have a choice,” she countered with false confidence. “I was just being polite.”

  He rolled down his window to speak rapidly to the bodyguard nearby, who crossed over to the escort car to inform his colleagues. Ruiz then resealed the window and nodded to Sam. “Please.”

  Sam stepped into the cold black air and walked some twenty feet into the middle of the parking lot, aware of the pale faces studying her from the smaller vehicle.

  “You there?” she asked quietly. Her cell had been on from the start, on open mic so that Willy could hear everything.

  He anticipated her request. “You want me to tell Joe to tell HSI they can either locate Stuey tonight and tie him down, or attend his funeral by tomorrow?”

  “Something like that. This the right move?” she added, still doubtful.

  He didn’t hesitate. As he’d said earlier, he had her back. “Works for me.”

  “Thanks, Willy.”

  “Always, babe.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Joe took in the others around HSI’s Burlington conference table. Peter LaBelle’s was the only face he recognized of the five people there, although it wouldn’t have mattered, had he been looking for a friend. Everyone in the room was visibly irritated with him. He wasn’t surprised, nor was he all that happy himself—he’d been told of Sam’s preemptive move on Manny Ruiz by Willy in the middle of the night. If nothing else, however, it had addressed what he’d mentioned earlier to Beverly, about something being in motion that he couldn’t discern. Just in time.

  “I’m John Beirne,” said the man sitting at the head of the semicircle. “I’m the Resident Agent-in-Charge here.”

  That made Beirne the RAC, in their nomenclature, which put him roughly on a par with Joe.

  Joe nodded.

  “Normally, I would make introductions,” Beirne continued, “and I might in a moment, but I wanted to start off by asking if what happened last night is typical of what you call interagency cooperation?”

  “Is Nichols secure?” Joe asked instead.

  “Of course he is. He was before your representative blew his cover.”

  “You chose not to tell us that when you could have,” Joe said. “And we didn’t blow his cover. We merely told Ruiz that Nichols was wanted for questioning in a homicide, as a way to shake the bushes and see what might break loose. His connection to you and your ongoing investigation was in no way compromised.”

  Beirne laughed derisively. “Until they find him and kill him for good measure, you mean? Just to keep things tidy?”

  “Employees of Manuel Ruiz kill people all the time,” Joe argued. “Nichols wouldn’t be a standout on that score. Try looking at it this way: If we’re right and Nichols murdered Raffner, then that’s the end of his usefulness as a CI to you. If he didn’t and we’re wrong, you can get back into Ruiz’s good graces by having Nichols do something spectacular, like hand over some crucial-sounding, bogus piece of intel. Right now, that latter option’s looking unlikely to you only because Raffner was such a high-profile target and we haven’t caught who killed her. We’ll be remedying that either way. And in the unlikely case it wasn’t Stuey, then the heat’ll be off and you folks’ll be back where you were.”

  Beirne’s expression tightened. When he spoke, Joe could hear the effort of his self-control. “Special Agent Gunther, I’ve got to be perfectly honest: Your words right now sound all very tidy and levelheaded, but the actions of your organization last night in Holyoke smack of nothing less than blackmail.”

  “That wasn’t their intention,” Joe responded.

  “Nevertheless,” Beirne almost cut him off. “Only yesterday, Special Agent LaBelle”—he indicated the man on his right—“was in Brattleboro being briefed about your situation. Did he or did he not tell you at that time that he needed to confer with people up his chain of command in order to make everything happen that you were requesting?”

  “Not to split hairs,” Joe told him, “but no, he did not—not in so many words. With all due respect and knowing how these things can happen—since we’re all human beings—he actually opted not to make a phone call as he might have, from our office, but to leave us hanging instead while he traveled back up here to do what he felt he had to do in person.

  “That,” he continued before anyone could cut him off, “left us high and dry exactly when we needed to move the fastest—since, to repeat, we had no idea you were keeping Stuey safe and sound. You can appreciate our lack of options.”

  He held up his hand as Beirne opened his mouth and added, “I’m not pointing fingers, either. I might’ve done the same thing if the roles had been reversed. Peter here was very clear that yours is a large, complex organization and that procedures have to be followed. But put yourselves in our shoes. The only person not breathing down our necks right now is the president of the United States, and he’s probably just stuck behind a busy signal.”

  “That very argument,” Beirne countered, “is part of our problem. We are fully supportive of your ambitions to solve thi
s homicide, just as you say you’re sensitive to our wanting to see a long and complicated investigation brought to a successful conclusion. The possible key to both is Mr. Nichols, although—as you pointed out—nothing is guaranteed in your case.”

  Here, Beirne could no longer control his agitation, and rose to stand by the window overlooking the Burlington cityscape. “Nevertheless, HSI will always do what it can to be a good partner, regardless of how it may be treated by others.” His eyes narrowed as he emphasized, “Including high-pressure phone calls from the governor, which I found especially unnecessary.

  “Our main objection to what’s happened between our two agencies is the time element. You’re in a rush because of the pressures you just mentioned; we’re in just the opposite boat because of the care we’ve taken and the effort we’ve expended building a case against Ruiz and his suppliers in Mexico—of which Nichols is an important part.”

  He leaned on the table between them to make his point. “But is your cause really so pressing? Or is it—as I think it is—more driven by the need to get a headline that’ll satisfy your governor’s political ambitions during a reelection campaign?”

  Joe had anticipated this. He kept his own voice calm, even slightly friendly, despite his reactive anger. “Entirely reasonable question, on the face of it. We’ve all been a little addled by the attention this has gotten. That being said, the fact remains that a homicide has occurred. Rule one of any murder investigation is that timing is crucial, and—politics or no—the victim in this case was intimately associated with the state’s governor. My question to you, John, is: Given what I explained about how we’ve protected your investigation just in case Stuey proves innocent, do you really want to piss off this governor when in reality you’re between a rock and a hard place, anyhow? I mean, it’s not like you can actually deny us access to a key witness.”

  John Beirne was not happy, but he also didn’t have much of a choice—something he confirmed with the slightest slump of his shoulders. He straightened back up and said, “Mr. Nichols will be made available to you on our terms, and at a place and time of our choosing. And with Special Agent LaBelle in attendance. Is that clear?”

  “Today?” was Joe’s only question, his heart beating as it might’ve following a bout in the ring.

  * * *

  Joe glanced around as he entered the cleanest, whitest, blandest interrogation room he’d ever used, admiring how even the floor’s four corners looked as scrubbed and sterilized as an operating room’s. By contrast, its sole occupant resembled a garbage bag with eyes.

  Joe made the introductions. “Allan Steward Nichols, I am Special Agent Joe Gunther of the Vermont Bureau of Investigation.” He stepped aside to reveal the man behind him. “This is Special Agent Peter LaBelle of Homeland Security Investigations. For the record, you should know that everything said in this room is being recorded and may be used as evidence. Is that clear?”

  Nichols took them both in silently with a bored expression.

  “For the record,” Joe repeated. “Is that clear?”

  “Yeah.”

  Joe sat near Nichols, at the corner of a small table bolted to the wall. LaBelle took the third chair and moved it toward one of the corners, well within the camera’s view.

  “How would you prefer to be called?” Joe asked Nichols as he settled in, spreading several sheets of paper before him.

  “What?” Nichols asked, his brow knitted in confusion.

  “What do they call you?”

  “Stuey.”

  “Okay, Stuey. Have you been read your rights?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you fully understand those rights?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you sign a document attesting to that fact?”

  “Yeah. A few minutes ago.”

  “Right. And are you now willing to speak to me without a lawyer present?”

  “Don’t need one.”

  “Okay. That’s fine. If at any time you change your mind, just state as much and this interview will stop. Do you also understand that?”

  “I’m not dumb.”

  “I know that. For the record, do you understand that?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  “All right. Let’s begin. On the night when Buddy Ames sold some marijuana to Maggie Kinnison on or near South Street in Rutland, were you or were you not right there?”

  “I had nuthin to do with that senator dyin’.”

  “Why do you say that, Stuey?”

  “’Cause that’s what this is all about. You think I killed her, and I didn’t.”

  Joe crossed his legs and studied him a moment. “You’re partly right—I do think you had something to do with it. Maybe even that you killed her. But I’m not sure yet. Some of that depends on what you tell me. Some of it depends on what I already know.”

  “What’s that?”

  Joe shook his head. “That’s not how it works, Stuey. See, this is like a test you have to pass before you can get back to your cushy deal with the feds. And you probably remember how it works with tests—you have to take the whole thing in order to pass or fail.”

  “I don’t have to do squat. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “A lot of guys take that approach,” Joe told him. “If you convince yourself that something’s true, it makes you more believable to the people you’re telling it to. But here’s the crucial catch: The very people you want to go back to—the feds—are the same ones that’ll do you the most harm if you dick me around.”

  Stuey seemed confused by the statement, and watched Joe’s face for an explanation.

  “It’s simple, really,” Joe went on. “When you carve the word ‘dyke’ on someone’s chest as you kill them, it makes it a hate crime. That’s a federal offense, and the feds, as you know, still have the death penalty. Vermont doesn’t. Does that help you see how important it is that you tell me the whole truth?”

  Stuey processed that information thoughtfully. “Okay.”

  Joe smiled encouragingly. “Good. So let’s try this again. Were you a witness to the sale of marijuana by Buddy Ames to Maggie Kinnison?”

  “I don’t know her name, but yeah, I saw Buddy do a sale to some woman.”

  “Describe the circumstances.”

  Stuey’s eyes narrowed. “I got immunity on all this drug stuff. You know that, right?”

  “This has nothing to do with that, Stuey. Answer the question.”

  “What’s to describe? He did the deal and she took off. End of story.”

  “Except that it wasn’t the end, and nor was it the beginning. Who made the decision to sell her low-quality product when she’d made it clear the transaction was supposed to be for high-grade stuff?”

  Stuey’s face hardened. “These’re dope-related questions. I got a deal.”

  Joe gathered his paperwork and stood up. “You know what? I think maybe you are as stupid as you look. You deserve a lethal injection. We’re done here.”

  Nichols’s mouth fell open. “Whad’ya mean? I’m talkin’ to you.”

  Joe leaned over him. “I’m sorry? You’re doing what? All I’m hearing is crap, Stuey. You’re wasting my time and committing suicide at the same time. You are the idiot poster child.” He headed for the door as LaBelle rose to join him.

  “How’re you gonna make your case without me?” Stuey shouted.

  Joe turned to face him. “You are my case, dipwad. Your two choices, unless you convince me otherwise, are to die in a federal prison or spend a few decades in a Vermont country club jail. Do you think I’d have wrestled with the feds to get you into this room if I didn’t have a solid case against you? I made you a one-time offer, and now it’s off the table. Good-bye.” He placed his hand on the doorknob, praying that this string of clichés would work.

  Fortunately, they aren’t clichés for nothing. More often than not, they do work.

  “Fine,” Stuey complained. “Have it your way. You wanna talk drugs with me who has tot
al immunity, knock yourself out. I mean, what the fuck, right?”

  Joe pretended to think it over, painfully aware of how little evidence he had in fact against this man, and of how he’d nevertheless used it twice as a crowbar against the HSI and now against Stuey.

  “You going to tell me the truth from now on?” he asked.

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  Joe returned to his chair and laid out his paperwork once more. LaBelle leaned against the wall. “All right, for the third time, tell me about the deal Buddy did with Maggie Kinnison, including the before and after parts.”

  Stuey scratched his head. “Buddy called me a couple of days before, said he’d gotten a call from Brandon Younger in Hartford about a regular—this Maggie Kinnison—who was looking for a bunch of weed. He didn’t have it, so he was reaching out to Buddy. It was no big whoop—kinda stuff happens all the time. You pass people around, sometimes share product. It’s good for business, you know?”

  “Until you shortchange the customer.”

  Stuey made a face. “Yeah, well … So, here’s the thing. It was a special circumstance, you know?”

  “I don’t. Tell me.”

  Stuey sighed, in fact looking slightly embarrassed. “It was a typical feast-or-famine situation, or whatever they call it. The broad had a ton of money, cash flow for me was a little tight right then, weed—believe it or not in this crazy state—was in short supply. It was like the perfect shit storm—nuthin was clickin’ right.”

  “Spell it out for me.”

  Stuey spread his hands wide, palms up. “I’m a little guy. I mean, I got worker bees like Buddy, but I’m strictly in the middle. I piss off the boss, he kicks my ass. Except in this business, when those people’re done with you, you got no ass left, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Don’t be shy, Stuey. You said you have immunity.”

  “Okay, okay. So it’s Ruiz and his people. Real hard-assed. They want a lot of business all the time, they don’t want excuses, they don’t want problems, and they don’t take prisoners. And me? I’m looking at the Rutland cops clampin’ down, the neighborhood turning into a bunch of squealers, and, on top of it, an interruption in my supply line of Canadian high-class hydro. Fuckin’ nightmare. No surprise I freelance for the feds, huh?” he added with a grin.