by Archer Mayor
“We find video footage,” Willy finished for him.
* * *
The Rutland gas station Les and Willy pulled into an hour and a half later was big, busy, and—Willy noticed before the car rolled to a stop—equipped with surveillance cameras.
“There’s no time stamp on that bill, is there?” he asked his colleague.
“Just the date,” Lester answered, killing the engine. “But I’m going with the theory that she filled up before she started pounding on doors.”
Willy was derisive as he opened his door to get out. “You don’t think whoever whacked her and stuffed her into the back then stopped here for gas and a quick latte? You’re hard.”
The store manager was an accommodating sort—or his unseen boss was, somewhere up the corporate ladder. Upon being shown two badges, he didn’t hesitate allowing them access to his video console in the store’s back room. Additionally, he administered a crash course on how to run the equipment—including operating the DVD burner—and left both men to their own devices.
That last courtesy, along with two chairs, turned out to be important, as neither Les nor Willy had any idea when the Prius had pulled in, nor could they fast-forward through any dormant stretches, since the station was so busy that there weren’t any.
They settled for watching the tape at twice its recording speed. Nevertheless, they sat there for two hours before finally saying in unison, “There.”
Spinney froze the picture of Raffner’s car—complete with legible front license plate—coming to a stop at pump number seven.
He began advancing the footage frame-by-frame, revealing a jerkily moving Susan Raffner getting out of the car and swiping her credit card at the pump. The video was not a seamless film, but a series of closely spaced still photos, taken seconds apart. That made it easier to analyze each frame; it also meant they couldn’t see between the gaps.
“You make out the passenger?” Lester asked nervously.
“Yeah,” Willy replied. “I been holding off telling you, just to drive you nuts.”
Les ignored him. “I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman. Goddamn it.”
“Here you go,” Willy then said, his own eagerness showing through. “Door’s opening.”
But they were disappointed yet again. The pause in the footage fell precisely between when the passenger emerged and when he or she headed toward the rear of the car. All they could get, switching back and forth between images, were the departing lower body of someone walking away.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Willy swore. “I guess it’s a latte, after all. We got interior footage somewhere?”
They scanned the computerized library that the manager had explained and found what they were looking for. Moments later, the screen lit up with the garishly lighted store, as seen from behind and above the clerk’s position at the cash register. Right on cue, a person entered through the double glass doors, wearing a long coat and a dark hat—and holding a hand alongside his or her cheek, blocking all facial features.
“For God’s sake,” Lester said. “Give me a break.”
The next shot showed their subject’s back, heading toward the ladies’ restroom.
“At least that’s settled,” Willy said. “Can’t say I saw that coming.”
Frame by frame, they clicked through the series, waiting for the woman’s reappearance.
“Who’d she look like to you?” Lester couldn’t resist asking.
“Spare me,” Willy shot back, adding more thoughtfully, “I can see why there was some confusion about her gender, though. She’s kinda built like a guy.”
Finally, the door to the restroom opened, the woman stepped out, and—at last—stared directly at the camera.
“Gotcha,” Willy said as Lester froze the video one last time.
“Who is she?” he asked.
Willy stared at him, outraged. “You asking me? You been looking at suspect photos for days, for cryin’ out loud. You’re the human computer. What the fuck, Lester?”
But Spinney was already working on a solution. “I got it,” he said, pushing buttons on his smartphone. He held it up to the screen and took a picture, which he turned into an e-mail.
“Who’re you sending it to?”
“Why screw around?” Lester asked. “The boss. We gotta tell him what we been up to anyhow. Might as well be with the evidence hot in our hands.”
He hit Send and sat back.
“You know,” Willy cautioned him, “Joe may be many things to many people, but a fan of cell phones, he is not. He’s probably got the damned thing turned off.”
“Be patient,” Les counseled, his own phone cradled in the palm of his hand, its small display glowing up at them.
The screen flickered briefly as the response appeared, consisting of a single sentence.
“Wow,” Lester said in a half whisper. “I wouldn’t’ve guessed her.”
Willy remained silent. On the phone was, “Get everyone going on background NOW—that’s Alice Drim.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Joe stared at the cell phone in his hand for a moment after disconnecting with Lester, still stunned by the news that he and Willy had just uncovered.
It wasn’t jarring logically, of course. Alice had once worked for Susan, was tall and muscular, and had reportedly been in the doldrums. He knew nothing yet about the details they would undoubtedly soon uncover—motivation, opportunity, all the rest—although he had little doubt that it would be surfacing soon, now that they knew what to focus on.
But it remained as startling to him as it so often did, when an erstwhile innocent stood suddenly revealed as something else. He could never stop himself from reaching back in time and memory, faulting himself for not having seen the signs sooner.
Shaking his head, he dialed John Carter.
“Joe?” Carter answered. “You forget something in Montpelier? We did head out the door pretty fast.”
“It’s not that, John. You in a place where no one can listen in?”
“Hang on.”
Joe could hear the usual background noises that cell phones had made so common in modern times—of people shifting about to catch a little quiet, or a better signal, or to disengage from whatever they might’ve been doing before being interrupted. It seemed to Joe that cells had been invented to catch you always at precisely the wrong time.
“Okay,” Carter finally reported. “I’m good. Shoot.”
“This is strictly between us,” Joe warned him. “Related to the case.”
“Got it,” was the immediate response.
“What’ve you noticed about Alice Drim lately? Moods, habits, any odd behavior. You’re the one cop I know and trust who sees her more than anyone else I can think of.”
Carter had been at the job far too long to ask questions. Instead, he paused before reporting succinctly, “Her love life’s a mess, and she’s had a brother at death’s door till recently. Whatever I’ve seen out of whack, I’ve written off to that.”
Joe’s interest was heightened nevertheless. “Why ‘till recently’ with the brother? He die?”
“Just the opposite. Supposedly, the family was scratching for the money needed for some procedure—over fifty thousand—and it finally came through. He’s not out of the woods, but things’re looking up. That’s all water cooler stuff, of course. You want me to check anything out?”
“No,” Joe answered quickly. “Right now, it’s just a puzzle piece I needed clarified. Keep it under your hat for now. And thanks.”
“You bet, Joe. Happy to help.”
Joe was about to sign off when he suddenly blurted, “John? Hang on. You still there?”
“Yeah. What’s up?”
“This is gonna sound out of left field—totally—but does Alice chew gum?”
Carter laughed. “No shit? You kidding me? Yeah, she does. It’s the talk of the office. It’s called Black Jack. Nobody else can stand it. I’m not a gum chewer—not my thing—but I tried it
a few months ago, basically on a dare. Horrible.”
“That explains the wrapper I found in the trash, then,” Joe explained. “I thought it might’ve been from the governor.”
“Nah. Not a chance. The governor never does gum anyhow, and I doubt she’d have a taste for it. Too bitter. It’s got a licorice base, or something. Anyhow, it’s a bit of a joke around here—if you see those wrappers, you know Alice is nearby.”
“Thanks, John. That’s what I was after.”
In more ways than one, Joe thought after hanging up.
* * *
It was long after dark when they all convened in the Brattleboro office, Sammie carrying her sleeping child since she’d had no time to find a babysitter.
The general conversation was conducted in hushed tones.
To Sam’s relief, Joe seemed to have shaken off his odd mood of before. He put his hands together in a mock salute of respect and bowed slightly to Les and Willy. “Gentlemen, congratulations on following your own initiative. You did good work.”
“There a pay increase in that?” Willy asked, his satisfaction showing through.
Joe laughed. “Only in your dreams. Okay. Sam, you’ve been coordinating this break—what’ve we got on Drim?”
She quickly checked on Emma in her portable crib, finding her still contentedly working on her pacifier, before moving to the computer to consult her notes. “It’s looking solid. I told people to be on the Q.T., so I don’t think she’s been spooked by our nosing around.
“That being said, our biggest lead is a geographical one, connecting the cliff site with Drim’s past. By putting our small army of diggers to work, like you suggested, I found out that she has a cousin who lives a few miles from there. They were tight as kids, and she used to hang out at his farm a lot. I had someone discreetly check the place out, and he took this photo, among others.”
She swiveled the computer to allow them a view of the screen, which showed a close-up picture of a truck tire’s tread.
“I ran this by the lab for comparison, but as soon as I saw it, I knew it matched the tread marks at the top of the cliff.”
“So that’s where she swapped vehicles,” Lester said.
Joe shook his head, recalling an earlier conversation with Beverly. “Maybe, but if so, then the cousin also drove her to the junkyard, which makes him a possible coconspirator and the whole spontaneous nature of this setup more complicated.”
“So, she asked him to leave the truck at Dana’s with everything she needed, based on some cover story,” Sam countered. “We’ll grab him later and sort out what’s what, but I like what you’re saying. For that matter, she could’ve used him as a kind of one-stop-shopping source, for the rope, the knife, a hammer for that final kill shot to the head, and whatever else.”
“Including a pair of boots,” Willy suggested. “That might explain why the footprints at the scene looked so out of whack, like the owner had a limp or palsy or something. They were probably too big, and slopped around on her feet. Either lucky for her, or crafty as hell.”
“You think the rope came from the same source?” Joe asked.
“So she drove to the junkyard right after the blowup at Stuey’s?” Lester asked.
Joe interjected, “Not right after—first, she had to stuff Susan into the back—probably after knocking her unconscious outside of Rutland someplace. Then she would’ve gone to Montpelier to plant the letter framing Nate Fellows.”
“Proving premeditation,” Willy stated. “There goes your spontaneity.”
“Not necessarily. Premeditated, for sure, but she could have prepared the letter and kept it and its bogus, stamp-free envelope with her until the right opportunity.”
“Which came up when Raffner reached out and suggested a drive in the car.”
“Hold on,” Willy said. “Back up. She just pulled Nate’s name out of the air? The perfect patsy?”
“They knew each other,” Sammie told them. “That’s another thing I had the diggers come up with.”
She looked at Joe as she continued. “After you got conked out in Newport, we all sort of forgot why you’d gone up there in the first place, which was to find out more about Nate. With Alice popping out of the woodwork like this, I suddenly remembered that, and had the guys run Nate under the microscope as well.
“They went to the same high school,” she continued, by now enjoying her moment in the limelight—a pleasant change from her recent self-recrimination. “They were in different grades, and Nate got thrown out before graduating—surprise, surprise. But rumor was they may’ve even dated briefly.”
“Damn,” Lester chimed in, “I can just imagine the effect of Alice seeing Nate’s name on the threat list Carter was telling Joe about. Must’ve been like a gift from God. I bet we’ll find out she got Nate all worked up before that shoot-out—maybe with a phone call or a visit. We always wondered why he reacted the way he did.”
“Okay,” Willy conceded. “So how did the two women end up in the car together?”
But Joe held up a hand. “We’ll get to that in a second—or at least take a stab at it. Sam, I want to know first about Alice’s connection to Susan. Maybe she rifled through Susan’s purse for the key to her Montpelier apartment, but how did she know exactly where to plant the Nate letter, in the recycle box? That shows familiarity with the place.”
“Regina Rockefeller said Susan had more than one guest,” Sammie explained. “My bet is that when we show her a photo of Alice, a lightbulb’ll go on.”
“They were girlfriends, too?” Willy asked.
“Not necessarily,” Joe cautioned. “Don’t forget that Alice got her job in Gail’s office through Susan. It could’ve been job-related.”
“After we have Alice under lock and key,” Sam suggested, “I doubt it’ll be hard to get Susan’s old Brattleboro gang to open up about how Alice fit in.”
“There is one big question still floating out there,” Lester said. “What the hell was her motivation?”
“I think I know,” Joe told them, and explained what he’d learned about Alice’s brother from John Carter.
Willy chuckled as a result. “And there’s Alice as the volunteer in charge of the governor’s reelection fund-raising.”
Sam nodded approvingly. “Bingo.”
“And Susan was Gail’s campaign chair,” Lester followed up. “Usually that’s a window dressing job—for show only—but being the mongoose she was, she must’ve tumbled to something hinky and decided to chase it down. ’Cept, she didn’t want to tell the governor and blow any covers off prematurely.”
“She therefore reached out to Alice on her own,” Joe concluded. “Which would explain why the two of them ended up in the same car in the middle of the night. Susan had an errand to run—which was to confront whoever had sold her bad weed—and probably figured on killing two birds with one stone, by bringing Alice along to ask her about the money.”
“Wasn’t that a little risky on Susan’s part?” Lester argued.
Joe shrugged. “Sounds like it now. But let’s say she only noticed a financial discrepancy. Wouldn’t she want to ask her protégée about it first? Before she started making accusations? It might’ve been some sticky-fingered accountant Alice knew nothing about, after all. Susan was a Don Quixote type—always rallying to the disadvantaged. She would’ve started by thinking Alice was either ignorant or had a good explanation—they were old friends, colleagues, and maybe even lovers, for all we know.”
“Still,” Lester persisted. “Beating her brains in and carving on her chest? That is so over the top, especially for such a small amount of money.”
Willy’s familiarity with the darker shades of humanity prompted him to say, “We know diddly about this woman or what made her tick.”
Joe took advantage of the observation to comment, “Which means we need to bust our butts tomorrow, turn all this theorizing into solid evidence. In other words, search warrants, taped interviews, an expansion on Sammie’s outs
tanding homework—the works. Including—last but not least—an arrest warrant for Alice Drim.”
He pointed to the quietly sleeping Emma. “In the meantime, go home, get some sleep, and I’ll see you here tomorrow morning. Outstanding job—everyone.”
“Chicken ain’t hatched yet, boss,” Willy said predictably, picking up his daughter.
* * *
It had rained the night before Joe and his team met up in Montpelier two days later. In the dawn sun of a chilly Sunday, the entire town glittered under a thin sheen of ice, lending a paradoxical sparkle to the reason they were assembled.
Joining them were the inseparable Parker Murray and Perry Craver, several tactical members of the state police—as usual outfitted in combat gear—and the city’s police chief. They were grouped around a VSP command vehicle, a block-and-a-half from Alice Drim’s address. The hour had been chosen from long experience—it was usually safer to approach someone’s residence when they were still in bed, or at least groggy from sleep.
The circumstances, however, were not ideal, though picturesque.
“Fuckin’ ice,” as Willy put it succinctly, sliding the toe of his boot across the slippery pavement. “She better not make a run for it.”
The idea, of course, was to prevent just that, not only by choosing the early hour, but by surrounding Drim’s apartment building and closing off all possible escape routes.
Driving the point home, the tactical team’s commander announced, “We do this right, we do it fast, and we don’t screw up. Everyone clear?”
There was a small chorus of affirmative grunts, followed by his ordering, “Okay—everyone in position. Radio when you’re set.”
The group divided according to the plan set up the night before. Joe and Sammie tailed the commander as he led the heavily armed entry team quietly and gingerly down the block, up the building’s ice-slick wooden steps, and into the front lobby.
The building was yet another old New England triple-decker, this one dating back to Montpelier’s iron industry and railroading heyday, and equipped with the usual zigzagging exterior staircase across the back wall. Improbably, on the third floor, where Drim had her apartment, some fresh wash was hanging, frozen solid, from a line strung between two uprights.