Dead Down East (24 page)

“What other services do you provide?” I
asked.

“Let me see here…we have online banking,
loans, IRAs, audits…”

“I don’t need any of those, Angele.”

“Would you like to open a safety deposit
box?”

“Sounds interesting,” I said. “Would that be
possible so late in the afternoon?”

“Today is Wednesday, Boo. The bank is open
till six.”

I checked my watch. It was 4:30.

“We’ve got an hour and a half,” I said
enthusiastically.

“That should be enough time,” she said. “But
remember, there is a penalty for early withdrawals. You’ll find
your box in the room down the hall. I’ll walk you there.”

We got to my bedroom in eight and a half
seconds, and left a trail of socks and underwear scattered on the
floor. It was an exceptional day. The bank stayed open till
6:30.

First thing Thursday morning, I called Dennis
Jackson. I had used my landline to call him the first time. He
would recognize the caller ID, so I used my cell. It’s unlisted. In
case he might recognize my voice, I pulled off a sock and draped it
over the mouthpiece to muffle the sound…a bit smelly, but
effective.

“Jackson Construction, this is Emma Springer. May I
help you?”

“Good morning, Emma,” I said. “This is Noah
Treadwell. Is Dennis Jackson available?”

“Hold on a minute, I’ll put you through.”

“This is Dennis Jackson.”

“Hello, Mr. Jackson,” I said. “My name is Noah
Treadwell. I live in Waterville. My partner and I own a tract of
forestland adjacent to the Pine Ridge Golf Course just off River
Road. We are interested in building a cluster of condominiums on
the property. We estimate between twenty-five and thirty units
should work well there. We’d like to discuss our plans with you and
see what kind of a bid you could make for the construction.”

“I would be happy to drive up this afternoon and have
a look.”

“Actually, I am calling from Boston. I’ll be passing
through Portland on my way home on Friday. Would it be possible to
meet with you in your office tomorrow morning, around ten
o’clock?”

“That would be fine.”

“I have your business address on Cumberland Ave. Is
that correct?”

“Yes.”

“OK. I’ll be there at 10:00 AM,” I said.

“See you then, Mr. Treadwell.”

• • •

Billy Mosher is the keyboard player for
Ocean
Noises
. He also does the graphic design work for our
band—posters, newspaper announcements, and other promotional items.
He can whip out a business card in five minutes.

I called Billy.

“What’s up?”

“Billy, you’re coming over for practice this evening,
right?” I asked.

“Oh yeah.”

“I have a couple of favors to ask you.”

“Name ‘em.”

“First, I need a business card. I’m on a case.”

“Ah, ha! Another alias. Who are yah now?”

“I’m Noah Treadwell. I live in Waterville. I own a
parcel of land, and I want a contractor to build condos on it. I
also have a partner. Make something that looks good.”

“No problem. What’s the name of your
partnership?”

“Let’s call it
Forest Estates
. That’s should
work. The land is just trees now. Put down a fake address and phone
number. I’m only meeting with this guy once. I don’t want any
callbacks. Print a dozen or so.”

“I’ll bring ‘em over when I come. That’s
‘N-O-A-H…T-R-E-A-D-W-E-L-L’ right?” He spelled it out for me.

“Right,” I echoed.

“Does ‘Forest’ have one R or two?”

“Just one, Billy. Use your spell checker.”

“Just messin’ with yah, Jesse. I’ll paste on a
picture of some condos under the logo.”

“Second thing I need is some Photoshop work on a few
pictures.”

“OK.”

“Look at your email. You’ll see that I sent you four
attached photographs. Can you pull them up?”

“I saw them a few minutes ago. Have you been fishin’
for bluefin?”

“Not me. Do you see the guy in the denim jacket?”

“Yeah.”

“I need you to crop the photos so you can’t identify
the boat or anyone else in the picture. Show as much of him as
possible. Also, do you see the bandage on his right hand on the
last picture?”

“Yeah.”

“I need that in the picture for sure. Enhance them to
the highest resolution.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Billy said.

“When you’re done, email them back to me.”

“My fees have gone up lately, Jesse.”

“I’ll buy you a lobster dinner at the Fish Tale.”

“Good enough.”

“See you at seven tonight,” I said. “Oh wait a
minute. I heard we might have a gig on Friday evening. Any word on
that?”

“We’re playing at the Raincloud in Gardiner on Friday
at eight o’clock. The
Killer Johnsons
cancelled. Bucky
Johnson has laryngitis.”

“OK,” I said, and hung up.

• • •

I found the number for the Kennebec County Jail and
placed the call.

“Kennebec County Jail, Sergeant Brock Powell
speaking.”

“Brock, this is Jesse.”

“Hi.”

“
Ocean Noises
will be playing Friday night at
the Raincloud, eight o’clock. I’ll get you a pass. Just mention my
name when you’re at the door. If you have any trouble, call my
cell.”

“Thanks, Jesse. How about a second pass for a
date?”

“OK, two passes. Who are you bringing?”

“I’ll find somebody.”

“An inmate, probably,” I suggested.

“I have a lot of pull here. I can arrange a furlough
for my pick of the minimum security prisoners in the women’s
wing.”

“Pat her down for weapons first, Brock. We don’t mind
the occasional beer bottle coming our way from the audience, but
it’s a bummer dodging bullets.”

“I know how to pat ‘em down, Jesse. I’ve had lots of
practice.”

“No doubt. Stick around till we finish. I’d like to
chat with you.”

“Will do.”

• • •

I pulled up the video surveillance at Cynthia’s home.
Fine there. Then I went to CNN news on my computer. The headlines
read: “Murder Weapon in Lavoilette Assassination Found. Anonymous
Tip Sparks Wider Search.” I read the full story.

By seven o’clock last night, the FBI had located the
Glock, the license plate, a white towel with powder marks, a fake
beard and one glove. They were not too happy that all the details
were on the news, but it’s hard to keep the lid on things. My
guess? There was so much heat on them to show some progress that
they facilitated the leak.

I checked my email. Billy had already sent the
cropped photos. That boy is quick as a cricket.

I printed two copies of each picture and let them sit
in the printer tray. Then, I opened my word processor and started
typing:

Enclosed are pictures of a man who calls himself
“Justin Cook.” This man stole Travis Perkins’ Glock 21 Gen4, .45
caliber pistol on Saturday morning, June first, and passed it on to
an accomplice sometime later in the day. His partner murdered
Governor Lavoilette. I suspect that Mr. Cook staked out the
governor’s car in the parking lot of the Royal Theater in Brunswick
on Saturday night while the governor was watching the movie,
Lincoln
. When the governor returned to his car, Mr. Cook
probably called his partner, who then positioned himself at the
intersection of Highway 24 and Cundys Harbor Road, flagged down our
governor and shot him.

Justin Cook drove a late model, blue Ford Taurus
with Maine license plates. The plates were probably stolen.

Faithfully yours,

Samuel Spade, Jr.

I printed two copies of the letter and then put on a
pair of gloves. I divided the photos and letters into two sets and
put each in a manila envelope. I looked up the addresses for the
FBI office in Maine and the sheriff’s office in Augusta and printed
out two mailing labels. I put plenty of stamps on each for good
measure. Then, I hopped in my car and dropped the envelopes into a
mailbox at the post office on Bangor Street.

I was back home in time for lunch.

“It’s been a busy morning, Cynthia,” I said. “Did you
see the news?”

“Yes I did. They found the gun and the other evidence
at the crime scene.”

“I will be more vigilant with the surveillance of
your home now. If anything happens there, of course, we’ll reassess
your living arrangement. By the way, I called my mom yesterday
evening. You can move in with her any time you want.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m going to make a sandwich and do some research.
It looks as if you’ve eaten already.”

“Right. I’m good,” she said.

I made a tuna sandwich, got some chips and an
O’Doul’s and retired to my office. I surveyed the spreadsheet
listing the women who had had affairs with Governor Lavoilette.

Cynthia Dumais - 1 year ago - for 1 year

Michelle Jackson - 1 year ago - for 1 month

Lori Trumbull - 2 years ago - for 8 months

Susan St. Claire - 2 years ago - for 2 months

Tina Woodbury - 3 years ago - for 9 months

Barbara Davis - 4 years ago - for 6 months

Cheryl Greenwood - 5 years ago - for 2 months

Lori Trumbull was next on the list. Richard’s sheet
provided her phone number and her place of residence. There was no
listing for any other Trumbull at that address, so she was probably
single. I decided to call her and set up an interview.

“Hello,” came a pleasant sounding voice.

“Hello, is this Lori Trumbull?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“My name is Jesse Thorpe, I’m a private investigator.
I have been hired by Richard Merrill to investigate the murder of
Governor Lavoilette. Richard tells me you were a close friend of
the governor.”

“Yes. We were very close. His murder is very
disturbing.” There was no hesitation or hint of deception in her
voice.

“If you don’t mind, I would like to meet with you. We
are interested in anything you can share that might shed some light
on the situation. We are looking for personal or political enemies
that the governor may have had.”

“I’m not sure I can be of much help, but I’ll be
happy to meet with you, Mr. Thorpe.”

“Are you free this afternoon?” I asked.

“Yes. You are welcome to come over.”

“The address I have is on Weston Street. Is that
current?”

“Yes. I’ve been here for years.”

“That’s very near my mother’s home. I can be there in
twenty minutes. Will that work?”

“That’s fine.”

“Great. I won’t take much of your time, and
afterwards I can drop in and see how Mom is doing.”

I thought the motherly touch might relax her a bit.
My instincts were telling me she was too caring to be involved in
murder. But I am a man. A sweet-talking woman always has the
edge.

Twenty minutes later I knocked at her door.

Lori was as congenial in person as she’d been on the
phone. I estimated her age to be close to forty. She was short,
with long brown hair, brown eyes, and cute as a button. When I
entered the house, I detected the smell of cigarettes. Good DNA
potential, I thought. I don’t smoke, but I had a pack of Marlboros
with me on the off chance that she was a smoker.

“Hi, Lori. Thanks for seeing me on such short
notice,” I said.

We chatted for a half-hour or more. She was open and
relaxed. She didn’t tell me outright that they had had an affair,
but she made it pretty clear.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” I asked.

“That’s fine. I am a smoker too. I’ll join you. I
never smoke in front of non-smokers when I can avoid it.”

We both lit up. I tried my best not to gag.

After we had each finished our cigarettes, I asked
her for some water. While she was in the kitchen, I removed her
butt from the ashtray and replaced it with a fresh one that I had
stashed in my shirt pocket. I felt like a wayward Boy Scout—a
smoker who’s always prepared.

I didn’t get any real leads from our chat. Lori
seemed harmless enough, and she couldn’t provide me with any
promising suspects. After an hour, I had little to show for my time
except for a single cigarette butt laced with saliva.

I thanked her for her time. We shook hands, and she
wished me well. She was either a real catch or a snake in the
grass.

I drove over to Paternal Affairs and dropped off my
second sample in two days. I told the lady in the office that I
would submit a few more items over the next week or so, and asked
her to hold all the DNA results until I requested them.

I was back home by three o’clock.
Ocean Noises
would have a long practice session in the evening, so I decided a
nap was in order. Once my head hit the pillow, I was out in less
time than it takes to mention it.