Presumption of Guilt (27 page)

“Right,” Lester joined in. “Celli said Lucas and he would hole up in the office for hours, presumably cooking things up.”

“The AG's office assigned a bunch of number-crunchers to BB's finances, didn't they?” Willy asked. “We hear anything from them?”

Joe shook his head. “Not yet. I called late yesterday to find out how they were doing. No smoking guns so far. I think we better be prepared for little to nothing, given the time gone by. My bet is either Lucas or somebody else made an offer to BB he found attractive, and that no threats were ever made.”

“Old-fashioned greed,” Willy filled in.

“Okay,” Joe resumed. “Let's say Lucas walked up to BB forty years ago and promised to make him a millionaire by laundering money Lucas would supply. Who stood to benefit from that original cast of characters?” He counted them off. “The dead Hank Mitchell, whom Lucas had to dispatch because he was too high-minded to play along, and the people who needed the money cleaned in the first place—along with Lucas, the facilitator, and BB, the compliant business owner. That about right?”

No one disagreed.

“If that's so, then Hank resurfacing as a homicide is the ripple that got BB killed and put Lucas into the wind, both probably as a result of the original financiers wanting to keep the past in the past. How does everyone feel about that?”

Again, the squad reserved its collective judgment, pending what more he had to say.

“Then I think we have a problem,” Joe accommodated them. He eyed Kunkle as he explained. “I'm not getting on board with Dave's kidnapping being anything other than an unrelated distraction, but I am concerned that if we're right about this, and Lucas did make a deal with BB back when, then the logical final act is that the financiers—call them the Mob or whatever—are alive and active, and taking things into their own hands. How else do you make sense of Lucas getting all sweaty and bothered upon hearing of BB's death? It must be because his old cronies got madder 'n hell when they heard Hank wasn't past history anymore, and took it in their heads to wipe the slate clean.”

“Meaning,” Sammie concluded, “that Lucas isn't running from us, but from the same people who made sure BB wouldn't tell us some interesting stories, either.”

“It's what I would do if I was Don Corleone,” Willy agreed.

“Which is exactly where I would caution you,” Joe told him. “To invoke the Mob is very dramatic, but it clouds our vision. My instincts tell me we're talking something less glamorous. Think about it: Between the average street mugger and the legendary Mafia, there's a huge population of … call them middle-class crooks, or even upper-middle-class. They have the same needs as the big boys—people to pay, operations to fund, money to move around, burned gangsters to hide under new identities—but they aren't restricted by the bells and whistles of full-fledged organized crime. They're more like entrepreneurs, and if they stay out of the neighborhoods and/or businesses that're favored by the real Mafia, then it's live and let live.”

“Why not make it the Mob?” Willy asked. Being from New York, he was more naturally predisposed to seeing that model as the norm.

“Because I don't see them taking the time and effort to travel to Vermont, find a down-at-its-heels roofing business, and turn it into a money Laundromat. It's too provincial, too far away, too unlikely, and, finally, too pissant for them to consider. They're city types. That's where they make their money, and—more important—where they wash their money. It's neither practical nor realistic for them to come to Brattleboro, Vermont. It is
very
possible, on the other hand, for a smaller outfit to do so, based on the simple fact that the Mafia won't. Again, it's the art of staying out of the way of the major players.”

“It's also the difference,” Lester picked up, “between running a multibillion-dollar illegal enterprise, and one that generates a couple of hundred million a year, if that. In today's terms, that's almost chump change.”

“Especially,” Joe threw in, “if your plan from the start was to run funneling operations like Ridgeline Roofing all over the Northeast—small companies where a steady and healthy profit, however bogus, wouldn't stand out.”

“On top of that,” Sam said, “it would help explain why it was then allowed to quietly die on the vine. I'm guessing this laundering wasn't still taking place when Ridgeline got bought out by Vermont Amalgamated.”

“I doubt it,” Joe agreed. “Vermont Amalgamated was scrutinized just a few years ago as a result of a civil lawsuit, and its books were thoroughly examined. Nothing was found like what we're talking about.”

Willy appeared to have been won over. “It does have a nice feel to it, I'll give you that. But if you're right, there's another problem: That ripple you talked about—that made BB a dead man and sent Lucas running for safety—implies that your minor-league mobsters have a hit man in our backyard, looking to permanently close the history books.”

Joe dropped his chin onto his chest and considered that a moment, hoping to find a flaw in it.

“Correct,” he said instead. “And speaking of closing books, when BB turned up dead, we reinterviewed some of the same people we'd talked to about Hank—among them Greg Mitchell. Willy, I never heard what you got from him.”

“He's covered,” Willy said shortly. “AA meeting.”

Lester couldn't resist. “That's where nobody knows nobody, right? Perfect.”

Willy gave him a dark look, being a regular at such meetings himself. “Very funny. I called in a favor. When Greg said that's where he was, I didn't believe it, either. From the second I met him, I thought he was holding something back, and I still do. But he was front and center there the whole time. He's clean—at least for doin' BB.”

Lester was on a roll, however. “Unless he hired a triggerman,” he proposed, only half in jest.

*   *   *

Willy paused from playing with Emma on the living room floor when Sam came home that night, and looked up as she laid her case on the coffee table. “I told Louise we're going back to the usual schedule,” he said. “And starting up day care again.”

Sammie stretched out beside them so that their daughter could stagger over and happily throw herself into her mother's arms. In all her life until now, Sam had never imagined the sheer warmth that such simple displays of love could generate.

“Why the change of heart?” she asked, tickling Emma's ribs.

Willy straightened his legs and propped his head on his hand to gaze at them both. “The squad meeting today. Finally got me past the idea that Bullfrog's stunt with Dave Spinney was connected to anything else. Most likely, nobody's got the rest of us in the crosshairs.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Probably right.”

He read between the lines of her diplomatic brevity. “You just thought I was being paranoid, anyhow.”

She surprised him by laughing outright. “Of course you were.
Duh.
But for all the right reasons.” She grabbed hold of Emma and half rolled, half crawled across the carpet to where she could kiss him with Emma squeezed between them.

“You love your daughter,” she said. “And God forbid, you love me, too. What you did is called being protective. I thought it was sweet.” She tweaked his cheek. “Just like you.”

He pretended to look grim. “Don't push your luck.”

*   *   *

Walter parked the car in the motel lot and got out slowly, letting his stiff body adjust. Despite the boredom of a long drive, he was actually enjoying himself. Being back in the field after so many years of running odd jobs in the city was not only invigorating but also brought him back to his roots, when he and Pauli and a bunch of others had worked the streets under Jack Panik's iron rule. Those had been tricky years, unlike the sanitized present. Not only had they needed to stay beyond the long arm of the law, as it used to be called, but they'd needed to mind their manners around the Mafia, which they'd all called “the Outfit.” Jack himself had once told them they were like the wild dogs of the savanna—fast, tough, and vicious—and wily enough to keep clear of the lions. There was plenty of food out there, he'd told them, so don't attract people who could add you to their lunch.

Those had been good times, Walter thought, pulling his bag out of the backseat and crossing to the lobby entrance.

The young woman at the counter spotted him as he stepped inside—the sole other person within sight.

“Hi,” she said. “Long drive?”

He nodded. “Long enough.”

“Well,” she said, smiling. “Then, welcome to Brattleboro.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Her father hadn't been kidding, Sally thought. This was a big improvement. He'd relocated them to a borrowed penthouse, complete with a sheltered deck, overlooking Brattleboro's Main Street on one side, and the open air Harmony parking lot on the other. From where she was sitting on a chaise in the sun, she could see the mountain across the Connecticut River and a lesser range of rooftops all around. But whenever she rose to stand at the low privacy railing, she felt she was hovering above the whole town like a bird.

The owner of this aerie was out of the country, which meant that she and Dan had the run of the place for a period of time only he knew. Sally hadn't asked if he was even acquainted with the owner, much less if they were here by invitation, but Dan didn't seem at all concerned, as he came and went at will, and so she had ceased to worry.

Despite the amenities—the apartment was fully furnished with art on the walls and a large assortment of books—restrictions had been imposed. Dan had made it clear that Sally wasn't to wander about as she was used to, commingling with her many pals. Her friends were an extended and socially variegated family, and she'd spent her life drifting among them freely and spontaneously. To be denied that access was understandable, she knew, but onerous. With Dan gone more often than not, hell-bent on discovering who might be on their trail—if anyone—Sally was getting lonely.

This was one area where life with Dad became a little stressful. His obsessions, born long before her time and never discussed, offered insights and amusements to a forgiving kindhearted observer like her. But when it ricocheted in the form of restrictions and/or illusions of persecution, her free-spiritedness felt the pinch.

She adjusted herself more comfortably on the chaise, struggling to contain her mounting frustration, and studied the address book on her smartphone.

At least she still had texting.

*   *   *

Johnny Lucas was feeling the old familiar adrenaline. He had always imagined it was what cops felt upon closing in on a case—the stakeouts, surveillance, eavesdropping, and, finally, the arrest. But where they had the burden of statutes, probable cause, warrants, bench orders, judges, prosecutors, and public opinion to deal with, Johnny Lucas and his ilk only had not getting themselves killed, and not jacking up the boss. Everything else was pretty much live and let live, or screw up and die.

Like Hank Mitchell. All Hank had needed to do was keep his mouth shut when Lucas made his play. Barrett was on board; the money was guaranteed. It had just been a matter of going along. But, oh, no—screw up and die. So Mitchell had died.

Now it was Sally Kravitz and her dad's turn. Lucas sat at the wheel of the bland, secondhand car he'd purchased three days ago and again studied the enlargement of one of the surveillance-camera stills showing two people getting into a vehicle on River Road. An older man and a young woman, both of whom had removed the ski masks they'd worn earlier, with the female glancing up the road, revealing her face to the distant streetlight. Might as well have been a studio portrait.

It had certainly functioned as such when Johnny had shown it around. He'd already pinned down an identity for the man—Daniel Kravitz—which he got from cross-referencing the car's license plate. Sally's name hadn't taken more than an hour or two at the town clerk's office.

The hitch had been an address. There were just under a dozen that he'd found in one reference or another, some of which served for only a few months. But the challenge had simply invigorated him. Lucas had calculated that any twosome so transient must be known in the community; and not just that, they were probably better acquainted with the down-and-out crowd than with the mainstream.

He'd been right again, as usual. Another few hours spent in the parts of town most moneyed people avoided had yielded confirmation of the names, and the fact that the girl was as sociable as the father was withdrawn.

That had then led him to his penultimate step. If finding an address was going to be problematic, then the solution was to lure one or both Kravitzes out of their current bolt-hole.

From what Johnny had learned, that part of the operation hinged on Sally. Use a friend of hers as a cat's-paw, and then the daughter to snag the father.

He returned the photograph to his pocket. Just like a cop closing in, but without the legal constraints.

And he was pretty sure he'd found the right friend: the young woman a hundred feet up the street—Sally's current BF, according to his newfound sources—who was chatting with friends on the stoop of the building where she rented an apartment.

*   *   *

Dan Kravitz worked his shift in the hospital basement, mopping the hallway floor. As with all his jobs, it was menial work, befitting his druthers to never plug into the system for more than basic sustenance. He kept to himself, as usual, was never aloof or hostile to others, but engaged in conversation only when addressed. The point almost always became apparent—here was a nice man, but a private one, and certainly not one to pester with idle chitchat.

Some of the people with whom he worked, however, were slower to get the message. One of them was a heavyset kitchen helper named Keith, who during time off from his duties would wander the basement corridors, either looking to talk or traveling to and from the designated smoking area outside.