Redemption (A Joe Burgess Mystery, Book 3) (16 page)

He closed the door behind him, and went down the hall to the bathroom. It was small and not too clean and held only a soap-smudged sink with a spotted mirror, a shower, and a toilet. No bathtub. He climbed the creaking staircase to confirm there was no tub on the third floor. Nor was there one on the first. Wherever Reggie had died, it wasn't here.

It was later than late. Time to go home. He went back down the creaky hall and down the steps to the street. Driving home through the quiet city, he felt like an alien visiting from another planet. A dark planet whose inhabitants knew secrets the residents of this planet only imagined as they read novels or chose violence as entertainment when they flicked on their TVs.

Drive down a street at night, you didn't see whether a place needed painting or someone had a nice garden or a new car. You thought about the body hanging in the basement, found by a kid sent down to bring up the laundry. Or the battered grandmother beaten with a baseball bat, alive only because neighbors had smelled the smoke from a burning pan on the stove. Seen close up and personal, with all the smells and bodily fluids, the ugly truths and uglier lies and the painful aftermath for those involved, it wasn't really that entertaining.

He showered quickly and dropped into bed. The clock said three a.m. He'd either get enough sleep to function well tomorrow, or he'd be the lucky recipient of a cheery wake-up from Paul Cote at some outrageously early hour in the morning. Cote had an astonishing knack for calling bright and early on days when Burgess had gone to bed late. So astonishing he'd once or twice driven around the neighborhood before parking at home, just to assure himself that Cote wasn't out there watching.

Just as he was drifting off, Chris snuggled up close. "Don't worry," she whispered. "If he calls, I'm answering. I'll say you're out training for a marathon and I don't expect you back for at least two hours."

He fell asleep with a smile, half-hoping that Cote would call and get that message.

Chapter 11

Chris waited impatiently by the door, tapping her foot, while he made a quick call to bring his lieutenant up to speed. Let him know Stan wasn't in jail and what the ME thought about Reggie's death.

Gina Melia answered the phone with a short, breathless, "Melia." Behind her, high-pitched voices sounded like a playground full of kids engaged in high-volume mayhem. "The twins' birthday," she explained. "It's a madhouse. Feel free to come over and help with crowd control. Vince says he'd rather run a SWAT team than cope with this. Hold on."

She hollered for Vince, then came back on. "Either he's been taken captive or he can't hear me. I'll have him call you back. You home or at 109?"

"Home," he said, "but I'm heading over to 109. He can call my cell when he gets free."

"I was sorry to hear about your friend," she said. "We always hope, don't we."

His throat tightened. "Thanks, Gina."

He hated the automatic grief response that came when people blindsided him with sympathy. Hated it in himself; he understood it in others. And he was grateful for her gesture. She was the perfect cop's wife. Supportive and understanding about the job. Mature enough to know her husband's neglect was not about her, able to put her foot down when she or the twins needed something from Vince and he was too busy to notice.

"There's no rush."

"Good, because even if you were calling with an emergency, I'd tell you to stuff it. One day a year I think I'm entitled to do that, and today's the day."

"No problem. You guys enjoy the birthday."

"While you go to work. I'm not going to ask what Chris thinks about that."

"We going?" Chris said. He nodded, stuck his phone on his belt, and followed her out. His own nod toward civility. They were taking a walk before he went to 109 and ruined the last day of their three-day weekend. A brisk walk around Back Cove and then breakfast.

"I'm having one of those Bismark things," she said. "Jelly filling, sugary dough." She grinned with the zest of a kid, bouncing lightly in her tennis shoes. "Man, I try hard to avoid treats, but sometimes I just feel like indulging."

"Indulge away," he said. "I don't know how I'd like it if you were skinny."

He got her sunrise smile again. She acted like no man had ever liked her as she was before. He wished he didn't believe it, but guys got stuck on super model and movie images of women built like Barbie dolls. He recalled an old joke. One guy telling another about his new girlfriend. "Yeah," the guy said, "she's got a twenty-three-inch waist and a forty-eight-inch chest."

"Wow," the other guy said, "what does she do?"

"Well, with a little help, she can sit up."

The path was crowded with people power-walking, strolling, biking, jogging. Skaters whipped in and out, quick as dragonflies. Toddlers left trails of cereal and crackers for the gulls wheeling overhead. Babies crowed with glee and waved their chubby fists. Dads threw softballs and Frisbees and footballs and kicked soccer balls, while moms wiped mouths and noses and tears and dished out snacks and drinks. It was as though in all those quiet homes last night, Portland's citizens had been resting up for today, then emerged en masse to grab one last good day before the cold moved in.

He and Chris were strollers, holding hands and enjoying the feel of the sun. "Vitamin D," Chris said, turning her face up. "Twenty minutes a day is all we need."

He tried for a smile. Inside, he churned with anxiety. It was a fact of life—his life—that the first days after a murder were all important. Memories faded, evidence got lost, bad guys had time to cover things up. He didn't know how much time they'd lost before Reggie's body was discovered—probably no more than twelve hours, according to the ME—but now it was two days later and instead of being at his desk, consolidating what he knew and picking the best next paths to follow, he was strolling in the sunshine, acting like he believed Cote's assessment that Reggie's life didn't require a significant response.

His phone rang. Melia. "Vince," he said, "how's the party?"

"Birthday parties are hell," Melia said. "Only good thing I can say about this is that at least, with twins, we only have to do it once a year. What's up?"

"ME says Reggie Libby drowned in a bathtub."

"And when did you learn this?" Melia was an information junkie. Part of his job. The buck stopped at his desk. He briefed the brass; took press conferences when Cote didn't snatch the limelight. He was a good lieutenant, willing to cut his guys slack when they needed it, but lately he'd been edgy, the result of Cote's new push to up their solve rates. Melia was wondering if they were leaving him out of some loop.

"Lee called after midnight. I figured I didn't need to wake you."

"Thanks, I guess," Melia said. "So where are we on this?"

"Pretty much at square one. Lot of leads. Nothing solid."

"You and Stan have a strategy? You called Terry back in?"

Burgess looked around at the crowd of happy people, at Chris, staring at him in shock. "Stan's coming in. I've got a short list of people to see. Once we've sat with it, I'll update you."

"I'm coming in," Vince said.

"Finish the party," Burgess said. "There's nothing that won't wait." Nothing that wouldn't wait because they had nothing. A friend gets killed and Joe Burgess goes rain skipping. He had the sudden urge to hit something. What he ought to hit was himself.

A panting, obese woman with a supersized muffin-top pouring out of too-tight jeans knocked into him so hard he almost dropped the phone. "Hey!" Chris snapped, giving her a dirty look.

The woman squeaked a belated "Sorry" and waddled off.

"You feeling all right, Joe?" Melia asked. "You recently suffered a blow to the head or something?"

"Just trying to be balanced, Vince. Trying to act civilized."

"Comes to homicide, I don't want you civilized." He paused. "I do not want some bleeding-heart reporter saying we ignored this case because the victim wasn't important. See you in an hour."

Burgess decided not to share Cote's assessment.

"Dammit, Joe," Chris exploded as he put the phone away, "why didn't you tell me? You think I want you out here pretending to be having a good time when your mind is totally focused on Reggie? You've known since last night it was no accident? You never thought I'd want to know? Who the hell do you think I am? A possessive little birdbrain who doesn't respect what you do?"

He spread his arms helplessly. "I was just trying not to spoil your whole weekend."

She dragged him off the path and wrapped her arms around him. "And I love you for it, okay? But when you're with me, I like you
with
me, not ticking off lists in your head." She dropped her arms. "You go work. I'm going to take a long walk, long enough to earn that Bismark, and then I'm going to enjoy every gooey bite of it. Call me later and let me know if you'll be home for dinner."

She patted her chest. "Grown-up." When he didn't move, she said, "I'll be okay, Joe. I came prepared." She pulled an iPod out of her waist pouch and held it up. "Loaded with walking music." As though she'd known their walk would be interrupted. "Go on. Go." She gave him a shove toward the path and strode away.

He went without arguing, skipping his lecture on the risks to women—especially attractive women like her—of going around plugged into some machine that made them oblivious to their surroundings. Like she'd said, she was a grown-up. She didn't need to hear this from him. For all he knew, she had pepper spray and a stun gun in that pouch. She tended to be wonderfully well-prepared.

He called Stan to come in, and went to work, heading not to his desk but to the crime lab, where he left the bags with the bottle and the two plastic cups from Kevin Dugan's trash on the counter and went into the room where Reggie's clothes were drying. The letter from Star Goodall might be dry enough to read. Maybe Reggie had left them some other clues.

He slipped on gloves and started going through the pockets. He found a torn piece of a label listing the ingredients in some chemical product, though without the name of the product. He found a card for a doctor's appointment on the coming Tuesday. He found a scrap of paper with the smudged words "...day morning" written in pencil along with a couple of phone numbers. He copied the doctor's name and appointment time, and the phone numbers into his notebook, then returned everything to the pockets. Wink would collect all of this and record it in the evidence log. Reggie's wallet, where he, like Jim, had kept family pictures, was missing. So were his keys and his glasses.

It all left him with more questions than answers. He went back out into the lab. On the counter, Wink had set the cinderblock the divers had taken from the harbor. The rope with its frayed end was still attached. Beside it, in a plastic envelope, were the fragments of fiber they'd found clinging to Reggie's belt. He switched on a brighter light and bent to look at them. Hard to tell without a microscope, but to his eyes, they looked remarkably similar.

Star Goodall's letter was pinned up to dry. He unpinned it and carried it into better light. It was briefer than the one he'd already read, a single paragraph in that striking silver ink:

Alright, Reggie. I am out of patience. You owe me, you and Clay.

I have waited long enough for you to repay me for the harm you did.

I know you've got land and I know the value of that land. When I see you on Friday we can discuss this further. You know what I mean. You know what I want.

Star

Interesting. First he'd heard from a couple sources that Joey was after the land; now it seemed this woman who called herself Star Goodall was interested, too. And she'd met with Reggie on Friday. This past Friday? It meant he needed to talk with Ms. Goodall. Sooner, rather than later, and he needed to read the trust documents Clay had given him. Probably a good idea to learn the name of the surveyor Joey had had out to look at the property, and learn how valuable it really was. Any piece of lakefront property in Maine had value. A large piece with development potential, if that's what this was, could be worth a lot. Was it enough to kill for?

Wink Devlin came in as he was pinning the letter back up. "Thought it was a holiday," Burgess said.

"Not when Lieutenant Melia calls and says we've got a homicide," Devlin said. "And Mrs. Wink thinks some overtime would be nice to pay for a cruise this winter. What have we got?"