Stranglehold (20 page)

The eyes softened. He mouthed something to her and then he turned away.

It took her a moment to register what he'd said.

And then she did. The hall began to spin.

Mine
, he'd said.

It was only a couple of lines in the Manchester
Union Leader
's weekly courts summation.

"Arthur W.
Danse
, Plymouth
restauranteur
, was charged by his ex-wife, Lydia
Danse
, in State Superior Court on Tuesday with abuse of a minor. Hearings begin February 22nd."

It was a rainy evening but still it was a Friday and The Caves was crowded. Everywhere he looked he seemed to see the newspaper. At the tables in back, sitting on top of briefcases, one of them folded beside a woman's elbow at the bar.

He kept thinking they'd all read it. Everybody. Of course they had. They were all snickering at him behind his back.

Bastards.

"I'll be back in the office if you need me," he said to Jake.

Jake nodded and gave him a wave. The second barman, Billy, just glanced at him.

Jake at least was loyal.

Not like the rest of them.

He made his way through the loud party of office workers and college kids to the back of the bar. Normally he'd have taken his time, greeting familiar faces, stopping to talk. He was good at that. Now he just cut his way through. To hell with them.

At least business hadn't fallen off yet.

He closed the door behind him and sat down at the big mahogany desk. The desk was practically empty. He kept it that way. Neat and tidy.

He listened to the sounds filtering in from outside. Happy voices, lots of them, male and female. Laughter. Music. The tinkle of glasses. These sounds had always pleased him. They meant money and success and status within the community. Things he'd always known he'd have someday. Things he deserved and needed.

And now she was threatening to take them away from him.

Child abuser.

If she made it stick they'd be gone.

Let's go eat at that place, you know the one I mean, the guy who owns it fucks his kid. You know the place
.

It would all be over. Finished. Even if he didn't go to jail, which was still a possibility despite what Edward Wood said, he'd still have to sell The Caves eventually—a place he'd built from nothing, sell it probably for a song—and then move on.

Again.

Damn her, he thought. Goddamn them all.

He poured himself a short Glenlivet and belted it back. Then another, larger one, sipping it slowly.

He sat back in the heavy brown leather chair and listened and stared at the walls. Hung there were images from his past. A framed poster from a Who concert at the Boston Garden. A bronze plaque from the State Chamber of Commerce and another from the Rotary Club. The first painting he'd ever bought, right after The Caves began turning a profit—a painting by a New York artist named
McPheeters
of a slouched, exhausted man walking the beach at night under a blood-red moon, a smiling figure riding on his shoulders, somehow blending into him. A photo by
Ansel
Adams depicting a dark road through deep woods at the end of the day.

He could picture packing up none of these.

He'd leave them there.

No. Smash them. Leave her nothing. Nothing
.

There was a knock at the door. Then it opened.

Billy. Fucking Billy. Jake would have waited for him to say come in.

"Someone to see you, Mr.
Danse
."

"Tell them I'm busy."

"It's Ralph Duggan, Mr.
Danse
."

Like that was some big fucking deal to him.

"Jesus Christ. All right. Okay. Send him in."

Duggan. The ending to a perfect day. The guy had been on his case since he was a kid and showed no signs of stopping. What the hell was it with these cops? All this holier-than-thou shit. Even the courtroom bailiff had looked at him as though he'd crawled out from under a rock somewhere.

Duggan was the worst of them. Duggan thought he was so damn smart. But he wasn't smart.

If he were smart he'd have learned a lot of things long ago.

I'm going to enjoy this
, Duggan thought.

"Arthur," he said and sat down.

Danse
nodded. "You still on duty or would you care for a whiskey?"

"No thanks."

He poured a glass for himself. Duggan doubted it was his first one. The hands were far too steady.

"You saw the paper, I guess,"
Danse
said.

"Nope. Heard you made the records section, though."

"
Here.
" He tossed a copy across the table.

Duggan just let it sit there.

"I know what's in it, Arthur. Besides, I'm not really much for the
Union Leader
. Are you?"

"Is that what you came to talk about?"

"The
Union Leader
?"

"No. This custody thing."

"Seems to me it's a good bit more than a custody thing, Art. But no, that's not why I stopped by. You know I was out to see your mom and dad the other day, had a kind of talk with them. Your dad looks awful tired, Art. How come he doesn't just retire?"

"He still likes the work, I suppose. They told me you were by. It's about this thing over on the
Wingerter
property, right?"

"Right. Pretty bad business, Art. Ugly."

"I heard."

"What'd you hear?"

Duggan watched him drink his scotch. Playing for time? Could be.

"That it was a murder. A girl from Plymouth State."

"That all you heard?"

"I heard she was raped."

"Oh, she was raped all right. And then some. I'd give you

all the details but you know how it goes, we got to hold on

to those best we can, eliminate the cranks. Mind if I smoke?"

"Go ahead."

He lit a Newport
Lite
. Arthur opened a drawer and took out a clear glass ashtray and put it in front of him on the clean empty desk.

"Ruth tells me you were over there that night. That you came in pretty late and slept at the house. That correct?"

"Yes."

"You hear anything? See anything?"

"I was coming from a party here. Opening of that new office building over on Prospect. To tell you the truth, I got a little loaded. I doubt I'd have heard or seen anything if it jumped out and bit me."

Duggan clicked his tongue. "Drunk driving, Arthur? Shame on you."

"I shouldn't have been on the road, I admit."

"What
time'd
you arrive?"

"Oh, about one-thirty. Two o'clock."

"Alone?"

"Of course alone."

"Listen, Art. Tell me something. How come you went to your folks' place? I don't get it. Why not to your own?"
Danse
put down the drink.

"It's ... it's actually kind of embarrassing. Since the divorce I get ... well, it gets sort of lonely sometimes."

"You? Really? That surprises me, Art. With all these people out there? With all these
ladies
out at the bar? Damn! I wouldn't think that at all."

Danse
smiled slightly. "I suppose it
would
surprise you. But I've found it isn't smart to mix business with pleasure. I don't date the customers."

"Never?"

"Rarely. Very rarely."

"Too bad. Must be awful tempting, I mean. All those young pretty college kids. It'd sure tempt me. Listen, do you remember this Laura Banks? She used to come in here pretty often I understand."

"I don't remember that name at all."

"Maybe if I showed you her picture."

He dug in his jacket pocket for the snapshot they'd taken from her apartment. That and the other one. The
after
photo. He'd had the lab reduce it down to snapshot size. The face only. That was bad enough.

He made a point of not looking at them as he handed them over.

He saw
Danse
wince.

He didn't look like a guilty man.

He looked like any citizen would. Faced with that.

Could he maybe be wrong about this?

He took the "after" picture back from him.

"Sony," he said. "I don't know how that one got in there. Take a look at the other, though, will you?"

Danse
appeared to study it.

"Maybe," he said. "She looks familiar. But she's not somebody I know, really. Did you try Jake? He's a whole lot better at faces than I am."

Duggan doubted that. "I will," he said. "One other thing, Art, and then I'll leave you to go back to your business."

He took back the second photo and then made a show of rooting through his pants pockets until he found a small piece of folded paper.

"These places mean anything to you?"

He read directly off the paper. Playing the dumb country cop with not much memory to speak of.

"Franklin, Conway,
Munsonville
,
Tuftonboro
. Mean anything?"

Danse
looked puzzled. He shrugged.

"Towns. Towns in New Hampshire. I don't get it."

"You do any business there?"

"Near there, sometimes. I distribute to Wolfeboro, which is near
Tuftonboro
, and Keene, which is over by
Munsonville
. And there's one store in Conway. But my stuff's all over the state these days, everywhere there's tourists. I go all over. Up into Vermont. Why?"

"No reason." He turned to go. "Thanks for your help, Art."

"Whenever."

He stopped at the door and then turned back to him.

"How do you think it's gonna go, Art? Just between you and me now. I mean, you think you'll beat these charges?"