The Catch (17 page)

She shook her head and added, “Just like his goddamn father.”

“He was a handful, too?” Joe asked.

Again, she flared up, fixing him with a baleful stare.

“He didn’t deserve what you people did to him. Fucking cops.”

“That was bad,” Joe conceded.

Her brow furrowed in confusion.

“People do the craziest things when they get in a jam,” he went on. “Turn a relatively small thing into a huge deal, all because they didn’t stop and think for a second.”

She tilted her head to one side slightly. “What’re you talking about?”

He smiled, sensing she knew all too well. “Grabbing that rifle; taking off, when all we wanted to do was ask him a few questions.”

Her eyes widened. “Are you shitting me? You were after him for shooting at that cop.”

Joe dropped his jaw in theatrical surprise, although he was embarrassed to have been taken off guard.
Of course
the Bobs of the world would tell a lie like that to look good. “He told you that?”

“You saying it’s not true?” she challenged.

“Absolutely,” he said. “Bob was just trying to score a deal. The guy he was with fired those shots.”

She seemed stunned by the news, staring off into some middle space, as if in consultation. “That asshole.”

“Like I said,” Joe resumed conversationally. “People do the craziest things.”

She focused back on him, struck by a sudden thought. “Then why were you all around the house? I saw you people when we drove out of there. You were everywhere.”

Joe looked back at her with an appealing expression. “Think of the company we last saw him keeping. We
didn’t know if that other guy was still around. We were a lot less happy about running into
him
unprepared.”

“Such a creep,” she muttered.

“You met him?”

Her face darkened. “Yeah, I met him. Bob brought him to the house, the stupid jerk. A real cocky bastard, bragging about how tough he was, and all his prospects.”

“He offer to make Bob a partner?” Joe asked. “Maybe that explains why Bob invited him home.”

She pressed her lips together tightly before answering, “I don’t know. They didn’t talk much in front of us. It was all secret, secret shit, like they were boys in a special club or something. I figured it was more drug business, anyhow. I kept telling him that would get him screwed someday.”

“I heard you two had your troubles,” Joe commented sympathetically. “That must’ve been tough.”

“It was a pain in the butt,” she said angrily.

“What was he doing with that guy, anyway?” Joe asked. “What was his name?”

“Grega,” she said bitterly. “Luis.” She pronounced it “Lu-eece,” with a mocking flair, adding, “He thought he was a real lady’s man. Typical.”

Joe let the ethnic implication slide. “You think he was pitching a big deal to Bob?”

“All I know is that Bob was real hyper, talking about getting us out of the rut. That’s what he called it, as if what we had was so terrible.” She looked up at him accusingly, her eyes narrowed with anger. “What is it with guys? Always so worked up about hitting the big time. What the hell’s wrong with life the way it is?”

Joe shrugged, struck by a vaguely similar remark he’d heard from Lyn. “The culture, I guess. The American Dream.”

“Fuck the American Dream. That’s what I say.”

Joe returned to the reason they were here, “Still, you got into that truck with him when Bob ran for it.”

She looked away, thoughtful and a little lost. When she returned to him, there were tears in her eyes. “He was such a kid, you know? Our son was more grownup than him.”

Joe let a moment’s silence elapse before asking, “What happened to Luis?”

Her voice was distracted. “Who cares?”

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, as if sharing a confidence. “You might ought to,” he suggested quietly.

Zachary wiped her eyes with the palms of both hands. “What do you mean?”

He dropped his voice even lower. “I’m not one of the local cops. I was brought in from outside, but I know what they’re saying. With Bob dead and Luis missing, you’re about all they got.”

She looked stunned. “What’re you saying? I didn’t do anything.”

He held his finger to his lips, cautioning a lower tone. “You and I know that, but they better have something to show. Like you said, it was a big operation, cost a lot of money.”

Her face darkened as she hissed, “They killed my fucking husband. That cost me, too.”

“And who do you have left?” he asked her, all sympathy. “You don’t want to risk losing him, too.”

It was an old gag—a cynical manipulation. In fact, Joe had his doubts that mother and child would ever share a roof again, given what had happened. Of course, the flip side of his implication also failed the grade—Jill Zachary hadn’t even been charged with an offense. She was free to go whenever she chose.

Thankfully, she grasped neither reality. Instead, her eyes widened in alarm. “Risk losing him? What the hell are you talking about?”

Joe chanced reaching out and touching her damp, blue-jeaned knee, establishing friendly contact. “About throwing them a bone. Show them you’re the innocent bystander here. You’ve got a life to lead, Jill—you and your son, both. Hasn’t all this cost you enough already?”

She was looking genuinely perplexed. “I told you: I don’t know nuthin’. They didn’t talk in front of me, and I didn’t listen anyhow.”

“You knew about Luis. You knew his name.”

She straightened, surprised. “That’s what you’re talking about?”

He nodded. “Everything and anything. Names of people Bob brought by; descriptions of their cars; any dates you can remember; pieces of conversation you might’ve overheard. All of it.”

She rubbed her forehead. “Jesus H. Christ. Who gives a shit?”

“You hope they will,” he suggested.

She sat back and stared at the ceiling, visibly casting about for a solution. Finally, she fixed him with an intense look.

“Bernie,” she said. “They talked about Bernie.”

“Who’s Bernie?”

“How the hell do I know?” she exclaimed. “You wanted a name. There’s a name.”

“You ever see him?”

“No. They just mentioned him. I walked in to ask if they wanted dinner, once, and I heard Bob talking. He yelled at me because of it.”

“Did you get any feeling for who he
might
be?” Joe asked, keeping his tone just shy of bored, adding, “A dealer, maybe, or a big customer?”

But Jill was adamant, shaking her head. “No. That’s why Bob got pissed at me later. He asked me what I’d heard, and I told him. Same as you—it was just a name. Stupid part was, I only knew it was important ’cause he got all worked up. It still never meant anything to me.”

Joe absorbed that for a moment, and then got to his feet. “And you never heard Bernie mentioned again?”

“No.”

He went to move, as if he was done, and then stopped, pretending that he’d just remembered something—in fact, the biggest reason he was here at all.

“Jill,” he said, “when Luis was bragging and putting on a show for you, did he ever talk about having been to Vermont?”

“Vermont? No.”

“How ’bout something that might’ve happened there? A shooting?”

Her eyes widened slightly. “He shot somebody?”

Joe leaned toward her, sharing a secret. “It was a cop, Jill. That’s what I was talking about earlier, when I was telling you how important it is to play ball. These guys are serious—this is literally a federal case. They can throw away the key.”

He had her attention.

“Luis Grega mentioned nothing about shooting a cop in Vermont?” he repeated.

Her face turned sullen. “I told you.”

He crossed the small room and put his hand on the doorknob. “I’ll have somebody come in with a recorder, Jill. You’ll like her—she’s not one of the boys, in more ways than one. Tell her what you told me, with as many details as you can remember. I guarantee you it’ll help.”

He left the room, closed the door, and raised his eyebrows at Cathy Lawless. “You ready to sweet talk her out of some memories? I figured I’d use you since you’d probably know any names she might mention.”

The MDEA agent smiled broadly at him. “You are an evil man, Joe Gunther. I hope they know that in Vermont.”

He shook his head. “They think I’m a saint. Did Bernie ring any bells with you, by the way?”

But Cathy shook her head. “Not offhand—and definitely not as a major leaguer.”

Later that night, Joe was again on the phone with Lyn. As usual, he was lying flat on his back in the motel room, his head propped against a bunched-up pillow, the TV on but muted. Balanced on his chest was an open can of Vienna sausages and a Cheez Whiz dispenser. Dinner was consisting of a careful line of the latter being applied periodically along the abbreviated length of one of the former, all washed down with occasional swigs of Coke. A small bag of barbecue-flavored chips was by his side, ostensibly for roughage. The phone was cradled, hands free, against his ear. Lyn had called him in
the middle of his meal. As was his habit when on the road—and whenever possible—he’d been watching a western.

“Not at the bar tonight?” he asked her.

“It’s Penny’s turn. I’m on tomorrow. You don’t want to know how we came up with this schedule. Very much a girl thing—lots of compromise and sacrifice and hidden resentment.”

His laughter made the can shake on its perch.

“How did things go today?” she asked.

“Not great,” he admitted, thinking of how best to describe the unintended shooting of a prime suspect, followed by several hours of gathering near useless information from the man’s widow. “We had a lead that didn’t pan out.”

“Still no Grega?”

“Still no Grega,” he conceded.

“I spoke to Steve today,” she said, her voice neutral.

Joe had been absentmindedly gazing at the screen across the room. At that, he reached out for the remote by the bag of chips, hit the Off button, and responded, “How did that go?”

“He was very sweet,” she said. “It had been a long time, like I said, and he felt badly about that. We talked about the family, or what’s left of it, and how we both played a role in letting things slide. He was really interested in trying to pick up some of the pieces.”

“Great,” Joe murmured, adding support while not wanting to interrupt. He was dearly hoping this was heading somewhere he wanted to go.

“Anyhow,” she continued, “he asked how I was, and if I was seeing anyone. One thing led to another, and I told
him how you were working on a drug case in Maine, and how I’d mentioned his past involvement with Matt Mroz, or how he’d
wanted
to be involved, at least.”

“That go over all right?” Joe asked.

“Better than I thought,” she reported, still obviously relieved. “He laughed about it, and was very open. It made it easier to ask him if he might help.”

“Did he think he could?”

“He said he’d be happy to try, Joe. He stressed, like we thought he would, that a lot of water’s gone under the bridge, but he was willing to give you what little he had, in his words.”

“That’s great,” Joe told her, although considering what they’d extracted from Jill Zachary, he wasn’t overly hopeful.

“One condition, though,” Lyn added. “He’s a little insecure about meeting you one-on-one, and asked if I could be there.”

“Sure,” Joe agreed readily. “What’s he have in mind?”

She hesitated. “What do you mean?”

“Would he like me to travel to wherever he is?”

“Oh,” her voice lightened. “No, no. He saw this as a trip to Maine. He’d be like a guide—show you places he’d been, describe people he knew. He said that otherwise he wouldn’t be much use, since most everyone in the business uses either first names, street names, or fake ones.”

Joe frowned at this, caught off guard. “I didn’t know he did much business in Maine.”

“I didn’t, either,” she admitted. “I thought it was something he was planning to do, but it turns out that’s how he heard about Mroz in the first place. He’d been
up there a bunch of times and was learning who some of the players were.”

Given Joe’s other options, this didn’t strike him as a stretch. “I think he’s got a deal, Lyn,” he said. “I really appreciate it. Let me fly it by my handlers up here, so I don’t step on any toes, and I’ll let you know. But in any case, thank Steve a lot for me. It’s a generous offer, and much appreciated.”

They hung up after sharing a few more exchanges on other topics, Joe enjoying the growing familiarity that was developing between them. As he stared afterward at the now blank TV set, his food all but forgotten, he mused over the serendipity that he could deepen his knowledge of her background, while maybe also advancing the case. If Chapman and Cathy Lawless were agreeable, this might be a way to shake things up from an unexpected angle.

God knows, they were due for a break.

Willy raised his eyebrows. “You saying I can’t talk to him without pissing him off?”

Sammie cupped her cheek in her hand, her elbow resting on the arm of her chair, and smiled at him. “Maybe if you’re asking him about the weather.”

Willy scowled. “You are so full of shit.”

“Takes one to know one,” she answered him. “That’s my point. He’s got a reputation like yours, although, God knows, I doubt he’s in the same ballpark.”

“I never heard of him before now.”

“And you know for sure he’s heard of you?” she asked.

“We’re both cops.”

She remained silent, allowing the absurdity of his comeback to float in the air. They were sharing a motel room in South Burlington, their home-away-from-home while assigned to Mike Bradley’s office. Not that Bradley or his people necessarily knew of their relationship. It wasn’t something they hid—especially in a state that functioned like a small village—but they’d found it easier not to have to explain it to everyone. Besides, given Willy’s high profile among social dysfunctionals,
all Sammie usually got for telling people about the two of them was a look of incredulity.

“What I’m saying,” she continued, “is that I might fly under the radar better than you—avoid the whole testosterone thing you guys get going.”