The Second Mouse (15 page)

“Gunther,” he answered.

“Joe, it’s Beverly Hillstrom.”

He smiled at the familiar formal tone combined with the use of his first name.

It had been several fast-moving days since his encounter with the now free-falling Floyd Freeman, and Joe and Hillstrom had spoken several times, as much exchanging information as working out a new middle ground in their relationship. There was no question of their ever repeating what had happened that one night. They both knew that without discussion. But at the same time, referring to each other as “Dr. Hillstrom” and “Agent Gunther,” as they had for decades, now seemed childish. Always the diplomat, however, he’d left it to her to set the new ground rules. He’d been flattered and touched by her choice to stick with first names.

Nevertheless, he knew he shouldn’t get carried away, and thus kept to business. “Hi,” he said, “you got something for me?”

“I think so,” she told him. “Since my hands have been untied, I ordered the extra tests on Michelle Fisher. In fact,” she added with a touch of vindictiveness, “I ordered a five hundred test panel on her, plus a few others for safety’s sake. Good thing, too, because what came up wouldn’t have appeared short of that.”

“And what is it?” Joe asked, allowing her some theatrical buildup.

“Volatiles in the bloodstream—through the roof,” she answered him simply. “I’ve faxed the lab results to your office, but from my experience, I’d look at that gas stove again.”

Joe didn’t respond, his brain fogged in a tangle of new calculations.

“You there?” she finally asked.

“She died of a propane overdose?” he finally asked.

“That would be consistent,” she answered carefully.

“Wow,” he said softly. “I guess that’s what they mean by hearing the other shoe drop.”

“It couldn’t have been accidental?” she asked. “It’s been known to happen.”

Although sitting alone in his car, Joe shook his head at the phone. “The stove was off, the furnace, too, and all the windows were open. Plus, she would’ve smelled it. She wasn’t sleeping.”

“Oh, that’s interesting,” she mused. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“It’s like a suicide that isn’t,” he said.

“Which officially makes it a homicide,” she agreed.

“At long last,” he murmured, reflecting on the path he’d taken to reach it. “I’m not sure I’ve ever worked so hard just to get to the starting block.”

She laughed gently in his ear. “Personally, I’m glad you did.”

After he’d left Freeman, all but sure of the man’s fate—certainly in terms of his hold over Hillstrom—Joe had visited her at her office to break the news. There, with the door closed, she’d given him what they both knew would be a final kiss—something to savor in the future.

“So am I,” he told her, and resumed driving toward Brattleboro.

Chapter 12

T
hey weren’t in bed, weren’t naked, hadn’t even kissed since Nancy’s arrival. Which was a first as far as Ellis could remember. So far, their affair had been so torrid that sex had been the prelude to every meeting, as if nothing could proceed without it—like gulping air before plunging underwater.

Not this time, though, which was just as well. He doubted he could have performed, given his state of mind. And he wasn’t alone, ever since he’d told her what he’d witnessed.

“Jesus, Ellis,” she said, sitting on his sofa beside him with her legs tucked up beneath her. “What did you do with the body?”

“Buried it.”

Her eyes grew even wider. “Where? With what?”

“Right there, by the river. We got sticks and stuff—a piece of board I found in the mud—and dug a grave.”

“Are you crazy?” she asked. “That’s not going to work. A dog’ll find it, or the water’ll wash it up in a flood. Something’ll happen. You buried a man in the middle of a
city,
for Chrissake.”

Ellis became a little resentful. “What the hell would you’ve done?”

She didn’t bother answering that. “Why’d he do it?” she asked instead.

He shrugged. “One moment he was talking to the guy; the next, he’d strangled him. It was like an impulse. He was trying to find out who the kid was selling his stolen radios to.”

“And the kid refused?”

“No,” Ellis said emphatically, shifting around to face her. “That’s the thing. He told Mel what he wanted to know—names, an address. It was only at the end, when Mel asked him how to approach the buyers, that he said something snarky, and that was it.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. I mean, I thought the conversation wasn’t even finished, but it was like Mel had just had enough. It was weird.”

“You didn’t think Mel could kill somebody?” Nancy demanded incredulously.

But Ellis was already shaking his head. “No, no. I meant that Mel was making headway. He’d found out about the kid, staked him out, planned how he was going to squeeze him, and then, just as he was getting what he wanted, he kills him. Why?”

Nancy was looking glum. “We are so screwed. That crazy bastard is going to put us all in jail forever.”

Ellis didn’t have an answer to that. It came too close to his own premonitions. “Yeah—probably,” he finally muttered.

Nancy suddenly looked up at him, her face hard with anger. “Why? It’s not fair. He’s the one who does all this shit. When was the last time you cooked up one of these stupid deals?”

Ellis looked dumbfounded.

“Exactly,” Nancy continued raging. “We just do what we’re told so he doesn’t rip our heads off. We let ourselves get pushed around like nothing. But that’s not how they’re gonna look at it when we get caught. You know that, right? We’ll be lumped with him just like soldiers are when the boss gets into trouble for telling them to do stuff they’re not supposed to. That’s exactly the way it is with us.” She readjusted herself on the couch, getting up onto her knees, moved by her own growing enthusiasm. “You hear about that all the time. Some lieutenant tells his people to blow something up, or kill a bunch of villagers, and next thing you know, they’re all in shit up to their necks. Why? Because they had to follow orders. They don’t do it, they get court-martialed. They do it, and the judge throws the book at them anyhow.” She placed both her hands on Ellis’s shoulders for emphasis. “That’s what’s gonna happen to us. Mel’s like that lieutenant.”

Ellis was processing what she’d said. He didn’t disagree with any of it, but he wasn’t sure he saw her point. She was merely voicing with more passion the same feelings he had every time Mel launched one of his plans. But it still didn’t mean anything. Mel always went ahead anyway, and so did Ellis.

He put his hands on her waist, hoping to show support, and nodded. “Yeah,” he said.

Her expression brightened. “So we need to do something. To fight back. We can’t let him do that anymore.” She suddenly kissed him, hard and fast. “Especially now that we’ve found each other. We need to figure out how to turn the tables. There’s gotta be a way we can make sure he gets what’s coming to him without being caught in the same wringer.”

“Like call the cops?” Ellis asked.

Nancy laughed. Her face was flushed with the excitement of having located at least the outline of a solution. She kissed him again, this time longer, more passionately. He began to respond, his hands searching out her blue-jeaned bottom.

She broke away again, her lips moist. “No, silly. The cops’ll just lump us all together. What do they care? Bunch of trailer trash. We gotta make it easy for them. Give ’em one single target, so big and juicy they don’t even think of us.”

“Like an anonymous call telling them he did the kid,” Ellis mused, moving his hands up under her tank top and around to the front. Nancy arched her back in response but kept talking.

“No. You’re too close to that one. You’ve seen those shows. They’ll find people who saw you there, or they’ll get hair samples or something. If anything, we should go back to where you buried him and make sure there’s nothing left that’ll point to you.”

He worked his fingers in under her brassiere and swept it out of the way. She let out a moan and with one clean jerk pulled off her tank top, pulling his face between her breasts.

“Jesus, Ellis, I know we can do this. We can get rid of him forever and have all the time in the world.”

She was yanking at his shirt as he fumbled with the snap of her jeans.

“Think of it. No more Mel. Just you and me. Christ, I can almost taste it.”

Ellis succeeded and yanked her fly open, simultaneously laying her on her back.

“Yeah. Me, too,” he said, figuring they could work out the details later.

“I wondered when this would come back to kick us in the ass,” Willy said sourly. “Soon as I heard he was poking his nose into someone else’s case. What’s he want us to do?”

Sammie gave her companion an exasperated look. “You know you love this shit. Why do you raise a stink every time?”

They were heading down the Municipal Building staircase together, she having turned him around in the hallway with a crook of the finger as he was coming in for the day, along with the words “Road trip to Bennington—boss’s orders.”

“We’re supposed to interview some folks,” she continued. “Supposedly, they alibi a guy named Morgan. I forget his first name.”

“Newell,” Willy said under his breath.

“
Ha.
” She burst out laughing, punching his good arm. “I knew it. God, you are easy. I knew you’d read the file. You’re dying to get into this; admit it.”

He shook his head. “You are so full of it.”

She paid no attention. “It’s perfect for VBI. I bet the boss saw that from the start—smelled a rat, just by instinct.”

“He got lucky.”

“Oh, right. That’s why he’s already put so much time into it.” They reached the lobby on the ground floor and headed out toward the parking lot to the rear of the building.

“Give me the keys,” he said.

She laughed again. “Like I’m going to trust my life to some gimp? You have
got
to be kidding.”

“Better me than anyone else you know,” he growled, but he let her keep the keys. “So what finally did her in?”

“Fisher?” Sam asked, turning the key and checking the mirror. “They’re thinking the gas from the stove.”

That caught him by surprise. “No shit?”

She barely waited for him to settle in before moving out of the parking lot at a rapid clip. “That’s where Joe and Lester are headed, to meet up with the crime scene people in Wilmington—see if they can figure it out.”

“Good luck,” he said, but didn’t pursue it, already considering the case in its new light.

“You get enough sleep last night?” Sam asked, seemingly out of the blue.

Willy looked over at her. “Sure. Why?”

“You thrashed around a lot. More’n usual.”

He slapped his forehead dramatically. “Jesus H. Christ. How many cops get to hear that—from their partners, no less? ‘Gosh, honey, you tossed all night.’ There are times this really creeps me out.”

She laughed. “Right. You really look like it when I’m giving you what you want.”

He groaned and rolled down the side window.

“You getting hot?” she asked leadingly.

“Enough,” he told her emphatically. “We’re on the job. None of that here, okay? You know how I feel about that.”

“Okay, sweet pea. Anything you want.”

His frown deepened, and he shifted abruptly in his seat. She cast him a quick glance, recognizing the signs. “What about Morgan?” she continued seamlessly, nimbly sidestepping a land mine. “Since we now know you read the file.”

He didn’t answer at first, pretending to stare out the window at the passing scenery. She had a knack for pulling his chain like that and then letting go just in time, leaving him nothing tangible to complain about.

“I read what the boss wrote. But who cares? You were right there with him when he grilled the man,” he said sulkily.

“Yeah, I was,” she admitted. “I’m asking how it looks on paper. From a distance.”

He understood what she was asking, and worked to consider it more carefully, his emotions disentangling from their earlier conversation. That was another thing she’d figured out how to do.

“I think he’s playing us,” he eventually said. “There’re too many angles that don’t add up.”

“The convenient trip to Frankfort, complete with buddies and credit card receipts?” she suggested.

“For instance. But the big one, too—that she died just when he wanted her out of the house.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “And from what I could read between the lines, it sounded like he was super cranked about her doing the son in the sack.”

“God, yeah,” Sam agreed. “Kept calling her a whore. Joe even asked him if
he’d
made a play, or vice-versa.”

Willy laughed. “Bet that went over well.”

“He blew up.”

“That’s what I mean,” Willy continued. “I think he was jealous, which maybe led to something he can’t cop to now.”

“Meaning her death had nothing to do with the house?” Sam suggested.

Her companion wobbled his hand back and forth equivocally. “It’s possible. With the son out of the way, the old man might’ve seen himself as the perfect replacement. Must’ve driven him nuts that the love nest was his by mortgage only.”

“If that’s true,” Sam reflected, “then he had to have visited her—he wouldn’t’ve leaned on her long-distance. Could be someone saw him. Joe was thinking along those lines, too.”

Willy, to his credit, then argued against his own theory. “Wouldn’t she have mentioned it to the girlfriend, Rubinstein? They were thick, right?”

“Supposedly,” Sam agreed.

“Except that it didn’t come up in Joe’s report of his conversation with Rubinstein. Either he didn’t ask or she didn’t say, or both.”

“She did say she’d never set eyes on the man,” Sam said.

Willy merely grunted, unhappy about the ambiguity. Pointedly, his discontent wasn’t directed at any lapse by Joe. He had too many years on the job not to know that these kinds of holes were endemic to an investigation. Still, it was a gap of knowledge, and he would have liked it filled.

“Maybe someone should reinterview her,” he suggested.

“I think that’s one of the reasons they’re out there. The mother’s being contacted, too. Lester’s driving down to Fall River to talk to her.”

They fell silent for a few moments, each lost in thought. He, however, was pondering what they’d just been discussing, which was why it surprised him yet again when she returned to an earlier topic.

“The nightmares just as bad?” she asked, her voice neutral and her eyes studiously on the road. This was not an area she was comfortable in.

Now he understood her comment about his sleeping habits. Instinctively, he bristled. A war vet, a recovering alcoholic, and a cripple with a lifelong history of poor interactions with his fellow human beings, Willy Kunkle was nothing if not quick to man the barricades.

And yet, he’d allowed this woman inside, if grudgingly—a gesture she repaid with forbearance and patience. He changed the rules according to his moods, opening up or shutting her out almost at whim, often finding her attachment to him more baffling than flattering. But still she hung on.

He knew it wasn’t because of any great encouragement from him. He wouldn’t have said it out loud, but it was in part her balancing this tolerance with her own self-respect that impressed him most—something she often did simply by speaking her mind. Years before, he’d been unhappily married. His wife had eventually left him—not that he blamed her for that—but while they’d been together, she hadn’t known enough to forcefully stand her ground, and in the absence of such limits, he’d ended up diminishing her and forfeiting their marriage.

It wasn’t something he wanted to repeat.

Reluctantly, therefore, almost struggling with the effort, he tried answering openly. “Not as bad,” he admitted. “Is that what woke you up last night?”

“Yeah,” she answered truthfully, “but it wasn’t over the top. You didn’t slug me or anything.” Now she risked a glance at him, privately pleased by his response, which wasn’t always so benign. “The only reason I mentioned it is because they’ve gotten rarer.”

He continued looking straight ahead and made no comment, but he nodded ever so slightly.

She reached out and squeezed his thigh, quickly returning her hand to the wheel. He made no overt movement, but she noticed the hint of a smile and was happy to count it as progress. This might turn out to be the labor of a lifetime, but however subtle the signs, she was content to think she wasn’t working alone.

Mel Martin left his pickup and looked around cautiously, watching for anything out of the ordinary. He was on the edge of town, parked off the road behind an abandoned tumbledown barn, the likes of which decorated the Vermont roadsides like billboards did farther south, in the urban flatlands.

Except that up here they weren’t advertising anything besides the slow disintegration of a culture.

Satisfied, Mel approached the back wall of the barn and removed a few carefully piled-up boards barring the door, noting by the tiny indicators he’d left behind that they hadn’t been disturbed since his last visit.