Three Can Keep a Secret Read online

  In response, Gail simply held up her glass so that Susan could clink it against her own.

  After they’d both taken swallows, however, Gail asked, “So that’s it? Rah-rah for the home team?”

  “That’s a bad thing?”

  “It’s not why you’re here at midnight.”

  Raffner’s initial silence confirmed Gail’s suspicion. “Well,” Susan admitted, “I have been approached with something I think you’ll find interesting.”

  “Like a snake in the grass?”

  She made a face, which Gail could not have seen. “I hope not. I’m seeing this as a good thing.”

  Gail twisted in her chair and faced Susan’s profile, attracted by something in the tone of her voice—a form of powerfully suppressed excitement that she’d heard only on rare occasions. “You have my interest, Senator.”

  Susan turned toward her, the lights outside gleaming in her eyes. “Catamount Industrial,” she said. “You know about them?”

  “Of course. Vermont’s own fairy tale.” Gail reacted slightly scornfully. “The exception that proved the rule. The founder started out as a tinkerer, began with … what was it? Surplus machine tools after the bottom fell out in places like Springfield? He traded that into equipment to run everything from stone quarries to ski slope operations, then branched out into farm machinery, agriculture, banking, God knows what else, before selling out to the second- or third-biggest agri-corporation in the country for … whatever … a zillion dollars? I miss anything?”

  Susan had been nodding in agreement throughout. “Harold LeMieur,” she confirmed. “On the financial high end of the national food chain, born and bred in good-old-Vermont, although he hasn’t lived here in decades.”

  “And who’s had nothing to do with us, either, if memory serves,” Gail concluded dismissively. “Which is one reason I was told not to waste my time hitting him up for support. Not to mention that he’s a right-wing poster child.”

  Susan was laughing by now. “That’s the man.”

  Gail smiled, caught by Susan’s mood. “So, why’re we talking about him?”

  “Because,” Susan said almost gleefully, “if this works out, it’ll be the exact opposite of George Bush’s ‘Hell of a job, Brownie’ boner following Katrina. I’ve been contacted by LeMieur’s people, who say he’s interested in working with you in creating what they’re calling a para-FEMA.”

  Gail held up her hand. “He’s not one of ours, Susan.”

  “That’s the point,” Raffner exclaimed. “He wants to do this for Vermont, not us, and he’s willing to work with whoever to get it done, even a bunch of liberal wackos. Which is the best part of it, you see? If it works, it’ll undermine the whole right–left paradigm we’ve been fighting for years.”

  Gail scratched her head. “It doesn’t make sense,” she said. “What does LeMieur get out of it? He’s never done anything that wasn’t to his own advantage.”

  “That’s what I asked,” Susan argued. “And they said that’s exactly why—as he’s aged, he’s become haunted by his own ogre image. Like what happened to John D. Rockefeller when he got old. He started donating money, handing out dimes to kids, and conning people into thinking he’d become a nice, doddering, generous old man. Totally bogus, of course, but what do we care if you get to stand up at the end of the day and say that under your administration, even the likes of Irene can be tamed through bipartisan cooperation?”

  Gail laughed and took another sip of her wine. “Okay,” she then said. “Assuming this isn’t a total crock to make us look like fools, what’s he mean by para-FEMA?”

  “In short? His organization would operate as a super-low-interest bank, paralleling FEMA. Applicants to the U.S. government would get whatever money FEMA doles out, then Catamount would show up and handle what fell through the cracks or came up short. It would function as a safety net for people FEMA didn’t completely take care of, or who didn’t qualify in the first place for some reason.”

  “They’d be loans?” Gail asked suspiciously.

  “Structured as such for those who could afford them. Otherwise, they’d be grants. It would work on a case-by-case basis.”

  Gail resumed staring out the window, deep in thought. It was a political reality that garbage strikes and snowstorms got politicians thrown out of office—or tropical storms. Her poll numbers had begun high, based on her covering the state like a wet sheet and showing up wherever there was a TV camera. But people standing next to the wreckage of their town and homes were beginning to complain about the lack of money, the slowness of road and bridge repair, and how she’d been acting to set things right.

  Political storm clouds were gathering. And certainly, the essence of what Susan had just outlined seemed like a sudden shaft of sunlight.

  “Is LeMieur open to sharing the stage?” she asked slowly. “If I used his offer to get places like IBM or Ben and Jerry’s or C and S to chip in as well, would that be a deal-breaker?”

  Susan remained undaunted. “I wanted to know the same thing. They made it clear that he’d like special mention for starting things rolling, but after that, sure. He’d let whoever pulled out a checkbook step onstage with him.”

  Gail shook her head. “And he’s ready to act now? Immediately?”

  “That’s what they told me,” Susan assured her. “Of course, none of it can happen if the state drags its feet. It’s not like Catamount could simply set up shop independently. All sorts of special allowances are going to have to be cranked out to make it legal. And you’ll have to be out front through it all, goading, leading, blackmailing—whatever it takes to make it happen.”

  “Right, right,” Gail replied, and faced her mentor one last time. “Okay, Susan. Call them back and take the next step, but on tiptoes. Word of this gets out prematurely, we’ll have so much shit on our shoes, we won’t be able to move. What you’ve brought me is right up there with jumping out of an airplane and only hoping you’ve got a parachute.” She slid halfway out of her chair to put her face inches from Raffner’s. “We are fucked if this fails,” she said.

  Susan smiled, if grimly. “It won’t, Gail. This is how people like us get things done. Boldly, not stupidly. I will shepherd this like it was my firstborn.”

  Gail smiled suddenly and kissed Raffner’s cheek quickly. “Go get ’em, girl. I’ll be holding my breath.”

  * * *

  There was a pecking order of residences at The Woods of Windsor, starting with quarter-million-dollar efficiencies with no view, and culminating with segregated duplexes built apart from the madding crowd, lined up on a ridge overlooking the fields and hills of Vermont’s horse country. Surprisingly to Joe, the late Gorden Marshall’s apartment was not among the latter. The place that Sergeant Carrier led them to was fancy and spacious, but located alongside a string of similar apartments on the top floor of one of the complex’s larger buildings. Either Marshall’s resources had their limits, or his Vermont-born sense of decorum had overruled them.

  To give Carrier credit, he’d positioned a single officer at the door, and made sure that, unlike himself, he was in plainclothes. Of course, he was also young, fit, uncomfortable in a tie, and sporting a high-and-tight haircut. He had “cop” stamped all over him. But the effort had been made, and Joe mentioned it as they approached, complimenting his counterpart.

  Carrier merely jutted his chin down the long hallway, to where an elderly man had just rounded the corner. “You’ll be eating those words in thirty seconds,” he said dourly. “That’s one of the board members. You’ll love him.”

  Joe was already watching the grim expression approaching them, imagining it atop a younger man in a suit, fifteen years earlier, striding toward some stockholders’ meeting with fire in his belly.

  “Swell,” he said gently as the three cops came to a halt at the door.

  The old bulldog stopped three feet shy of them and took them in with a withering glare. Joe noticed a small glob of humanizing spittle parked on his lip, a
long with the fact that his morning’s shave had been a little haphazard. The last few years had been taking a toll.

  “Who’s in charge here?” he asked without preamble.

  Carrier looked to Joe and made a small hand gesture of introduction.

  Joe nodded and said, “Guess that’s me. Special Agent Joe Gunther, of the Vermont Bureau of Investigation. This is Special Agent Spinney. I think you know Sergeant Carrier.” He took in the young man by the door and added, “And this is one of his colleagues, whom—”

  But at that point, the retired captain of industry had reached his fill. “I don’t care about that. I want to know what the hell is going on.”

  “Sure,” Joe said pleasantly. “And you are?”

  “Graham Dee,” the man answered. “I represent the board.”

  “They sent you?” Joe asked.

  Dee’s eyes narrowed. “I’m acting on their behalf.”

  Joe pulled out his notepad and clicked his pen, preparing to write. “So therefore an official representative? You’re speaking for them?”

  Dee’s face flushed angrily. “That has nothing to do with the price of eggs,” he snarled. “I demand to know what’s going on.”

  “As well you should,” Joe agreed pleasantly, closing his pad. “I tell you what. In the interests of efficiency, and since we’ve just spent a fair amount of time bringing Hannah Eastridge up to speed, I recommend you speak with her first. That way, we’ll all be on the same page when we compare notes later.”

  Ignoring the rest of Dee’s bluster, Joe motioned to the young officer, who quickly opened the door so they could file in. Dee made to follow them, but Joe turned on the threshold, the edge of the door in his hand. “Mr. Dee, until we clear the scene, I’m afraid this apartment will have to stay closed to the public. I look forward to chatting later.”

  With that, he shut the door, cutting Dee off in mid-sentence.

  Carrier had a wide smile on his face. “Nice, Agent Gunther.”

  Joe laughed. “Joe. And I’m sure that’ll cost me a pound of flesh later.” He looked beyond their tightly packed huddle. They were standing in a kitchenette that led into a spacious, sun-filled living room.

  “Sergeant,” he began, “you know some of the players around here, like the charming Mr. Dee. What can you tell us so we’ll get out of your hair as soon as possible?”

  Carrier smiled slightly at the acknowledgments. “My name’s Rick, and to be honest, I’m just as happy you guys are here. I hate dealing with these people.” Without stepping into the living room, he began pointing out what features of the apartment they could see. This wasn’t an official crime scene—yet—and the police guard had been put in place after several people came and went, no doubt tracking minute traces of evidence in and out, but Carrier had gotten the message nevertheless: Treat this as a secure area until informed otherwise.

  “Like you probably heard,” he said, “Marshall missed his morning get-together with some pals. One of them phoned, got no answer, tried the door, found it locked, and called for help. That’s one thing you can say about this outfit—they take care of their own. Internal EMS responded from downstairs—no ambulance or 911 call—and they declared him dead right here. They wrapped him up, stripped the bed, transported him downstairs, locked the door again, and called the family. The doc who runs the medical wing said it was a natural, filled out the death certificate, and until you guys called us, we had no clue what might have happened.”

  “But you’ve got one now,” Joe suggested.

  “Not really,” Carrier countered. “We got what I just told you. And I gotta say, I don’t see much to this.” He waved an arm before them. “I mean, look at it. The guy was found in bed, no signs of disruption, the door was locked, and not a mark on him, unless you found something.”

  He looked at Joe expectantly, who confessed, “Not yet. The autopsy might.”

  “Plus,” Carrier went on, “from what I was told, he was a medical time bomb—bad heart, bad lungs, used a walker, was on all sorts of meds. One of the nurses I’m friendly with even said they were trying to get him moved permanently to the medical wing ’cause they knew he’d only be getting worse.”

  He left it at that, lapsing into silence.

  Joe took advantage to suggest, “Let’s take a quick look.”

  Carrier bowed slightly. “Be my guest. Try not to get lost.”

  It was a telling comment. The small apartment was composed of an office, a bedroom, the room before them, and two bathrooms. That was it.

  Still, Joe couldn’t shake that he was here for a reason. Slipping on one of the latex gloves he kept in his pocket, he used his right hand to ease open a filing cabinet drawer in the office. The drawer had been rigged with metal rails, designed to support hook-equipped files that could be shoved back and forth to allow easy access. As the drawer yawned open, Joe saw that the files had been pushed forcefully apart, creating a large and empty space in the middle.

  It was an obvious indication of something having been removed.

  He checked the tabs of the files before and after the wide gap. All the C’s were missing. A glance through the remaining records showed nothing beyond bills, receipts, and assorted documents of no apparent relevance.

  A cursory examination of the rest of the apartment revealed nothing out of place, and seemingly, nothing more that had been removed.

  He retreated to the entryway, stripping off his glove.

  “Find anything?” Carrier asked him.

  “Not that jumps out,” he said cautiously. “We’ll seal the place for now, conduct a proper search when we have a bigger time window.”

  Carrier was not impressed. “Why’re you so interested in this? I don’t get it. You sure you’re not keeping something in your back pocket?”

  Joe barely smiled. “Don’t I wish.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sammie stopped what she was doing in the kitchen, hearing Emma squealing happily in the front room. She moved quietly down the hallway to watch Willy from the doorway. He was lying on his back, holding the tiny child overhead, cupped in his right hand—her chubby arms and legs thrashing like a turtle’s seeking traction. He was lowering her as he might an exercise weight, until they were touching nose to nose, and then catapulting her back up into the air, to her repeated delight.

  Willy, his self-preservative instincts never at rest, addressed Sammie without looking at her, despite the fact that she’d not made a noise. “You laying bets she’s gonna throw up on me?”

  Sammie laughed. “God, I hope not.” She entered the room and settled into a rocking chair as Willy continued his play. For her part, she hadn’t even heard him enter the house. Only Emma’s giggles had informed her. But that was nothing unusual. She was living with a ghost in some ways—a man so bolted down and private, half the time he seemed to wish he’d been born invisible.

  He wasn’t entirely alone there. She’d known that feeling when she was younger, coming from a home with no love, functioning in a male-dominated profession, and having an attraction for losers when it came to past companionship. She’d had times when even her own company seemed too much to bear.

  No longer, though. Of that, she was increasingly sure. Willy may have been everyone’s favorite choice for relational disaster of the year, but he’d proved her faith in him to be sound and justified. And Emma was Exhibit A.

  Emma’s responses began to wane, so her father settled her onto his chest, where she happily lay drooling onto his shirt and playing with his chin.

  “Just got back from the land of the one-string banjo players,” Willy announced.

  “Interviewing more Rozanskis?” she asked.

  “A couple,” he agreed. “I met two others, too, but I can’t say I interviewed ’em. They are a tight-lipped bunch.”

  “You find out anything new?”

  “Hardly. Confirmed that Bud and Dreama had three kids, Nate, Herb, and Eileen, and that Nate hasn’t been heard from in forever … and, of cou
rse, they all thought Herb was six feet under.”

  “Where’s Eileen?”

  From his position on the floor, his face appeared upside down to her, making his smile appear all the more clownish. “Ah!” he said. “Great minds think alike. Yeah, I’m guessing she’s my next stop. Not much to be gained messing around with the people she dumped—probably because of their crummy conversational skills. Stamford,” he added. “To answer your question.” He frowned. “Almost in Massachusetts and as isolated as what she left.”

  Sam rose from the rocker and stretched out on the floor beside them, so that their three heads were less than a foot apart. Emma gurgled happily with her mother’s arrival.

  “How ’bout you?” Willy asked, touching her hair with his fingertips. “What’ve you been up to?”

  Her eyes widened slightly in alarm at that. “What time is it?”

  He told her without checking his watch—another trick he’d perfected over the years.

  “We have a staff meeting with Joe in thirty minutes,” she said, immediately interpreting his reaction. “And I asked if Emma could come along. No sweat.”

  Willy smiled and addressed his daughter. “Hey, Junior G-girl. Wanna take a meeting with the big cheese?”

  * * *

  Joe smiled broadly as Sam, Willy, and Emma entered the office. Every time he saw them, this unlikeliest of families gave him pleasure, both because of how much he liked and admired the individuals within it, and because of how it contrasted with the domestic car crashes he and other cops witnessed every day.

  “Hi, there,” he greeted them. “Sorry for the short notice, but happy it forced you to bring in the young inheritor.” He walked up to them and stuck his face into Emma’s, as most adults do, as if babies were the shortsighted geriatrics some of them resembled.

  “How are you, sweetheart?” he asked in a near whisper.

  Emma reached out and swiped at his nose, her expression serious with intent.

  Despite his propensity for delivering acerbic one-liners, especially at sentimental moments, Willy merely looked on benignly.