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  Sam went in for the clincher. "It'll make you a man to respect."

  They stood next to each other for half a minute or so, gazing at their separate destinies, Sam hoping she'd just given another quarter turn to this man's cell door lock, and Rivera wondering if and how he'd ever get this woman into bed.

  * * *

  Joe waited patiently, listening to reports about the Hollowell/Lapierre double homicide, mostly from Chick Wilson, Rutland's deputy police chief. For these meetings in which Sammie Martens's activities might be discussed, only Joe, prosecutor Mara Coven, task force leader Rick McCall, Chick, and Peter Bullis of the local drug unit were invited.

  "Long story short," Chick was concluding mournfully, "we still don't have much to go on. Usually, these people spill the beans pretty quick, but either the ones we've been squeezing really are clueless or somebody's got 'em more scared than we do. Sure as hell, if Hollowell was killed as a warning, nothing we can do will compete."

  He turned to Joe. "Any hints from Sam about that?"

  "Just the implication that Hollowell was part of Rivera's operation, but that's still iffy. She's on the inside now, ready to move in as Rivera's Rutland lieutenant, but as of our last phone chat, she still doesn't feel she can ask those kinds of questions yet."

  "How is she going to set up here?" Bullis asked, curious about this complication on his home turf.

  "Be best if we could find a rental property on the west side of town," Gunther explained. "Something a dealer would find appropriate, and we could rig for sound and video. Is that a possibility?"

  "Assuming we can get a search warrant," McCall cautioned.

  Joe rubbed his forehead. "Right. I forgot about that." A few years earlier, Vermont law was changed, requiring the police to get a so-called wire search warrant anytime they wanted to covertly record a conversation. "That going to be a problem?"

  McCall shook his head. "I doubt it. I'll go after it the way I usually do. They're used to me by now. You gonna use your own equipment or ours?"

  Gunther laughed. "All ours, Rick—that was the deal. The trick'll be to get into the house and rig it before they come shopping, and then steer them to the right place."

  Rick looked at Bullis. "What do you think?"

  "I don't see a problem," he said. "One of my CIs should be good for the second part of that. I just wish I had a better handle on how the street dealers are sorting themselves out in this supposed switchover. Right now it's hard figuring out who's with Rivera and who's not."

  "That'll be part of Sam's job," Joe said, "but it does bring up another question: You've given us a pretty good idea of the players in the Rutland drug world, and I've passed that along to her, but a lot of it may be old news to Rivera. Is there any way we can make Sam look like a hotshot—as if she had the insider knowledge she's pretending to have?"

  Bullis thought for a moment. "We know a lot of stuff we can't move on," he admitted finally, "mostly because we don't have enough evidence or time or manpower. I just . . ." He stopped in midsentence and smiled. "I have an idea," he resumed. "There may be someone we've never much bothered with, mostly because he's small potatoes and a little out of our area of interest. But he might be a great source. Let me work on that. I'll do it fast. Promise."

  "I have a question about Sam," Mara Coven then said, having largely kept silent up to now. "How is she going to be the local lieutenant and avoid making drug sales?"

  "She may not be able to at first," Joe explained. "We'll have her sell to informants first, to establish credibility. After that, she can claim executive privilege or whatever and hand it over to a flunky—probably Manuel. I've been told they'll be setting this up along business lines, with different people doing different jobs, so that should give her some wiggle room.

  "But that's another reason I think a video record will help," he went on. "Not just to capture what happens, but for what doesn't as well. If somebody in court later claims Sam sold them dope direct, we can ask for a time and date and show them the transaction—at least that's the perfect-world scenario."

  "Hell," Mara said, "the perfect-world scenario would be that we tell them we have it all on tape, and they don't even ask to see it, 'cause you're not going to tell me every deal is going to happen in front of a camera."

  Gunther shrugged. "That's what I am hoping for. This'll be a retail store of sorts, like a traditional crack house. You want some dope, you get vetted by one of Rivera's people, who escorts you to the house, where bingo, you get on Candid Camera. The artifice of the vetting will explain why the cops can't get inside and shut the place down. These are not Ph.D. candidates we're talking about, after all."

  Mara merely nodded, prompting Joe to add, "Nothing's guaranteed here. This is brand-new for us, and it's moved at amazing speed. Sam fell into this at exactly the right time, what with the Hollowell killing having upset Rivera's applecart. But the trade-off is we're driving without headlights. I think we better assume that some mistakes are going to happen."

  "Little mistakes I can live with," McCall said gloomily, not bothering to spell out the one disaster they weren't mentioning.

  "Okay," Wilson said with artificial brightness. "Let's find a house they can rent."

  Chapter 14

  Gail braced herself for the inevitable. Her sister, Rachel, hadn't been in the house for five minutes, and already the familiar patterns had begun to surface. The two of them were standing together in the small study off Gail's living room.

  "What is that girl doing here?" Rachel demanded in a whispered hiss.

  After moving her in and cleaning her up, including a change of clothes, Gail had settled Debbie Holton on the living room couch opposite the TV set, surrounded by pillows, blankets, and an ignored plate of fruit.

  "She's my guest, like you," Gail answered levelly, knowing it would only cause a fight.

  Rachel's face reddened. "You're comparing us? My God, Gail. You are so perverse. That girl—"

  "Debbie," Gail interjected.

  "—probably sold heroin to Laurie. What were you thinking, putting us in the same house? I can't believe you'd be that thoughtless, so typically confrontational. Did you think I'd benefit from some epiphany here?"

  "I didn't think of you at all, Rachel. I reacted to a human being in trouble."

  Rachel rolled her eyes. "Oh—right. You forget that I know you, Gail. So, it was pure coincidence that this particular human being was also the same one doing drugs with Laurie? I really believe that." She shook her head. "You've really outdone yourself this time, I must say. Subtle as a fucking crutch."

  Gail crossed to the window and looked out onto the lawn. "Have you been by the hospital yet?" she asked, not turning around.

  Rachel's long silence substituted for the shocked expression Gail knew from experience she'd be wearing.

  "I'm going there now," was the frosty reply. "I thought I'd settle in first, see my sister, find out how she was doing. What a great idea. You'd think I'd wake up."

  Gail turned and faced her, repressing a knee-jerk reaction before saying formally, "I'm sorry. You're tired and upset. I should have been more sensitive. Go see Laurie. Stay there as long as you want. I've got all sorts of food I can warm up in no time for dinner whenever you get back."

  They stared at each other for a few moments, leaving things where they were, choosing Gail's starchy politeness as a way out. Rachel merely muttered, "Okay," and left through the side door into the hall, avoiding the living room.

  Gail stood alone for a while, hearing the muffled TV through the closed door, then her sister's oversized SUV starting up in the driveway They were Mutt and Jeff, she and Rachel. Gail was the elder, the more relied upon by their parents, historically the built-in baby-sitter for a sister eight years her junior, and in return, the substitute punching bag for when Rachel wanted to lash out at her parents while maintaining her angelic reputation. Spoiled, lousy at school, lucky in a marriage to an upwardly mobile furniture chain scion, Rachel had been allowed to bel
ieve that trendiness mattered, that social status was proof of Darwin's theory, and that motherhood could be done by proxy through nannies, summer camps, and prep schools. She reminded Gail of a Rhode Island yacht—sleek, beautiful, very expensive, and perpetually moored for all to see in a safe harbor.

  With a small sigh, Gail opened the door to the living room and walked in on Debbie, who was randomly pushing buttons on the remote.

  "You feeling better?" Gail asked, sitting at the far end of the couch.

  "I feel like shit," Debbie answered, not looking at her. "And your sister hates my guts."

  "She doesn't even know you. You're just a symbol to her."

  "Thanks. That sounds great."

  "You're like a neon sign of her own poor parenting. At least that's how she sees it."

  "It's not my fault Laurie's in a coma." Debbie's voice was petulant.

  Gail rubbed her forehead, wondering if this conversation was going to be as taxing as its predecessor. "Nobody's saying it is."

  Debbie looked at her, her expression curiously vulnerable. "But you're still going to throw me out, right?"

  Suddenly understanding, Gail rose and crossed over to her, crouching by her side and taking up her hand. "No, I'm not. You're safe here, Debbie, and welcome to stay for as long as you like."

  Debbie glanced at the TV and hit the Off button on the remote. In the abrupt silence, her next words sounded all the more fragile. "Why didn't your sister come up before?"

  "To see Laurie? She was busy—had a lot of commitments she felt she couldn't break. My sister's very practical in her way. She knew Laurie was in a coma, she knew I was here in case something came up. She's always managed things like that well."

  "Like her own daughter was a pet or something—maybe not even."

  "No," Gail admitted. "Rachel loves Laurie, but I think maybe she was waiting for Laurie to get older so the two of them could have a really good time together."

  "Fat chance of that now."

  "You never know," Gail countered, trying to sound hopeful.

  Debbie didn't respond, staring out the double glass doors that led onto the broad deck with the huge maple tree growing through its middle. Gail allowed for the silence to prompt whatever might come next.

  "My mom would've been drunk," Debbie finally said.

  "When?"

  "If I'd been in a coma," the girl explained.

  Gail didn't argue the point. Chances were too good Debbie was right. "What about your father?" she asked instead. "Where's he?"

  "In Florida. He's married to somebody else. I don't see him."

  "Any brothers or sisters?"

  "Yeah—a few. We don't get along. Different dads and stuff. You got anything good to eat?"

  Gail smiled at the abrupt change of topic. "You want to order some pizza?"

  * * *

  Sam got out of the car with Manuel and surveyed the building before them critically. They'd been at this for several hours already, looking at houses, duplexes, and apartments as potential bases of operation. In each case, she'd found things to object to—proximity to neighbors, not enough or too many exits, poor floor layout for clandestine activities and/or self-protection if things went wrong. Manuel had been reasonable throughout, even agreeable at times. Sam had been surprised at how mellow he'd become, despite the lean, almost feline sense of quiet menace he carried like a scent. The lethality was real—of that she had little doubt—but it almost seemed as if it was a reluctant burden to him, like a badge might be to a peace-loving lawman.

  "So far, so good," she said, knowing full well this was the house Gunther and the task force had already filled with eavesdropping equipment. "I like the way it sits back from the street."

  As usual, Manuel stayed quiet, looking around, standing slightly to her rear, like a bodyguard. The traditional mannerisms of macho dominance appeared lacking.

  A round, bearded man in a spattered work shirt emerged from the house and clattered down from the front porch using a noisy set of stairs. "You the people looking to rent?"

  Sam shook his beefy hand and then wiped her own against her jeans. "Yeah. You Mr. Badamo?"

  "Julius Badamo. That's right. Rutland born and bred." He eyed Manuel suspiciously. "You from around here?"

  "Our money is," Sam answered shortly. "You want to show us around?"

  Badamo considered this for a moment before saying, "I suppose I could do that."

  Gunther had told Sam in one of their scheduled furtive phone calls that the landlord had no idea what was afoot. The surveillance equipment had been installed during a phony municipal inspection conducted by a team led by Lester Spinney.

  "House was built in the 1860s," Badamo was saying, leading the way. "As if you give a damn about that. It's got five bedrooms and two and a half baths. The building code people just gave it a clean bill of health a couple of days ago, in case you're thinking of burning the place down and then blaming me."

  He led them inside and toured them around. Above and beyond being wired by the police, the place had its own built-in appeal, Sam thought, and was perfectly suited to their needs. And her colleagues had done a good job. She saw not one sign of their visit—or of the toys they'd left behind. Several times, still pretending to be critical, she cast a look over her shoulder at Manuel, who also nodded his approval. They were in if the landlord didn't turn thumbs down, and given their first exchange, she began worrying that might happen, if only to prove that Murphy's Law was alive and well.

  Badamo finally threw open a kitchen door to reveal a large garage, one wall of which was lined with an oversized fluorescent green rendering of a lumbering giant in torn clothing, his teeth bared and fists clenched.

  "The Incredible Hulk," Manuel said in astonishment, speaking for the first time since their arrival.

  Badamo turned and looked at him. "It speaks," he said, but Manuel's outburst had obviously pleased him. "You a fan?"

  "Oh, sure," Manuel admitted, approaching the huge drawing. It was more like a set piece, old and stained and battered around the edges, crudely painted on plywood. "I loved all the Marvel and DC characters."

  Badamo laughed. "Look behind it."

  Sam watched, amazed, as Manuel's aloof and chilly manner melted into something closer to that of an enthusiastic kid coming face-to-face with an old friend. He tilted the painted panel toward him and craned to look behind it.

  "Oh my God: It's Thor. These are wonderful." Manuel shifted the Hulk aside to reveal a blond-haired, muscular Viking carrying a massive hammer in one hand. "Why are they here?"

  "Old souvenirs," Badamo explained. "From years back. We have an annual parade in Rutland—every Halloween. In the old days, writers and artists from Marvel and DC would come up from New York dressed in costume to ride the floats we put together. Those things were part of it."

  "Why?" Sam asked, incredulous.

  "For fun. There was a guy named Tom Fagan who worked for the paper who also knew Stan Lee and a couple of other comic bigwigs. He invited them up and I guess they thought it was loopy enough to accept. They did it for years. Basically, just a way for a lot of people to get drunk and stoned, but it got to be quite the tradition. The parade was even mentioned in a few of the comic books, along with Fagan himself."

  Manuel was shaking his head. "Wow. I learned to read from these things. My uncle used to have them by the hundreds. I couldn't get enough of them."

  Sam watched them looking at one another like long-lost cousins, wondering at life's odd twists.

  Julius Badamo waved a hand toward the house behind them. "So, you interested?"

  Manuel glanced at Sam, who'd been so picky all day. She smiled and said, "Who can argue with the Incredible Hulk? Works for us if it works for you."

  Badamo looked a little rueful. "You said your money's good. You got it."

  * * *

  After they'd sealed the deal with both a security deposit and a down payment in cash, which Badamo did a poor job of pretending to take in stride, Sam and
Manuel retired to their car.

  "A comic book fan?" she asked him before starting the engine.

  He was staring straight ahead. "How soon do we start operations?"

  "A comic book fan?" she repeated, laughing now.

  His face reddened. "I was a kid once. Drive."

  She still didn't turn the key. "Where did you grow up?"

  "In an apartment."

  "In Holyoke?"

  He hesitated. "Nobody grows up in Holyoke. I was born in the Bronx."

  "Holyoke's got to be better than that."

  He tilted his head equivocally, his eyes still fixed ahead, as if this entire conversation were taking place inside his head. "Better," he conceded. "That's still not saying much."

  "You're upwardly mobile," she argued. "If Johnny pulls this off, you'll be sitting pretty."

  He didn't answer.

  She watched him a moment before asking, "You don't think?"

  For the first time since they'd entered the car, he looked at her. "I hope so."

  She waited expectantly, but that was it. The next thing he said was, "Drive."

  * * *

  Joe pulled into the gas station parking lot off the immaculate and picturesque village common of Rochester, Vermont, roughly halfway between Rutland and Waterbury—the agreed-upon meeting place that he'd set up with Bill Allard on the phone an hour earlier.

  Neither one of them bothered leaving their cars. Old-time cops both, they'd instinctively parked door-to-door and simply rolled down their windows to have a comfortable and private talk.

  "Too restless to use a phone?" Joe asked his boss, smiling.

  "Yeah—a little. Good day for a drive," Allard answered. "I didn't want anyone hearing this, either, even if it is total horseshit."

  "Sounds political."

  Allard let out a short, mirthless laugh. "Yeah. You could say that. Governor Reynolds is getting twitchy about seeing results."