Gatekeeper Page 16

  Gunther raised his eyebrows. "Twitchy? When was the last time we put together an operation this fast, much less one involving an undercover?"

  Allard was sympathetic. "He's running for office, Joe. You know how they get. He wants a headline he can claim credit for."

  Gunther repressed his irritation. "Can't give him one. Not yet."

  Allard tried a more general approach. "Where do we stand overall, starting with Sam?"

  "She's in place, and all the surveillance equipment is working fine, although audio ain't the best—too much echo. Usable, though. But nothing much has happened yet. She and Manuel are still setting up shop, scoping out the neighborhood, getting a feel for the competition. They don't want to start selling until they know the ground. Hollowell's murder is still a fresh memory."

  "Anything new on that?"

  "You mean, anything new on who killed Lapierre?" Joe countered. "Not a whole lot. Sam finally got Manuel to admit that Hollowell was their guy in town, so I guess that means Rivera didn't kill him."

  "What was Hollowell's job?"

  "Rutland BCI is running that. I have access to their reports and can sit in on their briefings, but I don't know what's being kicked around in the squad room. Last take I heard is that Torres or one of his Holyoke buddies did in Hollowell to shut down Rivera before he got started. But that doesn't explain Sharon Lapierre. If she just happened to be in Hollowell's motel room when he was hit, why the rigmarole with the tourniquet and the syringe? Why not just make it look like Hollowell killed her? Or, for that matter, why care about her at all? They probably didn't know her grandfather was connected to the governor."

  "What's the less obvious take, then?" Allard prompted.

  "Still no clue about Lapierre," Gunther continued. "But an alternate theory for Hollowell might be that it had nothing to do with the Holyoke crowd. All these people are screwed up enough to eat their young for lunch. And Christ knows, Torres, Rivera, and the others are just the ones we happen to know about. There're a ton of freelancers out there, too. Hollowell may have just pissed off the wrong guy."

  Allard didn't look happy. "What about forensics. They find anything?"

  Joe shook his head. "The motel room was a hole-in-the-wall—had more prints, hair samples, and body fluids than a bus depot bathroom. They gathered stuff, as usual, but nobody I talked to thinks it'll come to anything. The best hope is the interviews they're conducting with Sharon's friends and contacts, and so far, all of them are playing dumb. Murder makes them skittish."

  "Go figure," Allard muttered to himself.

  "By the way," Gunther added, "we ever going to get to the part where you explain why we're meeting out here other than the pretty-day-for-a-drive line? I know it's not because we're dumping on the governor—everybody does that. The people downstairs upset with us again?"

  The tiny VBI offices in Waterbury were on the top floor of a building largely filled with the Vermont State Police.

  "They're not too thrilled," Allard admitted. "There's some bitching that we went around the outside and slipped in the back door."

  "They don't know about Sam, do they?" Joe asked in alarm. "I figured McCall for better than that."

  "No, no," Allard assured him. "That's not where this is coming from. McCall seems perfectly happy, as does the Rutland chief. This is just the brass chasing its tail while the field troops are getting the job done. Sam's safe and I think you guys are secure in the task force. But people are grumbling, and unless I can get the governor calmed down, they might find a way to his ear. If that happens, any thing's possible. Reynolds is already unhappy I made him downgrade his 'end of drugs in Vermont' spiel."

  "Christ," Gunther said softly.

  "Don't worry about it, Joe," his boss reassured him. "This is all pure FYI material. Ignorance ain't bliss when the lions are circling the compound, but at least it only counts if they find a way in. I'll do everything I can to stop that from happening. Okay?"

  "All right."

  "More to the point," Allard went on, "how's Sam doing emotionally?"

  "So far, so good, as far as I can tell. She's charged up about the job, feels she has a handle on the players, and is settling in with the man Rivera partnered her up with."

  "Tell me about him," Allard requested.

  Gunther recited what he'd gleaned from the computer search they'd conducted on Manuel as soon as Sam had forwarded his name. "Manuel Ruiz, age twenty-seven, born in the Bronx of Puerto Rican parents. High school dropout, ex-gang member in New York, list of petty crimes as a juvenile, ramping up to assault, weapons charges, drug possession, et cetera. He's also suspected of having been the bad guy in a fatal knifing down there. The feeling is he moved to Holyoke to get out of the heat. The NYPD was interested to hear we were asking about him."

  "But they don't have a case?"

  "Right."

  "You comfortable with him being with her?"

  "She is, and that's all I can go by. I mean, Christ, Bill, none of these guys are virgins. They shoot each other in cold blood in Holyoke, right on the street in the middle of the afternoon. Sam tells me Ruiz is a comic book fan. I think she likes him."

  Allard stared at him. "Likes him? What the hell's that mean?"

  Gunther laughed, in part to discharge the tension. "Just what I said. The woman sleeps with Willy Kunkle, for crying out loud. You surprised she'd take a shine to a loony with a knife who reads comics? Get real."

  Bill smiled despite himself. "Sorry. Still . . ."

  "I know," Gunther admitted, getting serious again. "To be honest, I'm not too thrilled about Ruiz myself. I think he's dangerous as hell. But she does have to work with them—all of them—and that means getting friendly. It's a risk of the job."

  He held his hand up to stop Allard before he responded to that. "I'm not saying she's falling for him. Stop reading into this. I'm suggesting we have to let her act it out as she sees fit. She knows what she can and can't do legally. She knows the line that'll be drawn in court. The rest is up to her. We have to trust her here."

  "She is pretty levelheaded," Allard commented, as if to comfort himself.

  "Right," Gunther reinforced him. But, in fact, he wasn't being entirely truthful. Sammie Martens was reliable, loyal, dedicated, and as true to her job as a bloodhound to a scent, but "levelheaded" implied something she was not. She could work up a passion bordering on zealotry sometimes—and he'd seen it affect her judgment.

  Were he to be absolutely honest, he just hoped he wouldn't be questioning his own in the end.

  Chapter 15

  George Backer stood by the tree in deep shadow for a slow count of thirty, eyeing the dark house before him, listening for any sounds that would turn him back. The driveway at least was perfect—long enough to allow for a slight curve that hid the house from the road behind a row of bushes.

  Satisfied, his heart pumping with the comforting high of this part of his routine, he walked quickly from the tree up the short flight of steps leading to the kitchen door, tried the knob, found it locked, and instantly punched out the small window right above it—his hand protected by the extended sleeve of his sweatshirt. He reached in, turned the lock, and entered.

  As always, he wasn't positive the place was empty. That was part of the rush. He didn't stake a house out for long. He did the obvious things—checked for cars, signs of life, any dogs, circled the whole building—but mostly he tried to get a feel for it, kind of like a Zen thing, or what he thought was a Zen thing.

  He walked quickly through the kitchen into the living room beyond, his hands by his side. "You touch it, you take it" was one of his rules. He didn't use gloves. Took away from the fun. He had quite a few rules—no jewelry, no silverware, no art, nothing too heavy, nothing too high end, no super rich houses, no white houses. They tended to be owned by wealthy people, and wealthy people owned alarms. But he didn't much care about doorknobs. Someone had told him once that the cops never dusted doorknobs, because everybody used them. Made sense to him.


  Backer glanced around, seeing by moonlight, a flashlight at the ready in case he needed it. He saw an open closet—clothes, shoes, a rifle in the corner. Forget that. Don't steal firearms. People took that seriously in this state. On the shelf above were hats, a few boxes. He moved on.

  He ignored the TV, the radio, the expensive phone, paused at the bedroom door, knowing this was the make-or-break point concerning anyone being at home. Then he turned the knob and stepped inside, quiet as a ghost.

  It was empty.

  He crossed to the dresser, seeing the glint of glass in the dim light. Sure enough, there was a large jar, half full of spare change—a habit so common, he'd come to expect it. He weighed the jar carefully in his hand, found it acceptable, and dropped it into his backpack.

  Feeling better now, he checked his watch. One minute down. His own two-minute rule half done. Moving faster, he checked the closet here, saw nothing immediately interesting, dropped to his knees, shined his flashlight under the bed, got up empty-handed, and finally returned to the kitchen. He wasn't distressed. He knew people's habits—especially people like these. It might be a wash except for the change jar, but he had one last standard place to check.

  He opened the freezer door, shoved aside the usual items and chuckled at his own prowess. Reaching in, he extracted a frost-covered baggie and held it up to the light at the window, just seeing a fair amount of its flourlike contents.

  "Bingo," he said softly, and checked his watch one last time. A hair over two minutes. Not bad.

  He circumvented the broken glass at the door, stepped out onto the small landing, and was halfway down the four steps when he was suddenly caught in the crossbeams of several powerful flashlights.

  "Don't move, George," came the authoritative but almost friendly voice of Peter Bullis. "You are officially busted. Keep your hands where we can see them."

  * * *

  Sammie Martens stumbled and dropped the bag of fast food she was carrying next to the trash can by the edge of the parking lot. Swearing audibly, she stooped to retrieve it, collected a small cell phone from behind the can as well—deposited there minutes earlier by Lester Spinney—and hid it in her palm. She then moved to her car, slid in behind the wheel, pretended to reach into her jacket pocket, and flipped the cell open.

  It was the same make and model as the one she regularly carried, and the one both Rivera and Manuel knew she used to make business calls. Except that since it was a different phone altogether, there would be no record of the call she was about to make.

  Gunther picked up on the first ring.

  "It's me," she said.

  "Who's this?" was all he said, which was their code for her to confirm she was safe and alone.

  "Gatekeeper."

  "How're you doing, Sam?" His voice was concerned but relaxed. This was one of their scheduled calls, attempted daily unless circumstances ruled otherwise.

  "Good. Our first shipment'll arrive in a few hours. The driveway camera should catch the couriers in case they don't come inside, but I'll try to be the affable hostess. Won't be much—a bundle or two. Rivera's making it a test run. They're optimistic, though. Manuel's digging a cache in the cellar so we can build a stockpile and streamline the supply-and-demand surges. That'll probably be our maximal way to knock out the competition."

  Joe smiled at the terminology. She was so much in character, she wasn't distinguishing between him and the people she was conning. He wondered if someone who was truly in legitimate sales wouldn't laugh at her jargon.

  No matter—it only needed to work on a select few.

  "Too bad we didn't put a camera down there," he said.

  She was nonchalant. "That's why you have me. Too dark, anyhow."

  "You having any luck identifying who's playing what side of the fence in the Rutland trade?" Gunther asked.

  Here she was more equivocal. "Some. Manuel owned up to Hollowell being more than just a local rep—he was their main man, meaning his death caused more damage than I thought. Rivera's so full of bluster, I figured he had a deeper network locally, like he has elsewhere. Still, I'm keying in on some of the obvious movers. Everyone's lying low right now—lot of hinkiness left over from the murder, nobody knowing who did it. Should make our entrance into the market good, though, since that also means people're hungry. Still, bullshitting Rivera and making this happen as advertised might be tough."

  "Maybe not," Joe told her. "Peter Bullis just busted a kid—George Backer, calls himself the Schemer, like out of a Batman movie. He's a B-and-E expert—has probably knocked off a couple of hundred homes—but he claims he only goes after bad guys, or at least people who won't report they've been ripped off. Bullis caught him last night with some coke he'd lifted from somebody's freezer in less time than it would take you to unload groceries. The thing is, he's supposedly a walking telephone book—names, addresses. Knows who's buying what from whom, where, and when, all so he can rip them off when they're not at home. Bullis busted him to see if he could help you out. The kid's not especially into heroin—Ecstasy floats his boat—but he trades and sells everything he doesn't use himself. Anyhow, we thought you'd like his mental black book, since he seems so keen to cooperate."

  "The Schemer, huh?" Sam reacted. "Sounds like that's what we should call Peter from now on. Tell him thanks from me."

  "Will do. I'll get something to you as soon as we strike a deal and he coughs it up. How're you getting along with Manuel?"

  "So far, so good."

  Gunther paused, a warning to watch herself there on the tip of his tongue, but then he thought better of it. "All right. Good luck tonight."

  "Roger that, boss," she said, and hung up, snapping the cell phone closed. She then ate her hamburger, put the phone into the crumpled bag, walked back to the trash can, and dropped the wadded ball not into, but next to, the can, as if missing by mistake.

  Sliding in behind the wheel again, all her cautions notwithstanding, she was caught totally by surprise. As her hand touched the ignition key, a voice from the back seat ordered, "Don't do it, Sam."

  She jumped as if electrified but kept staring straight ahead. "Willy, what the hell're you doing here? You'll blow my cover."

  "Not likely," he sneered. "Your cover's so pathetic, there's nothing left to blow."

  "What's that mean?" she asked, feeling suddenly hotter than was comfortable.

  "I'm here, aren't I?"

  Her tension eased a notch. "That's not proof of anything. You know who Greta Novak is, for Christ's sake, and you know who all the cops are. You probably tailed Spinney here and saw him drop off the cell."

  He ignored her. "You're in danger, Sam. This was set up too fast and without enough safeties in place. One wrong twitch by anybody and you're dead."

  "What kind of twitch?" she asked, trying not to move her lips in case anyone was watching. "Like some idiot crawling into my back seat just to see the mess he can put me in? Get out of the car, Willy, and get out of Rutland. You're the one who's going to screw me up here."

  "You need to quit this," he said again, but they both understood there was nothing he could do that wouldn't also jeopardize her career, something for which he knew she'd never forgive him.

  "Get out. Now."

  Without a word further, he slipped out the door facing the battered shrubbery alongside the car, closing it behind him with barely a click.

  Sam took a deep breath, turned the key, and drove back to the house, parking in the garage beside the Hulk. As she emerged from the car, she saw Manuel standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen.

  "What took you?" he asked.

  She held up another bag with a burger in it. "I got hungry, so I ate mine in the parking lot."

  He took the bag from her and peered at its contents as they entered the house. "This stuff is shit. We're not going to do this forever, right?"

  She cut him a quick look, her Greta Novak character back in place more slowly than usual after her encounter with Willy. "I'm not cooking, i
f that's what you mean."

  But he stopped her. "I'll do the cooking. We just need some groceries."

  She stared at him. "You're a cook? What? Mac and cheese? This crap at least has meat in it." She pointed at the bag in his hand.

  He laughed. "No. Not mac and cheese. Maybe chicharrones de polio or habichuelas rositas. You like beans and rice? Good for the system."

  "I like tuna from a can."

  He shook his head and reached inside the bag, removing the wrapped burger and gazing at it a moment as though it were a fallen meteorite, which in a day it would probably resemble.

  "You don't want it, I'll eat it," she offered.

  He shifted it beyond her reach, although she'd made no move for it. "I don't like it, but I gotta live. Besides, you already had yours. My God, you eat a lot for a little one."

  She'd bolted her meal right out of the bag in the car, as she tended to in any case, but Manuel rummaged around the kitchen cabinets—the place had come furnished after a fashion, including some bulletproof china—and found a plate onto which he almost delicately arranged his burger before moving it and himself to the battered wooden table by the window

  Sam sat opposite him, caught up in the ritual, thinking of how little she knew about this careful, quiet, dangerous man.

  "Where'd you learn to cook?" she asked him.

  He studied the burger before taking a bite, pausing to swallow before answering her. "My mama." He put the emphasis on the last syllable, although she'd noticed that he spoke English better than most of her colleagues.

  "Big family?" Sam guessed.

  "Five kids."

  "You had to be the youngest."

  "Why do you think that?"

  She shrugged, but she chose her words cautiously, not wanting to offend. "I was thinking maybe the youngest might see his mom cooking for a lot of people—get interested in it."

  He nodded, chewing again, before finally saying, "You sound like a cop."