The Sniper's Wife

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  WARNER BOOKS EDITION

  Copyright © 2002 by Archer Mayor

  Excerpt from Gatekeeper copyright © 2003 by Archer Mayor

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Cover design and art by Robert Santora

  Warner Books, Inc., Hachette Book Group, 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.twbookmark.com

  First eBook Edition: December 2008

  ISBN: 978-0-446-55449-7

  The Warner Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  ACCOLADES FOR THE SNIPER’S WIFE AND

  ARCHER MAYOR

  “The unfamiliar setting brings out a new, edge-of-the-knife side of Kunkle’s incisive descriptive powers.”

  —Marilyn Stasio, New York Times Book Review

  “The writing is strong, with sharp social observations throughout…. Gunther grows on you from novel to novel.”

  —Washington Post Book World

  “As always in a Mayor novel, the investigation is detailed and authoritative.”

  —Philadelphia Inquirer

  “Mayor keeps getting better with age…. Few writers deliver such well-rounded novels of such consistently high quality.”

  —Arizona Daily Star

  “Here, Mayor does for New York what he has done for Vermont: He takes a longer, more careful look at the odd parts of a city we thought we knew all about.”

  —Hartford Courant

  “Mayor’s understanding of human behavior makes his tortured protagonist an unforgettable character. His powers of description not confined to Vermont, the author imbues well-known and obscure New York neighborhoods with a sparkling sense of place.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “One of the best contemporary American mystery writers.”

  —Providence Sunday Journal

  “Mayor, a master of the slow-paced, small-town mystery, proves equally capable here of tightening his grip around the neck of the hard-boiled novel—without losing his feel for the subtlety of human interaction.”

  —Booklist

  “A must read…. Kunkle is a complex character…. The early police procedural takes off into an action-packed crescendo.”

  —www.bookloons.com

  “Deserves to move [Mayor] onto the A-list of mystery authors…. The plot is flawless, the writing is smooth, and, like all good mysteries, we care about the characters as much as the story…. Mayor has written one of the better mysteries of the year.”

  —www.MyShelf.com

  “Strong…a powerful police procedural not so much because of the three seemingly separate parallel investigations but on account of the deep insight into what makes Willy what he is today.”

  —www.bookbrowser.com

  “One of the sharpest writers of police procedurals.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “A great storyteller.”

  —Maine Sunday Telegram

  “Lead a cheer for Archer Mayor and his ability not only to understand human relationships, but to convey them to his readers.”

  —Washington Sunday Times

  “Mayor’s major strength is his ability to etch personalities in their settings so that they are as vivid as a video.”

  —St. Petersburg Times

  “Mayor’s strength lies in his dedication to the old-fashioned puzzle, brought to a reasonable conclusion.”

  —San Jose Mercury News

  “Mayor knows how to keep you turning pages.”

  —Trenton Times

  “One of Mayor’s strongest points is his detailed knowledge and application of police procedure.”

  —Southbridge Evening News (MA)

  Other Books by Archer Mayor

  Tucker Peak

  The Marble Mask

  Occam’s Razor

  The Disposable Man

  Bellows Falls

  The Ragman’s Memory

  The Dark Root

  Fruits of the Poisonous Tree

  The Skeleton’s Knee

  Scent of Evil

  Borderlines

  Open Season

  To Bob Maas, for letting me glance

  over his shoulder from the front

  row seat.

  Acknowledgments

  Seasoned veterans of the Joe Gunther series will note a change of approach in this book, not only with the narrative viewpoint, but with the setting as well. The Sniper’s Wife is placed in New York City for the most part. This onetime change of locale is just that—I will not be abandoning the places and people that I and my readers have come to call our own over the years. But I do hope I will be forever exploring new ideas and concepts as I’ve done in the past, and that you will all continue to enjoy the ride.

  That having been said, I owe a big debt of thanks to a great many people who helped me get as good a grip on New York and the workings of its police and corrections departments as possible. I hope I have not let them down—a more generous and encouraging group I have rarely met—but if I have, the fault is mine. I have nothing but gratitude to those listed below and to the many others who lent me a hand along the way.

  The New York City Police Department, in particular Commissioner (retired) Bernard Kerick; Deputy Chief Joe Reznick; Detective Walter Burnes; Officer Mel Maurice; Sergeant (retired) Bob Maas; and Deputy Chief Jane Perlov (NYPD retired, currently Chief of Police, Raleigh, North Carolina, Police Department).

  The New York City Department of Correction, in particular Commander William Fraser; Captain William Burgos; Officer Richard De Jesus; and Officer Edward “Ray” Raymond.

  The Portsmouth, New Hampshire, Police Department, in particular Lieutenant Janet Champlin.

  The Department of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, in particular Joe Green.

  And also:

  Phil Sarcione

  Frank Thornton

  Ana Mayor

  Caroline and Tim Scully

  Nick Bernstein

  Dick Flynn

  Fred Gardy

  Colleen Mohyde

  Michael J. and Sandra Lewis Smith

  John McDonough, a true “dinosaur” from Massachusetts

  To all of you, my deepest appreciation.

  Chapter 1

  Willy Kunkle dipped his large right hand into the sink and scooped a splash of warm water onto his face, washing away the last of the shaving soap. He straightened, used the edge of a towel hanging to the right of the mirror to mop his cheeks and chin with the same hand, and studied his reflection in the harsh fluorescent light.

  He wasn’t looking fo
r flaws in his shaving. And, God knows, there was no narcissism taking place. Willy was the first to acknowledge his was a purely functional appearance. He had what was necessary: a nose, two eyes, a mouth, none of it particularly remarkable. As far as it went, it was just a face.

  And yet he studied it every morning the same way, carefully, warily, especially watching the eyes for any deepening of the intensity which even he found disturbing. Had he seen them on somebody else, they were eyes that would have given him pause—eyes which troubled him all the more that they were his. They were what made of the whole truly something to remember, and although he didn’t know it, they were the one feature almost every-one remembered about his face.

  His scrutiny drifted lower, again as usual, to his neck, to his collarbone, and finally to his left shoulder and the useless arm below it. He’d been symmetrical once—at the very least that. Now he was someone who carried an arm as an eccentric might perpetually lug around a heavy stuffed animal.

  Except that his burden wasn’t that interesting. It was just an arm, withered, pale, splotchy with poor circulation—something straight out of Dachau but pinned to his otherwise healthy body—put there by a rifle bullet in a police shootout years ago. In fact, the scar marked the dividing line between the alive and the dead of his body the way a ragged and permanent tear identifies where a sleeve has been torn from a shirt.

  It did draw attention away from the eyes, though. People overlooked them altogether when describing him as “the cop with one arm.” Which was an advantage, as far as Willy was concerned. He appreciated that a lesser but adequately flamboyant deformity covered for a far more telling one. It suited his personality. And his need. As he’d watched those eyes every morning—those windows into the workings of his head—he’d actually become grateful for the arm. It was his own built-in red herring.

  He reached up and turned off the light. Time to go to work.

  Winter had passed by at last, even mud season was nearing an end. A year’s worth of weather in Vermont has been called nine months of winter and three more of damned poor sledding, but a quantity of subtleties is lost there. In fact, to those brought up in its midst, Vermont offers as many temperature and mood swings as any moderately complicated marriage, which is also how many natives view their relationship with the state.

  Willy Kunkle was not a native. A “flatlander” by birth, transplanted from New York almost twenty years before, he didn’t much care about the local fondness for climatology. It was either hot or cold to him, dry or wet. And discussing it wasn’t going to change anything. Still, this was a very pleasant morning, and despite himself, he enjoyed the almost uncomfortably cold air drifting in through the open car window on his drive downtown.

  Willy lived in Brattleboro, Vermont, a topsy-turvy, nineteenth century, postindustrial town of some twelve thousand residents squeezed into the state’s southeast corner, hard by the Connecticut River and straddling three of Interstate 91’s first exits out of Massachusetts.

  This was a significant geographical detail. It made of Brattleboro the first taste of small-town Vermont to all those high-speed travelers coming out of the south, which is why a multimillion-dollar, high-tech welcome center had just been erected below Exit 1, and helped explain the town’s financial survival when other historical mementos, like Springfield, Bellows Falls, and Windsor farther north, complete with similarly picturesque redbrick hearts, had faded to become mere economic ghosts of their former selves.

  More specific credit for Brattleboro’s stamina came from another unlikely flatlander source: back during the sixties, a small army of disaffected social dropouts, dizzy with blurry images of sylvan splendor and a thirst for isolation, barely crossed the state line to set up communes, natural food restaurants, and back-to-the-earth farms. Eventually, once the spiritual glow had either faded or aged, these erstwhile hippies amended enough of their more doctrinaire enthusiasms to become an integral part of an interestingly quirky, often contentious social fabric.

  To the local police, however, Brattleboro’s proximity to New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and the interstate had been slowly transforming the town from what the chamber of commerce called the gateway to Vermont into its doormat, a magnet for all the ills leaking out of the urban south—a cynical and narrow view, no doubt, but allowable given the source.

  It also helped explain Willy Kunkle’s presence here.

  An ex–New York City patrolman, a Vietnam vet, and a dedicated alcoholic, Willy had ended up in Brattleboro first because he’d needed gas on his way to someplace— anyplace—he hadn’t been to before, perhaps Canada. It hadn’t been love at first sight or like having a revelation, but the double discovery of Brattleboro’s busy downtown and a poster advertising openings at the police department had conspired to make him stay.

  He’d begun by walking the streets, shunning patrol cars in exchange for the traditional beat, and had honed a talent for making contacts and connections in those parts of town few upstanding citizens cared to acknowledge. In the process, he’d become the one cop who most reliably could extract information where others came up emptyhanded.

  Thus, a serendipitous stop for gas and a job had led to a personal and professional progression he’d tried since to forget. Marching less to his own drummer and more as if on autopilot, Willy went through the standard evolutionary motions, watching himself like a spectator at a private parade. He met a local girl more confused than he, married her without much thought from either one of them, got transferred to the detective bureau in reward for his good work, and began hitting the bottle as never before.

  Over a long, slow, agonizing period of years, he became like a gambler, his stake eroding to nothing, fully aware that his chances of winning were nil, but unwilling to change strategies and unable to leave the table. The alcohol abuse and disillusion led to self-loathing and anger, to wife abuse and a preordained divorce. He was crippled by a bullet in the line of duty, transferred off the police force, and came within half a step of joining the people he’d once been paid to arrest.

  Then, in defiance of the gravitational pull he should have followed straight to the bottom, and with much the same disappointed bewilderment experienced by a drowner miraculously pulled back from a death finally become soothingly seductive, he was put back on the police payroll, told to fill in the proper paperwork, and accepted as a member of a newly created, statewide investigative agency called the Vermont Bureau of Investigation, with five regional offices, including one in Brattleboro.

  Thus encouraged—almost cajoled—he’d gone from the edge of oblivion to getting on the wagon by his own sheer willpower, finding himself romantically involved with a female co-worker, and being regarded as one of the elite in his profession.

  A roller-coaster ride of mixed and paradoxical emotions, and a happy, bittersweet end result entirely due— as he saw it in a typically angry dismissal of his own personal efforts—to a man named Joe Gunther.

  Willy frowned and sighed heavily at the thought, cresting the top of High Street as it descended to intersect Main downtown, nearby Mount Wantastiquet in neighboring New Hampshire looming over a wall of buildings directly before him like a sleeping giant.

  Joe Gunther hung on Willy’s mind almost as much as the dead arm now resting in his lap.

  Willy had read somewhere—unless he’d seen it at the movies—that in certain cultures, if you saved someone’s life, that poor bastard was stuck having to return the debt and therefore keep you company until the day he could make good. If ever.

  Well, much as he hated to admit it, Willy probably owed his life to Joe Gunther. Joe had been his boss on the police department’s detective squad, had hovered sympathetically when he’d wrestled with booze and the divorce. He’d threatened to invoke the Americans with Disabilities Act and sue the town to get Willy back on the force after his injury. He’d cut him slack time and again, hadn’t taken offense when Willy did his damnedest to give it, and had acted as a go-between when Willy had fallen in love
with Sammie Martens—the other detective who’d made the move from the PD to the Bureau. Finally, after the legislature had created the VBI and the commissioner of public safety had tapped Joe as its field force commander, he’d made it clear that he wouldn’t take the job unless Willy’s application was given a fair review, after which he’d persuaded Willy to apply.

  Why? Because Joe was a decent guy who acted the same way with everyone, and because, while he might not have been the life of any party, he was like a dog with a bone when it came to doing the right thing.

  There were times, lots of times, when Willy raged at this man.

  He waited at the stoplight, preparing to turn left up Main. There was a shorter route to the office, but driving through downtown every morning had become a ritual.

  The pedestrian walk sign began flashing, accompanied by an obnoxious chirping sound designed to help the blind cross safely. Willy shook his head. Only in Brattleboro, capital city of granola heads, where nothing ever happened without everyone worrying about how everyone else felt about it. There was enough hot air in this town to pop the Titanic back to the surface like a cork.

  This cynicism belied Willy’s years of service to this community, and his caring for its vital signs the way a doctor would a patient’s every ache and pain.

  He drove north, up Main toward the new, modern courthouse, perched on a grassy knoll like a shiny anchored ship, forcing the street to split around it like a current. Across the way, balanced on a second hill, was a complete architectural contrast: the ancient municipal building. A remodeled nineteenth century school, all bricks and spires and wrought-iron knickknacks, it was where Willy used to work as a cop and still did as a special agent, since the VBI had a small office located on the monstrosity’s second floor.