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  Without prompting, he gave Willy the name of the place, on Brattleboro's Putney Road, about a mile from where the other John Doe had been found at a far better motel. Willy liked the coincidence. He opened Scott's door wide with his knee and leaned into the car, so he was face-to-face with the occupants. "Benny and I are going to step outside," he said. "You are going to stay here, waiting for your money, right?"

  Scott nodded again. It was only then that Willy unlocked his fingers from his informant's throat.

  Willy glanced over at Benny, his voice almost gentle. "Okay, Ben, why don't you climb out and stretch your legs a bit? I want to ask you a couple of more questions."

  Benny complied and Willy circled the car to join him, escorting him until he was beyond earshot of the car. He then positioned the young man with his back to the vehicle, so Willy could see, over his shoulder, Scott's pale face through the windshield.

  "Sorry about the rough stuff," Willy began. "Scott and I have a history. I gotta pretend to be the tough guy."

  "You do a nice job."

  Willy laughed. "That's good. I like that." He reached into his pocket and extracted a twenty-dollar bill, using Benny's body to hide the gesture from Scott. "This is something extra for your efforts. Scott'll give you what he owes, so you might want to keep this between us."

  Benny palmed it and slipped it into his pocket. "Thanks."

  "No sweat. You help me; I help you. Tell me about the bald man."

  "Not much to tell. He came in one night about a week ago and paid cash for a room. One night."

  "Any car or luggage?"

  "An overnight bag. Small. He told me he came in on the bus, so no car."

  "How many key cards did he ask for?"

  Benny smiled slightly. "Two. That happens a lot."

  "Did you ever see the other party?"

  Benny shook his head. "Nope. And that was it. I took the money, had him fill out the form, and gave him the keys. Never saw him again till that picture was in the paper."

  "What was his name?"

  "I don't remember." His eyes widened at Willy's instantaneous reaction. "Honest," he added urgently.

  Willy softened his expression again. "He say where that bus came from?"

  "No."

  Willy kept his voice conversational. "Why didn't you call us?"

  Benny looked embarrassed. "I was going to. That's what I told Scott when he said we could get paid for it."

  "You know he's a schmuck, right?"

  "Yeah, I guess. I'm sorry."

  Willy shook it off. "Don't worry about it. Tell me your full name, your date of birth, where you live, and your phone number."

  Benny did as he was told, Willy listened intently, memorizing the details until he could write them down later-a trick he'd developed from not always having a free hand.

  "Okay. You wait here while I have a few words with Scott. You did good, by the way. Next time come to me direct. You can still get paid and you don't have to get fouled up. Right?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Willy left him there and tramped back to the car, leaning once more into Scott's face. "Twenty out of the fifty you're screwin' me for?"

  Scott grimaced. "I'm just trying to make ends meet."

  "And he's not?"

  "He's got a job," Scott complained.

  Willy pulled the money out of his pocket and dropped it on the other man's lap. "Fifty-fifty. Be a man. I take care of you for doing nothing. You take care of him for making you twenty-five bucks. Plus, I don't tell him you were about to fuck him over."

  Scott opened his mouth to protest, but Willy silenced him with a quickly raised hand. "You did tell him you'd split even money, didn't you?"

  "Yeah," Scott admitted sullenly.

  Willy straightened, still looking down at him. "Then do the right thing, like I said. For once in your life."

  Scott nodded, already leafing through the bills, dividing them.

  Willy whistled at Benny and gestured him over. "We'll probably be back in touch, Mr. Grosbeak. Don't go on any trips without letting me know, okay?"

  Benny nodded and got back into the car.

  Willy stepped back, his hand still holding Scott's door open. "Twenty-five bucks for each of you-not too bad. Don't forget your seat belts."

  Scott gave him a sour look as he started the engine. "Yeah-whatever." Willy laughed and let them drive off.

  CanadaBoi: so who's all home with you right now? Becky: younger step brother CanadaBoi: oh wheres ur parents? Becky: working CanadaBoi: and your stuck babysitting CanadaBoi: that must suck Becky: only until 5 CanadaBoi: what time is it now? Becky: 415 CanadaBoi: oh its 3:17 here Becky: were r u again CanadaBoi: im in canada Becky: i thought u were in california CanadaBoi: oh no Becky: how far is that from vt CanadaBoi: to far if ya ask me Becky: lol CanadaBoi: sarah baby what are you wearing right now Becky: clothes Becky: lol CanadaBoi: lol CanadaBoi: im wearing black silk boxers and a rad shirt CanadaBoi: red** Becky: i got to run bye CanadaBoi: ok Becky: chat later CanadaBoi: im gonna add you Becky: k CanadaBoi: later baby

  Chapter 10

  Barrie McNeil looked as if Rob Barrows had just spoken in Chinese. "What?"

  "This is a search warrant," Rob repeated, shouldering him out of the way to enter the garage and allow access to Joe and four more deputies. "Look, it's not really your problem. This is your copy. Call the boss or whatever lawyer you have on tap. They'll know what it is. Meantime, we'll get to work." Barrows paused to add, "Unless you want to argue the point and be arrested."

  Barrie raised both dirty hands in surrender, one now filled with the slightly crumpled document. "No, no. Knock your socks off. I don't give a shit. Dan will, though, and I will call him. Or my ass is grass."

  "Go for it, then," Rob recommended before unleashing his team to find what they were all looking for.

  The warrant covered any tools that might have been used to remove the now infamous tie rod nut, and any documentation, electronic and not, pertaining to the servicing of Leo's car. That latter part sent Rob and Joe directly to the decrepit-looking computer nestled in the corner of a cluttered and paper-strewn office.

  Barrie, seeking whatever privacy he could amid the invasion, went to a phone in the service bay wall to call Dan Griffis, a task his body language clearly indicated he didn't relish.

  Rob gingerly pulled out the lopsided, duct-taped office chair parked before the computer, and, after studying its seat for both springs and foreign matter, settled in to address the filthy keyboard.

  "Jeez," he said softly as Joe pulled over a folding metal chair to join him. "Good thing they're building these things to resist wear and tear."

  He shuffled the mouse under his right hand to illuminate the screen. A desktop surfaced with a cluster of different icons, spread out like colorful confetti. He'd barely double-clicked the first one when the office door banged open and Barrie appeared on the threshold.

  "He is really pissed," he announced. "And he's gonna be even more pissed when he sees you guys on that thing."

  "You talking about Dan?" Rob asked without looking over his shoulder at him.

  "Well, yeah. Who else?"

  "How long till he gets here?"

  "Three seconds, the way he sounded."

  Rob sighed slightly, keeping at his task. "How long?"

  "Ten minutes."

  "Okay. Send one of the deputies in here, okay? On your way out."

  Barrie hesitated a moment, translating both the content and the meaning of that last request. He then vanished, to be replaced by one of Rob's team, an older officer with mostly gray hair.

  "What's up?"

  This time Barrows turned to face the man. "We're about to be visited by Dan Griffis, the owner."

  "I know him," the deputy said in a near growl.

  "Then you know what to expect. Keep him outside. Thanks."

  Rob and Joe returned to the screen. Under the former's prompting, icon after icon began opening, revealing spreadsheets, correspondence files, finan
cial records, inventory lists, and more, some of which was clearly recreational, such as games, and certainly one of which was password locked.

  "What do you think?" Joe asked his guide when they hit that one.

  Rob worked the keyboard harder, uncovering what he could about the file. "It's accessed a lot. I can tell you that much," he reported after a couple of minutes.

  At that point they were disturbed by the sound of shouting from outside the building.

  "That'd be Dan," Rob murmured, his eyes still on the screen. "You want to do anything about it?"

  Joe straightened, considering the proposal. Initially, he saw no point. The man was worked up, he was being controlled by the deputies-or would be arrested-and discovering that Joe Gunther was part of the investigation would only be inflammatory.

  That last detail made Joe get up, his own irritation finally rising to the surface. "Maybe I'll just say hi," he said.

  Rob glanced at him, waiting a beat before smiling and saying, "Yeah. Why not? I'll just keep poking around."

  Joe left the office, crossed the waiting room, and opened the door onto the frozen front parking lot-and two deputies bracketing a red-faced, spittle-lipped barrel of a man who was bouncing on the balls of his feet in barely controlled fury.

  "Hey, Dan," Joe said from the door. "Long time."

  The man froze in mid-expletive and stared at him. "Gunther?" he finally asked, his tone incredulous.

  "Yeah."

  "What the fuck're you doing here?"

  "Assisting the sheriff's department."

  Dan Griffis took two steps in his direction and was immediately closed in on by the two deputies, one of whom rested a restraining hand on his shoulder.

  It was a defining moment-a split second when the entire course of the next few minutes rested with Dan and whether he chose to take that hand as a challenge to fight, or as the pacifying gesture it was meant to be.

  As far as Joe was concerned, it was a no-loser, with his personal preference being for an old-fashioned piling-on. His famous self-restraint notwithstanding, Joe Gunther was feeling a slow, boiling rage deep inside. The mere possibility that his family had been threatened by this man was enough for Joe to wish him ill beyond a simple threat of legal action. In his youth, Joe had never hesitated to join a fight-a fact only rarely recalled by others now. But in this moment, had Dan offered even the slightest excuse, Joe was ready to try his hand in a nostalgic and perhaps soul-cleansing violent blowout.

  But it wasn't to be. Right at the edge of letting loose, Dan took a deep breath and suddenly relaxed, giving Gunther a nasty smile. "You bastard. You know I'm still looking at the Bitch. One fuck-up and I get life." He gently slid the deputy's hand off his shoulder. "Well," he added, "no such luck. I don't know what you jerk-offs're cooking up, but I'm gonna get a lawyer and shove it up your ass."

  "Asses," Joe told him. "Proper grammar."

  Dan's eyes narrowed before he smiled again. "Right. You would know. Mister Straight-and-Narrow. Guess your brother's not so fancy, though. He have too much to drink before he tried killing your mom? Or did he do it for the inheritance? Must be driving him nuts waiting for her to kick the bucket."

  Joe could feel his face burning, despite the cold, but he remained silent, not trusting himself to use his voice. The older deputy, to his credit, spun Dan around and pushed him toward his pickup. "Go home, Dan," he said. "Let them do their job. You wanna call a lawyer, do it from there."

  "You bet I will," Dan snarled at him, yanking the truck's door open. "And then I'll sue every last cop in this fucking department." He pointed a finger through his window at Joe, adding, "I'm also gonna make it my life mission to knock you off your pedestal, you preachy cock. You're gonna wish you were in intensive care instead of your faggot brother. You wait. You won't know what hit you."

  Again Joe didn't react, although, by now, the initial onslaught of Dan's venom had dulled through repetition.

  Dan Griffis gunned his engine and shot out of the garage's dooryard, his vehicle's back end slithering back and forth on the icy ground.

  The three men watched him hit the asphalt beyond and squeal away, tires burning. The older deputy turned toward Joe. "We could nail him for that, just for what-the-hell."

  Joe nodded, acknowledging the point, but answered, "I'd sooner save my ammo for when it counts."

  "Yeah," the deputy agreed. "I see what you mean."

  Joe stepped back inside and closed the door. He paused before rejoining Rob, for a moment's worth of privacy. Dan Griffis had always been a bully, a drunk, and a self-involved show-off, from the first time Joe met him, many years ago.

  Unfortunately, despite the soothing adage that such people were forgettable, they were not, and their abusiveness mattered and cut deep. It was, in fact, their very careless aggression that caught the public eye and put them higher on the food chain of notoriety. They became a force not only because of the violence of their demeanor but because of the paradoxical respect society granted them as a result. People may admire a good man, but they will more often rally around a brute.

  This depressing truth had been Dan's fuel his whole life, as it was for so many of his kind, and yet, whenever Joe encountered it, it rattled him still. He wasn't cynical enough, even now, not to find the insult fresh and disappointing every time.

  Pulling his earlobe and sighing slightly, he reentered the office.

  "Noisy," Rob commented. "He gone?"

  "Gone," Joe told him, thinking, but far from forgotten.

  Barrows pushed his rickety chair away from the desk and gestured toward the screen. Hovering in its center was the earlier rectangular warning advising the need of a password. "We need to get past that," he said. "And I'm definitely seizing this computer and applying for a warrant. 'Cause from what I've been able to see, there's a whole lot more here than garage business."

  Matthew: I have 3 brothers and 4 sisters SweetAngl: sorry Matthew: but 2 borthers n 1 sister dont live here SweetAngl: thats good Matthew: my twin sisters are 16 and my little sis is 12 SweetAngl: thats kool u have twins sisters Matthew: its aiight Matthew: 1 night i was drunk I went up into my sisters room to get a peak SweetAngl: of what Matthew: I was curious to what color her underwear was Matthew: its a good thing she was sleeping in a skirt SweetAngl: oh my Matthew: she didn't wake up or nothing SweetAngl: thats weird Matthew: yeah i know Matthew: so do you wear mini skirts alot? SweetAngl: sometimes Matthew: how short do you usually have ur skirts SweetAngl: 2 me knees Matthew: nice Matthew: you ever catch ur step dad checking you out? SweetAngl: thats sick Matthew: i just had to ask that SweetAngl: why Matthew: cuz step dads do check out there step daughters Matthew: idk why they just do

  Chapter 11

  "These places really do all look the same," Lester Spinney mused, pausing on the threshold and taking in the narrow view of the motel room before him-cheap dresser with TV, the foot of a large bed, nondescript drawn curtains, and two screwed-to-the-wall paintings.

  Willy shouldered him roughly from behind. "We'll get you a postcard. Move it."

  Spinney laughed and let his colleague push by. On paper, like oil and water, they actually worked together very smoothly, the one fleshing out the characteristics less obvious in the other. In practice, while Willy's intensity homed in on details and people like a laser beam, Lester's disarmingly gentle, hands-off style frequently supplied the more general view, along with access under a suspect's defenses.

  He turned back toward the door, where the motel's manager was hovering nervously, still clutching his copy of the search warrant.

  "Mr. Nelson," Spinney asked affably, "did you get a chance to check the records for the night in question?"

  The manager, a short, round man with thinning hair and glasses, nodded energetically, eager to please. As well he might have been. Before coming over here, Lester had inquired into the Brattleboro police's knowledge of the place. His reward had been an outburst of laughter. This motel, especially, was a favorite stop-off for those wantin
g sex, drugs, suicide, or all three. As one of the detectives on the municipal building's ground floor had said, "They should charge a hell of a lot more for all the services they provide."

  Mr. Nelson was apparently the doorkeeper of a true den of iniquity, although Spinney couldn't help doubting that he benefited from any of it.

  During this brief musing, the manager pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his jacket and adjusted his glasses.

  "Let's see… The gentleman checked in at eight forty-eight p.m., pretty late. No car, paid cash…"

  Lester could see where this was going, and interrupted, "You don't take a credit card imprint for security?"

  Nelson chewed his lip once before admitting slowly, "No, sir. We found that sometimes made people nervous."

  "I bet," Spinney said. "What name did he use?"

  "N. Rockwell."

  Lester grimaced. "Okay, that's weird. How did he get here if it wasn't by car?"

  There again, the manager paused before admitting carefully, "I'm not sure he didn't have a car. He just said he didn't."

  "And, of course, you never want to invade their privacy."

  The manager allowed a small smile. "No, sir. Not sure I'd want to go there."

  "How many key cards did he ask for?"

  Nelson consulted his piece of paper. "Two," he answered.

  "We heard the night clerk was Benjamin Grosbeak?"

  "Benny-that's right."

  "And the maid who cleaned up the next day?"

  "Angela Lundy."

  "Any chance we could get them here to interview?"

  Nelson checked his watch. "It's midmorning. That shouldn't be too hard. They're usually up by now."

  Spinney patted him on his bulky, soft shoulder. "That would be great, Mr. Nelson. If you could do that and report back to me, I'd appreciate it."

  Nodding again and walking backward, Nelson began fading down the hallway. "Yes, sir, I'll get right on it."

  Spinney watched him finally turn on his heel and walk away before he reentered the room to join Willy.