Chat jg-18 Page 11

  "Yes, sir, thank you, sir, if you please, sir," Willy growled from his position looking under the bed. "You know that little fuck is probably a pimp and a pusher both, right?"

  "I'll be sure to ask him when he comes back," Lester agreed affably. "You find anything?"

  Willy scowled. "What did he say the maid's name was?"

  "Angela."

  "Well, she sucks at her job. Looks like a toxic dump under here. If our boy did leave anything behind, it's mixed in with shit from half a dozen other people."

  "I thought these beds were supposed to be built on platforms, so nothing got shoved underneath," Spinney said, getting to his knees beside his colleague and taking a glance at the strewn collection of assorted, albeit tiny, trash that gleamed in Willy's flashlight glare.

  Willy cut him an incredulous look. "God, you live in a dream world. This is a dump. People're lucky the sheets are changed between customers."

  Spinney got back up and crossed to what passed for the room's desk-actually a table with a drawer supporting a lamp and a microwave, both bolted down. He opened the drawer.

  "Like you said," he announced, "not as fancy. No folder or postcards, but there's an envelope and a few sheets of paper."

  Willy sat back on his heels. "Did I hear Nelson say the guy got two key cards?"

  "Yup."

  Willy nodded, his thoughts paralleling Spinney's. "Something else to ask Angela." He got up. "Help me move this."

  The two of them shifted the bed away from its wall-attached headboard and slid it across the carpeting until it was jammed up against the dresser. The contrast between the open floor and what they'd just exposed was startling-gray with dust and whatever else had filtered down from the mattress, and pocked with the debris that Willy had discovered earlier.

  "Gross," Spinney murmured.

  There was a gentle knock on the door. Spinney opened it to face Nelson, who looked apologetic. "Sorry to interrupt. You wanted to know about Benny and Angela?"

  "Yeah," Lester said. "They coming?"

  "Should be here in about ten minutes."

  Nelson did his usual disappearing act. Spinney closed the door again.

  "I might as well take Benny," Willy told him. "I made sure he was well treated last time."

  "Works for me," Lester said vaguely, studying the ground again. "How do you want to process this?"

  Willy shrugged. "Probably doesn't make a whole hell of a lot of difference. The room's been used and abused Christ knows how many times since our guy was here. I think we're just looking for anything interesting."

  Spinney got to his knees and pulled on a pair of latex gloves, as much for his sake as to preserve any evidence. "Okay," he said simply, and set to work.

  They went slowly, using flashlights, and even a magnifying glass that Willy carried despite the Sherlock Holmes cracks he routinely gathered. The edge of their search area, mirroring the footprint of the bed frame, was the richest in findings. People either dropping things or simply kicking them under the bed had resulted in a three-sided swath of items ranging from rubber bands, to candy wrappers, to condom packs. There were, in addition, a straw, a dirty napkin, several pills, a desiccated french fry, and, of course, a single sock.

  In the midst of this treasure hunt, where a muttered conversation played background to each discovery, first Willy and then Les was pulled away by the arrival of the two interviewees. Benny Grosbeak, who was happy to see Willy again, told him little new, beyond that N. Rockwell had seemed nervous and evasive, somewhat new to the skid row life, and made no calls using the phone in the room. Benny had found him so bland, in fact, that he'd become memorable, making his reappearance in the newspaper all the more startling.

  Angela Lundy, the maid, told Lester that when she'd entered the room the following morning to clean it, she barely found anything to do. The bed was still made and the trash empty. The toilet and shower stall hadn't been touched. She conceded that, in general, she only cleaned or straightened what most obviously needed attention, and she stared at him blankly when he asked whether she ever went into the desk drawer to check on the stationery supplies. She did say that she found only one of the two issued key cards.

  Les didn't bother asking about her technique for cleaning under the bed.

  But, despite the time the two men spent in Rockwell's former quarters, neither of them had a single eureka moment. In fact, the more they collected, the less they thought they had anything of worth.

  Until Willy, with his magnifying glass, suddenly hunched over, his nose two inches off the carpeting.

  "What've you got?" Spinney asked.

  "Hand me the tweezers," Willy answered him.

  Les watched as his partner painstakingly extracted something minute and dropped it carefully into a small glassine envelope, which he then handed over for scrutiny.

  "Can you figure it out?" he asked with a knowing smile.

  Lester held it under the glare of his flashlight. Inside the envelope was a single brightly colored dot, much like a piece of confetti, looking as if it were made of plastic. Remarkably, however, it had numerals stamped across its miniature surface.

  Lester straightened as if pricked by a pin. He knew he was looking at a serial number, and he remembered seeing this kind of tiny item before.

  "Holy cow."

  Willy's smile broadened. "A Taser tag, right?"

  Tasers, the well-known electrifying alternative to a baton or a shot of pepper spray, had a feature few people knew about. Along with the twin wire-trailing barbs that flew from the device upon being fired, each Taser cartridge contained a cluster of about forty tiny confettilike plastic flakes, or "tags," that were stamped with the cartridge's unique serial number. The logic was that every Taser could thus be traced to the person using it-a handy detail when and if it came to conducting a postshoot analysis.

  The fact that every police officer knew that his or her Taser shot, like the bullets from a gun, could be traced back to the shooter was supposed to be a deterrent to reckless acts of abandon.

  Or, as just possibly in this case, any acts of criminal mischief.

  Lester stared at Willy in astonishment. "Damn. Here's hoping that where there's a number, there's a name." He waved the small envelope between his fingers. "This should be interesting."

  Willy, however, in keeping with his darker outlook, had already gone beyond such a prize. He frowned and nodded slightly, before suggesting, "Yeah, and where there's a name, there might be a cop. 'Cause whoever shot it knew enough to pick up all but this one tag-and why."

  Sammie Martens watched from her car as the teenage woman she was waiting for left the restaurant after closing, waving to her fellow employees and adjusting her coat against the cold winter breeze. It was almost midnight.

  Beth Ann Agostini-Andy Griffis's former girlfriend-was on foot, despite the weather and the lack of sidewalks on Route 9 beyond West Brattleboro. She didn't live far away, true-in an affordable-housing complex only a mile down the road-but any pedestrian travel was quasi-suicidal, given the speed and accuracy of some of the late-night motorists out here. Still, Sam knew that Agostini took this route every night and was probably an expert at keeping an eye peeled for traffic.

  Either way, it wasn't a relaxing walk, especially after a long day. Which was exactly what Sam hoped to have working to her advantage. She'd done her homework, as usual. Beth Ann didn't like the police much, had had her run-ins with them over the years, but, according to Sam's informant, had yet to become too hard-bitten.

  If approached correctly.

  As Beth Ann reached the halfway point across the restaurant's broad parking lot, Sam put her car into gear, turned on her headlights and casually drove up alongside the woman.

  Agostini looked over her shoulder warily.

  Sam had already rolled her window down. "Hey. Beth Ann?"

  Agostini's response was guarded. "Yeah."

  Sam stuck her hand out the window for a shake. "Samantha Martens. I'm with the Vermont Bu
reau of Investigation."

  Reluctantly, Beth Ann took the hand in her mitten and gave it a limp tug before letting it drop.

  Sam stopped the car and got out, still talking. "I'm sorry to bother you. I was just hoping you might be able to help me out with something."

  "What?"

  "I want to learn a little about Andy Griffis."

  "He's dead."

  As was the tone of her voice.

  "I know," Sam admitted regretfully. "I was sad to hear about that. Would you mind if we talked a bit? I'd be happy to buy you a cup of coffee, or at least drive you home."

  A sudden gust of cold wind made the girl hesitate. "What's to talk about?"

  "I was wondering what was happening in his life towards the end. You two were close. It must've been a real shock when he died."

  Beth Ann shook her head, staring at the ground.

  "You still miss him, I bet," Sam suggested.

  "He was a nice man," Beth Ann said simply.

  Sam reached out and touched her arm gently. "Let me drive you home."

  Beth Ann looked into her face, saw nothing but sympathy, and finally nodded. "Okay."

  Sam waited until they were both settled in the front seat of the warm car before she asked, "Would you like me to treat you to a coffee somewhere? Or a piece of pie?"

  That drew a tired smile. "Ugh. Food doesn't do much for me right now. Not after all day in there." She gestured toward the restaurant.

  Sam laughed. "Good point. I hadn't thought of that. You probably just want to take a load off. I'll drive you home and get out of your hair as fast as I can."

  "Thanks."

  Sam pulled out of the parking lot and headed west. "How long had you and Andy known each other?" she asked, wondering if the ice had been successfully broken between them. She was struck once more by her companion's lack of curiosity. Sam had long ago found that most people of Agostini's background were used to being questioned by authority figures and were generally, even if listlessly, compliant.

  Beth Ann was looking out the side window. "A few months. We met at a bar. The only two people who didn't want to be there."

  "You were with friends?"

  She nodded. "Yeah. Him, too. We joked about that later, how it was like we had a radar for each other. He said we should form a group called Loners Anonymous, except that nobody would show up for meetings."

  Sam laughed. "That's good. He sounds like a funny guy."

  Beth Ann turned toward her, and Sam feared she might have put her foot in it. But the girl had understood her intent. "He was sometimes, when he was feeling up. But it was hard to tell. He could be real uneven."

  Sam paused before suggesting, "That must've been tough."

  "It had its moments."

  "What was he like when he was down?"

  "Quiet, mostly. He never got violent or drunk or anything like that. That's where the loner thing kicked in. He would go off and be by himself."

  "At his apartment?"

  She nodded in the darkened car. "Yeah. Did you ever see that place?"

  Sam was surprised by the question. "No."

  "It was weird. Like a cell. You know he was in prison, right?"

  "Yeah, I read that."

  "Well, his apartment looked just like that to me. I only went there once. Never again."

  "Did you ever talk about it with him?"

  "The time I visited, I did. I mean, I said something like 'Wow, this sure is empty,' or something. I didn't actually tell him it looked like a jail cell. But it did-bare walls, a cot, almost nothing in it."

  "How did he react?"

  "He looked around like he'd never been there before, and then he said, 'I like it this way. Makes me feel safe.' It was weird to me, 'cause I had just the opposite feeling about it. I felt totally cut off from the world in there, like it was a spaceship or one of those explorer balls they drop into the ocean with people inside."

  Sammie nodded, entering the apartment complex parking lot. "His record says he was only in jail for three years," she stated. "I wonder if he was that way before."

  But Beth Ann shook her head emphatically. "No. It was prison that did it. That was a bad time. He said it changed everything. When he was in the dumps, that's all he talked about, how it ruined his getting along with his family, or being comfortable with other people. I had to be real careful what I said to him afterward, 'cause he would, like, almost disappear right in front of me." She paused before adding, "That's when he'd go to that apartment. I was never sure what to do then. Wait for him to come back or go after him and try to get him out."

  She leaned forward in her seat and pressed her hands against her eyes. Sam pulled into a parking space and placed her palm on the other woman's back. Beth Ann wasn't crying, but she was silent for a long time.

  Then she said through her hands, "I feel like I could've stopped it. I just didn't know what to do."

  "It's not your fault, Beth Ann," Sam said softly, feeling a sudden kinship. "I live with a man who gets down like that, and disappears into himself to work through it. And I'm not always sure he will."

  Beth Ann looked at her gratefully. "Really?"

  "It's tough. And lonely. They get so lost, they can't see you standing right in front of them."

  She was nodding. "That's it. It was so frustrating. I couldn't make him understand that it didn't need to be that hard."

  "My guy has a lot of ancient history to fight," Sam said. "What was Andy wrestling with?"

  Beth Ann's straight and simple answer caught Sam off guard. "He was raped in prison."

  "Jesus," she muttered, remembering not just what Dave Snyder had said about Andy's lapse into depression partway through his jail term, but how Andy hadn't been able to stay working for his family in Thetford afterward.

  "He couldn't get over it," Beth Ann said softly.

  Sammie stared out the window thoughtfully, reflecting on what had happened to Leo's car. "He may not have been the only one," she said.

  Bart148: what do u do 4 fun? AnnGee: not much. U? Bart148: u hav a bf? AnnGee: yeah Bart148: u dont hav fun with him? AnnGee: sometimes Bart148: what kind? AnnGee: u know Bart148: tell me AnnGee: stuff. movies. music Bart148: u sound bored AnnGee: a little Bart148: u super tite with him? AnnGee: no Bart148: u could do better AnnGee: I lik that Bart148: me 2. maybe we could make that happen

  Chapter 12

  Joe stuck a finger in his ear and pressed the cell phone tighter to the side of his head. "A Taser tag?"

  He was standing near the entrance of the hospital cafeteria, unsure if cell phones were as taboo here as they were elsewhere in the building. In any case, it wasn't working very well.

  Sam was telling him, "Yeah. Willy found it in the first guy's motel room-Norman Rockwell. Lester's calling him Wet Bald Rocky so we can tell him apart from Dry Hairy Fred. Anyhow, we called the company and traced the serial number on the tag to a shipment of Taser cartridges sent to the Burlington PD."

  "You saying a cop Tasered Rockwell?"

  A group of people, laughing and talking loudly, passed by, burying Sam's response. Joe had come both to depend on cell phones and to hate them with a passion, especially since reception across most of Vermont was rotten.

  "What?" he asked.

  "I said all we know is that the cartridge was sent there. I have no idea who ended up with it. Maybe it was stolen."

  Joe pulled out his notepad and pen, cradling the phone awkwardly. "Okay. Give me the serial number. I can shoot up to Burlington and find out."

  Sam complied before asking, "You at the hospital?"

  "Yeah."

  "Is everything okay?"

  "He's hanging in there."

  "What about the car? You find what you were after?"

  "Yeah. Now we're looking into a computer we found at the garage. I'm going to the sheriff's department next to find out what they've got."

  "Well," Sam said after a small pause, "good luck."

  "Thanks," Joe answered her, adding, "Nice job on t
he tag."

  "Let's see if it means anything first," she cautioned before hanging up.

  Joe dropped the phone into his coat pocket with a sigh of relief.

  "Everything all right?" his mother asked from beside him.

  He looked down at her, her face upturned from her permanent perch in the wheelchair, and he bent over to kiss her cheek. "Yeah. I just have a brain teaser cooking in Brattleboro-seems to be getting weirder."

  "Was that Sammie?" she asked.

  "It was," he admitted, surprised. "How did you know that?"

  She laughed. "I'm your mother. I've been watching how you react to people your whole life."

  He joined her. "Good thing, too. Keep me flying straight."

  She squeezed his hand. "I do what I can. It's not difficult." She gestured toward the cafeteria. "Did you get enough to eat? You didn't have much."

  "I'm all set," he answered her, stepping behind her chair. "You ready to go back up?"

  "Yes," she said, and faced forward, but in that one short word, he clearly heard her sadness. Leo remained inert, attached like a chrysalis to his attending instruments. Dr. Weisenbeck was still counseling them not to be alarmed, but Joe could tell that his mother was tiring of hanging in limbo.

  He leaned in over her shoulder as he pushed her down the hall. "What do you say we catch a movie?"

  "In the middle of the day?" she asked, startled.

  "Why not? We could both do with a break."

  He wheeled her over to a small bookshop off the hospital's central hallway and found a newspaper, after which they pored over the movie ads, found a comedy she'd heard about, which started in under an hour, and headed out into the parking lot after collecting their coats from upstairs and checking in on Leo one last time.

  It was a bittersweet outing for both of them, playing hooky for each other's sake, not really absorbing what flickered across the screen, and yet acknowledging the moment's nostalgic richness. Only rarely had Joe and his mother ever done anything social together without Leo. He was always the glue that united them for such occasions. Now, in the movie theater, there was the lingering guilt, not only of enjoying themselves behind his back but of practicing their own companionship in his absence, as if hedging their bets against his survival.