The Price of Malice Page 18

  “What about Dan Kravitz?” Willy asked.

  The man in question rose and stretched—his lean, wiry body half a parenthesis. “Could be, I suppose,” he answered. “Given the right encouragement. Not this time, though.”

  Willy pulled out a buccal swab from his pocket and held it up. “Mind if I collect some DNA?” he asked.

  “Knock yourself out.” Kravitz opened his mouth, unasked.

  Willy got up and quickly collected the sample. “Guess we’re almost done.”

  “For now,” Kravitz agreed. “I gotta get back to work.”

  “You didn’t tell me about Becky.”

  “You didn’t ask. Why did you save her for last?”

  Willy was surprised, again. This man had a way of sneaking up on him, which Willy took pride in making difficult. “I don’t know.”

  Kravitz let it go. “She’s in trouble,” he said bluntly. “The only friends she has are Richard and Nicky. Sad to say, she’s outgrowing the first, and only interacts with Nicky when he’s around or receptive, which isn’t often. Her mother thinks she’s just being a hormonal kid, but she needs help. Something happened there.”

  “Like Wayne?”

  He tilted his head to one side thoughtfully. “Maybe. I’m not in a place to know, and she covers it up with a smoke screen of standard preteen crap that’s worked on Karen—the clothes, the hair, the accessories, the attitude.”

  “But you think something happened, why?”

  “She’s not just a preteen. She’s withdrawn—repressed, like a ticking bomb, but I’ve got nothing concrete to go on. How I am is because of my own choice. She’s the way she is because I think someone made her that way. Big difference.”

  Willy nodded, reviewing the conversation in his head before he let Kravitz go. “Thanks, Dan. And I won’t spill the beans about you not being a dummy.”

  “I know.” Kravitz walked away from the pile of pallets, heading back to the shed’s entrance around the corner.

  “Set things right, Mr. Kunkle,” he said before disappearing.

  “I will.”

  Willy stayed put for a few minutes alone, half a dozen possibilities rattling around inside his head. Including the question: If Dan Kravitz was the smartest man in that trailer, wouldn’t that make him smart enough to steer Willy wrong?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Joe fumbled at his waist, wrestling to extract his pager from behind the car’s seat belt, without also steering into the ditch. Keeping the road in sight, he raised the device before his eyes and squinted at the number on the screen. Sammie Martens had text-messaged him, “In case you think all is quiet, your cell phone died.”

  “Damn,” he muttered, and went through the same contortions to free his phone from its clip. Sure enough. He plugged the recharger into the car’s cigarette lighter and tried again—no bars.

  He glanced at the passing countryside, recognized where he was, and calculated where he’d be able to find a public phone. Cell phones might have been around for a while, but across large swaths of Vermont, poor reception still made sure they were occasional luxuries at best—assuming they’d been recharged.

  Fifteen minutes later, he parked across from the pumps of a Mobil station and walked into a minimart.

  The clerk glanced up from behind the counter. “Coffee’s fresh; bathrooms are in back.” He pointed to the far wall.

  “Just need a phone,” Joe told him, already heading that way.

  Sam picked up on the first ring. “Vermont Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Hey there,” Joe said. “Got your page. Sorry about the phone.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Thought you’d like to know.”

  “Anything cooking?”

  “We’re collecting interviews and DNA swabs from the Putnam trailer tribe, doing pretty well. Willy hit a home run with Dan Kravitz, who turned out to know a lot. He gave us a good picture of everybody under that roof. Where are you, anyhow?”

  “ ’Bout an hour out,” Joe told her. “I saw Hillstrom and smoothed Allard’s feathers a little. Did you just page me to let me know the phone was flat?”

  “Not only,” Sam reassured him. “It’s Lyn. She called a couple of hours ago, then about an hour ago, and a third time just now. Never left a message, but she was pretty worked up the last time. You guys okay?”

  “Yeah,” Joe said absentmindedly, his brain already racing. “She’s got some family problems I’ve been helping with. No big deal. I guess something blew up. I’ll give her a call.”

  “You got it,” Sammie said. “See ya soon.”

  Joe hung up, pulled out a small address book, and looked up Steve’s number in Gloucester.

  His voice was tense. “Yeah?”

  “Steve? It’s Joe.”

  “Where you been, man?”

  “My cell phone died. What’s going on?”

  “Somebody trashed my boat. Ripped it all to hell.”

  “Is everyone okay?”

  “Yeah. It happened last night.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “Lot of good that did. Wilkinson spent more time looking for what I might be smuggling than trying to find out who did it.”

  “Brian Wilkinson?”

  “Yeah. You know him?”

  “Back when I first met your sister. So he didn’t give you much hope?”

  “He didn’t give me much anything. Guy’s a loser.”

  Joe didn’t pursue that. “I’m really sorry, Steve. Is Lyn there?”

  Steve’s voice grew more anxious still. “That’s the point, Joe. She’s gone. She tried calling you a bunch of times, and then she split.”

  Joe gripped the phone tighter. “What do you mean? Where?”

  “I don’t know. She just said she had to give somebody a piece of her mind and she took off. Why didn’t you have your phone on, man?”

  Joe didn’t bother explaining himself again. Lyn’s brother was no monument to rational stability, despite his recent improvement, and Joe knew that the additional pressure of their mother’s condition was already challenge enough.

  “Steve,” he said. “How’s everything else? Is Maria okay?”

  “She’s fine. She’s got the TV.”

  “And other than the boat, you haven’t been harassed?”

  “No. Why should I be?”

  Joe ignored him. “Why do you think you were targeted?”

  “I don’t know that, either. I figure some of the assholes I used to hang with. If that’s true, they’re gonna pay.”

  That told Joe that Lyn hadn’t explained anything to him. “One step at a time, Steve,” he counseled. “Was anything missing? Maybe it was thieves.”

  “No way. It was weird. They tore stuff apart, like some of the cabinets, but they didn’t take anything.”

  “They were looking for something, maybe?”

  “Could be. The boat was with a drug runner for years. He mighta stashed stuff on board.”

  Joe checked his watch. “All right. I’ll call Lyn on her cell and . . .”

  “Won’t work,” Steve interrupted. “She didn’t take it. She couldn’t find it when she was leaving.”

  Naturally, Joe thought. “Okay, not to worry. I have a vague idea where she might be headed. I’ll see if I can’t find her—right now. I’ll have my cell recharging in the car, so you should be able to reach me if she calls or anything develops. In the meantime—and I don’t want to alarm you or anything—but I think you and Maria should go somewhere to stay for a while. Just a couple of days.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Just to be on the safe side. I’m mostly thinking of Maria,” he lied. “You don’t want her shaken up any more than necessary.”

  “By what?”

  “I’m just being cautious—since we don’t know what they were after on the boat.”

  Steve moaned softly. “Oh, shit.”

  “Steve,” Joe spoke with authority. “Don’t get worked up. Just do it, okay? I’ll pay for it later,
but for the moment, go to a motel and stick her in front of a TV there, all right?”

  “I hate this.”

  “I know, but it’ll make me feel better knowing you two are in a safe place. So, do this, okay? No screwing around?”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  “Good man. I’ll let you know as soon as I get hold of Lyn. What motel will you go to?”

  “The Clipper Ship, I guess.”

  “Got it.”

  Joe hung up and flipped through his address book one last time.

  “Maine Drug Enforcement Agency. How may I direct your call?” a female voice asked him a minute later.

  “Cathy Lawless, please,” Joe told her. “Tell her it’s Joe Gunther, Vermont Bureau of Investigation.”

  In a style not unlike Sammie’s, Cathy picked up the phone almost immediately. She’d been working the same drug case where Joe had stumbled across the Silva lobster boat.

  “Joe,” she said. “Don’t tell me you’re headed this way again?”

  “Not officially, Cathy, but I am fishing for a favor.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I’d like whoever’s out there to keep an eye peeled for an ’02 Honda Civic, dark blue, with Grateful Dead and Planned Parenthood bumper stickers next to the right taillight. Vermont registration.” He gave her the plate number.

  “Who is this?”

  “Name is Lyn Silva.”

  Cathy didn’t miss the connection. She had a cop’s memory and a suspicious mind. “Your girlfriend? What’s going on?”

  “It’s long and complicated and I have to get going,” Joe told her. “This is more along the lines of a protective thing. Somebody trashed the family lobster boat; we don’t know why, and I’m afraid she might be in danger.”

  “This tie into Wellman Beale?”

  Joe surely hoped it didn’t. “I don’t know, Cathy. Anything’s possible. What happened to him?”

  “He’s out,” she said bluntly. “Back on his island, and probably back to running drugs. Is this a case yet, Joe? I mean on the books?”

  “No. The Gloucester PD has the vandalism of the boat, but that’s it, and they probably think it’s teenagers.”

  “And you know it’s not?”

  He demurred. “My instincts say it’s not, but I don’t know, and I gotta go. I’ll call you when I hit Maine, Cathy. I promise. I’m aiming for Bangor, which is where I think she’s gone, in case that helps. Just spread the word to keep an eye out for her and let me know if anyone gets lucky. You still have my cell number?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Okay. Thanks. See you soon.”

  Her response was suitably ironic. “I can hardly wait.”

  Lyn was not headed for Bangor. That had been her initial thought, but the farther she drove up the interstate, the more she began rethinking the idea. Dick Brandhorst, who was clearly behind the vandalism of The Silva Lining, was no doubt looking for her to react exactly the way she was—or had been. The better idea, Lyn saw now, was to stop playing his game. Joe had suggested turning the tables by getting him to expose why he was interested in her. But with the vandalism of the boat, and the implied threat to her family, Lyn was more inclined to embark on a plan wholly her own—something direct, unequivocal, and which right now was feeling immensely more satisfying.

  She’d tried several times to share this new idea with Joe, but failing in that, she’d yielded to impatience and an oddly stimulating sense of higher mission. Perhaps something of her father’s and brother’s reckless spirit was lurking inside after all, but whatever the source, she was going for straightforward retaliation. And not against Brandhorst, either; she had no clue what his actual role was, nor was she sure she cared. She was shooting higher. Joe had mentioned that Wellman Beale lived on an island off of Jonesport, Maine. As far as she could figure, Beale was the one solid connection to José and Abílo’s disappearance, even if the authorities hadn’t been able to act on it.

  She unconsciously reached out to the passenger seat beside her and felt for her father’s old nine-millimeter pistol she had tucked into her bag.

  Well, she wasn’t an authority. And she wasn’t bound by their rules.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Lester was waiting in his car outside Parole and Probation. The parking lot overlooked a restaurant and a small marina, while the Department of Corrections had chosen a bright pink building that had once housed a chocolate factory. All told, it was an unexpectedly pretty spot, at the confluence of the West and Connecticut rivers—a shallow flooded area called the Retreat Meadows—a favorite of anglers and boaters in the summer, and skaters during the cold months. Les himself had driven the family down from Springfield a couple of times for winter outings, enjoying how Brattleboro, unlike his hometown, continually found ways for its populace to engage in its rural surroundings, often just a stone’s throw from the business district.

  Now, of course, it was warm and sunny—a far cry from skating or ice fishing weather—and he had the window down to enjoy the breeze, waiting for his unsuspecting interview subject to appear from a scheduled meeting with his parole officer.

  Les had been here for under ten minutes, and was just starting to unwind and let the sunshine sink in, when he saw a big man in a T-shirt step into the bright light.

  Karen Putnam’s husband, Todd, fresh from jail, squinted as he fumbled for the dark glasses hooked into the crew neck of his shirt. He was a muscular man, dressed in clothes one size too small, but he’d slacked off enough to ruin the overall effect—the gut struggling not to hide the belt buckle, the back of his tattooed arms flapping just a little as he moved. The cheeks beneath the glasses were slightly gaunt, the big shoulders a bit drooped. While clearly still the bull in his own mind, he appeared to be drifting toward the edge of the pasture.

  Curious about what all this fading testosterone might become during a delicate conversation, Les opened his car door, hitched his gun more comfortably under his jacket, and strolled across the lot to meet the man.

  “Hi,” he said, drawing near. “You Todd Putnam?”

  Putnam hooked his thumbs in his belt, swelling his arms slightly. “Maybe.”

  Les didn’t offer his hand, but kept his tone friendly. “Lester Spinney, I’m from VBI.”

  “Good for you.”

  “You got a minute?”

  “I got a choice?”

  “Sure,” Lester said agreeably. “You want to set up a better time?”

  Putnam put on a show of considering the offer, glancing off into the distance as if contemplating some calendar in the sky.

  “Okay,” he finally said.

  Spinney pointed to a weather-beaten wooden picnic table at one end of the lot. “Let’s sit.”

  He didn’t give Putnam an option, leading the way. He wanted the man sitting, his legs trapped between a table and a bench seat, and far from his own car, which was now parked beyond Lester’s. Spinney was tall and could be fast, but this man had thirty pounds on him, and a reputation for using them—any signs of aging notwithstanding.

  “You aware of the Wayne Castine killing?” Les asked after Todd had settled in place.

  Putnam pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his jeans pocket and extracted one of its mangled denizens.

  “Yeah.”

  “You know the man?”

  A lighter appeared from the other pocket. “Nope.”

  “You ever hear about him before he was killed?”

  The cigarette was carefully placed between his lips before Putnam ignited the lighter and deeply inhaled the first pull.

  “Nope,” he exhaled.

  Lester smiled. “How’d you hear about his murder?”

  “News.”

  “Not at home?”

  That made him pause. He moved his gaze from the smoke coming off the cigarette’s tip to Lester’s face. “What?”

  “You didn’t hear about it at home?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why would I?”

  “He’s been to
the trailer. I assumed there’d been some discussion about it.”

  Lester’s instincts worked faster than his brain, making him lean backward before he even saw the fist coming. As a result, Putnam’s swing fell short, just grazing Lester’s nose as he tipped over and fell off his bench.

  “You son of a bitch,” he heard the man snarl, and fully expected him to come vaulting over the table.

  Instead, Putnam added, “I’ll kill that whore,” swiveled away from the picnic table with surprising ease, and started to run.

  “Damn,” Lester muttered, “not another one.”

  He rolled to his feet and gave chase, pulling his radio free at the same time.

  The parking lot was located on a flat stretch of land, between the water and Brattleboro’s busy “miracle mile,” named the Putney Road. Putnam headed for the latter, straight up the embankment.

  Slipping on the grass in his city shoes, Spinney breathlessly gave dispatch a quick call for help, amazed at both his luck at not getting clocked this time, and the stupidity of parolees who were prone to hitting cops and then running for it.

  “Putnam,” he shouted. “Stop, for Chrissake.”

  It didn’t do any good. Putnam reached the Putney Road and a solid line of traffic, and cut right, parallel across the bridge and toward downtown, Spinney a hundred feet behind him.

  Lester considered simply letting him run. Todd Putnam wasn’t a public menace, hadn’t done any damage to Les, and would be easy to find, given his parting words.

  But that, of course, was the catch—Putnam was guaranteed to harm his wife if he found her before he was caught. Plus, Spinney had to admit, he was officially irate.

  They pounded down the length of the bridge, Spinney’s better condition and lighter weight shortening the distance between them. Sensing this, and perhaps hoping for better luck over broken ground, Putnam took advantage of a small break in the traffic to cut between two cars and switch to the east side of the road, closer to the railroad tracks running parallel.

  Lester did the same, loping along at a steady gait, pacing himself more to outlast the other man than to actually catch up to him. Spinney had been in enough chases to appreciate everyone being too tired to fight in the end.