Open season jg-1 Page 25

  “So he limps?”

  “Now he limps. He uses a cane. Later, in two or three years, he’ll be in a wheelchair.”

  “Jesus. Isn’t that a high price to pay for asthma?”

  “It’s a trade-off. His asthma wasn’t just a little wheezing. It was about to kill him.”

  “But he can get around now.”

  “Oh, yes. He could even run around your proverbial block, again if he were adequately stimulated. Of course, it wouldn’t improve his hip any.”

  “Do you have an address on him?”

  Duquesne closed the folder and passed it across his desk to me. “I suppose most of this is yours now anyway. You’ll find everything you need-or at least everything I know-in there.”

  “How about blood samples? Do you have any of those?”

  “Several. I take them and urine samples periodically for monitoring purposes.”

  “Do you have any that date back to when he had Cushing’s?”

  “Yes. They’re at the hospital-in the deep freeze.”

  “If you could call the hospital as soon as I leave and tell them to release those samples to us, I’d greatly appreciate it.” ate he

  He frowned. “Am I obligated to do that?”

  I opened his warrant and showed him the paragraph that dealt with the specific and dated materials in question.

  He sighed and muttered, “All right.”

  I thanked him and stood up. “There is something else I ought to tell you, doctor. We aren’t the only ones looking for Cioffi.” Duquesne just stared at me. “Have you been aware of what the newspaper’s been calling ‘the man in the mask,’ or Ski Mask?”

  “Certainly. I’d have to live in a cocoon not to.”

  “Well, he’s the other one interested in Cioffi, although he only knows him as a mysterious hunchback right now.”

  “Why tell me?”

  “He’s a very motivated, dangerous man. He’s also very resourceful. If he does happen to discover your connection to all this, he’ll come knocking at your door, one way or the other. It’s happened before.”

  Duquesne was very still. When he spoke, the neutrality had tilted toward the hostile. “Then you’ve just exposed me to a certain amount of danger, is that right? As you did with that prostitute?”

  “Not necessarily. If he does contact you, just tell him everything he wants to know. That should be the end of it.”

  “Are you going to give me some protection in the meantime?”

  “He may not even get in touch.”

  “If that were true, you wouldn’t have brought it up.”

  “Giving you protection might cause more harm than good. If Ski Mask senses an obstacle, he’s usually pretty good at removing it.”

  “That sounds more like your area than mine, Lieutenant. Perhaps I can be more persuasive: let’s say that if any harm does come to me while I’m unprotected, my lawsuit against your department will stand a far greater chance of success.”

  He smiled. I smiled. I showed myself out. It occurred to me that for all her street smarts, Susan Lucey could learn a thing or two from an operator like that.

  It turned out Dr. Duquesne wasn’t the only one not living in a cocoon. Town Manager Tom Wilson was waiting for me in the hallway back at the Municipal Building.

  “Give me an update, Gunther.”

  “I’d prefer to let Chief Brandt do that.”

  “I don’t care what you prefer. Tell me what’s going on-right now.”

  “We’re digging, and it’s getting easier and easier. We should have something before long.”

  Wilson stabbed my chest with his finger. “Don’t give me that crap. You guys are not the CIA. You work for me and the board, and you are accountable for everything you do. Early on, I let you play coy because we were all trying to duck the publicity. That, iici" wn case you haven’t read today’s newspaper, or heard the radio, or seen Channel 31, is no longer a consideration.”

  “I know. We’re famous.”

  “Don’t be cute. I’ve been fencing with the press from Rutland and Keene for a couple of days already. Now I’ve had calls from the wire services and two of the three networks. A Boston TV station has a news crew due here this afternoon, for Christ’s sake. We’ve got to do better than ‘We’re digging and it’s getting easier.’ They’ll eat us alive. Even worse, they’ll start digging on their own. I can’t believe you want that.”

  “All right, but I’m still not going to say anything without Brandt. He should be back any second.” I crossed over to Maxine’s window. “Any word from Tony?”

  “He’s heading back. He just called in.”

  I turned to Wilson. “Why don’t you wait in his office? I’ll be right there.”

  He grumbled, but he went. I took a left into the squad room and poked my head into Billy Manierre’s office. “I need someone to run a blood sample to a forensic pathologist in West Haven, Connecticut. Can you help me out?”

  “Whose blood?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s the same guy who sexually molested Pam Stark or Kimberly Harris or whatever you want to call her.”

  “Yeah, I can get someone. Give me names and addresses.”

  I quickly scrawled o ut what he wanted on a sheet of paper and then made a fast track to my office-still clutching Duquesne’s file-to draw up requests for two search warrants: one for Cioffi’s office, one for his home. I was halfway through when my phone buzzed.

  “Joe?” It was Brandt. “What are you doing right now?”

  “Preparing warrants for a guy named Steven Cioffi. He’s the guy with the hump.”

  “All right. Go to it. Don’t bother to come powwow with Wilson and me. We’ll sort that out. It’ll probably mean some kind of press conference later today, so don’t skip town.”

  “Right.” I hung up and finished typing, praying I would find a judge available across the street at the courthouse.

  I did-in the men’s room. He wasn’t terrifically pleased about it-probably something about his dignity-but he signed on the dotted line against the tile wall. I returned to Brandt’s office and brought him up to date.

  When I finished, he stood up, pocketed his pipe and smiled. “Well, maybe this press conference won’t be such a bad idea after all.”

  25

  Cioffi worked at Leatherton, Inc., a manufacturer of industrial parts whose name I’d always thought was better suited to a luggage-making firm. In fact, this one modest factory was one of several subsidiaries of Thomas Leatherton amp; Company of Toronto, Canada, which was their version of Westinghouse-a big deem" w›

  The building reflected the stature. Covering half an industrial park recently built south of town near the interstate, it was the region’s latest statement in modern architecture, which may not have been saying much. Still, it was an eye-catcher, made of dark glass and earth-toned brick, and it did exude a sense of capitalist power and well-being.

  We arrived in two squad cards. Kunkle and I were in one, Capullo and Woll in the other. I had the two patrolmen cover the front and back entrances, just in case our fat and flabby erstwhile hunchback decided to limp off into the sunset.

  As it turned out, he’d already done so. From the receptionist downstairs to his secretary on the top floor, we got the same message: “I’m afraid Mr. Cioffi’s not in right now.”

  His secretary was an attractive young bottle-blonde with too much eye shadow. I pointed to the closed door behind her. “Is that his?”

  She looked at it doubtfully. “Yes, it is.”

  I laid the court order on her desk and walked around her to the door.

  “Stop. I mean, hold on a second. What is this?” She held up the warrant.

  Kunkle answered for me in modulated officialese. “That’s a court order allowing us to enter this office and remove specific documents related to the case we have building against Mr. Cioffi.”

  Her eyes widened. “Against Mr. Cioffi? What for?”

  “Read the warrant.” She looked from u
s to the paper in her hand. “I think maybe I should get somebody.”

  “That’s fine. We’ll be in here.” I opened the door and went inside.

  What we entered was the archetypal coveted corner office. Two walls of windows, a rug soft enough to swallow our shoes, a mahogany desk, a leather sofa and two armchairs custom-made for an English men’s club. Lining the other two walls was a built-in bookcase stuffed with stereo equipment, fancy artifacts, and elegantly placed collections of leather-bound books. It did not fit the mental image I’d painted of Cioffi from his doctor’s description.

  Kunkle looked around and whistled. “Jesus, if I worked here, I’d never go home.”

  I pulled the walkie-talkie from my belt and called Dispatch. “Tell Brandt to secure Cioffi’s residence. He’s not at his office. If Brandt wants the court order covering the house, I’ve got it.”

  “Ten-four.”

  I took down several of Cioffi’s fancy books and opened them. None showed any signs of overuse. In fact, the same could have been said for the entire office.

  I went over to the desk. Except for the usual executive knickknacks, it was bare. I pulled at the drawer directly in front of the chair; it was unlocked. Inside, I found a book marked “Appointments.” I checked today’s date. Nothing was scheduled.

  “May I help you?”

  The voice belonged tice

  Kunkle took an instant dislike to him. Maybe it was the suit. “I doubt it. Who are you?”

  “My name’s Arthur Pelegrino. I’m the head of Public Relations.”

  Kunkle obviously was not in a handshaking mood and I was too far away. Pelegrino seemed ill at ease forgoing the formality; his hands fidgeted in front of his belt buckle. “Could you tell me what this is all about?”

  I took pity on the man, crossed over, and shook his hand. “I’m Lieutenant Gunther. We have a warrant for certain documents in this room. I would also like to ask some questions of Mr. Cioffi’s secretary, if I may.”

  Pelegrino smiled nervously and stepped aside, exposing the secretary fully.

  “Alone would be best, actually.”

  The PR man bit his upper lip and nodded. “I think I better get someone from the legal department.” He squeezed by the secretary and disappeared.

  “What’s your name?” I asked her.

  “Mona.”

  “You originally from the area?”

  “Dummerston.”

  “Been working here long?”

  “A couple of years. I got the job straight out of college. I went to UVM.”

  “Did Cioffi hire you, or did you just end up working for him?”

  “I was assigned to him.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “He’s okay, I guess.”

  “How would you characterize him?”

  “What?”

  “Is he friendly or abrupt, supportive or uncaring, easy going or tense, things like that.”

  “Gee, I’ve never thought about that. I don’t really have much to do with him, really.”

  “Does he work you hard?”

  Her face lit up at that. “Gosh no. My boyfriend says I have the cushiest job in the world. I guess he’s right. I mostly just sit out there. I used to read a little, but they said it didn’t look good.”

  “What exactly does Cioffi do?”

  “He’s Vice-President of Industrial Relations.” Kunkle broke in. “What the hell does that mean?” She smiled and shrugged. “I’m not really sure. He travels a lot. I think it has something to do with conventions.”

  “He goes to a lot of conventions?”

  “I think so.”

  “Don’t you make the travel arrangements for him?”

  “No. He does all that. I answer the phone and write letters sometimes. I don’t see him a whole lot.”

  There was some noise from outside, and Pelegrino reappeared with a short, fat man, also bald and also dressed in a dark suit. They looked like a cartoon together. Pelegrino introduced his companion as Mr. Kleeman, who, from his self-inflated manner, was obviously from the legal department.

  Kleeman was not a hand-shaker. He grabbed the warrant from Mona and read it from front to back. He finally folded the warrant and put it in his pocket. “Have you gone through anything yet?”

  “No,” I lied.

  “Good. I will keep you company throughout your search and will inform you if you stray from the guidelines of this order.” Kunkle sneered at him and walked over to the desk and began opening drawers.

  · · ·

  We ended up with very little-his appointment books for the past several years, some specifically dated correspondence, mostly letters setting up meetings with people at various conventions, and we obtained a copy of his employment record at Leatherton. That was about it. Neither Kleeman nor Pelegrino knew much about Cioffi, despite the fact that technically, “industrial relations” came under the general public relations umbrella.

  What we found at his home-another lavish spread straight out of House Beautiful — didn’t add much to the picture. He had obviously taken off. Most of his socks, shorts, shirts, etc. were missing, and we could find few personal possessions of any sort, although we did come across several conspicuously empty drawers. But there were no address books, photo albums, diaries, account books, or anything else listed in the warrant. The place looked like a high-priced hotel room after maid service. Our disappointment was palpable.

  So was Tom Wilson’s. “I thought you said you had this thing wrapped up.”

  “He flew the coop. It’s a temporary setback. Once we analyze all we’ve collected-or all we will collect-we’ll be able to track him. It just isn’t as convenient as we were hoping.”

  Brandt stopped talking and emptied his pipe into his ashtray. There were just the three of us in Brandt’s office: Brandt, Wilson and me. I was trying to act invisible.

  “I suppose you realize that at this point, there is no way this department is going to walk away unscathed. Heads will have to roll.”

  Brandt raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

  Wilson scowled at him. “Give me a break. The mutterings from the board were bad enough; now even the Reformer has joined in. Bellstrom’s editorial this morning questioned just about everything you people have done to date, the biggest item being your refusal to bring in extra help until it was too late.”

  “I remember that topic coming up pretty early on. I recall all sorts of people not wanting to attract undue attention. Isn’t that the way you remember it, u rt as we Tom?”

  “A lot has happened between then and now. You can’t deny you and your crew have been a little bull-headed about this thing.”

  “What-aside from spreading the blame a little thinner-would have changed had we brought in the troops?”

  “The point is you didn’t.”

  Brandt shrugged. “We’ll get the guy.”

  “That may not be enough.”

  Brandt changed the subject-sort of. “What about the press conference?”

  “What about it? It’s still on.”

  “Are you going to roll heads then?”

  Wilson slapped the arm of his chair and stood up. He crossed over to the window and looked out at the frozen parking lot. “Christ, I hate this. No, I’m not going to roll heads. We’re standing together, at least in public. You just tell them what you’ve got and handle questions-as agreed this morning.”

  Brandt looked over at me. “What you got cooking so far?”

  “A team is going over everything we grabbed at the office and home; I’ve got a blood sample being looked at by Kees in West Haven; I’m getting a warrant for all his phone records, from both office and home; we’ve lifted his fingerprints and are having them coded; and I’m having duplicates made of the photos we found in his medical file-Dr. Duquesne was a very thorough fellow. We’ve also located his dentist and are having copies made of his X-rays and charts. By the time we finish, we should have as complete a description of him as we could want. Once we spread
the word-as discreetly as possible-we should be able to nail him. If nothing else, his medical problems will get him; he needs a steady supply of prednisone, and according to Duquesne, he won’t even be able to walk in a couple of years.”

  Wilson flapped his arms. “A couple of years? Hallelujah. That ought to satisfy everybody. What’s this mystery man’s name, anyway?”

  Brandt and I looked at each other. Wilson immediately flared. “Hold on a goddamn minute. You’re going to sit on his name? After what I’ve done for you bastards?”

  Brandt laid a hand on his shoulder. “The name’s Steven Cioffi. He’s a VP at Leatherton, but we don’t want that out yet. That’s why we hesitated.”

  Wilson shook off the hand, but he was calmer. “Christ. We finally get something and you don’t want to release it. What the hell is the problem?”

  His narrow focus was beginning to irritate. “We only found out who this guy was a few hours ago. We got to figure out what we’re holding before we start bragging.”

  “There is another reason,” Brandt added. “The way Ski Mask is stepping out front, we’re fearful of giving him anything he might take advantage of. If he gets to Cioffi ahead of us and kills him for some reason, then we-and Davis-might be stuck high and dry.”

  The phone rang and Brandt picked it up. picdvantage oHe listened for a while, took some notes, thanked the caller, and turned back to us with a big smile. “Hey, just like in the movies. You wanted something to tell the press? Looks like we just located Pam Stark’s home address.” He waved the slip of notepaper in his hand. “She had given a phony to the Boston cops, but it turns out she was from Connecticut-Danbury-or at least she was born there, daughter of Henry and Eleanor Stark. They tracked her through vital records. Then-I’ll give these guys high marks-because they couldn’t find a current address, they checked the state tax records just for kicks, and sure enough, Henry and Eleanor still own some Connecticut land, and the bill is sent to Voorheesville, New York. That’s just next to Albany.”

  Wilson merely shook his head and kept staring out the window. “Pam Stark’s address.” He finally muttered, “Three years too late. Christ.”

  After a while he turned to face us. “What good is Pam Stark’s address?”