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  She thought back to the little Helen had told her of her boyfriend: that he was from out of town and they’d just recently met, that he’d spent time in jail, that he was kind and gentle and supportive.

  The last descriptors she’d dismissed out of hand. None of her mother’s live-ins had ever been other than princes before proving otherwise. Sam had, however, asked about the cause of Doug’s stay behind bars, and Helen’s answer now seemed pertinent. She’d said he’d been arrested for burglary, grand theft, and armed robbery. She hadn’t gone into detail—probably hadn’t even known—but the information, combined with Gunther’s diplomatic silence concerning Doug’s criminal past, made Sam think that Doug was both an active player in her mother’s arrest, and cooking something up right now.

  * * *

  Sam had been wrong about Doug and his companions sleeping all day. It was far from the crack of dawn when she saw all three of them step onto the sidewalk, but it also wasn’t late afternoon. In the world Sam had grown up in, showing your face around town shortly after lunch usually meant something had gone awry: You’d been thrown out, you had to see your parole officer or go to the clinic, or you had a real job.

  Conversely, if you looked as out of place in the light of day as two of these three did, you had something on your mind involving targeting the working world you otherwise held in contempt.

  The exception was the small, thin one Sam hadn’t been able to figure out last night. Now, she was clearly a girl, long-haired, wearing granny-style glasses, a long coat, and not-unstylish boots. Her presence with the other two, had it been witnessed after hours, would have triggered thoughts of a mugging in the making. As it was, as soon as the trio got their bearings and began walking toward downtown, the young woman slowly broke away, as if a stranger to her companions.

  Intrigued, Sammie left her car, camera over her shoulder, and began following from a distance, ready to duck out of sight if Doug happened to glance behind him.

  He didn’t, however. Strolling together, the girl now considerably ahead, the two men looked like most other pedestrians traveling the increasingly populated sidewalk, if a little rougher around the edges. They seemed buried in conversation, taking little note of their surroundings.

  They all three did, however, one by one, eventually enter Arlo’s Emporium, a store almost precisely in the middle of town. Sammie quickened her pace as the last of them slipped from view, hoping to at least keep Doug in sight, so she wouldn’t accidentally bump into him later.

  She succeeded, if just barely, and only because he removed his ball cap, thus revealing his pale, bald pate to her as a visual beacon, moving above the clusters of exhibited wares. Arlo’s Emporium represented, as the name implied, a medley of offerings, from clothes to jewelry to books, souvenirs, handcrafts, and a section given over to cookware. Sprawling and multileveled, it was as much a place to visit recreationally as to shop for necessities.

  Careful to avoid attention, Sam took another couple of shots of her quarry as he wandered the aisles, but of his purpose for being here, she could make no sense. He seemed to be browsing without purpose or intent, idly fingering a jacket without looking at it, or picking up a small item with no visible show of interest. Sam wished she could drop him to seek out the other two, but was stuck by the dilemma that had glued her to Doug’s tail in the first place. Of his confederates, she saw no sign.

  Until about twenty minutes into this riddle, when Doug, endlessly wandering, brought them within view of the store’s jewelry department. Only there did Sammie notice his attention become focused, as he glanced purposefully at his young female cohort, who was being helped at the counter by a salesman. Sam took a picture of the woman holding a bracelet up to the light, convinced that she was about to document some storewide distraction, during which the girl would snatch what she could off the countertop.

  But nothing happened. Doug returned to his rambles, and the girl continued admiring what Sam knew she couldn’t afford, until, eventually, the three of them—including Sam—wended out the door.

  The exception was the skinny man who’d accompanied Doug inside. He was missing.

  Given what little had happened inside Arlo’s, and that Doug and the girl, now walking together, were heading back toward Helen’s apartment, Sam decided to cross the street and get a window table at a café opposite the store, in order to watch the front door.

  She stayed there for over two hours but never saw the other man again. It had been a crapshoot, she admitted. There was more than one entrance to the place. This was the one they’d all used, however, both coming and going. It had seemed reasonable to her that Skinny Guy, as she was now calling him in her mind, would have followed his friends’ example.

  Her failure to learn anything, of course, only heightened her present quandary. So far, she’d convinced herself of Doug’s subversive motivations—for example, that he’d manipulated Sam’s and Helen’s banishment from the apartment in order to clear the way for the arrival of his two colleagues. This much had been borne out by her own observations. What the theory ignored, however, was the possibility that Doug had simply gotten lonely after his girlfriend’s arrest and invited a couple of pals to spend the night.

  Sam had not expected the random nature of civilian life to conspire against her quite as fast and thoroughly as it had, but her current situation was serving to challenge her decision to leave the military. Say what you will about a career in uniform—that it was dangerous, didn’t pay much, kept you constantly moving, and could limit your options—the one thing it had never done to Sam was leave her wondering what to do next.

  Therein, of course, ran a basic theme of her entire life, which was the obstacle course of life with Helen counterbalanced by Sam’s own self-imposed discipline and focus. The latter had been a survivalist’s response of a child born into chaos, and the very thing that had prompted her to join the military in the first place. But living with Helen had also been beneficial, teaching Sam how to read people and situations, how to adapt to sudden mayhem, and—paradoxically—even how to understand the pleasures that Helen derived from her choices, if only during the times they were paying off.

  Just as the military had served Sam as an escape route from an excess of Hell-on-Wheels, so had the occasional upsides of her mother’s lifestyle eventually influenced her to leave the army’s built-in security.

  Sam’s choice of boyfriends like Mick wasn’t an anomaly. It was a reminder—just like her current predicament—of the sort of unusual options she’d faced from birth.

  As she often did, therefore, she chose action over brooding. She paid her bill, walked up Main Street to a pharmacy, and handed her unfinished roll of film to a one-hour photo service. Then, after a leisurely snack at a hotdog stand, and now with pictures in hand, she continued on foot to the municipal building, poised on its perch at the north end of the street.

  Logically or not, she was going to make her pitch to anyone who would listen.

  Chapter 4

  As before, Joe Gunther came out into the corridor to fetch her, bringing her this time not into his miniscule office, but to a small but workable conference room beyond the squad room.

  He closed the door, since this time, most of the desks behind them were manned by detectives typing, on the phone, or just chatting.

  Gunther waved Sam toward any chair she wanted around the long table, settling into one himself.

  “So, Sam,” he began in a welcoming tone, “I’m assuming you thought of something to add to what you dropped off last night.”

  In response, she slid the slim packet of photos across the table, explaining, “I know you told me to keep my nose out of this, and I have—sort of. But I didn’t think it would do any harm to take a couple of shots in public.”

  He parked a pair of reading glasses on his nose to better see the contents of what she’d passed him, but gave her a warning glance above their rims.

  “What am I about to look at?” he asked instead of reprimanding
her.

  She’d been thinking about this moment, happy now that her whole imitating-a-military-officer routine at the gas station hadn’t come up. Yet.

  “Doug Hammond,” she dove in, “along with two friends. I think Doug got my mom and me out of the house so he could hook up with these two to do something crooked. They showed up last night, spent the night, and then walked to Arlo’s—with the girl all dolled up—to maybe check the place out.”

  Joe leafed through the pictures one by one without comment. He then let out a small grunt, rose, opened the door to the squad room, and spoke briefly to someone Sammie couldn’t see.

  Moments later, a thin, dark-haired detective with a hard, unreadable face entered, along with an older man—balding, overweight, with the reddened cheeks of someone well-advised to give up his after-work beer intake.

  Joe introduced them: “Sammie Martens, daughter of Helen Martens. This is Captain Frank Murphy, our chief of detectives, and Willy Kunkle, a member of our squad. I thought they should listen in, just so neither you nor I will have to repeat ourselves later, if any of this comes to that.”

  Kunkle, who made Sam think of a dangerous jungle cat in his movements, slipped into a chair and studied her, commenting, “You’re the good-looking girl Dennis was babbling about.”

  “Our department diplomat,” Murphy quickly said, frowning slightly. “You’ll have to forgive him.”

  “No problem,” Sam replied, having heard much worse.

  “Okay,” Gunther resumed. “Now that we’re all here, let me recap by telling you both that Ms. Martens came by last night to ask why we’d arrested her mother. During that conversation, she told me that she’d just gotten into town, and, almost immediately, had been chucked out of her mom’s apartment.”

  “By Mom?” Kunkle asked.

  Sam prepared to respond, but Joe cut her off. “Yes, but Sam believes only because Doug Hammond, the latest live-in boyfriend, forced her to, and that he did so because he wanted full possession of the apartment to create a base of operations.”

  “Which is why he then arranged to have Helen busted for armed robbery,” Willy concluded.

  Sammie stared at him, impressed.

  But he gave her a mocking smile, saying, “I’m just filling in the blanks. Plus, I looked at the tape you gave Dennis, and heard what you told him. I’m not buying a word of it, so far.”

  Sam decided she didn’t like Willy Kunkle.

  “Be that as it may,” Joe quickly stepped in, indicating the spread of photographs on the tabletop, “Sam has now brought us surveillance shots of Doug and his playmates. I’ll let her fill in the details.”

  Kunkle barely glanced at them, murmuring, “This’ll be good.”

  Sam imagined herself at a military recon mission briefing rather than being scrutinized by three blatantly doubtful cops. “In case you don’t know, the older, bald one with the beard is Doug. The other man and woman are the newcomers. The photos show the couple arriving at Helen’s place last night, and then all three of them heading out earlier today. You can see how the female has changed her appearance to make herself more appealing to the general population.”

  Through the corner of her eye, she could see Willy beginning to smile, apparently at her choice of words. She kept going, regardless. “I followed them into Arlo’s, where the two males split up, the female having already distanced herself so that she could no longer be visually associated with the men. I stuck with Doug, both because he was easy to spot, but also so that he couldn’t come upon me by accident.”

  “Rock and a hard place,” Willy commented, she thought with some sympathy.

  “Right,” she agreed. “I did see the woman later, though, as she was checking out some jewelry. The other man, the one I call Skinny Guy, I never saw again, including after Doug and the girl left the store. I watched that entrance for two hours, but he never showed.”

  “You can’t see the rear entrance if you’re watching the front,” Murphy said.

  “I know that,” she replied, “but I was banking on his using the same door as before, the same one his friends used to leave.”

  “Makes sense,” Willy said supportively, surprising her.

  “Why’re we here, Joe?” Murphy asked.

  “I’d say Ms. Martens thinks Doug and company are casing Arlo’s for a hit.”

  “I’ll tell my wife that next time she drags me out shopping,” the older man said. “Maybe it’ll make for a better experience if I pretend I’m casing the joint.” He poked the photos with his fingertip. “But to me, it looks like Doug’s dying of boredom while the girl’s trying on bracelets she’s not gonna buy. I been there a few times, God knows.”

  “Where did Skinny Guy go?” Willy asked rhetorically.

  Murphy shook his head and rose. “Don’t know, don’t care. Tell me when you got something.”

  Disappointed by Murphy’s reaction and subsequent departure, Sam nevertheless answered Willy with an enthusiastic, “I know. That’s what I’d like to know, too. It’s like he vanished.”

  “Out the back door, most likely,” Joe said.

  Sammie tried to take that in stride. “Probably,” she agreed, “but it still begs the question: What were they all doing there? I really don’t believe it was a shopping trip, with all due respect.”

  Willy made a dismissive gesture. “Don’t worry about Frank. Waiting out retirement.”

  Sam caught Joe giving his colleague a disapproving look.

  When he spoke, however, it was to her, and not Kunkle, who’d gone back to flipping through her photographs.

  “In honor of full disclosure,” Joe said, “I think we should also mention the video you left with Dennis.”

  “I know it doesn’t show much,” Sam launched in immediately, “but you don’t know my mom like I do. She does what she’s told by men like Doug. I know in my bones he had something on her, like maybe threatening to turn her in for something or saying he’d dump her. I don’t know.”

  “Something worse than armed robbery?” Willy asked without looking up. “She murder somebody we don’t know about?”

  “That’s not what I wanted to talk about,” Joe cut in. “You did precisely what I categorically asked you not to do. Isn’t that correct?”

  She didn’t bother ducking it. “Yes, sir.”

  “And you did it by pulling a fast one on the clerk, making him think you were somehow officially connected to this investigation as a military liaison. Isn’t that also correct?”

  What the hell, she thought to herself. “Yes, sir.”

  “That is a crime, as I’m guessing you already know.”

  “You implied the investigation was basically over,” Sam protested. “I figured anything I could bring to the table was stuff you either missed or didn’t think mattered. It’s not like I hurt anybody. The counter kid was really impressed.”

  Joe surprised her then by smiling slightly and saying, “That he was.” He then rose and moved toward the door. “We’ll talk about all this among ourselves and get back to you, Sam.”

  Reluctantly, she got up. Kunkle stayed put, photos still in hand.

  “Whatever Doug’s planning, it’s gonna happen soon. I know it,” she said.

  “I know you do,” Joe replied, escorting her into the squad room and toward the outer hallway. Through the door of his corner office, she could see Frank Murphy working at his desk. He did not look up as they passed.

  * * *

  Sam was not impressed. She could admit all the flaws to her theory, the more credible alternatives, and even her suspect impartiality. But the dismissive manner she’d suffered, except just barely from Joe Gunther, galled her from the municipal building to the other side of town, where she’d left her car.

  What would it have taken to at least consider what she’d offered them? Yes, Helen had obviously done what they accused her of, but why? She robbed a gas station, driving there with her boyfriend, only to return home and wait for the cops to drop by?

&nb
sp; Sam understood that a person’s motives weighed less than their actions in the commission of a crime. But what about when no motive stood out? How did an investigator’s constructive curiosity get written out of the script in pursuit of putting someone behind bars?

  It baffled her, was deeply disappointing, and, in the end, it fundamentally pissed her off. If they weren’t going to do anything with her concerns, then she’d just have to act independently.

  She took advantage of the break that circumstances had placed upon her to return to her motel room, shower, and take a restorative nap before resuming her vigil from the car. She was convinced of what she’d told the police—that Doug and his allies were in mid-mission, probably involving Arlo’s, and that tonight, they would most likely finish what they’d come to Brattleboro to accomplish.

  It was just a matter of her waiting until they acted before exposing them as a means of getting her mother out of jail, since she was equally sure that those events were connected.

  The fact that she had no plan and had failed in her effort to enlist official assistance mattered little to her. Life with Helen had encouraged Sam to accept that spontaneity could have its advantages; her recent exposure to the military had established that even the best laid plans usually run afoul.

  As a result, she felt quite comfortable treating this entire event in the same spirit that a hobo might have used in hitching a ride on a random train.

  The only downside to that attitude, however, was delivered through the passage of hours. Sam sat in the darkness, warm enough, but losing feeling in her butt, until she’d almost convinced herself that she was the only one awake in the entire town.

  By the time she finally saw the lights come back on in the apartment, and Doug and the girl appear on the sidewalk shortly thereafter, it was almost two o’clock in the morning.