Presumption of Guilt Page 7

  And there was another possible factor. Had Sharon Mitchell already called her old friend—or coconspirator, if Sam was right—to give him an early warning?

  Barrett took a thoughtful sip before placing his glass on the coffee table, to be ignored thereafter.

  “There’s a name I haven’t heard in a while,” he said with none of his former bluster. “Where’d you dig him up?”

  “Interesting choice of words,” Joe reflected, struck by either the coincidence if Barrett was ignorant, or the arrogance if, indeed, he’d been tipped off. “Can you tell me anything about when you last saw him?”

  Barrett’s eyes narrowed slightly. “All right. I’ll play. About forty years ago, when he dumped his wife and family, and left without a word.”

  “You were friends and business partners,” Joe said. “Sharon told us you were close to her and Greg and Julie. I was hoping for more than just, ‘He left.’ What were the circumstances of your last meeting with him?”

  Barrett pursed his lips before answering, “It was decades ago.”

  Joe remained silent, watching him.

  “We were drinking, probably,” he finally said grudgingly.

  “At a bar or someone’s house?”

  “Probably a house. That’s what we usually did. We’d mix in a card game.”

  “Your place? Or maybe Carlo’s? Jimmy’s?” Joe prompted.

  Barrett’s face hardened. “You seem to know all about us. Why don’t you tell me, so it’ll refresh my memory?”

  Joe returned the attitude. “Because I’m here investigating a murder.”

  Surprise replaced irritation, to BB’s credit. “Murder? What’re you talking about?”

  “Sharon didn’t call you?”

  “I haven’t talked to Sharon in years. What the hell’s happened?”

  “You don’t listen to the news or read the paper?” Joe asked, incredulous.

  Barrett blinked, hesitating, and then asked, “Are you talking about that thing at Vermont Yankee?”

  “That’s the one.”

  He sat back and stared out the window at the pool and the New Hampshire mountains in the distance. “Holy cow.”

  “Yeah,” Joe prompted him.

  Barrett looked back at him. “You can’t think I had anything to do with that. Fuck, man. You said it: We were friends.”

  “You were even friendlier with his wife. You asked her to marry you.”

  “That doesn’t mean I killed Hank. We were beyond partners. Did you know that? And I kept her and the kids above water afterwards, because none of this would’ve happened without him.” He indicated their surroundings.

  He slid forward in his seat and leaned toward Joe for emphasis, even touching his knee with one stubby finger. “I told her it was a return on Hank’s initial investment in the business. That’s a crock. Hank never had any money. But he knew his stuff when it came to pricing a project, and the guy worked like a machine. He was the face of Ridgeline in the early years, and he got us through the door. After he took off—died, I guess—it was a struggle, but the momentum was there, and that was all his doing.”

  He paused to rub his forehead. “Damn.”

  “What?”

  “I was just thinking back. The biggest reason we succeeded was the Yankee project. It drained the whole area of labor for years, from something like ’69 forward. Projects all over southern Vermont suffered. We helped fill the gap. We were handling more jobs than we knew what to do with ’cause of Hank’s hustle and my conning the banks so we could overpay our guys and keep them from leaving. It was a wing and a prayer time, and it was working, when—just like that—” He snapped his fingers. “—Hank was gone.”

  He shook his head vigorously. “No fucking way I knocked him off. He was my goddamn golden goose. Yeah, I loved Sharon. I even admit I told her that before he disappeared. But I’m not suicidal.” His shoulders slumped before he conceded, “Besides, she’ll tell you herself—if she hasn’t already—we wouldn’t have pulled it off. She really loved that peckerhead, and he would’ve been there between us, forever, like a ghost. Besides, if you knew any of my ex-wives, you’d know Sharon is way classier than what I always end up with.”

  “I gather she and Doreen didn’t hit it off,” Joe said, recalling a statement from his interview of Sharon.

  Barrett cut him a look. “Yeah, well, she’s in good company there. Doreen’s a psycho. If I wasn’t drunk at the altar, I sure as hell was for as long as that marriage lasted.”

  Joe let a moment slide by before he asked again, “Tell me about the last time you saw Hank.”

  Barrett sighed. “It was at Jimmy Stringer’s, and it was a card game. That was no lie. And I do remember it. What’s not to remember? I didn’t know it at the time, but it turned out to be the end of one life and the start of another. But until Hank came up missing the next day, it was a night like any other.”

  “Who else was around the table?”

  “Jimmy, of course, me, Hank, Johnny Lucas … I can’t … I don’t know about Carlo.”

  “Johnny Lucas?”

  “Another of the guys. He ended up replacing Hank. Half the man, but I had to have somebody after I got dumped—or thought I’d been dumped.”

  “No women?”

  “Women?” He laughed. “You kidding? We must travel in different circles, Gunther. Not even Doreen would’ve been at one of those games.”

  “But there were women,” Joe guided him gently.

  “Meaning what?” Barrett became watchful again.

  “Meaning it was the ’70s. Pretty frustrating to be married with the sexual revolution in full swing. And Hank had moved out of his home. Supposedly, he was chafing at the bit, wanting some action.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said dismissively. “Sharon gave me that, too. Look, I know about women’s intuition and all that crap, but if Hank was screwing around, he didn’t tell me, and he sure didn’t act it.”

  Joe tilted his head slightly. “Would’ve made things easier for you with Sharon, if he did have someone on the side.”

  “Well, he didn’t, as far as I knew.”

  “Sharon thought he did, and she told us you agreed with her.”

  “Yeah … Well, maybe I led her on a little. I mean, he’d left, as far as we knew.” He suddenly burst out, “What’re you after, Gunther? You think I’m lying about this?”

  “I think it’s an interesting detail—some mysterious woman neither Hank’s wife nor his best friend know anything about. And yet, there she is, supposedly hanging around in the background. Why doesn’t anyone know her, unless she was a convenient piece of fiction?”

  “That’s why you’re the detective, isn’t it?” Barrett hesitated before adding, “Look, maybe their marriage was rocky, and maybe I did have feelings for Sharon, and maybe I have no clue if there was another woman. But Hank loved Sharon just like she loved him. That much I can tell you. Who the hell knows what happened that got him killed? But you’re barking up the wrong tree if you think it had anything to do with their squabbling. That was just … I don’t know … married couple shit.”

  “All right,” Joe accommodated him. “Let’s put that to one side. Tell me about Hank’s buddies. So far, of the ones still alive, I think, I have you, Jimmy Stringer, Carlo Fuentes, Johnny Lucas, Tom Capsen. That’s according to you and Sharon, both. There any others?”

  BB shook his head. “Not really. He had more friends, but people’ve moved or died or dropped out of sight over the years. I guess that list’s pretty much what’s left.”

  “Where’s Lucas nowadays? He still alive?”

  Barrett laughed. “Alive? Hell yeah. I told you I made him Hank’s replacement. He did fine for himself. Rode my coattails straight to the bank, along with a bunch of others. He’s around.”

  “You don’t keep up?”

  He looked a little wistful. “Hard to keep those friendships alive. Too many years.” He laughed. “And too many disapproving wives.” He rubbed one eye with
his finger. “I kept in touch with a couple of ’em, kind of. Johnny and I were never that close. He did the work and he did an okay job of it, but it was guys like Carlo and Jimmy—and Hank, of course—that made those nights worthwhile.”

  “How ’bout the bars you frequented, or restaurants? Places like Zero’s, or the Quarter Moon, or the Village Barn? Can you think of anyone who might have regularly seen you all hanging out—barkeeps or waitresses?”

  “Oh, no. Those’ve all disappeared. Jesus, man. This is wicked old news.”

  “Not anymore,” Joe corrected him.

  Barrett gazed out at his view of New Hampshire again. “No,” he agreed after a moment’s reflection. “I guess it’s all gonna come back now.”

  Joe studied his profile, wondering if what he’d just heard was truly history, or simply one man’s version of it, as was so often the case. Either way, he was pretty sure this wasn’t going to be his last conversation with Robert “BB” Barrett.

  * * *

  “How’re things going with Mr. Mitchell?” Beverly asked on the phone as Joe reached Summit Circle from BB Barrett’s extravagant driveway.

  He pulled the car over to speak more comfortably. Recently, Vermont had passed a “hands-off only” driving law regarding cell phone usage, but even when it had been okay to handle a phone and steer, he’d generally avoided it. Plus, in this instance, he wanted to savor the moment. Chats with Beverly—given their schedules and the distance separating them—were akin to the watering stations he’d seen lining the Boston Marathon.

  “I’m reminded of when I was a kid,” he told her, “when I used to think twice about dipping my foot into the pond on the farm—something about the time I saw a snapping turtle grab a frog off a twig. Still makes me nervous, even now.”

  “Murky waters, eh?”

  “I’ve done two interviews so far, and I’ve already got so many more to do, I’m almost hesitant to keep going.”

  “He was that unpopular?”

  “No—that’s almost the worst of it. Everybody loved him, including the wife who threw him out. I’m starting to wonder if the guy had any pets who hated his guts. According to every source I can find, he was hardworking, a good father, a nice guy, and a hell of a drinking buddy. I should probably just arrest the first person who thought he was only so-so.”

  She was laughing by now, which prompted him to say, “So much for my Loony Tunes. How ’bout you? You call with a question?”

  “No, no,” she said. “I was doing paperwork. I thought I’d take a break and hear your voice if I got lucky.”

  “You are a sweetheart. Never hesitate to call. If I’m in the middle of a gunfight or something, I’ll phone you right back.”

  “You better,” she half scolded him. “And do not hesitate to have Mr. Kunkle kick down doors ahead of you. I don’t wish him ill, but I certainly don’t want to lose you now that I know you so much better.”

  She stretched out the “so,” which naturally stirred his imagination. “Hey,” he proposed, “as today winds down, you want to compare notes, and see which one of us can drive up or down the interstate to visit the other?”

  “Or meet partway,” she countered. “We haven’t enjoyed the hospitality of a motel in a while.”

  “Oh God,” he moaned theatrically. “Now I really do have to go. Keep that thought. Talk to you later.”

  “Count on it.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Even Willy was struck by days like this—warm, bright, shifting from brown hues to green. Some of the older locals referred to this time as the “unlocking,” a term Willy found all too apt. As he drove past a small park and over a tumbling stream in Brattleboro, he was struck more by a sense of relief—as if the entire winter had been spent during one deep breath, held to bursting.

  Not that the notion lifted his spirits any. He’d traveled his entire conscious life anticipating the misfortunes lurking inevitably around every corner. Discovering otherwise—even concerning good weather—always came as a surprise, and with surprises, he knew stubbornly, you usually get bad news. For him, life was a guaranteed layering of suspicion, mistrust, and dreaded anticipation.

  So, spring—hopeful, temperate, and sunny—especially following a winter this harsh—became an ironic metaphor for his inner turmoil. Whatever enjoyment it provided he’d keep private.

  Willy knew his outlook to be dire. Years ago, he met a man who’d confessed to never having suffered from a headache—had no clue what one felt like. Willy was fully aware of how many people didn’t share his afflicted view of the world—and even how the happy ones perhaps weren’t simply idiots. In truth, it was on the off chance that they might be right that he had slowly opened up to Joe and Lester and—crucially—to Sam and finally Emma.

  But there was the rub. As much as he recognized this development as healthy, he struggled against it for its inherent promise of inevitable loss and grief.

  Willy drove up Main Street and pulled over to the curb, at the heart of Brattleboro’s downtown. For all the changes this town had undergone through the decades—from fires and floods to ebbs and flows in population and prosperity—Brattleboro had remained largely unchanged for almost 150 years. Kunkle had studied photographs of this section that were taken in the late 1800s and sometimes trotted out by the town’s historical society, and he’d easily seen past the striped awnings and rickety, ornate balconies to recognize the Brattleboro of today. It was as if, while fashions had changed, and clothing styles evolved, the body beneath had remained as familiar as ever.

  He wouldn’t have voiced any of this, of course. He had a taciturn image to preserve. But there was a permanence to such revelations that provided a comfort, even for him.

  He ignored the parking meter and entered the first-floor lobby of a narrow, three-story, granite block building labeled MCGEE, CONKLIN over the door.

  “Hi, there,” said the receptionist, facing the entrance. “How may we help you?”

  He smiled, the bland greeting transforming the hard lines of his face into something unexpectedly pleasant. “I was hoping to have a quick word with Julie Washburn,” he said. “I was just talking with her mom and wanted to ask her about something that came up.”

  The shared implication of a minor intimacy—nothing in itself—routinely gained him access past a sentry of this sort. That and the damaged arm.

  Her face brightened further. “Oh, sure. Go straight up. She’s at her desk on the second-floor landing. You can’t miss it.”

  The scene upstairs resembled the one below, if with more desks, more young women sitting at them, and the wall lined with office doors—brass plated with the names of their occupants. McGee, Conklin was Brattleboro’s largest law firm, and accordingly stuck-up in appearances—at least to Willy’s eye.

  A severely coiffed, pinched-faced blond woman—a pale, unhappy facsimile of Sharon Mitchell—looked up at him as he reached the landing.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “You Julie Washburn?” he inquired quietly, approaching her desk.

  Her face shadowed slightly. “Do I know you?”

  None of the other legal aides or secretaries were paying attention to them, but he only discreetly showed his badge. “I was hoping we could have a very quick chat, somewhere quiet. Just take a minute,” he said.

  “What’s this about?”

  “Your father.”

  The set of her mouth told him this was no more to her than a second shoe dropping, and Willy imagined the phone call from mother to daughter that had preceded his appearance.

  Julie Washburn rose and gestured to him to follow her down a corridor to a small conference room. She shut the door behind them.

  “My mom told me,” she said immediately, facing him without further explanation. Sharon had implied that Julie weathered life unhappily following Hank’s disappearance. That much was apparent in her watchful, suspicious eyes.

  He decided to match her blunt tone. “Yeah. Sorry to drag this back up. You remember y
our dad?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well?”

  “I liked him. He was fun.”

  “Greg’s older. He probably remembers more. I want to talk with him, too. We’re having to dig pretty deep after all these years. You have any memories about when your dad dropped out of the picture? Any impressions that’ve stayed with you?”

  She paused for a moment, but her response was merely, “Not really.”

  “What about your mom? How did she change afterward?”

  Again, Julie appeared to consider a response, before settling for, “It was years ago. How would I know?”

  Willy conceded her point, and asked, “Where’s your brother hanging his hat?”

  “Greg?” she asked, caught off guard.

  “You got another?”

  A small crease appeared between her brows. “Why do you want to talk with him? He was a kid then.”

  Willy had consulted a couple of law enforcement databases after Sharon failed to supply an address. They had yielded a recent address of one of Brattleboro’s more decrepit flophouses. Greg had been a passenger in a vehicle pulled over for erratic operation, two months earlier. The driver had been arrested for a criminally suspended license, while the other occupants had been required to show their IDs, as was standard good police practice. To Willy, Greg’s presence in the computer had implied that while he hadn’t done anything illegal yet—or at least been caught at it—he was likely treading on precarious ground. In any case, Willy had checked the place out and found that Greg had moved on.

  Julie Washburn picked up a pad from the conference table behind her and wrote down the address of a little-known cluster of cabins on the Brattleboro—Dummerston line, tucked away in the wooded hills.

  Without much further ado, Willy thanked her and took his leave, having registered the turmoil behind her tightly controlled veneer.

  Not that he was surprised—or even cared all that much. He’d spent a professional lifetime looking into the faces of youngsters who’d been stepped on by adults—sometimes literally. After a few years, the pain had virtually ceased to impress. What did the bumper sticker say? LIFE IS SHIT AND THEN YOU DIE. Worked for him.