The Price of Malice Page 9

  “But the people he owed were crooks, no?” Lyn asked incredulously.

  Harry smiled. “Technically, maybe—he’s the guy I’ve been talking about. More of a middleman businessman, really. But Abílo was going to settle the debt anyhow, so it doesn’t make much difference.”

  She sat there for a while, absorbing a set of images she’d never before imagined, fighting her disappointment.

  Looking up at him one last time, she then asked, “What’s this businessman’s name?”

  She expected more resistance, but apparently Harry Martin had run out of steam. Without hesitation, he said, “Brandhorst. Dick Brandhorst. Lives up north. Used to be Portland, Maine. I’m not sure now. We always talk by cell phone. That’s all I know.”

  “You think he killed them?”

  He shook his head. “No reason to—they were playing ball. The guy’s like a banker for the down-and-out, Lyn. He’s not the one José laid the bets with—him I don’t know. Dick’s the moneyman; call him the collection agent, but not a leg-breaker like in the movies.”

  Lyn nodded and stood up, shaken and drained. “Thanks, Harry.”

  He caught hold of her hand, in an oddly gentle gesture, given the setting. “Lyn,” he said to her earnestly, and in contrast to the placating words he’d just uttered. “Please be careful. You’re all your family’s got now. Think of the living.”

  She squeezed his hand back and then let it drop. “I am,” she said, and headed toward the back door.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Joe paused at the bottom of the stairs, adjusting to the darkness. He knew where the light switch was—the municipal building’s basement was as well known to him as his own, housing as it did the police department’s cells, booking room, old case files, lockers, and sundry other areas. But it was cool down here, resonant only with the dull mechanical rumblings of most nineteenth-century hulks, and he wanted to savor the soothing silence. He was reaching the limit of how many hours he could stay awake and still be effective, and was therefore finding every cold drink, trip to the men’s room, or moment of respite like this to be an oasis amid the exhaustion.

  But for the time being, they couldn’t be overly indulged. He hit the lights and walked down the ancient, gloomy corridor to a door with a combination lock. This he typed in quickly from long memory, waited for the audible click, and pushed the door open.

  Ron Klesczewski turned from the table he was overseeing, deep in thought, and greeted his old boss.

  “Hey, Joe. You look like you could use some sleep.”

  Joe half smiled. “I might grab a little just to kill off all the comments.”

  Ron laughed. “Oh, oh. Sorry.”

  Joe flapped his hand dismissively. “No—you look like death warmed over, you should expect it. I can’t fake it like I used to. After this, I’ll lie down for a while.”

  He gestured toward the table—actually one of three that had been shoved together to carry all the items seized from Castine’s apartment. “You find anything?”

  “We’re getting a feel for his habits,” Ron told him. “His garbage hadn’t been tossed yet, so we got a mother lode there. That job,” he admitted with a laugh, “I assigned to somebody else.”

  He crossed over to a neat display of soiled and wrinkled receipts. “We got these to add to the ones you found,” he explained. “And I have people talking to merchants all over town, flashing his picture and asking if he’s been seen with a kid—or anyone of interest, for that matter. Maybe we’ll get lucky. It’s a small town, especially the circles he traveled, and nobody likes what he was doing.”

  “Plus, he’s dead,” Joe added.

  “Never hurts,” Ron agreed. “Nobody’s gonna come knocking at night.”

  “What about the computer?” Joe asked.

  “Sheila’s got that,” Ron said simply. Sheila Murphy, one of his detectives, had recently gone to school to get certified in high-tech forensic autopsies, as Joe thought of them. “Don’t know what she’s found yet.”

  Joe was staring off into space, seemingly miles away.

  “You okay?” Ron asked him quietly.

  Joe shifted his gaze. “Yeah. Sorry. Daydreaming a little.”

  “Troubles?”

  “Could be,” Joe conceded. Ron was an old friend, they didn’t work on the same squad anymore, and certainly Ron had bared his soul to Joe a time or two in the past.

  “Lyn really took it to heart when I discovered her father’s boat in Maine.”

  “I heard about that,” Ron said. “She’s not blaming you, is she?”

  “Not rationally,” Joe agreed, “but it’s not rational territory. The family disintegrated when the old man disappeared. It was an old-fashioned patriarchy.”

  “I don’t get it, though,” Ron argued. “Why’s finding the boat a big deal? I mean, not to be indelicate, but he and the son are still dead, right?”

  “It implies they didn’t die in a storm,” Joe explained. “And in that culture, where smuggling is like a historical prerogative, the next reasonable explanation ain’t too cheery.”

  Ron grunted softly. “I see what you mean. You get the local authorities on it?”

  “On what?” Joe countered. “They know about it, but there’s nothing to work with.”

  He paused and surveyed the belongings scattered across Ron’s three tabletops. “Anyhow, that’s not what we’re here for. What else have you got?”

  Sam stood in the shadows, her body loose and relaxed. Over the years, initially coached by Willy—a past master at this—she’d learned to stay on surveillance, immobile and nearly invisible, for hours on end, denying any desires for food or drink, or even the need to pee. She knew she was probably slowly ruining her kidneys in the process, but her prowess had gained her a reputation she perversely enjoyed.

  She was standing outside Castine’s now emptied apartment, unknowingly where Gary Nelson had stood guard when Joe had told him to interview the neighbors.

  Nelson had met two of the three, and gotten the story of Castine being seen with a young girl, but that’s where it had ended.

  Sam thought she might improve on that. For one thing, she’d run the occupants of all three apartments through the Spillman data bank—shared by ninety percent of all the law enforcement agencies in the state—and had come up with some interesting tidbits on the one missing tenant.

  Andrea Halnon, nicknamed Andie, had not chosen the straight and narrow. A thief, a drug mule, a check forger, she had several pages of references attesting to her criminal acumen—from consorting with known felons, to supplying kids with cigarettes, to being the driver at an armed robbery—the list was a veritable primer on how to violate the law. And she was only thirty-three years old.

  The point of interest to Sam, however, wasn’t her easy way with rules, but her negotiating skills after being caught. Andrea Halnon had become a master in judicial deal making. In exchange for selling everything and everyone down the river, she’d either bartered her way straight back onto the street, or at worst spent a few months in one of the state’s less-than-lethal lockups.

  To Sam’s mind, that made her someone who was not only willing to deal, but who made sure she always had something to trade, just in case.

  Halnon also had a weak spot. She was a two-time loser in cases where it counted, and she’d been officially warned that the habitual offender statute was dangling right over her head. Even for able, fast-footed runners, there was an end to all roads eventually.

  Sam knew something else: that all her research had only revealed the crimes for which this woman had been caught. That meant, especially given her record, that Halnon had done much more than the law knew, and was most likely still hard at work—if cautiously. Finally, she was on the last legs of a probationary stretch. If she messed up now, even slightly, she’d be back in jail.

  Sam heard noises in the distant stairwell—quiet talking, some muted laughter—before two figures appeared at the far end of the hall. They paused while th
e shorter of them toggled the light switch to the bulb hanging halfway down the corridor, and which Sam had unscrewed earlier.

  “That dumb fuck,” she heard a woman exclaim. “The light’s out again. Jesus. What a rat hole.”

  The taller shadow stayed quiet.

  They proceeded slowly, the woman leading, still talking. “Every week, something craps out in this goddamn building.”

  “You should move,” the male suggested quietly.

  Halnon laughed. “Yeah. Fuckin’ A. I should have a million bucks, too.”

  She reached the apartment door and pulled a key from her jeans, fumbling to fit the lock. When she pushed open the door at last, the light inside shot into the hallway, catching them like a theatrical spot. Sam immediately recognized Halnon’s companion as Tanner Fitzhugh, recently released from jail on a federal weapons charge, and someone that Halnon’s probation prohibited her from contacting.

  It wasn’t quite what Sam was expecting. She’d hoped to put the squeeze on this woman after a late night out, while she was possibly drunk, tired, doped up, or all three. Sam hadn’t considered a possible companion.

  By protocol, she had several choices: give up until the odds improved; retreat and call for backup, preferably from Parole and Probation, since they had the real clout in this game; or simply forge ahead and be the cowboy that her boss kept stressing she should never be.

  Without hesitation, she stepped forward, gun drawn, and ordered, “Police. Get down on your knees, cross your ankles, and lock your hands behind your necks. Now.”

  Luckily, her rashness didn’t cost her this time, as it had in the past. Both people simply followed orders and dropped to their knees, only Halnon muttering the obligatory, “Fuck me.”

  “Tanner Fitzhugh,” Sam addressed the man, approaching slowly.

  “Yeah,” was the tired response. “I know you?”

  “Keep looking straight ahead,” she ordered. She crouched behind him and quickly patted him down, looking for weapons and finding none.

  “I’m the cop who actually reads all the faxes about recently released federal inmates, and the fact that they’re not to consort with known criminal elements. That phrase ring a bell?”

  “Yeah,” he admitted with a sigh.

  “Well,” Sam informed him. “She’s what they were talking about.”

  Halnon varied her delivery only slightly. “Fuck you.”

  Sam grabbed Fitzhugh’s interlinked fingers from behind and yanked him to his feet. He let out a short cry of pain.

  “You come here to get laid?” she asked. “Dope? Do some planning for the next bank heist?”

  “I don’t have to talk to you,” he said, but without great effort.

  “That make you feel better?” Sam asked him, picking up on his weariness. “Good. You’re wrong, by the way. I could have you mailed right back to Rahway. You feel like testing me?”

  “No.”

  She let go of his fingers. “Drop your arms and walk down the hallway. Ten feet.”

  He did so, and stood still, peering into the darkness ahead.

  “Okay, Fitzhugh,” Sam told him. “Now that we’ve met, you can take a hike. But don’t forget the favor. I’ll come knocking someday.”

  Fitzhugh half turned on his heel and glanced back at her, the surprise clear in his voice. “For real?”

  Sam, still watching Halnon, waved at him. “Bye-bye. Don’t forget.”

  He didn’t answer as he quietly retreated, but she saw the half nod of his head in the gloom.

  She waited until the sound of his shoes had stopped resonating on the stairs.

  “Can I get up?” Halnon complained from her position.

  “Not yet.”

  Sam moved over to her and repeated the pat-down she’d conducted on Fitzhugh. Finding a soft, slightly crunchy bulge in the woman’s back pocket, she ordered, “Straighten up.”

  Halnon raised herself slightly on her knees, alleviating the pressure against the butt of her pants, and allowing Sam to reach in and extract a bag of weed from the pocket. Halnon half twisted around at the gesture and said angrily, “You can’t do that. It’s not a weapon.”

  “Wrong, legal-eagle—read Terry versus Ohio. Plus, you’re still on probation, and I’ve already got you on consorting. Do you really want to dick around like this?”

  Halnon resorted to what she knew. “Fuck.”

  Sam stepped away and holstered her gun. “Okay. Get up.”

  Halnon slowly rose, dusting off her knees. She was dressed in jeans that should have cut off her circulation, accessorized by a tank top so tight and so brief, Sam wondered why she’d bothered. On the other hand, it was pretty clear what had lured Fitzhugh up here.

  Sam pointed to the open door. “Go. Straight to the couch and sit.”

  Again, Halnon followed orders, but now aware that something more was afoot than a simple opportunity arrest. She settled in comfortably, crossed her legs, and asked, “Okay if I smoke?”

  Sam was standing to one side of the now closed door, her back against the jamb, so she could see the entire room. “You got ’em?”

  Halnon gestured to the table beside the couch. “Right there.”

  “Okay.”

  While her hostess extracted her cigarette, Sam asked her, “You hear about your neighbor?”

  “Wayne?” Halnon reacted instantly, flicking her lighter. “I heard he got knifed. That what you mean?”

  “You know something else?”

  She drew in a lungful of smoke and slowly let it out in a sigh, wreathing her head in a temporary cloud. “Jesus,” she said simultaneously. “You rousted me for Wayne? Who cares?”

  “Yeah,” Sam conceded. “We’re getting that a lot. Tell me about him anyway.”

  Halnon took a stab at taking control. “Why should I? I’m no snitch.”

  Sam burst out laughing, making the other woman smolder. “What? Andie, for Chrissake. You just practicing, or do you actually think I’ll buy that?”

  Her lips pursed, Halnon dropped the unfinished cigarette to the floor, stamped it with her shoe, and crossed her legs. “Fine. What do you want me to tell you?”

  “Interesting wording. The truth, Andie. Just the truth. I take it you knew him.”

  “Kinda. Sure.”

  “You were friends?”

  This time Halnon laughed, albeit bitterly. “I was a little old for him.”

  “So, he was exclusive that way? Only liked kids?”

  “Far as I know.”

  “Both sexes? Boys and girls?”

  “Girls.”

  “You ever witness that?”

  Halnon flared up. “What do you think I am? I wouldn’t watch that shit.”

  “Then how do you know what he was doing?”

  Her expression was wiltingly condescending. “How did you know what Tanner and I had in mind when you busted us?”

  “You saw Castine bring kids to his apartment?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  Sam left her position by the wall and crossed to the couch, sitting on its edge to imply an intimacy she didn’t feel. “Andie,” she said feelingly. “I’m sorry I came on so strong. I really hate this stuff. It gets to me—with the kids. But you know how it can be, being a girl and having a scummy guy like that come after you.”

  Halnon reacted immediately, as if warding off a bad memory. “I wouldn’t know. Even as a kid, I woulda cut the balls off anyone trying that.”

  Sam nodded thoughtfully. “I know, I know. That’s not what I’m saying. I just want to nail this down. Could be whoever killed him was a competitor—another snapper. May not be just good news, like you said.”

  Andie’s eyes widened. “For real? Holy shit.”

  “I’m not saying it’s a fact,” Sam said quickly. “Just that it’s possible.”

  “Sure, sure.” Halnon nodded her head, having clearly not heard the built-in denial.

  “So,” Sam continued, “I’d really appreciate anything you can give
me—what you heard; what you saw. There must’ve been something.”

  “Oh,” Andie now freely volunteered. “He was a total pig. I hated having him next door. I’m glad he’s dead, ’cause I was wondering how to do it myself. You know?”

  Sam nodded sympathetically. “Did you tell someone about it?”

  “I didn’t need to. People knew about Wayne.”

  The continual vagueness was getting to Sam. “Like who, Andie?”

  “I’m not gonna rat out my friends. What if one of them did do it?”

  Sam scratched her forehead, considering her options.

  Out of the blue, Halnon then volunteered, “I knew one of the girls, though. Becky Kerr. I saw her running out of here once, crying. I knew in my gut what had happened.”

  Sam sat forward. “You saw her running from Castine’s apartment?”

  “Down the stairs when I was coming up. Same thing.”

  “She could’ve been visiting one of your other neighbors?”

  “Those bitches?” Halnon asked incredulously. “I don’t think so. It was Wayne. I’m telling you.”

  Maybe, thought Sam. “Any others?”

  “Kids?”

  “Yeah.”

  But Andrea Halnon shook her head, undermining the accusation she’d previously made against Castine.

  Still, this was something to pursue. A thread.

  “How do I find Becky?” Sam asked.

  “Beats me. Ask her mom—Karen Putnam.”

  Sam rose and crossed back to the door. “I think I will.” She then pointed a finger at Halnon and added, “And remember: You owe me one.”

  Halnon’s familiar expression of contempt resettled in place. “Yeah, whatever.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Willy Kunkle checked the list of ex-tenants that Liz Babbitt’s landlord had given him, and then consulted his watch. He wasn’t bored, or longing to get home. He’d been known to work for days on a whim, and knew Sam was chasing leads anyhow, and that home therefore meant an empty apartment. The thought made him smile ruefully. There’d been a time when the mere notion of having a woman living with him was a fantasy, much less something to count on.