The Surrogate Thief Page 9

  “Ugh,” Joe said. “That’s gotta be fun.”

  “The pressing isn’t bad. People are looking for hope. I’m happy to give them that. Fund-raising you can keep. The bigger the cats, the more obsequious they expect you to be.”

  “You need the money that badly?”

  It was a pertinent question. Not only was Gail wealthy by birth, but she’d made a lot of money in real estate after retiring as a hippie, now quite a long time ago.

  She didn’t take offense. “I could fund it myself, but that would send exactly the wrong message, especially with Parker and the Republicans using Tom Bander as their personal J. P. Morgan.”

  “What’s Bander’s deal, anyway?” Joe asked. “Leo brought him up, and I didn’t have a clue, aside from the money thing.”

  “Just a rich guy,” she answered vaguely before pausing to add, “Actually, I don’t really know. I met him at a ribbon cutting years ago—didn’t make much of an impression. I didn’t even know he was into politics until he came out for Parker. The grapevine has it that he keeps a low profile, gets really good people to do his deals for him, and basically reaps the benefits. Susan thinks he’s backing Parker because he wants to step out a little—maybe join the mainstream now that he’s made his bundle.

  “Which is exactly why I can’t be put in the same boat,” she continued, back on track. “I’ve got to go out and raise money by tens and twenties. My own wealth is a liability, especially since right now I’m only running against fellow Democrats. That’s the irony—it’s members of my own party I have to playact for. Assuming I win the primary, it’ll be much less dicey, even if it’s a tougher race—what my handlers don’t want me to know is that word on the street is, this whole thing is Parker’s to lose.”

  She raised her head and looked at him. “You wouldn’t be willing to help me out there, would you? Call on some of your buddies—tell them I’m not the Wicked Witch of the Far Left?”

  “Sure,” he said quickly, but he was instantly uncomfortable with the idea, even resentful. She knew that politics was something he worked to avoid. Now he’d been put between a rock and a hard place, having to lobby colleagues who were already leery about his new role with the VBI. It was going to be goddamned awkward, and he was angry at himself for not having said so immediately.

  She seemed to sense his reservations without wanting to take him off the hook. She added, “It wouldn’t be a lie. I know your guys can’t stand all the environmental and education stuff, but you can assure them I’d be in their corner on law enforcement. I am an ex-prosecutor, after all.”

  He grunted assent, but was remembering that the “ex-” part of that had to do with her locking horns with her boss, the local state’s attorney. The man was never happier than when she left.

  “Maybe the Dover and Wilmington chiefs, some people at the police unions. That wouldn’t put you in a bind, would it?”

  Again, the opportunity to bow out. Again, ignored.

  “No. I can do that.”

  She snuggled in again, kissing his chin. “God, it’s nice being here.”

  He wished he could agree. But all he felt now was foolish.

  Joe took Lester Spinney with him to interview Derek Beauchamp. The fourth and last member of Joe’s squad, Lester was cranelike in appearance, the unit’s sole family man, the only one to have come to them from the state police, and unique for his quiet, laid-back demeanor. It was this latter characteristic that had made him Joe’s choice for this outing.

  “What’s your pleasure with Mr. Beauchamp, boss?” Spinney asked from the passenger seat as they drove north on Route 30 alongside the West River. He was reading the Oberfeldt file, which Joe had handed him in the parking lot, familiarizing himself with ancient crimes and procedures.

  “I’m not looking for any problems,” Joe told him. “I did a records check and found nothing beyond some recreational drug dabbling. He got into the usual mischief as a teenager, but he’s mid-thirties now, on a second marriage with kids, and seems to get the high-end jobs, which must say something about his abilities. I phoned a contractor friend and asked him if he’d heard of the guy. He said Beauchamp was reliable and had a good reputation. He probably pads the bills a bit, overorders at the homeowner’s expense, but that was it. No red flags.”

  Spinney glanced out at the passing scenery, a soothing blur of variegated green and sun-dappled water. “Reminds me of why I do all my own home improvements, regardless of how shitty they end up.” He tapped the file with his fingertip. “According to John Moser, Beauchamp found the gun under the floorboards. That makes it a theft, doesn’t it?”

  “Technically,” Gunther agreed. “We could use that if necessary. You want to be good cop or bad?”

  Lester slapped his hand over his heart. “Oh, that cuts. With Kunkle available, you ask me that?”

  Gunther conceded his point. “All right. You’re the shining knight.”

  They were driving toward Newfane, some twelve miles northwest of Brattleboro, Windham’s county seat and a village of almost pristine beauty. Joe had been told that Derek Beauchamp was working on an expensive remodeling job high on Newfane Hill, an area with a complement of very expensive real estate. Newfane was one of the towns Gail was counting on heavily, famous for its liberal leanings.

  “How’s the campaign going?” Lester asked, as if Joe had been speaking out loud.

  “Fine, I guess,” he answered, surprised by how little pleasure he found in the question. It saddened him that his best friend’s greatest ambition to date should cause him to have such a reaction.

  “I would find that tougher than hell,” Spinney continued. “Having my better half running for office—everyone poking into her private life. You guys ever see each other?”

  “Sure,” Joe said shortly.

  Spinney looked at him. “Ouch. Sorry.”

  “No,” Gunther protested. “I saw her last night. It is awkward, though.”

  “The politicking or the gossip?”

  Now it was Gunther’s turn to take his eyes off the road. “What gossip?”

  Spinney looked apologetic. “Jeez. I shouldn’t have opened this can. I’ve heard mutterings that she’s making hay off of being a rape victim. Shit like that.”

  “Oh, for Christ sake. Like there’s a plus side to being raped?”

  Lester held up his hands. “Hey, I hear you. That’s why I asked if it was tough.”

  They were quiet for a while, each ruminating on how fast a conversation could deteriorate.

  “She asked me to make some calls for her,” Joe admitted as a way to apologize.

  Spinney’s reaction was upbeat. “That makes sense. You gonna do it?”

  “I said I would.”

  Spinney paused and then added, smiling, “Well, I’m not the legendary Joe Gunther, but I’ll help you do that, if you want.”

  Again Joe looked over at his partner’s open, friendly face, feeling surprised and grateful. “No shit?”

  Lester Spinney waved dismissively. “No shit, but it better count for some serious brownie points.”

  They saw Derek Beauchamp’s van long before they saw its owner. A virulent shade of purple, it had a flamboyant yellow and red sign reading “The Sanding Sandman—Your Floor Is My Desire.”

  “Jesus,” Spinney said as Joe parked among the standard construction site collection of battered pickups. “That’s some sales pitch.”

  The building they were facing had once been a traditional Greek Revival farmhouse: two and a half stories, with the most ancient section standing at the head of a line of ever smaller additions, tacked on over the ages, which now trailed out behind it like a short row of diminishing train cars. As part of the present overhaul, it had all been reclad in bare cedar, topped with copper, and refitted with brand-new, triple-glazed gas-injected windows.

  “Nothing but the best,” Spinney muttered as they approached the entrance across a debris-strewn yard. “Must be nice.”

  They stepped through the ope
n door into a wall of rock music and fine dust and the smell of fresh everything: lumber, joint compound, varnish, and new plastic. A man wearing a face mask and carrying a bucket appeared in a hallway opposite them.

  “Can you tell us where Derek is?” Joe shouted to him.

  The man pointed, still walking across the room. “Upstairs.”

  Following a broad path of taped-down protective kraft paper, they found a sweeping staircase leading up and proceeded through several grandiose rooms outfitted with built-in cherry cabinets, marble fireplaces, and other baubles. It was like stepping into a TV program of This Old House, minus the camera crew and the sycophant host.

  Through it all, Lester kept muttering and shaking his head.

  At the end of their trip, they slipped through a plastic sheet barrier and came to a large back bedroom/gym combination, filled not with the intended equipment but with a large, burly man wearing a mask, goggles, and ear protectors, who was pushing around a bulky, screaming floor sander. The air was opaque with sawdust.

  Gunther, in bad-cop mode, walked across the room and stood in front of the machine, forcing its operator to stop and kill his mechanical beast.

  The man tore off his protective equipment and glared at Joe in the sudden, echoing silence. “Goddamn it. If you made me fuck up this floor . . .”

  Joe cut him off by flashing his shield. “You’ll what?”

  His mouth still open in midsentence, the man looked from Joe to Lester.

  “Sorry about that,” Lester said pleasantly, filling in. “Are you Derek Beauchamp?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you won’t mind if we ask you a few questions,” Joe suggested, his face still grim.

  “No. I mean, sure. What do you want?”

  Joe went straight to it. “You sold a gun recently to John Moser. Where did you get it?”

  Beauchamp paled so that the previously covered parts of his face matched the dusty ones. “I didn’t sell a gun.”

  Joe stepped in close enough that their chests were almost touching. Beauchamp instinctively tucked his chin in.

  “That is bullshit. You sold a gun illegally for twenty bucks and some Ecstasy. Moser gave you up so fast, we’d barely asked the question.”

  Just like in the movies, Lester now approached and held up his hand passively to Joe. “You mind? Just for a sec?”

  Joe shrugged angrily and moved away to look out the dusty window at the scenery outside.

  “Never mind him,” Lester said in a near whisper. “Very bad day. Look, nothing’ll happen here if you help us out, Derek. This is no big deal, okay? Just tell me where you got the gun.”

  “I found it,” Beauchamp answered equally softly, as if their words weren’t still bouncing around the cavernous room. “Under the floorboards at another job.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You have to prep the floors first,” he answered. “Well, I mean, not here. This is all new flooring using old barn boards—really expensive. But over there it was more like the usual, you know? Just making what’s already down look better.”

  “We get it, Derek,” Joe growled without turning around.

  “Right. Sorry,” he said quickly. “Anyhow, you have to prep the surface, which means you have to go around and countersink all the nails so you won’t tear up the machine. Well, that’s when I found a loose board. It was wiggly, slightly warped. You gotta fix things like that, or it won’t look right, so I pried it up to see what I could do, and that’s when I found it.”

  “Just lying there?” Lester asked.

  “Yeah. It was wrapped in a rag, like a towel, but there it was.”

  “Was there anything with it?”

  “I swear, man. It was all alone. It looked old. For sure nobody knew about it, ’cause the homeowners had just bought the place, so I figured, you know, what the hey? Maybe I could get some money for it. I mean, I didn’t want it myself. I’m not into that. But I didn’t know it was illegal.”

  Joe reapproached, his expression still hard. “It’s not illegal to sell a gun, stupid, unless it’s stolen and the price involves drugs. Or are you going to pretend you didn’t know that, either?”

  Beauchamp actually hung his head. “Sorry.”

  Spinney glanced at his boss. The good-cop-bad-cop routine had ended when Beauchamp had confessed. This last outburst of Joe’s had come from somewhere else.

  Lester quickly moved to extract the last piece of information they needed. “Derek,” he said gently, “where exactly was this job?”

  “Dummerston Center,” came the eager reply. “Just beyond the four-way intersection on the East-West Road, heading toward Putney. On the right, in the middle of that hairpin curve they got. Super-nice folks.”

  Beauchamp took a risk and looked at Joe. “I’m real sorry for what I did.”

  Joe’s face merely darkened. “You little jerk. You’re sorry we caught you at it, and you think dancing around like some ass-kissing five-year-old will get you off the hook. You and I know damn well that three seconds after we’re gone you’ll be calling us assholes to our backs.” He suddenly stabbed the man hard in his chest with his finger. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Beauchamp didn’t know what to say anymore. Spinney reached out and slowly lowered Joe’s hand with his own. “We’ll be heading out now, Derek,” he said in a neutral tone. “But remember what happened here, okay? You are now on our radar. Call us whatever you like later, but if we ever hear of you screwing around like this again, we won’t be coming around to chat. Is that crystal clear?”

  During this speech, Spinney was steering Joe toward the door, talking over his shoulder.

  Staring at them from his post near the silent sander, Derek Beauchamp still looked unsure. “So, I’m okay, then? This time?”

  Joe swung around. “There’s going to be another?”

  Beauchamp backed up, tripping over the electrical cord behind him. “No, no. Sorry. Not what I meant. I get it. I mean, I’m cool. Everything’s cool.”

  Gunther hesitated, as if pondering a choice of violent options. Finally, he turned on his heel, said, “Idiot,” and walked away with Spinney in pursuit.

  Spinney drove this time, allowing Joe to stare out the side window.

  “You okay?”

  Joe didn’t answer at first. Didn’t even move, until at last he shifted his gaze to the front and said, “You ever have those almost out-of-body experiences where you start doing something the rational part of your brain just can’t believe? It’s like being on autopilot and stamping on the brakes at the same time, getting nowhere.”

  “You know what pushed your button?” he asked.

  Gunther sighed. “It’s not like we don’t deal with guys like that every day. Something just snapped this time. The futility of it, maybe. Damned if I know. I just stood there and got really pissed off—all of a sudden. I felt like smacking him.” He altered his voice slightly in imitation. “‘I’m real sorry for what I did.’ Jesus. Give me a break. I sometimes think we’re just slightly more complicated than when we crawled out of the caves. We’re sure as hell no better. Me want, me take, and screw you in the process.”

  Spinney didn’t answer. Cops were ill disposed to think along such lines. It was almost guaranteed to undermine whatever satisfaction the job offered.

  As Joe knew all too well.

  “Sorry,” he said a moment later. “Too much shit on my mind.”

  The house Derek Beauchamp had described was more in keeping with the area’s norm for upward mobility. No Yuppie version of a rusticated mansion, this one was a straightforward salvation of a previously worn-down farmhouse: asphalt roof, economy paint job, a repaired foundation, and, they now knew, some refinished flooring.

  Fully recovered, Joe pulled himself out of the car and smiled at the young woman who stepped from the house to greet them.

  “Hi,” he said, waving toward Lester. “Sorry to bother you. We’re police officers from the Vermont Bureau of Investigation. My name’s Gunthe
r, and this is Lester Spinney. We’re just looking for some information—nothing bad,” he added, to assuage the alarm he saw growing on her face.

  As they drew closer, he stuck out his hand. “Call me Joe.”

  She shook it tentatively. “Margo Wilson.”

  Gunther indicated the house. “What a nice job. Just what the place needed.”

  Still flustered, Wilson turned and faced the house with them, as if they were all three admiring a mural. “Oh. Thanks. Did you know it before?”

  “Just to drive by. But you can tell you’ve given it a shot in the arm. Actually, that’s why we’re here. It’s sort of a historical fishing expedition. We’re trying to find out who used to own it.”

  “The Zimmers?” she asked.

  “Maybe,” Joe said. “Depends on how far back they go.”

  Wilson looked doubtful. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think they lived here for more than a few years. Mrs. Zimmer turned out to be allergic to almost everything, and they ended up moving back to the city. That’s why it was sort of run-down, and how we got such a decent price. Not that we haven’t poured a small fortune into fixing it up,” she added ruefully.

  “They’ll do that to you,” Lester commiserated, clearly more kindly inclined toward this homeowner than to the unknown ones they’d just left. “You love them, but they are out to ruin you, day in and day out.”

  Margo Wilson began to relax. She pointed toward the still open front door. “Would you like to come in? I think I know where Edward—that’s my husband—has squirreled away some of the old documents we got at the closing; maybe those’ll help. Would you like coffee? It’s fresh.”

  They entered together, she showed them around, and they made the appropriate flattering noises before settling down in the living room with the coffee and a small, messy pile of the aforementioned paperwork.

  Spinney kept their hostess entertained while Joe began leafing through the offerings.