Part 8 (1/2)
He held his hand up. ”I don't know. It just flashed through my mind-R. Frederick, Ready Freddy. Wonder what the 'R' stood for.”
”You serious?”
Joe shrugged. ”I don't know. I guess not. It's possible, though. You check into a motel for illicit purposes, maybe you're feeling playful. Anyhow, doesn't matter. We have to do this by the numbers, even if it turns out he used his real name. BOL, canva.s.s, AFIS for the fingerprints, the whole smorgasbord. And we need to figure out how he got here-train, bus, cab, hitchhiking.”
He paused to address Ron. ”Anything you need from us?”
Klesczewski shook his head. ”No. We're okay. We'll do a forensic vacuuming later, maybe use the luminol. Since the Bureau's paying, the sky's the limit, right, even though it's a motel room and guaranteed to give us too much and therefore nothing at all?”
Joe raised his eyebrows. ”That mean you're giving us the case?”
Ron bowed slightly. ”With our compliments. We're drowning in work right now, the budget's hemorrhaging, the chief's on the warpath, and Sam and Ron were telling me you might be working a related case anyhow. It makes sense.”
”Then our wallet's your wallet,” Joe told him. ”And thank you. You going to want the crime lab at all?”
The state forensic lab usually did such work, traveling to a.s.sist almost every department in Vermont. But not all of them. The bigger PDs liked to lay claim to being just as good on their own. Brattleboro had been known to go either way.
”I think we got it,” Ron said. ”We'll keep you posted.”
Joe headed toward the door. ”Okay, then, I'll leave you all to it.”
In the hallway outside, he began climbing out of his Tyvek suit, leaning against the wall for support. Sam had followed him outside.
”Thanks for coming down. I hated bothering you. How're things up north?”
He hesitated, one foot in the air, and pursed his lips, trying to pay the question its due. ”Complicated,” he finally said.
She tried reading between the lines. ”Medically?”
”Not really, although Leo's not out of the woods.” He resumed removing the overalls, continuing, ”I'm helping the sheriff's office look into the car crash.”
”You're kidding me,” she exclaimed.
He shook his head. ”I'm not saying there's anything to it-not necessarily. But I have some questions.”
He held his hand up as she opened her mouth, her eyes wide. ”Sam, that's all I've got right now. If I hit on anything, you'll be the first to know. In fact, you'll probably have to take the case over 'cause of my personal involvement. Right now I'm just sniffing around.”
He bundled up the white suit and shoved it into a transparent bag for disposal. ”You could do something, though, come to think of it,” he admitted.
”Shoot,” she answered.
”Run down what you can about Andy Griffis. I don't remember his birth date, but he was from Thetford originally. I busted him in Bratt a few years ago, and he committed suicide late this summer, so he shouldn't be hard to locate. Everything you can find.”
She was already scribbling a few notes in her pad. ”Got it. Reach you at your mom's?”
”Generally, or use the pager. And don't punch a case quite yet, okay? Off the books.”
Joe stood on the sidewalk, his hands buried in his coat pockets, looking across the street at the bar. It was a far cry from the place in Gloucester where he'd first met Lyn Silva, whom he'd known then only as Evelyn. That had been a notorious dive, well known to the local cops, and literally home to an ever-changing tide of anonymous people who lived on the top two floors in rented rooms that looked like jail cells. Included among those residents had been the dead man Joe had come down there hoping to interview.
This was a serious step up. A handsome, elaborately carved sign over the door advertised ”Silva's,” the bay windows to either side of the door had been framed with nicely worked wooden casings in the style of a century ago, and he could see, behind the gla.s.s, tables placed on raised platforms to afford patrons a better view of the street.
He crossed over and saw a paper sign on the door reading ”Not open yet, but hold that thought.”
He paused at the foot of the three steps leading up, startled at how well that phrasing reflected his own situation. His attraction to Lyn was not at issue, nor was her clear interest in him, despite his wondering at that good fortune. What was stalling him was old baggage-his age, his past with Gail and its lingering emotional fallout, his near miss at losing his mother and Leo. He was gun-shy and unsure and more inclined to pulling in than to exploring a new relations.h.i.+p. His one night with Hillstrom had been a defining moment, though in large part appreciated precisely because it had no future.
Proceeding through the door ahead of him could be much more than he wanted to handle right now-if ever again.
”Does he dare?” came from behind him.
He turned around sharply, struck as much by the wording as by the voice. Lyn Silva stood in the street, carrying three precariously balanced cardboard boxes, a half smile on her face.
”I serve c.o.ke, too,” she added.
He wondered if her opening line, as insightful as it had seemed, had in fact meant something more mundane. It was possible, given the c.o.ke follow-up, but he'd learned not to sell her short. Her canny instincts about people-including herself-had struck him all the way back in Gloucester. She was just as possibly allowing them both a little leeway.
”Looks like it's really coming along,” he said blandly, instinctively reaching for the top two boxes of her stack.
She nodded, glancing up at the sign. ”I was about to ask if you wanted to come in, but if you don't now, you'll be stealing my stuff.”
Almost surprised, he looked down at what he'd just taken into his arms. ”Sorry. That was a little-”
”Much appreciated,” she interrupted. ”Come on. It's open.”
She cut around him and led the way, b.u.mping the door open with one slim blue-jeaned hip.
The interior was warm and smelled of old wood and leather, with a scattering of tables and upholstered stools paralleling the long bar stretching into the gloom ahead. The room was narrow, high-ceilinged, and deep, with an unusual balcony high and to the back, overhanging what seemed fated to become a small stage for musicians. The decor largely consisted of more wood detailing, old mirrors, and framed photographs and portraits, some of which were still propped against the baseboard. There were also several dartboards.
”Just dump those on the bar,” she told him, doing the same. ”Would you like a c.o.ke? I'm about to have one. Long day. Take your coat off.” you like a c.o.ke? I'm about to have one. Long day. Take your coat off.”
He pulled over a stool and settled down as she circled the bar to get to a small fridge tucked under the counter near the cash register. ”Lucky you have a thing for c.o.ke. I had a deal with the Pepsi distributor until we got into a fight, so I dropped them for the out-of-town Coca-Cola dealer. Not that I've gotten the equipment and supplies yet, so we'll see. Anyhow, I keep a few basics on hand, just in case. Be crazy not to have anything except water, even if the place isn't officially open.”
She quickly crouched and extracted two cans of soda from the fridge in one clean movement, reminding him of how habituated she was to this environment. Looking around again at the boxes and the gentle disarray, he thought this might be like visiting a magician backstage, before the curtain rose and the lights blocked out all but the main attraction. He recalled sitting at the end of the bar in Ma.s.sachusetts, admiring how she simultaneously worked the clientele while balancing the multiple tasks of her profession-taking orders, pouring drinks, making change, was.h.i.+ng gla.s.ses, refilling nut dishes, keeping the bar top clean and free of clutter-all without missing a beat. And by Vermont law, all bars had to serve enough food to supply at least 20 percent of overall sales, so he knew she had the basics of a kitchenette somewhere, as well.
She popped the tabs on both cans simultaneously and poured the contents into two ice-filled gla.s.ses she'd conjured up, seemingly out of thin air.
”Lime?” she asked.
He laughed at the automatic request dovetailing so perfectly with his line of thought. ”No, I'm fine. Thanks. How long till you open?”
She took a long pull on her own drink and looked around, as if at a museum exhibition under construction. ”Couple of weeks, tops. It's been an amazing haul-just filling out paperwork for over a month, for one thing. Inspections, license applications, tax forms, contracts-none of which had anything to do with the actual work of painting, sanding, buying furniture and fixtures, rigging the sound system, you name it. And there's still a ton of piddly stuff left. But most of the heavy lifting is done. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.”
”It must be like reaching a life goal,” he suggested. ”Being able to work for yourself.”
By now she was leaning with the small of her back against the counter behind her. ”I wouldn't go that far. It is just a bar. But it's nice to be out of Gloucester. I was way too long in that place.”