“He claims he’s happy being poor. Doesn’t want the money.”
“Oh boy.” Bunk sat on the sill, shaking his head. “You know what I like about you? You’ve been a cop for how long, three years now? You drive a souped up Trans Am, dig jazz, women aren’t exactly repelled by you, and yet you’re naive as the day is long. You actually believe a guy who says he doesn’t want to inherit two million bucks?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” Bunk pushed off from the sill. “Keep believing it because the world needs innocent people. But I can’t. I’m trying, but I can’t.”
It was quiet in the squad room, just a faint clicking from Bannister’s computer. Dean was tempted to put a hand on the shoulder of his chief but decided not to.
“What about Rob Clampitt?” said Bunk. “We didn’t get much of a chance to talk to him. You want to check him out?” Bunk smiled. “You know him better than I do. Didn’t you get him to make a little contribution to the town for running a red fight?”
“Well, look who’s here,” said Rob Clampitt, getting up from his desk. “My favorite arresting officer.” Clampitt was a large man with fading good looks, thick gray hair, bags under his eyes. But he looked alert and moved with a quick step. When Dean had pulled him over a year ago, Clampitt had grumbled and cursed but afterwards didn’t seem to hold it against him. The realtor nodded toward a side chair and sat back down behind his desk. A lucite cube on the desk held photos of himself, a woman his age, and two twenties-something children standing outside an RV. On a shelf behind the desk were several tennis trophies.
“Did I ever tell you about that traffic fine, Dean? My lawyer wanted to fight it, can you believe that? The same guy who cost me an arm and a leg over a septic system suit two years ago. You know what I told him?”
“No idea.”
“You’re fired. That’s what I told him. You know who does most of my law work now?”
Dean almost said “no idea” a second time; shook his head instead.
“Me.” Clampitt jabbed a thumb into his chest. “I’m my own lawyer — except for closings and stuff like that. The hell with all of them, they’re just in it for the money. Do you know what lawyers and sperm have in common?”
“No id — no, I don’t.”
“They both have a one-in-a-million chance of turning out human.” Clampitt chortled.
“Look, Rob, I have to be somewhere else soon. I’d like to know if you heard anything Tuesday night?”
“Negative. We’re about a quarter mile away, with woods between us. When did it happen?”
“Between eight P.M. and midnight.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“Everyone’s a suspect.”
“Fair enough. Let’s see, Olla and I were watching an old Fred Astaire movie. At least part of the time. She’s gaga over Astaire, whereas I can take or leave all that twinkle-toe stuff. Probably from ten to eleven I was in my woodworking shop, and then it was lights out.”
“Any ideas?”
Clampitt rose and went to the window, fiddled with the cord of a Venetian blind. It had stopped raining; sunlight glistened on the metal roof of the lumberyard next door. “Beats me. It’s a funny thing, but I think I was one of the few people who got along with him. His own brother didn’t like him, nor the people who worked for him. The cleaning lady and her granddaughter, the guy who mows his lawn. The townspeople.” There was a catch in Clampitt’s voice as he turned from the window. “For the past two hundred years folks have been picnicking on Shincracker Hill, and then Lacy buys it and puts up No Trespassing signs. You’ve been up there, you know what it’s like. You can see the Adirondacks and White Mountains from it. The guy could be a real horse’s—” Clampitt caught himself, shook his head sadly. “I’ll tell you a story you won’t believe.”
“Try me.”
“Lacy and I had lunch together once in Montpelier — on him, believe it or not. We’d bet lunch over a set of tennis, and I won. He puts two quarters in the parking meter, we do lunch, get back in the car, and he doesn’t start the engine. After a while I say, ‘Everything okay?’ and he says, ‘There’s ten minutes left on the meter. Damned if I’m giving anyone a free park.’ ”
“Come on.”
“I knew you wouldn’t believe it. He could be like a little kid. You know, gimme that, it’s mine. But he was also vulnerable. Once, after I beat him in tennis, I said, ‘You’ll get me next time,’ and he said, ‘I doubt it. Let’s face it, I’m a loser. In everything I’ve tried. I’m an aging playboy — and not a very good one at that.’ ”
“But you liked him?”
Clampitt sat down slowly in his chair. “Some of the time. Especially when I was beating him in tennis.”
“One last question and then I’ll leave you alone. Do you smoke?”
“Nossir. I’ve got my bad habits, but smoking isn’t one of them, thank God.”
“A party?” said Dean into the phone.
“Well, not exactly a party. There won’t be a band or any dancing,” said Marty DeBeck. “But there will be a surprise or two. I hope you can make it.”
“Listen,” said Dean, “if you know who killed your brother, tell me now, okay?”
“This isn’t about that,” said Marty. “Tell you the truth, I’m not sure I want to know. I always figured that sooner or later some irate father or husband would take care of Lacy, and frankly, I can’t say I feel sorry for him. So you’ll be there tomorrow at four?”
Dean said he would think about it and hung up.
Trish saw him before he saw her. He was pulling into the parking lot at Simmons Field when, out of the corner of his eye, he picked up a long arm waving to him from the sidelines. The game was already under way, the Misfits against the Hooties. About seventy-five spectators were scattered along the sidelines. The grass was still damp from that morning’s rain, but it was drying fast under a hot sun. To the west Mount Mansfield was shrouded in a blue haze. Trish came over to him by the first-base line.
“You made it,” she said.
“Yeah, I happened to be driving by and... can’t stay long, though.”
Trish nodded, her expression serious.
“I know how busy you are. So. Any luck with the case?”
Dean looked into her eyes bright with curiosity and shrewdness.
“Not much. Do you have any idea who did it?”
“I might have. But I’m not talking until I’m sine.”
“Who?”
Trish shook her head.
With a sigh Dean turned back to the game, watching Tiffany at shortstop for the Misfits, bent over, loose, pounding her left hand into her glove. “You still haven’t found a print?” asked Trish.
“Nope. Wow!” A ball had been hit to the left side of the infield. At the crack of the bat Tiffany started running; she dived, made a one-handed stop, plucked the ball from her glove, and, still on her knees, threw to first. The runner was safe but only by half a step. “Did you see that?” said Dean. “Ozzie Smith couldn’t do it better. Or Garciaparra.”
The blue eyes shone with pride. She gave him an appraising look. “You kinda like her, don’t you?”
Dean, pretending he hadn’t heard, kept watching the game.
“Okay, you don’t like her.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Trish smiled and then folded her arms and watched the pitcher. After a minute she said, “I guess it’s pretty obvious how I feel about Tiffany. I told you about her father yesterday. He’s a long way off now, but the scars are still there. Do you know what the worst thing about that is?”