“It’s not over!” Weinstock barked. “It’s still happening.”
Ferro set down his pen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You thought everything was over when Boyd died, huh? Well, let me tell you, Frank, that was just the start of it. Things have been happening here in town you should know about.”
“Like what?”
“Like…well, I really don’t want to go into this over the phone.”
Oh brother, Ferro thought. “Why not? Are you afraid someone might be monitoring your call?”
“No, it isn’t that.”
“What, then?”
“What I have to say involves a lot of very detailed material. Forensic evidence. X-rays, tests results, stuff you should come and take a look at.”
“It’s not my case anymore. The FBI is in charge now.”
“Oh, please…those two jokers who were here during the manhunt? Neither of them could find his butts with both hands and a map. You ran that investigation.”
“I helped to coordinate it, but—”
“You ran it. Look, Frank, I’m really not in the mood to mince words. I’m under one hell of a lot of pressure right now, and to tell you the truth, I’m pretty scared.”
“Scared?” Ferro echoed, half-smiling. He leaned back in his chair and put his crossed ankles up on his desk. “Scared of what?”
Again that long silence. “Of what I found out during my autopsies…and what I’ve discovered since then.”
“Have you discussed this with Sheriff Bernhardt?”
“Oh, of course not. He’s hopeless, and you know it. The mayor’s still in a coma, so there’s no one here to talk to except Malcolm Crow and Val Guthrie and both of them are sitting here in my office right now. We all want to talk with you.”
“They’re both there?”
“Yes,” Weinstock. “Look, I know it’s a lot to ask, but if you could just meet us, let us share our concerns with you.”
Ferro sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Saul…I just can’t see how I can manage that.”
“What if I told you I found some of the missing cocaine?”
“Say that again?”
“Would you be interested if I found some of the cocaine that Ruger misplaced somewhere here in Pine Deep?”
“Are you saying you have found some?”
“Would it make a difference if I have? Would it get you to come back to Pine Deep? Would you be reassigned to the case?”
“I could request it,” Ferro said cautiously. “If, and I say if, you actually had located some of the missing coke. I want to be really clear on that.”
There was some low conversation at the other end and then a new voice spoke. “Frank? Crow here. You’re on speakerphone. Look, I don’t want to try and bullshit you with some fairy tale about finding the coke. We didn’t find any, but we did find some other stuff and we need to talk to you. I know about the whole jurisdictional thing, but trust me when I tell you that this is important. Vitally important.”
“Crow…”
“People are dying here, Frank.”
“You have a police force.”
“No,” said a third voice—Val’s. “No, Detective Ferro I don’t think we do. I think we’re all alone here and we need your help.”
Ferro said nothing.
“Detective Ferro…Frank,” Val said, “you told me that at my father’s funeral that if there was ever anything you could do. I know people say that because they don’t know what else to say, but I’m going to take you at your word. I’m going to make you live up to your word. You said you’d help if I needed it, and I need it. What’s your word worth?”
“That’s pretty damned—”
“Answer the question,” she snapped. “What is your word worth? I’ve lost my father, my brother, and my sister-in-law, and one of my best friends is in a coma. Doesn’t that give me enough of a right to ask for help?”
Ferro felt heat bloom in his cheeks. “That’s a low blow, Ms. Guthrie.”
“I don’t care. At this point I’d do anything to get you to come out here. Believe me when I say that.”
“Okay,” he said. “I do believe you.”
“Will you come?”
He sighed in disgust. “Oh, all right, I’ll come out. But you get to play this card once and that’s it.”
“Thank you, Frank,” she said.
Crow said, “Can we do this tomorrow morning? Meet for lunch?”
“Why?”
“Because we may not have a lot of time with this. Look, Warrington’s about halfway…why don’t you meet us at Graeme Pizza? You know where that is?”
“Across from the movie theater? On County Line Road, just off 611?”
“Yeah. Noon okay?”
“Not really,” Ferro said, “but we’ll be there.”
He slammed down the phone.
“Shit!
(2)
“Is this all of it?” Vic said, pulling open the panel truck’s back door. It was filled with cartons floor to ceiling.
“Everything you asked for,” said the driver. He was a weasel-faced man name Trent who owned a minority share in a candy company in Crestville. The truck was backed into an empty bay at Shanahan’s garage. Trent looked around, but there was no one else in sight.
Vic pulled one box down and tore it open. Inside were forty one-pound bags of Pine Deep Authentic Candy Corn. He took the clipboard from Trent’s hand and scanned down the list. Fifteen boxes of candy corn; forty boxes of marshmallow Peeps—ten each of bats, pumpkins, ghosts, and black cats; twenty boxes of Gummi worms; and the rest were cartons of rolled sugar dots in Halloween colors.
“Looks good.” He handed the clipboard back. “Okay, leave the truck here and I’ll have some of my boys offload this shit. I’ll drive you to the Black Marsh train station. You packed?”
Trent gave a nervous bob. “By the time anyone starts tripping on these goodies I’ll be in Rio.”
“Sounds fun. Don’t send me a postcard.”
“No way, José. Now…just to put me at ease…you’re going to take care of everything, right? You won’t leave anything that’ll tie me to this?”
“Yeah, I’ll handle everything.” Vic fished a cigarillo from his shirt pocket. “Got a light?”
“Sorry, don’t smoke.”
“No problem,” Vic said, and kicked him in the groin. Trent’s eyes goggled with surprise and sudden agony; he made a strangled squeak and dropped to his knees. Vic kicked him in the face and then stood over him and stomped him nearly to death. He smiled all the time.
A figure stepped out from the far side of the truck. The embroidered patch on his shirt said Shanahan. “Jeez, Vic…he screw you over or something?”
Vic turned. He was breathing heavy. “Nah…just working out some frustrations.” He nodded at what was left of Trent. “You hungry?”
Shanahan smiled a toothy smile. “Sure,” he said, “I could eat.”
“Help yourself. I got to head home.”
(3)
Mike stopped home between school and his shift at the Crow’s Nest to get a sweater. The afternoon had gone suddenly cold and his light windbreaker was nowhere near warm enough. He leaned his bike against the steps, climbed onto the porch, and had just turned the handle when he heard Vic yelling. Mike froze in an attitude of listening, head cocked to one side.
“You’re such a pain in the ass, Lois, I swear to God! All you do anymore is bitch about how hungry you are, but you won’t frigging eat anything we bring you.”
We? Mike thought.
He heard his mother reply, but her words were too faint to make out.