But E. T. proved him wrong with two words. "Wayne Nugent," he said.
The name Sam hadn't been able to uncover. Griffis couldn't see the smile on Willy's face. Well, that was at least one puzzle solved.
In Ardmore, Pennsylvania, and outside Waterbury, Connecticut, Lester and Sammie, respectively, in the company of their host police agencies, conducted separate searches of the homes of the two men they'd once referred to as Wet Bald Rocky and Dry Hairy Fred.
Lester had gotten lucky with the videotape in the Ardmore Internet cafe. On film, the same man in the postmortem mug shots that Spinney was carrying around was seen sitting at the right computer and at the same time and date that John Leppman had dug up. Bruce Fellini, the cafe manager, still didn't know the man by name, but he did recognize the teenager at the neighboring console. That boy, a regular, was then located and told Lester that the person he was after was Norman Metz. With Detective Cavallaro's help, the last step to finding Metz's address-a single room in a house he shared with others in a run-down neighborhood-had been easy.
For Sam, the journey had been farther but easier still. The car abandoned at the Springfield bus depot had been eloquence itself, containing all the myriad details of its owner's vital records and habits, from his address to his birthdate, to his taste in music and candy. It had also confirmed the name that Detective Wilson had found through its registration-Frederick Nashman-whose identity was confirmed photographically by comparing Sam's mug shot with Connecticut DMV computer records.
Unlike where Lester was searching in Ardmore, however, Nashman's home outside Waterbury was a sedate, middle-class two-story house. Unfortunately for Sam, it also came equipped with a wife and teenage child.
Joe sat on what Lyn and he now viewed as his traditional perch, established when they'd first met in Gloucester-at the end of the bar, with his shoulder against the side wall and his hand around a Coke. He watched her traveling along the line of noisy, appreciative drinkers, chatting, laughing, making small talk and change as she served drinks, waved away compliments, and kept an air traffic controller's eye roaming across the room. He remembered what she'd told him then, after he'd plied her with a milkshake and a lobster roll. She'd said that the bar-the actual physical object-was like a barrier that allowed her access to the public while protecting her from it, thereby becoming the perfect platform for a shy person who longed for company. It had been a comment both intriguing and startling, since he'd always believed-as he figured most people did-that anyone in this business had to be a glutton for bad jokes, other people's miseries, and attention in general.
It was Friday night and the place was packed-a harbinger, he hoped, of her business prescience. He knew that many were here out of curiosity, of course. She'd even warned him about that. Not to mention the offer of opening night discount beer.
Bars weren't really his preference. He spent most days out in the public eye. Rest and relaxation for him came in isolation, most happily in the woodworking shop that he'd attached to his house on Green Street. He'd supplied almost everyone he knew with lazy Susans, birdhouses, and magazine racks as a result, and himself with some substantial furniture.
But he recognized the value of bars, and their historical place, as among the earliest of democratic gathering places. Vermont's own independence, it could be argued, found birth in Bennington's Catamount Tavern, where the likes of Ethan Allen-an archetypal barroom bully-took time off from being a lout to act like a leader.
Joe's gaze swept across the crowd. There were Allens aplenty here tonight, if appearances were telling, from the brooders to the boisterous. But, in Lyn's favor, they remained a minority, vastly outnumbered by those simply seeking a good time and companionship.
If she was able to maintain the present mood and clientele, her prospects looked good.
"How's it going, boss?" Sam asked, having appeared at his shoulder.
Joe waved at the activity before them. "See for yourself. A runaway success. You come home with the bacon?"
But she wouldn't be so easily derailed. "Dispatch said I'd find you here, with what they called your 'person of interest.'"
He smiled, shaking his head. "That sounds like Maxine. God, what a small town."
"So, where is she?"
Joe finally turned in his seat to look at her. "You that much out of the loop?"
Sam punched him gently in the shoulder. "Come on, boss."
Joe faced forward again and gestured to Lyn, who'd been subtly keeping tabs on him.
She came down the length of the bar with a smile.
"Lyn Silva," he said as she drew near, "this is Sam Martens, my right hand. You don't call her Samantha, and she won't call you Evelyn."
The two women exchanged greetings, laughing at the introduction and eyeing each other carefully.
"I have to go," Joe told Lyn. "Duty calls. Congratulations again on making the deadline."
Lyn leaned over the bar and kissed him on the cheek, which he felt was as much for Sam as for him. There were a couple of moans and whistles from nearby customers.
"Thanks for coming, Joe. If you're still up at two, come back."
"I will," he said, sliding off his stool and heading toward the door with Sam.
"Dishy," she said, grabbing the knob and letting in a blast of cold air.
"Dishy?" he asked, incredulous.
Chapter 19
Lester Spinney was already at the office, writing his report about the Pennsylvania trip on his computer. It was late, after nine.
He looked over his shoulder as Joe and Sam entered, and raised his eyebrows at Sam. "So, what does she look like?"
"Enough," Joe told him. "Her name is Lyn Silva. She just opened up the new bar on Elliot, and we're just friends." He circled his desk and dropped his coat across the back of his chair, sitting down heavily before adding, "Christ. I can't believe I just said that."
"It's okay, boss," Lester said. "Rumor has it that's a nice way to start a relationship. Good going."
"Thanks," Joe said, hoping to end the conversation. "What did you both find out?"
Fitting her character, Sam began first, pacing the small office as she spoke off the cuff. "Red Fred, Ready Freddy, or R. Frederick, as he registered at the motel, turns out to have been Frederick Nashman, of greater Waterbury, Connecticut. Middle-class, married with a kid, worked at an insurance office. He had no record to speak of, was unremarkable at work, according to his boss, and, from what I could get out of the wife, was about the same at home. He bowled, played cards with the boys every Saturday night at the Elks, took the family out to the movies about twice a month, and-again per the wife-spent a lot of time online, alone, in his office. He told her he had an eBay business going on the side to benefit the Legion, which wasn't true when I checked it out. What I found after we got past the locks on his desk and filing cabinet…"
She stopped and looked pointedly at Gunther, adding, "Legally-don't worry. The locals were great. I got names and numbers for your Christmas card list. Anyhow, what I found was a huge collection of child porn-pictures, articles, X-rated stories, DVDs, videotapes. Some of it printed or downloaded off the Web, some of it ordered through various sites. It was all neat and tidy and organized like a stamp collector's dream world, with categories and subcategories in carefully labeled files and boxes. It was textbook obsessive-compulsive."
"The wife was clueless?" Joe reiterated.
"Totally. I even tried the girl-talk approach, to see what he might've been like in bed. Nothing. Unless she was either bullshitting me or as dumb as an ox-which I didn't get-he performed perfectly normally, if maybe not like a sexual athlete."
"The kid a boy or girl?"
"Boy. I only met him in passing, since I didn't have that much time, but he seemed as normal as his mom."