Perrault said, “The double con.”
I said, “The what?”
The chief said, “Reg?”
Perrault licked his lips. “Four, five years ago—”
Doppinger said, “More like seven or eight.”
A nod. “There was this guy out here, running a double con. Name of Moddicky. Rudolph Moddicky. He impersonated guys who really existed and worked in stocks, bonds, whatever. Then he’d con the elderly with that con, using a real guy’s rep to get inside, then ripping them off. We — the chief, caught him.”
Doppinger said, “By coincidence. Pure luck.”
Perrault made sure the chief was finished. “The guy copped a plea but drew some heavy time anyway. He played his cards close in the joint, got out with a lot of good time credit.”
I said, “When?”
Doppinger said, “About two weeks ago. Back when he went away, Moddicky made the usual threats about getting even, so I put a routine request in to the parole officer for notification-upon-release. I got a call from his P.O. saying Moddicky was coming out.”
I thought about it. “You have a mug shot of him?”
Doppinger picked up his phone and mumbled into it. We waited while somebody just outside his door opened and closed a file cabinet, then came in. Lou Lacy.
Lacy seemed angry as he handed a manila folder to Doppinger, who said, “Thanks, Lou.” Doppinger waited until Lacy was out of the room before sliding the file across the desk to me.
Something must have shown on my face, because Doppinger said, “Lou’s mama was one of the people Moddicky screwed.”
I opened the folder. Stapled to the cover was the front and profile of a slim young man with tailored haircut, wide-set eyes, and winning smile. “Not my client. He was pushing fifty and burly, kind of sad-looking.”
Doppinger said, “Like me.”
I didn’t answer.
The chief said, “I think when I talked to that P.O. he said a couple of other guys were released from Moddicky’s cellblock right before him. A Shaw, maybe a Bennett and an Olsen, too. Reg, can you run them for me?”
“Got a name for the P.O.?”
“Garcia, I think. Male.”
“I’ll get on it right away, Chief.”
Doppinger stood up. “I think maybe I ought to be heading home.”
Perrault was clearly trying to figure out a nice way to ask a difficult question. It came out, “You want some company?”
Doppinger said, “I’m hoping I don’t have any company stopping by.”
Perrault said, “Chief—”
Doppinger held up a meaty hand. “We don’t know there’s any connection between the client Cuddy says got shot and Moddicky coming hunting. I’m not about to gather all our wagons around the wrong spot if there is a connection and Moddicky’s hunting something else. Reg, whyn’t you take Mr. Cuddy here down to the motel and settle him in.”
Perrault looked in my direction.
Distracted, Doppinger turned to me. “Sorry. That three hundred buy us your time for the night?”
I said, “Sure, Chief.”
3.
Reg Perrault directed me to the only motel in town. I checked into a stale, dark room with two double beds. The clerk directed me to the only restaurant in town, a fifties diner with chrome counter-stools (sporting padded swivel seats) and a Formica countertop (sporting dated jukebox selectors). The diner had a license, so I mixed a little alcohol from a glass with the cholesterol from my plate.
Back at the room, I thought about why the body wasn’t where it was supposed to be. When that didn’t get me anywhere, I tried the TV. An old Mannix episode was in commercial as the first siren screamed by outside. I was opening the door of the Prelude when the second cruiser blew past a minute later.
It wasn’t that hard to find. Kind of out in the woods and down another country lane, but I just had to follow the noise, then the bubble lights bouncing off the treeline once the drivers pulled to a stop.
A guy wearing a six-inch Colt Magnum but no uniform stopped me at the edge of the driveway. I told him who I was and suggested he tell Doppinger, Perrault, or Lacy that I was there. He left me and came back just as an older man parked a four-wheel-drive Subaru behind me. The older man got out slowly, carrying the sort of little black bag doctors used to take on house calls.
The doctor and I followed Magnum up the driveway and around the cruisers toward a beautiful farmhouse. About ten feet from the porch, we reached Lou Lacy, kneeling beside a man lying on his stomach. A Winchester rifle, with scope, nestled in the grass near the sprawled arms of the man on the ground. He had a tailored haircut and wide-set eyes and broken teeth where he’d kissed a rock falling. He also had an entry wound between his shoulder blades and two exit wounds where his lungs would hang.
The doctor didn’t pause, but Lacy looked up and shook his head negatively anyway. He was grinning as he did it.
Inside the front door, Perrault was standing next to the body of a woman lying face-up on the carpet. Given the entry wound at her cheekbone, the exit wound in back would cost you your dinner. The hair color and one eye told me she had been the woman pictured on Doppinger’s desk.
Magnum left us. After glancing down at the woman, the doctor continued over to Frank Doppinger. The chief was sitting in an easy chair, still wearing the same shirt and overalls. At his right bicep, blood seeped into the torn sleeve. The palm of his left hand covered something north of his nose, but I didn’t see anything red streaming between the fingers.
I looked at Perrault.
Very quietly, he said, “Chief was in the kitchen. Heard the front door kicked open and then the rifle. By the time he got into the living room, Moddicky out there was on the porch.”
Perrault shook his head. “Chief got him once and spun him, then Moddicky got off a grazer and the chief got him twice more, last one in the back as Moddicky was going down.”
I watched the doctor talking to Doppinger and cutting at the right sleeve with a pair of small scissors. The chief’s left hand was down now, and he looked at me.
I turned and left the house.
At first light, I was in the Prelude and slewing onto Fire Road #7. It was dead quiet as the autumn sun broke the tops of the trees.
Driving to the end of the break, I couldn’t find the spot from the day before. I even got out at the one gathering of boulders that looked close, but not quite right. Other than some recent tire tracks, there was nothing to indicate anyone had been there in weeks.
I drove back out in the still dead quiet, finally realizing that something was out of kilter. I stopped the car at the main road and thought about it.
Acorns. There were no acorns ricocheting off the undercarriage.
I did a three-pointer and went back up the firebreak. The ground was clear, nothing in the ruts. Squirrels, maybe?
Leaving the car, I walked a hundred feet in each direction, studying the foliage pretty carefully. Acorns fall from mighty oaks. No acorns because there were no oak trees. None.
I went back to the main road and checked the little sign for Fire Road #7. There were a couple of fresh scratches in the screws holding the sign to the post.
I continued up the main road to Fire Road #8 and tried it. Acorns within fifty feet. The boulders beyond that, exactly where they should be. Double con; the client masquerading as Frank Doppinger met me on Fire Road #8 masquerading as #7.