I was struck by the location-the town of Jamaica was a good forty minutes away, and one of the ways of getting there involved Meadowbrook Road. “How long’s he been there?”
“Four months. He must’ve been moonlighting when he worked for Mrs. Wheeler.”
I slowed the car by a peeling, barely readable wooden sign announcing Treetops Mobile Park, and turned off Route 9 onto a dirt lane in such poor shape it looked more like a track.
“Did Boisvert know about that?”
Bracing himself against the car’s lurchings over the potholed, mangled road, he answered, “Indirectly. She said he does do odd jobs for extra cash sometimes. He tells her about them when she asks, so she’s never thought much about it. They’re always outside, and she’s never heard a complaint. She double-checked on him at first, calling after he’d done a job and asking the employer how he behaved. She gave it up when it never led to anything.”
I stopped the car and checked my watch. “Well, if he’s still working nights, he must be gone by now-it’s almost 3:25.”
We looked over at what had once been a beige and silver trailer, shoved up against the base of a large evergreen. It was decorated in mottled earth colors now, weather and neglect having conspired to concoct an enviably effective camouflage. Over the top of it, someone had built a pitched tarpaper roof, supported by rotting, warped beams at each corner, presumably to supplement the trailer’s own leaky roof. Skirting the home’s edge, sheets of ancient, shredded plastic had been duct-taped to cut down on the annual winter cold. The windows were small, stained, and blank, showing no curtains, light, or signs of life. Between the battered metal front door and the road was a weed-choked jumble of rusting, broken debris, some of it almost fully returned to the earth, along with one garbage can holding a bulging plastic bag, and an exhausted example of J.P. Tyler’s famous Russian olive. Chained to the evergreen were a rusty, prehistoric, but apparently valued bicycle and an equally ancient lawnmower.
“Home sweet home?” Todd asked in low voice.
“According to what Ron gave me.” I killed the engine, swung out of the car, and approached the trailer.
As I did so, I heard a noise to my left and saw a man emerging from a half-wrecked home similar to Vogel’s. He had long, stringy hair and a struggling, wispy beard and looked like a turn-of-the-century ad for the terrors of consumption.
“He ain’t in.” The voice was jagged and harsh-a smoker’s half croak.
I made a show of seeming disappointed. “Damn. When’s he get back?”
“Late-night shift.”
Now I looked surprised. “This is Bob Vogel’s place, isn’t it? The handyman?”
That brought a half smile to the neighbor’s haggard face. “I don’t know how handy he is.”
“He does yard work, right? A friend of mine recommended him.”
He rolled his eyes. “Some friend.”
“Not a good idea?”
He equivocated slightly. “I don’t know-I’m not in a hiring position. Maybe he’s a frigging green thumb. I wouldn’t try getting sociable, though. He’s a dickhead.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Is there somewhere he hangs out where I might find him tomorrow?”
“Try the Barrelhead.” And without further ceremony, the human scarecrow moved off, climbed into a car I’d thought was abandoned, and drove away under cover of an explosive, rank-smelling smoke screen of burned oil.
Todd had slid over to the driver’s side of my car and rolled down the window to eavesdrop on this conversation. I looked up and down the street for other signs of life, found none, and turned back to Todd. “Pull around in a U-turn.”
He did as requested, stopping right next to Vogel’s garbage can. As quickly and unobtrusively as possible, I pulled the fat plastic bag from the can, tossed it into the car trunk, and got into the passenger seat.
Lefevre shook his head slightly and smiled as he slowly negotiated our way back out of the trailer park. “You’re not going to ask me to help dig through that, are you?”
“Might be interesting.”
“So might the disease you catch from it.”
The radio on the seat between us muttered my call number. I picked it up and answered.
“Ron says the Greenfield investigator you wanted to talk to is on his way up here. You available?”
I hesitated briefly. What I’d been hoping to do was drop the garbage bag off with Tyler and go see Gail. All day I’d been pulled by the twin desires of running the investigation and keeping her company-knowing full well the former not only held the higher priority, but was also what she’d prefer I’d do. Nevertheless, having spent most of the day at it, I now dearly wanted to take a break and see how she was faring, especially in light of tonight’s planned march down Main Street. It was reluctantly, therefore, that I told Dispatch I was on my way in.
Todd noticed my lack of enthusiasm. “Problems?”
“No, no. I asked Ron to locate the guy. I’m hoping he can fill us in on Vogel’s past.” That much was perfectly true, of course, but I sensed from his silence that Lefevre was waiting for a fuller response to his questions.
“It’s just tough pretending all this doesn’t mean something personal to me,” I continued.
“Maybe you shouldn’t try so hard.”
I looked at him directly. “I’m not so sure. Billy-among others-seems to think I’m losing my grip. At the Reformer, Stan Katz questioned the wisdom of having me involved. Even Tony had to shove me down your boss’s throat, and only succeeded by guaranteeing I’d have a twenty-four-hour babysitter. I’m what’s due the devil because we’re shy on manpower and the case is too hot. Which doesn’t mean a lot of people won’t find it convenient to pin the tail on me if something goes haywire. Part of me wants to focus on Gail and on getting her-and us-back on track. Part of me wants to do my job and nail the son of a bitch who raped her. And I know that by trying to do both I’m basically tripling my chances for screwing things up royally.”
Todd was honest enough not to argue the point, which was just as well. My own description fell short of my true feelings. Gail’s rape had triggered inside me the exact same emotions of sorrow and loss, albeit to a lesser degree, that probably would have attended her death. The bizarre twist, of course, was that she hadn’t died. She was alive, vibrant with her own pain and suffering, and her living thwarted the conventional closure that would have followed her funeral.
It was a paradox that gave credibility to a phrase I’d always held in contempt-that rape was a “fate worse than death.” While I still didn’t completely agree with that, I was beginning to understand it.
9
Detective Jim Catone was in his mid-thirties, built like a wrestler, and had been with the Greenfield police for over ten years. What I wasn’t prepared for was the intensity of the man. As he entered the command post, escorted by Harriet Fritter, I had the distinct impression of a man under temporary-perhaps only marginal-control. It went a long way in explaining why he’d impulsively driven north to see us, rather than waiting for us to do the courtesy.
When I commented on this last point, after introductions had been made, he fixed me with a piercing look. “Lieutenant, I’d travel a whole lot farther to nail this guy. It’s a pleasure.”
I nodded silently. We were seated around Ron’s central-most conference table-Brandt, Lefevre, Ron, and myself, with Harriet taking notes-all of us looking positively disinterested in contrast to our visitor’s almost carnivorous eagerness. I finally felt obliged to mention, “Bob Vogel is at the top of our list, but he’s still only a suspect. We don’t actually have anything on him yet.”
Catone mashed his hands together as if he were compacting a snowball. The muscles running up under his shirt cuffs fluttered and bunched. “You will-I guarantee it.”
“When did you first come across him?”