“I was just asking myself the same question. I’m not sure yet-part of it’ll probably depend on Gail.”
“You get to talk to her?”
“A little. She’s pretty closed down. I don’t think I’m what she needs right now.”
“Ah,” he nodded. “The sisterhood.”
“Yeah.” I turned that over in my mind a couple of times, seeing both sides of it-understanding it in our terms. “Kind of like cops when they get in a jam.”
He chuckled. “Okay.”
“She wants me on the case, Tony.”
He worked on his pipe a bit, finally taking it out of his mouth and staring into the bowl for inspiration. “That’s not exactly kosher. The State’s Attorney might have problems with it.”
“Do you?”
He parked the pipe back in his mouth. “Not in theory. You’re the best investigator I’ve got, and given Gail’s prominence, and the SA being in a tight reelection bid, I’m going to need the best.”
“But… ”
He nodded slowly in agreement. “Right, ‘but…’ People could scream conflict of interest, and the SA’s opponent could make political hay out of it, especially if we don’t nail our man right off. Plus, if the case gets to court, as the last person who saw her before the attack, you’d be a prime witness. All a little awkward.”
He turned and looked straight at me. “And there’s the personal side to it. How’re you going to perform? I noticed you weren’t too eager to hear the details from Ron a while back. You and Gail have been together for years-might as well be married. Psychologically, it would be like investigating your own wife’s rape. How would you handle it, if our roles were reversed?”
I wasn’t going to make it that easy for him. “The same way you’re probably going to. You’ve been thinking about this since Ron first called you-I saw you checking me out in the car. So what’ve you decided?”
He shook his head and snorted gently, amused at my stubbornness. “I’m putting you in charge, but not alone. Everything you do, think, or even dream about has to be flown by me first. Nothing happens without my prior knowledge, and everything is shared with the SA and his investigator immediately.”
An indefinable part of me found its footing with those words, anchoring all my other mixed emotions, if only tenuously. I made myself believe that Tony Brandt had not only just helped me out, but Gail and the case’s outcome as well.
Still, I couldn’t ignore that he’d chosen the bolder of his options-something the State’s Attorney was likely to remind him of, and perhaps use against him if things went wrong. “James Dunn is going to love this.”
Brandt jumped off the loading dock and began walking toward his parked car. “I’ve already told him. He doesn’t, but he’ll survive.”
We drove to Gail’s house together. A converted apple barn, the house was the sole remnant of a farm that had once dominated a hill overlooking Meadowbrook Road in quasi-rural West Brattleboro. It stood alone now, the other buildings having long since been dismantled or moved, reminiscent of a frontier outpost of two hundred years ago-tall, weather-beaten, built of rough, dark wood. Gail had purchased it for near nothing over a decade ago and had turned it into a bright, soaring, multilevel cathedral of a home, filled with plants, ceiling fans, colorful art, and intimate lighting. It was a hidden showcase of prime real estate and went a long way in demonstrating why she was the town’s single most successful realtor.
At the moment, however, it looked more like the police department parking lot. Tony had to park halfway up the long driveway behind a string of patrol cars. We went the rest of the way on foot.
As we’d turned off the road, I’d noticed both WBRT’s and the Brattleboro Reformer’s cars perched by the edge of the ditch. “How’d you fare with them?” I asked, as we trudged up the steep slope.
“We played footsie a bit. They asked me if it was Gail, or if she’d been hurt, or if we’d caught the guy; I mostly said, ‘No comment.’ I also made it crystal clear I’d be pretty pissed if they divulged any names. They looked shocked I’d even suggested it.”
“You talk to Katz about it?”
Stanley Katz, once the Reformer’s cops-’n’-courts reporter, had recently been made editor-in-chief by his Midwest owners, right after he’d surprised them with his resignation-a true example, we thought, of the Peter Principle run wild. But Katz, despite his ambition, his cynicism, and his total lack of manners, had always showed integrity. I just hoped this sole virtue could withstand his bosses’ thirst for wider circulation.
Tony seemed to have been thinking along similar lines. “I didn’t see the point. He’ll be coming to me soon enough-he’s got too much bloodhound in him to leave it to some reporter. I did tell his boys-and BRT-that they are not allowed on Gail’s property, but they’ll probably try what they can.”
He suddenly stopped and put his hand on my shoulder, the fog from his breath shrouding his face in the chill morning air. “I’d prepare myself for the worst, though. This could turn into a three-ring circus before it’s done, and I’d be amazed if Gail’s anonymity survived. Which means she-and you-will be front-page news. You might want to consider that before we finish this climb.”
I nodded and started walking again. “My being involved depends on you and Dunn. I’m staying till one of you stops me.”
The front door of the building led out onto a broad deck, which in turn had a flight of steps connecting it to the driveway. We had just set foot on the deck and greeted the patrolman guarding the entrance when Ron Klesczewski stepped out through the sliding glass door, a nervous smile on his face.
“They let you on the case.”
I smiled back at his obvious relief, although he didn’t need me as much as he thought he did. I wouldn’t have made him my second-in-command if he didn’t have the wherewithal to do the job himself. But his lack of self-confidence, perhaps due to my constant presence, never allowed my belief in him to be put to the test. “You may regret that they did.”
Brandt interrupted the obvious denial already half formed on Ron’s lips. “He’s on it, but he’s not running it, at least not by himself; we’ll be co-leaders on this. Is Todd Lefevre here yet?”
Ron scrutinized our faces quickly, trying to gauge my view of this unorthodox command. Like most cops everywhere, he saw the chief as a bureaucrat only-not a street cop-despite the proof, given time and again over the years, that Tony functioned easily in either role. “He got here about five minutes ago-he’s inside.”
He stepped away from the door and ushered us across the threshold. Todd Lefevre-the State’s Attorney’s criminal investigator-was standing in the center of the building’s main room, admiring its huge, bright space extending high overhead, interlaced by enormous, ancient cross beams which supported, here and there, a varying assortment of staircases and lofts.
He turned as we entered-a small, round man with a pleasant, bookish look about him-and came over to shake my hand. “Hi, Joe, I was real sorry to hear about this.”
“Thanks, Todd.”
“J.P.’s set up in the bedroom,” Ron explained. “He asked we keep the traffic down to a minimum, and that everyone stay on the brown paper till he’s had the whole place checked out.”
Lefevre, as diplomatic as his boss James Dunn was not, bowed out. “You go ahead. I’ve already had a quick look around-I’ll talk to you when you’re done.”
Ron, Tony, and I followed the brown-paper runner that J.P. Tyler-the forensics member of the squad-had laid down across the floor and up a long, narrow staircase to the uppermost loft, tucked under the sloped ceiling some thirty feet up. This was where Gail had established her bedroom, in the walled-off equivalent of a tall ship’s crow’s nest.