As if the topic had been visibly hanging in the air, Sam walked into the office as Joe was musing along these lines, and announced, "Gail dropped by a while ago." She crossed to her desk, rummaged around its paper snowbank for a couple of seconds, and extracted a single sheet, which she then consulted. "Said she'd gone to her niece's apartment and bumped into a guy the Bratt PD's since identified as Roger Novelle-local bad boy specializing in crack and heroin, both the using and selling of same."
She tossed the piece of paper back onto the pile and sat in her chair. "Nothing happened between them, by the way. He was just there when she opened the door. He probably did a lick-his-eyebrows number to impress her with what a ladies' man he is, which I think freaked her out a little, but other than that, nothing."
Joe had no trouble imagining what aspect of the encounter had freaked her out. If Gail hadn't suffered a flashback meeting such a guy in such a setting, she couldn't have been considered normal.
"Was she okay?" he asked.
"Yeah. A little distraught. No surprise. I never did get what she was doing there. I'd say collecting some personal effects if I didn't know the girl was in a coma."
"I don't think that matters," Joe said. "Gail tries to think the best of things. She'd want Laurie to have something of her own near her bed. You know if she went home? I ought to call her."
"No clue," Sam answered. "I did ask them downstairs to pick the guy up on an illegal entry charge if they could, though. I thought you might like a chat."
Joe swung off his perch and reached for the phone. "Thanks." He dialed Gail's number, reached the answering machine, and said, "Hi. I just heard what happened at Laurie's from Sam. Hope you're okay. Give me a call when you get this."
He hung up the receiver and glanced at Sam, who was still watching him. "Did she say what Novelle was doing?"
Sam shook her head, admitting, "It wasn't a super-straightforward conversation. Like I said, she was a little out of it. She didn't mention anything, though, so I guessed maybe he was just there."
"Probably retrieving some goods for resale," Joe mused. He checked his watch. "The others are about to arrive, but I wanted to ask you something first. When you were undercover at Tucker Peak last winter, chasing that drug dealer, did you ever pick up on any Holyoke connections?"
She turned to her computer and began punching keys as she spoke. "Yeah. I don't remember names since that's not where we ended up, but I did have a conversation where. ." She paused to concentrate. "I wrote it down just in case. . Here we go. Miguel Torres. I was told he was the go-to man if I wanted primo stuff."
"Coke or heroin?"
"Everything, from what it sounded like."
"Is your source still available?"
"The guy who told me about Torres? I guess so." She switched to another program and ran a check. He watched her wandering through the machine's brain with casual expertise, amazed at how easy she made it look. She finally sat back. "He's not dead or in jail, so I suppose he's still operating."
"What's his name?"
"Bill Dancer. He was very hot to get me in the sack. Funny how the attraction wasn't mutual." She smiled crookedly. "God knows why not, though, given my luck. Why all the questions?"
"The governor. .," Gunther began, but was interrupted by Lester Spinney entering the office. Spinney was routinely so cheerful, his glum expression caused them both to stare at him.
"You all right?" Gunther asked. "You look a little down."
Spinney tiredly dropped the book bag he favored over a briefcase onto his desk and slumped into his chair. "White River was a pain in the ass."
"It go okay, though? It was just a deposition, right?"
Lester waved his hand dismissively, regretting he hadn't better disguised his feelings. "Right. No problem. Guess it's just that time of the month."
Sam threw a pencil at him.
"Sexual harassment," came a voice from the door. "Call a lawyer."
Willy Kunkle crossed to his desk, squeezed between it and the wall, and wedged himself into his chair, looking, as Gail had noted earlier, ready to hold off hostile headhunters. His useless left arm, its hand as usual tucked into his pants pocket so it wouldn't flop around, seemed uncomfortably pinched between his body and the arm of the chair, but Willy didn't notice or care. The result of a sniper bullet years earlier, the incapacitated arm was more an extension of his attitude than a part of his body-and was routinely used by its owner to throw people off.
"Very short briefing today," Gunther announced as soon as Willy settled in. "But it is a heads-up. I guess everyone's heard about the hanging in Rutland?"
"Nice of the scumbags to police their own garbage," Willy commented.
"Maybe," Joe continued, never one to let Willy derail the proceedings, "but it looks like we'll have to chip in as well. The governor will soon be announcing that in an effort to stop the flow of heroin into Vermont, the VBI will be called to the trenches."
"As what?" Willy demanded. "I thought your big deal was for us to play backup to everybody, including the village constable."
"Let the man talk," Sam said wearily.
Joe nodded in his direction. "No, he's right. Crude, but right on target. This is going to happen mostly because there's a second drug-related death that hasn't made the news yet, involving a relative of one of Reynolds's key backers. Our biggest job, however, will be to find a way not to look like the governor's flunkies."
"Nice try," Willy grumbled. "It's what we are."
"Not if we deliver something the others don't have. Then his choice looks reasonable and we maintain credibility."
"How do we do that?" Sam asked. "The Southern Vermont Drug Task Force has years more experience than we do."
"I'm working on that. They are strapped for help right now, Allard is maneuvering to give us exclusive access to extra money, I got Dick Allen weighing in with his old buddies on our behalf, and I'm hoping for one extra piece of leverage, which is to get in on some of the action at the source."
"In Holyoke," Sam suggested, bringing their earlier conversation to bear.
"Right. The task force will probably have to commit more time than they'd like on this Rutland double homicide. If we can build up something fast with a Holyoke connection, it might make us more useful, not to mention more acceptable. 'Cause don't get me wrong here: I don't just want to look good. We need to be a real asset."
"Why Holyoke?" Kunkle asked. "We've known about them for years."
"True," Gunther told him, "but while most of Rutland's drugs have been and are still coming from there, there's now a very vague rumor that someone in Holyoke may be organizing how things are being done."
"Shit-that was bound to happen."
"What's the plan, then?" Sam asked.
Joe glanced over at Lester Spinney, usually a much more involved member of the general conversation. So far, he'd done no more than distractedly poke at the small framed family photos on his desk with the end of a pencil.
"Homework," Gunther said. "I've already got Sam started. If you all coordinate with her, dig into your personal files, have talks with your informants, and see whatever you can come up with that has anything to do with Holyoke, that would help. I've typed up what I got from Allard about the Rutland deaths and will print it out after this-it has dates, names, and details that might be helpful. If you have any ongoing cases that can be put on the back burner for the next couple of days, put them there. This gets top priority for now. And it's basically a no-lose deal for us-if we do tumble to an organizer, so much the better, but given that the trade originates in Holyoke regardless, any foothold we gain on the inside will have merit. Problems?"
The general silence spoke for itself. As unpleasant as was the way they were being brought in, the mere scent of a major case was an adrenaline rush for these cops. Joe was sanguine they'd get results.