But he did have one last question of his own. "Willy, you're the expert on local lowlifes. Ever hear of Roger Novelle?"
Sam looked at her boss sharply as Willy answered, "Sure. Real scuzzball. Looking at habitual offender status next time he faces the judge. No Holyoke connections that I know of, though. I doubt he has the brains to read a map. Why?"
"Name came up."
* * *
Officer Henry Jordan drove slowly down South Main much later that night, only vaguely aware of the open street ahead of him, his attention all but entirely focused on the parked cars and sidewalks to either side, the houses beyond, and the narrow streets and alleys in between. Of all of Brattleboro's sundry neighborhoods, this was the one perhaps best qualified as the land that time forgot. Not time, really, not literally, although most of the buildings here dated back to Brattleboro's industrial heyday, when this area was one of its larger employee housing clusters. But certainly most social service organizations saw it as a backwater. The houses were generally run-down and in need of paint, frequently broken into multiple apartments, and host to a larger group of transients than elsewhere in town. Brattleboro's good fortunes followed its major commercial arteries, not surprisingly, and South Main Street was definitely not one of those.
Jordan slid along at close to twenty-five miles an hour, his windows open both for the cool night breeze and so he could better hear what was going on. He kept the two-way radio volume to a murmur. It was at times like this that he felt most empowered as a cop, as if he were the good shark slipping through the dark water, watching for those elements wishing harm on society. Which is what he really believed. He was a young man, a patriot, proud to wear a uniform, and saw his role more as a defender of the weak than did many of his older colleagues, whose fatigue-tinged cynicism both irritated and concerned him, making him fret it might be contagious.
He slowed to a stop between two widely spaced street-lamps and hid in the shadow cast by an enormous maple tree. Slowly as if fearful his actions might throw off an audible sound, he killed his headlights. He saw far ahead of him, caught in profile from some distant glimmering, two people moving around the outside of a parked car.
Jordan hadn't been on the Brattleboro force for more than a couple of years, but he'd mostly worked nights and had developed some time-saving instincts, along with a feel for what types of activities were likely to occur at what time. He knew in his gut that what was going on up ahead would be of interest to him.
He quickly looked around him. For the moment, he was alone. He gently let his foot off the brake and resumed rolling at a snail's pace, bringing the shadows around the distant car more sharply into focus.
It had all the makings of a drug deal-one man at the wheel, looking passive, in control, the other man hanging on the door, his butt swinging to and fro with nervous anticipation, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Jordan could see the man's arms occasionally gesticulating, as if pleading or bartering. Like a hunter creeping up on his prey for a clean shot, the young officer crawled forward, unaware by now that he was even holding his breath.
The car's motor was running, or at least the ignition was on, because its parking lights were glowing red, and along with them the license plate light. Jordan had a pair of binoculars in the back seat, but by now he knew he had only a few more feet before the plate numbers, obscured by grime, became readable.
Which was when the man outside the car suddenly straightened and stared right at him.
Jordan gunned his engine, leaped forward a few yards, and simultaneously hit both his headlights and his strobes, instantly flooding the scene with a pulsing, multihued light show.
In that snapshot of a moment, the man at the wheel of what was now clearly a Chevy sedan stuck his head out the window and looked back, just as his companion took to his heels and fled across the street. The driver was Roger Novelle, whose mug shot Henry Jordan had carefully stuck to his dashboard at the start of his shift.
Jordan reached for his microphone and switched over to the cruiser's loudspeaker. "You in the car. Stay put and stick both your hands out the window."
He might as well have fired a starter pistol. With barely a pause, there was a screaming of burning rubber, an acrid, dense plume swirled into the air, and Roger Novelle took off like a mechanized jackrabbit, with Jordan in close pursuit.
Jordan switched the radio back to the transmit frequency. "Dispatch, one-twenty. I'm in pursuit of Vermont 128F4, heading south on South Main at approximately"- he paused to get his bearings-"Oak Grove. Requesting backup."
The response was immediate but calming. "Ten-four, one-twenty Will do. Please keep advised."
By this point, Jordan had hit his siren, fearful one of the kids who lived along the street, many with little or no supervision, might come running out to watch the entertainment. After that, he focused only on the taillights before him as they dipped and swerved, Novelle's car picking up speed.
Ahead, there was a Y-junction, the left hand dipping to a steep drop toward Route 142 and the town of Vernon beyond, the right hand heading slightly up and into a curve, eventually leading to the high school and the south end of Canal Street, one of Brattleboro's commercial strips. Jordan tensed himself for the lurch he knew would come from the first choice, convinced Novelle would do as he would have and head for the dark, open road. Instead, he had to pull quickly on the wheel as Novelle did just the opposite and cut right, causing them both to skid into the curve in a slippery spray of loose gravel.
Breathing fast from the surprise, Jordan struggled to key the mike again. "One-twenty. We're heading for Fairground Road."
"Ten-four. Units are responding down Canal to intercept."
As Fairground Road began flattening out and broadening to both sides, first by the town garage and then in anticipation of the vast high school parking lot, Jordan found himself caught in a moral quandary: The correct procedural thing was to continue what he was doing now, keep pressure on the pursuit and let the others box the guy in, but the young man in him was demanding otherwise. If he could do this right, Henry Jordan might end the chase and get the collar on his own-here and now.
He hit the accelerator as the road took its general sweep to the right, pulled up alongside the Chevy, and began sheepdogging it into the dirt parking lot, aiming for the line of trees in the distance.
But Novelle would have none of it. To Jordan's terror, he abruptly cut left and collided with the cruiser's right fender, making Jordan veer off to go bounding and skidding across the road.
Gasping, Jordan fought the wheel, regained control, and now fueled with rage, pointed straight at the other car, catching it just behind the left rear door.
But either Novelle was a better driver or the Chevy more sure on the road, because the impact of this second collision was minimal. After a small fishtail, Novelle was back in front as before, with the young cop now feeling humiliation mixing with his anger.
They were coming to where Fairground intersects with Canal Street at a traffic light. It was technically a T-bone, since opposite Fairground was the entrance of the Price Chopper parking lot; but given the chase so far, Jordan wasn't laying bets on Novelle's choice of routes.
Sure enough, Novelle again defied logic and cut right, onto Canal, ignoring both the interstate entry ramps to the left and the highway leading to the town of Guilford beyond them. He was driving straight toward downtown Brattleboro and into the oncoming blue lights of two patrol cars.
"He's heading right at you," Jordan shouted needlessly into the mike, making the corner with one hand on the steering wheel and bouncing off the far curb. He was blessing his luck that there was no other traffic.