"You staked him out? What the hell does that mean? What's he been doing?"
Spinney finally met her eyes. "Nothing-not that I know of. That's what I realized last night-why I quit and came back home. I saw I was losing it over this."
Susan furrowed her brow, trying to sort it out. "Les, for crying out loud. You were losing it because you thought maybe Dave was getting into stuff like crack cocaine? What's not to lose? Do you think he's been doing this for long? What did you find in his room?"
Lester was already shaking his head. "Nothing, and I have nothing to make me think he's done anything other than hang out with the wrong kids."
Susan sat back in her chair and looped one arm over its back rail. "No shit. I feel like wringing his neck."
Lester said barely audibly, "I felt like wringing my own neck."
Susan sighed with exasperation and stood up, looking for something to occupy her hands. She poured some water into a cup and placed it in the microwave. "Jesus, Les. Sometimes I can't believe you. How the hell do you figure that? That this is somehow your fault? Or are you including me, too?" She punched the micro wave's keypad angrily, setting it to humming.
Lester reacted instantly, straightening and waving his hands in protest. "No, no. That's not what I meant. It's not a fault thing. Not exactly. I just meant. . It's just that when you think your own child has made that big a mistake, you gotta wonder." He paused before adding, "It started me thinking about my dad and what happened to him-how it affected me. I don't know. Maybe it's like what they say about how you're going to act in a crisis-you never know till it happens."
He passed a hand across his face. "Christ, I shot a man last year when he sicced that dog on me and Joe." He snapped his fingers. "Just like that. But this time. ."
Susan sat back down across from him and took up his hand, her frustration quieted by the anxiety in his voice. She knew what he carried from his childhood, and had watched him deal with it-very well for the most part-from the first day he'd become a father himself. "Les, you're muddling it all up. You carry so much around inside, never letting anyone see what's going on, I'm not surprised you get confused sometimes. This is not rocket science." She smiled suddenly. "We just corner the little bastard and beat the crap out of him."
Lester stared at his wife for a split second before they both burst out laughing. It was a tension breaker, of course, and typical of her abilities in that department. It was partly what made her a good nurse. Nevertheless, through the laughter, they watched one another carefully.
* * *
Joe entered the conference room late, having gotten stuck behind a truck on the road from Brattleboro to Rutland. He was in the modern brick building on Wales Street housing both the sheriff's office and the police department. Sitting around the table were representatives of both those agencies, Rick McCall, the VSP sergeant in charge of the Southern Vermont Drug Task Force, and Mara Coven, the task force prosecutor. He knew them all, thankfully-some better than others-from his decades on the job. In the center of the large table, pointedly angled so Joe could read it upon crossing the threshold, was a copy of the Rutland Herald with the headline "Gov Declares War on Heroin."
"Sorry I'm late," he apologized, pulling out a chair. He'd seen the Brattleboro paper's treatment of the same news earlier, noting with relief that Bill Allard had apparently done his job. Despite the headline, Reynolds had "declared war" only at the very end of his statement, after specifying that the opening salvos would take place in Rutland. Sharon Lapierre's death was also revealed, as an overdose only and not in connection to Hollowell. Her fate was simply described as accidental, the investigation as ongoing, and the family-"close political allies of the governor"-as grieving. Apparently reversing his initial strategy, Reynolds was up-front about Lapierre's death being a major catalyst in his decision-a move no doubt designed to beat his political opponents to the punch. Most interesting to Gunther, however, was that the VBI was mentioned but once in the article as a support unit only.
So far, his struggle to maintain discretion-and therefore acceptance-was working. Today would be the acid test.
"I just got here myself," Mara Coven admitted, "and when I walked in, they were all talking motorcycles. Don't let them tell you otherwise."
"She cranked up the volume there," McCall protested. "Saying Harleys aren't worth a damn. Jeez, Louise."
They laughed and traded a few more barbs as Joe pulled out a chair. At least the mood was looking good, he thought.
"Okay," McCall finally spoke up again. "Much as I'd like to debate this topic at length, I guess we're here to earn our living." He pointed at the newspaper. "Looks like with their usual leadership style, the politicians are leading from the rear, telling us stuff we've known about for years and promising the voters what we probably can't deliver. It also looks like they're pretending this whole heroin epidemic is centered here in Rutland, when we also know that Rutland's just a hot spot, like Burlington or Brattleboro or even around St. Johnsbury for that matter."
"Except those places aren't where Sharon got whacked," Peter Bullis said softly. He was a short, square, muscular man, one half of Rutland's small but effective drug squad. An ex-task force member himself, he was a New York transplant and a true believer about the widening spread of drugs. One of the reasons he worked here instead of in the big city was that he thought-just maybe-that places like Vermont might have a chance in stemming a tide he'd seen drown his old hometown. The Rutland PD's drug team, now two years old, had been his idea, although Gunther had heard rumors that Bullis was beginning to despair. Vermont might have the opportunity to avert disaster, but the manpower and the money were lacking-the disadvantages of being one of the tiniest states in a country beset by this plague, standing last in line at the federal trough.
"True," McCall agreed, "which brings us to why we're here. The way things have developed ever since we found Hollowell swinging from the bridge and Lapierre dead in his motel room, we're now facing three situations. The first I hope we can do something about, the second we might be able to do something about, and the third is a pure pipe dream."
He paused for theatrical effect-always a bit of a ham-before explaining, "Of course, I mean the double murder as the first, putting a dent in the Rutland drug trade as the second, and ending drugs in Vermont as the third. Fortunately," and here he picked up the newspaper and held it up, "the governor put his mouth behind the second and only paid lip service to the third, so maybe-just maybe-we might have a chance."
No one else said a word. Joe was biding his time before representing his agency's role in this whole scheme, waiting until he'd tested the waters some more.
"When Sharon was killed," McCall went on, "we were told to call it an accidental and to throw Hollowell at the press to keep them busy. In the meantime, her old man went to the governor, who went to the commissioner of Public Safety, who went to my lieutenant, who, of course, went to me. That was predictable enough. At the same time, though, the governor apparently thought that we could do with a little help from the VBI, which explains our friend Joe being here, too." McCall bowed in Gunther's direction. "Of course, we always appreciate extra manpower, but that makes for a pretty crowded playing field." Here he addressed the two Rutland agencies. "Especially when the home team's already been at it for a while."
This was clearly Joe's prompt to jump in and explain his presence in concrete terms, except that an investigator from the sheriff's office, named Tom, spoke first. "If it's okay, I'd like to speak for the sheriff on that. Our office is ready and willing to supply equipment, manpower, intel, and material support whenever it's requested, but we're not here to get in the way. We're entirely support, straight down the line, unless you specifically ask us to be otherwise."