As usual, Manuel stayed quiet, looking around, standing slightly to her rear, like a bodyguard. The traditional mannerisms of macho dominance appeared lacking.
A round, bearded man in a spattered work shirt emerged from the house and clattered down from the front porch using a noisy set of stairs. "You the people looking to rent?"
Sam shook his beefy hand and then wiped her own against her jeans. "Yeah. You Mr. Badamo?"
"Julius Badamo. That's right. Rutland born and bred." He eyed Manuel suspiciously. "You from around here?"
"Our money is," Sam answered shortly. "You want to show us around?"
Badamo considered this for a moment before saying, "I suppose I could do that."
Gunther had told Sam in one of their scheduled furtive phone calls that the landlord had no idea what was afoot. The surveillance equipment had been installed during a phony municipal inspection conducted by a team led by Lester Spinney.
"House was built in the 1860s," Badamo was saying, leading the way. "As if you give a damn about that. It's got five bedrooms and two and a half baths. The building code people just gave it a clean bill of health a couple of days ago, in case you're thinking of burning the place down and then blaming me."
He led them inside and toured them around. Above and beyond being wired by the police, the place had its own built-in appeal, Sam thought, and was perfectly suited to their needs. And her colleagues had done a good job. She saw not one sign of their visit-or of the toys they'd left behind. Several times, still pretending to be critical, she cast a look over her shoulder at Manuel, who also nodded his approval. They were in if the landlord didn't turn thumbs down, and given their first exchange, she began worrying that might happen, if only to prove that Murphy's Law was alive and well.
Badamo finally threw open a kitchen door to reveal a large garage, one wall of which was lined with an oversized fluorescent green rendering of a lumbering giant in torn clothing, his teeth bared and fists clenched.
"The Incredible Hulk," Manuel said in astonishment, speaking for the first time since their arrival.
Badamo turned and looked at him. "It speaks," he said, but Manuel's outburst had obviously pleased him. "You a fan?"
"Oh, sure," Manuel admitted, approaching the huge drawing. It was more like a set piece, old and stained and battered around the edges, crudely painted on plywood. "I loved all the Marvel and DC characters."
Badamo laughed. "Look behind it."
Sam watched, amazed, as Manuel's aloof and chilly manner melted into something closer to that of an enthusiastic kid coming face-to-face with an old friend. He tilted the painted panel toward him and craned to look behind it.
"Oh my God: It's Thor. These are wonderful." Manuel shifted the Hulk aside to reveal a blond-haired, muscular Viking carrying a massive hammer in one hand. "Why are they here?"
"Old souvenirs," Badamo explained. "From years back. We have an annual parade in Rutland-every Halloween. In the old days, writers and artists from Marvel and DC would come up from New York dressed in costume to ride the floats we put together. Those things were part of it."
"Why?" Sam asked, incredulous.
"For fun. There was a guy named Tom Fagan who worked for the paper who also knew Stan Lee and a couple of other comic bigwigs. He invited them up and I guess they thought it was loopy enough to accept. They did it for years. Basically, just a way for a lot of people to get drunk and stoned, but it got to be quite the tradition. The parade was even mentioned in a few of the comic books, along with Fagan himself."
Manuel was shaking his head. "Wow. I learned to read from these things. My uncle used to have them by the hundreds. I couldn't get enough of them."
Sam watched them looking at one another like long-lost cousins, wondering at life's odd twists.
Julius Badamo waved a hand toward the house behind them. "So, you interested?"
Manuel glanced at Sam, who'd been so picky all day. She smiled and said, "Who can argue with the Incredible Hulk? Works for us if it works for you."
Badamo looked a little rueful. "You said your money's good. You got it."
* * *
After they'd sealed the deal with both a security deposit and a down payment in cash, which Badamo did a poor job of pretending to take in stride, Sam and Manuel retired to their car.
"A comic book fan?" she asked him before starting the engine.
He was staring straight ahead. "How soon do we start operations?"
"A comic book fan?" she repeated, laughing now.
His face reddened. "I was a kid once. Drive."
She still didn't turn the key. "Where did you grow up?"
"In an apartment."
"In Holyoke?"
He hesitated. "Nobody grows up in Holyoke. I was born in the Bronx."
"Holyoke's got to be better than that."
He tilted his head equivocally, his eyes still fixed ahead, as if this entire conversation were taking place inside his head. "Better," he conceded. "That's still not saying much."
"You're upwardly mobile," she argued. "If Johnny pulls this off, you'll be sitting pretty."
He didn't answer.
She watched him a moment before asking, "You don't think?"
For the first time since they'd entered the car, he looked at her. "I hope so."
She waited expectantly, but that was it. The next thing he said was, "Drive."
* * *
Joe pulled into the gas station parking lot off the immaculate and picturesque village common of Rochester, Vermont, roughly halfway between Rutland and Waterbury-the agreed-upon meeting place that he'd set up with Bill Allard on the phone an hour earlier.
Neither one of them bothered leaving their cars. Old-time cops both, they'd instinctively parked door-to-door and simply rolled down their windows to have a comfortable and private talk.
"Too restless to use a phone?" Joe asked his boss, smiling.
"Yeah-a little. Good day for a drive," Allard answered. "I didn't want anyone hearing this, either, even if it is total horseshit."
"Sounds political."
Allard let out a short, mirthless laugh. "Yeah. You could say that. Governor Reynolds is getting twitchy about seeing results."
Gunther raised his eyebrows. "Twitchy? When was the last time we put together an operation this fast, much less one involving an undercover?"
Allard was sympathetic. "He's running for office, Joe. You know how they get. He wants a headline he can claim credit for."
Gunther repressed his irritation. "Can't give him one. Not yet."
Allard tried a more general approach. "Where do we stand overall, starting with Sam?"
"She's in place, and all the surveillance equipment is working fine, although audio ain't the best-too much echo. Usable, though. But nothing much has happened yet. She and Manuel are still setting up shop, scoping out the neighborhood, getting a feel for the competition. They don't want to start selling until they know the ground. Hollowell's murder is still a fresh memory."
"Anything new on that?"
"You mean, anything new on who killed Lapierre?" Joe countered. "Not a whole lot. Sam finally got Manuel to admit that Hollowell was their guy in town, so I guess that means Rivera didn't kill him."
"What was Hollowell's job?"
"Rutland BCI is running that. I have access to their reports and can sit in on their briefings, but I don't know what's being kicked around in the squad room. Last take I heard is that Torres or one of his Holyoke buddies did in Hollowell to shut down Rivera before he got started. But that doesn't explain Sharon Lapierre. If she just happened to be in Hollowell's motel room when he was hit, why the rigmarole with the tourniquet and the syringe? Why not just make it look like Hollowell killed her? Or, for that matter, why care about her at all? They probably didn't know her grandfather was connected to the governor."