"Ah," Gunther finally conceded, feeling suddenly tired. So much politics in this job-dealing with the public, the press, the municipal managers, and the statehouse folks, and with every fellow police agency in each and every investigation. This, however, was going to be above and beyond the usual. Jim Reynolds was running for reelection, as governors did every two years in this state, and he was facing a tough race. Through inference alone, Gunther already guessed the waters he was going to be asked to enter.
"He wants the VBI, his pet creation, to put things right," he suggested, "with appropriate press coverage."
Allard smiled humorlessly. "You're good. That's almost a direct quote. So far, the media's been so excited by the hanging that they haven't picked up on Sharon's death yet-we're sitting on it pretty tight-but it's not just about Miss Lapierre in any case. That would be too obvious, even for Reynolds. He's about to release a press statement saying the VBI will be tasked as of this week with eliminating the trafficking of heroin into the state of Vermont, so that he looks like he's doing more than just reacting to a pal's personal loss."
Gunther let out a short laugh. "God, I hope he didn't invoke the 'war' on drugs too. That would be way old news."
He pointed at the picture on the wall. "I suppose it goes without saying that she died of a heroin overdose."
"That's what it looks like. And the motel room was booked to James Hollowell."
That, Gunther found interesting, his brain instantly weighing what he'd heard so far about politicians, high-profit drugs, and the inkling of an organization making a grab for the local market. "No kidding? What's the story there?"
Allard leaned back in his chair and hit the lights, causing them both to blink in the sudden glare. "That's one of the things you're supposed to find out," he said.
Gunther made a face, despite his curiosity. "Rutland's not only got a good police department, but they share a building with an equally qualified sheriff. Not to mention that there's a state police barracks in town and an FBI substation. And isn't the Southern Vermont Drug Task Force already quote-unquote tasked with handling heroin traffic? Seems like all that would make our showing up a little redundant-at best. My guess is the reception would be frigid, and I'm not sure I'd fault any of them."
Allard shifted in his chair. "This isn't a debate, Joe. It's a done deal. I put in my two cents from the start, but basically we're screwed."
"You know we're about to flush two years' worth of good PR down the drain."
They both stared at the pale ghost of the slide that Allard hadn't yet extinguished.
"You said the governor was about to issue his statement," Gunther finally said, the company man not just yielding to the inevitable but transforming it instead into a challenge to be met. "How much time do we have?"
"Three days, maybe a little more. He's knee-deep in prior campaign commitments right now, he wants to be brought up to speed before he talks to the media, and like I said, he wants some time to elapse between her death and his announcement. So, we've got a little breathing room. But he is hot to trot and he's been known to shoot his mouth off prematurely. Plus, we don't know what'll happen when the press discovers Sharon. Why do you ask?"
Gunther drummed the tabletop with his fingertips. "Because the only way we can get this to work is if we lock something in before he makes it official. If by the time of the announcement we're seen by the other agencies as having something tangible to bring to the table, then we might be treated as something more than an uninvited guest. Right now both the Rutland PD drug unit and the task force have legitimate claim, a track record of working together and solid, preexisting intelligence sources. We'll need something to top all that, or we'll end up looking like the weird political creation we've worked so hard not to be. I'm not so worried about the other cops-they'll just ignore us if they want. It's the governor's opponents that could put the limelight on us. After all the effort we've put into this organization, I'd hate for us to be treated like a political football. Our people deserve better than that. And they should expect us to watch their backs."
Bill Allard looked a little taken aback by his vehemence. "I don't argue with you, Joe. But what can you do?"
Gunther stood up. "Scramble. And you can help. Get the governor to keep his mouth shut till I give the thumbs-up. Tell him he'll be sinking us before we leave shore and making himself look like a jerk otherwise. And make sure that when the time does come, he does two crucial things: One, he doesn't single us out like he's planning to. He can identify us at that press conference, but only in a laundry list that includes Rutland and the state police and whoever else I can think of by then. And two, he cannot say we or anyone else are going to stop heroin from coming into the state. If he does, he'll lose the election, and I'll be happy to explain to the media why. If he has to say something bombastic, have him stick to Rutland itself-as in 'a major effort will be made to curb the import of heroin there'. . or something like that."
Bill Allard nodded once. "I'll do what I can."
Chapter 4
Dick Allen lived outside Chester, Vermont, not far from the state police barracks he'd commanded toward the end of his career. A man of legendary stature within the law enforcement community, he'd gained much of his fame through his ability to get along with almost anyone, from the hardened criminals he routinely got to confess, to nitpicking statehouse committee members hoping to tighten his agency's purse strings. As he climbed through the ranks, always shunning desk jobs for field commands, he'd nevertheless been called on by the brass to represent the state police far and wide, garnering respect where ever he went. During his last five years on the job, his reputation had finally so evolved that when a reporter once referred to him jokingly as "Gandhi Allen," no one had thought it a stretch.
And as if to prove the point, as soon as he'd hit his maximum benefits level, Dick Allen had retired without fanfare or fuss-just another warhorse quietly going out to pasture, according to him.
Except that he hadn't severed any of his old ties. Ten years away from the job, he was as influential now as he'd ever been, keeping in touch, lending advice, helping out from behind the scenes-and discreetly wielding influence with the subtlety of an old Mafia don pretending to care only for his garden.
As soon as Joe was briefed by Bill Allard, he knew his first stop had better be Dick Allen.
Another aspect of Allen's fame was as a tinkerer. He built things, repaired things, took things home from the dump for mysterious and dimly defined future uses. When he'd been on the job, fellow officers had gone to great lengths not to tell him their computers or desk chairs or cars had fallen ill. It wasn't that he couldn't repair these objects, but he followed his own timetable, which could sometimes cover quite a period. And, of course, nobody had the heart to refuse him if he did offer his services. He was that highly regarded.
This habit, however, did make his house easy to separate from its neighbors. Located on a dirt road near the tiny village of Cambridgeport, in Rockingham Township, Dick Allen's residence came after a series of nondescript ranch-styles, tucked demurely among the trees and rolling hills that defined the general neighborhood. But his home was huge, made of logs, with a rusting metal roof, and was clearly the project that would never reach completion. Allen and his family had lived there for over twenty years, and it still looked as though the building contractor had just left for lunch. Tools, machinery, and hard-to-define equipment were scattered about the lawn and dooryard, and a half-built scaffold reached ineffectively up one exterior wall, groping toward a huge hole on the second floor that aspired to be a picture window There was a partially finished deck off to one side, several cars with their hoods up and their engines clutched by tendrils of weeds, and what looked to be an incomplete aboveground pool standing in the back lawn like a wooden boat that had been dropped from a crane with disastrous results.