This was a tinkerer's Valhalla, and from what Joe had heard, Dick Allen only left the place to fetch more supplies and to catch up with friends at the barracks nearby, where he kept current with the latest news.
He came out to the car as Gunther killed the engine, one hand available for a shake, the other predictably filled with a small electric motor.
"Joe, good to see you. I can't believe it's been so long. Not since you jumped ship to become a junior fed."
Gunther laughed. "Ouch-double-damned. I doubt the feds like us any more than the locals."
Allen was leading him toward a large picnic table set up near one of the disemboweled cars under a huge shady maple tree. "That's not what I'm hearing," he said. "Not across the board, anyway. I think you're winning hearts and minds." He added with a smile, "If maybe only one at a time."
They sat opposite one another, and Allen placed the small motor between them like a talisman, explaining as he did, "Jeanie's blender. Thought I'd take a look at it before she threw it out."
"She know that, or did you get it out of the garbage?"
Dick Allen looked hurt. "Busted. So, what's the number two man of the VBI doing way out here on a workday?"
"Looking for advice," Gunther admitted. "Maybe some help. You hear the news about the guy they found hanging from that bridge in Rutland?"
"James Hollowell? Yup. I'm impressed you've kept the lid on Sharon Lapierre this long, though. Pretty devious."
Gunther accepted this small show of bravura. Allen was establishing that he was still within the loop.
"It's not us. That's Rutland PD's doing. Didn't take you long to hear about it, though."
Allen shrugged. "Some people thought I'd find it interesting. I do, too. Is your bureau involved?"
"Not yet, but Reynolds is about to make a statement that'll throw us right into the middle."
"Without an invitation?"
"Would you have asked us in?"
Allen thought about that for a moment. "Maybe, depending on what you had to offer and on how tough the case looked. I don't have the details on this one yet-only the rumor mill headlines. But to be honest, that's just old broad-minded me. I think you're right, otherwise-there's still too much pride out there to ask for help from the likes of you guys, especially early on. Which I guess means you're about to land on a bunch of toes."
Gunther appreciated his old friend's canniness. It spared him having to be subtle about the truth. "I hate this, Dick. Our charter says we can initiate investigations, but this doesn't even qualify. It's flat-out party crashing and I can only see it coming back at us. I was telling Allard the only way I see getting any cover is if we're somehow seen as an asset, like you said. What have you heard about this case?"
"That Hollowell didn't commit suicide, that he was probably murdered where they found Sharon Lapierre, and that whoever snuffed the one probably did in the other. Nobody's told you this yet?"
"I haven't asked. I didn't want to be seen sniffing around. They're saying Lapierre was overdosed by force? How was Hollowell killed?"
"He was whacked on the head. And despite the deal with the tourniquet and the syringe, Lapierre didn't even have a fresh needle mark, so they probably killed her some other way, too."
Gunther was surprised, given what Bill Allard had told him about the girl. So much for Allen having heard only rumors. "Both the hanging and the overdose were staged? Why?"
"Beats me. I guess I should say beats them, since I'm just a fly on the wall and forensics is still doing their thing. But a wild guess would be to make a statement to someone who understands the body language, so to speak."
"And who's making the statement?" Gunther asked.
Allen picked up the motor and spun the central shaft between his fingertips, as if he were launching a whirligig. "That, I haven't heard. Don't think they've dug that deep yet. Does sound like someone rippling his muscles to make an impression, though, which isn't the norm for either the place or the drug trade in general, at least the way it's usually practiced up here."
"I was told there were underground rumblings that the Rutland scene might be getting organized. You think that connects to Holyoke somehow?"
Allen pressed his lips together thoughtfully. "I heard there's been an increase in traffic, and certainly Holyoke's the number one supplier, next to Hudson Falls, New York. Plus, the police chief down there is putting on a serious squeeze, trying to push the drug business out of his jurisdiction. He was quoted the other day as saying, 'I don't care what city they go to as long as it isn't Holyoke.' So, maybe somebody is getting something going. I've always wondered why no one's thought of that before. All these losers driving into Vermont to quadruple their money just so they can put the profit up their nose. It would seem that anyone with any sense would see the advantage of keeping clean and getting rich, fire-breathing police chief or not. It's a no-brainer."
"But you haven't actually heard they're doing that," Gunther stated.
"Nope. Does raise an interesting angle, though. One that could play to your advantage-and to the boys who don't think you're worth much right now. The Southern Vermont Drug Task Force is people-poor and overworked at the moment. They communicate well with the Holyoke PD, but basically they're country cousins begging for favors-they don't have anyone on the ground working solely for them. Your outfit would be a real asset there, especially if you're right about a Holyoke link. In a lot of these things, where the same people have been working the same problem forever, sometimes the addition of one small advantage can make the difference. Even with their prejudice, the task force will value that. Could be key, if you mind your manners."
Joe mulled that over, weighing the possibilities. "It would give us something to trade, and I already asked Allard to tell the governor not to single us out when he makes his announcement so we don't come off as a bunch of gold diggers."
"Extra money wouldn't hurt, speaking of that," Dick Allen suggested. "Coming in bearing gifts is always a safe bet." Allen smiled and shook his head. "Jesus, I can't believe I'm helping you do this."
"Why are you?"
He thought about that for a moment. "Because it's time. The majority of your guys used to work for us. They moved over because there was a chance for advancement and experience. Maybe they were right and maybe not, but it would be nice if they got a shot at it. Don't get me wrong, I still think the Vermont State Police is the best we have, and I was pretty unhappy when the VBI showed up. But the VSP can be a little hidebound and frustrating, and sometimes gets a little full of itself. And, hell, you know? Nothing lasts forever-even New Hampshire's Old Man of the Mountain finally fell off his perch-and I've seen the benefits for other states that went with an investigation bureau. Could be we're due for a change, whether we like it or not."
"That's pretty generous, Dick."
Allen tilted his head and turned devil's advocate. "Okay, but it's from a dog with no teeth. You might want to consider that handing out money like a miserly rich uncle could backfire in the winning-friends department."
Gunther shook his head with frustration. "I know it. I just don't know what else to do. I don't want us to be the ones bringing gifts to the party just to be shut out right after we sit down. We'll earn whatever respect we get, but we have to be able to participate."
Allen straightened slightly and gave Gunther an appraising look. "You said at the top that you wanted advice and maybe some help. I take it this is the help part. You want me to put in a good word?"