Which was why we were comparing notes.
It was routine in an interview especially-versus an interrogation, where you were usually pursuing a confession-to throw as broad a net of questions as possible. Who do you know, who did you see, who did you hear being talked about-were all questions designed to sift suspects like a colander. Sam, Willy, and I spent two hours sifting, formulating how each name connected to the rest, so we could get a better glimpse of the world Brenda Croteau inhabited before she died.
It is usually pretty dry work, so I was encouraged when, at Willy’s mention of Frankie Harris, Sammie grew wide-eyed.
“What is it?” I asked her.
Willy, who’d continued reading aloud, paused, saw her face, and repeated, “Frankie Harris-yeah…that does ring a bell.”
Sammie’s voice was strained. “He was at the poker party.”
I watched them both closely as Willy momentarily froze. “Overlooking the railroad tracks? The night the bum got whacked?”
“More than that,” he agreed, with none of his usual malice.
It was the party where Sammie had met her current flame. “What’s your new friend’s name, Sam?”
She flushed and said angrily, “It’s not Harris. It’s Andy Padgett.”
The quiet in the room fell like a loud noise in church-everyone noticing it, and pretending they hadn’t. Frankie Harris, after all, was no longer just a name being mentioned in the context of one killing, but of two. We all had to wonder what Andy Padgett might have to say about that, especially given his sudden interest in a cop.
I tried skirting the issue. “Tell me what we’ve got on Mr. Harris,” I told Willy.
For once, he was happy to cooperate. “According to Jamie, Harris was one of Brenda’s johns, but one she liked. He was a regular. He’s also clean-I ran him through the computer.” He paused slightly, still watching Sammie, whose eyes were glued to her notes. “I remember him from when we did the first canvass. Quiet guy, maybe early fifties.” He pulled his pad from his back pocket and flipped through its pages. “Yeah. Here he is. Typesetter, fifty-one, unmarried, lives on Frost Street. He was the one who said he saw the car with no headlights through the window, on his way to take a leak.”
“Sammie?” I asked. “Anything to add?”
Her voice still showed her discomfort. “I remember him. Seemed legit.”
“Have you and Andy discussed him at all?”
“Only that night. I don’t think they know each other that well. It was one of the other guys’ birthday. He was the connection between Andy and Harris.”
Willy referred back to his pad. “Donald Carter, age thirty-one, divorced, two DUIs, a disorderly stemming from a domestic dispute, and a disturbing the peace with loud music, all spanning the past eight years. Nothing within the past several months, when he got clipped for the second DUI. No jail time. Claimed he never saw or heard a thing, not even the train. It was his apartment, so he’s learned to tune it out, according to him. I think he’d tucked away enough that night to make him deaf anyway.”
“Anything to add to Carter?” I asked Sammie.
“Andy’s mentioned him,” she admitted reluctantly. “They work together at Naughton Lumber, in the mill.”
Naughton Lumber was a huge operation north of town, turning felled trees into lumber, molding, plywood, and pulp. One of the town’s larger employers, it was notoriously unscrupulous about whom it hired.
In the awkward pause following her statement, Sammie grew angry again. “So what? Willy’s probably related to half the people doing life in St. Albans. Doesn’t mean he’s crooked.”
Willy laughed. “Don’t be so sure.”
It was a typical crack, although once again I sensed him casting her a protective mantle. He and Sammie had always worked well together, while bitching like cats and dogs. He had a respect for her he’d never shown Ron, for example. But I’d never seen him shield her from anything-her or anyone else, for that matter.
“No one’s saying anything against Andy,” I told her. “But we have to look into this, don’t you think?”
“He doesn’t know Frankie Harris that well,” she repeated. “That’s all I’m saying. And I don’t know how Carter knows him. Maybe they went to school together or something.”
“Harris is twenty years older than Carter,” I reminded her.
She pushed away from the table and stood up suddenly. “For Christ’s sake. I knew this would happen. I didn’t expect it from you.”
She stalked out of the room, leaving her notes behind. I rose, grabbed her pad, pointed a finger at Willy, said, “Stay put. I want to talk to you,” and gave chase.
I caught up to her just shy of the front door, taking her by the elbow. “Sammie. Slow down.”
She didn’t fight me off but turned and leaned back against the wall, her face contorted by fury, embarrassment, and frustration. “Damn,” she said.
I gave her the pad, moving my hand from her elbow to her shoulder and looking her straight in the eyes. “Sam. What the hell’s going on?”
She averted her gaze. “I don’t know. I’m tired. It’s a little confusing, is all.”
“Being in love?”
She looked at me then, checking for any mockery, finding none. “I don’t know what hit me. I barely know him, but I can’t stop thinking about him. It was like an electrical connection or something.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s perfectly normal. Maybe you got it worse than some, but you’re also overdue. And nobody’s dumping on you because of it, least of all me.”
Her brow knitted. “That’s not the way it felt at the crime scene earlier.”
I shook my head. “I was pissed at you for showing up healthy when you’d told me you were sick. It made you look devious, and I was already mad at Raymo for playing cowboy. I’m not angry you’ve finally found someone to fall in love with.”
She pursed her lips and said quietly, “I don’t know if it is love.”
I smiled at her. “Sex, then. I don’t care. Whatever it is, it’s good for the soul. It’s also nobody’s business but your own. I’m not going to tell you people won’t talk, or aren’t talking already. Not only did this happen pretty fast, and in an unusual context, but it’s also out of character for the Sammie we’re used to-a Sammie you trained us to be used to. You’ve got to expect some flak for that, just like anyone else would get.”
She sighed once heavily and then nodded. “I suppose.”
I let her go. “You want to pretend to be like one of the boys, they’re going to treat you that way-sophomoric as it sounds. It doesn’t mean they’re really going after you. On the contrary.”
“I know, I know,” she agreed, calming down. “I’ve seen it enough times. It’s just hard being on the receiving end.”
“It would’ve helped if you hadn’t been so coy about it, taking sick days.”
She smiled ironically. “You really believe that?”
I conceded the point. “Okay. You would’ve caught shit anyhow. But now the cat’s out of the bag. You can relax. All right?”
“All right. Sorry I blew up.”
“Don’t be. It’s been a hell of a day, this thing came out of left field, and,” I added, raising my eyebrows suggestively, “I don’t imagine you’ve been getting much sleep lately.”
She laughed and punched me in the arm. “Lay off. You want me back in there?”