“Why tell me?”
“He’s a very motivated, dangerous man. He’s also very resourceful. If he does happen to discover your connection to all this, he’ll come knocking at your door, one way or the other. It’s happened before.”
Duquesne was very still. When he spoke, the neutrality had tilted toward the hostile. “Then you’ve just exposed me to a certain amount of danger, is that right? As you did with that prostitute?”
“Not necessarily. If he does contact you, just tell him everything he wants to know. That should be the end of it.”
“Are you going to give me some protection in the meantime?”
“He may not even get in touch.”
“If that were true, you wouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Giving you protection might cause more harm than good. If Ski Mask senses an obstacle, he’s usually pretty good at removing it.”
“That sounds more like your area than mine, Lieutenant. Perhaps I can be more persuasive: let’s say that if any harm does come to me while I’m unprotected, my lawsuit against your department will stand a far greater chance of success.”
He smiled. I smiled. I showed myself out. It occurred to me that for all her street smarts, Susan Lucey could learn a thing or two from an operator like that.
It turned out Dr. Duquesne wasn’t the only one not living in a cocoon. Town Manager Tom Wilson was waiting for me in the hallway back at the Municipal Building.
“Give me an update, Gunther.”
“I’d prefer to let Chief Brandt do that.”
“I don’t care what you prefer. Tell me what’s going on-right now.”
“We’re digging, and it’s getting easier and easier. We should have something before long.”
Wilson stabbed my chest with his finger. “Don’t give me that crap. You guys are not the CIA. You work for me and the board, and you are accountable for everything you do. Early on, I let you play coy because we were all trying to duck the publicity. That, iici" wn case you haven’t read today’s newspaper, or heard the radio, or seen Channel 31, is no longer a consideration.”
“I know. We’re famous.”
“Don’t be cute. I’ve been fencing with the press from Rutland and Keene for a couple of days already. Now I’ve had calls from the wire services and two of the three networks. A Boston TV station has a news crew due here this afternoon, for Christ’s sake. We’ve got to do better than ‘We’re digging and it’s getting easier.’ They’ll eat us alive. Even worse, they’ll start digging on their own. I can’t believe you want that.”
“All right, but I’m still not going to say anything without Brandt. He should be back any second.” I crossed over to Maxine’s window. “Any word from Tony?”
“He’s heading back. He just called in.”
I turned to Wilson. “Why don’t you wait in his office? I’ll be right there.”
He grumbled, but he went. I took a left into the squad room and poked my head into Billy Manierre’s office. “I need someone to run a blood sample to a forensic pathologist in West Haven, Connecticut. Can you help me out?”
“Whose blood?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s the same guy who sexually molested Pam Stark or Kimberly Harris or whatever you want to call her.”
“Yeah, I can get someone. Give me names and addresses.”
I quickly scrawled o ut what he wanted on a sheet of paper and then made a fast track to my office-still clutching Duquesne’s file-to draw up requests for two search warrants: one for Cioffi’s office, one for his home. I was halfway through when my phone buzzed.
“Joe?” It was Brandt. “What are you doing right now?”
“Preparing warrants for a guy named Steven Cioffi. He’s the guy with the hump.”
“All right. Go to it. Don’t bother to come powwow with Wilson and me. We’ll sort that out. It’ll probably mean some kind of press conference later today, so don’t skip town.”
“Right.” I hung up and finished typing, praying I would find a judge available across the street at the courthouse.
I did-in the men’s room. He wasn’t terrifically pleased about it-probably something about his dignity-but he signed on the dotted line against the tile wall. I returned to Brandt’s office and brought him up to date.
When I finished, he stood up, pocketed his pipe and smiled. “Well, maybe this press conference won’t be such a bad idea after all.”
25
Cioffi worked at Leatherton, Inc., a manufacturer of industrial parts whose name I’d always thought was better suited to a luggage-making firm. In fact, this one modest factory was one of several subsidiaries of Thomas Leatherton amp; Company of Toronto, Canada, which was their version of Westinghouse-a big deem" w›
The building reflected the stature. Covering half an industrial park recently built south of town near the interstate, it was the region’s latest statement in modern architecture, which may not have been saying much. Still, it was an eye-catcher, made of dark glass and earth-toned brick, and it did exude a sense of capitalist power and well-being.
We arrived in two squad cards. Kunkle and I were in one, Capullo and Woll in the other. I had the two patrolmen cover the front and back entrances, just in case our fat and flabby erstwhile hunchback decided to limp off into the sunset.
As it turned out, he’d already done so. From the receptionist downstairs to his secretary on the top floor, we got the same message: “I’m afraid Mr. Cioffi’s not in right now.”
His secretary was an attractive young bottle-blonde with too much eye shadow. I pointed to the closed door behind her. “Is that his?”
She looked at it doubtfully. “Yes, it is.”
I laid the court order on her desk and walked around her to the door.
“Stop. I mean, hold on a second. What is this?” She held up the warrant.
Kunkle answered for me in modulated officialese. “That’s a court order allowing us to enter this office and remove specific documents related to the case we have building against Mr. Cioffi.”
Her eyes widened. “Against Mr. Cioffi? What for?”
“Read the warrant.” She looked from us to the paper in her hand. “I think maybe I should get somebody.”
“That’s fine. We’ll be in here.” I opened the door and went inside.
What we entered was the archetypal coveted corner office. Two walls of windows, a rug soft enough to swallow our shoes, a mahogany desk, a leather sofa and two armchairs custom-made for an English men’s club. Lining the other two walls was a built-in bookcase stuffed with stereo equipment, fancy artifacts, and elegantly placed collections of leather-bound books. It did not fit the mental image I’d painted of Cioffi from his doctor’s description.
Kunkle looked around and whistled. “Jesus, if I worked here, I’d never go home.”
I pulled the walkie-talkie from my belt and called Dispatch. “Tell Brandt to secure Cioffi’s residence. He’s not at his office. If Brandt wants the court order covering the house, I’ve got it.”
“Ten-four.”
I took down several of Cioffi’s fancy books and opened them. None showed any signs of overuse. In fact, the same could have been said for the entire office.
I went over to the desk. Except for the usual executive knickknacks, it was bare. I pulled at the drawer directly in front of the chair; it was unlocked. Inside, I found a book marked “Appointments.” I checked today’s date. Nothing was scheduled.
“May I help you?”
The voice belonged tice
Kunkle took an instant dislike to him. Maybe it was the suit. “I doubt it. Who are you?”
“My name’s Arthur Pelegrino. I’m the head of Public Relations.”
Kunkle obviously was not in a handshaking mood and I was too far away. Pelegrino seemed ill at ease forgoing the formality; his hands fidgeted in front of his belt buckle. “Could you tell me what this is all about?”
I took pity on the man, crossed over, and shook his hand. “I’m Lieutenant Gunther. We have a warrant for certain documents in this room. I would also like to ask some questions of Mr. Cioffi’s secretary, if I may.”