For this wasn’t the first time a police officer had mindlessly reached into his life and carelessly extinguished someone central to his emotional well-being. Over twenty years ago, Vinnie Stazio had been killed by an off-duty cop for no reason. A moonlighting watchman, twitchy, trigger-fingered, too stupid to yell out at a passing shadow before shooting it, had taken from Gino his mentor, his father figure, and the man who had helped him give birth to his own self-respect.
Vinnie’s death had devastated Gino, as much for the friendship it interrupted as for the feeling of impotence it spawned. For mere loss and grief weren’t the only legacies of this ancient killing. Humiliation was there, too, since, despite his vow to seek revenge, Gino never acted on it, continually finding ways to avoid seeking out the offending cop and serving him his just desserts.
But that, of course, had been a long time ago. Gino had been young, insecure, grateful for Vinnie’s attention, but still largely unformed. While furious and frustrated by the older man’s sudden death, he’d still lacked the nerve to set things right.
No longer.
This time the man responsible for Gino’s heartbreak would suffer, and he would do so in kind.
Famolare closed his eyes and pressed his fingertips hard against his tear ducts, using the resulting pain to clear his head. He then reached into the back seat of his car and retrieved a woman’s photograph and a powerful pair of binoculars. He propped the picture against the dash and focused the field glasses on the front steps of the ornate building across from his parking space-the Vermont state capitol building.
He’d been doing his homework, using the phone, the old-boy network, and the Web to gather information. He knew all he needed to know about Joe Gunther, the man who’d killed Peggy.
He knew Gunther had a woman he cared for.
Most of all, he knew Gunther would soon be feeling the same pain Gino was carrying around in his chest like a stone.
Joe entered the conference room in the St. Albans state police barracks that he and Michael and Shafer had used days ago to decipher the arson pattern just south of the city.
This time, however, although the basic purpose was the same, and those two men were in attendance, the scope had been expanded, and with it, the team. Now added to the large table were Willy Kunkle, Sammie Martens, and Ross Braver of the VBI Burlington office, who’d been busy all this time on an unrelated, still-open homicide case. There were also two liaisons each from the Sheriff’s Department and the Vermont State Police. Nine officers in all, not counting Joe.
“Sorry I’m late and thank you all for coming,” Joe began, placing his paperwork on the table before him. “I know everyone’s knee-deep in alligators right now. There’s a lot we’ve been dealing with and still more starting to come together. But it’s with that in mind that I thought we better meet so we can all get on the same page.”
Still standing, he paused to open a file folder and consulted its cover page. “To bring the newcomers up to speed, let me summarize a bit. In the folders before you, you’ll find much more than what I’m about to say, but this is the once-over-lightly.”
He stepped away from the table and began pacing as he spoke. “In a nutshell, it seems we’re looking at a real estate deal gone haywire. A St. Albans Realtor named Clark Wolff caught wind that the feds were planning to site a major Homeland Security operations center just south of town but needed to put a bridge across Lake Champlain to better establish an east-west travel corridor paralleling the border. On one hand, it looks ridiculous, but on another-if you look at the map-you can see where someone in Washington might’ve thought it was a great idea. More to the point, the reality of the thing doesn’t matter, ’cause Wolff bit the bait and started buying up farmland where the bridge is supposed to hit the shore.
“The problem was, he needed a lot more money than he’s got available, and he didn’t want to tip his hand to the local banks and risk spilling the beans prematurely. Enter John Samuel Gregory, a young, rich, ambitious exile from Newark, New Jersey, complete with shady past and connections to the Mob.”
“Great,” muttered one of the state troopers.
“Exactly,” Joe agreed. “It took Mr. Gregory about fifteen seconds after joining Wolff’s firm to catch wind of this scheme and up the ante by strong-arming a few deals to speed up the process. From what we’ve pieced together, it looks as if-without Wolff’s knowledge, according to him-Gregory hired an arsonist named Gino Famolare from back home to come up here and torch three barns that we know of.”
Joe paused to hold up a hand. “Keep in mind that some of what I’m saying is speculative. We are pretty confident about two of the fires, since the MOs are almost identical, but the third one-the Loomis fire-was electrical, making it different in origin, and the damage was severe enough that we can’t absolutely be sure Famolare was involved.”
“You don’t even know it was arson,” Willy added helpfully.
Joe didn’t argue the point. “He’s right. We don’t. But read the files to see why we’re going with that assumption-you’ll find mention of some milk tampering we think occurred to weaken the target financially just prior to the fire. And while we’re on the subject of things we can’t prove, pay attention to the vehicular death of Arvid Beatty, who died when his tractor brakes failed. Similarly, you’ll find mention of another farmer named Martin, who was accidentally gassed checking his own silage and sold his farm after waking up from the resulting coma. To be honest, though, he’s included only because the sale went to Wolff and Gregory, not because we think the gassing was somehow rigged.”
“How solid are you that Wolff knew nothing about Gregory?” Ross Braver asked. “Someone gets killed, it’s usually whoever he was sleeping with or in business with.”
“True enough,” Joe agreed. “And you may be right. My gut tells me he’s clean, but he’s still on the radar along with everyone else.”
“On the land deals,” the other state trooper asked, “what kind of acreage are we talking about?”
“That’s a little vague right now,” Joe admitted, crossing back over to his notes. “Of the eight area transactions we know about in the past few months, Wolff knew of three, including Loomis-the electrical fire I mentioned. He didn’t realize his supposed partner, Gregory, had also picked up the tractor death and the gassed guy. But those’re only the ones we’re sure about. Total, that comes to about sixteen hundred acres. They had more on their wish list.”
He looked up at them. “Okay, so far, so good. We know the players, the motive, and the methods. All that seems pretty complete.” After a beat, he added, “But there’s one small off-key note.”
“Gregory got himself killed,” Shafer said quietly.
“That’s not it,” Sammie countered, her eyes bright and glued to Gunther.
Joe smiled, not surprised that she’d done her homework both thoroughly and analytically. “No. Gregory’s death was certainly a surprise, but that’s not what I meant.”
“What, then?” Shafer asked.
“It’s the death of Bobby Cutts,” Sam answered.
Joe nodded slightly. “There’s your oddball from the start. It’s the last of the arsons, the only one outside the cluster, the one the Realtors had no interest in, the only one where cows were killed on purpose and the human by mistake.”
“You saying we have two separate cases?” one of the sheriff’s men asked.
“No,” Willy drawled, his voice rich with contempt.
“The arsonist who did Noon also did Cutts,” Jonathon explained.
“And Gregory did visit the Cutts farm,” Sam added. “He left a business card behind.”
“We don’t have separate cases,” Joe continued helpfully, trying to make the deputy feel less targeted. “But we may have two separate investigations based on separate motives.”
Braver, the newcomer, asked, “You say Bobby Cutts died by mistake. Are we absolutely sure about that?”