The heavy door slammed shut behind me, making me swallow hard, exposed in the harsh light.
Nathan handed the supervisor the booking affidavit, which he in turn carried over to the desk to be entered into the computer. Danny Freer turned to face me, his expression the only halfway sympathetic thing in the room.
He removed my handcuffs and indicated a metal straight-back chair. “Sit down, Joe. This’ll take a few minutes.”
He then picked up a clipboard and began asking me questions-age, height, weight, social security number, all the rest. As I responded to each, I saw through the corner of my eye the cafeteria windows slowly filling with gloating faces. Natural curiosity about incoming “fresh meat” had obviously been replaced by a widespread appetite for unprotected police officer. Word of my arrival had gotten out. Without comment, Danny moved to stand between me and the window, at which I heard a muffled outcry of protest. Someone began thumping on the thick glass.
“Okay,” Freer said, his voice impassive. “Empty your pockets.”
I did so slowly, allowing him to catalogue each item before he dropped it into a bag. Guards were now shouting at the inmates to back off from the window. My throat dry, fear overriding reason, I began to have doubts that Fred Coffin had stumbled in bringing me here-that maybe he was about to pull a rabbit out of his hat.
Danny, his routine finally finished, gave me a receipt and nodded to Bill Nathan, who picked up the phone on the desk and dialed the Windham District Court. I now cast a glance toward the windows and saw a crowd of men standing several feet away, their eyes upon me. Several of them grinned and made suggestive gestures.
Nathan lowered the phone and addressed his partner with disgust. “The clerk won’t play. She’s gone to find a judge.”
We sat in silence for several minutes before Nathan began talking again, too quietly for me to hear. Finally, after the line had gone dead, he said, “Fuck you, too,” and hung up with a bang.
He looked at Danny in disgust. “We gotta cut him loose-flash-cite him for arraignment on Monday. No bail, no conditions, no nothin’.”
Danny shrugged. “You surprised?”
He handed me the bag he was still holding so I could refill my pockets, and returned the clipboard to the supervisor. “Let’s get out of here.”
Nathan’s face was closed down tight, his eyes narrow with anger. “I wanna mug and print him first, just for our records.”
Freer shook his head. “In good time, Bill. Joe was right-Coffin fucked up. No point getting our shorts in a twist. Let’s take him back.”
Nathan’s face colored. “He can hitch his way back.”
Danny stared at him until his partner looked away, then he nodded good-bye to the supervisor and motioned toward the exit. We all three left without saying a word.
Gail met us in the driveway, hugging my neck as soon as I got out of the car, allowing Freer and Nathan to slip away without further embarrassment. Just as at the jail, there were no reporters.
“I heard it on the news,” Gail said into my ear, still hanging on. “I can’t believe he’d try something like that.”
I rubbed her back, pleased beyond measure to have her in my arms. “Yeah-quite the sendoff. Everybody but the New York Times.”
She pulled away far enough to look into my eyes. “How was it?”
“In retrospect, a slightly nervous drive in the countryside.”
She scowled. “Coffin is such a prick. I’m glad Judge Harrowsmith handed him his lunch.”
We began walking back toward the house. “Didn’t put him on Nathan’s good side, though,” I said.
Gail stopped just shy of the door. “Joe. I want to apologize for last night.”
I put my hand on her cheek. “Don’t. There’s no need. You are being victimized. You have a right to be pissed off.”
“But not at you.”
I laughed. “Maybe, but that’s the way it works, isn’t it?”
She shook her head in response, but I interrupted her before she could speak. “Gail, it’s better to blow a cork at someone who loves you than at someone who wouldn’t understand. God knows, I’ve run you over a few times.”
The phone began ringing inside the house, so I jogged into the kitchen to answer it.
“I was hoping you’d be back by now,” Sammie said. “That was some stunt. Doesn’t give you much faith in the AG’s office.”
“Not that particular AG,” I agreed. “On the other hand, since it didn’t work, maybe he’ll be a little more rational next time.”
“Yeah.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Anyhow, I don’t know that we’ll be able to tie Marty Sopper to Boris’s death, not if Boris was knocked off when we think he was. Willy’s dug up a pretty good alibi for him-he was cheating on Marianne all that night with another woman.”
“And it’s solid?”
“ ’Fraid so.”
I thought about that for a moment. “Okay. What did Ron find out about Rarig?”
“That’s looking more promising. He took your advice about working outside the paper trail, but he did it one better. He started calling people who knew Rarig as a kid-in Ames, Iowa, of all places. There’ll be one hell of a phone bill next month, but I think it’ll be worth it. From the few folks who remembered him, it doesn’t sound like their Rarig’s the same one we’ve got.”
“A switch?” I asked.
“Could be. Hard to say exactly. Rarig’s in his seventies, so anyone who knew him back then’s pretty old, but their descriptions don’t jibe with our guy. ’Course, to be fair, they also don’t exactly jibe with each other, either. Still, I think we’re barking up the right tree. Ron’s still at it. He’s hoping to find out why Rarig’s never been back to Ames and never made contact with anyone there.”
“He doesn’t have any family? Maybe we could get some early pictures.”
Sammie laughed. “That’s why this is looking good. He was an orphan. There’re some school pictures, and we’ll be getting copies of those, but it sounds like real cloak-and-dagger stuff. Kind of cool.”
I wasn’t sure I would’ve phrased it quite that way. “Well, I’m glad it’s going well. Did you get any feedback on the motorist from the other night?” I tried to temper my lingering anxiety by adding lightly, “The one I damn near shot?”
“Nope,” she said without apparent concern. “Not a peep yet. We’re still looking, though. By the way, I have an idea why Coffin tried his little throw-you-in-jail gimmick.”
I shook my head at the phone, caught off guard by her sudden shift of gears. “Better stop there, Sam. You get on the stand, you’ll have to own up to this.”
“Not to worry,” she answered, as she had before. “This is purely informational. I found out about that Mickey Mitchell deal-the shoplifter you got Henri Alonzo to go light on. Alonzo told Coffin’s two boys he felt you pressured him-says he was threatened by the uniform-quote, unquote-and that in fact he wanted to prosecute. His theory now is that you had it in for him because he wanted to walk the straight and narrow, while you were just after brownie points with some snitch.”
My mouth opened in surprise. “What? I never had Mitchell as a snitch. Before you reminded me, I didn’t even remember who he was. And why the hell would I rip off Alonzo years later for a piece of bullshit like that?”
“Beats me,” Sammie said. “But I think that’s what Nathan and Freer were told to sell the judge from Woodstock. It does make you look pretty bad, you have to admit-especially with Coffin painting in the details.”
I muttered something I barely heard myself and hung up, staring sightlessly out the window, my face flushed. Gail came in from the living room and cautiously stood beside me.
“Bad news?”
“It’s not good.” I checked my watch. “I’m going out for a while.”
She looked at me, startled. “Where? You want me to come?”