I waggled the photograph I was still holding in my hand. “This one a regular, too?”
Philbin shook his head. “Never saw him before. I just recognized him because of Sawyer. When Mike comes to eat, I pay attention.” He smiled with an oily self-satisfaction. “Makes it worth my while.”
My earlier dislike of the man returned. “During your hovering to be of service, did you hear what they were talking about?”
He slid both hands into his trouser pockets and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to talk about that. Isn’t there some kind of right-to-privacy thing there?”
I stared at him a moment, wondering if he was trying to be cute, angling for some money, or just plain stupid. “There’s your right to remain silent when I arrest you for impeding an investigation.”
The hands came back out. “Jesus Christ. You don’t have to get so touchy. They talked about a lot of bullshit-the old days, their health. The same kind of crap all these old farts talk about.”
“How about their waiter? Who was he?”
He surprised me by suddenly looking uncomfortable. “I was.”
I understood immediately. “Screwed the real waiter for the tip. Where’s Sawyer live?”
Philbin was anxious to get this over. “Edson Hill area.” He gave me the precise address. “It’s where a lot of bigwigs live.”
“He get there just because of the restaurant?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
I went to Edson Hill with Gary Smith. He called the homes there “starter castles” and shared a few past tales of their owners’ eccentric behavior. His take on them was like that of an indulgent father who didn’t mind a little mischief from his children. It was one of the interesting things about Stowe that I’d already noticed-that the simmering anger some towns felt for the occasional wealthy resident had been diluted by compromise here, either because there were so many millionaires, or perhaps because Stowe had made its peace with what it had become.
That thought prompted me to test Gary on a topic closer to home. “What do you think about VBI, now that we’ve been working together awhile?”
He was still looking out the passenger window at the parade of huge houses, most of them new, many of them reflecting in their architecture the stone and woods that defined the entire region.
“I’m still not sure why they dreamed you up, what with VSP already in place, but it hasn’t bugged me any.”
“We haven’t been too pushy?”
“Our PD wouldn’t have ended up with this case anyhow, and you guys have been good to work with, ’cept maybe Kunkle. He’s a little much.”
“But if you were asked, we’d get a passing grade?” I persisted, knowing such a conversation would be taking place at higher levels, if it hadn’t already.
“Nobody gives a shit what I think, and we’re probably stuck with you people anyhow, so who cares?”
He relented after I made no comment and turned toward me.
“Look, I know you didn’t create this thing, and I don’t much care why you joined up, although it’s obviously working for you. But maybe that’s what does bug me about it. I’ve done okay in this department. I got a good chief, we get our fair share of action, and I’ve had some pretty interesting assignments. With VBI coming on, that’ll probably all change. We won’t need detectives in-house, and I’ll be back to pulling over speeders.”
“Not necessarily,” I argued. “We only handle major crimes-cases you’d hand over anyhow, just like you said. Your department will still need plainclothes officers. The only difference’ll be that if you ever want to move up, you won’t have to wait for the chief to leave-you can apply to join us and get career options you can’t even dream of now unless you join the state police and virtually start all over again.”
He shrugged, unconvinced. “If that’s true, then every hotshot in the state’ll be lining up to join and I won’t have a chance.” He pointed to a log-built home on our right-well-appointed but low-key. “That’s it.”
I swung up the driveway, distressed if not surprised by his answer. Cops were often bureaucratic fatalists, resigned to any and all change doing them dirt in the long run-and convinced that there was nothing they could do about it. The Gary Smiths of this world would have to be led to any new realities, not pep-talked to them-prior disappointments and a natural conservatism dictated that.
Mike Sawyer stepped out onto his wraparound porch before we got out of the car. He was as bald as an egg, thin, small, and straight-backed, immaculately dressed in very expensive slacks and a thick cardigan sweater. Had he been wearing a white cap, I would have thought myself about to board a yacht.
“Mr. Sawyer?” I called out from where I’d parked.
“Who are you?” he asked without preamble.
“We’re police officers,” I said, keeping it simple. “We were wondering if we could ask you some questions.”
He didn’t move from looking down at us, his hands on the wooden railing before him. “About what?”
I made a gesture of slapping my sides with my arms. “Kind of cold out here. Mind if we come in?”
He obviously did but luckily was old and well mannered enough not to say so. He indicated a set of broad steps to his right and motioned us to join him. We shook hands formally, exchanged names, and he ushered us stiffly across the threshold.
We entered a heavy-beamed living room with a pile of brightly burning logs in the fireplace and some classical music playing in the background.
“This is very nice,” I said.
“It’s functional. What do you want?”
I faced him, noticing for the first time just how old he was. Sawyer’s clothes were so luxuriously thick and well tailored that from a distance they’d given him a youthful, fashionable flair. But up close I saw how his neck and head protruded from them like a turtle’s from its shell-bare, wrinkled, withered, and frail.
“Would you like to sit down?” I asked.
“No. I’d like an answer.”
I remembered how the unpleasant maître d’ had described Sawyer as a tough guy with demanding expectations.
“We’d like to ask you about Gaston Picard.”
His expression remained the same. “What about him?”
“You met him several days ago over lunch. We were wondering what you talked about.”
“I doubt that’s any of your business.”
I began to reassess the turtle analogy. “It is, actually. We’re conducting a murder investigation.”
“Good for you. Do you have a warrant?”
“Do we need one?”
He smiled thinly. “My question comes first, and yours just gave me the answer. If at some point you feel you do need a warrant-and can get it-then maybe we’ll continue this little chat.”
That was our exit line, except for my unwillingness to take it. “I get your point, and you’re perfectly within your rights, but can I ask you a couple of general things? They’re more history questions than anything else.”
He looked at me curiously for the first time. “History questions?”
I moved into that small opening. “Yeah. I heard you used to run the best restaurant in town-Michael Sawyer’s.”
“That’s common knowledge.”
“So I just found out. When was that in operation?”
“Sixty-four to eighty-nine.”
That was a letdown. “What did you do before then?”
“I ran other restaurants.”
“In Stowe?”
“Yes, and elsewhere.”
“When did you open your first one in Stowe?” I asked, sensing I was slowly getting where I wanted to go.
Sawyer moved over to the front door and opened it. The sudden cold air matched the change in his tone. “I don’t recall-old-timer’s disease,” he said, tapping his very sound head with his fingertip. “Make sure you bring some paperwork next time you come.”
“That was useful,” Gary said once we were heading back down the hillside.