Until they all returned to the office, however, where he would finally lower the boom, he didn't mind passing along the interesting bits he'd collected. He felt he owed Joe Gunther at least that much, if only as a kindred spirit.
He leaned forward over the top of the ramshackle desk and rapped his knuckles against the glass.
He met Gunther at the front door as the Vermonter was rounding the corner of the house. "Go for a walk?" he suggested. "I need to stretch my legs."
They fell into step side-by-side and headed west, where the street ran straight to the water at the far end of the block.
"I'm sorry I've had to park you on the sidelines," Ogden apologized. "I think I've abused the system all I can on this one."
Gunther was already waving his hand dismissively. "I appreciate all you did. I know everything past the first five minutes has been pure courtesy. I thank you for that. Not many people would've been that generous."
Ogden laughed. "I wouldn't overdo it. I think I was more curious than anything, not to say a little embarrassed at having dropped the ball with the initial investigation. If you hadn't come knocking, we wouldn't be where we are right now."
"Which is where, if that's okay to ask?"
Ogden immediately set him at ease. "Of course. That's why we're taking this walk. I didn't want to push my luck back there with so many people around. It's starting to look like Ron Cashman was a high-ranking lieutenant in a major car theft ring, among other things. He ran guns and drugs to a lesser extent, I think mostly to keep his options open and maintain a sense of independence, but the big money was cars."
"Did you know anything about this ring before now?" Gunther asked.
"I didn't," Ogden admitted, "but Customs did. They have a task force with some of our people and they've been trying to get a handle on this bunch for a couple of years. Berhle's been on the phone with them for a half hour or more and they're about to show up, which'll pretty much bring our involvement to an end-another reason I'm going to have to cut you folks loose."
"Sort of frustrating, isn't it?"
Ogden shrugged. "Yes and no. They need something for all their efforts, too, and it's not like I don't have other things to do. Besides, we cracked it for them. I can rub that in if I get in the mood."
They continued walking a little farther before Ogden added, "It's not all altruism, either, so don't go thinking I'm plain old Mister Nice Guy. I didn't have Jim call the feds till now 'cause I wanted a long look at all that stuff first." He tapped the side of his head. "The old brain cells may not be what they used to be, but I love filing little factoids up there. You never know when they might come in handy."
Joe Gunther wasn't sure if this conversation allowed him to ask questions. He sympathized with Ogden's position, and while he didn't want to abuse that, he still had a big investment in reaching the truth.
"You find any reference to Mary Kunkle?" he asked with intentional vagueness.
Ogden smiled. "One thing we did find was a small electric key-cutting jig. Also, a lot of the names on her phone records match what we found in Cashman's files. Does that make you wonder what her role was."
"What do you know of the setup?"
"I'm no expert," Ogden cautioned, "but it looks like Cashman ran a whole crew of spotters, thieves, drivers, choppers, money handlers, and whatever else he needed to identify, steal, and get rid of high-end cars, mostly SUVs. From what I could see, he was shipping them right out of New York to places like Russia, the Dominican Republic, South America, you name it."
"How did that stay under wraps for so long?"
"He had a cell system. Old trick: You make sure none of your people knows anybody else inside the organization. That way, one of them gets busted, he's all the cops end up with. Pretty neat, really, but it takes brains and a flair for organization."
"Which explains why you think Cashman was a lieutenant and not the boss?"
"No doubt in my mind," Ogden agreed. "The problem with that kind of structure is that sooner or later, one guy is going to have more knowledge than the top man is happy with, unless, of course, that boss is running the whole show, which is pretty unlikely."
"Why?"
"Skill levels. The real brains with the international contacts is probably not going to be the same man who knows where to find and control the local worker bees. It's just asking too much of a single individual. Besides, it's clear from Cashman's files that he had someone he reported to."
"And that is?"
Ogden shook his head. "Dunno yet. That'll probably be up to the task force to figure out. Cashman just used a cipher name. It won't be hard to figure out, though, not with everything we found. We-or they-just need to turn over that one last rock. Then maybe we'll all get what we want, including you."
They'd turned back now in the ebbing light and had almost retraced their steps. Coming up even to Budd Wilcox's place, they were stopped by the oversized man coming out onto his porch and saying to them in a quiet voice, "I just heard John was killed."
Ogden reacted without emotion. "Where'd you hear that?"
"One of your patrol people."
Ogden frowned slightly, glancing at the group of uniforms gathered up the street. Gunther sympathized. No matter how professional the department, people liked to talk.
But Ward Ogden apparently saw no reason to deny it. "Yeah. Sorry you had to find out like that."
Wilcox stepped off his porch. He was carrying a large envelope in his huge hands. "That's okay. I guess he knew it might happen."
"How so?"
"He gave me this," Wilcox said, tearing open the envelope and spilling its contents out into his opposite palm.
"Whoa," Ogden burst out, startled at the big man's initiative. "Let me do that."
He relieved him of the documents and asked, "You know what this is?"
"Nope. He said to hand it over to the cops in the event of his death."
The phrase was said formally, and it was clear Budd Wilcox felt he'd just relieved himself of a chore directed from the netherworld. Without further ado, he turned on his heel, retreated to his porch, and said, just before closing the front door behind him, "It's all yours now."
Ogden leafed through the contents of the envelope in the light cast by a nearby streetlamp. He chuckled slightly and showed Gunther what he had. It looked like a date book, several letters, an address book, and a sheaf of documents. "Remember that last rock I was talking about? Well, here he is, and proof that Mary Kunkle was blackmailing him. No wonder she never showed up on the welfare rolls and was such a shoo-in to get into the Re-Coop. I guess Cashman was saving up for a rainy day."
Chapter 23
Willy Kunkle stood in the darkness, as he had so often in years past, watching, waiting, one half of him alert and utterly tuned in to what was happening around him, and the other drifting, almost meditative, like a bird on the wing simply enjoying whatever breeze happened by. It was the part of his spirit that he usually put to sketching on a pad he routinely carried in his stakeout car, clipped to the steering wheel as an impromptu easel.
That struck him now as a quaint self-indulgence, like a combat soldier's daydreaming about mowing the lawn back home-mundane, incidental, and completely without meaning anymore.