He didn’t react to that. “You said Mike suspected the TPL.”
“Only because of their other stunts. They nailed the door shut to an equipment shed this morning. But to do something violent would destroy their cause. Wouldn’t make sense.”
“Unless they got frustrated, like he said.”
I didn’t want to make one man’s wild guess the only fact in evidence here. “Snuffy, anything’s possible, including Mike being wrong and the whole thing being an accident. But if we assume he’s a good mechanic just for now, then we’ve got to look at who might’ve done this, which may or may not have been the TPL. Certainly it was someone with the right tools and some knowledge of machinery. Maybe someone with ready enough access to the equipment so as not to raise any questions.”
“Like a maintenance guy.”
“Right, an employee with a grudge. The Tramway Board’s looking into it, of course, but Linda Bettina’s been pretty helpful so far. I’ll have Spinney ask her for any insight she might have on any employees past and present with complaints, maybe, or a history of violence and/or vandalism. There’s probably someone who fits that category, knows about that kind of equipment, and doesn’t give a damn about the environmental movement.”
Snuffy finally nodded. “Okay. How’re you doing on the burglaries?”
“Still digging. Lester left me a message a couple of hours ago that he’d like to meet. Could be he found something interesting.”
Dawson let out a deep sigh. “I just wish the whole goddamn mountain would go away. All it does is cause problems. I’ve got my entire payroll working right now because of this protest thing-it’s costing me a fortune. I thought bringing you people in would make things easier. Now, I’m up to my neck in alligators. I got towns all over the county bitching breach of contract because of reduced coverage, and the state cops are already saying they won’t pick up the slack forever, as if that was a big threat. I just wish I could connect that chair thing with the TPL. Then, whether McNally thinks it’s good PR or not, I could bust them all and clear them out of there.”
I considered that for a moment. His financial woes didn’t interest me much. All cops bitch about money, and the state police’s complaints were no less relevant than Snuffy’s own. But the question of what the protesters might or might not know brought back Gail’s mention of their unofficial leader, Roger Betts. I wondered about the benefits of having a conversation with him.
I opened the passenger door of Dawson’s car and swung my legs out, preparing to return to the battered pickup I was using as part of my cover. “It’s early yet, Snuffy. Something useful’ll surface soon. Don’t do anything without telling me, though, okay? I don’t want Sammie or me to get caught by surprise.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I got enough fires to put out without doing your job for you.”
Not a ringing endorsement, but basically what I wanted to hear.
Getting together with Spinney was less complicated and more comfortable than my clandestine meetings with Sammie and Sheriff Dawson. Spinney merely asked Linda Bettina if he could interview me about yesterday’s accident, and she handed us a small conference room on the top floor of the Mountain Ops building.
After closing the door behind us, he smiled and rolled his eyes. “This is too good. There’s got to be a way I can convince them that our undercover guy and their hero-for-a-day is not only the saboteur we’re after but also a right-winger who hates the TPL, wants to clear-cut the mountain, and works for the Israeli Mossad. It would be a clean sweep. What do you think?”
“I think you need a vacation.”
We sat down at the conference table, facing each other in case anyone came in. “Seriously,” he asked. “How’re you doing after all that derring-do? You ain’t getting any younger.”
I looked at him wide-eyed. “Up yours. Is that why you wanted to meet?”
He laughed. “Nope. Fun as this is, I think I can make it better.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table. “Rap sheet for Robert Lanier, alias Marc Roberts, Lanny Robertson, and/or Richard Lane.”
I looked up at the last name, the sheet still unread in my hands. “Sammie’s greaseball ski instructor, the one pawing all his female students?”
“The same. Looks like she nailed him right off.” He tilted his chin toward the document. “I gave him the special attention you asked for. First I got nowhere, but cross-referencing aliases led me to that, and Linda Bettina confirmed he was no employee poster boy. He’s done a nice job of sampling all the goodies, though-domestic assault, assault and battery, sexual assault, B and E, malicious mischief, disturbing the peace, four DUIs, and two counts of burglary, none of which Bettina knows about, by the way. There’s other stuff, too, but who cares? He’s spent a total of thirteen months in the can for all of it and that was years ago. Since then, he’s been cutting deals, pleading out for probation, or snitching for dropped charges. There’s probably not a man, woman, or child he’s met he didn’t eventually beat, rob, or squeal on. And,” he added after a theatrical pause, “he was working here-right time, right place-for every one of Marty’s phone calls.”
I read the rap sheet carefully and returned it to him. “Nice catch. Anything else?”
“Like something we could use for a warrant?” Lester shook his head. “No such luck. Not unless Sammie cuddles up to him and gets him to spill the beans. Still, this gives us someone to look at, someone who might help us flush out Marty Gagnon.”
“If nothing else,” I muttered.
“Yeah,” he said. “I heard about the chair maybe being rigged. Any way you think we could tie Richie or Marty to that?”
“Don’t I wish,” I said mournfully. I checked my watch and stood up. “No. Not that it necessarily makes more sense, but I think I need to look more closely at the TPL and its leaders to get an answer there. You tell Sammie about Richie Lane yet?”
“Nope.”
“Good. I’ve got something to do right now. Could you find her and tell her we need to talk? With his history, Richie might’ve knocked off Jorja Duval looking for Marty, maybe because Marty stiffed him on sharing the loot. That would make for a nice, tight circle, even without the Israeli Mossad. If it’s true, though, I don’t want Sammie tracking him alone.”
Spinney sat back in his chair looking amused and indirectly confirmed why he’d shared Lane’s history with me only. “Can’t imagine why you’d think she would.”
I had called Gail Zigman after my conversation with Snuffy Dawson and asked her what my chances were of having a friendly chat with Roger Betts. An hour later, she’d phoned me back to say that Betts was both amenable and eager, but only if she accompanied him and only if we met in private. He was fearful that being found with a cop and the likes of Gail Zigman-from the now bad-guy VermontGreen group-would be viewed by his colleagues as consorting with the devil.
Once again, therefore, I left the isolated world of Tucker Peak after I got off work and traveled to a motel room some ten miles distant, knocking on the door and waiting for Gail to open up.
“Hey, there,” she said, kissing me on the cheek. “I like the beard. Tickles my nose.”
I laughed. “I know what you mean, it’s been itching for days. He here?”
She stepped aside and let me in. Sitting in a chair by the window, staring out a little forlornly at the parking lot, was a thin, white-haired man with stooped shoulders and a much longer beard than mine, tinged with yellow. He looked tired, his skin pale and unhealthy, and he seemed anxious, as if under a lot of pressure.
Gail made the introductions.
Roger Betts rose slowly and gave me a bony hand to shake, smiling wistfully and nodding. “Gail speaks very highly of you, Mr. Gunther. Or is it Agent Gunther? I’m sorry.”
I waved him back to his seat and perched on the windowsill nearby. “Joe’ll be fine.”