“It was being rented without his knowledge?” I interpreted.
Spinney smiled. “Sounds like it. Only he wasn’t making any money off it.”
I mulled that over for a moment, for the first time in quite a while thinking back to Win Johnston, the private investigator, and wondering if this had anything to do with his being on the mountain. “It is odd. You look into it more?”
“Nope. I just thought I’d mention it. I figured I had bigger fish to fry.” He picked up another folder. “Like this one. Andy Goddard. Age forty-five, retired stockbroker, year-round resident. He was one of the ones on Richie’s list, complete with exterior photographs of the house, but no sheriff’s report and no complaint from the homeowner of any break-ins when we asked during that first canvass. The man is squeaky clean-no hits anywhere. Pays his bills, minds his manners, been up here about three years. Unmarried, no kids, no steady girlfriend that we could find, and no complaints from the neighbors.”
I knew I was being set up. “All right, all right-a saint.”
“Except we found that the resort’s maintenance department had replaced a shattered bathroom window right after the date that was electronically burned into the corner of Richie’s pictures of the house. Using bathroom windows is the same MO we’ve seen with most of the other burglaries.”
“Suggesting Goddard was robbed but didn’t report it.”
Spinney’s enthusiasm grew. “Right, which made us dig a little deeper. The guy’s a local, right? At least a permanent resident, which is rare with this bunch. We started asking around, found out not only was he a regular at the Tuckaway, like all the other marks, but also that he had the rep of being a coke-tipper.”
“A user?”
“No, no. I meant literally. He tips people with little samples of cocaine. He’s known as the local high flyer-flashes his cash, makes with the ladies, and hands out little samples to the ones he favors.”
“We have someone on record saying he did this?”
“No such luck,” but his expression didn’t dim. “This falls under what you might call credible hearsay. This morning, though, we found out that one of his best buddies is an acquaintance of ours: Kurt Peterson.”
I thought back a moment, my brain temporarily drawing a blank. “Richie’s best friend among the ski instructors,” I finally recalled.
Spinney laughed. “Damn, good memory-didn’t know you had it in you. But you’re right, which is why we think he’d be worth squeezing a little. Sammie loved hearing that, so she’s busy right now trying to get enough dirt on Peterson to make him talkative.”
I remembered Sammie’s distaste of Richie’s manner with every woman he encountered. “Is Kurt Peterson the same level of operator? We never bothered checking him out after we discovered Richie’s apartment. He fell by the wayside.”
“A poor man’s version, maybe. From his rap sheet, we think he could be Goddard’s supplier, or at least one of them, but we’re hoping that what Shayla told you about quote-unquote druggies coming after Richie might have something to do with Andy Goddard. You gotta admit, the dominoes line up nicely.”
“Except that aside from recreational coke, Goddard looks like a bored premature retiree, not a killer. Any reason we’re not trying to squeeze him instead of Peterson? Sounds like the long way around.”
“No argument, ’cept that Goddard’s more careful than he seems. All we heard were rumors of this coke-tipping thing. One guy told us that no one would ever fess up to it, either, ’cause Goddard makes sure the people he favors pass his scrutiny first. That’s where we figured Kurt would come in handy-from his record, he’s obviously not as discriminating.”
“Okay,” I agreed. “I’ll go along with that.” I waved my hand over the spread of files before us. “Anyone else look promising?”
Lester tilted his head to one side. “Not as promising, but if Goddard peters out, I got other options.”
“What about our favorite missing person?” I asked. “Does Marty Gagnon have any ties to Kurt, maybe through Richie?”
“If he does, we haven’t found them,” Spinney admitted. “Whatever role Gagnon might have in all this, he’s keeping it well under wraps.”
I recalled what Lester had said about Sammie’s present activities, and a quasi-parental concern crept into my head. “You said Sammie’s getting dirt on Peterson. What’s she doing, exactly?”
He looked at me like an ambivalent confidant, unsure of how much he should divulge. “Exactly? I’m not sure. She did say something about knowing just how to get to him, though.”
“And you were happy to let her do that?”
The true source of his discomfort surfaced. “Willy’s with her.”
“Swell,” I muttered. “You better take me there.”
Chapter 17
We found Sammie and Willy in the basement of the Mountain Ops building in a back room of the Tucker Peak security office. He was taping a mike wire from just under her brassiere, around to the back, and down her spine to a transmitter below her waist. It was now early evening, and already dark outside.
I leaned up against the doorjamb, knowing Sammie’s lack of modesty on the job, and pointed at the mike. “At what point in this operation were you going to clue me in? Tomorrow morning?”
Willy laughed, his eyes on his work, his one hand moving expertly. “Only if we hit the jackpot.” He tore some tape in his teeth and pressed it against her skin.
“Assuming you hadn’t gotten her killed by then.”
He glared at me as Sammie cut in, “It was my idea.”
“I don’t care whose it was,” I told her. “It’s half-baked and rushed. That’s a lethal combination.”
“You don’t even know what it is,” Willy said.
I looked at her instead. “Gee, let me guess. You’re going to pretend to be a talent scout for a recording studio and ask Kurt Peterson to sing into your cleavage?”
Willy glanced at Lester for support. Lester merely spread his hands to both sides, palms up, and raised his eyebrows.
“It’ll work,” Sammie said, pulling her sweater down and smoothing it into place. “I’ll tell Kurt I’m hard up for some drugs, make a buy, and bust him. I know he’s using the Tuckaway as a drugstore.”
“Sam,” I tried explaining, “you haven’t been on the mountain for a couple of days, you’ve been helping Lester. How’re you going to explain your absence?”
“That’s what makes it perfect. I need a fix-I’m strung out, on the prowl. That’s where I’ve been-lookin’ to score.”
“You don’t think word’s gotten out that there were cops undercover here?” I asked. “I was on the mountain last night and got ribbed for it.”
“Did my name come up?”
“There was no reason for it to, Sam, but what would you think? Two new employees appear out of nowhere and then vanish almost as fast. One turns out to be a police officer and suddenly the other, looking like an Olympic athlete, starts bar crawling, claiming she’s a hophead. What would that smell like if you were a bad guy?”
“It’s worth a shot,” she persisted.
“I’m not saying Peterson’s not worth a shot,” I said. “I’m saying you’re too high profile to deliver it. Why not switch with Willy? Have him go in after we take the time to set it up properly.”
She gave me a scornful expression. “He’s the wrong sex, Joe. Kurt has the hots for me. He spent so much time ogling my ass when I was Greta Novak, he barely took time to do his job. And I played with it, too, figuring it couldn’t hurt to fake being friendly, just in case. The man thinks with his pecker. I know it. He won’t make me, and he’d make Willy in a heartbeat. Besides, Willy’s been around here as a cop, he’s more exposed than I am.”