I reached into my pocket and showed her Tony Busco’s mug shot. “You ever seen this man?”
She glanced at it and looked at me quizzically. “You kidding?”
I exchanged looks with Willy. “No. Why?”
“That’s Mr. Goddard. I thought you knew him.”
I bit down on my surprise and answered her poker-faced. “We never met. I just needed confirmation. Thanks again for your time and remember, mum’s the word, right?”
Slightly crestfallen, given her earlier enthusiasm and helpfulness, Mameve Knutsen loaded her equipment into her car and drove away without further conversation.
We watched her leave, Willy still holding the bag in his hand.
“Depending on what’s in here,” he said, “let’s hope she does keep her mouth shut. Those guys wouldn’t think twice about making her disappear.”
“Let’s not get too carried away too fast,” I cautioned. “And as for whatever we find in there,” I pointed at the bag, “I’ll make sure she’s kept under wraps.”
We turned and walked back to where the car was parked. “What was all that crap about the guy asking questions about the schedule?” Willy asked. “You acted kind of funny.”
“It was Win Johnston, the private eye. I didn’t want Bettina to know it, but I’m guessing he was loitering around the office and took advantage of Mameve’s confusion to collect a little information. I sure would like to find out what he’s up to.”
Chapter 20
Willy and I didn’t get back to the office until later that afternoon, after hand-delivering the vacuum cleaner bag to David Hawke at the crime lab in Waterbury and asking him to give it his highest priority, a request that only generated a tired smile of acknowledgment.
We found Lester as expected, surrounded by his folders plus a few more piles of paper from his research into Tony Bugs Busco, a man I now wanted to know a whole lot more about. Surprisingly, however, Lester wasn’t alone and was about to grant me my wish-and then some-from an unexpected source.
He stood with his guest as we entered and made the introductions, “Joe, Willy, this is Al Freeman from the U.S. Marshals Service.”
My arm halfway out of my coat sleeve, I stared at Freeman for a split second of stunned silence. “Damn,” I then said. “Of course. What an idiot.” I freed myself of the coat and shook hands with a nonplussed young man with a broad chest and watchful eyes. “Andy Goddard and Tony Bugs, right?” I challenged him. “The Witness Protection Program-he’s one of yours.”
Freeman smiled carefully and took a half-step backward. “Oh, hold on. That’s a big leap. I’m just here because we heard you were interested in Busco. Nobody’s saying we have him under wraps.”
Willy let out a short, unpleasant laugh. “Give me a break.” He walked over to his desk, dropped into his chair, and slapped both feet noisily onto its hopelessly cluttered surface.
I couldn’t fault him. Freeman hadn’t done his own credibility much good with that. “You heard we were interested?” I asked. “How’d you do that?”
Freeman ignored the question, resuming his seat beside Spinney’s desk. “Why’re you looking at Busco?” he asked.
I studied him quietly, considering which way to go. As trite as it sounds, relationships between agencies are pretty much what you make them, and a lot of local and state cops had stopped cutting the feds much slack as a result. The prejudices between and about both sides were common and familiar and pervaded all ranks. I had to wonder whether young Mr. Freeman was under orders and had bought the party line, or his own personal dealings had led him to his present attitude, in which latter case, my telling him he was being a jerk would merely confirm his opinion.
On the other hand, did I really care? I wasn’t sure the Marshals were going to be of much use to me right now. I had Busco’s prints on a murder victim and Mameve’s statement that Goddard and Busco were one and the same. If the vacuum bag’s analysis came back with evidence of illegal drugs, I had more than enough for search and arrest warrants both. In fact, if Kathy hadn’t recommended waiting for the analysis, just for the extra credibility it would give us, I would’ve been knocking on Goddard’s door right now.
“It’s Al, right?” I finally asked.
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“You mind taking a little walk with me, Al? Just out in the hallway, no need for a coat.”
He hesitated a moment, both Willy and Lester staring at him-Willy with his smirk still in place-before slowly getting to his feet. “Sure.”
I opened the door for him, muttered to Judy that I’d be back in a few minutes, and escorted him out into the hallway.
“Where’re we going?” Freeman asked.
I strolled over to the window at the end of the corridor, which overlooked a snow-blanketed parking lot between the Municipal and State Office buildings.
He joined me hesitantly, his arms crossed before his chest.
I spoke as if addressing the small cars below. “I asked you out here so we could stand on neutral ground. I know what it’s like being in the other guy’s office, surrounded by his people. It can make you dig in your heels a little.”
“I-”
I interrupted him with an upheld hand. “Let me finish. I also know the Marshals are professional, hard-working, good at their jobs, and give ‘tight-lipped’ a whole new meaning. So don’t think I’m about to start laying into you, okay?”
His reflection in the window nodded without comment.
“That having been said,” I continued, “you did come to see us, not the other way around, and I seriously doubt you did that without having something to trade.”
I now turned and handed him the picture I had of Tony Busco, looking him directly in the eyes. “Start trading. Is this the man we’re calling Andy Goddard?”
He smiled very slightly and nodded. “He’s one of ours.”
“Thank you. That confirms what his cleaning lady just told us. Given Busco’s nickname, I can guess his background, and I could tell from Lester’s face in there that he was dying to give me what he’s dug up so far-you want to beat him to the punch?”
“You going to tell me why you’re interested?” Freeman countered.
“Yup.” But I offered no more.
A slight pause swelled up between us. “Okay,” he conceded, “Tony Bugs was West Coast, deep into medical-waste dumping and the theft and redistribution of controlled pharmaceuticals-part and parcel of the same thing, since it all involved hospitals. Anyhow, DEA and EPA hooked up, nailed him, and got him to turn against the Mob. They collected a bunch of convictions, and we got to tuck him away as Andy Goddard.”
“What did they use to squeeze him initially?” I asked. “They just catch him red-handed?”
“No. It was unrelated. He was peddling drugs. They were about to arrest him on that when one of his customers OD’d on a bad batch, so they tacked a manslaughter charge on him, too. They leaned on him pretty hard. He’s a two-time loser.”
“And probably told him what a great life he could have afterward under your wing,” I suggested.
Freeman bristled a little. “If you have him doing something crooked, that’s a contract violation. He’s on his own. We don’t screw around with that. Ninety-five percent of the people in the program have criminal backgrounds. Only twenty percent of them relapse into old habits. And none of them end up with us unless they’ve sent a ton of people to jail. It’s a good program.”
I patted his shoulder. “Relax. I don’t give a damn, anyway-it’s out of my hands. I’ve just got a good suspect I want to build a case against. That’s all.”
“What kind of case?”
“Well, with your appearance, a pretty serious one now. We thought Goddard was just distributing coke, but now that you’ve confirmed he and Busco are the same guy, it looks like he’s graduated to murder. We lifted a print of his off the corpse of a girl named Jorja Duval.”
Freeman’s eyes widened slightly. “I read about that. Jesus Christ. How many people know about this?”