Dirty Money Page 8

  However, the system of rotation was, everybody agreed, all in all a good idea. Put two straight men who get along with each other into the confines of a patrol car for several hours a day and they’ll swap old stories, tell jokes, recommend movies and generally make the time go by. Make it one straight man and one straight woman and they’ll do all the same things, but after a while they’ll start to smile on each other a little differently, they’ll start to touch, start to kiss, and down that road lies marital unhappiness and inefficient policing. A three-month rotation is usually short enough to keep that sort of thing from happening, to almost everybody’s relief.

  When Louise joined Danny and the other fourteen troopers in the shape-up room for the day’s assignments from Sgt. Jackson, she expected today’s tour to be more of the same: roadblocks. For over a week now, most of their on-duty time had been spent mounting roadblocks, the only variant being that the roadblocks were shifted to slightly different locations every day.

  No one would say that the roadblocks had been completely unsuccessful. A number of expired licenses had been found, lack of insurance, faulty lights, the occasional drunk. But as to the purpose of the roadblocks, to nab the three men who’d destroyed three armored cars and made off with the fourth, full of cash, over a week ago, not a glimmer, The one man who’d been captured, and subsequently lost, was the result of a tip from a deli clerk who’d been passed one of the known stolen bills. Still, the powers that be felt better if they could mess up the whole world’s schedules by littering the highways and byways with roadblocks, thus assuring the whole world that something was being done, so that’s what Louise and Danny and the rest had been up to and would continue to do.

  Except not. “This afternoon,” Sgt. Jackson told them, pacing back and forth in front of where they stood on the black linoleum floor in the big square empty room with tables and chairs stacked along the rear, “our orders are a little different.”

  An anticipatory sigh of relief rose from the sixteen, and Sgt. Jackson gave a little shrug and said, “We’ll see. Ladies and gentlemen, our mission has changed. We’re not going to stand around any longer and wait for those fugitives to come to us. We are going to actively search for them by trying to find that stolen money.”

  One of the troopers said, “How we supposed to do that, Sarge? Hang out in delis?”

  “Those three did not manage to transport their loot away from this part of the world,” Jackson told him. “That’s the belief we’re operating from. Now, it’s a big untidy pile, that money, and the idea is, if we look for it, we’ll find it, and if we find it, the fugitives won’t be too far away from it.”

  There was general agreement in the room on that point, and then Jackson said, “What our job is today, you are each getting a sector, and you are to physically eyeball every empty or abandoned building in that sector. Empty houses, barns, everything. On the table by the door there’s a packet for each patrol, with your sector laid out in it, and by the way, a new suspect sketch on one of the fugitives. This is supposed to be closer to the real man.”

  “What’ll they think of next?” asked a wit.

  Riding shotgun, Louise ran an eye down the printout of the roads and intersections in their sector, then unfolded the new suspect sketch and studied it. “Oh, that one,” she said.

  Danny, driving, glanced once and away. “That one,” he agreed.

  “He doesn’t look as mean this time,” she decided.

  “He was always a good boy,” Danny said.

  “Did somebody ever say that in a movie?” Louise wanted to know. “You hear it all the time.”

  “Beats me.”

  Putting away the sketch, Louise went back to the printout, studied it some more, and said, “We should start from Hurley.”

  “Real backwoods stuff.”

  “That’s what they gave us. Oh!” she said, surprised and delighted, “St. Dympna!”

  “Say what?”

  “That’s where I went to church, when I was a little girl. St. Dympna.”

  “Never heard of it,” he said. “What kind of name is that?”

  “She was supposed to be Irish. Most churches with saints’ names are Roman Catholic, but we weren’t. We were United Reformed.” Louise laughed and said, “The funny thing is, when they founded the church, they just wanted some unusual name to attract attention, so they picked St. Dympna, and then, too late, they found out she’s actually the patron saint of insanity.”

  Danny looked at her. “You’re putting me on.”

  “I am not. Turned out, there’s a mental hospital named for her in Belgium. When I was a kid, that was the coolest thing, our church was named for the patron saint of crazy people.”

  “Is it still going?”

  “The church? Oh, no, it got shut down, must be more than ten years ago.”

  “Ran out of crazy people,” Danny suggested.

  “Very funny. No, it’s really way out in the sticks. There weren’t so many small farms after a while, and people moved closer to town, until there was almost nobody left to go there, and nobody could afford to keep it up. It shut down when I was in high school. There was some hope an antiques shop would buy it, but it never happened.”

  “So that’s got to be one of the places on our list.”

  “It sure is.” Louise smiled in nostalgia, and looked at the road ahead. “I’m looking forward to seeing it again.”

  8

  Mrs. Bartlett was sorry to see Captain Robert Modale and Trooper Oskott leave Bosky Rounds. Not that the room would go begging; this time of year, she always had a waiting list, and would surely fill that room again no later than Monday. But she’d liked the captain, found him quiet and restful, and a happy surprise after the unexpected departure of Mr. and Mrs. Willis.

  The Willises had also been quiet and restful, not like some. Her in particular. Claire Willis. Mrs. Bartlett never did get a good reading on her husband, some sort of humorless businessman who clearly didn’t really care about anything but his business and was taking this vacation solely to make his wife happy; which was of course a mark in his favor.

  But the rest was all her. She did all the driving and all the talking, and even made the apologies when they unexpectedly had to depart because of some crisis back home with his business.

  Mrs. Willis had been so apologetic and so understanding, even offering to pay the unused portion of their stay, that Mrs. Bartlett couldn’t even get irritated. Of course she refused the extra payment, and assured Mrs. Willis she’d fill the room in no time, and then, the Willises barely gone and before she’d even had time to turn to her waiting list, here came the call from the New York State Police, needing a room for just the one night.

  It was a sign, Mrs. Bartlett felt. She and Mrs. Willis had behaved decently toward each other, and this was Mrs. Bartlett’s reward. She certainly hoped Mrs. Willis was rewarded, perhaps with something other than that cold-fish husband of hers.

  Barely half an hour after the departure of Captain Modale, here came Gwen Reversa, looking as fresh and stylish as ever, though Mrs. Bartlett could never quite get over her feeling that an attractive young woman like Gwen was never supposed to be a policeman. Still, here she was, carrying yet another of those wanted posters. Mrs. Bartlett frankly didn’t like the look of those things, and felt they did nothing for the decor and atmosphere of Bosky Rounds, but there was apparently to be no choice in the matter. Her front room was a public space, and the public spaces must willy-nilly be filled up with these dreadful-looking gangsters.

  Still, she couldn’t help saying, “Another one, Gwen? I’m not going to have much wall left.”

  “No, it’s a replacement,” Gwen told her, going over to where the two drawings and one photograph were already tacked to the wall. “You know that Captain Modale who was here.”

  “A charming man.”

  “Well, he and I both encountered the same one of the suspects. This one,” she said, taking the latest poster from its manila folder and hold
ing it up for Mrs. Bartlett to see. “We worked together with the artist,” she said, “and we think this picture is much closer to the real man. See it?”

  Mrs. Bartlett didn’t want to see it. Squinting, nodding, she said, “Yes, I see it. It takes the place of one of the others, does it?”

  “Yes, this one. Here, I’ll take the old one with me.” While she was tacking the new poster in the old one’s place, she said, “Did a reporter named Terry Mulcany talk to you?”

  “Oh, the true-crime person.” she said. “Yes, he was all right. He seemed awfully rushed, though.”

  Gwen turned away from the wall, folding the old poster and putting it into her coat pocket as she said, “He thought he possibly saw that man somewhere around this house.”

  “In this house? Gwen!”

  “Not in the house, near it. Outside. With a woman.”

  “Gwen,” Mrs. Bartlett said, and pointed toward the row of posters, “not one of those people has ever set foot in Bosky Rounds. Can you imagine? What on earth would they ever do here?”

  “Well, they have to sleep somewhere.”

  Frosty, Mrs. Bartlett said, “Those are not my customers, Gwen.”

  Laughing, Gwen said, “No, I suppose not. Still, if you see anybody who looks like that,” and pointed again at the new poster, “be sure to call me.”

  “Of course. Of course I will.”

  Gwen left, and Mrs. Bartlett spent the next few minutes sending out e-mails to her waiting list, telling them an unexpected five-day vacancy had just come up. As she was finishing that, Ms. Loscalzo, from number two upstairs at the back, came through, heading out, carrying her usual big ungraceful black leather shoulder bag. “Off for more scenery,” she said, as though it were a joke, or a difficult chore of some kind.

  “Enjoy the day, dear,” Mrs. Bartlett said.

  “That’s a good idea,” Ms. Loscalzo said, waved, and marched off.

  Mrs. Bartlett couldn’t help but wonder about Sandra Loscalzo. Most tourists this time of year were couples or groups, almost never singles. You’d go to the movies or a museum by yourself, but you wouldn’t drive around the countryside looking at the changing leaves all on your own in your car. Anyway, most people wouldn’t.

  Also, Ms. Loscalzo seemed a little coarser, a little more—Mrs. Bartlett was almost ashamed of herself, thinking such a thing—working-class than most of the leaf peepers she’d seen over the years. And she didn’t wear a wedding ring, though that didn’t necessarily mean anything. It could be she was recovering from having been recently divorced, and needed a change to get her just for a little while out of her regular life. That might be it.

  As she thought about Sandra Loscalzo, Mrs. Bartlett found herself unwillingly gazing at the posters of the wanted robbers, diagonally across the room from her desk, and especially that new one, nearest her along the wall.

  Oh, my goodness. She stared at the poster, then rose and walked over to frown at it from a foot away.

  It couldn’t be. Could it? Could that nice Claire Willis be married to that? It was impossible.

  But it was true. The more she stared at that cold face, the more she saw him standing there, just behind his wife, saying little, showing almost no emotion, certainly no enthusiasm for looking at leaves.

  But why would Claire Willis be married to a bank robber? It was ridiculous. Mrs. Bartlett would be more willing to believe Sandra Loscalzo was married to such a man; not Claire Willis.

  There had to be an explanation. Maybe the police had their eye on the wrong man all along, or maybe this was just as inaccurate a sketch as the first one. They got it wrong before, maybe they got it wrong again.

  Should she phone Gwen, let the police detective sort it out? Mrs. Bartlett had the uneasy feeling that was exactly what she should do now, but she didn’t want to. It wasn’t Henry Willis she was thinking of, it was Claire. She didn’t want Gwen glaring down her nose at Claire Willis. Whatever was in the woman’s life, Mrs. Bartlett certainly didn’t want to be the one who made things worse. She couldn’t call Gwen because she couldn’t make trouble for that nice Claire Willis.

  And there was a second reason as well, even stronger than that, though she barely acknowledged it to herself. But the fact is, she had been very remiss. Oh, yes, she’d assured Gwen, over and over, she had studied those posters, she was ready to do her civic duty if any of those robbers happened to wander into Bosky Rounds.

  But had she studied? Had she paid attention? The man had been right here, in this house, in this room, and she had never noticed. How could she possibly make that phone call now and say, “Oh, Gwen, I just happened to notice . . .”

  No. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t phone Gwen, not now, not ever, and the reason was, she was just too embarrassed.

  9

  Sandra drove south and east out of town, headed for the Mass Pike. When McWhitney had phoned her this morning from Long Island he’d told her their new truck was an Econoline van, dark green, not black, and he expected to get to her around five. She hadn’t told him she’d bird-dog him the last part of the trip, but that’s what she intended to do. Always err on the side of caution, that was her belief.

  She’d expected two or three roadblock stops along the way, but yesterday’s heavy police presence had suddenly evaporated. Where had they gone? Had they caught Nick again? If so, she and McWhitney were going to have to rethink their approach to the money in the church, and Parker might already be in trouble over there. She turned on the car radio, looking for all-news stations, but heard about no developments in the search for the robbers.

  So where were all the cops? Sandra didn’t like questions without answers. She had half a mind to just keep driving south, and let this whole business alone.

  Well, she could still bird-dog McWhitney. If something seemed weird with him, or if he got nabbed by the cops, she’d be long gone.

  There were two gas stations near the turnpike exit he’d be taking. She chose the one in the direction he would go, parked among a few other cars along the side perimeter, and used her hands-free cell to call him in the truck.

  “Yeah?”

  Of course he wouldn’t say hello like everybody else. Sandra said, “Just wondering how you’re coming along.”

  “Fine.”

  That was helpful. “About how long, do you figure?”

  “You’re impatient for that green, huh?”

  “I don’t wanna be doing my hair when you get here.”

  That made him laugh, and loosen up a little. “Do your hair tomorrow. I’ll be there in less than an hour.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “On the Pike, be getting off in five, ten minutes.”

  “I’ll be here,” she promised, and broke the connection, and spent the next seven minutes watching traffic come down the ramp and peel away.

  If Roy Keenan were still alive, and still her partner, he’d be waiting north of here right now for Sandra to tell him when the van came off the turnpike and what it looked like. Then he’d follow from in front, keeping the van visible in his rearview mirror, so that Sandra could hang well back, ignoring the van as she watched for other interested parties. But Roy was gone and hadn’t as yet been replaced, so she’d do it this way.

  Sandra had gotten her private investigator’s license a year after leaving college, and had worked for the first few years mostly on unimportant white-collar criminal matters for a large agency with many business clients. She investigated inside-job thefts at department stores, trade-secret-selling employees, minor frauds, and slippery accounting.

  The work, which had at first been interesting, soon became a bore, but she couldn’t find an acceptable alternative until, at a fingerprinting refresher course given by the FBI, she’d met Roy, whose previous woman partner had just left him to get married. “Well, that won’t happen to me,” Sandra assured him.

  They became a very good partnership. She kept her private life to herself, and Roy was fine with that. Sometimes they were flush a
nd other times money was tight, but they’d never been scraping the bottom of the barrel until this protracted, expensive, frustrating search for Michael Maurice Harbin, a search that still hadn’t paid off, and the reason she was now waiting for an extremely dangerous felon in a Ford Econoline van.

  There. Very good, good choice, a dark green beat-up little van. Holy Redeemer Choir.

  She started the Honda, gave the van a chance to roll farther down the road to the north, then started to ease out after him, but abruptly stopped.

  She’d almost missed him, dammit, she must be more distracted than she’d thought. Because there he was, in a little nondescript no-color car, just easing into McWhitney’s wake.

  What he’d done, this guy, he’d come down the ramp and stopped at the yield sign at the bottom, even though there wasn’t any traffic to yield to. He stayed there almost ten seconds, a long time, until a car did come along the secondary road going in his direction. Then he pulled in behind that car. Sandra knew that maneuver, she’d done it herself a hundred times.

  Now she accelerated across the gas station tarmac to the road, so she could get a close-up of the tail as he drove by. Cadaverous guy in black, hunched forward, very intense, very focused.

  Sandra did the same thing he’d done, waited for another car to intervene, then joined the cavalcade. Out here there were towns to go through, every one of them with one traffic light. The first time they were all stopped at a light she took a hurried look at her Massachusetts map, then when they started moving again she called McWhitney and said, “You’ve got a tin can on you, you know about that?”

  “What? Where are you?”

  “Listen to me, Nelson. He’s in a nothing little car, two behind you.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Tall bony guy in black, looks like he’s never had a good meal in his life.”

  “That son of a bitch.”

  “You know him, I take it. Pal of yours?”