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  CHAPTER 17

  IN THE WEEKS LEADING UP TO PETER’S ARREST, ZENERGY topped the most wanted list, dead or alive, and it would have surprised almost no one to learn Zenergy and Satan were joined at the hip. Plus, it turned out Zenergy benefitted from major financial incentives and tax credits courtesy of the shadowy New England Consortium Council, a quasi-governmental regional authority.

  But no one in town government even peeped about Saunders Construction’s contract from Zenergy. Saunders Construction went belly-up in the Great Recession, mourned by few. Brock pleaded guilty to tax evasion after being charged by a federal grand jury working with the IRS and FBI.

  “Brock didn’t get prison, I can’t fucking believe it.” Jeff fumed as he watched the proceedings unfold.

  “Greased palms, baby.” Peter threw the newspaper on the floor. “He gets probation and community service? What a joke.”

  “I’m gonna find him and beat the shit out of him, like in the old days.”

  “Don’t. It’ll just blow back on you. He’s protected, the bastard. We got such a corrupt state.”

  Brock never set foot in Bridgeville again as far as anyone could tell. But Saunders Construction did. Its faltering steps to reinvent itself after the Great Recession crashed and burned at least twice.

  When Jeff brought Peter a change of clothes and some pictures of Brutus, which Peter proudly showed off to Marco and Paco, he floated his latest theory about Saunders and Zenergy’s unholy alliance.

  “I been thinking. Saunders pulled strings to get Zenergy that land. I know it.”

  Peter took off his T-shirt and gasped after he smelled it. “Hey, this is rag material. It stinks—what am I, a goddam skunk?”

  “Yup—switched at birth. I got a skunk brother. Let’s get back to the land question.”

  “Gotta be something under the table. There’s no way they got that land on the up and up.”

  Zenergy, a darling of Wall Street, nonetheless had a glaring weakness. Its vulnerability, its kryptonite, was land, particularly in the densely populated and highly profitable East Coast corridor between Washington and Boston.

  Zenergy had no problem wooing federal, state and local officials or entering intricate deals with pipeline, utility and natural gas conglomerates. They hired a platoon of lobbyists to schmooze, cajole and threaten. But the problem remained getting hold of land.

  Bridgeville endured a terrible winter that year. Blizzard followed blizzard, the polar vortex moved in and wouldn’t leave. When Bridgevillians finally staggered out of their homes at the end of April, they rubbed their eyes like blinking moles. Spring’s tentative arrival seemed miraculous until Zenergy’s brutalist fuel cell on Maple Street blindsided them. Rising high above the tarps in which it had been cocooned during the winter, the massive structure caused traffic jams, accusations and fury.

  The Bridgeville Gazette thundered its disapproval in a front-page editorial in the May 4 edition. “Neighborhood desecrated by fuel cell facility.”

  The next day, at the first hastily called meeting of concerned citizens in the town library’s auxiliary wing, shouting and yelling about firing the Town Council escalated out of control.

  “Not in Bridgewater Backyards! NIBBY!”

  “It’s NIMBY, you morons,” Nancy corrected loudly. “What about ‘Leave Our Land Alone?’ LOLA.”

  “The cat’s out of the bag, people. Too little too late,” Peter said. “Let’s get names and then vote out their asses.”

  “What do we want?” The call and response echoed. “No fuel cell!”

  The following week, Bridgeville’s mayor attended a town forum that kicked off with a beloved elderly gadfly proclaiming loudly from the stage at the Senior Center’s main meeting room.

  “Zenergy stole Bridgeville’s heritage right out from under us. We need to kick the bastards out.”

  The overflow audience didn’t need much prompting to rev up to full fury. Copies of the Bridgeville Gazette’s editorial hung from the back of each folding chair, some of which were still covered with crumbs from the featured lunch of breaded cod.

  In a community where everything seemed to be debated forever in committees on public-access TV, the secrecy surrounding the fuel cell stoked every kind of conspiracy theory from the Illuminati to imminent thermonuclear warfare. But Peter, who knew more about the fuel cell than he let on, voiced the big question once the old man finally yielded the floor, grinning happily as two strapping firemen helped him off the stage.

  “Who sold out Bridgeville? We deserve answers.” Peter motioned for the yelling and clapping to get louder.

  “People, please. Allow me to speak,” said the mayor, a nondescript middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a severe underbite. “The New England Council Consortium and Zenergy submitted a document to the town zoning committee through a subsidiary about two years ago. All they applied for was a ruling on whether the land had any wetlands issues that would make it an unbuildable property. The gas company owned the land.”

  The audience buzzed as people tried to puzzle out the request. Nancy stood up and demanded to be recognized by the mayor.

  “Nancy,” he sighed.

  “Clearly, Zenergy and the Consortium had ulterior motives. So, three years ago, let’s say, the gas company owns this land and is never going to build on it. How and when did the Consortium and Zenergy buy it?”

  “It might be too complicated to explain.” The mayor hedged, looking at his watch.

  “Try me.” Nancy crossed her arms and remained standing.

  “Well, please sit down. There may have been an intermediary. And the ruling just slipped through without any red flags being raised because there was no wetlands impingement. Just a yes or no vote.” The mayor looked quite chagrined. “That was it. We had no idea this ruling was the tip of the iceberg.”

  “Well, we’re on the Titanic,” Peter said loudly. “And we’re going down.”

  Someone yelled out from the back of the room. “Corruption or stupidity?”

  “How dare you?” the mayor responded indignantly. “Quite frankly, I resent your remarks. We work hard for the greater good of Bridgeville.”

  “I am beyond done with incompetent men explaining and running the world,” Nancy, still standing, shouted. “This is a slap in the face to everyone who loves Bridgeville.”

  CHAPTER 18

  AT 5:55, ANDRE EXCUSED HIMSELF FOR A MOMENT from monitoring a client on the lat pulldown machine. He motioned for Ian, who had just strolled in.

  “Lori’s stopping by for a quickie. Can you take her?”

  “What? You know I’m celibate.”

  “Ha ha. Just help her work out the kinks. She carries her stress in her shoulders and neck. Make sure to give them a quick going over.” After Ian gave him a long look, Andre added, “I’m just saying …”

  “Andre, focus on your client—her form is deteriorating.”

  Lori dashed through the doorway at precisely 6:05, a vision in neon orange spandex. Once again, a topknot swept up her hair.

  “Lori, you smell like vodka. Am I right?” Ian stared at her reproachfully.

  “Just one vodka gimlet. What’re you a bloodhound?”

  “Brings back memories. Right—playtime’s over. I am now in charge of this fitness intervention. Please walk across the room as fast as you can.”

  “Andre—I thought you were going to help me got the knots out. I don’t want to exercise. And especially not with this character.” Lori complied with Ian’s instructions while beseeching Andre.

  “I see the problem,” Ian announced.

  “What problem? Andre, tell him. I don’t have any problems walking.”

  Andre choked back laughter and shrugged.

  “Yes, you do. Now tell me, how tight are your hamstrings?”

  “Ian, I don’t want—wait, actually they’re pretty tight.”

  “Your hamstrings are thrusting your pelvis forward like a cheap tart. Between your waist and your knees, your body is
terribly unorganized.”

  “What! Andre—are you paying him to mess with me?” Lori grinned but her hands were firmly planted on her hips in a very defiant stance.

  “Hey, I told you I had a client.” Andre adjusted the woman’s arm so that she didn’t swing the dumbbell and hit herself in the face.

  “But, I didn’t think he’d be so critical.”

  “Uh-hem,” Ian said loudly. “He, as in me, is very much in this room. Now Lori, we are going to take a walk outside to the park across the street. Look, the light is still lovely. Let’s go.” He shooed her out the door and onto the park’s green lawn before she could muster a sustained protest.

  “Seriously, you think walking with you is going to help my stress?”

  “Just listen and watch me for a second. You need to tighten your butt cheeks, really feel purposeful clenching.”

  Lori roared. “Oh, my God. Is this as opposed to casual clenching? You’re too much.”

  “Maybe so, but I want you to walk alongside me, feeling the angle of your pelvis shift as you tighten up your arse. Now, keep squeezing your cheeks and walk ahead of me,” he instructed. “Faster. Zoom, Lori—zoom.”

  Surging ahead, Lori was up the small incline in no time. “Wow, pretty fast.”

  “Yes, well if you don’t squeeze your cheeks when you move, no one will ever want to squeeze them, either. Ouch.” He rubbed his arm where Lori smacked him.

  “You got what was coming.”

  “Fine. Now let’s zoom over to that hill.” Ian pointed to his left. “Stride with stiff arms as you go. Left arm moves forward with right leg and so on.” Admiring his pupil’s form as she conquered the hill, he encouraged her by shouting, “Take it with your butt, Lori. Feel it in your ass—in the ass!”

  Lori flipped him off while charging up the hill. When he rocketed up the hill to join her, she unleashed. “Do you even hear yourself? I have a certain professional respectability I’d like to maintain, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes, but your glute power is a thing of beauty. You were magnificent down there.”

  “Shut up, you idiot. My point is not registering with your brain. And you need to go see Carmen tomorrow morning.”

  “I don’t understand why she wants to meet me if you and Vic have already given me marching orders.”

  They walked back so fast Lori barely got to explain why. “That’s just how she is.”

  “Just so long as she pays the bills. I’m not doing it pro bono. I already discussed this with Vic. Much as Peter is a good mate, I don’t do free.”

  “Understood. Hey, when we get inside, can you actually help me loosen up my neck and shoulders?”

  As they re-entered the gym, Andre looked at them to see if blood had been drawn. Surprised to find Lori and Ian bantering good-naturedly, Andre offered Lori a cup of water.

  “Not now, Andre,” Ian said. “She’s going to work on some rotation to loosen up her neck and shoulders.”

  Lori reached for the cup and took a big gulp. “Geez, who knew Ian was such a dictator?”

  “You don’t know the half of what I put up with, Lor. He’s impossible.”

  “Well, unkinking your neck and shoulders is going to be mission impossible, Lori, if you don’t get down on this mat right away and get into the child’s play pose.”

  “Hey, sounds pretty good.” Andre, free for five minutes between clients, squatted next to Lori.

  Ian surrendered to the moment and knelt next to Andre. Side-by-side on the mat, like three ducks in a row, they elongated their spines in ever deeper stretches. As they breathed in unison, Ian felt a shift in the air, as if the earth had just started spinning a little more interestingly.

  CHAPTER 19

  WHEN IAN AND CARMEN FINALLY MET FACE-TO-FACE Saturday morning at the orchard, Carmen didn’t seem very friendly. Ian, still surprised at the extent of her micro-management to exonerate Peter, considering she had cut him off like a gangrenous limb, played the Brit card while trying to break the ice. In his experience, the sooner women heard his accent and then gazed into his baby blues, the sooner he got what he wanted.

  “This is a lovely orchard, Carmen. Breathtaking—I would love to meditate here.” Ian peered at her, taking in her poker face. “What is your favorite view from here? Your favorite apple?” Finally, he noticed Carmen staring at his feet. Sporting his favorite minimalist sneakers, the toe-separating Vibram Five-Fingers, he offered her the opportunity to try them on.

  Cracking a smile, Carmen demurred. “You have to be kidding. First of all, eew. Second of all, those are the ugliest things I’ve ever seen.”

  “Are you sure? You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. These will literally change your life.”

  “My life is going fine without them, thank you very much. Now let’s talk turkey. What are you going to do to get Pete off the hook?”

  “Well, it’s your loss; I’ll have to convince you another time.” Ian dictated a text to himself. “Get Carmen to try toe shoes.” He ignored her derisive snort. “Shall we walk?”

  “No. Lori warned me about walking with you. I don’t like being told to take it in the ass.”

  Ian gestured as if he were shooing away a buzzing fly. “Merely trying to help Lori get her pelvis under control.”

  Carmen cackled. “You. Are. Insane.”

  “Hardly. Now this is what I’m going to do.” Outlining his plan to her, she nodded approvingly.

  After Carmen and Ian shook on it, she texted Lori her approval. Seeing Ian still standing in front of her, she said, “What are you waiting for? Go straighten out this mess. Like by Monday.”

  Returning to the gym, Ian knew he needed some help to get it all accomplished in the compressed timeframe Carmen laid out.

  “Andre—”

  “Hell, yeah. I’m in.”

  “How did you know what I was going to say?”

  “I know what you’re thinking before you do. I’m in your head,” Andre teased.

  “That’s a scary place. Better you than me.”

  They started by compiling a quick dossier on the security guard. Ian insisted on documenting everything carefully.

  “It’s important to be methodical so you don’t wind up reinventing the wheel each time you construct the scenario.”

  “Come on, we need to haul ass. This security guard might could be a dead-end.”

  “Right. Work your contacts in the community, Andre. The security guard is key; we just need to find how the dots connect to him. The cops have more than enough circumstantial evidence to implicate Peter. We need to find the hidden links they won’t bother investigating, and that’s typical by the way. They’ll just want to close the case and move on.”

  Three hours later, Andre called with exciting news. “Guess what I found out from my cousin’s neighbor’s ex-boyfriend? This skanky guard’s a real player, and lately he’s been banging a married babe whose got a psycho for a husband. Let’s see the police get hold of that juicy fact as quick as me. Skanko’s making time with another man’s woman could be a big lead, dude.”

  “I’m not going to say I told you so.”

  “You just did.”

  “Imagine that. So, what’s her name, and who’s she still married to?”

  “Kimmy La-something. And he’s Skippy La-something.”

  “Skippy Lafford? This is unbelievable—I once investigated him for something entirely different, but he’s a known piece of shite. Arrests on possession, drunk driving, theft, and brawling.”

  “Wow—talk about coincidence. I got goosebumps, man.”

  “There’s no such thing as coincidence, Andre. How many times do we have to go over this.”

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “Look, stay on the guard and Kimmy. I’ll do Skippy and known associates.”

  “Got it.”

  They worked non-stop over the long weekend, fueled by caffeine and adrenaline. Andre didn’t have the kids, so he was glad to have something to keep him busy.


  “Brain power needs fuel. It’s a scientific fact,” Andre said. “Come over for dinner.”

  Ian waved a baggy full of celery and carrots in the air. “I’m all set.”

  “Give me that.” Andre grabbed the bag from him. “This is fine if you’re a guinea pig. What, you think black people don’t know how to make salad?”

  “Really, Andre. How am I supposed to respond?”

  “You’re supposed to graciously accept my extremely generous invitation.” Andre did his best imitation of WASP-y nasal intonation.

  When Ian arrived at Andre’s house, bearing a basil plant for his host, Andre had just finished garnishing a platter of sliced beefsteak tomatoes overlaid with thin cucumber slices.

  “Mmm, parsley,” Ian said, reaching for a stalk. “I’ll do the vinaigrette. Do you like garlic?”

  “Bring it.”

  Andre set the table, putting a glass full of water by Ian’s plate and a big glass of red wine by his own. “For the antioxidants.”

  “Right.”

  Ian demolished his half of the tomato salad after bowing his head over the food, sopping up the dressing with a whole wheat roll. Once Andre finished his broiled chicken and salad, they put together the case, bit by bit.

  “Skippy is a piece of shit, no doubt about it.” Andre pointed to a threatening tweet as they examined his social media posts. “Look, he called her a cunt.”

  According to Andre’s sources, Skippy’s fury at being cuckolded by the security guard boiled over by the beginning of May. Ian found his previous file on Skippy, and they decided to concentrate on Skippy’s merry band of thugs and Kimmy Lafford.

  “I’ve got to say Skippy had motive. What was he doing Thursday night? There’s his opportunity,” Ian mused. “Does he have an alibi? I mean it’s quite easy to attack someone at night with a metal object if you lie in wait or sneak up, and, voila—we’ve got means. Now all we have to do is get some proof.”

  Ian and Andre searched database after database to track Skippy and his crew’s movements. They scoured public records that tracked everything under the sun.