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  “Look at these pictures of her and Stulow together. The dates work, too. You can see when Kimmy and Skippy broke up, and when Kimmy starts up with Stulow.”

  “Hey, I saw Brock Saunders at the nursing home in West Hadley the other day. I meant to tell you.” Andre taught senior yoga and a chair exercise class at Wood Haven, the local skilled nursing facility, two afternoons per week.

  “Don’t tell Peter or Jeff,” Ian said. “Last thing they need is to confront him.”

  Brock visited his mother every other day, usually after Bingo, now that he was back in the area. He brought her favorite salty snacks, either a small bag of potato chips or a few slices of salami, both on her doctor’s list of absolute no-no’s.

  Brock showered the nurses with donuts and chocolates. They looked forward to his visits.

  “Such a nice son.”

  Mrs. Saunders rarely got a visit from her husband. Her poor prognosis due to congestive heart failure and emphysema meant her days were numbered, but he occupied his time with the business and a series of widows and divorcees.

  When Brock’s father summoned him back to Bridgeville, it wasn’t because he missed Brock. Saunders Construction, limping along as the region’s prospects dimmed, needed a shot of marketing pizzazz. Brock had been living in Wilmington, North Carolina, playing golf and dabbling successfully in real estate. But the combination of his mother’s poor health and his father’s badgering brought him home.

  “We need to get in with the Consortium,” his father said. “They’re the only thing growing around here.”

  Brock nosed around and learned on the down-low about Zenergy’s dealings with the Consortium. Saunders Construction undercut every bid to get the Zenergy contract.

  “We’re not going to make any money on this,” Brock said.

  “No shit, Sherlock. But we’ll cut some corners on material and labor to sock something away.”

  “Yeah, but that could be dangerous.”

  “Not our problem. You in or out? I don’t want any whining bullshit. Either you man up or hit the road. And your name is on the line of credit, so if you go all pussy on me, this is gonna bite you in the ass big-time.”

  Saunders senior specialized in acrimony with most of his peers. This certainly included Aldo Fiori. In fact, Aldo spat whenever the name came up.

  “Pieces of shit, the lot of ‘em.”

  Carmen never mentioned Brock, in particular, without shuddering. Peter hadn’t asked her point blank if Brock had tried something with her because he was pretty sure Carmen would have killed him, but she and her friends didn’t hide their contempt for Brock. When Vic took on Peter’s case, he shed more light on the particulars of Aldo’s latest anti-Saunders campaign.

  “I can’t believe Carm didn’t fill you in,” Vic said with surprise.

  “Yeah, well there’s that little detail of her not speaking to me.”

  The Fiori’s orchard abutted disputed land that Brock’s father had won in a marathon booze-soaked gambling weekend with his regular crew of liars and cheats. The state claimed the land as compensation for non-payment of taxes and other financial shenanigans.

  Aldo Fiori had nothing but contempt for his new next-door neighbor. Old farm boys never forgot the bad blood that seeped down through generations. Yet when some of Aldo’s field hands began telling about dynamite blasting, dying timber rattlesnakes and exploded dinosaur fossils, or at least that’s what he thought they were saying as he listened to their agitated descriptions in a combination of Spanish, English, and Italian, he didn’t hesitate to act.

  Vic’s keen nose for threats to Fiori interests was key, and Aldo scored first blood.

  “It’s cause you got a crush on Carm,” Aldo rasped, casting a knowing eye at Vic. “You Baldini’s.”

  “Oh, get off it, Aldo. Carm’s my brother’s ex-wife, and she’s old enough to be my mother.” Vic laughed and jumped back when Aldo dropped a bocce ball about a centimeter away from his foot.

  “You’re dog meat, she hears you saying that. Now go check this shit out.”

  Vic reported back quickly. “Looks like he’s clearing land for some high-end houses—without the necessary permits.”

  “Yeah, well that ain’t his land. It’s the state’s. I don’t want no development up here sucking the aquifer dry. Let’s shut him down. We need a little birdie. You got any ideas?”

  “Plenty, Aldo. First, he’s counting on the state being too broke and broken. But guess what? If it’s state land, you can’t blow up dinosaur fossils and bones; you can only do that on your own land.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do ya mean yeah? That’s important.”

  “Eh, everyone does it. Dinosaurs. You remember when they built the mall? They found more dinosaur bones and, you know, footprints than you got hair, more than anywhere in New England. But, you’re right. On private land, the state can’t do squat. You go to Home Depot or Target, and you’re standing on dinosaurs from like a million years ago.”

  “Aldo, focus. Saunders is breaking the law. Plus he’s blowing up and killing timber rattlesnakes; they’re endangered and protected.”

  “Oh big whoop. Who’s gonna care? I mean, I like’em; they eat all the varmints. But I don’t get too cozy when they’re around.”

  “I just gave you two ways to shut him down and piss him off big-time.”

  “Do it. I fucking hate that guy.”

  State officials responded immediately. They didn’t find any dead rattlesnakes but they found plenty of damaged fossils.

  It didn’t take long for Saunders to retaliate. First, he informed the town that Fiori’s wells were contaminated with radon, lead and all sorts of agricultural waste. The health inspectors showed up quickly if apologetically. Then Saunders somehow dumped a dozen dead timber rattlers right by Aldo’s primary apple storage facility and sent his own alert to the Department of Environmental Protection. The officials converged on Fiori Orchards before Aldo even know what was happening.

  Vic couldn’t keep them at bay. “Are you serious?” He implored the DEEP inspector who imposed fines of $2,000 per dead timber rattlesnake and threatened imprisonment for up to 180 days if one more got “molested.”

  Aldo seethed. “It’s on, baby. This ain’t over.”

  CHAPTER 20

  BY NOON ON MONDAY, IAN SAT IN VIC’S OFFICE WITH Lori on speakerphone and confidently sketched out what he considered the real story.

  “Here’s how I see it. Can you hear me OK, Lori?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “Dazzle us,” Vic said, leaning back in his chair, motioning for Ian to get going.

  “The gist of it is this: Skippy Lafford wanted revenge for Kimmy dumping him and shacking up with Stulow aka sleazeball Zenergy security guard. Skippy stalked Stulow night and day until he knew everything about his routines. He carefully planned—and this is premeditated, so I’m thinking attempted murder is the right charge.”

  “Leave that to us, Ian,” Lori said. “Play on your ballfield.”

  “Yeah,” Vic chimed in. “Think less. Don’t hurt yourself.”

  “Fine. Skippy and his crew decided that a nighttime head thrashing up at the fuel cell facility would do the trick. Hard enough and it would kill him or at least drop him unconscious into a bloody heap so animals could eat his face. Or at least that’s what Tank LaBois told me when I threatened to go to the police about a certain parole violation.”

  Ian knew where Tank hung with his buddies, getting high and drunk—not too far from where Becky Fiori died. The terrain, steep and rocky, stunned in the late afternoon sun as Ian searched for Tank. Skippy Lafford used him as muscle on the previous case Ian worked, so Tank had to know what Skippy was up to these days.

  “Tank’s the weak link,” Ian said out loud while floating on his back in Small Lake after Andre discovered Kimmy Lafford’s involvement. Small Lake, a beautiful body of water near Devil’s Falls, officially lacked a name. No one in Bridgeville agreed on whether it should be
called Big Pond or Small Lake, but Ian was firmly in the lake camp. When he needed to think unfettered thoughts and let them soar beyond gravity, Ian loved to float. He walked out chest-high before flipping onto his back. The towering pine trees scented the air and framed a cloudless sky. He gave himself twenty minutes in the bracingly cold water, checking his waterproof watch every now and then. As he drifted pleasantly weightless, a strategy came to him.

  An hour later, dressed in dry clothes, Ian searched for Tank. The softening light filtered in rays through the canopy of leaves, illuminating floating particles and swarms of tiny insects. Loud crickets chirped ceaselessly, and Ian cocked his head to listen to trilling bird songs and occasional owl hoots.

  The smell of weed and cigarettes beckoned Ian closer to Tank’s lair. Someone was pissing like a racehorse in the woods to Ian’s right, and he saw the enormous hulk of a man who could only be Tank. Ian hurried to catch Tank shaking out the last few drops of yeasty urine; any advantage over the 6 foot 8, 350 pound giant needed to be used.

  “Oh, shit,” Tank yelled as Ian materialized in his line of vision.

  “Hullo, Tank. Long time no see.”

  “What the fuck? You still hungry for my meat?” Tank patted his quickly zipped-in junk.

  “Funny. Sorry I didn’t knock. Still on parole, are we Tank?”

  “You know I am. Stop busting my ass and get lost.” Tank turned back to the trail, but Ian followed closely at his heels.

  “Oh, I thought we could get reacquainted, a reunion of sorts to remember old times.” Ian spoke to Tank’s broad flabby back, but he knew Tank was all ears.

  “I got nothin’ to say to you.”

  “I think you do,” Ian said confidently. “So, Tank. I hear you’re up to some old tricks with Skippy Lafford. Your parole officer know?”

  Tank turned around and looked down at Ian through bleary eyes. His breath heavy with beer and years of neglected dental hygiene, Tank spat at Ian’s feet. “Fuck you.”

  “Now, now. Here’s how it’s going to go down, Tank. Skippy’s a risk for you to be seen with, yet I somehow found many photos of your escapades on social media. Here’s you both at a strip club; did you think those tatas were real? And here’s a really good one of you two sharing a bong.” Ian scrolled through his phone, holding up pictures for Tank to see. “I can send these to the West Hadley police and the parole office with one little tap.” Ian wiggled his index finger in the air and then hovered it over his phone.

  Tank’s shoulders slumped. “I will fuck you up,” he said somewhat dejectedly, his demeanor now more house cat than king of the jungle.

  “Tell me about Skippy and Kimmy. What he did when she left him.”

  “Oh, man. You know about that? I’m not ratting out nobody, but I’m not going back inside neither.”

  “So, just between us—no need for your parole officer to know—did you help Skippy take down the guard at the Zenergy plant? I mean, Kimmy shagging the guard had to sting, right?”

  “Hell, yeah, if shagging means fucking. You want your snatch cheatin’ on you? I didn’t do nothin’ to that guard, it was all Skip. He slugged him in the head with a hammer wrench. I just helped with, you know, logistics. We did a couple practice runs, like getting ready for the big game. That’s it.”

  “Good lad. Tell me more.”

  Vic chortled with glee at Ian’s reenactment of the conversation. “Told you to find the weak link. Just gotta have a nose for the jugular.”

  “Of course, it helped immensely that I knew Tank from previous successful work,” Ian sniffed, unwilling to shower Vic with all the credit.

  “True, so true.” Lori murmured her assent.

  Ian, soothed by her acknowledgement of his ingenuity, launched back into the story. “Skippy takes a trial run one night in mid-May at the Zenergy facility. The boys drop him off on a side street, and Skippy times the assault. But Tank said Skippy was worried about how close the neighborhood houses were to the fuel cell. Someone might be able to see him.”

  “Yeah, those older ranches are so close that the neighbors can flush each other’s toilets and a lot more, if you get my drift.” Vic smirked and shrugged. “I get a couple of voyeurism clients every year. If they don’t use recording devices, I can get it kicked out.”

  “That’s why you have a reputation as a sleazebag, Vic,” Lori said. “Lose those clients. You don’t need them.”

  “Money’s money.”

  Ian rotated his neck right and left before tenting the tips of his outstretched middle fingers and bowing his head. “A prayer,” he told Vic. He could hear Lori laughing.

  “Stop with the prissy shit. Human cesspools furnished this place.” Vic gestured proudly at the elaborate crown molding and animal heads adorning his walls. “Where I come from, you gotta be willing to tear somebody’s face off.”

  “Vic, you’re from West Hadley.” Lori’s voice crackled with amusement over the speaker.

  “The wrong side of West Hadley. Cut to the chase already, Ian.”

  “OK. Now, it’s D-Day, the Thursday night before Memorial Day weekend. Skippy sends Kimmy a batch of threatening texts, dons his all-black outfit, including gloves and a balaclava, grabs his weapon, and mobilizes the troops.”

  “We can guess the rest,” Lori said. “So—”

  “Let me finish the narrative,” Vic interrupted. “Skippy sneaks up on Stulow and clobbers him. Bam, bam! Stulow drops like a dead weight onto his panic button and Skippy fades into the night.”

  “Exactly,” Lori said. “Peter winds up taking the fall for Skippy’s attack. This is great.”

  “Gotta love it. BPD, here comes a gift-wrapped present. You’re welcome,” Vic crowed.

  Ian walked over to one of the deer heads on the wall and patted it solemnly.

  “They’re dead.” Vic pointed to an impressively antlered buck that Ian couldn’t reach. “This whole hunting and safari vibe costs plenty, lemme tell you.”

  “Nobody hunts deer on safari, Vic,” Lori laughed. “Just shoot through your kitchen window. Ian, take a bow. It would’ve taken BPD a lot longer to do the investigation, so you’ve basically sprung Peter.”

  Ian couldn’t let it go. “How are you going to get the cops to look beyond Peter?”

  Vic cracked his knuckles loudly. “Probable cause. Actually, they need to want to look at probable cause beyond Peter. Tomassi’s not gonna give his buddy any obvious special favors. BPD’s running squeaky clean after that captain with all the hard-core porn on his work computer. I always knew he was a scumbag. Everything by the book, now. You gotta get a compliance check if you fart over there. So, we’ll throw down a line of breadcrumbs for them. You good, Lor?”

  “Absolutely. Vic, take it from here, and we’ll talk tonight. Ian, terrific work. Marti’s about ready to shoot me for not paying enough attention to her. God, women are demanding, aren’t they?”

  Vic and Ian nodded, catching each other’s eyes as they smiled.

  “Hey, I thought you were a monk or something,” Vic said. “What do you know about women?”

  “More than you ever will. Now, in a perfect world, the one I pray for,” Ian said as Vic rolled his eyes, “the cops see the love triangle because you serve it to them on a gleaming silver platter. They get off their arses to search Skippy’s place, look for the weapon and have a chat with Miss Kimmy. Are you going to subpoena cellphone records?”

  “I got this, Jessica Jones. You did good. Now, it’s my turn.”

  CHAPTER 21

  PETER GOT OUT OF JAIL TUESDAY MORNING AFTER LORI and Vic wheeled and dealed with the prosecutor to reduce the charges to misdemeanor trespassing, a $500 fine, a two-year probationary period, and four months of community service. Marco and Paco had already been taken to the courthouse, so Peter didn’t get to say good-bye.

  Waiting for Jeff to pick him up, Peter saw Kenny Johnson looking glum.

  “What’s the matter? You gonna miss me and Marco so much?”

  “Yeah, right—that�
��s it.”

  “So, tell me.”

  “Girlfriend problems. She dumped me.” Kenny kicked the garbage can as he spoke.

  “A great-looking guy like you? C’mon, Kenny. Plenty of fish in the sea.”

  “Whatever.” Kenny clenched his jaw and busied himself with paperwork before looking up. “Peter, I’m glad you’re getting out of here. And don’t even think of messing up your probation.”

  “OK, chief.” Peter saluted.

  “You really thinking of hiring Marco when he gets out if you get the food truck going?”

  “Yeah. And we’re gonna get it going. Why is everyone doubting me and Jeff?”

  “No one’s doubting Jeff,” Kenny said with a grin, his dark mood lifting momentarily.

  Vic told Peter to forget about Marco and Paco when Jeff brought him to his office for a wrap-up. “They’ll do some time. You should stay away from jailbirds. You’re lucky you got a fairy godmother.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” But, Peter couldn’t get Paco and Marco out of his head. The marijuana bust that landed them in the Bridgeville jail was a second offense for each of them.

  “I want to do something for them. Try to wrap your mind around this bullshit: second possession of just over an ounce of weed, a pipe and a bong is getting them a minimum of ninety days of jail time and a big-time fine,” he said to Jeff Wednesday morning. They sat in Jeff’s kitchen, having coffee and home-made muffins while Brutus slept at Peter’s feet. Jeff motioned for him to shut up.

  “Hey, the law’s the law. Thanks, hon,” Jeff said to his daughter, Rachel, doe-eyed and lively, as she refreshed their mugs.

  “Do you like the muffins? I put more cinnamon and walnuts in than normal because I know you love them, Pete.” Rachel, a little too lean for Jeff’s comfort level, looked exactly like Annie did as a young woman. After being arrested on heroin possession, Rachel had enrolled in culinary school five months ago as a condition of her court-mandated rehab program.