Fountain of Death(82)

Roger Dornan said, “Forty-seven Stephenson,” and stood up. He took a big blue plastic spiral notebook off the shelf behind him and opened it on the desk.

“Forty-seven Stephenson,” he said again, paging through a stack of plastic-coated maps. “That’s Derby, I think. Just inside the Derby town line. We’ll have to ask the Derby police. It might be Oxford. That’s the next town over.”

“Would that be a problem?” Gregor asked. “If it was in Oxford instead of Derby?”

“No, no,” Roger Dornan said. “It’s just a question of who we ask the favor of, that’s all. I like Derby a little better than I like Oxford because I know Hank Balderak fairly well. I don’t have to be too polite about what I want from him. It helps that you’re looking for something in that particular neighborhood.”

“You’ve been having drug problems in that neighborhood?” Gregor asked.

Roger Dornan smiled wanly. “I don’t have any problems with that neighborhood. It’s not in my jurisdiction. The town police forces have a problem with it, though. All kinds of problems. Have you been out there, Mr. Demarkian?”

“Once.”

“Once might not have been enough to do it. To get the full flavor of it, you’d have to go out there on a Saturday night. Or on New Year’s Eve. Now, that would be an experience. You do understand, though, that this particular house, number forty-seven, hasn’t been involved in any drug investigations so far.”

“Can you be sure?” Gregor asked.

Roger Dornan turned the map book around so that Gregor could see it. The maps were in black and white, with little red crosses dotted over them. Roger Dornan pointed to a spot on the middle of the left-hand page. Looking closer, Gregor could see a snaking black line that was meant to represent the Housatonic River.

“No red,” Roger Dornan said. “Every time we go into any place in the area on a drugs call, we mark the location on these maps with a red ex. And we keep each other informed. Derby. Oxford. Stepney. Branford. We’re not exactly computer literate and technologically coordinated, but we do try.”

“Would you have any other information on that house?” Gregor asked curiously. “Do you keep records on fires and arrest calls and that sort of thing?”

“Not on a house that hasn’t had a drug connection, we don’t,” Roger Dornan said. “And we wouldn’t keep that kind of soft information on a place in Derby or Oxford anyway. You could ask the local police forces there, if you really wanted to know.”

“What is it you want to know?” Philip Brye asked Gregor. “I thought this thing you were looking for was singular.”

“It is,” Gregor said. “It is. I was just curious, that’s all. It might be interesting to see what the record is like. Domestic disputes. Disturbing the peace. Child abuse reports—although there might not be any of those, that far back. I don’t know how the law operated in Connecticut when Tim Bradbury was a child.”

“It operated the way the law operated everywhere in those days,” Philip Brye said. “Meaning it didn’t. You can have all this information for the asking if this plan of yours works, you know, Gregor. Once the police actually arrest somebody, you can get anything you want.”

“Maybe I will,” Gregor said softly.

Roger Dornan looked down at his book of maps and scowled. “I just want to get one thing straight. What you two want me to do here—what my friend Phil wants me to do here, which is why I’ve been listening to this request at all—is to ask for a warrant to search the house at forty-seven Stephenson in connection with an ongoing investigation. And then I’m supposed to take the two of you with me.”

“Right,” Philip Brye said. “To be specific, you’re supposed to take him with you,” he jerked his head in the direction of Gregor Demarkian, “because he’s the one who knows what we’re interested in.”

“You won’t be lying, you know,” Gregor said. “This is a search in connection with an ongoing investigation.”

“If you talk to old Judge Varley, you won’t have to say much of anything at all,” Philip Brye said. “That’s what I was hoping you’d do, Roger, because it’s the only way I can think of to get around telling Tony Bandero.”

“I know.” Roger Dornan was still scowling. “You two are absolutely sure this is absolutely necessary?”

“Positive,” Gregor Demarkian said.

“There’s no other way to get this done.”