The Surrogate Thief(7)

“Come on in, you assholes,” she shouted into the night. “I did your job for you. I shot the son of a bitch.”





Chapter 3





Joe Gunther cupped his cheek in his hand and looked at his old friend. “Ron, you can’t beat yourself up over this. You did it by the book—better, even. Who knew the wife would kill him? And don’t say, ‘I should have,’” he quickly added as Klesczewski opened his mouth to speak.

Ron spoke anyway. “I didn’t do it by the book, Joe. I should never have told him to put the gun down. I knew that—especially the way she was acting. I might as well have told him to hand it to her direct. That exact scenario was in my training. I was just so relieved I was about to get him out safely, I forgot. And I got him killed.”

Gunther shook his head sadly. He’d known Ron for years—had once been his boss as head of Brattleboro’s detective squad—and had seen his younger colleague agonize over issues large and small. It was simply the nature of the man—what helped make him a decent human being, if maybe not the most forceful of leaders.

“Honestly?” Joe told him now. “I doubt it. I think in their own weird way, Mr. and Mrs. Purvis had it worked out long before you showed up. Some people are just built that way—the definition of a love-hate relationship. There’s no getting between them. If you had saved him this time, like you say, they would’ve hooked up later to play it out for keeps.”

Ron was still looking glum.

A knock on his office door caused them both to look up. Sheila Kelly, who’d been promoted to detective after Joe’s departure, was standing there with a sheet of paper in her hand.

“Hi, Joe,” she said with a wide smile, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek—a rarity among cops. “I haven’t seen you in ages. You’d never know you worked upstairs. How are you?”

Joe acknowledged the gentle rebuke. He was employed by the new Vermont Bureau of Investigation nowadays, was in fact their field force commander, which meant he spent most of his time on the road. Logically, he should have moved to Waterbury, near the center of the state, but he’d worked in Brattleboro his whole career and was loath to leave. So far, his bosses had allowed the eccentricity.

“I’m fine, Sheila,” he said. “Busy, but doing okay.”

“And Gail?”

That called for a more measured response. Gail Zigman and he had been romantically linked for more years than most married couples, although they’d never tied the knot. So the question was reasonable enough. But there was also Gail’s latest ambition to consider—a small hot potato, at least in the traditionally conservative environs of a police station.

“Now, there’s busy,” he answered. “I suppose you heard, she’s going to run for state senate. Every night her place looks like headquarters for the Normandy invasion.”

Sheila laughed. “Nope. I didn’t have a clue. Guess that shows how politically involved I am. Well, if anyone can do it, she can. Tell her I wish her well, even if I won’t vote for her.”

Gail’s liberal views were legendary in this corner of the state, where she’d already been a selectperson, a local prosecutor, and forever a standard-bearer of almost every left-leaning cause available, of which there were many. In short, not the typical cop’s sort of politician, which often made Joe’s colleagues wonder how he could keep her company. Actually, although he did agree with Gail on many points, politics was a topic they tended to avoid, if not always successfully. This made him less than thrilled with the hotter-than-ever partisan debate now surrounding her.

“I’ll do that,” he said simply.

Sheila Kelly handed the sheet of paper to Ron. “Fax just came in from the crime lab on that gun. Kind of interesting.”

Ron took it from her, explaining as he did, “Purvis’s gun was an old Ruger Blackhawk. The serial numbers had been ground off, so I thought the lab might like a look at it.”

Sheila wandered back into the squad room just outside Ron’s office. Joe watched her settling down at her desk as Ron read the contents of the fax, thinking back to when he used to head the unit. By now, Ron and their forensics expert, J. P. Tyler, were the only original members left. The other two, Sammie Martens and the infamously difficult Willy Kunkle, had moved with Joe to the VBI. Nobody here had ever admitted missing having Kunkle around.

His expression guarded, Ron handed his old boss the fax. “You might want to read this, Joe. The bullet they test-fired from Purvis’s Ruger matches one you gave them thirty-two years ago.”