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Adam had no sooner stepped out of his car in the PD’s parking lot when he was hit by a pint-sized missile. He glanced down at the culprit, a boy of about three or so, who’d bounced off Adam’s leg and onto the ground. Rather than cry, the boy looked up at Adam with wide, shiny eyes.
“Andrew Baylor!” A woman’s voice called out, with the woman herself soon coming into view. On one side of the woman was a girl around seven, and on the other was Jinks.
Adam said to Jinks, “Who’s your friend here?”
The female trio caught up to him, and the mother of the boy swooped him up into the crook of her arm. Jinks nodded at her. “This is Priscilla Baylor and her daughter Patricia. And you’ve met little Andy. This is the family involved in the case I’m working on.”
The missing-man case. If not for the distraction of the boy-missile, he’d have guessed. The mother, Priscilla, wasn’t wearing any makeup, save for some haphazard mascara that had recently run and been wiped away, leaving tiny smears like black eyes. Her shoulders were hunched as if too heavy to hold up, and the hand she clasped around the girl’s was white-knuckled. But it was the little girl’s eyes that disturbed him the most. Too old for her young age, heavy-lidded with a torpor resembling blinds over leaded glass.
Adam said to the mother, “You’ve got the best working on your case with Detective Jinks, here. If anyone can find your husband, it’s Jinks.”
Priscilla managed a brief smile in Jinks’ direction. “We’re grateful for her help. It all feels like being trapped in a nightmare. A non-stop nightmare. And with the holidays coming up . . . “ The black mascara tears threatened a new cascade.
Jinks patted her on the shoulder and gave Andy’s hair a ruffle. “We’re gonna follow up this new lead, and if that doesn’t pan out, there will be more. We’ll find him. You can count on it.”
Jinks walked the Baylors over to their car and helped get the kids situated, then waved as the family drove off. Adam asked, “New lead?”
“A source,” she drew air quotes with her fingers, “Says the father might be doing drugs. That he was pals with Derek Cotter.”
“Cotter, ay? That means a trip up to the Pittsbury neighborhood.”
“The ‘pitts’ is right.”
“Need some backup?” Adam hoped his voice sounded nonchalant, even as his pulse was racing. Pittsbury had its share of small drug houses dotting the woods, abscesses on the picturesque landscape. It had been a while since he was involved with a drug case. Not since that case. Whether the chief kept him away from them or they were forked over to be handled by the DEA, he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t asked.
Adam and Jinks ducked back into the PD offices to pick up some gear. Sergeant Moody was passing by and overheard their plans, laughing, “Got your radio, Jinks?”
Jinks retorted, “Got your brain, Moody?”
But when the cop was out of earshot, an awkward silence hung over Adam and Jinks. Adam said, “He didn’t mean it. Just cop jokes.”
“Yeah. Jokes. Funny, haha.” Jinks held up her radio at Adam and shook it side to side. “Let’s go.”
They made the fifteen-mile drive to Pittsbury without saying much, listening to the occasional crackle of the disembodied dispatcher’s voice. When they pulled up in front of their destination, Adam smiled to himself. In scenic Vermont, even the crack houses were quaint. This particular house was a vacation cabin owned by a Burlington businessman who leased it out to tourists during the summer and anybody else during the winter. More often than not, the “anybody else” was the likes of Derek Cotter, perpetual drug addict.
They approached the cabin, its brown cedar shake siding and white shutters with cutout hearts making it look like a gingerbread house. Too bad its inhabitants had a taste for drugs instead of sweets. Jinks knocked on the door. They waited. Thirty seconds, one minute. She knocked louder, but again, no answer.
Adam reached over to try the doorknob, and it opened with one twist. They drew their guns, stepping inside, side by side.
Adam had seen the worst that drugs, poverty, and squalor could do to people and places, but instead of piles of ecstasy pills, packets of meth, and a vacuum cleaner full of MDMA powder, this house looked eerily normal by comparison. Wood floors, wood paneling, a wooden fireplace surround. One pink futon, a coffee table made from a slab of granite, and a suit of armor standing in one corner.
Jinks shook her head at Adam and headed toward the back rooms. Adam kept an eye on her progress while trying to surveil the way they’d come. No signs of Cotter, no signs of the missing Baylor. Adam felt a chill running up his spine, but he was sweating. He wiped his brow with his sleeve and pushed past Jinks toward a bathroom at the end of the hall.
There, seated on the floor between the tub and toilet was a semi-conscious man, his shaved head covered with a rash, and he had red eyes to match. He wore a t-shirt with holes and, from the smell of it, recently soiled underwear. Since he was the only occupant of the house, Adam holstered his gun and bent down to lift the man’s chin up to look into his eyes.
“Derek Cotter, you must be a devil with the ladies.”
Cotter gaped up at Adam. “Bite me.” The man’s voice was so unsteady, it sounded like he’d said “Blot me,” which would be handy, given the underwear.
“If I had one of our police puppies with the nice big teeth and jaws, I could oblige with the biting part.”
Cotter’s eyes swung wildly around the room, finally focusing behind Adam. “Where? You wouldn’t sic a dog on me.”
Adam half-wished he’d brought along the K-9 unit, but replied, “Answer a few questions, and we might let them eat their regular puppy chow instead.”
“Don’t know nuthin.’”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Tell us about Bobby Baylor.”
“Who?”
“Robert M. Baylor. Mutual friend of yours said you and Baylor liked to socialize together. As in crack open some crack.”
Cotter started rocking his upper body. It was oddly hypnotic. “Don’t know no Baylor. Don’t know no Bobbies or Bobs or Roberts. Must have the wrong guy.”
Adam glanced at Jinks, who stepped closer to Cotter to ask, “You staying here all alone, Mr. Cotter?”
“Got a girl who comes by from time to time.” He glared when Adam smirked. “Hey, I can get me some tail whenever I want.”
Jinks said soothingly, “So just this girlfriend? No roommates to help pay the rent?”
“My Dad pays the rent.”
“Your father knows you’re here, Mr. Cotter?”
The young man slid down further against the tub. “Don’t tell him, okay?” His pleading eyes swung from Jinks to Adam. “He thinks I’m using the money to go to school. Take some classes at VCC.”
Adam asked, “Why aren’t you?”
Cotter’s reply was cut off by a prolonged coughing spell. Adam looked around for a glass, spied a used one on the sink and took a chance by filling it with water to hand to the man. Cotter gulped it down without taking a break. Had he had anything to eat or drink today? Or was his money all going to the rent and drugs?
Adam hauled Cotter up and slapped some handcuffs on him to be safe. “You’ll get some medical attention at the jail. And a hot meal.”
He and Jinks were often on the mental wavelength, so he wasn’t surprised when Jinks pulled a card out of her pocket and tucked the card into Cotter’s t-shirt pocket. “This is the number for a drug rehab in Barre, for when your lawyer gets you out on bail. No questions asked. Rent’s about the same as here.”
After Adam had bundled Cotter into the squad car and closed the door, he asked Jinks, “Think he’s telling the truth about not knowing your missing man, Baylor?”
“You do, don’t you?”
Adam nodded. “Yeah. Damn it all. Another lead, another bust.”
He knew she’d meant it, even believed it, when she told the Baylors she would find the missing husband, and they could count on it. But he also knew if they did find the man, they’d be as likely to discover him in a body bag in a morgue as much as they’d find him alive. The chance of finding any missing person after the first seventy-two hours was around seven percent if you got lucky.
Adam realized he hadn’t thought about his own case the entire time he was helping Jinks with hers. Too bad Reggie Forsythe and Mayor Lehmann couldn’t go missing. Adam chided himself. But only a little bit.
§ § §
After dropping off their drug-addict prisoner and making sure Jinks had what she needed to add to her report, Adam decided to have a little chat with an old “friend” of his. When he pulled in front of Dragon’s Teeth Bar, it looked about the same as when he’d last been here. It would look the same forever—dingy brick facade, sagging reddish-pink awnings, and a tired neon sign that buzzed and flickered.
The inside made the exterior look ritzy, but it was dark so you couldn’t see it in all its glory. Adam crunched his way over the spent peanut shells and snagged one of the bar stools that wasn’t held together by wood glue. He’d picked a good time. It was before the influx of workers from the lumber mill and stone quarry.
Proprietor Bryce Garrow ran a rag over the countertop, blazing a trail through a wasteland made of up layers of grime and grease. He squinted up at Adam. “You aiming to stay awhile? No offense, but cops tend to spook the regulars.”
“You have regulars?”
“Haha. You should be a standup comedian.” Bryce tossed the rag into a sink filled with gray water. “Since you never come here unless you’re on a case, I won’t offer you a drink.”
A blessing in disguise. Bryce’s “regulars” should be so lucky. “You’ve been out now for what, nine years?”
“Ten. Don’t you dare take one of those hard-earned years away just like that. And I been clean ever since.”
“I know, I know. But you still have friends in low places. Meaning you might have overheard—quite by accident, of course—a few rumors about some interesting people.”
“What kind of interesting people?”
“A father-son duo. Name of Forsythe.”
Bryce picked up some glasses from a cart and crammed them into shelves behind the bar. He didn’t answer right away, so Adam prompted him, “Ever heard of them?”
“I’d like to stay out of prison, Dutton.”
“I take it you have heard of them. Look, it’s only you and me in here right now. And I’m not wired. Tell me what you’ve got.”
Bryce pinched his nose. “You probably know it all. Or you wouldn’t be here.”
“Try me.”
“I don’t got much on the elder one. But the younger one, he’s a piece of work.”
“Reggie.”
“Yeah. Friend of mine worked as his gardener. Forsythe made him sign one of those non-disclosure thingies.”
“An NDA to be a gardener? Whatever for?”
“Beats me. My friend said he saw weird shit going on, though. People stopping by at odd hours. And they often came in with cases of stuff but didn’t leave with ’em.”
“Reggie’s an antiques dealer. Hardly sounds suspicious.”
“Yeah, but these guys often didn’t come alone. Had bodyguard types.”
“So, they’re expensive antiques.”
Bryce shook his head. “My friend, Dale, he recognized one of those bodyguards. Was in prison ’bout the same time as me. And several of ’em were packing. I mean, do people go around hijacking antiques or something? ’Cause that seems over the top, you know?”
“The one who spent time in prison—what did go in for?”
“Second-degree murder. Said it was self-defense, so he was out in eleven.”
“Did your friend see anything else unusual?”
Bryce picked up a glass and rubbed it with his sleeve then put it back on the counter. “Limos.”
“Limos?”
“The kind with tinted glass. Several of ’em pulled up, but nobody ever came out of those limos in front of the house. Always inside the garage after the door was down.”
“Maybe the potential buyers preferred to remain anonymous.” Adam’s excuses were starting to sound thin even to him.
“Yeah, well, when Dale worked there, I asked around a few places. Curiosity and the cat, you know. I’m not dead yet, but someone I asked about the Forsythes told me if I wanted to keep on not being dead, to stop asking questions.”
Adam pulled a couple of twenties out of his wallet and stuffed them into the glass on the counter. “Thanks, Bryce. Next time, I’ll stop by the bank first.”
“Yeah, you’re Mr. Moneybags Detective. And don’t come back asking for more about the Forsythes. This place may not be much, but I’ve grown attached to it. And who’d tank these guys up day after day if I’m six feet under?”
Adam waved at him as he left and then cranked up his engine and pointed his car back out onto Henry’s Hollow Road. He slowed down as he passed some earth mounds off to his right, about a quarter-mile in the distance. Native American burial mounds, or so the experts said. Were they for Natick Indians, the same natives old man Kornelson’s map and verses talked about?
When Adam’s cellphone rang, he pulled over on the side of the road parallel to the mounds. He kept staring at them as he took the call from his FBI friend, Roger “Mac” McInturff. Just because Forsythe didn’t want to ask the FBI’s help didn’t mean Adam couldn’t make an “unofficial” request.
Mac said, “You were asking about the art fraud division. I checked with them about Paul Revere antiques and other silver bowls that were reported stolen in the past couple of years.”
“Find anything?”
“One Revere bowl was stolen from an elderly woman, Coral Dockett. Hasn’t turned up since.”
“There’s a record of ownership for these things?”
“Not a national database, no. Auction house records, sure, but the black market stuff is often untraceable. From pawn shops to unethical collectors, to a few appraisers who undervalue items so they can get their hands on them and sell them for their real value. Make thousands in profit.”
“This stolen Revere silver bowl. Can you describe it?”
“Old-looking, silver, about ten inches diameter. Has a small, jagged scratch on one side and REVERE etched in all caps in a rectangle on the bottom.”
“No suspects, Mac?”
“None. The poor, dear lady was beside herself. Never thought to put it in even a locked cabinet. No home security. A cat could have sauntered in and grabbed it. Might as well have had ‘rob me’ written in bright letters on the front of the house.”
“And that’s the only Revere bowl reported stolen?”
“In the past five years or so, yeah. You got a lead?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. If it works out, I’ll let you know.”
“You do that. Our fraud guys love to cross one off the list.”
Adam thanked him and hung up. Two stolen Revere bowls or one Revere bowl stolen twice? He rubbed his temples. He much preferred Jinks’s case. Better to look for missing people than missing bowls. Still, he owed it to the chief. And maybe Beverly Laborde, too. If she were innocent.
That whole stunt at Quechee had caught him by surprise—and he didn’t like being caught by surprise, especially by suspects. Anyway, the whole fraud matter would most likely be wrapped up in a few days. What else could possibly go wrong with one lousy, stinking stolen bowl?
