Chat - Archer Mayor [91]
“Based on what?” Joe asked.
“Pure gut,” Sam conceded. “When Lester was asking around, Mueller was the first name that the Bratt PD’s Cathy Eakins thought of—said we’d be dumb not to check him out, although she wasn’t as gung-ho as the Massachusetts cop.”
“Still, better go for it,” Joe recommended.
“You gonna stay up there awhile?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he told her. “I got a couple of loose ends I have to take care of. Let me know how you fare with Mueller.”
“Roger that.”
There was a café in Thetford, serving only breakfast and lunch, that was cheap, familial, offered good basic food, and had been long known in the neighborhood as E. T. Griffis’s home away from home. Joe timed his arrival there for about half an hour after E. T.’s usual appearance, when he hoped the man would be just nearing the end of his meal.
He was sitting in a corner booth, beside the window and facing the door—the perfect place for the best view—in front of the remains of some spaghetti and meatballs.
He and Joe spotted each other as soon as Joe entered, and exchanged the barest of nods. Joe walked down the length of the restaurant to stand before him.
“E. T. How’ve you been?” They didn’t shake hands.
The old man picked up a piece of bread and sopped up some sauce with it. “Fair.”
“Sit down for a second?”
He didn’t look up, concentrating on his task. “Free country.”
Joe slid in opposite him. A waitress appeared, and Joe asked for coffee. E. T. made no comment.
“I was sorry to hear about Andy,” Joe said.
E. T. paused in mid-motion for several seconds, then resumed eating, as if alone.
“I looked into what happened to him in prison,” Joe continued. “I know about Wayne Nugent.”
E. T. stopped chewing. Joe remained silent. The waitress came with the coffee and silently placed it on the table, looking at the two men quizzically.
“Good for you,” E. T. finally said, still stubbornly refusing to make eye contact.
Joe sipped from his coffee before saying, “The reason I’m here is because you’ll be hearing about Nugent in the news today. He died while one of my men was trying to arrest him for what he did to Andy.”
That did it. E. T. looked up and stared at Joe, his lips parted in surprise.
“He was escaping at high speed in a stolen car. Lost control.”
E. T.’s hand moved to his chest, seemingly on its own, and Joe wondered if he might not be having a heart attack. He certainly looked ripe for one.
“You okay?” he asked. “You need anything?”
The old man glanced around the table, saw his water glass, and grabbed hold of it for several deep swallows.
Again Joe waited, nursing his coffee. Griffis finally put down the glass, hung his head, and sat there with his hands in his lap.
“Fuck off,” he said at last in a quiet, slightly tremulous voice. “Leave me alone.”
Joe stayed where he was, the blood pounding at his temples. “In a minute. I have one last thing to say to you. I also found out why Andy pleaded guilty to what I busted him for in the first place.”
E. T.’s head snapped up and he slapped both hands onto the edge of the table, as if prepared to tear it off its moorings and throw it.
Joe, just as fast, leaned forward so his face was inches from the other man’s. Behind him, he heard several voices questioning what was going on.
“You made a choice, E. T.,” Joe said, barely above a whisper. “Then you stuck me with the blame. I did my job—twice now, counting Nugent. Don’t tell me to fuck off, asshole, because all I’ve done is clean up your messes. Talk to Dan about this, like you should’ve in the first place, when you had the chance to save the right son.”
He slid out of the booth, dropped two dollars on the table for the coffee, and left E. T. staring at the empty seat across from him.
Joe was halfway to Chelsea, approaching it from Thetford this time, when his pager went off. It was Beverly Hillstrom’s number. He