The Second Mouse - Archer Mayor [5]
Joe raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”
The other man shrugged. “Purely in the interests of efficiency. If this case goes to you guys, you’ll do it anyway. She’s just down the road. Save you a step later; won’t cost you anything now. Win-win either way.”
Joe stared at him, the rationale being so unlikely, even from a team player like Matthews. Doug eventually caved in and allowed an embarrassed smile. “All right, so word’s out you and your girlfriend split up. Rubinstein’s single and good-looking. You can shoot me now.”
Joe couldn’t not laugh, although there was little humor in him about the truth of all that. He had been linked to a woman named Gail Zigman for almost twenty years, and the relationship had ended, at least romantically, just lately. The laughter was real enough, though, because while he’d been on the receiving end of the bad news—Gail had been the one to call it off—that it was such common knowledge was pure Vermont. It reminded him of what a wizened uncle had once said about the whole place being the only family with its own state flag.
“All right,” he said appeasingly. “I’ll talk to her. You going to handle Newell?”
“Unless you object.”
“This is your gig, Doug. I wouldn’t have minded if you’d asked me to leave as soon as I walked in this morning.”
“Never crossed my mind,” Doug said candidly. “Okay, I’ll take Newell; you take the neighbor. I’ll give you the mom’s contact information, too, in case you want to follow up with her. And that’ll be that till Doc Hillstrom kicks in with her autopsy.”
Both men rose to their feet. Matthews scribbled down what he had on the women and handed it over to Gunther.
“By the way,” Joe asked, pocketing the slip of the paper, “where’s Newell hang his hat?”
“Bennington.”
Chapter 2
Nancy Martin ducked out of sight as the oncoming car’s headlights swept across the windshield. She even cupped the cigarette in her hand, although she knew that the driver wouldn’t see its red glow as he drove by. He was probably too plastered anyhow, she thought sourly. This time of night, only cops and drunks were traveling Bennington’s streets.
And people like us.
“God almighty,” she murmured, her nerves jumping. “What the hell’m I doing here?” She paused, leaned forward over the steering wheel, craning to see any sign of life in or near the gloomy hulk of a building outside. “And what the hell’s taking them so long?”
Inside, Ellis Robbinson was wondering the same thing. Sweating in total darkness, brushed by cobwebs and smeared with dirt, he was breathing through his mouth, praying he wouldn’t be heard by the watchman standing just on the other side of the utility alcove’s thin panel door.
Footsteps shuffled a few yards down the corridor, and Ellis heard the distinct snap of a cigarette lighter flaring to life. That was something he could do with right now—a cigarette would ease things a lot, if only temporarily. The pseudo door, a sheet of luan hinged in place by layers of duct tape, allowed the seductive aroma of burning tobacco to drift in.
The large, sweat-drenched man jammed tight against Ellis shifted slightly, as if he, too, were responding to the smoke. The sole of one of his shoes scraped on the floor ever so slightly.
Ellis froze, straining for a reaction from beyond their stuffy, unexpected, providential hiding place. God damn Mel. He felt like slamming him in the ribs, just to make the point. Except that even Ellis, so prone to careless impulse, knew that now would not be the time.
Still, Mel was why Ellis was stuck here, scared and pouring sweat, hiding in the middle of the night on the top floor of a National Guard armory. The one place in town, except maybe a bank or the frigging police department, where getting caught would put you in the worst hurt of a lifetime. And for what? Stealing something Mel had hidden years ago as a janitor and which he refused to identify, claiming that it would be one of their best “tricks” ever. Ellis already knew the surprise revelation wouldn’t justify