Chapter 73
The morning after I followed Teal to Pittsfield, I met with Moxie Castin and Allen Atwood Alcock at Moxie’s office.
But first, Alcock and I were forced to wait in the reception area while Moxie dealt with State Representative Ricky “Goody” Carmichael, whose Ecuadoran gardener had been picked up in Saco by immigration officials, after which the gardener vanished into the system.
Ironically, Goody Carmichael was one of those advocating for greater collaboration between Immigration and Customs Enforcement and local police departments in Maine, even though businesses across the state, including home care and farming, relied on ten thousand seasonal and temporary immigrant workers simply to function.
ICE arrests in Maine had already soared fifty percent in a year, sweeping up legal and illegal laborers alike, and the state was hurting.
It was all about creating a climate of fear, regardless of the damage to families, towns, and the local economy.
“So who did Carmichael think they were going to come after when he started cheerleading for immigration raids?” I asked Moxie, once the representative had left the building.
“Where does that leave Carmichael?”
“I think the term is ‘on the horns of a dilemma,’” said Moxie, “not to mention doing his own yard work. Goody’s paying my fees, but I’m salving my conscience by telling myself I’m working for the gardener, not him, and I’ll charge Goody a premium for being the agent of his gardener’s misfortune.”
Moxie was dressed for a felony court appearance later in the day, which meant he was wearing a tie that was less of a cry for help than usual, and had left his jacket in a closet so it wouldn’t look like he’d slept rough in it.
Alcock, meanwhile, was even more hangdog than ever.
I wondered if his manner was partly contrived, an effort to garner leniency from judges and juries by evoking pity for clients afflicted with such counsel.
Over coffee and bacon cheddar donuts from the Holy Donut on Commercial, I updated them both on my progress. When I was done, Alcock said: “I think we may have differing concepts of what ‘progress’ entails.”
“If it helps,” I replied, “I don’t eat much, so the subsistence payments will be low.”
“He works how he works,” Moxie informed Alcock. “You’re always free to go elsewhere.”
I coughed politely to remind them of my presence. Moxie was my lawyer, and often my client, but not my spokesman. Alcock backed down, partly if not wholly.
“I’m grateful to Mr Parker for taking on the inquiry,” he said. “I’m just curious as to why he hasn’t yet visited Spero. I would have thought that might be among his first ports of call.”
“I wanted to find out as much as I could about the school before going up there,” I said. “Then I got sidetracked.”
“By Roger Teal,” said Alcock.
“And Edward Kenney.”
“You have no proof that their meeting was precipitated by your visit to the Department of Education.”
“No,” I admitted, “but the odds favor it. What I do involves following trails that turn out to be dead ends, or picking at leads that come apart in my hands, but it’s never a wasted effort because I’m narrowing the focus with every step.
In addition, there’s no ticking clock here.
Without wishing to sound callous, Scott Theriault’s problems are over, and easing his father’s conscience may be beyond my powers.
I’m still not convinced Scott’s death was anything other than accidental, but neither am I convinced that Spero is beyond reproach. ”
“If Scott was killed by someone connected to Spero,” said Moxie, “it’s not because he spotted anomalies in the accounts.”
“People who are financially suspect are also, by extension, morally so,” I said.
“Look, Teal acknowledged that he planned to contact Santopietro to tell him I’d been asking about the school.
Shortly after I left him, Teal used a pay phone to make a call, and an hour later he was sitting in a storage lot in Pittsfield waiting for Edward Kenney to arrive. ”
“Why a pay phone?” Alcock asked. “Why not a burner, or the phone in his office? I mean, who’s going to check those records?”
“Even burners leave a trace, like where they were purchased, and where and when they were subsequently used. As for an office extension, it isn’t private, so you never know who might be listening, and as you pointed out, there may be a record of its use.
Teal is either very careful or very paranoid, and any distinction between them is purely a matter of perspective.
What isn’t in dispute is that Teal has something to hide, and not just a fetish for pay phones.
He contacted Edward Kenney immediately after I asked about Spero, which means that whatever he’s concealing involves both Spero and Kenney.
And if Spero is involved, so too is Santopietro, because he runs Spero, which in turn yokes him to Kenney. ”
“Maybe Kenney also snatches kids for Spero,” said Moxie.
“I might ask Santopietro about that,” I said. “By the way, did you know Santopietro had been at élan when you asked me to get involved?”
“He doesn’t hide it.”
“You might have told me.”
“I didn’t want you making judgments about him based on it. It’s not as if you don’t have enough judgments to be getting along with.”
The next time I billed Moxie for work, I’d be upping my rates.
“And Mallory Norton?” asked Alcock.
“It’s Ward Vose who reckons she could have been the girl his son was seeing,” I said, “but the police have flown that kite with no result. I can’t see where her disappearance fits, other than as part of a pattern of Kennebec Valley oddness.”
“So where does that leave us?” Moxie asked.
“I’ll drive up to The Plains tomorrow or the next day, and base myself in Bingham or Madison.” I gave Alcock a meaningful look. “It’ll involve a motel bill, but I’ll try to keep room service to a minimum.”
“As long as you provide receipts,” said Alcock, “and restrict yourself to two drinks.”
Which concluded our meeting. Alcock headed off to make somewhere else look drab, while Moxie ran a couple of jobs by me, both of which could wait a week or so. He then folded his hands over his enviable belly and said, “What is it?”
“What’s what?”
“Whatever’s bothering you.”
I could have shrugged it off and told him it was nothing, but he’d only have worried.
For all his bluster, Moxie maintained a sensitivity and solicitude toward others.
It made him a better lawyer, but also helped explain why a long line of ex-wives and former girlfriends retained affection for him.
You might not have wanted to be married to Moxie for long, or even at all, but you still wanted him in your life.
“A conversation with Angel,” I told him, “on the day I visited Ward Vose. It’s hard to explain the substance of it.”
“Try.”
“I may have buried memories. They’re starting to resurface.”
“What kind of memories? Childhood?”
“No,” I said. “Other lives.”
Moxie’s expression did not alter, but neither did he speak.
“Is this the point where you tell me you’re going to have to hire another investigator?” I asked.
Moxie checked his watch, removed his jacket from the closet, and put it on. Immediately, wrinkles appeared in the material, like magic.
“That explains a lot,” he said, and his eyes were sad and serious. “Who else have you told about this?”
“No one.”
“Keep it that way.”
“Because they’ll think I’m crazy?”
“No,” said Moxie. “Because some of them may think you’re not.”