Chapter LXVII
CHAPTER LXVII
From the road, the home of Zetta Nadeau’s parents didn’t look appreciably better or worse than any of its neighbors. It was a half Cape Cod with an off-center door and covered porch to the left, the whitewash needing freshening up and exposed wood showing through the blue trim. There was no junk in the yard and the tan Subaru Outback parked in front of the garage had four wheels, all its glass, and might have started without too much trouble on a warm day.
But viewed up close, the property struggled to hide signs of deeper neglect. The wood beneath the trim was rotten, and the paintwork left as it was out of fear of what stripping it back might reveal. The windows hadn’t been cleaned since before winter, if then, and the screens served as a storehouse for leaves, cobwebs, and the corpses of insects. The lawn was pockmarked with bare patches, and keeping it short disguised the fact that the greenery was as much weed as grass, while the Subaru was filthy, inside and out.
My cell phone rang. It was Carrie Saunders again. I picked up as I approached the Nadeaus’ front door.
“Carrie,” I said.
“Emmett Lucas is dead.”
“How?”
“He was murdered down in Loudoun County, Virginia, and he wasn’t the only one. There are four victims, all possibly—probably—linked, at least according to the reports. I have someone at the local VA trying to find out more.”
“Who were the others?”
“A local couple, the Swishers, and a man named Donnie Ray Dolfe who was embedded in the DMV narcotics trade.” The DMV referred to the District of Columbia, Maryland, and Virginia region. “Look, unlikely as it may seem, this could be unconnected to your investigation, but if it is connected—”
“I can use it to pressure Riggins,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Right now, he’s going to be scared, especially if he’s aware of what happened to Emmett Lucas. Convince him to contact Noah or me if he’s reluctant to talk to the police. We’ll do what we can to protect him. Parker, don’t hurt him.”
“I’ll try not to,” I said.
Famous last words.
I SMELLED OLD GARBAGE and dank kitchen grease as I rang the doorbell. The lid on one of the cans by the porch had been knocked off, possibly by an animal. I peered inside and saw an empty bottle of Fifty Stone single malt and fresh bags from Macy’s. Fifty Stone retailed for $50 before tax. I might have been wrong, but I’d always taken the Nadeaus for Caliber Premium Canadian folk: $14, give or take, for 1.75 liters of 80-proof prime hooch, the kind that left you with a hangover you could bequeath to your descendants without any noticeable diminution of its effects. If the Nadeaus were buying craft whiskeys from small Maine distillers, they were celebrating on someone else’s dime. I checked the Macy’s bags and emerged with a receipt for men’s and women’s clothing totaling just under $350.
“What are you doing there?”
Actually, what I heard was closer to “watcha dun dere?” because Ammon Nadeau was old Maine through and through. He was wearing what might have been some of the purchases from Macy’s: very blue jeans, box-fresh sneakers, and a new Red Sox hoodie that already had a stain on the front. His hair and beard were newly trimmed and he smelled of Old Spice. All told, Ammon looked fairly respectable as he peered at me from the doorway.
I let the receipt fall back into the garbage can.
“We’ve met before, Mr. Nadeau. My name is Parker. I’m a private investigator.”
“You investigating trash now?”
“Natural curiosity.”
“That’s private property. It’s not on the street, so you got no right to go poking in it.”
“I thought I might have seen a rat,” I said.
“All the more reason to keep your hands to yourself. What do you want?”
“I’ve been working for your daughter,” I said.
“Not anymore, was what I was told.”
“Have you heard from Zetta?”
“She’s my child. Why wouldn’t I?”
“My impression was that you and she were estranged.”
“Fences can be mended. Zetta’s a good girl.”
“You won’t get any argument from me.”
Ammon Nadeau had thrust his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and was rocking back and forth in his fresh sneakers.
“I asked you what you wanted,” he said.
“I’m looking for a man named Wyatt Riggins. I have reason to believe he may be spending time in these parts.”
“I don’t know the individual.”
“I’m surprised,” I said. “Seeing as he’s dating Zetta, and you and she have mended your fences, I thought she might have mentioned him.”
“Well, she hasn’t, so you can be about your business.”
“Riggins wouldn’t be living here with you, would he, Mr. Nadeau?”
Ammon tried hard to keep a poker face but couldn’t manage it.
“I told you: I don’t know the man.”
“Has he shared with you why he’s hiding?”
“He hasn’t told me—” Nadeau stumbled, recovered. “He hasn’t told me anything because I don’t know him. How can a man I don’t know take me into his confidence? Now, I’m telling you to get off my property. Don’t make me go find my pistol.”
I raised my hands in surrender.
“I don’t want to overstay my welcome,” I said. “But it’s a shame, that’s all.”
“What is?”
“That now I’m going to have to waste time hiring people to hang around up here, waiting for Wyatt Riggins to show his face, all because he’s put your daughter in danger by his actions—you and your wife too, I’d venture, seeing as how Riggins may be staying in the neighborhood. The people looking for him have probably already established his relationship with Zetta, so you’ll be next on their list. After all, if I can find my way up here, so can they, and they play a lot rougher than I do. With that in mind, you might also want to inform Wyatt that his buddy Emmett Lucas has been murdered. Tell him I’m sorry for his loss.”
I took out a business card and jammed it into a crack in the porch rail.
“When you’ve had time to reconsider,” I said, “give me a call. You may even be able to spot me in the distance, in which case just holler.”
A drape twitched at one of the windows. Through the gap, I saw Jerusha Nadeau scowling at me. I nodded politely. She raised a middle finger and mouthed, Fuck you . All things considered, it was a miracle that Zetta had turned out as well as she had, but there was much to be said for having something to rebel against, even if it was only ignorance.
I paused at the Subaru. The car was encrusted with dirt but not dusty, which meant it was usually garaged. Now it was sitting outside while the garage remained shuttered. Perhaps there was currently another vehicle inside, or even another person. I thought I’d stick close for a while, long enough to get one or both of the Fulcis up to Anson. That way, if Riggins was in the vicinity, he wouldn’t be able to leave without being seen. I could even try to find a way through the woods at the back of the Nadeau property and take a look in the garage.
The front door of the house was now closed. Ammon Nadeau was gone, and his wife had similarly vanished. Beyond the yard, all was silent. There was no sound of cars, no birdsong, nothing to distract me, so I should have heard the approach from behind. I should have, but I didn’t.
The first blow hit me across the shoulders, sending me to my knees. The second broke my nose, but not before I caught sight of a length of two-by-four heading for my face, with Wyatt Riggins’s features hovering fuzzily behind it like a bad moon. I glimpsed redness lit by white flares, as though I had flown too close to the sun. I tried to reach for my gun—the time for pepper spray and batons was already past—but Riggins was too quick. He stood on my hand while the block of wood took a sharp jab at my ruined nose. The red sun flared alarmingly.
“Quit looking for me,” said Riggins, “you hear? Quit this, period.”
I bowed my head and watched my blood pool on the grass, which meant I didn’t see the fourth blow coming. I felt it, though, felt it good.
Lights out.
Gone.