Archer Mayor - Gatekeeper

"Meaning you don't trust me?"

He laughed. "Don't trust you? I'm sending you the goods, no? I'm paying you a bunch of money. Of course I trust you. But I'm not stupid, either. You have a business plan-very big, very impressive. But you're not the only one with brains. I think things are just great the way they are."

She frowned at him. "Torres is still moving product up there."

Rivera shrugged. "He's not the only one. I didn't put him out of business all the way. You have to be careful with a man's pride-something you wouldn't understand. Guys like him should be allowed to work a little. Otherwise they get mad, try to get even, and now you got a fight instead of dollars coming in. Dumb idea."

"Why did Hollowell get killed, then?"

"Why does anybody? You know who did that? I don't. People are saying Torres, but I don't see it that way. That's narrow thinking. Doesn't do any good. Till I'm told otherwise, he got killed 'cause he pissed somebody off. That's all."

"So, you're not going to give me those names? You're going to force me to duplicate our efforts, waste time and money, risk exposure to the cops, and maybe let the wrong people get in behind us, all because you claim you have brains? Get out and smell the roses, Johnny. When was the last time you left this building? You're like a rat in a steel box in here. You have no clue what's going on."

His face darkened during this outburst, and his eyes hardened. "Careful, girlie," he said threateningly, accentuating the second word. "You work for me. That means I do this"-he snapped his fingers-"and you're dead. That's all you need to know till I decide to tell you more."

He stood up, all pretense of pleasantry gone. "Now, you can get the hell back to Vermont and do your job, or I can hand you over to the men outside this door. They're not too crazy about you, after what you did to Flaco. They wouldn't mind paying you back their own way."

She rose also, but kept her voice contrite, realizing she'd overplayed her hand. "Johnny, I'm sorry. I really am. I know you're the boss. I've been waiting for this for so long, I get carried away sometimes. It's like I can almost grab it-everything we've talked about-and it sort of takes me over. I'm sorry I said those things. I didn't mean any disrespect."

He looked at her in silence, clearly pondering his choices. She could tell the temptation was great to feed her to the wolves, either from wounded pride or from just the pleasure of being able to do so. But for some reason-and it finally dawned on her possibly why-he demurred.

He put his hand on the doorknob and said, "Go back. You'll get everything you want, but in time. Leave the thinking to me."

She had nothing more to gain here. In fact, she was pretty sure she'd been wasting her time from the day she'd met him, which weighed more heavily on her now than any threat he could have made. For, aside from her own ambition, her loyalty was to Joe, and at that moment, she was feeling she'd completely let him down.

"You got it, Johnny," she said tiredly and then added with more sincerity than he could have possibly known, "I just got carried away-makes me stupid sometimes."

* * *

Detective Sergeant Heather Hall paused on the threshold and looked at the older man staring down at the conference table before him, its surface covered from one end to the other with crime scene photos and sketches, case reports, forensics documents, and autopsy results. He had his hands in his pockets, his chin tucked in, and for all the world looked like he'd fallen fast asleep on his feet.

This was the famous Joe Gunther, she thought. All in all, a pretty forgettable figure, really. Nothing particularly outstanding about him, except maybe his eyes, which could shift from fatherly to intense in a flash. But he didn't seem all that brilliant, had nothing about him that attracted attention, wasn't charismatic the way some of her peers were, who could enter a room and make everyone take notice.

She liked him, though. He was quiet and kind and thoughtful. He'd asked her for her opinions with genuine interest. He was a really nice guy.

Which meant something to her. Squarely built, with short hair and blunt features, Heather Hall had been a beat cop for seven years before anyone had paid her the slightest attention, and then it was only because another female officer had filed suit against the town for gender discrimination. That case was still tangled up in the legal system-had been for two years-but in the meantime, Heather had found herself quickly courted and then promoted to the Rutland detective squad, the so-called BCI.

She wasn't ungrateful. She liked the new job, not to mention wearing nice clothes and not having to lug around a heavy belt loaded with gear. But it had also made her suspicious of what might come next. She'd started this job thinking she'd advance on her own merits. Now she had no clue.

"Any luck?" she asked, placing a coffee cup on the table before him.

He looked up at her and smiled. "Thanks. I appreciate it." He picked up the coffee and sipped from it thoughtfully, surveying the field of paperwork once more.

"Amazing things, these cases," he said eventually. "They start out so simply-a man and a woman found dead-but the more you dig, the harder they get to figure out. You know darn well no genius killed them-that it was probably a cause-and-effect kind of scenario. But there are so many variables to the one correct answer. It's like finding a needle in a haystack, just like they say." He pretended to hold a needle up between his thumb and index finger. "When you get there, you can only shrug and say, 'Jeez, it's just a needle.'" He paused and dropped his hand. "Fascinating process."

She nodded, figuring it was better to just let him ramble. "So I'm guessing no needle yet."

He laughed. "Right." He leaned forward and extracted a single photograph from a stack of autopsy shots. "There is this, though."

She moved closer to peer at it. It was a picture of James Hollowell's left hand. Along the back of it, crossing the knuckles and smearing the web of skin at the base of his thumb, was a dark smudge-like an oily stain.

"Not the cleanest guy I ever saw," she commented. "His motel room smelled like a sewer. And look at his fingernails. Gross. God only knows what's under them."

Gunther smiled. "If God doesn't, I know who might." He pointed at the phone. "How do I get an outside line?"

* * *

Chief Medical Examiner Beverly Hillstrom picked up the phone. It hadn't been a great day so far, and she suspected no great news from this. "Dr. Hillstrom."

"Doctor, it's Joe Gunther."

She was wrong. Few people in the world made her feel better just by being there, and Joe Gunther was one of them. It hadn't always been thus, not surprisingly given her general view of the world-which also explained the way she routinely approached newcomers. Gunther had entered her autopsy room years ago, uninvited and unannounced, and had asked her to dig deeper into a case she'd already processed. That had not been an auspicious beginning. Except that he'd been right, as he had been several times since. The man was a digger, more given to hard work than to flashes of inspiration, although she didn't doubt he had those, too. But he didn't rely on them, and didn't show off in any case. All of which made him someone she could like.

Not that she'd relaxed her professional standards as a result. Beverly Hillstrom came from the old school, where respect was earned, but courtesy was a given. Despite her admiration for the man and his doggedness, she brooked no diminution of her own rules of engagement. She forever referred to Gunther by his title, and expected no less of him. These were ground rules she proffered to everyone, excepting her family and personal friends. And it didn't hurt her kind feelings toward him that he'd instinctively understood that from the start, without the instructions she gave to virtually everyone else. And which, quite unfairly, had given her a reputation among law enforcement as an ice queen.