Archer Mayor - The surrogate thief

But running wasn't Ted Moore's only tactic. About halfway along, and urged on by the incongruous cheers of his distant coworkers, he paused, doubled over from the exertion, and picked up a three-foot length of rebar from the littered ground.

Joe didn't hesitate. Still coming on at full tilt, he pulled his snub-nosed revolver from his holster and took aim.

Moore dropped the metal rod and resumed running.

This time, however, knowing he was athletically outclassed, he veered toward the towering salt shed beside him, and a small exterior staircase angling toward a narrow access door at its apex-used during the winter to reach the top of the salt pile inside. Joe could see Moore's plan: If he got through that door and blocked it from the inside, Gunther would have to go around, allowing Moore ample time to reach his pickup and escape. Even if Joe didn't try following, he'd probably still be too late to make up for the shortcut.

Joe took the stairs two at a time, the ringing of his shoes against the metal steps matching Moore's high above him.

But not that much higher. Already flagging, Moore was clearly finding his uphill option a real challenge. Gasping for air, helping himself along with both hands on the railing, he was stumbling every few feet, reducing the gap between them.

By the time he reached the door, he didn't bother trying to block it behind him. He merely threw it open and disappeared from sight, Gunther barely ten feet below.

Inside, there was a small platform leading to a ladder that dropped into the salt pile like a straw into a milkshake. The drop would have been thirty feet had the shed been empty. Right now, in preparation for the coming winter, it was over half full.

Ted Moore staggered toward the ladder's top, swung around to face it, and tried to descend. Gunther took a more practical approach. He ran to the platform's edge and kicked Moore in the head, sending him sailing backward through the air to land with a thud ten feet below.

Gunther then climbed down the ladder at a leisurely pace to crouch by the other man's side.

Moore's arms and legs were moving slightly, as if he were keeping afloat in the water. His eyes were wide and fixed on Joe's.

"You almost killed me," he said in a whisper, the air knocked out of him.

Joe rolled him over, handcuffed him, and rolled him back. Moore's sweaty face was now caked with salty sand.

"And what were you going to do with that rebar, asshole?" he asked.

"I didn't know who you were."

"Bullshit. Why'd you run?"

"I thought you were the brother of some girl I knocked up."

Joe picked up a fistful of sand and dumped it onto Ted's face, blinding him and making him choke.

His hands bound, Moore thrashed around for half a minute, spitting and catching his breath. "What the fuck're you doing?" he complained.

Joe picked up another fistful and held it where Moore could see it. "Trying to have a conversation. Why'd you run?"

Moore was blinking furiously against the sting in his eyes. "You can't do this."

Gunther moved to open his hand.

"No, no. Okay. I'll tell you. I ripped off a store last night. I thought you were after me for that." He paused for a moment, his brains almost making noises as he realized his admission. "Weren't you?" he added plaintively.

Gunther smiled and sat back more comfortably, noticing that a couple of workmen had appeared far below, looking up the hill at them from around the edge of the open bay doors. He waved cheerfully and gestured to them to leave.

"I am now," he answered.

Moore closed his eyes tiredly. "Shit."

"Actually," Joe admitted, "I just wanted to ask you about Pete Shea."

The other man grimaced. "What the fuck do I know about Pete?"

"I don't know. Educate me."

Moore tried to look surprised, but the gesture let more dirt into his eyes. "Ah, shit. Come on. Let me sit up."

Gunther pulled him to a sitting position.

Ted hung his head and shook it violently a couple of times. "Jesus, that smarts."

"Talk to me about Pete," Joe said again.

Moore's voice was angry. "Pete, Pete… The son of a bitch isn't even around anymore. Hasn't been for months. What's the big deal?"

"Where'd he go?"

Ted looked up at him and slowly enunciated, "I do not know."

Joe pushed him flat onto his back again, swiveled around, and placed his forearm against the man's throat, making him gag.

This time, Joe was the one speaking slowly and clearly. "Cut the crap, Teddy, or you'll be grateful for a mouthful of salt."

"I don't know. Honest," Moore half croaked.

Joe pulled him up again roughly. "Why did he leave town?"

"He was spooked. Said you guys were after him. He said you were going to pin the storekeeper beating on him."

"Did he do it?"

"Like he'd tell me. Of course he said he didn't do it."

"What do you think?" Joe asked him.

"Me? I don't know. It wasn't Pete's style, but what's that worth? A guy gets juiced, somebody pisses him off, then suddenly it's not his style, but he does it anyhow. He was pretty cranked last I saw him."

"What're they saying on the street?"

Ted Moore shrugged. "They're saying he did it. But nobody knows squat. They say Paul McCartney's dead, too."

"Was Pete flashing around any cash before he took off?"

"Nah. He was just acting paranoid. I didn't know any money was involved. That wasn't in the papers."

Joe ignored him. "You were seen spending a lot right after the old man went down."

Moore looked innocent. "Me?"

Joe only had to reach for Moore's throat to make the man concede, "All right, all right. Jesus H. Christ. I had some money. Fine. It had nothing to do with that shit."

Joe looked into his face and believed what he heard. He reached around and opened the handcuffs. Moore massaged his wrists and then rubbed his face with both hands, brushing the sand away.

"You're not bustin' me?" he asked cautiously.

"You still have what you stole last night?"

"Yeah. It's at home."

Joe tilted his head slightly. "Then, no-not if you hand it over. We'll do it now." He stood up and yanked Moore to his feet, not admitting that since he'd cuffed him and had him confess without Mirandizing him, there wasn't a bust to speak of.

"Is there anyone else in town Pete might've confided in?" Joe asked as they sidestepped down the slope.

"Not Pete. Kept to himself, pretty much."

"No girlfriend?"

The other man looked surprised. "Hey, there's always a girlfriend-Katie Clark, if you're interested. They even lived together, but that'll be a dead end, too."

"Why do you say that?"

"Chemistry. Pete's been gone for months, and Katie started hanging with somebody else a week later-no love lost, if you ask me. If he'd contacted her or anyone else, I would've heard. This crowd isn't big on keeping secrets."

He paused and eyed Gunther as if struck by something wholly original. "That's a first, you know? I mean, sooner or later, you always hear about where a guy ends up, even if it's dead. But not Pete. Not so far."

Joe Gunther was thinking back to that unorthodox salt pile interview when he entered the VBI office, his brain still working on how to link two events separated by three decades.

"Deep in thought?" came a voice. "Better not strain yourself."

Joe glanced over to the one desk in the room that was wedged into a corner. That quasi-defensive positioning combined with the mess spilling over the desk's surface made its occupant look as if he were hunkered behind sandbags. Psychologically speaking, the image fit perfectly.

"Hey, Willy," Joe said distractedly, walking over to his own desk.

Willy Kunkle was the squad's odd man. Though he had been crippled by a sniper bullet years ago and saddled with a dangling left arm, Willy's sour and biting personality predated any such cause-and-effect explanation. Despite the injury, the post-traumatic stress disorder following his stint in Vietnam, his tortuous recovery from alcoholism, and one wildly failed marriage, Willy-as he was the first to admit-was a self-made man.