Thomas Cook - Instruments of Night

It was exactly 8:30 when they arrived at a rambling, badly run-down farmhouse that rested at the end of an unpaved road. A circular fish pond swept out from behind it. A teenage boy drifted idly in a small boat at its far end. There was a dilapidated barn to the right, along with a corral. Two horses stood just behind the fence. Their heads bobbed slowly in the warm morning air as they munched hay from a long wooden trough.

A screen door snapped loudly as Graves got out of the Mazda. He flinched, then glanced toward the farmhouse. A man had emerged and was now ambling toward them, one hand tightly gripping an aluminum cane.

“Mr. Brinker?” Eleanor called. She began to walk toward him.

“That’s me,” the old man said. He wore baggy pants and a short-sleeved shirt. Despite the cane, he seemed quite agile. “You must be Miss Stern,” he said.

“Yes, I am. And this is Paul Graves, the writer I told you about.”

“It’s good to have a little company,” Brinker told them cheerfully. “I don’t get many visitors anymore. Not living way out here in the sticks.” He lifted his cane and pointed to the pond. “Just my grandson, and he doesn’t know enough about anything to keep a conversation going.” He shook his head despairingly. “I don’t know what they teach kids in school anymore. That kid knows nothing. Absolutely nothing. Couldn’t tell you who Alexander Hamilton was. Doesn’t know a thing about the Civil War. The past is just some vague idea in his mind. There once were other people. They did stuff. That’s all that boy knows.” He scowled, then seemed to grasp that he’d gotten off track. “We’ll sit outside,” he decided. “The house gets a little musty.”

They took their seats on the front porch. Graves and Eleanor sat in ragged wicker chairs, Brinker in an unpainted wooden swing whose rusty chain creaked as he propelled himself backward, pushing against the floor with the heels of a pair of worn brown shoes.

“I’m surprised anybody’s going back over that old murder case,” Brinker began. He was nearly bald, with only wisps of white hair. They trembled delicately with each breeze, then settled down again. But it was his eyes Graves noticed. They were warm and trustworthy, yet unmistakably penetrating as well, the sort that burned through lies with a steady heat.

“I’d just been elected mayor of Britanny Falls when I met with Mr. Davies,” the old man went on. “Inexperienced in politics, that’s for sure.”

“Was Warren Davies one of your supporters?” Eleanor asked, wasting no time, Graves noticed, in getting to the matter at hand.

Brinker waved his hand. “I didn’t need Warren Davies’ support. I was already elected. It was Mr. Davies who needed a favor from me. That’s what the meeting was about.” He sat back and folded his arms over his chest. “There was some town land that bordered Riverwood, you see. And Mr. Davies wanted to buy it.” He smiled. “It was one of those moments, you know, when you take one route or another, and that makes all the difference.”

“What do you mean?” Eleanor asked.

“I mean you stay honest, or you don’t,” Brinker replied. “Mr. Davies wanted me to take this little piece of town property and auction it off. To private bidders, I mean. Of course, there’s no doubt who would have bid the highest. Nobody around here could compete with Warren Davies on that score.” Brinker chuckled. “Of course, Mr. Davies didn’t get to the point right away. He primed the pump a little first. Started with a few compliments about how lucky Britanny Falls was to have me. Stuff like that. Flattery. Then we talked about the war a little. Where I’d been. What I’d done.” He grabbed the swing’s rusty chain. “But none of that really interested him. He wanted that land. That’s what he’d come to talk to me about. People had been using it as a kind of parking area because it was near the river. Mr. Davies said it ruined Riverwood. Made it too accessible. He didn’t like the public getting that near his property. So he wanted the town to put it up for sale.”

“Are you talking about the parking area at the base of Mohonk Ridge?” Graves asked.

“That’s right.” Brinker nodded. “If he could get hold of that land, he could close it to the public. That’s what he intended to do. He said people parked there and wandered around in the woods. His woods, that is. Riverwood. He wanted to put a stop to that. He said he’d make it worth my while if I arranged for the land to go up for sale. A bribe, flat out. Of course, no particular amount came up, but we both knew what was being discussed.” Brinker’s eyes grew steely, as if he were once again facing the man he’d refused that day. “Well, let me tell you, Warren Davies had a way of looking at a person. Intimidating. I’m sure he could scare most people into doing whatever he wanted.” He lifted his head proudly. “But me, I’d just gotten back from four years fighting the Japs. Mr. Davies didn’t scare me. So I just stood up and said, ‘Good day, sir,’ and I left.”

To Graves’ surprise, Eleanor asked nothing about the bribe, but went on to another issue entirely. “What time did you leave Mr. Davies?”

“It couldn’t have been more than half an hour after we got to the restaurant.”

“Did Mr. Davies leave the restaurant at the same time?”

Brinker shook his head. “As a matter of fact, I think he’d already planned to have another meeting that afternoon. Because the minute I left, he motioned to this other fellow. A guy who’d been sitting at the bar.”

“Did you recognize this other man?”

“Sure, I did,” Brinker answered. “I hadn’t been mayor very long, but I knew enough to recognize the local law.”

“Local law?” Graves asked. “You mean Sheriff Gerard?”

Brinker looked as if such a possibility struck him as mildly comical. “No, not Gerard. He was sheriff, all right, but when push came to shove, he didn’t really have a lot of say about what went on in Britanny Falls. It was the State Police you went to if you needed something done. They had the right connections. All the way to Albany. And this other guy, the one who was sitting in the bar and who went over to Davies when I left, he was with the State Police. The head honcho for this area. In charge of all the big cases. The Class A felonies, I mean. Rape. Murder.”

“Dennis Portman?”

“That’s right,” Brinker said. “Portman. Big as life. Sitting at the bar. Sort of hunched over it. Wearing that ratty old rainslick. Hat too. Pulled way down, the way he wore it.”

Graves instantly envisioned the scene, Portman curled massively over the wooden bar, neon lights reflected blearily on the rumpled surface of his rainslick.

“He was waiting for me to leave, I guess,” Brinker continued, remembering. “Anyway, the minute I got to the door, Portman walked over to where Mr. Davies was sitting. He took off his hat and shook Mr. Davies’ hand. Mr. Davies was still there when I left my office later that afternoon. So was Portman. Sitting right where he’d been before, in that same booth at the front of the restaurant. It surprised me. A meeting that long. That’s before I found out that Portman worked for Mr. Davies.”

Eleanor gave no hint of what Edward Davies had told her about his father’s relationship with Portman. “What kind of work did he do for Mr. Davies?” she asked.

“Background checks,” Brinker answered. “Mr. Davies was always concerned about security. Before he hired somebody to work for him, he liked to find out as much as he could about them. That’s what Portman did. He had access to all the records of the New York State Police. He could find out what a person had been up to. He reported stuff like that to Mr. Davies. It was just a way of making a few extra bucks. You see, Portman’s wife was sick for a long time before she died. The bills must have been pretty high. I figure doing a few jobs for Mr. Davies was just Portman’s way of making ends meet.” He sighed, then shrugged. “In those days nobody would have thought that much about it. It was just a little police moonlighting. The way cops hire out to direct traffic at a church or a private party nowadays. Nothing wrong with it. It didn’t mean the guy was on the take.”