in her chair. "Nothing happened between them, by the way. He was just there when she opened the door. He probably did a lick-his-eyebrows number to impress her with what a ladies' man he is, which I think freaked her out a little, but other than that, nothing."
Joe had no trouble imagining what aspect of the encounter had freaked her out. If Gail hadn't suffered a flashback meeting such a guy in such a setting, she couldn't have been considered normal.
"Was she okay?" he asked.
"Yeah. A little distraught. No surprise. I never did get what she was doing there. I'd say collecting some personal effects if I didn't know the girl was in a coma."
"I don't think that matters," Joe said. "Gail tries to think the best of things. She'd want Laurie to have something of her own near her bed. You know if she went home? I ought to call her."
"No clue," Sam answered. "I did ask them downstairs to pick the guy up on an illegal entry charge if they could, though. I thought you might like a chat."
Joe swung off his perch and reached for the phone. "Thanks." He dialed Gail's number, reached the answering machine, and said, "Hi. I just heard what happened at Laurie's from Sam. Hope you're okay. Give me a call when you get this."
He hung up the receiver and glanced at Sam, who was still watching him. "Did she say what Novelle was doing?"
Sam shook her head, admitting, "It wasn't a super-straightforward conversation. Like I said, she was a little out of it. She didn't mention anything, though, so I guessed maybe he was just there."
"Probably retrieving some goods for resale," Joe mused. He checked his watch. "The others are about to arrive, but I wanted to ask you something first. When you were undercover at Tucker Peak last winter, chasing that drug dealer, did you ever pick up on any Holyoke connections?"
She turned to her computer and began punching keys as she spoke. "Yeah. I don't remember names since that's not where we ended up, but I did have a conversation where . . ." She paused to concentrate. "I wrote it down just in case . . . Here we go. Miguel Torres. I was told he was the go-to man if I wanted primo stuff."
"Coke or heroin?"
"Everything, from what it sounded like."
"Is your source still available?"
"The guy who told me about Torres? I guess so." She switched to another program and ran a check. He watched her wandering through the machine's brain with casual expertise, amazed at how easy she made it look. She finally sat back. "He's not dead or in jail, so I suppose he's still operating."
"What's his name?"
"Bill Dancer. He was very hot to get me in the sack. Funny how the attraction wasn't mutual." She smiled crookedly. "God knows why not, though, given my luck. Why all the questions?"
"The governor . . . ," Gunther began, but was interrupted by Lester Spinney entering the office. Spinney was routinely so cheerful, his glum expression caused them both to stare at him.
"You all right?" Gunther asked. "You look a little down."
Spinney tiredly dropped the book bag he favored over a briefcase onto his desk and slumped into his chair. "White River was a pain in the ass."
"It go okay, though? It was just a deposition, right?"
Lester waved his hand dismissively, regretting he hadn't better disguised his feelings. "Right. No problem. Guess it's just that time of the month."
Sam threw a pencil at him.
"Sexual harassment," came a voice from the door. "Call a lawyer."
Willy Kunkle crossed to his desk, squeezed between it and the wall, and wedged himself into his chair, looking, as Gail had noted earlier, ready to hold off hostile headhunters. His useless left arm, its hand as usual tucked into his pants pocket so it wouldn't flop around, seemed uncomfortably pinched between his body and the arm of the chair, but Willy didn't notice or care. The result of a sniper bullet years earlier, the incapacitated arm was more an extension of his attitude than a part of his body—and was routinely used by its owner to throw people
Joe had no trouble imagining what aspect of the encounter had freaked her out. If Gail hadn't suffered a flashback meeting such a guy in such a setting, she couldn't have been considered normal.
"Was she okay?" he asked.
"Yeah. A little distraught. No surprise. I never did get what she was doing there. I'd say collecting some personal effects if I didn't know the girl was in a coma."
"I don't think that matters," Joe said. "Gail tries to think the best of things. She'd want Laurie to have something of her own near her bed. You know if she went home? I ought to call her."
"No clue," Sam answered. "I did ask them downstairs to pick the guy up on an illegal entry charge if they could, though. I thought you might like a chat."
Joe swung off his perch and reached for the phone. "Thanks." He dialed Gail's number, reached the answering machine, and said, "Hi. I just heard what happened at Laurie's from Sam. Hope you're okay. Give me a call when you get this."
He hung up the receiver and glanced at Sam, who was still watching him. "Did she say what Novelle was doing?"
Sam shook her head, admitting, "It wasn't a super-straightforward conversation. Like I said, she was a little out of it. She didn't mention anything, though, so I guessed maybe he was just there."
"Probably retrieving some goods for resale," Joe mused. He checked his watch. "The others are about to arrive, but I wanted to ask you something first. When you were undercover at Tucker Peak last winter, chasing that drug dealer, did you ever pick up on any Holyoke connections?"
She turned to her computer and began punching keys as she spoke. "Yeah. I don't remember names since that's not where we ended up, but I did have a conversation where . . ." She paused to concentrate. "I wrote it down just in case . . . Here we go. Miguel Torres. I was told he was the go-to man if I wanted primo stuff."
"Coke or heroin?"
"Everything, from what it sounded like."
"Is your source still available?"
"The guy who told me about Torres? I guess so." She switched to another program and ran a check. He watched her wandering through the machine's brain with casual expertise, amazed at how easy she made it look. She finally sat back. "He's not dead or in jail, so I suppose he's still operating."
"What's his name?"
"Bill Dancer. He was very hot to get me in the sack. Funny how the attraction wasn't mutual." She smiled crookedly. "God knows why not, though, given my luck. Why all the questions?"
"The governor . . . ," Gunther began, but was interrupted by Lester Spinney entering the office. Spinney was routinely so cheerful, his glum expression caused them both to stare at him.
"You all right?" Gunther asked. "You look a little down."
Spinney tiredly dropped the book bag he favored over a briefcase onto his desk and slumped into his chair. "White River was a pain in the ass."
"It go okay, though? It was just a deposition, right?"
Lester waved his hand dismissively, regretting he hadn't better disguised his feelings. "Right. No problem. Guess it's just that time of the month."
Sam threw a pencil at him.
"Sexual harassment," came a voice from the door. "Call a lawyer."
Willy Kunkle crossed to his desk, squeezed between it and the wall, and wedged himself into his chair, looking, as Gail had noted earlier, ready to hold off hostile headhunters. His useless left arm, its hand as usual tucked into his pants pocket so it wouldn't flop around, seemed uncomfortably pinched between his body and the arm of the chair, but Willy didn't notice or care. The result of a sniper bullet years earlier, the incapacitated arm was more an extension of his attitude than a part of his body—and was routinely used by its owner to throw people
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