computer tell you anything?”
“Yeah. Redding’s been slapped for possession twice—both times marijuana; both times minimal amounts. They were party busts—not residential. I think we can assume the guy likes his dope.”
We stepped out into the frigid night air, hearing the snow squeak under our feet—as good a sign as any thermometer of sub-zero-degree weather. The sounds of the surrounding town were as sharp as the icicles hanging from the branches, which clicked softly against one another in the barely perceptible breeze.
Access to the third-floor apartment was by an exterior, walled-in staircase, carpeted and warmed by the building to which it was attached. We both stepped quietly, inbred instinct dictating wariness. Also, given Linda Feinstein’s admission, I was not inclined to give any advance warning to a man I already disliked. As much as she’d down-played her story, I knew Redding must have scared the hell out of her. There wasn’t much legally I could do about that, but I was perfectly willing to make him sweat.
Guitar music filtered through the top apartment’s door, obviously from a recording. We positioned ourselves to either side of the landing as I knocked.
The music was turned down, and moments later the door opened to reveal a thin young man with long hair and a wispy beard, a joint dangling from his lips. The rich, pungent odor of marijuana wafted out from behind him, embracing us all. “Patty Redding?” I asked.
“Yeah. Who’s asking?”
Unable to resist, Ron and I reached into our pockets and showed him our badges, like synchronized G-men. “Brattleboro Police.”
He stared at us in stunned wonderment, his eyes moving from one to the other. “Does this mean I’m fucked?”
Ron slowly reached out and removed the joint from between Redding’s lips, knocking its hot tip off against the door frame and crushing the tiny ember underfoot.
“Could be,” I answered. “May we come in?”
I motioned him to precede us into the apartment’s hallway. “You alone at the moment?”
“Yeah. Frank’s visiting his girlfriend.”
“That’s Francis Bertin?” Ron asked, “the legal tenant of this apartment?”
Redding’s response came warily. “Yeah.”
“And you are his guest?”
“Yeah.” He’d reached the end of a short hallway leading into a comfortable, pleasantly appointed living room.
“In fact,” I added, “you’re sort of a professional guest, aren’t you?”
An irrepressible arrogance surfaced in his voice. “So what?”
I crowded him, standing almost nose-to-nose, and pointed to a chair with its back against the wall. “Sit.”
He sat.
Without stepping back, I looked down at him. “You understand the position you’re in right now, don’t you?”
He was craning his neck to look up at me, his Adam’s apple shifting as he swallowed. “I guess.”
“Then you should also understand that feeding us an attitude might not be the smartest thing to do, right?”
“Yeah—okay. Sorry.”
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Redding?” Ron asked from one side.
“I’m a musician. Could I have a cigarette?”
“No. Is that a living?”
“It’s what I do, all right?”
“Patty,” I cautioned quietly, stretching out his name.
“Okay, okay. It doesn’t pay all the bills.”
“How long have you lived in Brattleboro?” Ron resumed.
I could tell Patty’s neck was getting tired, but he didn’t want to look straight ahead at my groin. “Five years. I come from Hartford, Connecticut.”
“Where were you living last May?” I asked, the emphasis on the month.
“May? I think… I guess I was staying with Robbie Messier.”
“And spending time with Shawna Davis?”
Genuinely startled, he tried to stand up. By simply refusing to retreat, I forced him back into the chair. “That bitch.”
My first thought was that drugs formed the link between them, as they probably did between Patty and most of his “friends.” J.P. had told me the lab
“Yeah. Redding’s been slapped for possession twice—both times marijuana; both times minimal amounts. They were party busts—not residential. I think we can assume the guy likes his dope.”
We stepped out into the frigid night air, hearing the snow squeak under our feet—as good a sign as any thermometer of sub-zero-degree weather. The sounds of the surrounding town were as sharp as the icicles hanging from the branches, which clicked softly against one another in the barely perceptible breeze.
Access to the third-floor apartment was by an exterior, walled-in staircase, carpeted and warmed by the building to which it was attached. We both stepped quietly, inbred instinct dictating wariness. Also, given Linda Feinstein’s admission, I was not inclined to give any advance warning to a man I already disliked. As much as she’d down-played her story, I knew Redding must have scared the hell out of her. There wasn’t much legally I could do about that, but I was perfectly willing to make him sweat.
Guitar music filtered through the top apartment’s door, obviously from a recording. We positioned ourselves to either side of the landing as I knocked.
The music was turned down, and moments later the door opened to reveal a thin young man with long hair and a wispy beard, a joint dangling from his lips. The rich, pungent odor of marijuana wafted out from behind him, embracing us all. “Patty Redding?” I asked.
“Yeah. Who’s asking?”
Unable to resist, Ron and I reached into our pockets and showed him our badges, like synchronized G-men. “Brattleboro Police.”
He stared at us in stunned wonderment, his eyes moving from one to the other. “Does this mean I’m fucked?”
Ron slowly reached out and removed the joint from between Redding’s lips, knocking its hot tip off against the door frame and crushing the tiny ember underfoot.
“Could be,” I answered. “May we come in?”
I motioned him to precede us into the apartment’s hallway. “You alone at the moment?”
“Yeah. Frank’s visiting his girlfriend.”
“That’s Francis Bertin?” Ron asked, “the legal tenant of this apartment?”
Redding’s response came warily. “Yeah.”
“And you are his guest?”
“Yeah.” He’d reached the end of a short hallway leading into a comfortable, pleasantly appointed living room.
“In fact,” I added, “you’re sort of a professional guest, aren’t you?”
An irrepressible arrogance surfaced in his voice. “So what?”
I crowded him, standing almost nose-to-nose, and pointed to a chair with its back against the wall. “Sit.”
He sat.
Without stepping back, I looked down at him. “You understand the position you’re in right now, don’t you?”
He was craning his neck to look up at me, his Adam’s apple shifting as he swallowed. “I guess.”
“Then you should also understand that feeding us an attitude might not be the smartest thing to do, right?”
“Yeah—okay. Sorry.”
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Redding?” Ron asked from one side.
“I’m a musician. Could I have a cigarette?”
“No. Is that a living?”
“It’s what I do, all right?”
“Patty,” I cautioned quietly, stretching out his name.
“Okay, okay. It doesn’t pay all the bills.”
“How long have you lived in Brattleboro?” Ron resumed.
I could tell Patty’s neck was getting tired, but he didn’t want to look straight ahead at my groin. “Five years. I come from Hartford, Connecticut.”
“Where were you living last May?” I asked, the emphasis on the month.
“May? I think… I guess I was staying with Robbie Messier.”
“And spending time with Shawna Davis?”
Genuinely startled, he tried to stand up. By simply refusing to retreat, I forced him back into the chair. “That bitch.”
My first thought was that drugs formed the link between them, as they probably did between Patty and most of his “friends.” J.P. had told me the lab
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