The Price of Malice by Archer Mayor Read Free Book Online

gazebo, or commons with a war memorial, where patriots could gather annually in early November.
    It was largely a throwback to a long-lost era, with its share of built-in irony, given how the world had since passed it by.
    But to Lester, it was the culture that had shaped him, been the cradle of his thinking and his general world outlook. He was the result of New Englanders—hardy, inventive, independent; used to living in an environment where winter threatened to kill you for over half of every year, and where three of the region’s most plentiful attributes—ice, lumber, and granite—had been creatively turned into three of its earliest commercial assets.
    Such thoughts of cold and ice struck him as ironic now, as he drove through one of the hottest days of the year, knowing he’d soon have to abandon the car’s air-conditioning.
    Lester was less familiar with Manor Court than his colleagues, given his more recent exposure to Brattleboro, but just as with downtown, he wasn’t out of place. All New England cops knew these blocks, along with the stories of those calling them home.
    He traveled most of the dead end’s length, and pulled up to the curb amid an array of cruisers, unmarked cars, a converted ambulance—now a mobile command post—countless people in uniform, and a large truck labeled “Vermont Forensic Lab.” Sammie Martens was standing on the sidewalk, twenty feet away, staring up at one of the triple-deckers.
    “Lost?” he asked, emerging into the blast furnace heat. “Ask a cop for directions.”
    She turned to him, shoving her dark glasses up on her forehead for better eye contact. “I know better,” she said. “They have no clue, but they tell you anyway.”
    He slammed his door and approached her. “Looks like a doughnut truck accident out here. Getting anywhere?”
    “Who knows?” she answered. “Right now, it’s just a bunch of henscratching. We may have what we need and not even know it yet. What did you find out?”
    Lester’s job had been to dig deeper into Castine’s background. “Not much more than what you already got. I have a family history, and a long list of contacts off the computer. We’ll have enough interviews to last us till next year, unless we get lucky.”
    Sam made a face. She wasn’t fond of working indoors. High-strung and energetic, she was restless by nature.
    “What’s the game plan right now?” Spinney asked, already beginning to sweat. By contrast, his colleague looked dry and comfortable, which only made him feel hotter.
    Sam pointed at the crime-lab truck with her chin. “They’re close to wrapping up. The boss’ll be here soon. Willy and I have been canvassing the neighbors. So, I guess, that’s the assignment for the time being, until we get together and compare notes. You want to help me work this one?” She gestured to the building beside them, two doors down from the crime scene.
    Spinney cast an eye along the street. There was now a fair crowd, being controlled by police tape and uniformed officers. He noticed several news crews, with and without TV cameras. Fortunately, in a state this size, even a crime this gory couldn’t generate much of a zoo—there was only one major TV station—from far-off Burlington—and a mere sprinkling of newspapers and radio stations.
    “Sure,” he said, turning to the tired three-story building at hand. “What’s your pleasure?”
    She shrugged. “There’re two apartments per floor, usually. If you want to take the top, I’ll take the second.”
    “Deal,” he said, heading for the porch steps.
    Lester hadn’t visited where Castine had been discovered, but he knew there wasn’t much difference between structures. Even 130years ago, architects and builders—especially of workers’ quarters—had a fondness for the economies of duplication. The fact that today’s residents had evolved from factory drones to either working sporadically or not at all hadn’t altered how their housing had ended