as the names of any motels or restaurants you might have used.”
Morgan held the pad in his hand, motionless. “Why do I have to jump through a bunch of hoops for you?”
Joe tilted his head slightly to one side. “You don’t, which’ll really start me wondering why you’ve gotten so cranked up over this. Do yourself a favor, Mr. Morgan. Cooperate.”
Morgan did just that, moving over to a couch and hunching over the coffee table to laboriously scratch out his information. As Gunther glanced around the room, trying to gauge from its contents the lives it contained, his reluctant host chanted a muttered, half-intelligible but clearly vituperative recitation in frustrated protest.
Finally, he put his pen down, lunged to his feet, and thrust the pad back at Joe. “There, have fun wasting your time and pissing off my friends.”
“Thanks,” Joe said, pocketing it and moving toward the door, Sam silently in tow. He put his hand on its knob and then asked, “By the way, what’s going to happen to the house now?”
“I’m going to sell it. See if I can at least break even.”
Gunther laughed and headed out onto the porch. He knew how long Morgan had owned the place, how much he’d charged his son in the interim, and what the market would probably deliver in an upscale area like greater Wilmington. Morgan was going to make a killing—assuming he hadn’t already done so.
“You have a good day, Newell. Enjoy what’s left of the game.”
They got back into the car, and Joe continued driving west into the center of town, rejoining Route 9, passing through the infamous intersection with Route 7, and going up the hill past the old Hemmings News gas station, the elaborate Catholic church, and the art museum, into what was called Old Bennington—the fancy historic part of town that had also once been its center before industry decreed that the mills and their workers gather on the banks of the river below.
“What was your take?” he asked Sam as he drove.
“I disagreed when he said he was no shit bag, but looking around, I didn’t see anything that suggested he was another Ted Bundy. Just a slob. I hope his wife isn’t there much.”
“How ’bout his story?”
“I think you got him when you said he’d been to see her after filing the eviction papers. You have anything behind the theory that he put the moves on her and got turned down?”
“Not a shred.”
He left Route 9 at the top of the hill and drove along a block suitably named Monument Avenue, lined with a series of old-time New England mansions, classic enough to have appeared in a daguerreotype. Just beyond it, opening up onto a gently rounded hilltop, was the site of the famous Bennington Battle monument, a three-hundred-foot-tall obelisk built in the 1880s and more an homage to local jingoism than to historical accuracy. In fact, the Revolutionary War battle so celebrated took place five miles away in New York State—Bennington and its alluring supply depot had been merely the goal of an ambitious British army.
Nevertheless, the area had become a graceful, peaceful, oddly sylvan spot from which to enjoy the low, rolling countryside around it, and Joe parked by the monument’s side to give them a suitable setting for contemplation and, a little subversively, to enhance Sam’s impression of the town.
“Still,” he resumed, “assuming we ever get enough to officially take this case, I wouldn’t mind canvassing Michelle’s neighborhood with a picture of Newell and whatever vehicle he drives. I have a hard time believing that a guy like him could leave a woman like Michelle alone in her time of grief.”
Sam groaned. “You’re probably right. Gross. Maybe she did commit suicide.”
Joe nodded wordlessly. Newell Morgan’s personality hadn’t come as a surprise. His findings at Michelle’s house and his chat with Linda Rubinstein had prepared him for it. What did keep tugging at his mind were less obvious loose ends—details of
Morgan held the pad in his hand, motionless. “Why do I have to jump through a bunch of hoops for you?”
Joe tilted his head slightly to one side. “You don’t, which’ll really start me wondering why you’ve gotten so cranked up over this. Do yourself a favor, Mr. Morgan. Cooperate.”
Morgan did just that, moving over to a couch and hunching over the coffee table to laboriously scratch out his information. As Gunther glanced around the room, trying to gauge from its contents the lives it contained, his reluctant host chanted a muttered, half-intelligible but clearly vituperative recitation in frustrated protest.
Finally, he put his pen down, lunged to his feet, and thrust the pad back at Joe. “There, have fun wasting your time and pissing off my friends.”
“Thanks,” Joe said, pocketing it and moving toward the door, Sam silently in tow. He put his hand on its knob and then asked, “By the way, what’s going to happen to the house now?”
“I’m going to sell it. See if I can at least break even.”
Gunther laughed and headed out onto the porch. He knew how long Morgan had owned the place, how much he’d charged his son in the interim, and what the market would probably deliver in an upscale area like greater Wilmington. Morgan was going to make a killing—assuming he hadn’t already done so.
“You have a good day, Newell. Enjoy what’s left of the game.”
They got back into the car, and Joe continued driving west into the center of town, rejoining Route 9, passing through the infamous intersection with Route 7, and going up the hill past the old Hemmings News gas station, the elaborate Catholic church, and the art museum, into what was called Old Bennington—the fancy historic part of town that had also once been its center before industry decreed that the mills and their workers gather on the banks of the river below.
“What was your take?” he asked Sam as he drove.
“I disagreed when he said he was no shit bag, but looking around, I didn’t see anything that suggested he was another Ted Bundy. Just a slob. I hope his wife isn’t there much.”
“How ’bout his story?”
“I think you got him when you said he’d been to see her after filing the eviction papers. You have anything behind the theory that he put the moves on her and got turned down?”
“Not a shred.”
He left Route 9 at the top of the hill and drove along a block suitably named Monument Avenue, lined with a series of old-time New England mansions, classic enough to have appeared in a daguerreotype. Just beyond it, opening up onto a gently rounded hilltop, was the site of the famous Bennington Battle monument, a three-hundred-foot-tall obelisk built in the 1880s and more an homage to local jingoism than to historical accuracy. In fact, the Revolutionary War battle so celebrated took place five miles away in New York State—Bennington and its alluring supply depot had been merely the goal of an ambitious British army.
Nevertheless, the area had become a graceful, peaceful, oddly sylvan spot from which to enjoy the low, rolling countryside around it, and Joe parked by the monument’s side to give them a suitable setting for contemplation and, a little subversively, to enhance Sam’s impression of the town.
“Still,” he resumed, “assuming we ever get enough to officially take this case, I wouldn’t mind canvassing Michelle’s neighborhood with a picture of Newell and whatever vehicle he drives. I have a hard time believing that a guy like him could leave a woman like Michelle alone in her time of grief.”
Sam groaned. “You’re probably right. Gross. Maybe she did commit suicide.”
Joe nodded wordlessly. Newell Morgan’s personality hadn’t come as a surprise. His findings at Michelle’s house and his chat with Linda Rubinstein had prepared him for it. What did keep tugging at his mind were less obvious loose ends—details of
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