Gone(25)

He jotted a note, thinking, nothing disappears. “So this isn’t an active landfill anymore?”

“Nope. Transfer Station.”

“To Glens Falls.”

“Yep.”

“And that’s just household waste, right? What about other stuff? Toxic things?”

“Well, your paint cans and your chemicals can go to the Highway Department for disposal ’bout twice a year. They usually send out a flier, we post it here. Otherwise, the big companies and that, I don’t know what they do. They don’t come here, though, that’s for sure. We’re just a little operation.”

“And you told all this, about the transferring, to the guys filming.”

“Oh yeah.”

Rondeau put on a smile. “Fun? Being in a movie?”

Buddy was matter-of-fact. “I don’t give a shit,” he said.

Rondeau laughed. He started to put away his notebook and paused. “Does this place make any money, Buddy?”

Buddy squinted. He seemed deep in thought for a second. “Make money? No, I don’t think so. It’s all taxpayer-funded.”

“Well, thanks for your help, sir. I’m going to have a look around, alright?” Rondeau made to leave.

Buddy nodded and pointed at Rondeau’s chest. “Wife knows a great way to get out them stains with bakin’ soda,” he said. Then he turned and wobbled back to where he’d come from. Rondeau walked away, pulling his suit coat closed.

He headed up towards the mountains of waste. It was a huge spread, and it took him fifteen minutes just to wind through the piles. Dozens of old refrigerators, stoves, toilets, bicycles, microwaves, metal girders, tufts of insulation. A bulldozer sat unmoving on the rim of a deep pit of detritus. The cold wind soughed through, tugging at his clothes.

His own property was beginning to look a bit like this. He was reminded of Millard, last day as a transit cop, finding the severed head in the subway. He gazed at the bulldozer for a minute, thinking — thought not really wanting to — of how easy it would be to bury a family of four in a place like this.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN / Two Roads

He met with Eric Stokes an hour later, back at his office. Rondeau eyed the coffee maker on the small counter like it was an enemy, foregoing a fresh cup, much as he wanted one. He draped his coat over the back of the chair. Stokes sat nearby, watching and waiting patiently as Rondeau moved to a tiny closet and unbuttoned his stained shirt.

He laid the shirt over a file cabinet and pulled a fresh one from the closet.

“Whoa,” Stokes said from behind him. “When did you get those?”

Rondeau paused, keeping his back turned to the other detective. He pulled on the shirt and began to button it up before answering.

“D.C.,” he said.

“What caliber?”

“Three-seventy-fives.” He turned around and fastened his cuffs, then looked Stokes in the eye.

“Damn,” Stokes said, staring, as if he could see the scars through the shirt.

Rondeau sat down across from him. He spent a moment arranging things on his desk, feeling a bit exposed. “So, got anything to add to the landfill angle? I didn’t get much.”

“Well,” Stokes said, sounding pleased with himself. He dropped some papers on the desk and traced his finger down a list. “A landfill is a pretty meticulously engineered depression in the ground. Unlike the old ‘dumps’ of the past, it’s a complicated system designed to protect groundwater from contamination. Landfills take years of planning and development and require a significant investment. You’ve got excavation, excess materials, rock trenches, two feet of clay. It takes a sheepsfoot roller to pack the clay and—”

Rondeau waved a hand. “Skip all that. Go back to ‘investment.’ Who makes the investment?”

“Ah, the township, I guess.”

“The township and not the county?”

“Think so.”

“Well, I want you to know so,” Rondeau said.

Stokes gave him a look. He seemed to be deciding for himself whether to take Rondeau’s sudden attitude head on, or just ride it out. To his credit the new guy didn’t just roll over.

“You wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” Stokes asked.

“Kemp’s sister, I think, is lying to me. She told me she had footage from Kemp’s film and ended up giving me some other project of his along with a home movie.”

“So, let’s poly her.”

“I plan to. I need you to talk to Cobleskill, though.” Cobleskill was the eager DA. “Tell her it’s sensitive. I want Addison feeling like this is just routine.”

Stokes gave him a quizzical look. “Anything interesting on the home video?”

Rondeau thought about the expression on Lily Kemp’s face. The glimpse of something in her eyes, implacable but undeniably there for those few seconds. And the mystery person outside the house on the road.

“I’ve got CSI checking out a few frames of video where it looks like someone outside, watching the house.”

Stokes’ mouth hung open.

“I doubt it will give us much. It’s blurry, far off, not even a hint of a face.”

Stokes nodded. “So the other clip — it was from what other movie? Citizen Farmer?”