The Company She Kept Read Online Free PDF Page A

They weren’t even here to officially conduct a search and inventory—but merely to give the place a discreet and preliminary survey, albeit with a search warrant they’d secured along the way.
    There was, however, one other person there already—a Brattleboro patrolman, sitting in his cruiser with his radio on. As he got out of the vehicle upon their arrival, they heard the soft wailing of country music leaking into the frozen air.
    â€œI help you?” he asked.
    Willy had been foraging around in the backseat of their car, hunting for his notebook. At the voice, he straightened and faced the man.
    â€œOh,” the young officer said—taking in a local legend. “Agent Kunkle. I didn’t know it was you.”
    Lester—by contrast tall, gangly, and disarming—chuckled at the touch of fear he detected. Willy didn’t respond, making his way up the barely shoveled walkway to the front door instead.
    â€œYou been expecting us?” Lester asked.
    â€œSomebody,” the officer replied. He stuck out a hand. “Travis Newman.”
    â€œLester Spinney. I work with Willy, upstairs from you. VBI. Why don’t I know you?”
    â€œJust started,” Newman explained.
    â€œMove it, Les,” Willy called out from the door. “Need the key.”
    Lester raised his eyebrows, impressed that the young cop had already been warned about Kunkle—including a description. “Duty calls. We’ll talk some other time. Welcome aboard.”
    â€œThanks,” Newman said, heading back to the cruiser’s warm cocoon.
    Les pulled out the key they’d secured from Raffner’s purse and dangled it before him as he approached his colleague. “Your wish is my command.”
    â€œThat’ll be the day,” Willy grumbled.
    Lester unlocked the front door before they both struggled into white Tyvek suits and booties. The entrance hall was dark, warm, and cluttered, thereby revealing to Spinney’s eye the habits of a person as disheveled in private as she’d been polished and organized to the outside world.
    Willy, whose own home was fastidiously tidy, let out a contemptuous puff of air. He’d never been fond of Raffner’s politics or manner. “Typical,” he muttered, pausing in the hallway.
    â€œShe live alone?” Spinney asked, standing beside him. He lived in Springfield, a forty-five-minute drive to the north. He’d heard of Susan Raffner, but didn’t know the locals as Willy did.
    â€œFar as I ever knew,” Willy said, moving slowly into the room to their right, his head swinging from side to side as he took in everything. He adjusted his single latex glove by yanking on its cuff with his teeth in a well-practiced motion.
    They entered a living room where most every flat surface was covered with books, documents, newspapers, and magazines, most of them apparently abandoned in mid-course—dog-eared, folded back, placed facedown at a certain article. It reflected a mind in a rush—impatient, driven, and curious.
    After a few minutes of absorbing their surroundings, both men moved to the purported dining room across the hall. Purported because the table designed to hold meals no longer had room for a sandwich. It seemed that Raffner had seen any flat surface as fair game, and so had made every inch of this one the base of a small mountain of more paperwork, including box after box of stuffed manila folders, their contents peeking out like a multitude of breast-pocketed handkerchiefs.
    â€œWow,” Lester said. “How did she keep track of anything?”
    â€œWho said she did?” Willy countered.
    The kitchen was next, toward the back of the house. Even here, there was a scattering of reading material, but the dominant clutter was at least in context. In no order that they could determine, there were jars, plastic bags, and boxes of powders, grains, cereals, and things they couldn’t identify