Page 32 of The Furies

“Has Buker harmed her in some way?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Has he harmed someone else?”

“If he hasn’t, he will, but only on the basis of probability.”

“But you have no evidence that he’s committed a crime?”

“None, beyond the ones he’s already served time for.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“That,” I said, “is what I’m trying to find out.”

Niles pursed her lips and studied me through her lenses. If I ever found myself on probation or parole, I decided I didn’t want her to be the one holding my chain. After only a few minutes in her presence, I was already examining my conscience and finding it wanting.

“Are you being deliberately evasive?” she said. “Because I’ve heard that said about you.”

“It’s a character flaw,” I admitted. “It may even be a genetic one. On this occasion, though, I’m being straight. I’m as much in the dark as anyone as to why Raum has come back to Portland. All I can tell you is that I think he’s scared of someone, or something. If I can establish the nature of the threat, I can determine how, or if, it impacts on my client’s interests. But it’s also my understanding that Raum has a plan in place to make some quick money, and it’s unlikely to involve delivering bottles and cans to a redemption center.”

“Do you know the nature of that plan?”

“My guess is criminal.”

“That’s funny. I was hoping you could be more specific.”

“I’d like to be, but I can’t. I’m going on previous experience.”

Niles might still have suspected me of lying, either in whole or in part, but her questions were mostly for display. Attwood had asked her to help me, and in addition to being her superior, he was known to be a good guy. She’d have been foolish not to oblige, but she made a show of hemming and hawing, and creased her brow, just to let me know how much the effort was costing her.

“Raum Buker maxed out in New Jersey,” she said, “so post-release supervision doesn’t apply. It wasn’t as if I could just call a PO and ask for this information.” The crease deepened. “I had to get in touch with an ex-girlfriend, and I really didn’t want to do that.”

I produced a bottle of Moët from my bag and placed it on her desk. It had cost me fifty-five dollars at the liquor outlet in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, because I wasn’t a chump: like half the state of Maine, I bought anything more expensive than box wine over the border. I’d been saving the champagne for one of those special occasions when only a striking inducement to bend the rules would suffice. To be fair to Niles, it did cause her brow to unfurrow some.

“Classy,” she said. “I’ve also heard that said about you, if grudgingly.”

“Just don’t tell Attwood. I’d feel odd giving him champagne, like I’d have to produce a corsage as well.”

“It can be our secret. I wouldn’t want to cause you confusion with your sexuality.” She put the bottle in a drawer and returned to her notes. “Buker shared a cell for the first three years plus change, with two different cellmates, but he was in protective isolation for the remainder of his sentence.”

“The reason?”

“He intervened in a fight, and saved a guard from getting his skull fractured. According to my contact, Buker was trying to defend another inmate, and blocked a couple of hits to the guard along the way. Buker and the other inmate were segregated in the aftermath, just as a precaution.”

“Any grudges?”

“Nothing personal,” said Niles, “or not beyond the usual, because it’s always open season on a guard.”

“What about the second inmate involved?”

“Egon Towle, released three months before Buker. Sixty-three months under the Graves Act. He was convicted for the robbery of a coin dealership in Paterson, during which a firearm was produced but not discharged. Mandatory minimum of forty-two months, plus fifty percent for a prior, along with a parole disqualifier.”

“So Towle maxed out as well?”

“That’s right.”

“Was he originally one of Raum Buker’s cellmates?”

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