by Flora, Kate;
“Sometimes,” Kyle said, “people help us with our investigation even when they’re trying not to.”
“Especially when someone is as quick and clever as Detective Terry Kyle.”
“I’m blushing,” Kyle said.
“Wish I could read minds,” Burgess said. “So I’d know what he’s hiding. Is he in this, do you think, or just protecting someone. Maybe one of the more suitable friends he and his wife are acquiring?”
“We need to take a look at the wife,” Kyle said. He got on the phone to Rocky Jordan, a man who, by the time this was done, was going to hate everyone on their team. He gave Jordan all the information they had about McCann’s wife, like the make of her car and the school where she worked—or where McCann said she worked—and asked Jordan to see what he could find.
They headed back to 109, air conditioning blasting. Summer in Maine was short and intense, a season that flirted with the possibility of warmth all through June and sometimes into July. That was as likely to wrap you in cold fog as to bathe you in warmth. Today, anyone who could would be at the beach. Tomorrow the weather might do a 360.
He dropped Kyle off, Kyle looking almost smug as he carried the water bottle off to deliver it to Wink. Burgess headed back into the tourist-strewn streets to keep his appointment with Alana. Lunch had never happened. He was hoping this would be quick and he could make it home for dinner. He didn’t have the stamina for the extensive game of verbal tennis with Alana that was shorthand for “prove that you respect me and care.” He’d seen enough bad stuff today. He was ready for a few hours of sparring teens, Neddy’s goofy cavorting, and Chris’s smile before his team reassembled to assess what they’d learned and decided where to go next.
Thirty-Five
He was on his way to their rendezvous, an oldies station blaring, when Alana called. He turned down the sound. “Dammit, Copman,” she said, “I’ve got to cancel. Got a regular who absolutely has to have a massage today or he’ll freak out. And you know, a girl’s gotta make a living somehow.”
He tried to keep his relief out of his voice. “Can you just tell me over the phone? Please. We’ve got three bodies and a quartet of brutalized children, I know there’s another guy out there and I don’t know where to look.”
“It’s just a hunch,” she said. “Someone I met once who…” There was a woman’s voice in the background, interrupting her, sounding bossy and peremptory. “I’ve gotta go,” she said.
“Alana! Please. Just finish your sentence.”
“Was trying to recruit young girls for his customers. He worked in one of the schools. That’s all I know.”
“Which school?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is this a rumor or did you actually meet him?”
“Met him.”
Burgess felt explosive. “What did he look like?”
“Fifties. Big guy. Not good looking. Not bad looking. Hard looking, with short hair like military or a cop. He wore kinda flashy clothes for a school teacher. And even though he was trying to get girls to work for him, he was not a nice man.”
It was something, but Burgess needed more. “Any distinguishing marks? Tats, scars, moles, a limp. Dammit, Alana, give me something.”
The voice in the background got louder, demanding the Alana get off the phone and get to work. So much for creating a relaxing atmosphere.
“He was missing the tip of his left little finger. And his voice was funny, like it was too high and squeaky for such a big man. Sorry I don’t have more. I gotta go. Give my love to Chris and the kids.”
“Alana, what about…” But he was talking to an empty line.
He turned around, planning to head home, but realized he was in the neighborhood of the woman named Nancy Delude, widow of the man whose license plates were now traveling on the mysterious black town car. He flipped on his blinker and turned down Mrs. Delude’s street, pulling to the curb to check his notes and find the house number.
Mrs. Delude lived in a tiny little Cape that remind him too much of the house he’d spent most of last night in, though this one had a garage. The garage was open and there was a blue VW bug parked inside. He went up the walk and knocked, holding his breath until the door was opened. From a dearth of information, he’d made assumptions. Like that the Widow Delude would be a helpless elderly lady who had simply failed to deal with her husband’s plates and so somehow they had come into the possession of the man who drove the black town car. The woman who answered the door might have been a very fit seventy. She was dressed in tennis whites and appeared to have just come in.
He showed his badge and explained the reason for his visit. The man they were seeking, the car he drove, the plates on the car listed as belonging to her late husband and supposed to be on a Pathfinder.
Nancy Delude looked at him, puzzled, as she said, “The Pathfinder?” She wore a lot of eye-makeup for someone who’d just come from tennis. But it looked good with her tan and her tangled blonde-gray hair.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s one thing I don’t miss about John.”
“Excuse me?” he said. “I’m not following you.”
“Step in,” she said. She opened a closet and tucked her tennis bag and racket away, then walked into the living room and plunked herself down in a chair. “Sit,” she said. “I’ll get a crick in my neck staring up at you, and anyway, Jeanne and I just beat the pants off Cheryl and Patti, and now I’m pooped.”
When she was seated, she exhaled, like sitting was a luxury, and explained. “John was a lovely man. Absolutely lovely and so much fun. But a detail man he was not. So when he announced he was replacing the Pathfinder with that black behemoth that made him look like a chauffeur, I figured he had his reasons, and simply did the wifely thing of reminding him that he had to register the new car, not just attach the plates from the Pathfinder and keep on driving.”
Burgess still wasn’t sure he was following. “The dealer your husband bought the car from didn’t take care of transferring the plates?”
“I know, right?” She shook her head, as though he understood her disbelief, and said, “John didn’t buy the car. He won it at poker. He was an excellent poker player. So he comes home one night with that big black thing. Such a ridiculous car. Not that I liked his old car, either. It rode like a bucket of bolts. I told him he needed to wear a black suit if he was going to drive the black behemoth, but he was pleased as punch. Said it made him feel important. So he just slapped the plates from the old Pathfinder on it, and that was that.”
She bounced to her feet, said, “I need a drink. Can I get you anything? I’ve got flavored seltzer if you’d like. I expect you don’t drink when you’re on duty. You look like that type of cop.”
Like what type of cop? The kind who follows the rules? She could tell that from the few sentences he’d been able to utter? He wondered if John had crossed the rainbow bridge because he was exhausted from living with her energy. “Seltzer would be nice,” he said.
He heard cupboard doors and the refrigerator door open and shut. The rattle of ice cubes, and then she was back, holding two tall drinks. “This one is yours. I think. Maybe you can sniff it and see if there’s vodka in yours, but I tried to keep them straight.” She put his glass down on a coaster, settled herself on the couch again, and took a long drink, like a wild animal at a watering hole, then tossed her head back, said, “Oh! Yes!” and grinned with great pleasure.
Burgess waited until she was settled, or at least as settled as a woman with her energy could be. “What happened to the car when John…when your husband died?”
“Good question. Well, I didn’t know what to do with it. I hated it. I’m perfectly happy tootling around in my little blue bug. So John’s cousin said maybe he could find someone to buy it, and I was all for that.” She paused for a swig of her drink. “You know, when the guy came to pay me and pick it up, I never even thought about the plates. Well. I mean I asked him about the plates and he said he’d take
care of it. And that was good enough for me.”
“So your husband’s cousin, he’s the person who would know who bought the car?” Burgess asked.
“That’s right. His cousin’s name is Charlie. Charlie Dornan. Charlie’s pretty much a useless human being. He’s spent much of his life trying to butter up Aunt Ida Mae so she’ll leave him her money. Trouble is, Charlie doesn’t understand that for all that Ida Mae seems to favor him, and even lets him drive her car, Ida Mae is a practical woman. She’d never leave her money to Charlie, unless it was in trust, because Charlie would just piss it away, and Ida Mae is all about the preservation of capital. I think it’s going to Charlie’s sister Sharon, if there’s anything left. That retirement place she’s in is very expensive. If she really wanted to be smart, she’d leave it to Marilyn. Pretty, low-key Marilyn, who is actually a demon from hell. Marilyn can make a dollar bill beg for mercy. She’d steal your stuff and then try to sell it back to you.”
She put a hand over her mouth. “Oops. That was way too much information, wasn’t it?”
Burgess tried to smile, though he was feeling anything but cheerful. “Do you have any information about the man who bought your late husband’s car? A bill of sale? A name and address or phone number? Anything?”
She drained her glass and shrugged. “I don’t think so. Better to ask Charlie. I can give you his information.”
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” Burgess said, “but Charlie and Marilyn Dornan were both found dead in their home last night.”
Her merriment fell away like she’d shucked off a skin. She picked up her glass, looking for some cool alcoholic comfort, and found it empty. She stared at the naked ice cubes as she asked, “Dead? Did you really say dead? Last night? What happened?”
“Shot,” he said.
“By whom?”
Burgess shrugged. Cops didn’t speculate. At least, not with members of the public. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
“And you think the man who bought John’s car might be involved?” The merry widow was gone. Her voice was breathless now, and strained.
“He and Charlie Dornan were engaged in a business enterprise together.”
“Then his information will be in Charlie’s records, won’t it? I mean, John was a bit scattershot about record keeping, but most business people do keep records, don’t they? And anyway, Marilyn is…was, I guess…about as anal as a human can be.”
Not that they’d seen in the Dornan’s files, but they hadn’t finished. What if they got lucky and Marilyn Dornan kept records of every transaction regarding clients who used their girls, or every disk of pornography they sold?
He had another idea. “How did Charlie’s friend pay for the car?” He was hoping it was by check, and that there might be an image of that check in her bank statements.
“Good old pleasantly pleasing cash,” she said. “A whole big wad of it.”
Another dead end. Dead end might be name of this whole case.
“Do you remember what the man looked like?”
She considered. “Biggish. Not attractive. Not in his person and not in his manner. It was like he wanted to hand me the cash and be gone. There were no pleasantries. There was no conversation. No questions about the car. Just ‘here’s your money, ma’am, goodbye.’ Bossy and all business.”
“So you didn’t notice anything distinctive about him? Anything unusual?”
“I guess a lack of basic manners isn’t unusual these days, is it?” She studied the ice cubes like they might give her some answers. “Flashy clothes. Yeah. But strangely flashy. A normal sports jacket but the shirt and tie were almost gaudy. And there was something else.” She tapped her chin with a brightly manicured finger. “His hands. Something about his hands. Oh. Yes. He was missing part of his left little finger. I noticed it when he handed over the cash.”
Burgess figured it was a lost cause, but he had one last question. “So, no identifying information. There was nothing in the transaction that might help locate this man?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Detective. It wasn’t important to me, so I didn’t pay much attention. Excuse me.” She headed for the kitchen. “I need another drink.”
Burgess rose to go. It was time for family dinner and he needed a nice quiet ride in the car first to let some of the poison out of his system.
“Maybe Ida Mae knows something,” she said. “The one thing I remember is the guy said to Charlie, ‘Ida Mae might like a ride in this.’ And Charlie said she would. Only he told the guy he ought to tone down his shirt and tie. Even Charlie, who had the fashion sense of a gnat, knew it wasn’t right.”
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Delude.”
“Nancy,” she said. “Mrs. Delude makes me sound like your first grade teacher.”
He let himself out, stumped through the late afternoon sauna, checking the sky for the possibility of rain, and got in the Explorer. When Maine did humid, it went all out. The still air smelled like seaweed and old fish. He fired up, turned the air conditioning to max, and headed home.
Thirty-Six
Home was chaotic, as usual. Dylan wanted to do some driving practice, so Burgess promised him half an hour after dinner. Nina was arguing with Chris about being allowed to stay out until after midnight on a babysitting gig. Neddy and two other ruffians were glued to a video game that looked more savage than most of the things Burgess dealt with. And Chris was looking tired. Usually she was bustling around making dinner at this hour, but there were no signs of dinner.
He put an arm around her shoulders and steered her out onto the back deck. A breeze had come up and in the shade it was cooling nicely out there.
“Tell Detective Burgess what’s wrong,” he said.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
Instead of pushing her for an answer, he kissed her. He was still kissing her when Nina stepped out, already in the middle of a complaint.
“I really don’t see why I can’t…oh. Eww. I can’t look at this.” She went back inside.
“Do you think it’s child abuse to subject a child to the sight of two loving adults kissing?” he asked.
Chris shook her head. “Lately, the way she pushes my buttons, I find myself coming pretty close to child abuse. Sandy says that’s the way it is between all moms and their teenage daughters and we’ll get past it. But when I’ve had a hard day at work, like today, and come home to deal with this?” She sighed. “It makes me question whether I’m really cut out for this mothering business.”
“No one ever said it would be easy.” He took her shoulders and turned her to face him. “You’re doing a great job. The kids love you, and they wouldn’t have much of a life without you. Nina and Neddy would still be in foster care, and Dylan would be living with a stepfather who didn’t like him much. Unless he was living with me, a guy who knows nothing about kids and is gone too much. Instead, they’ve got this. A home. A mom. Grandma Doro. Lots of love, and sometimes even a dad.”
She stepped forward, bumping her soft chest against him, and buried her head in his shoulder. Her hair smelled like apples. He wrapped his arms around her and whispered, “Want me to make dinner?”
“Would you?” she murmured into his shoulder.
“It would be my pleasure,” he said. “Stay here. Look at the summer sky. Watch the puffy white clouds. I’ll bring you some wine.”
Chris dropped into one of the white rocking chairs. “Thank you,” she said.
Burgess went inside, poured a glass of white wine, and took it out to her. Then he opened the refrigerator, hoping he’d find something he could cook. He pulled out red, green, and orange peppers, a red onion, and two small zucchini and cut them into chunks, tossing them with some teriyaki marinade. He might have the normal man’s aversion to vegetables, but Chris was gradually turning him around. He used the same marinade on thin-sliced chicken breasts. He lit the grill and filled a pot with water for pasta. It had been so long since he’d done much cooking in
this kitchen it felt like an unfamiliar place, but he’d been a solitary bachelor for many years, and he hadn’t dined solely at fast food places.
Forty minutes later, Chef Joseph presented his family with a heaped platter of pasta topped with grilled chicken and vegetables.
The moment was not arrived at without skirmishes. Nina complained that she couldn’t eat pasta because it would make her fat. Neddy wanted his friends to stay for dinner, and Burgess hadn’t made that much food. And Dylan hung around the kitchen, rocking impatiently from foot to foot, anxious to get in some driving time before Burgess headed back to work.
The friends were dispatched with the promise of another day. He told Nina she could pick out chicken and grilled vegetables, and Neddy and Dylan were sent to set the table. By the time they all sat down, the rest and wine had done its magic, and Chris was smiling again.
“You did this?” she said. “It’s delicious.”
“This is pretty much all I can cook,” he said.
“Well, I am not complaining.”
“Good,” he said, “because now I have a favor to ask.”
“What?” she said suspiciously.
“Can Dylan and I borrow your car for half an hour?”
She laughed and gave him the keys.
Dylan drove like he’d been doing it for years.
“Soon as you have your license,” Burgess said, “I’ll teach you to drive like a cop.”
“I’d like that.”
Dylan drove, and they talked, and Burgess was reminded how much easier it was to talk when you were both looking straight ahead. Dylan asked about his case, and Burgess told him about Michele Minor and the five girls. About the tattoo parlor that had helped them ID the girl and about last night’s murdered couple. “Now we’re trying to find a man we believe was their partner, but we don’t have much to go on.”
“What about what Cherry said? That she recognized that girl, Shelley, from school. Maybe someone at her school might have some ideas. Something someone saw, or something Shelley might have said. Teachers are good observers. Well. Some teachers.”