As The Twig Is Bent: A Matt Davis Mystery

by Perrone Jr. , Joe

  “Sorry, honey,” he said, as he took the chest and chair from Valerie and stowed them in the back of the vehicle.

  “It’s okay,” she smiled. “You can’t do everything.”

  Matt started the engine and they were on their way. The Manhattan streets were all but deserted except for those individuals who habitually occupied the shadows, regardless of the time of day. Streetlights shone ineffectively, as their emissions were neutralized by the first rays of the rising sun, the golden color reflecting off the glass fronts of the high-rise apartment buildings located across the Hudson River.

  As the Jeep traversed the George Washington Bridge, large drops of condensation dripped down from the massive steel girders above. Without fanfare, the one-car caravan crossed over the swiftly flowing river separating New York from New Jersey. The two states almost touched one another, but were light years apart in character. Automatically, Valerie shoved a Willie Nelson tape in the car’s ancient cassette player, and the city was officially left behind.

  It was a two-hour ride to Roscoe, New York, home of the most hallowed fly-fishing stream in the Catskills. They drove quietly through northern New Jersey without talking. The only sounds came from the humming of the tires on the highway and the music of the tape player. They passed mall after empty mall, and maneuvered through deserted cloverleaf intersections. Neither Valerie nor Matt liked New Jersey, but tolerated it like a pastured horse endures its attendant flies.

  They passed the former site of the old Ford factory in Mahwah—now occupied by a tall, monolithic hotel building—and moved across the state line, out of New Jersey and back into New York. They breathed a collective sigh, and looked at each other with a smile. It always went this way. It was something they shared in common. They were free.

  Before long, they had traveled through the mundane suburban areas that tied the city to the countryside, and were moving into the rural portion of the Catskills. The Jeep moaned and groaned mechanically, as it made its way slowly up the long six-mile continuous grade from Ellenville to Wurtsboro. This section of road was famous not only for its considerable incline, but also for its pea soup fog that often brought early morning traffic to a standstill. Mercifully, the fog was moderate this morning, and soon they had reached the top of the slope. They began to pass familiar Catskill landmarks: White Lake, Monticello, and eventually, the town of Liberty. The sun had crept above the mountains and Matt was beginning to relax, to breath deeper and more slowly. He looked over at his wife and thought how beautiful she was.

  Valerie lay with her head against the headrest of the reclined seat. Her eyes were shut and a soft smile creased her ample mouth. She was only forty-two, and had no gray yet in her chestnut brown hair. She was wearing it short these days—a concession to her occupation—and he marveled at the grace of her neck. He was struck by a sudden impulse to kiss her. As carefully as he could, he leaned over to brush her forehead with his lips. She sighed. For a second, the Jeep swerved wildly, and he laughed aloud, as he regained control.

  “Matt!” cried Valerie, as she awoke with a start.

  “Relax,” he said. “It’s okay. It was just a deer.”

  He inhaled deeply, caught a whiff of her perfume, and smiled contentedly. He was a lucky man. Twenty minutes later they passed the billboard advertising their upcoming destination, the sleepy little town of Roscoe. The local Chamber of Commerce had erected the garish sign that featured a gigantic trout, years ago after officially dubbing the place “Trout Town, U.S.A.,” at the urging of local business owners who catered unabashedly to the seasonal fishermen. To most travelers, however, Roscoe merely represented the halfway point between Manhattan and Binghamton, as they headed west along U.S. Route 17. More importantly, perhaps, it was known as the home of the famous Roscoe Diner.

  As Matt steered the Jeep around the curving exit ramp, the recently refurbished stainless steel eatery stood alone, like an old friend, waiting with open arms to greet them at the end of their journey. Matt glanced at his watch. It was exactly eight a.m.—two hours on the nose, as usual.

  CHAPTER 23

  After filling the thermos with steaming hot coffee, Matt ordered a hot chocolate for himself. He exchanged a few words with Gus, the owner of the restaurant, and then went outside. Valerie was leaning with her back against the side of the car, face angled upward towards the sun, luxuriating in the early morning warmth of day. Her eyes were closed. Matt walked over, placed the thermos and container of hot chocolate carefully on the roof of the Jeep, and leaned down to give his wife a kiss. Sensing his presence, Valerie lifted her head up and met him halfway. The kiss was slow and lazy, just like the day promised to be. As they broke the kiss, Valerie opened her eyes, squinting against the sun, and grinned.

  “Yes?” asked Matt, with a grin.

  “I do, you know,” said Valerie, the grin spreading into a smile.

  “Do what?” he asked.

  “You know,” she blushed.

  “Oh, that,” he said. “Well, I love you too.”

  “And what else?”

  “And I’m so glad to be here with you today.”

  “Good,” said Valerie.

  Then Matt patted her on the hip. “Let’s shoot some pool, Fast Eddie.”

  Matt drove the Jeep slowly toward Main Street, two blocks away. He made a left at the light, and guided the car into a parking stall across from his favorite fly shop, “Catch a Rising Trout.”

  A group of fly fishermen were already standing outside the door studying the hatch information on the weathered slate board attached to the outside of the building. Each of them wore waders, a vest—with specialized gadgets attached to the latter—and a hat. As usual, Budge, the owner, was late, and even though it was Opening Day, since there was no particular necessity to be early on the river this time of year, no one seemed to mind.

  As Matt and Valerie approached the shop, heads swiveled in their direction, all eyes drawn immediately to her shapely figure and earthy good looks. Today, she was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. Matt thought there was something sexy about a woman who fished. By the reaction of the other fishermen, he judged he was right. He smiled smugly, proudly acknowledging the blatant stares of a few younger men who gave her the once over. Matt leaned over and whispered something in Valerie’s ear and she turned towards him and smiled. He gave her a peck on the cheek, possessively patted her on the hip, and pushed her through the open doorway. Budge stood off to the side, holding the door. He bowed as the couple entered.

  The fly shop was familiar territory to Matt. In the twenty-five years he had been fishing the Beaverkill, the business had endured three droughts and seen four different owners. Budge Mallon had purchased the place around the same time Matt and Valerie had married, and he and Matt had become good friends almost from the start. He was a large man, with a belly that draped over his belt, and a swath of tanned scalp dividing the white hair on his head. His blue eyes glowed with intelligence beneath thick snowy brows that threatened to overrun his forehead.

  “So, what’s new in the ‘Big City,’ Matt?” he asked.

  “Same old - same old, Budge. Car bombings, murder and mayhem,” he joked. It was his standard reply. Budge clapped him on the back with one of his enormous hands and guided him toward the array of fly boxes against the far wall.

  “Enough of that bullshit. Let’s talk fishing. We’re expecting Quill Gordons today. You got enough?”

  “Haven’t got a one,” replied Matt. “Why the hell else would I come into this God-forsaken place?”

  Both men laughed. Matt walked around the shop with Valerie at his side, poked and picked among the numerous fly boxes and finally selected half a dozen of the small, dark flies, marked “#14, Quill Gordon Dry.” He placed them into one of the little plastic cups stacked neatly alongside the boxes of flies, snapped a lid on the container, and presented it at the counter for payment. As usual, Budge refused to accept his friend’s money.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Register’s busted.
I’ll catch you next time.”

  Matt smiled, and accepted his friend’s largesse as repayment for some help he had given him in apprehending a couple of shoplifters during his first visit to the shop.

  A few minutes later he and Valerie said their good-byes and filed out of the front door. They drove the short distance out of town to Old Route 17, then turned left and headed to the river. The Beaverkill is a beautiful trout stream, considered by many to be the birthplace of fly-fishing in America. To fly fishermen it is sacred water. From its confluence with its tributary, the Wilowemoc, the river flows approximately ten miles west alongside the old highway until it merges with the East Branch of the Delaware River. Their first stop was Hendrickson Pool; always a good bet during a hatch of Quill Gordons. Matt exited the Jeep, looked carefully in both directions, then took Valerie by the arm, and guided her carefully across the road to the other side. A guardrail framed the river below, and Matt put his right foot on its metal edge, resting his elbow on the elevated knee, his chin cradled in his hand. He stared down at the sparkling water, looking for signs of fish. Valerie stood quietly alongside him, just enjoying the fresh air.

  “Look,” said Matt, pointing down at the water, “look there.”

  Valerie stared hard at the surface of the water, expecting to see trout. Instead, she saw nothing but the steady flow of the current across the rocks.

  “No, not the water,” said Matt, “over there, on the far bank. See it? It’s a heron.”

  “Where? Oh, yeah! God, it’s huge. Matt, you are so amazing.”

  Valerie watched the large slate-blue bird, perched motionless along the bank of the river. It was so still, in fact, that it could easily have mistaken for a stuffed decoy. Val turned and looked at her husband. He was staring intently at the water now, much like the bird, and she marveled at the complexity of the man. She admired everything about him. She loved him more than life.

  Matt squinted in the bright, early morning sunlight, and continued studying the flowing river. He loved it here. Maybe one day they’d move up here. Buy a little cabin. Retire. Fish the rest of their lives away. Suddenly, the vision of Melina Spiros’ ravished body flashed through his mind and he had to force himself to see the water again. He sighed.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Valerie.

  “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking of that poor woman.”

  She gave him a hug and leaned her head against his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Matt.”

  “It’s okay,” he sighed. “Come on. Let’s go fishing.”

  They spent the rest of the morning enjoying the sunshine and the fresh mountain air. Matt drifted his fly through the tumbling pocket water above the pool, then carefully waded to the side of the river, and fished down through the run entering at its head. Normally, Matt would have worked his way upstream, approaching the fish from below, but in the heavy, early-spring current, it was unlikely that he would disturb any fish, and it was easier to move with the water—instead of against it. Valerie sat on the guardrail above the river and watched. She wasn’t quite ready to join him in the water.

  In the first hour, Matt caught three fish—all of them small—on dry flies, and he urged Valerie to join him. She changed into waders, donned her vest, and rigged her fly outfit. Soon she was alongside him, positioned about thirty feet downstream, flailing away as usual with no success. Catching fish was of little importance to Valerie, but being with Matt was everything. Around one o’clock, they reeled in their fly lines, and crossed the river. They climbed up the steep bank to the road, walked to the car and stowed their gear, then drove about a half mile downstream and parked on the shoulder of the road.

  Matt retrieved the cooler from the backseat, and Valerie brought the Thermos. They moved to a large rock overlooking Cairn’s Pool. It was Matt’s favorite spot on the river, and they always had their lunch there. They watched as fishermen covered the water with their casts, the long, silky fly lines waving gracefully in the air like loose threads from a spider’s web. As her husband sat eating a chicken breast, Valerie sat alongside and watched him intently. She never felt closer to him than when they took these little day trips together. She longed for things to be the same back in Manhattan. She wished they could bottle these moments and uncork them in times of need. Unfortunately, the reality was that they rarely saw each other in the day-shift night-shift atmosphere of their daily lives.

  After lunch, Matt joined the line of other fishermen waiting their turn to fish the pool. As the angler at the head of the pool caught and landed a fish, he would move to the tail end. This was called “rotating the pool,” and allowed for the next fisherman in line to move up and fish the prime water. Older, more experienced anglers still observed the tradition, but newer fishermen considered it more of a nuisance. Fortunately, they were still in the minority.

  The afternoon passed all too quickly, and soon it was time to leave. During the ride back to the city the couple sat in silence, as if rehearsing for the inevitable return to their “real lives” back home. However, it had been a lovely day, and its memory would sustain Val until another took its place.

  Tomorrow would be a different kettle of fish.

  CHAPTER 24

  That night, Matt had the same dream he always had after spending time on the river.

  He was the guest of honor at his retirement dinner at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel. He and Valerie danced the night away, he in a finely tailored tuxedo, she in an exquisite gown. The chief of police got up and toasted Matt’s many years on the force, and, of course, paid tribute to his solving of some particularly heinous murder.

  Following the affair, they spent the night at the Plaza Hotel—courtesy of the NYPD—and the next morning boarded a jet for a flight to New Brunswick, Canada. They were met there by a fishing guide, who escorted them to a remote salmon-fishing camp on the Miramichi River. A red-jacketed butler showed them to their room, remarking off-handedly “that the fishing has been quite good lately.”

  The next morning, after an elaborate breakfast of corned beef hash, eggs, potatoes O’Brien, and homemade biscuits—plus a mug of the finest hot chocolate Matt had ever experienced—it was time for fishing. All the necessary gear had been arranged on a trunk at the foot of the bed in their room, and Matt dressed carefully while Valerie leafed through rare horticultural catalogues. There was a knock on the door and their guide announced that they “better hurry,” as the fish were “jumping all over the pool.”

  They stopped at the kitchen where the cook gave Valerie a wicker basket containing their lunch, along with a thermos of hot chocolate for Matt and another of coffee for Valerie. Then the threesome walked a short distance to the river where Matt proceeded to catch fish after fish. Matt had stood knee deep in the cool water, the passing river forming an eddy behind him. His rod was bent with the weight of a large salmon that was hooked securely in the corner of its mouth by one of Matt’s hand-tied flies. With an eye out for the fish, Matt glanced at Valerie seated on a blanket on the shore. She was deeply absorbed in a romance novel. She lifted her eyes and turned them toward the water, smiling when she noticed Matt gazing lovingly at her. He returned the favor.

  “Sweetheart,” she said. “Why don’t you stop fishing and come join me for lunch?” He pointed downstream at the jumping fish, and said, “As soon as I land this salmon.” The guide removed the net from behind his vest and moved into position just downstream from the salmon. “I’ll net him for you, sir. That way you and the Mrs. can have your lunch...”

  The sound of the water faded quickly from Matt’s memory. The dream always seemed to end there, and Matt usually awoke ravenously hungry, almost as if the dream were real. The following morning was no exception.

  CHAPTER 25

  10:05 a.m., Wednesday, April 5

  They found Cindy McKenzie’s body just as they found the others. The woman had been raped and strangled. The signature heart was carved into her left breast, two sets of initials neatly crafted within it. Now,
three young women in the prime of their lives were dead, and for no apparent reason. But there was always some motive—as convoluted as it might seem—it was there. There had to be some common thread connecting the pitiful victims with their even more pathetic killer. It was there, and it was up to Davis to find it.

  There hadn’t been any sign of forced entry. Apparently, she either knew the killer, or at the very least was expecting him. What kind of person could smile at a woman, spend time with her, and then kill her? These were the thoughts that wandered through the heads of the detectives as they examined the gruesome murder scene.

  “Check for a bible,” ordered Davis. New Testament seemed a bit pretentious to Matt, so he had decided on bible – except when he was with Father Pete.

  “I’m kind of hoping we don’t find one,” said Chris. “If we do, we’re fucked.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Matt.

  They both knew that if another book showed up—especially one with underlined passages in it—there would be little doubt that they had a serial killer on their hands. Chris donned a pair of paper-thin latex gloves, and moved from room to room, breathing a sigh of relief as each compartment failed to yield a bible. Finally, he entered the kitchen. A yellow Formica-covered table stood in the center of the room, bracketed by two chairs covered in matching Naugahyde. A small glass vase containing an arrangement of silk flowers sat in the center of the table, sections of newspaper strewn to one side. Chris circled the table warily, as if the objects presented a tangible threat. Then he leaned over and gently lifted one section of newspaper, then another and another, until he found what he was looking for. Shit! Not another one?

  “Matt,” whispered Chris, a frog in his voice. There was no response. He cleared his throat and called out again, this time louder.