“Here.” He extended the documents.
“What’s in the box?” I asked.
“What box?”
“The one behind your seat.”
“Just stuff to drop off at the church donation bin.” Ah, a Christian.
“Sir, you’re aware you hit a mailbox back there?” I gave him my best cop stare.
He blinked. Shifted his weight. “Um. I . . . thought I heard something. I didn’t realize it was a mailbox. Geez.”
“After you rolled through a stop sign.”
“I stopped.”
Normally I’d run his plates. I couldn’t. However, I did have my ticket forms handy. I wasn’t expected to write tickets. For folks like him, I made an exception. I thought for a moment. Scribbled on a ticket. Handed it to him.
“A hundred twenty-five!” A vein by his temple pulsed.
“Failure to stop. Wanton destruction of public property. Failure to pull over.”
“You’re not in a police car!”
I crossed my arms. Stared. Waited.
“I know the mayor,” he said.
“So do I. My name’s Thomas Lynch. In case you want to call later and complain. Maybe I should also give you my home phone. No, wait. You already have it.”
The dawning comprehension on his face was beautiful to witness. He knew what he’d done. Made that phone call to my house. How did I know? I couldn’t know, could I? The path of his thoughts was as easy to follow as flares on a dark road.
“Have a nice day,” I said. Lord knew mine was looking up.
He stood outside his car, frozen in place. Ah, karma. You beautiful bitch.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Three pink memos were laid atop my desk. Mayor called. Call from mayor (Again). Call the mayor back, ASAP. He must’ve heard about my car. Damn it. I dialed the phone.
“Why are you harassing the Forrand boy?” the mayor said. No “Hello” or “How are you?”
“Harassing?” I repeated, sure I’d misheard.
“Mrs. Forrand complained that you interrogated her son in the hospital.”
“We interviewed him, to see if he could ID who took him.” “Leave him be.”
“We shouldn’t continue to investigate his kidnapping?” This question would bring him back to Earth.
“He’s been found. He’ll be home soon, in time for Christmas. Everyone’s happy.”
I pinched my forearm. Had I fallen asleep? Was this a nightmare? “You know who’ll be happy? The bastard who grabbed Cody. You want that guy around? Maybe give him time to pick up another kid?”
“Of course not. Continue investigating, but leave the boy alone while he’s in the hospital. He’s been through enough.”
“We have no idea what he’s been through,” I pointed out.
He let that sit a moment. “I heard the flu is sweeping through the station. Hope you’ve got enough men for the caroling detail. Also, I haven’t heard about the tree-lighting ceremony.”
Hell. I knew there was some holiday event I’d forgotten to staff. “Really? I’m sure we called over earlier. I’ll see you get the details.” Watching Mrs. Dunsmore work had taught me a trick or two. I didn’t mention my patrol car. I was surprised he hadn’t.
I found Finnegan chugging a Dixie Cup of water. He crumpled the cup and tossed it at the trash can. “Your eyes need checking,” I said. He’d missed by a foot.
“My eyes are fine. It’s my aim that sucks.”
I recapped my call with the mayor for him.
“She complained? What for?” In his Boston accent, the word was “fo-wah.” “If it were my kid, I’d want the cops to nail the perv and lock him up for life. Jesus. What if he does it again? How’s she gonna feel?”
“Lucky it’s not her kid? Hey, what’s with our boy Andrew Trabucco?” I asked.
He bent to pick up his cup. Groaned and put it in the trash bin. “He went to work the day of the storm. Called his boss to ask why the shop wasn’t open. Boss told him to haul ass back to his place before the blizzard hit. Boss said that call was at 9:00 a.m.”
“Any proof he went home?”
“Nope. I haven’t spoken to Trabucco. His phone is shut off, and he’s not home.” He held up a finger. “However, your weirdo computer teacher is in the clear. He was at work today, so there’s no way he dumped Cody in Canton. Oh, and you’re gonna love this. Our doubting witness? Definitely saw Cody at the gas station. Her description matches what Cody was wearing when they found him.”
“Have they got video at the gas station?” I asked.
“Checking on it. One other sighting seems possible. Someone saw a boy in a silver car parked at the Wallingford public library. The library was closed, and the caller was about to tell the driver, but the car sped off before he could.”
“Silver car?” I asked.
“Silver or gray. Four doors. No plate number. No other details.” He looked past me. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
It must’ve started snowing again. Wright’s hat was covered with it. He took it off and considered the flakes. “Why do I live here? Why don’t I move to an island with palm trees? And no snow, ever.” He tossed his gloves onto his desk. “You want to learn how to screw up a case, take lessons from the Canton cops. Not only did they fail to interview anyone on scene, but they also failed to take any pictures or video. The kidnapper’s car could have been in the lot.” Not likely. Once he’d dumped Cody, he most likely drove away, fast. Wright wasn’t wrong to be angry, though. The cops should have taken video. We could’ve reviewed it with Cody.
“Grocery employees give you anything?” I asked.
“The manager says the lot was less than a quarter full when they found him. He looked for cars with an adult, but the ones he spoke to claimed Cody wasn’t with them. He talked to as many people as he saw, and then he called the police.” He picked up his damp gloves and smacked them against the desktop. “One other thing. There was no boat ride outside the grocery. A car ride and a carousel, but no boat.”
“Cody must’ve been loopier than we thought,” I said. “Maybe it’s just as well the interview got cut short. Might be chasing our tails right now, looking for elves.”
“Least we’d be chasing something,” Wright said. “Wait. There were elves, painted on the grocery windows facing out, near the rides. Maybe Cody wasn’t totally wackaloo.”
Finnegan updated Wright on the sightings we thought were legit. Wright looked at the map. “So here.” He tapped his finger at the hole where Rocky Hill should’ve been. “And here.” Wallingford. “And here.” The last was Canton. “Huh.” We all stared at the map. “He headed south.”
“But then dumped Cody back north,” I said.
Wright asked, “Any of our predators from south of here?” Finnegan picked up a greasy paper plate, an overfull ashtray, and several folders before he found the fax sheets. He flipped pages and said, “No. None that aren’t locked up.”
I said, “Okay. See you. I’ve got to go work on the Christmas-carol detail.”
“Lucky you,” Wright said. I almost told him to fuck off, but we weren’t friends.
Billy stood outside my office. “Chief, can I, uh, talk to you?”
“Sure.” Billy followed me inside, eyes on his boots.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. It’s about your car. I didn’t have anything to do with that. I know I said bad things, and I don’t want you to think I had anything to do with the graffiti.”
“Billy, I didn’t think you had.” Billy was dumb in the way young men are. He’d made stupid remarks in the past. He wasn’t the type to tag a car with a slur, though. He looked at me, pleased. God, he’d be great to play poker with. Kid couldn’t mask a single emotion. “I don’t suppose you have any idea who did it?”
He closed my door. “I was in Evidence this morning. I had to make room for the golf clubs.” Right. The clubs that had been used to smash the windows of an unused commercial building. “So I moved some of the old stu
ff back there. You remember those kids who tagged bridges a while back? We had their spray cans. I thought we had more, but I didn’t think about it until I heard about your car.”
“Billy, are you telling me a spray-paint can is missing from Evidence?”
“The log says five cans. There are three now.”
“We didn’t use any for, say, road emergencies?” It wasn’t like the cans were going to be used in a criminal case. The kids had been let off with trash-picking duty.
“Don’t think so,” he said.
“Did the log say anything about colors?”
“Pink and orange,” he said.
Oh, God. “Did you mention this to anyone?” He shook his head. “Don’t. This stays between you and me.” I’d need to check the names of everyone on duty.
He nodded, opened the door, and walked out.
My hand reached for the phone. I dialed a number I’d learned recently. Ring, ring. No answer. Before his message came on, I hung up. Why bother Damien Saunders about this? Not as if he’d know who trashed my car. I’d wanted sympathy, plain and simple. But sympathy wasn’t answering.
I exited my office and made a show of checking the roster. “Christmas-carol duty calls. Hope you guys like ‘Jingle Bells.’” My announcement prompted groans and one shout of, “It’s cold as balls! Why do they have to sing outside?”
I wrote down the names on the board. Brought it to my office. This assumed that whoever had tagged the car had been on duty. It made sense. See the car out front, where no cameras were. Grab a can, tuck it in your coat, wander outside. Kneel down and spray. Whole thing could’ve taken two minutes. What about his clothes? Would he be clean? Or would some paint have made it onto his coat? A few specks of Day-Glo orange.
Was my tagger the same wise guy who’d snuck a copy of Playgirl into my mail five weeks ago? Imagine my surprise at finding six naked college hunks grinning at me from under my In-Service Training Courses Spring/Summer 1998. Three of the hunks held their college pennants in strategic positions. I’d laughed. Held the magazine up and said, “Very funny. I’ll put this out so you all can borrow it.” Several of the men had approached, curious. When they saw the magazine, they paled. Stumbled. Walked backward. They didn’t grin or offer up jokes. They looked appalled. As if I was holding kiddie porn.
I’d have to check the roster for the day of the Playgirl incident. October 22nd. It was seared into my memory. The work-detail files were arranged in the steel-gray cabinets by Mrs. Dunsmore every Thursday afternoon. I opened the drawer. It squealed. I checked the tabs for last week of October. Brought the file to my desk. Opened it up. I checked the list of names. Checked today’s list.
Thirteen names in common:
Burns
Dix
Dunsmore
Edgars
Finnegan
Hopkins
Johnson
Klein
Miller
Thompson
Wilson
Wright
Yankowitz
Weird. Finnegan and Wright rarely worked the same day. Maybe it had something to do with the North murder. Cases like that take time to wrap up. I didn’t want to believe someone I’d worked a murder with would write “FAG!” on my car. Therein lay the problem. Someone I worked with had likely done that. Billy? He’d been truly anxious just now, and he’d brought me the paint cans evidence. I ran a line through his surname, Thompson. Mrs. Dunsmore? I should be so lucky. The only way I’d lose her as secretary was through death. Mine or hers. Probably mine. I ran a line through her name.
I looked outside. It was dark. White light streamed past. No, not light. Snow. Flakes falling past the panes. I just couldn’t catch a break.
CHAPTER NINE
Sunday. Cody Forrand was still in the hospital, untouchable. Finnegan and Wright would call if they found the kidnapper. While they’d huddled over papers last night, I’d said, “Call me if you find the guy, yeah?” Wright’s frown bisected his forehead. “Of course,” he said. Only there was no “of course.” Not with me driving a wood-paneled station wagon. Not with that copy of Playgirl I’d thrown into the trash so that everyone saw me do it. Not with my list of graffiti suspects, which included Finnegan and Wright.
Wannerman’s was having a holiday sale. Cardboard snowflakes hung from the ceiling. Bing Crosby crooned carols. I stared at rows of gloves marked with 40% off tags. I needed size XL, so that halved the selection. Some were cloth, some rubbery. Others had little clips on the side.
“Help you?” asked a young man in a Wannerman’s polo. His khakis had creases sharp enough to cut bread.
“I need gloves,” I said.
“A gift? Or are they for you?”
“For me.”
He glanced at my hands. “Skiing or general use?”
“General,” I said.
“I like these.” He grabbed a pair of black gloves with orange webbing between the fingers. “Try them.” I slid my right hand inside. The bottom inched up, to my wrist bone.
“Too short,” he said. “How about these?”
The pair he handed me were thicker. They covered my wrists. I flexed my fingers. “These are good. Warm.”
“Waterproof too. I mean, don’t stick your hand in a pond while ice fishing.”
“I don’t plan to. Thanks.” Bing Crosby gave way to some breathy singer claiming all she wanted for Christmas was me. I walked to the registers. Damn. The line was ten people long. I looked toward the doors. No. I needed the gloves. Shoppers had carts filled with long johns, mittens, and ski poles. A couple bickered about whether Mary needed another jacket. A child wailed, the only understandable word “Santa.” Ah, the holidays.
I looked at the hats display, two feet away. Mr. Neilly, a town selectman, examined a purple kid’s hat. “I didn’t say he wasn’t capable, Joe, but what kind of example does it set?” I didn’t hear his friend’s answer, but I heard Mr. Neilly’s reply. “He told everyone! Stood in the middle of Suds and gave a speech. That’s not seemly.” I turned away. Settled my eyes on the cashiers. “He’s the chief of police. He should be above reproach.”
“His personal life isn’t your concern,” Joe said.
“Next!” a cashier called. Everyone took a step forward. Could I sneak past? Put the gloves down and walk out?
“If he kept it private, it wouldn’t be a problem. He announced he was gay in a bar!”
The woman in front of me looked Mr. Neilly’s way, a frown on her face. My hands gripped the gloves. Screw this. I wasn’t going to let an octogenarian run me out of a store. I rotated my torso and looked toward the hats. I stared until Mr. Neilly turned and saw me. His face got paler than the store’s cardboard snowflakes.
“Hi, Mr. Neilly!” I called. Everyone heard me. “Holiday shopping?”
He nodded like a marionette. “For my grandchildren.” He came closer. Mustn’t appear rude.
“I’m Joe,” his friend said. Joe was much younger.
“My son,” Mr. Neilly said.
That explained the same nose on their faces. Joe shook my hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.” His father looked like he’d have a heart attack.
“The pleasure’s all mine,” I said. “Happy Holidays.”
The line shifted forward. I hurried to close the gap. Joe and his father went back to the hats. Bing Crosby returned. I got my gloves.
The air outdoors had warmed above freezing. Sunshine bounced off the snow, blinding me. I put my sunglasses on and scanned the street out of habit.
“Chief!” Charles Gallagher shouted. He stood outside the gift shop that sold crystal, jewelry, and ceramic angels. I could live here for twenty years and never go inside. He hurried over, a lavender bag in hand. “Glad I caught you.”
I wished I could say the same. “Shopping?”
He looked at the bag. “Display items for the store. I’ve ordered from our usual place, but they won’t arrive for another week, and we don’t have that kind of time
. So I bought some from Marie’s shop, even though she charges an arm and a leg for them.” He kicked a piece of ice with his boot. “I heard about your car.”
“Suppose everyone has by now.”
“So that’s the second attack this week? Or have there been more?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Just your shop and my car.”
“Dave’s so upset he’s sick.” He squinted against the sun’s glare. “Why now? We’ve lived here twenty-two years.”
“Maybe some idiots got it in their heads to get drunk and stupid.”
“Has there been any word on our report? For the insurance company.”
“Ask Detective Finnegan,” I said. “He’s handling the case.”
“He’s back on it now that the boy’s been found, right?” he asked.
“He’s still helping with that. We need to find who took Cody.”
“Look, I don’t want to be a bother, but we need that report before we can file the claim. We can repaint and restock, but we want to upgrade the back door and we need the insurance money for that. This is our biggest sales season, bigger than Valentine’s.”
“I understand, and—”
“I’m not sure you do. You’ve been here, what, a year? We’ve made Idyll our home for over two decades. We expected more, from the community, and our police.”
Across the street, a huge man caught my eye. Andrew Trabucco, coming out of the toy store. Holy shit. “Mr. Gallagher, I’ve got to go.”
“Wait, Chief—”
I hurried across the street, in front of oncoming cars. Horns honked. Andrew Trabucco had a bag in his hand from Treasure Chest. It was like seeing a serial killer with a length of rope, duct tape, and a hacksaw. He turned left, down the alley between the bank and post office. “Hey!” I said. He stopped.
“I’m Police Chief Lynch. What’s in the bag?” I asked.
“A present.” Wrong answer.
“For who?”
His lower lip stuck out. “My nephew, George.”
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