Idyll Fears

by Stephanie Gayle

  Matt, the owner, carried in two bags of groceries. “Hey, Chief,” he said.

  “Hi, Matt.” Despite my preference for the sub shop, I was inside Papano’s often enough that the owner knew me to say hi and bitch about the weather.

  He pushed through the back doors and reappeared a minute later, while Cisco was handing the counter kid a credit card. Matt said, “Any word on Cody Forrand?”

  “Nope,” I said.

  “Poor parents. Must be out of their heads.” He brightened. “You think they need food? I could send some platters over.”

  “They don’t need food.” Their house was filled with platters. People looking to help decided food was what was needed.

  “Ah, okay. Well, I hope you find him soon.” He began to refill the saltshakers from a big box of salt. He looked up from pouring a steady stream of white crystals. “This guy FBI?” He jerked his head toward Cisco.

  Cisco said, “This guy is FBI.”

  “Ah, good. About time. No offense intended, Chief, but with a kidnapping you want the FBI, right? Those guys probably handle them all the time.”

  “Except Sundays and holidays,” I said. Cisco fought a smile and lost. “Kidding,” I said to Matt.

  “Ah, I gotcha. I gotcha. Probably better go help with your order. You guys have big appetites.” He swung back through the doors.

  Something buzzed. Cisco fished a small phone from his jacket. “Agent Cisco,” he said. “Yeah? They’re sure? Great. No, we’re getting the food. Right. I don’t know.” He covered the bottom half of the phone and asked, “How long?”

  “For the order? Fifteen, twenty minutes.” We’d ordered a lot of hot subs.

  “Twenty,” he said into the phone. “Yeah.” He folded his phone shut and stuffed it into his pocket. Rocked forward onto the balls of his feet.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Tech boys called Waters about the driver video.”

  “They made an ID?” Wow, that was fast.

  “No, but we’ve got a gender. The driver was female.”

  “They’re sure?”

  “Yup. Waters wants us back as fast as possible. Faster, probably. Patience isn’t her strong suit.”

  I yelled at Matt that we needed to get back to the station fast. He yelled back to hold my horses. In the end, we got four bags’ worth of lunch in sixteen minutes.

  Driving with my foot as close to the floor as I dared, I said, “It’s gonna break.”

  “What’s gonna break?” Cisco asked.

  “The case. It has that feel, you know? Like when something you’re trying to tear apart weakens and it’s on the verge of giving?”

  “If you love investigating so much, how come you’re a police chief?” he asked.

  “Long story.”

  “But you love it.”

  “It’s the best feeling there is, when a case like this is about to go down.” It was. Everything tingled, from my scalp to my toes. It felt like it did before a big thunderstorm.

  “The best feeling?” Cisco said. He gave me a look that made me wonder, about more than one thing.

  “Second-best, then.”

  He laughed. I joined him.

  There were eight of us. Me, Waters, Cisco, Wright, Mulberry, Klein, and two agents who’d been chasing tips and had been recalled now that we knew the kidnapper was a woman. The map had been removed from the boards. One now served as a who’s who of all the women attached to the Forrands. Mrs. Forrand, Jane, was front and center. To the right was Jessica, her sister. Above her, Cody’s grandmother, Jane’s mother. Then Mrs. Donner, mother of Cody’s dead CIPA friend, Aaron, was to the left. Under her were Camille Forrester and Kristine Leonard, friends from the Forrands’ Chaplin days.

  “Jessica is out,” Wright said.

  “What if she helped whoever took him?” Waters asked.

  “Anna would’ve seen. They were in the kitchen together the whole time,” he said.

  “Anna’s bright,” I said. “She would’ve noticed if her aunt was acting oddly.”

  “Okay. What about the grandmother?” Waters suggested.

  “She was with her husband,” Klein said. He’d taken her statement at the house yesterday. Had tracked the comings and goings.

  “She might be lying. Could be in it together,” Waters said. “But the Camry was stolen while they were on a shopping trip to New York with some folks from their church.”

  “Doesn’t seem likely,” Mulberry said. It was the first time I’d heard him venture an opinion.

  “That leaves these three.” Wright gestured, pointing to the two Chaplin friends and Mrs. Donner.

  “What do we know about her?” Waters asked, tapping Mrs. Donner’s photo.

  “She had a son, Aaron, same age as Cody,” I said. “He had the same disease. He died earlier this year.”

  “So, she’s, what, looking for a replacement kid?” Waters asked.

  “You think she’d snatch a healthy one,” Cisco said. “Less work.”

  “Did she think the Forrands weren’t looking after him properly?” Waters said. “Start checking her whereabouts on both attempts and see if she could’ve stolen the car.”

  “Mrs. Donner’s crazy,” Klein said. All eyes went to him. “She kept calling Chief Lynch a sinner and telling him he shouldn’t be part of the search.”

  So much for keeping that to ourselves.

  “Sinner?” Waters asked. “She religious?”

  “It appears so,” I said.

  “Huh. What about this one?” she tapped Camille Forrester’s photo.

  Klein said, “She was at the house yesterday. She’s friends with Jessica. They were in the same class together in Chaplin. She’s engaged, due to be married next summer.”

  “A bit busy to be adding a child to the mix,” said the fed who’d just arrived. Hartman? Harmon?

  “That leaves Kristine Leonard,” Waters said. Kristine was a stunner. The one woman whose picture made the guys linger.

  “She was a friend of Peter, the husband,” Klein said.

  “My wife wouldn’t let me have a friend like that,” Wright said.

  “How’d she feel about Cody?” Waters asked.

  Klein shrugged. “She seemed upset, but no more than you’d expect. She kept checking her phone while she was at the house.”

  “Check her out,” Waters said. “The rest of you, focus on Mrs. Donner. She’s been in the house before?”

  Wright said, “Yes. She’d visited before, with Aaron, when he was alive.”

  Klein said, “She had a child with that disease die. Why take another? What kind of person wants that?”

  “A sicko,” Waters said, staring at the pictures, her tone bored.

  “Chief! Telephone!”

  I said, “Let me know what you need,” and walked to my office to pick up my phone. “Chief Lynch.”

  “Chief. I tried calling earlier.” The mayor liked to tell you he’d called and missed you. Lots of our conversations started this way. “That arson on Haywood Court. How’s the investigation coming?”

  “It’s in progress.”

  “Now, I’m sure you and the fire captain are doing your jobs.” He was lumping me in with Hirsch? Must be cold in hell today. “But it seems to me that whoever set that fire did the neighborhood a favor. I mean, let’s not kid ourselves, right? No one wants a pedophile across the street, watching their kids playing on their lawn.”

  “I don’t suppose they do.”

  “I knew you’d understand. I mean, it’s not as though anyone was harmed. The guy got out unhurt.”

  “His pets didn’t, not all of them.”

  “That’s a shame, a real shame. But no loss of human life, right? And I’m sure the house was insured. He was renting. The owners will get insurance money and clean it up, and they can get someone suitable in there.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So we understand each other?”

  “I believe we do. Thanks for calling, Mayor.” He thought he�
�d won me over. That I’d roll on my back like a puppy wanting a belly scratch.

  He’d said: No one wants a pedophile across the street, watching their kids playing on their lawn. Could have just been talk, but it was awfully specific. Across the street. I checked the names Wright had given me. Trabucco lived on the even side of the street. The Flynns and the VanWycks, both families with children, lived on the odd-numbered side, across the street.

  Mrs. Dunsmore was in her office, her back to me. She wrapped her scarf about her neck.

  “Are the Flynns or the VanWycks on Haywood Court friendly with the mayor?” I asked.

  She snorted as she turned. Tucked the end of her scarf further into her coat. “That’s an understatement. Frank VanWyck was best man at the mayor’s wedding. He and the mayor went to school together. Played hockey together. Practically Siamese twins, those two.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Why are you asking?”

  My instinct was to tell her nothing. However, if this shook out the way I thought it would, she’d find out soon enough. “The VanWycks might’ve been involved in that fire.”

  She crossed her arms. Let the idea settle. “If I were you, I’d send one of your detectives to investigate.”

  “They’re working the Forrand kidnapping. They’ve caught a break.”

  She set her purse down on her desk. “Chief, this isn’t going to make you any friends. You’d do better to let Wright or Finnegan talk to the VanWycks.”

  Maybe she was right, but I wasn’t going to make them handle something sticky so I could remain clean. “I’m not looking to win a popularity contest.”

  “No kidding.” She fingered her scarf. Something below. The cross. Damn it.

  In its neighborhood of well-kept homes bedecked with wreaths and holiday lights, the Trabucco house looked awful with its punctured roof and char marks. Glass littered the lawn. The house’s front door hung ajar. It smelled—of burning, of gasoline, and of hatred. The trees that had caught fire nearby were skeletal and charred. The VanWycks’ house, by contrast, looked photo-shoot ready. Candles in the windows. Fir wreath with a red bow on the door.

  Mr. and Mrs. VanWyck were home. They greeted me as if they’d expected my boots to dirty their white carpet. Their living room was cluttered with photos of family and friends. A giant Christmas tree held court, decorated with colored lights. Masses of gifts were gathered below its branches. Santa liked these people very much.

  “Good morning, Chief,” Mrs. VanWyck said. “May I offer you coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  We sat down. I looked at the pictures within reach. One showed the mayor and Mr. VanWyck on the Nipmuc Golf Course. The same course where Cecilia North had been killed months earlier. Next to it was a photo of two kids at the beach. Elementary-school age. They’d had their children late. The VanWycks were my age or older.

  “Mike mentioned you might drop by,” Mr. VanWyck said.

  His wife leaned forward. “He’s such a dear friend.”

  The mayor had told them I’d stop by. Well.

  “When we heard about that man,” Mrs. VanWyck said, “we couldn’t believe it. Of course, we weren’t happy when we heard that the house had been rented. It’s never good for the neighborhood when non-owners live nearby. They just don’t invest the same care into the home.”

  “Then to find out he was a pedophile!” Mr. VanWyck said. “We bought a bicycle for our daughter from him. He helped her choose it. When I think of him helping her test the bikes . . .” He clenched his jaw. “We had to do something.”

  “So you set fire to his house.”

  “No one got hurt,” he said.

  “Animals died, and the fire almost spread to a neighbor’s house. Would’ve, if the firemen hadn’t come so quickly.”

  “I’m sorry about the animals. I love them. As for the danger, you said yourself, our firemen are top-notch.”

  “Why didn’t you ask Mr. Trabucco to move?” I asked.

  He reared back as if I’d slapped him. “What? I’m supposed to ask him to leave the neighborhood? Talk to him like he’s a reasonable human being? He was going to say, ‘Sure. I’ll just pack my things and go’? Really, Chief, I thought you understood about these things.”

  I did understand. Better than him. But I also understood that he’d taken the law into his own hands. Set fire on a windy night when neighbors could’ve lost their houses or lives if the fire had spread. And his arrogance. In assuming I’d stop by, have a chat, and sweep it under the rug. That was what gnawed me.

  I stood. “Would you like to grab your coat?”

  “Coat?” They looked at each other.

  “It’s cold outside.” They stared at me, confused. “We’re going to the station.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I’m arresting you, on suspicion of arson.”

  “But you talked with Mike. He told us.”

  “Mrs. VanWyck, you may stay here.”

  “This is absurd!” She stood. “That man was going to harm our children!”

  They shouted a bit more. I waited them out. Mr. VanWyck saw I wouldn’t be moved. “You’re making a mistake,” he said.

  I didn’t handcuff him, but I seated him in the back of my car. When he was settled, I asked, “You friends with the district attorney?”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s the one who decides whether to prosecute. I thought the mayor might’ve mentioned that.”

  He didn’t respond.

  The Santa-hatted dispatcher, John Miller, greeted Mr. VanWyck when we came through the door. “Hi!” I knew he aimed his greeting at Mr. VanWyck, because he’d never smiled at me like that.

  Mr. VanWyck said, “Hello, John.”

  “Here for the Toys for Tots drive?” John asked.

  “Already contributed,” Mr. VanWyck said. “Perhaps not next year,” he said, his voice low. A threat.

  Fine. “Let’s get you into an interview room.” I didn’t lower my voice. I could play games too.

  Every cop inside watched as I walked in lockstep with him to the back of the station. Agent Waters called out, “Forrand case?” Her tone implying I’d best not be leaving her out of the loop.

  “Arson investigation. Unrelated.”

  She turned her attention back to whatever I’d interrupted.

  I took Mr. VanWyck to the room we used for interviews. It had a scarred table, two plastic chairs, and an ashtray. It smelled of stale cigarettes, sweat, and disinfectant.

  “I’ll send a detective in to take your statement.”

  He looked toward the window, set high in the wall. “I think I’d like to speak to my attorney first.”

  “Sure thing. You have a cell phone?”

  He withdrew one from the breast pocket of his camel-hair coat. Flipped it open and peered at the tiny keypad. “Do you mind?” He looked at me and then at the door.

  “There’s no expectation of privacy here. I could insist you use the pay phone in the hallway.” That phone didn’t work. We let the rare perps who had an attorney use our desk phones. He didn’t know that. Why would he?

  He punched a button. I heard the phone ring once, twice before a calm voice answered. He said, “Douglas, I need you. I’m at the Idyll Police Station. No. Nothing like that. Can you come now? Yes. Thanks.” He flexed his hand, snapping the phone closed.

  “Would you care for a beverage?” I asked. “We have water and very bad coffee.”

  He smiled, but it didn’t extend past his mouth. “No.”

  “Very well. Have a seat. I’ll show your attorney in once he arrives.”

  “What’s with that?” Finnegan asked when I reached the pen. Waters pinned a picture of Aaron Donner on the board beside the photo of his mother. Looked like we had a target in view.

  “Meet our arsonist, Mr. VanWyck,” I said.

  Wright groaned. Finnegan laughed, but it wasn’t happy. “You know he and the mayor are blood brothers?” Finnegan asked.

 
“He confessed, in front of me. What should I have done? Left him at home?”

  “He confessed?” Wright said.

  Cisco grinned. “Wow. You small-town cops have it easy. You show up and people just confess?”

  Waters smacked his shoulder and said, “Play nice.”

  “He seemed to think he had nothing to hide,” I said.

  “He lawyer up?” Finny asked.

  “Just did.”

  Wright massaged his brow. “You want to explain to my kids that Santa couldn’t afford gifts this year after I get fired?”

  “Why would you get fired?” Cisco asked.

  “Because it’s my case and I have to go in there and grill the man who donated the money we used to start the anti-drug program in our schools. The same man who cuts a $2,500 check to the Toys for Tots program each year.”

  “Maybe not next year,” I said.

  “Let me do it,” Finnegan said. He adjusted his awful tie. “I’m part-time.” Waters looked at him with admiration. He didn’t notice.

  “It’s my case,” Wright said. “My bullet.”

  I liked him better in that moment than I ever had.

  He shook his head. “Let’s just hope he has the good sense to keep his mouth shut. And let’s hope he wore gloves when he set the damn fire.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Mr. VanWyck kept his mouth shut with his lawyer by his side. Wright let him go after forty-five minutes of fruitless questions. When he returned to his desk, he cracked his knuckles and muttered, “Lawyers.” Then he said, “What now?” to Waters. Finnegan handed him a gold pen. Wright stared at it in confusion.

  “Early going-away present,” Finnegan said, deadpan.

  Wright tossed it at him. “Fuck you, Finny.”

  Finnegan laughed. Waters snickered.

  My office had a stack of messages with the mayor’s name on them. I wasn’t naive—I’d worked long enough to know a thing or two about politics. The mayor would go nuclear when he found out I’d dragged his buddy in the station. I was in the right, but right yields to might, and I wasn’t winning popularity contests with my rainbow flag. So, to save Wright and myself, I walked my fingers through my Rolodex. Found the name. Dialed the phone.

  “Hello?” His voice sounded old. But then, he was.