Idyll Threats

by Stephanie Gayle

  “Upset? My daughter is dead. And the person who shot her is still out there.” He waved his arm toward the open door. “And he’s happy! Because he got away with it. Don’t tell me you understand. Tell me you’ve found her killer.”

  Through the doorway I saw a small crowd had assembled. Damn gawkers. “Sir, I think perhaps you should go home.”

  He said, “I think you should—”

  “Mr. North?” Mrs. Dunsmore appeared at his elbow, a steaming cup in her hands. “Would you care for a cup of coffee? I was just having some. I could pour you another.”

  He started and looked down at her creased face. Then he brushed his shirtfront and said, “No, I, no, thank you.” He left the room and the spectators scuttled.

  “Poor man,” she said. We watched him walk away. His posture had slackened, his head and shoulders bowed low.

  “Thanks,” I said. Her timing had been impeccable.

  Mrs. Dunsmore turned to me. “Word has it you paid Elmore Fenworth a visit.”

  “Yes.” Small town. I should’ve known word would get out.

  “What about?” she asked.

  None of your damn business.

  She continued. “I hope you’ve managed to convince him we’re not hiding the remains of extraterrestrials.”

  I don’t think I had. Though there was no evidence of aliens in our basement, Elmore had seemed encouraged by his visit.

  Annoyed by my silence, she huffed and said, “Have you reviewed the folders? The Idyll Days review committee meets tonight. Seven p.m., Porter Room, Town Hall. You’d better be up to speed.”

  Was she serious? I sighed. “You heard Mr. North. You think I should spend hours reading about the pony-ride location rather than work his daughter’s murder?”

  She blew at the steam escaping her coffee cup. “Very well. You solve the murder, and I’ll create the work detail.” She picked up the folders.

  “Deal.”

  So Dunsmore knew I’d visited Elmore. What other visits had she and the town gossips logged? I tugged at a hangnail. If they paid careful attention, they’d notice a pattern soon. All men. Mostly single. With one common denominator. Shit. I tugged harder, and the hangnail came loose. Blood welled in the exposed slit of raw skin.

  “Oh, here,” she said, handing me a pink message slip. “Techs called earlier. Something about a button.”

  A button? She was gone by the time I remembered. The button from the cabin. I’d grabbed it along with the Coke cans. I swung by the pen. Wright was on the phone. He looked up when I came in, then back down. I hadn’t forgotten what he’d said about me being dirty. Revere sat, tracing an area map, muttering under his breath.

  They didn’t like me. So what?

  I set Cecilia North’s diary on Revere’s desk. He glanced at it. “What’s this?”

  “Victim’s diary. Her sister brought it to me last night.”

  He cracked the cover. “Anything good?”

  Wright had the phone to his ear, but he was listening to us.

  “Just the details of her affair with Gary Clark.”

  “No shit,” Wright said. Whoever was on the phone heard him. “Sorry. I have to go. Call you back.” He hung up.

  “Get Finnegan in,” I said. “Start reviewing Clark’s alibi. I’m going to visit the techs. Seems they might have some info on the button I found at the cabin.”

  “Bring them sugar,” Revere advised, looking up from the diary. “They live off it.” His words were warmer. Maybe we weren’t friends. But we were no longer enemies.

  I followed his advice and picked up two boxes of donuts, bear claws, and crullers. Sure enough, the techs loved it. They mumbled their thanks through full mouths.

  When I asked about my button, I was directed to a dark-eyed man who looked like a lumberjack. He gave me a once-over and said, “New here?” He was fit. Had nice teeth. He needed a haircut, though.

  “A recent addition to Idyll,” I said.

  He gave me another going over, eyes lingering on my groin. “Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m Mike Shannon.”

  “Thomas Lynch.”

  We shook hands. As I pulled away, he ran his middle finger across my palm. A jolt shot through me.

  “A pleasure.” My pants were tight. I adjusted my stance. “Now, about my report?”

  “You want Dave.” He pointed to a corner. “Good luck.” His tone implied I’d need it.

  The corner was an alternate universe. Cartoons featuring crime scenes covered two walls. Star Wars figures were arranged in rows on a low bench. Dave, a pale man in a lab coat, fiddled with a microscope and ignored me. His mug had a chemical equation on it I didn’t understand. Beside it, six nutrition bars were stacked.

  “Do you want something, or do you enjoy hovering over people while they work?” He turned. He had a face full of freckles and wore glasses thicker than double-paned windows. The freckles formed shapes. Near his right eye, I saw a bear.

  “Cruller?” I offered the last of the treats.

  “You know what’s in that thing?” He reached for a nutrition bar. “Six grams of saturated plus trans fat. That’s a third of your day’s worth.” He unwrapped his bar. “Whereas this little bar has twenty percent of my protein and only three grams of fat.” Perhaps, but it looked like raisin-studded feces.

  “You did a report for me, on a button found at the Sutter cabin?” I asked.

  “Which?”

  I had the report request. I recited the number for him.

  His eyes got bigger behind his lenses. “Ah, right. It came from a pale-blue Ralph Lauren man’s dress shirt. Style 4281906.”

  “You sure?”

  He rolled his eyes. “No, I just guessed.” He slapped his palm to his forehead. “Of course, I’m sure. We have a guy in the office with a similar shirt. From there it was just a matter of search and match.”

  “That’s great. What about the soda cans?”

  “No joy. Your girl’s prints weren’t on either can.”

  Shit. I couldn’t place her at the cabin without saying I’d seen her there.

  He bit his bar. Whatever it was made of, it required lots of chewing. He swallowed. He swiveled his chair and rolled it to a file cabinet. A magnet on it read THE NERDS WILL INHERIT THE EARTH. He looked at the files. “Here.” He pulled one out. “You thought the victim was near Hought’s Pond. The gravel in her sneakers is conclusive. They have a special type of rock, imported when they first landscaped the area, ages ago. The only other place she would’ve encountered it would be in Vermont.”

  “That’s great!” From the pond to the cabin was a logical leap. I’d have preferred fingerprints on the soda can, but this would do.

  He said, “You want the fiber report too?”

  I checked my report. “There’s nothing about fibers in here.”

  “You didn’t ask. I thought of that myself. The cabin and the golf course are miles apart. I figured if she was in a car, maybe her clothes had fibers from it. Her shoes were unlikely. Fibers only stay there between five and thirty minutes. After that—” he closed his hand and then opened his fingers, “poof! Gone.”

  “Did you find car fibers on her clothes?”

  “Yup.” He bit the bar and took his time chewing. He was enjoying this little power play.

  “And?” I said.

  He picked up a pen. Clicked and unclicked the end. “She had fibers on the seat of her pants and the left arm of her shirt.”

  “Can you match it to a car type?”

  “I can do better than that. Using polarized light, cross-sectioning, and dye extraction, I found your car.” He pushed his glasses up. “It’s a Honda Accord. Gray. Brand-new model. That gave me some trouble. I was checking the ninety-sixes. They changed the upholstery in the new model.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He brushed a crumb from his lab coat. “Dye extraction doesn’t lie.”

  “Can I have a copy of that report?”

  “Sure.”

  I tucked t
he warm copy papers inside my jacket and dialed Jenna Dash from a phone in the lab’s hallway. She was surprised to hear from me. Even more surprised by my lunch invitation. We agreed to meet at a small Italian place she recommended near her work.

  I was sitting at an off-balance table, deciding between chicken parmigiana and gnocchi, when she came in. She smelled of pencil shavings and her hair was down.

  “So,” she said, picking up her menu.

  “Relax,” I said. “Take a minute. Get a drink. Place your order.” When our server arrived, he welcomed Jenna and asked what we’d have. She ordered a Caesar salad. I chose the gnocchi. “You ought to have more than a salad,” he said to Jenna. “You’re gonna disappear. You don’t eat enough protein.” She turned red and said she was fine. She leaned against the table and it tipped toward her. The waiter apologized and stuck a matchbook under one of the legs. He said sorry again and left, looking over his shoulder. He liked her. Her face showed no recognition. She didn’t realize. Civvies are so damn unobservant.

  I told Jenna about Gary and Cecilia’s relationship.

  “Oh,” she said, eyes glued to the waterproof, gingham tablecloth. “I wondered. I mean, he was very familiar with her. But she never said, so I didn’t want to speculate.”

  Then I told her how Gary had lied to us. She’d been in his car the night she died. Jenna listened, her hands folded in her lap. When I’d finished, she said, “How can I help?”

  “Has anyone else been talking about him at work? Any gossip?”

  “I don’t really mingle at work.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. Right. She’d said as much, before.

  “Maybe you can see if everything seems kosher. Any complaints from other female staff, that sort of thing.”

  “I don’t have access to HR stuff. In fact, I only have access to the studies I run, except—” She bit her lip. “I could review his accounts. I shouldn’t be able to, but I got access months ago for a report I was running and they forgot to close me out. The IT guys are too busy playing around in chat rooms to monitor that stuff.” I couldn’t ask her to look at his private files. She said, “I doubt it will be of help, but I’ll take a look tonight. You think he killed her?”

  “He was having an affair with her. He lied about it, and now she’s dead. We call that a one-plus-one where I work.”

  She considered it. “A one-plus-one. Huh.”

  I didn’t talk about the case after our food came. I asked about her background and whether she thought she’d stay in insurance. She said it was good for now, but she might like to get her Master’s in information science. “Don’t suppose you’d like to be a cop?” I asked.

  Her hair fanned out as she shook her head. “Um, no. It seems kind of macho, and besides—”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d look terrible in the uniform.”

  I lowered my voice. “Here’s a secret. All cops look terrible in uniform. That’s why everyone wants to be a detective. So they don’t have to wear one.”

  “You look good in your uniform.” She coughed. “I mean, it suits you.”

  “Thanks, but even I wanted to be a detective to get out of it.” Both true and not. One of my happier days was putting on a uniform the day I graduated the academy. But I’d enjoyed trading the required polyester blend for a bad shirt of my own. Was happy to move from busting check kiters and spouse abusers to locking up killers. It felt grander, more important. Just doing this: getting background on Gary Clark, felt right. I hadn’t prevented Cecilia North’s death. I might have precipitated it with my cabin intrusion. But I could nail the son of a bitch who’d killed her. Earn back my uniform.

  1600 HOURS

  When I reached the station, I went straight to the pen. Billy was sorting messages from the tip line into piles labeled: Follow up, Maybe, and Crazy Town. So they’d found a use for him. “Hi, Chief,” he said. “How’s things?” Apparently he didn’t think I was dirty. Not with that smile.

  “As I’m sure you know, the victim’s father paid a visit to our station today,” I said. Everyone but Revere straightened. Finnegan pulled at his lapels; making his suit skew to the right. “He was upset, and he had a right to be.”

  Billy said, “That’s not fair.”

  Revere said, “Yes, it is. We’ve got bupkis. No murder weapon. No forensics to tie to a suspect.”

  “We have forensics now.” I told them about the dress-shirt button. “Plus, lab rats found fibers on Cecilia’s clothes. They came from a gray 1997 Honda Accord.”

  “Holy shit,” Finnegan said. He knew what Gary drove, thanks to his car-accident story. “She was in Gary Clark’s car?”

  “The night she died,” I said. “So let’s get everything we can on him. Pronto. Billy, stop playing with those papers. Help Wright.”

  “With what?” Wright asked.

  “With Clark’s work history. Any accusations of sexual harassment? Cecilia probably wasn’t his first office romance. How’s his home life? What’s the wife do?”

  Revere asked, “What should I do?”

  “Check to see if he owns or has access to a gun.”

  “You gonna pull him in?” Revere picked up a rubber band. Began stretching it.

  “I’d like more evidence before we tip our hand.”

  “He’s got an alibi,” Wright said. He hadn’t moved an inch. Billy watched him, awaiting orders.

  “I’m going to bust it. Finnegan, you got the names and addresses of his poker buddies?”

  He did. He gave me the list.

  “What makes you think you’re gonna break his alibi?” Wright asked. He had that tone he’d used on Revere. The one that asked, why do you think you’re better than me? God, he had a complex. And I was tired of coddling it and him.

  “One of these guys will recant his statement. Once I apply some pressure.”

  He made a noise. Not quite a snort. Not quite a cough. “Wright, you got something you want to say?” I asked.

  He said, “No.”

  I took a step closer to his desk. “Didn’t think so. You’re the kind that prefers to talk behind a man’s back. Accuse a cop of being dirty, but never ask him outright.” His eyes got big. Finnegan wriggled in his chair, like a worm on a hook.

  Revere looked from one to the other. “You guys thought he was dirty?” He pointed to me. Billy stared, open-mouthed. They said nothing. Revere gave an aw-shucks shake of his head. “You could’ve asked me,” he said. “I’d have told you he wasn’t.” Under his breath he said, “You think I didn’t check?”

  “How were we—” Wright began.

  “Shut up,” Finnegan said. “Sorry, Chief.” His face got extra bulldog jowly as he offered the apology.

  “Right. Have any of Clark’s friends done time?” I asked him.

  Finnegan tugged his earlobe. “Nah. They’re a clean-cut bunch. Nine-to-fivers with mortgages and families.” He sounded relieved I’d brought the talk back to business.

  “Any of them divorced?” I asked.

  “One, I think. Pat Davenport.”

  “Custody issues?”

  He said, “No idea. Didn’t come up. Why?”

  Why? Because I was looking for leverage. I needed a weakness to exploit. And a man’s custody privileges are a good bet. Assuming he loves his kids.

  Pat Davenport loved his kids. He had photos of them all over his office. It appeared that his gap-toothed daughter fancied T-ball, and his toddler son enjoyed drooling.

  He had a corner office on a used-car lot. Giant banners outside advertised once-in-a-lifetime sales and crazy-low financing. The banners shifted and swayed in the wind.

  “Detective,” he said.

  “Chief of police,” I said.

  “Chief.” He sat after I did. “How may I help you?”

  “Your kids?” I pointed to a picture of the two, leaning drunkenly into each other beneath an over-decorated Christmas tree.

  His eyes flicked to the photo. His face relaxed. “Yeah.”

  “Must be
a handful.”

  He looked away from the photo. “They can be.”

  I looked outside, where a balloon arch swayed over a row of Jeeps. “How’s business?”

  His face tightened. “Good. Look, Chief, can I help you with something?” He arranged objects on his desk, trying to look casual. Failing big time.

  “You know what the punishment for obstruction of justice is?” I said. His whole body tensed. “I don’t. Sentencing isn’t really my area. But I can tell you this. Men who have every-other-weekend custody of their kids often find they have no custody after they’ve been charged with a crime.” I drummed my fingers on his desktop. “Sad how society always favors mothers in these cases, isn’t it?”

  “Why are you threatening me?” Sweat dotted his upper lip.

  “I’m not threatening you, Mr. Davenport. We found out that Gary Clark wasn’t playing poker with you as you testified. There will be consequences. But hey, no custody means you’ll have a lot of free time, am I right? You can play poker all weekend.”

  “I don’t have anything to say.” His hands weren’t steady. He was on the edge and just needed a tiny nudge.

  “You know, before I file a report, maybe I’ll call your ex-wife. Let her know what you’ve been up to. Family court is really the proper place to rearrange custody-visitation issues, right?”

  “All right!” He held up his hands. “Okay! Gary left the game early.”

  A surge of energy made it hard to remain sitting. “So when did he leave?” My foot tapped the floor.

  “Nine p.m. Sometime around then. We’d barely eaten the pizzas when he got a call and told us he had to go.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No.”

  “But you knew.” I drummed my fingers.

  He winced. “Yeah. We all did. He was seeing a girl from his office. He asked us to keep our mouths shut, so we did.”

  “Even when you knew the girl had been murdered.”

  He ran his hands through his receding hair. “Look! Gary isn’t violent. I swear. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “You’ll need to come to the station and make a statement.”

  He cleared his throat. “Am I in trouble? Do I need a lawyer?”