Idyll Threats

by Stephanie Gayle

  Suds was quiet. The bar was closed. Next door, the Laundromat was occupied by the few people whose washing machines or driers had died recently.

  “Hey, Nate,” I said. “You have a pet?”

  “Yup. An Irish setter named Lewis.” He didn’t raise his head. He fiddled with one of the tap lines below the bar. Something was clogged or stopped. I’d tuned out as soon as he’d started talking wrench sizes. “I named him after Meriwether Lewis. Dumb dog gets lost going to the front yard.” Something clanked and he cursed. “Why—you in the market for one?” he asked.

  “Not exactly.” My mind had just been circling animals. The ones my dead girl had tried to save. The cats Tiffany Haines peddled. And let’s not forget Mrs. Ashworth’s dogs.

  “There’s a breeder over near Windsor,” Nate said. He stood. He held a rag in one hand and a wrench in the other. His hair was tied back with two leather strips today. He wiped his forearm against his brow. “I could ask if they’re expecting pups.”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’d probably get a mutt.” Because last week Tiffany Haines had told me how many pets are abandoned each year. How many mixed-breeds need a loving home. Not that I needed a dog. Hardly.

  “Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”

  “Thanks. Think I’ll get my laundry.” I’d dropped off an enormous load three days ago after I’d made the mistake of sniffing my sheets. I set some bills on the counter, thanked Nate for the coffee, and walked next door, where it was ten degrees warmer and the air smelled of fabric softener. Lucy stood, her back to me, arranging dress shirts on a rod.

  “Morning, Lucy.”

  She turned, and I saw she wore no makeup. Her face was pale with freckles by her nose. Her brown eyes looked bigger. Her mouth was naturally red. God, she was pretty. Even with her purple hair.

  “Don’t.” She held up a finger to her mouth.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t say whatever you were about to say about my face. I’ve had enough this morning.”

  “Okay.” But she looked so much better without that white mask she always wore. “I’m here for my laundry.”

  She walked to the corner, where two bulging bags stood. Both mine.

  “Some of this stuff really needed cleaning.” Lucy set the bags down near me.

  “Hey, I don’t talk about your makeup; you leave my cleaning habits alone.”

  “Fine. But maybe you should bring the towels in sooner next time. They practically marched into the machines.”

  “Yeah? Well, you look awfully pretty today.”

  She slapped her hands over her ears.

  I mouthed words at her until curiosity got the better of her and she uncovered her ears. “What?”

  “What grade are you in?” It occurred to me that Lucy might know some things.

  “Eleventh. Why?”

  “You know Chris Warren?”

  Her hands tensed around a garment bag. “Yeah. He’s a year below me.”

  “Any thoughts on him?”

  She glanced at the patrons. Two read magazines while they waited for their machine cycles to end. The third folded towels on a square table. “Why you asking?”

  “I think he might be involved in something.”

  “Something bad?”

  “Yes.”

  “That would be him. Everyone thinks he’s a great kid, but underneath it all he’s a psycho.” Her voice was low, the words fast.

  “Psycho? How?”

  “He manipulates people, even teachers. Everything he does is about him, but no one sees it. He volunteered at this charity rockathon. You stay up all night, on rocking chairs, to raise money for cancer research. He raised the most. But he took a cut. I heard him tell people there was an administrative fee for their donation. Which was total bullshit. He pocketed the money.”

  “Did he get caught?”

  She bit her lower lip. “He claimed it was a misunderstanding. Gave the money back. But he probably got it from his parents. They’re loaded. His dad owns some software company.”

  Embezzling from a charity was bad behavior, but not blueprint-of-a-killer stuff. “Anything else?”

  She picked up a pen, tapped it on the counter. “I caught him blowing up frogs with fireworks once. Plus, he ruined Jennifer Gilmore’s reputation. He asked her out. She said no. Next thing you know, everyone at school is calling her a slut and claiming she slept with half the football team. Which isn’t true. Chris started the rumors. When he doesn’t get what he wants, he gets nasty.”

  “Interesting.”

  “What’s awful is that most people think he’s like, amazing. I mean, on paper he looks good.” She tapped the pen faster. “Does well in school, plays sports, has friends. But behind it all, he’s just not right.” She tapped the counter harder. Noticed what she was doing. Stopped.

  “He bother you?” I asked. She seemed too upset for this not to be personal.

  Her nod was small, a quick bob of the head. “We went on a date, two years ago. He asked me out for weeks and weeks, and finally I said okay. His parents drove us to the movies. Billy Madison, with Adam Sandler.” Her voice was wooden. Her face flushed. “He, uh, took my hand and tried to push it into—”

  In a low voice I said, “His pants?”

  Her head jerked, as if pulled by a string. “Yeah. I tried to pull my hand back. But he wouldn’t let go. It hurt. He kept…and so I squeezed him, hard, and then yanked my hand back. He zipped up and then he left.”

  “Left?”

  “Called his parents. Told them I had left him and gone home. He stranded me there. I had to call a cab because my parents had gone out that night. The next day at school, everyone is looking at me. Whispering.” She blinked fast, several times. “My wrist was all bruised.”

  “What did he tell them?” Another slut story?

  “He told them I was a Satanist. That I’d tried to get him to sacrifice a puppy with me. And those idiots believed him. Wanted to believe him. It’s much more fun to gossip about someone than actually investigate. After four months of being called ‘Satan Girl’ and finding pictures of dead animals in my locker, I decided to give them what they wanted. Went fully Goth. The makeup. The clothes. And then they backed off. Started acting afraid.”

  “And today?” I asked, gesturing to her bare face.

  She huffed. “I have to visit my grandmother after work. My mother won’t let me wear makeup when I see her.” She pushed her hair forward, the better to hide her beauty.

  “Thanks for telling me,” I said.

  She watched me from behind her hair. “You going to nail him?” she asked.

  “I hope to.”

  “Good.” She smiled. Her teeth were as white as her absent face powder.

  An hour later, I took my suspicions with me to work.

  “Anybody know this kid?” I push-pinned a photocopy of Christopher Warren’s yearbook photo onto the crime board.

  Billy’s brow wrinkled. “Chris Warren. I coached him at soccer camp a few years back.”

  “Anyone else?”

  Wright rubbed the corners of his eyes. “Isn’t that one of the kids you busted at the golf course?”

  “Yup.”

  Finnegan wiped pizza grease from his chin. “You think he’s involved?”

  “He wears distinctive sneakers. I think they’re a match for those at the crime scene.”

  “What do the techs say?” Wright asked.

  “Their print expert is out now.”

  Finnegan chewed another slice of pepperoni-and-pineapple. His combos were disgusting. No one would share. He always ended up with extra slices. Those of us who ordered normal pizzas never had leftovers. They got poached.

  Billy said, “Chris is a good kid. He’s on the honor roll. He raised like two grand last year for cancer research at this school fundraiser they had. I don’t think—”

  “He fits the profile.” I chafed my hands. “So far, we know he was at the golf course, looking to remove eviden
ce. He also claimed to have seen a flashlight no one else saw.”

  “That’s not evidence of a crime,” Finnegan said. He set his pizza down. “What about the three other kids you caught? You think they were in on it, too?”

  No. I couldn’t picture Tiffany Haines shooting someone. “I think he was playing me,” I said. It sounded lame, even to my ears.

  “What about the gun?” Wright asked. “He have access?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Wright scratched his neck. “What’s his motive?” His question and tone were curious, not hostile. Since we’d partnered on searching Gary Clark’s house, we’d settled into an easier back-and-forth.

  I couldn’t tell them about the sex act on the golf course. Not yet. Warren was a minor, and I didn’t have enough on him. “Let’s just keep our eyes and ears open, okay? Now, what’s all this about?” I tapped the picture of Revere on the board. His face was a constellation of dart holes. One dart remained stuck in his left earlobe.

  “Detective Benedict fucking Arnold?” Finnegan said. “No idea.”

  “Look, his station called him back. It wasn’t his call to leave. Okay? Besides, we can solve it without him,” I said. “Any word on the gun?”

  Finnegan said, “They’re ‘cautiously optimistic’ they can lift the serial number. But they wouldn’t say how long it would take.”

  “Okay. Keep pushing. We should have the sneaker confirmation soon. And let’s keep this under wraps.” I tapped Chris’s picture. Thought about it. Removed it from the board. Better to be safe.

  “Mum’s the word,” Finnegan said. Wright nodded.

  “Billy?” I said.

  He met my stare. “I won’t say anything.”

  Their words should’ve reassured me. They didn’t. I didn’t think they’d talk. But not because they didn’t want to. Because they thought I was nuts, pursuing some honor-roll teen for the murder. It didn’t bode well. If I couldn’t convince my fellow cops, how could I hope to convince a district attorney?

  “So this is where you saw the flashlight?” I asked Chris. We were in the wooded area beside the eighth-hole green of the Nipmuc Golf Course. Fallen leaves crunched underfoot. He looked up and down the stretch. “Around here,” he said. Twenty feet from us, in a circle of sunlight, a golfer practiced his swing. The course was in use, but we were away from the action unless someone really shanked it.

  “And how many times did you see the light flash on and off?” I had my notepad out. I kept my voice curious. And while I watched him I thought, “You’re a killer.” The forensic lab had come through on the sneaker treads. A Nike Air Jordan XII sneaker made the 11.5 print. But because the crime-scene print was a partial and not a good one, an exact match to the killer’s shoe might not be possible. So I’d called Chris and asked for his help.

  He scratched his chin. “Six times, maybe seven. Like I said, it flicked on and off. Like someone was looking for something.”

  “We’ve been up and down this strip and haven’t found anything.”

  “Maybe he found it,” he said. “Whatever he was looking for.” He bit his lip. Furrowed his brow. He was trying a little too hard with his concerned-citizen act.

  “Maybe. Damn.” I swatted my notepad against my leg. “This case. I don’t like to admit it, but we’re stuck.”

  “I heard you found the gun,” he said. Did that worry him?

  “Yeah. But the serial number’s been erased. Not much good without it.”

  “Oh, really?” His lips moved upward. A smile he quickly squelched. But not before I saw it.

  “Yeah.” I walked to a damp spot where the ground was softer. Peered at the mud. “If only I knew what he was looking for. The guy whose light you saw.”

  Chris approached. “Maybe a bullet casing?”

  “Nah, we got those.”

  He moved into a patch of sunlight. His ginger hair glowed. Rick’s hair. But he wasn’t like Rick. Rick was weak. He’d fallen to temptation. This kid was cold through and through.

  I looked at the golfers. They chatted about club selection and the weather. “Beautiful day,” I heard for the fourth time. When they saw me, in the trees at the periphery of their putting, they pretended they didn’t. I was a reminder of what had happened here. Heaven forbid they recall that a young woman had bled out on the grass where they enjoyed playing a silly game.

  “Hey, what’s this?” Chris said.

  His voice brought me back. Made me focus. I moved deeper into the woods. He held something in his right hand. “Where’d you find that?” I asked.

  He pointed to a small patch of leaves and twigs. “In here.” He held it out.

  Pop Rocks. Strawberry. The packet damp and dirtied with leaf debris. I pulled a baggie from my rear pocket, and he dropped it inside.

  “You think it’s evidence?” he asked.

  She’d held this packet. As she walked home. It was in her warm hand as she headed home, thoughts of her comfy bed in mind. She’d held on to it until after she exited Gary Clark’s car. Not before she’d reached the cabin, as we’d supposed.

  “Maybe.” I fought to keep my voice neutral.

  “Huh. Maybe that was what the guy was looking for?”

  “A candy packet? I doubt it.” We hadn’t made public the details of her visit to Cumberland Farms. He’d no way to know I realized this was evidence. Evidence the little fucker had given me. With his own hands. So of course his fingerprints would be on it. He was smarter than most.

  I sighed and scratched my hairline. Thought about hitching up my pants, but thought that might be a touch too folksy. “Well, thanks for your help, Chris. I appreciate it. You need a ride home?”

  “No, thanks. I think I’ll walk up to the club. My dad’s usually here by now.”

  I watched him go. Counted to one hundred. And then I radioed to my car, where Mike Shannon waited. “It’s ready.”

  A few minutes later, he appeared. He wore booties and carried a box. “That it?” He nodded at the sneaker prints Christopher Warren had left behind. In the muddy spot I’d lured him to.

  Mike photographed the prints from several angles. “This will cast up nicely,” he said. “And see that mark across the right print? That line?” He snapped another picture. “Something’s cut the tread on his sneaker. Was your crime-scene print a right or left?”

  “Right shoe,” I said.

  “This will do very well indeed.” He put his camera down and unpacked a wooden frame that he set around the print. Next, he mixed up dental stone. He poured the mixture onto the print. “Now we wait.”

  “How long?”

  He checked his watch. “Temperature’s good. Weather’s dry. Half hour, maybe forty minutes to be safe.”

  “Let’s be safe,” I said.

  “So, your killer’s a kid? How’d he know the vic?”

  “I’m not sure he did.”

  He looked over the mold again. “Why’d he kill her, then?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe because he could.” I looked at the evidence baggie and the Pop Rocks packet within. This was the last thing she’d held, before she fell to the grass.

  “Can you take a left print, too?” I asked.

  He crab-walked toward a second print. “You don’t ask for much, do you?”

  “I’ll owe you,” I said.

  He glanced up from the print and grinned. “That you will.”

  I’d uncovered another secret of small-town life. Don’t shop for groceries on the weekend. Everyone and their granny shops at that time. And despite the fact that the grocery, or “market,” as locals say, is the size of Giants Stadium, on a weekend you can’t navigate its two-lane aisles because people park their carts to stare at the nutritional labels on boxes of Twinkies. As if they need to read the label. There shouldn’t even be a label on Twinkies. Just a warning sticker like they have on cigarettes and alcohol.

  The best time to shop is weekday evenings. Place is a ghost town. But I’d missed those due to work, so I settled for a
weekday afternoon. When my only competition was the elderly and some stay-at-home moms and their kids. No problem.

  There was a problem. In the form of an unattended toddler whose cart was parked sideways next to a salsa display. Effectively cutting off the entire aisle. The kid sat in the cart’s seat, tugging at his truck T-shirt. Revealing a flash of whale-white belly when he pulled it up. When he noticed me, he stopped tugging and stared. He had a stare most corner boys would envy.

  I looked for his mother, but there wasn’t anyone in the aisle. I felt strange about moving him out of the way. The kid didn’t know me from Adam. I was just a big, strange man in civvies. I could back up and go to the next aisle, but the milk I wanted was right at the end of this one. And I’d already walked a half mile just to get my six items. I grabbed the cart’s handle and steered it so that it was facing lengthwise, opening up a walking path.

  “Gavin?” a woman cried from behind me.

  The child’s chubby face split into a gummy smile. He kicked his legs and squealed.

  “Gavin!”

  I stepped away from the cart. The mother, dressed in sweats, ran to her child and patted his downy blond hair. “You okay, sweetie?” She turned to fix me with a look.

  “You left him parked in the middle of the aisle,” I said. She didn’t get to glare at me. This was her fault.

  “Baby, did that man touch you?”

  Gavin clapped his hands and said, “Touch! Touch!”

  Oh, God. She turned around and said, “I’m calling the manager.” Her ponytail bobbed with each word.

  I would never shop during the day again. “I moved your cart. It was blocking the whole aisle.”

  She pointed her finger at me. “I don’t know what kind of world we live in, where a mother can’t leave her child for two seconds without a stranger trying to—”

  I was about to tell her exactly what sort of world we lived in. Throw some cold data on her fiery speech. About how many kids are abducted each year, and how little time they’re out of sight when they’re snatched. But before I could, I heard, “Chief Lynch.”

  Mrs. North stood a foot away.

  “Mrs. North,” I said.

  “Chief?” the mother said, her hand on Gavin’s chubby ankles.