Random Road

by Thomas Kies

  The cell phone ringing in my bag stopped me in my tracks.

  I recognized the digital number on the screen immediately. “Mike Dillon? I was just thinking about you.” Yes, I was lying but often that’s what a good reporter does.

  He replied, “Yeah? Why?”

  “I have follow up questions from the interview with Aaron Brenner.”

  “What a coincidence, I have a few things I need to talk to you about as well. I just clocked out early. How about I buy you a drink?”

  “I stopped drinking, you know that.”

  “Bullshit. Do you want a drink?”

  Being cognizant of the scrutiny that I was likely to face at the newspaper due to my past cocktailing indiscretions, I’d honestly planned on tee-totaling the rest of the day. However, meeting Mike for a quick drink certainly wouldn’t do any harm?

  Could it?

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Bricks.”

  “Bricks it is.”

  ***

  As I pulled up in front of the restaurant, daylight was slowly waning, it was overcast and there was an oven-warm breeze drifting in from the Sound. There was a tropical storm moving in from the south and we were looking at several days of heavy rain.

  It was still a few hours from sunset and hot enough that, by the time I walked to the front door from the curb, I was perspiring. Inside the restaurant the air conditioned, recycled air felt like a cold compress on my face.

  Mike was at the bar with a glass of red wine sitting in front of him. I wasn’t certain what time he’d clocked out, but he was already out of his uniform and into khakis and a golf shirt. Ever the gentleman, he stood up and greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. “Hey, Genie. I can’t believe that I’m finally buying you that drink.”

  “And I appreciate it.” I caught the bartender’s eye and ordered vodka on the rocks.

  As we took sips from our respective glasses, Mike began, “So you said you had follow-up questions to the Aaron Brenner interview?”

  The vodka made a warm, familiar fire in my stomach. “How come the Brenners didn’t tell you about their alibi up front? It would have kept them out of jail for the night and saved everyone a lot of time and trouble.”

  Mike took another sip of his Cabernet. “Well, you know Aaron has had some seriously unpleasant confrontations with the law. What better way to embarrass us than to do it in the newspaper?”

  “He’s a man of the cloth,” I countered. “A minister or something.”

  “My ass. Once a con, always a con. I bet he tries to sue the department.”

  “Have you released them yet?”

  He grinned. “Well, we haven’t been able to talk to anyone at Riley’s bar. So far, we haven’t been able to establish the validity of their alibi.”

  “And you’re not in any hurry.”

  Mike slowly shook his head.

  “They’re still in custody.”

  “Much to the dismay of that butch attorney.”

  I looked at him and scowled. “I don’t think she’s a lesbian.”

  He shrugged. “Who would know for sure?”

  “What’s the matter? She’s not interested in you?”

  He leaned forward. “She’s not. Are you?”

  I don’t know why, but he took me by surprise.

  Buying time, I responded, “I have another question.”

  He leaned back again, massaging his cheek. “Shoot.”

  “You got an anonymous call nearly twenty-four hours after the murders telling you where you could find six bodies. Any idea who’s the caller?”

  He took another sip of his wine before he answered. “Someone with a restricted number called city hall and left a message with Mary Carlyle, the town clerk. Whoever it is was smart enough not to call 911. He told her that there were dead people at 104 Smuggler’s Road out on Connor’s Landing. That’s all he said. So no, we don’t know who the caller is.”

  That tells me absolutely nothing.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Yeah, you guys have never said anything about a murder weapon.”

  He looked down at the top of the bar for a moment and then back up at me. “You know that we always hold back some information.”

  “Come on,” I wheedled.

  He ran his finger around the rim of his glass as he spoke. “Multiple weapons used by at least two killers. Remember I said we found two sets of footprints, which by the way, are the same size as the Brenners.”

  “So you’re not convinced they’re innocent.”

  “Nope.”

  “Weapons?” I tried to get back on track.

  “George Chadwick collected antiques. He had an eye for it. He had a special passion for antique military weapons. There’s a whole room filled with them. I saw some of them, beautiful pieces from all over the world, eighteenth-century Navy cutlasses, Middle Eastern scimitars, dueling pistols from the Revolutionary War. It’s a truly remarkable display.”

  I took long sip of my vodka and waited for him to continue.

  “Some of them appear to be missing. We think the killers may have used them to cut up the victims.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Genie, it was as bad in there as I’ve ever seen. There was blood everywhere, on the walls, on the ceiling. I’ve investigated my share of murder scenes. This was the worst.”

  “You haven’t found the weapons yet?

  He shook his head. “The murders took place on an island. Long Island Sound is a pretty good place to hide things. Any other questions?”

  I shook my head and raised my eyebrows as I took another long drink. “Nope.”

  “Well,” he said, “then it’s my turn.”

  “Go.”

  “The stories you’ve written so far? You’ve been uncharacteristically restrained in the, um, sexual overtones of the victims’ relationships.”

  “You mean the fact that they were swingers?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, you haven’t mentioned a word of it in any of your stories.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Is it going to continue along that line?”

  I looked at him with curiosity, wondering where the hell this was headed. “Once the Brenners were arrested, the sexual overtones of the murders became an integral part the story, didn’t they? Why is this of interest to you?”

  He tapped his fingers against the polished wood grain of the bar. “I got a phone call from an old friend of mine this afternoon, Larry Abernathy, the headmaster of the Handley Academy.”

  The Handley Academy is the preeminent prep school in this part of Connecticut. It’s where the really rich parents sent their kids.

  “He was asking if I had any pull with the local press.”

  “Do you?” I batted my eyes.

  “Larry knows that he might not be able to keep the school’s name out of the newspaper. But he was hoping to have it mentioned a minimal number of times.”

  I didn’t want to sound stupid, but I didn’t know how else to ask the question. “Why would I mention it at all?”

  Mike cocked his head to one side. “Two of the Connor’s Landing victims, Kit and Kathy Webster. They were both teachers at the Handley Academy.”

  Oh?

  “Larry Abernathy is worried how it will look if it gets out that two of their teachers were sexual deviates.”

  I took a deep gulp of my drink. “They were swingers. I’m not sure if what they were doing qualifies the two of them as deviates. But I understand why your friend is concerned. How does this affect you?”

  “I’m trying to get my thirteen year-old son, David, into Handley.”

  Now how in hell does Mike think he can afford to send his son to Handley?

  “Is this a conflict of interest, Mike?”

  �
��No,” he stated flatly.

  I didn’t agree but I decided not to disagree either. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  He finished his glass of wine and pushed it forward on the bar. Then Mike caught the bartender’s eye and motioned that he’d like a refill. “Look, I’m not asking you to do this without something in return.” He turned his attention back to me. “Remember the blind woman who chased away the burglar a couple of nights ago?”

  “Isadora Orleans,” I answered. “What about her?”

  “We’ve been interviewing some of the neighbors to see if anyone remembered anything unusual about that night. One of them recalls seeing a sports car driving away from the scene at a high rate of speed. A convertible.”

  I smiled condescendingly. “That’s not a lot, Mike. That’s all the neighbor said? It was some kind of generic sports car with a rag top? Did the neighbor at least get a partial plate?”

  “Neighbor thinks that maybe there was dark plastic taped over the plate…oh, and the car looked expensive.”

  “Well, that’s a whole lot of nothing.”

  He put his hand on mine. “I’ve got something else.”

  “Wow me.”

  “An old friend of yours got busted this afternoon. A police report hasn’t been issued yet.”

  “Who?” I was suddenly interested.

  “Jimmy Fitzgerald.”

  The rich kid from Greenwich whose old man bought his way out of a manslaughter rap after he ran over the mother of three kids with his Porsche. Yeah, that got my attention.

  Hearing the name, I got a little tingle. “What was the young Mr. Fitzgerald busted for?” I was already amused.

  “Selling methamphetamines to an undercover agent.” Mike drained the last of his wine.

  “That scamp.”

  Mike said, “Jimmy’s been marketing the stuff on the Internet and selling it off his daddy’s fifty-two foot Hatteras yacht out at Indian Cove Marina.”

  Before the bartender brought Mike another Cabernet, I finished my vodka and asked for a refill.

  Then I mused, “I don’t get it. Here’s a kid who has everything and I mean everything. Why the hell does he feel the need to deal drugs?”

  As the young man behind the bar dropped off our drinks, Mike answered, “I don’t know. I think rich kids get bored. They already feel detached from the rest of the world, better than everyone else. They don’t know where the boundaries are or they don’t care. Maybe for them, the rules don’t apply.”

  “So is Jimmy’s dad going to buy his way out of this one?

  Mike pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his sport coat pocket and handed it to me. “A copy of Jimmy’s arrest report.”

  Ah, a scoop.

  “And in return, I show restraint using the Handley Academy name?”

  “I’m not asking that you don’t print it. Just don’t beat it to death.”

  Hell, up until a few minutes ago, I didn’t care where Kit and Kathy Webster had worked. What is Mike getting out of this? A break on tuition, a scholarship? Maybe he thinks if he can get the kid into Handley, he can buy himself another chance with his estranged wife?

  I took the copy of the arrest report from Mike’s hand. “I’ll see what I can do.” I tucked it into my bag, and I looked up at him. “So you don’t have to answer me or nothing, but you doing okay?”

  He knew what I was asking about and he nodded. “Yeah. Beth and I were married for over fourteen years. Everything has a life cycle. Nothing lasts forever.”

  I looked at him and knew him well enough to see that he was lying. “It’s none of my business, but whose idea was it to call it quits?”

  Rude of me to ask. I knew that. It’s the reporter in me.

  “She moved in with the guy who does our taxes, for Christ’s sake,” he answered. “But I really don’t blame her. Being married to a cop is the worst. I work all hours, she never knows where I am. Hell, there were some nights she was afraid that the next time she saw me would be in a body bag. It’s stressful as hell and on top of that I can be a real pain in the ass.”

  I smiled. “And the bean counter is an exact opposite.”

  “So, I find myself back on the market.” He reached out and took my hand.

  I gently took my hand back and then placed it on his cheek. I looked right into his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mike, but I’m in love with Kevin Bell. I don’t want to screw that up. Plus you’re on the rebound.”

  He took my hand off his cheek and kissed my fingers. “I know,” he whispered.

  “But you’re a hell of catch, Mike Dillon.”

  He smiled. “You change your mind, let me know, okay?”

  I gently kissed him on the cheek. “It’s a deal.”

  ***

  Back in my office, I managed to keep away from both Laura Ostrowski and Casper Staples. My breath was covered by the handful of Altoids I was chewing on, but I was a little concerned about the lush flush on my cheeks.

  I took enormous delight in writing up the story about Jimmy Fitzgerald. I even tried to call his father for a statement. Whoever answered the phone claimed that the elder Mr. Fitzgerald was in a meeting, but a press release would be issued sometime in the morning.

  It must be nice to have your own PR firm at your disposal.

  Then I went back into our computer records and dug out pictures of the Connor’s Landing victims. I was particularly interested in Kit and Kathy Webster, the teachers from the Handley Academy.

  The photos I was looking at were school publicity shots. But it was easy to see, even though they were both in their early forties, Kit and Kathy made an attractive couple. They were both blond, had big eyes, and bright smiles. He wore his hair cropped close to his scalp and wore a pair of dashing wireframe glasses. She wore her curly hair long in a way that made her look younger than her age. The expression on her face looked both worldly and mischievous all at the same time.

  They were a good looking couple, much too pretty to die in such a horrible way.

  I saved the photos in my Connor’s Landing file.

  And then I rushed out to meet Kevin for what would turn out to be the unique dinner of my life.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Kevin was full of surprises.

  At a little after six-thirty he came to my place to pick me up for dinner. He’d told me that he’d drive even though it was illegal, so that was expected.

  What was totally unexpected was the car he came in.

  Instead of his beat-to-crap work truck, Kevin pulled up to the curb in a gunmetal blue, BMW Z4 convertible.

  I was sitting in a wicker chair on the front porch of my apartment house waiting for him with a glass of Pinot Grigio in my hand. Seeing him roar up in that expensive sports car was surprise enough, but it was replaced with complete shock and awe when he opened the door and got out wearing a tuxedo.

  I stood and watched him stride up the sidewalk. The words wickedly handsome came to my mind. “Hey, Kevin Bell,” I called out. “You look just like James freakin’ Bond.”

  He sauntered up the steps of the porch and swept me into his arms. When his lips touched mine, I absolutely swooned.

  Gazing into my eyes he said quietly, “Good, that’s the look I was going for.”

  Still in his arms, I smiled up into his face and whispered, “You always wanted to be James Bond.”

  He smiled back. “Bell, Kevin Bell.”

  James Bond. Kevin Bell. Right then, to me, they were one and the same.

  I kissed him again.

  When we broke apart, I stepped back to get a better look at him. “I can’t believe it. Man, you look so cool. And what’s with the car? You rob a bank?”

  He cocked his head and gave me a dashing smile. “You only live once.”

  I held up two fingers. “Wrong. The Bond film was You Only Live Twice.
Seriously, where’d you get the car?”

  “Place in New Canaan rents them for special occasions.”

  “The tux?”

  “Different place rents those as well,” he explained innocently.

  “Where the hell are you taking me for dinner?” I asked. I pointed to what I was wearing. Khaki shorts, a sleeveless top, and sneakers. “I’m not exactly dressed for the Ritz.”

  “It’s a surprise,” he said. “And you’re dressed perfectly.”

  I’ll be damned. For a moment there, he sounded like Daniel Craig.

  ***

  I swear there’s nothing better than being in the passenger’s seat of a hot fast convertible on a summer’s evening with the wind blowing through your hair and the man that you love at the wheel.

  “Where’d you say we were going?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Hmmm, out of questions, my brilliant journalistic interviewing skills were getting me nowhere. Best just to relax and enjoy the ride.

  Unfortunately, the ride only lasted ten minutes. A few miles from my house, we pulled into a neighborhood of homes clustered together on the shore. The houses were small and packed in close, but they overlooked Sheffield Harbor and, because of the exclusive location, the property there was ridiculously expensive.

  Kevin parked the BMW in the driveway of a two-story white Cape Cod. There was a low picket fence that encircled the Lilliputian front lawn, green shutters accenting the windows, and brilliant splashes of flowers planted around the low shrubbery that ran along the front of the house. While gulls wheeled and squealed overhead, I could smell the pungent sea breeze.

  “Here we are.”

  “Where we are?”

  Saying no more, he got out of the car and opened the trunk. By the time I got out, he was carrying a green and white plastic cooler by the handles and balancing a large rectangular, wicker basket on top of it.

  Cognizant of how sick he was, I joined him with my arms out. “Here, let me give you a hand.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve got it.” Then he started for the back yard. “Can you can open the gate for me?”

  I unlatched the wooden gate and then followed Kevin as he walked behind the house and climbed the steps to the deck. Once there, he carefully placed the cooler and the wicker basket on the railing. Then he took his coat off and hung it on the back of one of the deck chairs.