“That nodding thing doesn’t bother you?”
“What nodding thing?”
“Nothing. Pay no attention to me.”
“I wonder what’s wrong with him.”
“Why does anything have to be wrong with him?”
“He told me he hasn’t been in a steady relationship in years.”
“Neither have you.”
“We were talking about him, not me. He’s probably the type who just smiles and dials whenever he feels like it. Except he doesn’t seem like the player type. Listen to me, will you? You’re all players.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re a freak.”
“Thank you large for noticing.” They started back up the beach toward his house. “What’d you find out last night at the casino?”
“Beth and Vinnie were definitely there Saturday night. Checked in at the front desk at nine-thirty. The hotel has them right there on their time-coded surveillance cameras. That means they had to be on the road somewhere between here and Uncasville at the time of Augie’s death.”
“So they’re in the clear.”
“Unless Vinnie put out a hit on him, like Very thinks. Where’s our girl?”
“Halfway to Boston by now, knowing her.”
“I should get rolling, too. I have to break this case open.”
“Can I pour you a cup of coffee? I just made it.”
“You talked me into it. And maybe I ought to change these stanky clothes before I have a go at Beth. I think I still have some clean ones left in the trunk of my ride.”
“You’re welcome to use my shower.”
“I believe I will. Find out for myself what all of the fuss is about.”
“Which fuss is that?”
She smiled at him. “Oh, I’ve heard about what goes on in there.” Then she came to a halt, turning serious. “I don’t want you thinking what you’re thinking, Mitch. We didn’t spend the night together.”
“Come here, you big lug.” He put his arm around her shoulder. It was like grabbing hold of a boulder. “You don’t owe me an explanation. I’m not your father. I’m your friend.”
“In that case I do have something to tell you…”
“What is it, Yolie?”
“I want to get with that boy so bad I can barely breathe. If he doesn’t come back here and bust a move, I swear I will explode.”
“There, you see? That wasn’t so hard.”
CHAPTER 16
“The Tokyo markets opened three percent higher today,” Des announced brightly as she leaned against her cruiser in Captain Richie Tedone’s driveway, holding his freshly delivered Monday morning edition of the Hartford Courant out to him.
The human lug nut stood there in his terry-cloth bathrobe, blinking at her sleepily. Unshaven and uncombed, Richie looked a whole lot more like a wild boar than Des was cool with. “What can I do for you, Master Sergeant Mitry?”
“Actually, it’s what I can do for you, sir.”
“And that is…?”
“I think I just may be able to save your life.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your career, your marriage, family… Pretty much everything you hold near and dear, Captain.”
Richie shot a quick glance at the house before he turned back to her, his chest all puffed out. “Look, I don’t know if you’ve been on an all-night bender or what, but showing up here at six o’clock in the morning blowing smoke at me is not what I’d classify as a real smart career move. I’m heading inside to have my breakfast now. You want to have a conversation with me, you call and make an appointment. Mondays are usually skunky but I’ll try to squeeze you in. Now if you’ll excuse me…”
“I wouldn’t go inside for that breakfast yet, Captain. Not if I were you.”
He heaved a sigh of disgust. “All right, let’s have it. And make it fast.”
She held the manila envelope out to him. He took it from her and opened it. Inside were copies of the digital photos she’d printed out of Richie standing in the doorway of apartment C of the Edgewood Vista apartments, exchanging slurpy kisses with a half-naked Michael Reginald Toomey, aka Eboni.
Richie grew redder and redder as he riffled through them. “Why, you sneaky bitch. What in the hell do you think you’re…?”
“I ran Toomey’s arrest record. Turns out he has a long history of arrests for prostitution and drug possession. He was also up to his eyeballs in the Suburban Madam case, remember? The madam alleged that a member of the task force accepted sexual favors from one of her prostitutes. After conducting a thorough interrogation of said prostitute you determined that there was no merit to the charge. Case closed. Aside from the fact that you’re now paying the rent on said prostitute’s apartment and bought said prostitute that cute little red Beemer.”
He glared at her long and hard. “Are you trying to make a point?”
“Well, yeah. You’re keeping house with a key witness in a case you personally investigated. A pro, as it happens. A tranny pro, in fact. Not that I’m passing judgment on your lifestyle. But it’s really, really not the sort of behavior that Internal Affairs looks too kindly on.”
“Did you come here to threaten me?” he blustered in response. “You did, didn’t you? You are actually trying to threaten me. Let me tell you something, Master Sergeant Mitry. You just made the biggest mistake of your miserable life. Because you are done, hear me? You will never work in law enforcement again!”
“Um, okay, this is the part where I talk and you listen,” Des said in a calm, steady voice. “I don’t give a damn who you’re related to. All I have to do is hand these around at the headmaster’s house and you are toast.” She gazed at him, smiling. “I can see those little wheels starting to turn in your head. Don’t waste your brain power. The memory card is stashed somewhere safe. It won’t do you any good to nuke my computer. Or search my house. Or burn it to the ground. The card’s not there.” She’d hidden it at Mitch’s place last night. Taped it under a kitchen drawer. “And if by some weird chance anything tragic should happen to me-like if I were to die a sudden death in a random drive-by shooting-this all gets sent directly to Superintendent Crowther. The arrangements have already been made.” She’d e-mailed the detailed instructions to her lawyer before she’d headed here. “You’re the one who’s done, Captain. I own your ass from now on, hear me? You’re mine. All mine.”
“What d-do you want from me?” he sputtered, his barrel chest heaving with rage.
“For starters, this so-called case of yours regarding my conduct toward Augie Donatelli disappears right now. I want back on normal duty by the end of today. More importantly, when Deputy Superintendent Mitry returns from medical leave in a few weeks-and he will return-he will serve out the remainder of his long, distinguished career in whatever capacity he chooses. He’s fought for that right. And he deserves it. What he doesn’t deserve is to have a pack of jackals nipping at his heels while he’s being wheeled into the operating room. If you try to mess with my father ever again, I swear I’ll go public with these photos. And I’ll make sure your lovely wife gets a complete set, too.”
Richie breathed in and out heavily, struggling to control himself. Clearly, he wanted to dive at Des and strangle her with his bare hands. “You’ll never get away with this.”
“Yes, I will. There’s a pretty little girl with a pink tricycle who’s got my back. You don’t want to lose her, do you?”
“How dare you mention my daughter? You don’t go after a man’s family. That’s way out of line.”
She let out a laugh. “Oh, is that right?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re on the job. That’s different.”
“So are you, Captain. Real different. And I wouldn’t invoke the sanctity of your happy family right now if I were you because you’re on super-shaky ground. Tell me, do you wear a condom when you’re with little Eboni? I certainly hope you do. I’d hate to think you’re jeopa
rdizing your wife’s health.”
He shook a stubby finger at her. “It’s Yolie, isn’t it? Yolie Snipes is behind this. She’s always had it in for me.”
“Yolie doesn’t know a thing about this. Nor does your cousin Rico, if that’s where you’re going next. You’re looking for hate in all the wrong places, Captain. Try checking out the mirror. Now do we have a deal or don’t we? Because if we don’t, I’m going to knock on that front door and show your missus these pictures right freaking now.”
He glowered at Des, the very model of macho defiance. Until, slowly, Captain Richie Tedone of Internal Affairs began to deflate right before her eyes. His shoulders slumped. His pumped-up muscles seemed to shrivel. “I-I can’t get Eboni out of my system,” he confessed miserably. “You think I don’t know how wrong it is? I’d give anything to be free of that crazy little tramp. I-I’ve tried to walk away a million times. Believe me, I’ve tried. But I keep coming back. It’s like a sickness or something.”
She offered him her cell phone. “Call somebody who cares. I don’t. If you choose to spend your free time with a drugged-out tranny skank instead of with your beautiful wife and children that’s your business. Just know that today’s the day it bit you in the ass.”
“You’re one cold-hearted bitch, know that?”
“If it makes you feel any better to think so go right ahead,” she responded. “Now do we have a deal or do I go knocking on your door?”
“All right, all right,” he growled at her. “You win-this round. But I promise you, Master Sergeant Mitry, if you ever come near my house again I won’t be responsible for my behavior.”
“No offense, Captain, but you crossed that particular bridge a long, long time ago.”
CHAPTER 17
What am I missing?
It kept gnawing at Mitch as he toodled down Dorset Street in his pickup en route to the A amp;P. The something, whatever it was, that he wasn’t seeing. The key to Augie’s murder. The link between Augie’s death and the Dorset Flasher. Because there was a link, he told himself, munching on the last of the four apple-cider doughnuts he’d picked up at McGee’s diner on his way to the market. At a time like this he needed to be fortified by one of his native fat-boy food groups. Well, two actually. Here lay the sheer genius of doughnuts-they counted as both sugar and grease. The Dorset Flasher, he was convinced, was not just some random kid from the neighborhood. This whole mess was linked together somehow. Had to be. Because this was Dorset-ground zero for hidden links that went back God knows how many generations. Like that whopper of a hookup between Beth and Bertha, her grandfather’s one-time tootsie. Therefore, the identity of the Dorset Flasher was critical. Had to be. The Flasher had not indulged in any targeted weenie waving last night, according to Yolie. Not a single sighting of him. Which signified what-that he was dead? That Augie had been the culprit? Or that he was alive and in hiding now?
What am I missing?
Maybe nothing. Maybe he just had a case of Chattering Monkey Brain, as Kimberly called it in yoga class. His head spinning around and around. No outlet for his jumbled thoughts. Nowhere to run with them. He was the only one of them who had no assignment this morning. Des was on her way to Boston to check the tollbooth security cameras for Kenny’s comings and goings. Very was on his way back to New York City to grill Vinnie Brogna. Yolie was preparing to take another crack at Beth, who Very was convinced had been holding out on him. Mitch? He was heading to the supermarket for a half gallon of low-fat milk. And then it was back to his computer to flesh out this week’s column on icebox questions. After he’d filed that he had a mountain of spade work to do on his new film encyclopedia. This was his chosen profession. He wrote about movies. He didn’t solve crimes. Augie’s death was strictly a job for the pros.
What am I missing?
Or maybe he was just shook up from meeting the real Beth after all of these years. The Beth who was a member of the crime family known as the Seven Sisters. The Beth whose first husband, Sy Lapidus, had been in jail for bookmaking back when Mitch befriended Kenny in Stuyvesant Town. The Beth who had been carrying on a ten-year affair with a married mobster. No doubt about it-the first great love of Mitch Berger’s life had never been the woman he’d thought she was. And maybe a man doesn’t just shrug off something like that. Maybe it was hitting home more than he wanted to admit. Same as the Deacon’s impending coronary bypass surgery was. It was body blows like these that made Mitch miss the blissfully clueless innocence of his youth. Before he’d loved and lost Maisie. Before he’d become acutely aware of the pain and pitfalls that lay before him in the years to come-no matter how careful or smart or lucky he might be. Real life in all of its ugly glory. No grand finale. No stirring John Williams musical score. Just a small, quiet fade-out.
Maybe that was it, Mitch reflected, as he eased his old truck through the Historic District. Kids were out enjoying their last week of summer freedom. A couple of giddy thirteen-year-old girls were riding their bicycles. A boy on a skateboard was showing off for them. The girls were pretending they weren’t watching him. As he cruised past the firehouse, Mitch saw the Sidell boys, Phillip and Peter, walking down the street together, the pair of them playing a spirited little game on the sidewalk as they ambled along, chattering away. He honked and waved to them. They looked up and waved back, the pair of them seemingly as happy as could be. Less than eight hours ago Phillip had been screaming in blind terror. And yet now he seemed fine. Bright eyed and carefree as he strolled in the morning sunshine with his younger brother, totally absorbed in their game, smiling and laughing and…
Mitch hit the brakes right there in the middle of Dorset Street, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. Of course! Why hadn’t he seen it before? Why hadn’t any of them? He sat there watching the boys in his rearview mirror, his eyes bulging, head spinning. Then he pulled over and grabbed his cell phone. Des answered on the second ring.
“Listen, how close are you to Boston right now?”
“I had to make a pit stop in Glastonbury. I’m not even in Hartford yet. Why are you asking?”
“How long will it take you to get back here?”
“A half hour. Twenty minutes if I put my cherry on.”
“Put it on, girlfriend.”
“Why, Mitch?”
“Because I need your help. And you’ll want to call Yolie. She needs to be there, okay?”
“Needs to be where? Mitch, what in the hell is going on?”
“I’m about to tell you. But first answer me this: Can you get your hands on a good, sturdy pair of bolt cutters?”
He’d never been inside of their place before.
It was exceedingly formal. A stately grandfather clock ticktocked discreetly just inside of the front door. Oil portraits of dead ancestors hung from the living room walls. The gleaming antique furniture smelled faintly of lemon oil polish.
“What a wonderful surprise, Mitch,” Maddee exclaimed as she led him inside. She wore a floral print summer dress today. And her pearls. And a fresh coating of her alarming magenta lipstick. “Dex will be so pleased to see you.”
“I was out running errands. Hope it’s not too early to pay a social call.”
“Not at all. Dex still keeps Wall Street hours. Once an early riser always an early riser. He’s already done his calisthenics and eaten his breakfast. And Kimberly’s left for her eight o’clock Vinyasa class.” Maddee eyed him critically. “Nonetheless, I’m terribly cross with you.”
“You are? Why is that?”
“You’re empty-handed. Are you honestly telling me you couldn’t find one item of old clothing to pass along to the Nearly New shop?”
“I’m still searching, ma’am.”
“Please keep at it, Mitch. There are people out there who are hurting. They depend on us.”
Dex Farrell was parked at a teak table on the screened-in porch with a cup of coffee and the Wall Street Journal. He wore a crisp white shirt, blue-and-gold bow tie, pressed khaki slacks and white bu
cks. Maddee had been seated across from him clipping supermarket coupons from the local shoreline weekly newspaper, Mitch gathered. Her coffee cup sat next to a tidy stack of coupons and a small, pointy pair of scissors.
“Why, good morning, Mr. Berger,” Dex said, gazing at him over his rimless eyeglasses.
“Good morning, sir. You suggested I drop by some time for a chat.”
“And here you are. I’m glad. Pull up a chair.”
“Can I get you anything?” Maddee offered as Mitch sat at the table. “Coffee, lemonade?”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
“Then I’ll leave you two boys to talk. I have my Meals on Wheels duty this morning.”
“I wish you wouldn’t go just yet, Mrs. Farrell. Can you stay a few minutes? There’s something I wanted to ask you about.”
“Certainly.” Maddee sat back down across from her husband and resumed her coupon clipping. She performed the little task same way she gardened-with focused tenacity. Whipping through an ad supplement before she paused, zeroed in, and pounced. Her sharp little scissors going snip-snip-snip in the morning quiet. “Look at this, Dex, the IGA at Four Corners has ten cans of Bumble Bee tuna for ten dollars.” Snip-snip-snip. “You say there’s something you wish to ask me about, Mitch?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, don’t be shy. It’s a sign of weakness. I’ve always encouraged Kimberly to speak right up and tell me what’s on her-”
“How long have you known that your husband is the Dorset Flasher?”
Dex Farrell didn’t so much as blink. Just stared straight ahead, his face impassive.
But Maddee paled instantly, her eyes darting wildly about the porch. “Why, whatever do you mean…?”
“I mean that our Flasher isn’t a sexually frustrated kid. Or an overheated man child like Hal Chapman or J. Z. Cliffe. It’s Dex who has been exposing himself to various prominent ladies in the Historic District, and leaving little presents on their doorsteps.” Mitch looked at him. The man still hadn’t moved a muscle. “Actually, this whole crazy business fell right into place once I realized it was you. For one thing, the Flasher never seems to-how shall I put it-rise to the occasion. Makes total sense. You’re, what, sixty-seven years old? That’s not to say you can’t stand and deliver from time to time. I certainly hope you can. Otherwise I don’t have a whole lot to look forward to in the years ahead. But sex has never been what this was about. Has it, sir?”
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