by Unknown
It would be a while before she’d find herself cutting into a steak again.
It was a calm, crisp morning. Glistening frost blanketed the fields, and steam rose off the man-made pond out behind the Winston’s feed trough, where a collection of family members stood in saucer-eyed disbelief. A few horrified neighbors were out watching from across the road as well.
The volunteer firefighters seemed pretty shaken themselves. They were competently trained, but they were still civilians. Many of them were barely out of high school. They’d never seen anything like this.
Des’s contractor, Tim Keefe, was the man in charge. Dorset’s assistant fire chief was a husky, red-faced fellow with a walrus mustache. He was barely thirty, but very steady and mature. In the big city, a lot of men Tim’s age still seemed like boys to her. Here in Dorset, they were middle-aged family men.
“Morning, trooper,” he said to her grimly as he stood there in his firefighter’s gear, clutching a license plate in one hand.
She motioned toward the car. “Is the victim still . . .?
“What’s left of Takai is still in there,” he affirmed hoarsely. “Poor woman. No one deserves to die like that. I found this across the road.” He held it out to her—it was a personalized plate that read: MYTOY. “It’s hers, all right. I’d know it anywhere. Only new turbo in town. Damned car probably cost her more than my whole house did. We, uh, didn’t attempt to move her yet. Didn’t know what we were dealing with—whether it was a crime scene or whatever.”
“You did right, Tim. What I need you to do now is keep everyone away from this scene until the Emergency Services team gets here. They have to check for undetonated explosives before we attempt to do a thing, okay?”
“Sure thing. I’ll pass it along.”
Des immediately got on her radio and reached out to the Westbrook barracks for Emergency Services, the Bomb Squad and Major Crimes. She also ran a check on the MYTOY license plate. It was Takai’s, all right.
Then she slogged her way through the foam and crouched down for a firsthand look inside the Porsche, her stomach muscles tightening involuntarily. The internal temperature of a vehicle in a gas explosion was generally between eighteen hundred and two thousand degrees. A human being didn’t stay pretty for long in that kind of heat. Takai Frye certainly hadn’t. Not that what was in there even looked like a person now. Her body was nothing more than charred remains. It appeared to be intact, although some of the thinner bones, such as her hands, had turned to ash.
Des stared at it, thinking: I will need crime scene photos. I will need to draw this.
A pair of uniformed troopers pulled up now, the sirens on their cruisers blaring. They immediately got to work cordoning off the area and closing the road to all non-emergency vehicles.
Des strode out into the road to look for skid marks, Tim Keefe tagging along beside her. He seemed to have something more he wanted to tell her. She didn’t see any skids—Takai hadn’t swerved, hadn’t hit her brakes. Whatever happened, it happened without warning. “Was it the farmer who phoned it in?” she asked him.
“No, that was me, actually,” he replied, removing his big yellow firefighter’s hat. He was losing his hair on top, and with his hat off he looked a lot older. “I live just up the road. I was up early, with the new baby and all. Soon as I heard the explosions I jumped in my truck and came flying down here.”
“How many explosions did you hear, Tim?”
“Three. Two real quick ones, followed by a much louder one. I’m guessing the last one was the gas tank. As far as those first two, I never actually heard a car bomb go off. So I wouldn’t know how it would sound . . .”
“How did these sound?”
“Like shots, to be honest.”
Des raised her eyebrows at him. “A shotgun?”
He nodded. “That was my first thought. The sound sure carried like shotgun fire. It’s duck-hunting season now, so I’ve been hearing it a lot—especially early in the morning.” Tim trailed off, rubbing his high dome of forehead with the palm of his hand. “Except if it was a shotgun, man, it was a real boomer. The mother of all shotguns.”
“Did you know Takai?”
“Everyone knew Takai,” he replied with a shrug of his shoulders.
“I wonder why she was heading out so early.”
“Heading home is more like it,” he suggested, leaving the rest unsaid. “The Fryes live right down Old Ferry Road from here. She’d have made a sharp left here at the crossroads, then taken Old Ferry to Lord’s Cove.” Tim hesitated, clearing his throat. “This may not be the time or the place, but I’ve been meaning to call you about your roof.”
She winced inwardly. “Now what . . .?”
“Well, when they stripped the shingles off yesterday, they discovered that those old skylights were leaking. Whoever installed them didn’t properly flash or caulk ’em . . .” Always, it was a previous workman’s fault, she was discovering. “So there’s water damage underneath. Your studs and sheathing are rotted out. That’s all got to be replaced before the new roof goes on.”
“How long will it take, Tim?”
“Another day or two. But there’s no getting around it, I’m afraid. Your roof’s not something you want to fool around with.”
“Agreed, but let me ask you something straight up, Tim. Am I going to be in before Christmas?”
“Heck, yeah,” he said reassuringly. “It’s all coming together now.”
Which was precisely what he’d told her two weeks ago. But Des didn’t bother to point this fact out to him. She merely thanked him for the update.
Maybe Bella was on to something. Maybe she was a wuss.
The Emergency Services cube vans began arriving now, accompanied by a half dozen more cruisers. As resident trooper, Des’s role was to fill them in and provide backup, if requested. The ES lieutenant, Roger Brunson, was someone she’d worked with often when she was with Major Crimes. He was smart and careful and good. After Des brought him up to speed he asked her to notify the next of kin. Then he and his men got busy looking for explosives.
Des climbed into her cruiser and took Old Ferry Road down to Lord’s Cove Lane, a private bumpy dirt road that snaked its way deep into the woods. The sun’s early-morning rays were just beginning to ignite the reds and oranges of the leaves on the maple trees all around her. When she spotted the totem poles and the giant grasshopper standing guard over the largest private junkyard she’d ever seen, she knew she had arrived.
The house itself was straight out of a postcard for rural New England, aside from its color, which was a shocking shade of pink. Hangtown’s vintage motorcycle with its sidecar was parked out front, alongside an old Land Rover and a pickup truck. Lights were on in several windows.
Des got out, Takai’s license tucked under her arm, and used the big knocker on the front door.
It was Hangtown himself who pulled it slowly open. The old artist was wearing a red flannel nightshirt, wool long johns and moccasins. His hair was uncombed, his gaze somewhat unfocused. He seemed dazed. “My God, girl, I just had a dream about you!” he cried out, peering at Des in astonishment. “You were wearing that very uniform. And I was being very naughty. And now here you are on my doorstep. Come in, come in . . .!”
She entered the house just as another man, a lean, leathery hard case wearing a moth-eaten Pendleton shirt and rumpled jeans, appeared from the kitchen holding a coffeepot. This one had ex-con written all over him—he immediately froze at the sight of Des’s uniform, his jaw tightening.
“Say hey to Jim Bolan, trooper,” Hangtown said warmly. Mitch’s marijuana grower. That explained it. “Grab her a cup, Big Jim. We’ll have us some coffee by the fire.”
“None for me, thanks.” Des stood there uncomfortably, her big hat in her hands. “I have to talk to you about an official matter, Hangtown . . .”
“Don’t tell me I’ve pissed off another neighbor with my junk. Want to know what’s wrong with these people, girl? They care more about
their resale value than they do about their souls. Come on in and get warm. Jim’s got us a fine fire going.”
She followed them into the living room, noticing the suits of armor and the way that Jim Bolan seemed to hang back in the shadows. There were plenty of shadows. It was a gloomy room, and as cold as the inside of a tomb.
“Don’t ever get old, Des,” Hangtown grumbled as he limped toward one of the two leather chairs that were set before the roaring fire. A big German shepherd lay there on the bare wood floor, dozing. “Mornings are the mm-rr-worst—especially chilly ones.” He eased himself slowly down into the chair, groaning. “Now tell me what I can do for you, girl.”
Des removed the license plate from under her arm and said, “Does your daughter Takai own a red Porsche with the license plate M-Y-T-O-Y?”
“Yes, I do,” a curt female voice answered. “Is there a problem?”
Des whirled, stunned, to find a tall, slender young Asian woman standing in the doorway. She wore a silk dressing gown, mules and a highly perturbed expression on her face.
“Why are you asking about my car, officer?” Takai Frye was extremely abrupt. Also haughty, condescending and beautiful. She was everything Des had expected her to be.
Everything except for dead.
Des stared at Takai in dumb silence, her wheels spinning. “I’m sorry to tell you that your Porsche, or what’s left of it, is lying by the feed trough at Winston Farms. It exploded there at about five-twenty this morning.” Des held the license plate out to her.
Takai stared at the plate but didn’t reach for it. “I heard some explosions just before my alarm went off,” she said in a cool, clipped voice. “Thought maybe they were dynamiting ledge up on Sterling City Road for another house.”
“Did you hear anything?” Des asked Hangtown.
The old man shook his huge white head. “Not a thing. But Jim was lighting our fire right about then, weren’t you, Big Jim? The kindling pops and crackles and makes one helluva racket.”
“We heard sirens,” Jim spoke from the shadows in a thin, reedy voice. “Thought maybe there was an accident. Remember, boss?”
Hangtown nodded, his piercing blue eyes never leaving Des’s face. “You have more to tell us, don’t you?”
“I’m afraid so,” Des acknowledged. “The remains of one unidentified individual were found behind the wheel. Frankly, Miss Frye, I came here to prepare your father for the likelihood that it was you. Do you have any idea who was using your car this morning? Was it stolen? Is that what happened?”
The skin seemed to pull tighter across Takai’s exquisite cheekbones. “Moose,” she said softly. “It’s my sister.”
“Not a chance,” Hangtown protested hoarsely, the color draining from his face. “Moose went to bed right after Mitch left, didn’t she, Big Jim?”
“She did, boss,” Jim Bolan said, fumbling for a cigarette. “Said she was going to take her a hot bath and turn in.”
“She’s still asleep,” Hangtown insisted, his voice quavering. “She’s upstairs in her room.”
“She’s not up there, Father,” Takai said, her eyes fastened on the floor.
“She is so!” Wendell Frye cried out.
“She . . . she went out after you’d gone to bed,” Takai informed him in a strained, halting voice. “I loaned her my car because her damned Rover wouldn’t start. She knocked on my door and asked me if she could borrow it. I’d just gotten home from a meeting with a client,” she explained to Des.
“What time was this?”
“Twelve. Maybe twelve-thirty.”
“No, she’s upstairs in bed!” Hangtown erupted, his big gnarled fists clenching. “I know she is! Her alarm clock is going to go off any minute now. And she’ll come right down those stairs to make us breakfast. She’s up there!”
“Perhaps you should go take a look,” Des said to him gently.
Jim helped the old man up out of his chair and the two of them went upstairs to find out.
Des stayed behind in the living room with Takai, who was fighting back tears. “I can’t believe this,” she whispered, biting down hard on her lower lip. “I just can’t.”
“Any idea where your sister was going at that time of night?”
“She’d been seeing a man lately. For the past two or three weeks. Always late at night. She’d get home before dawn.”
“Any idea . . . ?”
“Don’t ask me who he is, trooper, because I don’t know. She’s never confided in me that way. Not that there’s ever been much to confide. She’s always been the Frye family good girl. I’m the one who’s the slut. Ask anyone in town. They’ll be happy to tell you all about me. They just love to talk about me . . .” Takai was starting to run off at the mouth a little. It was her grief pouring out. “I was thrilled for her that she’d found someone. And if she didn’t want to tell me who he was, okay by me. She deserves to be happy. She deserves to—”
An animal roar of pain came from upstairs now.
Des immediately dashed up there, Takai one step behind her, to find Hangtown sobbing uncontrollably in a bedroom doorway, his arms thrown around Jim Bolan.
“No, Jim, no . . . !” he moaned, tears streaming down his lined face. “No . . . !”
“C’mon, boss, let’s have you a lie-down in your room,” Jim said, steering the shattered old man slowly down the hall toward his bedroom. “You just take it a step at a time. Big Jim’s right here.”
“She was his little pet,” Takai said to Des in a quiet, bitter voice. “He’s going to have a really, really hard time handling this.”
Moose Frye’s bedroom was small and tidy. There was an old brass bed with a patchwork quilt on it. The bed was still made—it had not been slept in. There was a writing table with schoolbooks and lesson folders stacked neatly upon it. Over the dresser was a bulletin board where she’d pinned some of her students’ artwork—watercolors of bunny rabbits and birds. Also a snapshot of a handsome young man and two little girls standing on a beach.
Takai noticed Des looking at it. “Moose was their au pair one summer, back when she was still in college. She had a mad crush on the father—not that she ever acted on it, of course.”
Des backed slowly out of the room, touching nothing. “I’ll have to ask all of you to stay out of here for the time being.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Any idea why her Land Rover wouldn’t start?”
“Damned thing always gets moody when the weather turns cold. Key’s in the ignition if you want to check it out.”
“Someone from Major Crimes may wish to later on, so please avoid touching the vehicle as well.”
Takai shook her pretty head at Des. “I don’t understand why you’re laying down all of these rules.”
“Miss Frye, we don’t know what we’re dealing with yet,” Des explained. “It may turn out that your sister hit a deer in the road. Or could be there was a gas-line leak.” If so, the medical examiner would find accelerant in her lung tissue. “Could be she lit a cigarette and the car blew.”
“She didn’t smoke,” Takai said. “That’s not what happened.”
“Okay, but until we figure out what did happen we don’t want to compromise anything that might be evidence.”
“You think this is a murder investigation, is that it?”
“I don’t think anything of the sort,” Des responded as they started back downstairs, Takai’s mules clacking on the steps. “I’m just following procedure.”
“Trooper, I really think you are missing the point here.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“It was my goddamned car,” Takai said, her voice rising shrilly. “Whoever killed Moose was after me. I’m the one who everyone hates. I’m the biggest bitch in Dorset. Don’t you get it? They were after me!”
“You don’t know that, Miss Frye,” Des said to her in a calm, steady voice. “You’re upset, which you have every reason to be. But what you need to do right now is stay cool.” Des made he
r way toward the front door. “A top team is on its way down from Meriden. I promise you they’ll get to the bottom of this. And if there’s any reason to believe your life is in danger, they will protect you, okay?”
“Is there any chance it’s not her?” Takai wondered, following Des outside in her dressing gown. In her grief, the woman was clinging to her.
“There’s always a chance. But we should be realistic.”
“How can you tell for sure?”
“By taking a DNA sample of the remains. We’ll match it against a blood sample from a member of your family.”
And if Moose’s internal body parts were not totally incinerated they might also be able to get a DNA sample out of the semen residue within her vaginal cavity—leading them to the man she’d been having sex with in the night.
“I was just thinking I may know who he is,” Takai said, as Des opened the door to her cruiser. “The man who Moose was seeing—it could be this guy who lives out on Big Sister named Mitch Berger.”
Des immediately drew back from her, stiffening.
“The two of them really hit it off at dinner,” Takai went on, a mean little glint in her eyes. “Maybe because they’d been seeing each other, and were just keeping it a secret from everyone. Maybe it was him she was with last night. What do you think?”
“I think not,” Des growled at her balefully. Neither of them were women now. They were taut, predatory cats sizing up each other’s underbellies, their ears pinned back, hackles up.
“Well, you would know,” Takai said tartly. She’d done exactly what she’d set out to do—drawn blood. “There is one other thing you could do, trooper . . .”
“Yes, what is it, Miss Frye?” Des was angry at herself for letting this woman rile her.