Mitch’s phone rang. He took the call on the wall phone in his kitchen. Des glanced at her watch. It was 9:45. Late for someone in Dorset to be calling.
“Oh, hi, Bella,” she heard him say into the phone. “Yeah, she’s right here . . . No, no, it’s okay. . . . Uh-huh . . . Okay, I’ll tell her. . . . I don’t know, ten minutes tops.” He hung up and returned to the table with a troubled look on his face. “Bad news, girlfriend. He just struck again—at your place.”
Her place was a snug two-bedroom Cape on a hilltop with a great view of Uncas Lake, which was two miles up the Boston Post Road from the Historic District. The front-porch light was on and the garage door was open, throwing all kinds of light out onto the short driveway. Also meowing. The eight feral strays she and Bella had rescued over the past two months were presently residing in cages in there while not-so-patiently awaiting good homes. Bella’s jeep and Des’s four-year-old Saab were parked out on the street. Des pulled her cruiser into the driveway with a screech and jumped out. Mitch was right on her tail in his pickup. He’d insisted upon joining her.
Bella, a short, feisty widow from Brooklyn in her late 70s, stood there in the garage doorway, hands on round hips, looking like an angry Jewish avocado in her dark green tank top and shorts. Also lopsided. She was wearing only one sneaker. The other foot was bare. Bella had been Des’s neighbor back in Woodbridge when Des and Brandon were still married. It was Bella who’d saved her when Brandon took off. Bella who’d become her unlikely best friend and housemate—although she was always searching for a little place of her own.
“Believe me, the last thing in the world I wanted to do was ruin your romantic evening,” she apologized as Des rushed toward her. “You’ve had no time for each other since this yutz started waving his pizzle all over town. I hope you weren’t making wild love on the kitchen floor, all slathered in lavender oil.”
“Bella, have you been watching The Young and the Restless again?”
“I happen to find daytime drama very stimulating.”
“Yeah, I can tell that.”
“It’s cool, Aunt Bella,” Mitch assured her. “We were just getting ready to wash the dishes.”
“Wash the dishes?” Bella was incredulous. Also way disappointed. “Do I need to draw you two a map?”
“Talk to me, girl. What happened?”
Bella gestured to the front porch, where her missing sneaker lay discarded on the pavement. “The welcome mat is what happened,” she answered, hobbling over there. “I was sitting at the dining table, e-mailing my grandson Errol. He’s Ezra and Babette’s boy. Very nice boy. A first-year dental student at UCLA. He’s dating a girl from Thailand. I don’t know how serious it is but—”
“You were at the dining table,” Des prompted her. “And . . . ?”
“The doorbell rang.”
“What time was this?”
“Nine thirty-seven, according to that little clock on my computer screen. I went to the door and I asked who it was. Believe me, there was no way I was opening it. Not with that nut on the loose. No one answered me. So I turned on the porch light and looked out through the peephole. I didn’t see anyone. I waited a minute, then finally I opened the door, walked outside and . . .” She made a face. “That’s when I stepped in it.”
It was a turd. A very large, very fresh turd that had been deposited on Des’s sisal welcome mat. She bent over for a closer look, her nostrils crinkling.
“I’m sorry if I compromised the evidence by squishing it.”
“Bella, don’t even go there. I’m just sorry your sneaker’s ruined.”
“Oh, no. It’s not ruined. I’ll bleach it. I’ll boil it. Whatever it takes. That little pisher’s not going to cost me a perfectly good pair of New Balances. And when you catch him I’ll have a little present of my own for him. Let me tell you—if a rotten punk ever tried pulling this on Gates Avenue in the old days, we’d have made him eat that whole thing for lunch between two slices of marbled rye.”
Des popped the trunk of her cruiser and donned a pair of disposable latex gloves, then grabbed a plastic evidence bag and a tongue depressor. A cruiser pulled up behind her Saab. It was Trooper Olsen, who’d been part of her four-person team that tried to nail the Dorset Flasher last weekend. And would be out there again tomorrow night. Oly was big, blond and competent. She filled him in and asked him to start canvassing the neighbors. Maybe one of them had seen something, or someone, between the hours of 9:30 and 9:45. He got right on it.
“Well, this was a first,” Mitch said when she returned to the porch. “The Flasher has never struck on a Friday before.”
“He’s also never gone after sworn personnel.”
“Maybe Bella was his intended target, not you.”
“Trust me, she wasn’t. Bella, I need for you to think hard. This isn’t just us talking now. You’re a witness in an ongoing criminal investigation. Exactly what did you see?”
“I told you—not a thing. When I opened the door nobody was there.”
“Did you hear a car door slam? Someone driving away?”
Bella shook her head. “Nothing like that.”
“How about footsteps? Maybe someone running?”
“I didn’t see or hear anything,” Bella stated flatly.
“Maybe he parked his car down the road,” Mitch said.
“Maybe.”
“Do you need my sneaker as evidence?” Bella asked. “Because I’d like to start soaking it if you don’t mind.”
“Go right ahead and soak.”
Bella picked her shoe up by the laces and headed into the garage with it. Des crouched next to the mat and used the tongue depressor to scoop a sample of the turd into the plastic bag.
“This is a positive development, right?” Mitch said. “You’ve got actual physical evidence now. Your lab can figure out how big the dog was and that’ll point you to its owner. All dogs in Dorset have to be licensed, right?”
“They do, Mitch. Except there are a couple of holes in your theory. For one, he could have plucked this off of anybody’s front lawn. And for another, this isn’t just any old dog poop.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because when I was with Major Crimes we shared the same facility up in Meriden with the state’s K-9 Training Center. I’ve seen what your average mature German shepherd leaves behind. This here was produced by a bigger animal.”
“There are plenty of breeds bigger than German shepherds. You’ve got your Great Danes, Irish wolfhounds. And then there are the really big boys like Saint Bernards and English mastiffs. There can’t be too many of those in—”
“Mitch, I’m fairly certain that this didn’t come from any dog.”
“Oh, okay, then that’s a whole different plot.” He bent over, squinting at it. “It’s not a cow pie. And I know horse droppings when I see them.” His face dropped. “God, please don’t tell me it’s a bear.”
“No, nothing as tabloid fantastic as that. I’m sorry to say that unless I’m totally wrong—and I’m not—the origin of this fecal specimen is human.”
For a second, Des thought her he-guy was going to lose his striped bass. But he gathered himself, gulping, and said, “Well . . . that’s good, too.”
“Really? How so?”
“We’ve got a fresh human fecal specimen here.”
“Still waiting for the good part, Mitch.”
“The state forensic lab can extract the guy’s DNA from it, can’t they?”
“Actually, that’s a big no. The DNA in human fecal matter is too degraded for them to get a profile. Has something to do with the microbes in the gastrointestinal tract. If I want a sample of this bastard’s DNA, I need his blood or saliva, nasal secretions, hair . . .” She carried the bagged specimen back to her car anyway. Because that’s what you did. You collected evidence. Never knew when it might prove to be valuable. She slammed the trunk shut, mustering a tight smile. “You may as well head on home. I have to help Oly knock on doors.”
<
br /> “Are you going to join me later?”
“Don’t think so. I’d better hang with Bella. She’s more freaked than she’s letting on.” Des softened her gaze at him. “I’m afraid our big evening’s over. I’m real sorry.”
“Don’t be—shit happens.” He flashed a boyish grin at her. “That was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I had to go there.”
“I knew that.”
“I knew you knew.” Just as he knew that he couldn’t kiss her good-night. She was in uniform. The neighbors were watching. Public Displays of Affection were a no-no. “We’re good,” he assured her as he climbed back into his truck. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”
“I’m not worried,” she said quietly.
Because she wasn’t. She was furious. The Dorset Flasher had made this personal now. And she wasn’t just thinking of him as some abstract loser boy any longer. She had someone very specific in mind now. Someone who was openly hostile toward Dorset’s blue-blooded dowagers. . . . “You say hello to them and they act like you just took a leak on their shoes. . . .” Someone she’d clashed with that very afternoon. A public altercation that had left him flat on his butt and humiliated. He’d warned her that she’d be sorry. And now there was a turd on her welcome mat. Coincidence? Des Mitry didn’t believe in the tooth fairy, clean coal technology or coincidences. What she did believe was that she had her man. He was a bitter, angry widower. He had a drinking problem. And he lived by himself smack-dab in the middle of the Historic District.
Oh, yeah, she had her man, all right. Augie Donatelli was the Dorset Flasher. Des had zero doubt. None.
The only tricky part was going to be proving it.
CHAPTER 5
Beth had a radiant smile on her face when she answered the doorbell. And was impeccably turned out in a coral knit top and white linen slacks. “I’m so thrilled to finally meet you,” she exclaimed warmly, taking Des by both hands. “Mitch was always like family. I hope you’ll think of us that way, too.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind. And real sorry about the gunny-sack,” Des said, meaning her uniform. “But I’m on the job tonight.”
“No apology necessary. Believe me, we’ll all sleep better when that sicko has been put away.” Now Beth gave Mitch a hug and said, “And don’t you look handsome.” He had on an untucked white button-down shirt and khaki shorts. “That shirt really sets off your tan. Or should I say sunburn?” Her brow furrowed with concern. “My goodness, you look awfully red all of a sudden.”
“From my daily run,” Mitch explained. “It was really windy out at the point.”
“Of course it was, dear. Of course.”
Beth’s apartment was huge, with high ceilings, tall windows and polished oak flooring. The décor was elegant but impersonal. No quirky little keepsakes. It had the feel of an executive rental, Mitch reflected. There was a screened-in porch off of the dining room. He heard voices out there.
It was a long, deep porch that looked out over an expanse of lawn to the Lieutenant River. Beth had furnished it with a white wicker loveseat and armchairs. A glass table was laden with chilled shrimp, deviled eggs and cheeses and crackers. There was hard liquor, wine, a washtub full of beer and soda on ice.
Kimberly and Kenny stood there together, hand in hand, glowing with so much love for each other that Mitch, who was known among his fellow New York film critics as the Town Crier, instantly felt himself welling up. Kimberly looked absolutely beautiful. Her long blond hair was brushed out. And the sleeveless print dress she had on showed off her lean, muscular arms and legs. She and Kenny were the same exact height—if you ignored that Kimberly wore flat sandals and Kenny thick-soled trail hikers. Still, Kenny was no longer a little twerp. He stood a wiry five feet ten in his Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts. Was built like a marathoner. And was a good-looking guy in a neo-wonky sort of a way. His thatch of brown hair was stylishly unkempt. He had a four-day growth of beard. And the eyes behind his wire-framed glasses were bright and earnest.
He rushed toward Mitch, and pumped his hand excitedly. “God, Berger, it’s so good to see you again!”
“Same here, Lapidus.”
“And I’m ready for you this time, I swear. All set? Here goes: ‘I’ve met some hard-boiled characters in my time but you—you’re twenty minutes.’ ”
“Easy. That was Jan Sterling to Kirk Douglas in Ace in the Hole.”
Kenny’s face fell. “Damn, I still can’t beat you.”
“And you never will. Kimberly, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this doofus was your boyfriend.”
“Honestly, I had no idea you two had a history,” she confessed. “And when I found out about it, Kenny swore me to secrecy. He and Beth wanted to surprise you.”
“Which I’m happy to say we did,” said Beth, bustling in from the kitchen with a platter of piping hot cheese puffs, then bustling right back out again.
“Kimberly, you know Des, don’t you?”
“Of course. We always get seated together at the Chamber of Commerce dinners. We’re the only single women who are under forty. We even get our very own table—just us.”
“That’s because the wives make up the seating chart,” Des said, smiling at her. “Consider it a form of flattery. That’s what I do.”
“Really glad to meet you, Des,” Kenny said effusively. “I’m guessing that if you spend time with this guy you must be into old movies.”
“I’m developing a healthy appreciation—with the notable exception of the Three Stooges.”
“That’s a gender thing,” Kenny stated with great conviction. “There isn’t a woman on Earth who can tolerate the Stooges. Don’t know why.”
“I do,” Des said. “Because they’re really, really stupid.”
He frowned at her. “And this is a problem because . . . ?”
“Oh, God, you two did grow up together.”
Kenny and Kimberly were both sipping bottles of Sam Adams. Mitch fetched himself one and a Diet Coke for Des. Also a small plate of devilled eggs, promising himself he’d be careful. He could eat his body weight in devilled eggs. As he devoured one, he noticed Kimberly studying him with a critical eye. “Uh-oh, am I hunching my shoulders? No, it’s my feet, isn’t it? They aren’t hip width apart.”
“Actually, I was just observing how tall and straight you’re standing.”
“Really?”
“You’re doing real well in class, Mitch. Besides, your mat is a judgment-free zone. Yoga is all about the acceptance of our lack of perfection.”
“Mitch can totally vibe with that concept,” Des said. “You should hear him play Purple Haze on his Stratocaster.”
Kenny let out a laugh, that same high-pitched whoop he’d had when they were kids—one part rebel yell, two parts Woody Woodpecker. “You wouldn’t say that to him if you weren’t wearing that.” Meaning her holstered SIG.
“Actually, she would,” Mitch told him. “My sound is something of an acquired taste. Kimberly, are your folks into yoga, too?”
“Not at all. But they’re both very active. Father still does the same Royal Canadian Air Force calisthenics every morning that he’s been doing since I was a little girl. Mother plays tennis and tends the Captain Chadwick Blush Noisettes like a demon. Mother’s very particular about ‘her’ roses. Won’t let Augie within ten feet of the things. They were planted way back in the fifties, I’m told. Tourists always stop to take pictures of them. The two of them will be along soon. Mother has this thing about always showing up twenty minutes late. Something she learned at finishing school.”
Beth returned now with a platter of sizzling stuffed mushrooms. Set it down on the table, poured herself a glass of white wine and joined them.
“Des, did you know that this guy here saved my life?” Kenny said. “Real deal. If it weren’t for Mitch Berger I would be embedded face down in the Stuyvesant Town playground to this very day.”
“Lapidus, I think you’re overselling it a bit,” Mitch said.
“If that’s the case then he’s been overselling it for twenty years,” Beth said. “Because that’s how long I’ve been hearing this story.”
“See, there was this incredibly hulking playground bully named Bruce Cooperman,” Kenny continued, ignoring them both. “He was a total goon. And huge. At age ten he was already shaving. Everyone was terrified of him. Everyone except for Berger. One day after school, I’m shooting hoops on the basketball court and Bruce starts giving me all sorts of grief. Takes my ball away from me, knocks me down, puts his big, fat foot on my neck and won’t let me back up. Won’t let me breathe. I’m facedown on the pavement, preparing to meet my maker, when I hear Berger say, ‘You’re being kind of rough on the little guy, aren’t you? Wanna try that with me?’ ”
“I stole that line from The Dirty Dozen,” Mitch interjected. “Clint Walker said it to John Cassavetes.”
“Bruce backed right off and gave me my ball back. And he never, ever bothered me again—because he knew that if he did, he’d have to take on Mitchell Berger, King of the Playground. Berger used to take me to see his favorite old movies, too. Heck, he pretty much taught me what cool was.”
“This is disturbing on so many different levels,” Des said, awestruck.
“Don’t mind her, Lapidus. She’s just bitter about being on duty tonight.”
“Ah yes, this would be the infamous Dorset Flasher. He strikes every weekend, I understand.”
“That’s correct.” Des raised an eyebrow at him. “And you come down here every weekend, right?”
“Why, yes. Yes, I do. Got in last night around 8:30. I drove my Prius down. It’s the light green one parked out front. I take Amtrak when I can but the train leaves Boston at 5:35 and sometimes I just can’t get away that early. The next train isn’t until 9:45, which means I don’t get here until midnight. So I jumped in the Prius. Made it here in just under two hours. Man, you would not believe the highway mileage that bad boy gets if I keep the speedometer just under . . .” Kenny gulped, his eyes widening. “Whoa, you don’t think I’m the Flasher, do you?”
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