“He deals in black-market meds?” Grisky asked.
“Not exactly. He’s a bookie and loan shark.” The Aardvark passed around copies of a surveillance photo of the man getting out of a silver Cadillac Coupe de Ville. Slick Rick had gray hair and wore a Kangol cap. “He operates out of a dozen or so bars, clubs, and VFW halls in Southeastern Connecticut under the protection of the Castagnos. Not a big player, but a good, steady earner. As I mentioned this morning, the black-market meds gang that we took down in Bridgeport was operating under the protection of the Castagnos, too. There are still plenty of those bastards out there doing their thing. And, according to our contacts, there’s a direct link between them and Slick Rick.”
“What kind of a link?” Grisky asked.
“Slick Rick has a muscle man who goes everywhere with him just in case anyone needs to be persuaded to pay up. A fellow who grew up here in Dorset by the name of Thomas Burke Stratton, better known as—”
“Tommy the Pinhead,” Des said, nodding.
“You know him?” he asked her.
“We’ve tussled. He’s a local lout. Low-level muscle, like you said.”
“He also does a spot of pimping on the side,” The Aardvark said. “Runs a girl named Gigi Garanski who has herself a serious heroin habit. Tommy keeps Gigi supplied with smack in exchange for which she does guys out of a motel called the Yankee Doodle Motor Court. But it’s not just a business arrangement between these two. This is a truly heartwarming love story. They live together and everything. Most days and nights, Gigi can be found at a bar on the Old Boston Post Road called the Rustic Inn. The Rustic’s owner, Steve Starkey, lets Slick Rick set up shop there two afternoons a week in exchange for a sweet discount on his beer from the regional distributor, which happens to be owned by the Castagnos. If anyone falls behind to Slick Rick, Tommy the Pinhead takes a mighty dim view of it. We know that Tommy’s supplying Gigi with heroin. That means he has drug contacts. We also know that Hank Merrill used to drop in at the Rustic from time to time. So put two and two together. If Hank was stealing prescription meds from his postal route then it stands to reason that his local buyer was Slick Rick and/or Tommy.”
Des considered this for a moment, frowning. “Captain, how is it that you know so much about the Rustic?”
The Aardvark cleared his throat uneasily. “The Narcotics Task Force put a man in there undercover last week.”
She glared across the table at him. “You have a man operating undercover in my town and you don’t tell me?”
“It was strictly a need-to-know matter, Master Sergeant.”
“We needed to know about it this morning!”
“I wanted to touch base with my man first,” he responded calmly.
Des shook her head at him angrily. “This is the same crap that you pulled on me before on Sour Cherry Lane. You come sneaking into my town, make a mess, and then stick me with the job of cleaning up after you.”
“Look, I understand your frustration.…”
“No, I don’t think you do, Captain.”
“But we’ve had leaks on our undercover operations.”
“I don’t leak!”
“I’m not saying that you do. But I’m under strict orders, from the top, to tell no one.”
“I don’t like the way you weasels operate,” Des fumed.
“It’s not your job to like it. And don’t call me a weasel.”
“Is your man still there?”
“No.”
“Would you tell me if he was?”
“Uh, excuse me for getting in the way of this little love fest,” Grisky interjected, “but did your man have anything for us, Captain?”
“Possibly,” The Aardvark replied. “Paulette Zander’s son Casey is a heavy, heavy sports bettor. Football’s his game. He’s lousy at it. And Gigi knows how to play him like a fiddle. She eggs him on, gives him a little taste now and then. The end result, according to my man, is that Casey Zander’s into Slick Rick for a whopping twenty large.”
“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere,” Grisky said eagerly. “Let’s play this out. Casey Zander has to raise twenty large to pay off Slick Rick. He’s a part-time mail carrier. He’s involved with Josie Cantro. We know that Josie’s a naughty little girl. We know that valuable mail on Hank Merrill’s route was disappearing in the weeks prior to his death.”
“And we know that Casey can’t be the brains behind this,” Des said. “He’s not bright enough—especially if the security at the Post Office is tight.”
“It’s very tight,” Questa said. “Plus he only drives on Saturdays.”
“So what does that make him?” Grisky wondered aloud.
“The weak link in the chain,” Yolie answered. “Let’s find him and break him.”
“He’s a U.S. Postal Service employee,” Questa said. “I’ll be the one to talk to him.”
Yolie shook her head. “He’s a person of interest in our homicide investigation. We’re talking to him.”
“We’ll all talk to him, okay?” Grisky said. “Any idea where he is?”
“At home with his mother, I assume,” Des said as her cell phone rang. She peered down at the screen. It was the Rustic Inn calling. She stepped out into the hallway to take the call. “This is Resident Trooper Mitry.”
She heard heavy wheezing at the other end before a voice said, “Des, this here’s Rutherford Peck calling.”
“What can I do for you, Rut?”
“Well, it’s like this. I’m at the Rustic and I don’t have any way of getting home.”
“Not a problem. I can arrange a ride for you. How did you get up there in the first place?”
“Your friend and mine Mitch Berger brought me up here for a friendly glass of beer.”
“Did that old Studey truck of his break down again?”
“Not exactly. Although he did say that he wanted to get something out of his truck. He went out to the parking lot, oh, maybe a half hour ago or so.”
“And?…”
“And he never came back.”
Des felt her pulse quicken. “Where is he, Rut?”
“That’s just it, young lady. Nobody seems to know. His truck’s here but Mitch isn’t. And I can’t find anyone who knows what happened to him.”
“Rut, are you okay?”
“Fine and dandy. It’s Mitch who I’m worried about.”
“Stay put. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
She rang off and turned to discover Yolie and Toni standing there in the hallway with her.
“What’s going down?” Yolie wanted to know.
Des shook her head in amazement. “He did it to me again.”
“Did what?”
“Went barging into the middle of things like Robert Mitchum on a bad-hair day. I’m going to kill him, I swear. But first I have to find him. I can’t believe he…” She broke off, her stomach in knots. “Want to get in some trouble?”
“You know me, girl. I’m up for anything. Let’s roll.”
“You could end up back in a gunnysack like me,” Des cautioned her.
“Not a problem. I look hot in gray. Whatever it is, I’m in.”
“Me, too,” Toni said.
“This ain’t your fight,” Yolie told her. “Besides, I need you holding down the fort here.”
“No way, Loo. I’ve been chained to a computer all day. And if I have to spend five more minutes in a room with Grisky I’m going to shoot him. Enough with the talking thing, okay? Let’s get out of here and break bad.”
Yolie’s fierce face broke into a smile. “Good answer, Sergeant.”
* * *
Mitch’s dear old truck was parked in the slushy lot just as Rut had said it was. Unlocked, with nothing and no one inside. Quite a few other pickups were crowded into the lot. There was no sign of Mr. Slick Rick Fontanella’s silver Coupe de Ville.
Des could feel the tension inside the Rustic the second that she and Yolie walked in the door. The sight of two very large sisters, o
ne of them in uniform, tends to do that in a bar that is frequented by pigment-challenged workingmen. Toni stayed outside to conduct a thorough search of the parking lot and the area out back.
Des’s eyes scanned the room. She saw no sign of Tommy the Pinhead or Gigi Garanski. No sign of Rut Peck either, for that matter. She made her way over to Steve Starkey, who stood behind the bar with a wary look on his face.
“Afternoon, Des,” he said, forcing up some good cheer. “What can I do for you today?”
“I got a call from Rut Peck a few minutes ago. He wanted a ride home.”
Steve’s face fell. “He told me he was calling the Jewett sisters. I didn’t realize he called you.”
“He seemed a little confused about a few things. Thought I’d better check them out. Steve, say hello to Lieutenant Yolanda Snipes of the Major Crimes Squad.”
“Major Crimes?” Steve’s eyes widened. “Hey, what’s going on here?”
“That’s what we’d like to know,” Yolie growled.
“Where is Rut, Steve?”
“Lying down in my back room. He had one beer too many and got a little light-headed. Come on around, I’ll take you to him.”
Steve’s back room was a combination kitchen, storeroom and office. Chili bubbled in a huge pot on the stove. Cases of beer were stacked practically to the ceiling. There was a desk cluttered with papers. Also a beat-up old sofa where the occasional Rustic regular had been known to spend the night if he’d had one or seven too many. Rut lay stretched out on it with a blanket thrown over him. He was awake but looked a bit wan.
“Are you okay, Rut?” Des asked him.
“I’m fine, young lady. Sure didn’t mean to kick up a fuss. I’m just having a little bit of trouble sorting things out. Plus I think I ate one too many of Steve’s chili dogs,” he confessed, belching discreetly. “I feel like a fool for putting you to so much trouble.”
“No need to. There’s only one fool in this picture and it’s not you. Where is he?”
“That’s what I can’t sort out. Mitch asked me if I’d mind stopping off here for a beer on our way to Essex Meadows.”
“Did he say why?”
“No, he didn’t. And I didn’t care why. It was fine by me. Except now he’s gone and I don’t know where.”
Des glanced over at Steve. “What can you tell us?”
“Not a whole lot. Rut popped in a couple of hours ago with a young guy who he introduced to me as your friend Mitch Berger.”
“Mitch’s truck is still here,” Des said. “Where’s Mitch?”
Steve hesitated, licking his lips. “Look, I run a friendly bar. A place where regular guys can hang out and relax.”
“I’m going to keep this real simple, Steve. I’m not holding you personally responsible for anything that’s happened here today—unless you start playing games with me. Then I promise that you’ll be sorry this day ever happened.”
Steve let out a sigh, then opened the bottom drawer of his desk and removed a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey. He poured a stiff slug into a not-very-clean-looking glass, drank it down, and then poured himself another slug. “Des, you’re going to get sore no matter what I say.”
She stood there in silence, clenching and unclenching her fists.
“Rut and your friend Mitch were sitting at the bar enjoying a Guinness and a chili dog, okay?”
“Best chili dog in town,” Rut said. “I had two.”
“And Casey Zander showed up looking for Gigi. Casey wasn’t in a friendly mood. When Rut offered to buy him a beer he gave Rut the brush-off.”
“And he was downright rude about it,” Rut said. “How a fine woman like Paulette could raise such a no-good louse I have never understood.”
“Then Gigi sashayed in and right away those two are snarling at each other. She told Casey to get lost and went over to talk to Tommy.”
“This would be Tommy the Pinhead?” Yolie demanded.
Steve blinked at her. “Yeah. He was sitting in the corner with a fellow who he sort of associates with.”
Yolie nodded. “Slick Rick Fontanella. We know all about him. And we’re not interested in that right now. We’re interested in what happened to Mitch.”
Steve took another swallow of Wild Turkey. “Gigi does pretty much whatever, whoever, Tommy tells her to. He beats her if she doesn’t. I’ve seen her in here with a fat lip, bruises all over her arms. It’s not pretty. Anyhow, after she talked to Tommy she came right back to Casey and started acting all nice. The two of them made a date. Casey told her he just had to take care of some business first. He went outside to the parking lot. Tommy followed him out there.”
“That’s when Mitch told me he had to get something out of his truck,” Rut recalled. “I told him it would cost him another chili dog, which is how it came to pass that I ate two of them.”
“So Mitch went outside just after Casey and Tommy did?” Des asked.
Rut nodded his tufty white head. “Correct.”
I’m going to kill him. First I have to find him, then I’ll kill him.
“Keep talking,” Yolie ordered Steve.
“Tommy and Casey came back inside a few minutes later. Casey had a real sick look on his face. Was kind of bent over, too. He and Gigi took off together right after that.”
“And what about Tommy?”
“He sat back down with Slick Rick. They talked for a sec and then he left, too. Slick Rick stuck around for another fifteen minutes. And that was that.”
“Except for the part where Mitch never came back inside,” Des said. “Stupid question, Steve. What do you think happened to him?”
Steve looked down into his glass. “It’s not my business to say.”
“I’m making it your business.”
“I figured he took off to party with Casey and Gigi. She’ll do that. Two guys at once, I mean. I just … I assumed he went out there to find out if he could get in on the action.”
“And, what, he just ditched Rut here?”
Steve shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “Happens all of the time, Des. I don’t mean to throw stones. Guys are going to do what they’re going to do.”
“Rut, is that what you think happened?”
“Never,” the old man answered with total certainty. “Mitch is true-blue. He’d cut off his own foot before he’d cheat on you—especially with that one. Why in the heck do you think I called you? I’m worried.”
Des bent over and kissed him on the forehead. Couldn’t help herself.
“Steve, you were saying Tommy left right after Casey and Gigi did,” Yolie put in. “What does Tommy drive?”
“A black ’98 Trans Am, Loo,” Toni answered as she came through the doorway from the bar. “I just ran his plate and texted it to you along with his last known address.” She paused, her face tightening. “I found something outside that you need to look at.”
Toni led them back through the bar and out the front door into the waning afternoon sunlight, Des moving on legs that felt numb. There was a fenced enclosure near the front door where Steve kept a stack of firewood and bags of rock salt.
“I found some fresh drops of blood in the snow right over here,” Toni reported. “And some blood on that snow shovel, see?”
Yolie stared down at the blood drops in the snow. “Sergeant, here’s what I want you to—”
“The cruisers from Troop F are already on their way,” Toni assured her. “I made sure that one of them has a K-9 partner. A Troop F detective will be here in ten minutes. And I’ve called for a tech crew to take blood samples and dust the shovel for prints. Also Mitch’s truck.”
“Good work.” Yolie peered over at Des. “What are you thinking?”
“He went Bulldog Drummond. He was hiding here watching the action in the parking lot—until someone sneaked up behind him and brained him with that shovel. Someone named Tommy the Pinhead.”
“Sergeant, no one leaves this place without showing proper ID. I want the name of every man who was in here i
n the past two hours. I want every car in that lot searched. We have less than an hour of good sunlight left. As soon as the K-9 unit gets here make sure the woods surrounding this place are—”
“He’s not in the woods,” Des said softly. “He’s not here at all.”
“What makes you say that?” Toni asked her.
“Because if he was here I’d know.”
“Have them undertake the search anyway,” Yolie ordered Toni. “You’re in charge here until you’ve brought the detective up to speed. Then I want you to catch up with us, got it?”
“Got it, Loo, except…”
“Except what?”
“I don’t know where you’re going.”
Yolie glanced inquiringly at Des. “Do you?”
* * *
Mostly, the Yankee Doodle Motor Court offered privacy. Its decaying circa-1957 bungalows were spaced a discreet distance apart, and the parking spaces were around in back so that no one driving by could see who was getting busy there.
Danny Rochin, the manager, was a cadaverous Swamp Yankee whose jet-black Grecian Formula hair contrasted sharply with his two-day growth of white stubble. The plaid wool shirt that Danny had on was a couple of sizes too large and made him look shrunken. His bony hands trembled slightly as Des stood across the counter from him in the office bungalow, Yolie by her side.
“Gigi showed up in a blue Tacoma about an hour ago,” he confirmed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I rented them Bungalow Six.”
“Who was she with, Danny?”
“Don’t know his name.”
“Have you seen him here before with Gigi?”
“Oh, sure. He’s one of her regulars. Odd-looking sort of guy. Real pale and soft. Colors his hair red. Wears it like one of the Beatles.”
“How did Gigi seem to you?”
“She was high, same as always. Sloppy high. Fell halfway over this counter, slurred her words. She’s a mess, that one. If she lives to be thirty I’ll be surprised.”
“How about the fifth Beatle?” Yolie asked him. “Was he high, too?”
“He was something. Like he was in pain.”
“And how about the other guy?” Des asked.
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