Mantrap (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series) (11 page)

“I’ll drop you off at Smith’s office. Call me when you’re finished, and watch your step, Eja. I mean it.” His voice was sharp and unforgiving. “I know he’s a cop but remember this: if Dario was murdered, everyone in this town is a suspect. Smith’s title is chief, not saint. You’ve heard the rumblings about an Indian casino around here. Development is the name of the game, and a guy like him might decide to eliminate any obstacles. If Dario stood in the way, who knows?”

RAYLAN SMITH LOOKED good in his uniform. Better than good. Those khakis hugged his muscular frame in all the right places, stirring thoughts in me that a practically married woman should never entertain. Lust ended when I spied the big ugly gun holstered at his side.

Guns scare me, even though I’ve gone with Anika for firearms training. She was a pro who knew the business end of weapons and wasn’t afraid to use them. I was a wuss cocooned in the safety of my office crafting antiseptic murders. The anonymity of a computer suited me. It was easy to ignore the realities of death and sweep aside unpleasantness by pressing the delete key.

“Ms. Kane, welcome.”

Raylan’s engaging grin beamed sunshine across his face. As he waved me toward a chair, I studied the décor. Furnishings were Spartan. Functional enough to get the job done with no excess, much like the man who used them. A nondescript couch, four beige chairs, and a round table littered with law enforcement paraphernalia filled the room. I’d never seen a neater desk. Raylan Smith was either underutilized or compulsively tidy.

“Learn anything?” he asked, widening that grin a touch. “Please excuse the mess.”

I’m used to teasing, especially by men. I’ve learned to deflect it with humor, my weapon of choice.

“Your website is very informative,” I said. “Everything a citizen needs to know.”

Raylan bowed. “We aim to please in Bayview. Unlike that big city you live in.”

I acknowledged the joke and kept looking. Two framed diplomas displayed in an unobtrusive niche identified Chief Smith as a graduate of the University of Massachusetts-Amherst and Boston College. Only a colorful woven blanket alluded to his Wampanoag heritage. I’d learned more about him through Google than by observing his workspace.

When he offered me coffee, I recoiled. “Why do police stations have such dreadful coffee? Is it an article of faith or something?”

Raylan’s lips turned up in a puckish grin. “Hmm. I had no idea you were so familiar with cop shops. That’s a canard, by the way. Modern cops know their way around an espresso maker just like ordinary folk. I have one of the best. Not a fancy European model, but a nice sensible American brand—Keurig with your choice of flavors, ma’am.”

I was torn between embarrassment and mirth. Under the circumstances, I chose to punt. “Touché. That’s what I get for using a stereotype. Okay, Chief, an espresso would be terrific. I know you’re busy, so I’ll come right to the point.”

Raylan’s expression was close to smug. Come to think of it, his eyes reminded me of espresso beans. Dark roast, freshly brewed.

“I like women who are direct, Ms. Kane. Go for it.” He bent over his coffee maker and got to work.

I’d been rehearsing this part, hoping to phrase things just right. Unfortunately nervousness made me blurt out my question. Delicacy fled; candor ruled the day. “Was Dario murdered, Chief? Persus insists that he was.”

He didn’t answer right away. My instincts suggested that Raylan was a cautious man who chose certainty over speculation. “I was the first police officer on the scene. Of course by then, Cheech Saenz had roused half the town, and Paloma was wailing like a banshee. The paramedics tried, did everything they could think of, but it wasn’t enough.”

“Funny that no one else noticed the hole. Mantrap, I guess they call it. We saw it yesterday, and the thing’s enormous.”

Raylan sipped his drink, silent and watchful. That man could do quiet better than anyone I’d ever met. I gritted my teeth and waited him out.

“I’ve seen a lot of accidents, Eja. Two years in Iraq cured me of squeamishness. But Dario . . . the look on his face haunts me.” Raylan grimaced. “His eyes were open. He mumbled something, but I couldn’t understand it. Dario looked . . . surprised. As if he couldn’t believe what happened. He grabbed my thumb and wouldn’t let go. Weird, isn’t it?”

I pictured Dario, helpless and fearful, clinging to a virtual stranger. It saddened me to think of him, the smart aleck with all the answers, being vulnerable and so very human at the end.

Raylan leaned back for a moment, sipping espresso. “Dario was never easy, you know. Always hyped up about something or someone. My grandma would have called him a troubled spirit.”

“Ah yes, she was a shaman, wasn’t she? Merlot told me.”

He gave that ironic grin again. “She did, huh? Interesting woman, Merlot.”

“She seems pretty smart to me,” I said, “and Persus adores her.”

“She’s smart all right. Too smart for her own good sometimes. College educations and psychics don’t always mix. Merlot can quote the Bard as easily as the Tarot, but that doesn’t make her right or ethical.” Raylan braced his hands on his thighs and stared at me. “You and Mr. Swann have been asking questions, I hear. Makes people nervous when strangers intrude. My advice is to stay out of it. Go back to Boston and let me handle things.”

I ignored his warning without a second thought. After all, Dario was family. Deming’s family anyhow.

“Was it an accident?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Unknown. Autopsy results were inconclusive. Lots of bicycle related deaths each year, you know. Even more serious injuries, and most of them are accidents. In fact, if you exclude drunk drivers, I’d say 99.9 percent of them are accidents. In Dario’s case, he suffered head trauma, probably from the fall.”

I can sense evasiveness at ten paces. “So he broke his neck?”

Raylan took a deep breath and forced a semi-smile. “I believe I just said, head trauma. Probably hit a rock. There are enough of them on that trail.”

He hadn’t satisfied me so I tried another approach.

“Did Dario have enemies, Chief? Someone who wanted him dead?”

“We all have enemies, Ms. Kane. Even you.”

“Me!”

“Yep. I did a bit of research on you and Mr. Swann. Spoke with the Boston PD. You got in way over your head when his sister died, ma’am. That won’t happen here. Not on my watch.”

I did my best to look chastened and changed the subject. “Dario’s latest crusade must have raised a few hackles. Environmental stuff always does. Meeka seemed convinced of that.”

Raylan regarded me with something akin to admiration. “My, my. You do get around. Barely here a week, and you’re already plugged into the establishment. Commendable. Meeka Kyle just about runs Bayview, you know.”

I nodded. “She seemed keen on Dario’s biking sanctuary, and that would have shaken Bayview to its core. Laird Foster is pro-development, probably a few others too. Dario’s plan could have ruined everything. That spells big-time motive to me.”

Chief Smith gave me the cold, flat cop’s stare. “Maybe. If Dario were actually murdered. You’re an outsider, Ms. Kane, and like it or not, money isn’t a problem for you.” He held his hand up to staunch my protests. “The Swanns, the Cantors, all of them represent great wealth. There’s another side of Bayview most people don’t see: painters, carpenters, and waitresses. Even police chiefs. Development means jobs, and lots of folks around here are hurting. Hard to care about recreation when a man can’t feed his family.”

It was now or never time. Forge ahead or lose my chance to explore Raylan’s personal motives. His body language, arms folded in front of him, wasn’t encouraging.

“Casinos mean jobs, don’t they?” I flashed my girl-next-door grin. “Dario had to oppose that idea.”

“I don’t get involved in that stuff,” Raylan said. “It’s tribal business.” The affable hunk suddenly morphed into an impenetrable granite slab. “Anyhow, the state legislature has to okay any gambling permits.” He rolled his eyes at me. “But I’m sure you already knew that.”

“Don’t you care,” I asked, “about justice?”

“That’s an abstraction,” Raylan said. “I’m all about enforcing the law. That keeps me busy enough.” He swept away the welcome mat and stared pointedly at his watch. “I’ve enjoyed our chat, Ms. Kane. Please give your fiancé and Mrs. Cantor my regards.” He escorted me to the door. “Remember what I said. This is no mystery story where the good guys ride in to save you. Real crimes have consequences. One mistake might cost your life.”

Chapter Nine

THE MOMENT I stepped out the door I saw it. His Porsche was splayed defiantly across two parking spaces on Main Street. Few citizens would so openly flout the law right in front of the cop shop, even those sitting astride a huge family trust. But conventional wisdom never stopped the almighty Deming Swann when he got a bee in his handsome bonnet.

“Have enough room, do you?” Instead of acknowledging his snit, I gave Deming a chipper smile and the happy talk that drives him wild. “You could have joined us, you know.”

He shrugged, feigning indifference.

“One of those slots is ‘handicapped only.’ What’s your disability, Counselor?”

Those striking hazel eyes narrowed for just a second. “Didn’t want to interrupt your chat, Ms. Kane. Besides, I had better things to do. Hop in.”

I resolved not to snarl or whine, even though my spirits flagged. Truth be told, both meetings were a colossal waste of time. Some detective I was!

“I didn’t learn much,” I admitted. “I guess it was a dumb idea. Meeka Kyle was more interested in you than Dario, and Raylan spent his time lecturing me.”

“Tut, tut, my beauty. I found out a thing or two that might interest you.” Deming shot a roguish smile at me and preened. “Meeka likes me, huh? I hope you told her I’m taken, although she could always have dibs in case you dump me.” He pinched my cheek and handed me a sheaf of papers. “Here. I got a copy of the medical examiner’s report on Dario. Interesting reading.”

I hunched over the paperwork, trying to decipher the technical gobbly-gook to get to the point. Any way you looked at it, the stark diagrams and meaningless phrases reduced a vital young man to a bucket of spare parts. A harsh but necessary commentary on the realities of sudden death and technology.

“Why so grim?” Deming asked. “Be analytical. Focus on facts or you’ll miss things.”

I skimmed the document, skipping to the conclusions. Dario apparently died from that old familiar saw “blunt force trauma.” One fact jumped out at me. His death had been categorized as “undetermined” rather than accident or homicide. Odd that Chief Smith never mentioned that.

Deming’s muscles went on red alert as someone approached the car. “Shit! Just what we need.”

Laird Foster ambled up, wearing a jaunty blue blazer, tan slacks, and a shopworn smile. “Hey, you two. Glad I ran into you.”

I watched Deming coil like a cranky serpent. Before he struck, I ran interference. After all, hypocrisy in a good cause can pay dividends.

“Nice seeing you, Laird. Forgive us if we seem preoccupied.” I lowered my eyes. “We were discussing Dario. It’s so difficult for Mrs. Cantor. And Paloma, of course.”

For a moment he looked puzzled. “Oh, yeah, Paloma. Listen, I must have a word with you two. Alone. Mind if we meet at the beach?”

“Persus has the best view,” I said as Deming glowered. “How about meeting us at her cabana?”

Laird nodded and headed toward his car. It was an older model Mercedes, comfortable enough to show success without trumpeting affluence.

“What were you thinking of?” Deming growled. “I wanted to take a nap. With you.”

The thought of cuddling with my beloved spawned goose bumps up and down my arm. Deming Swann knew more about pleasing a woman than any man had a right to. My skills were less refined, but I’d earned an A+ in attitude and an E for effort. Those extra credit points paid off handsomely.

“Rain check,” I said, patting his hand. “We’re here for Dario, remember?”

He gunned the Porsche and swept up Main Street, a monarch leading a processional. Everything changed when we reached Brokind’s front gates. There was trouble. A phalanx of patrol cars surrounded us, sirens blaring.

Deming killed the engine, leapt out of the Porsche, and reached the lead vehicle in two strides.

“What’s going on here, Officer?” He wasn’t confrontational, just self-possessed and in charge. I lagged behind him, juggling my purse and briefcase, bringing up the rear.

“Sorry, sir, this gate is closed.” The cop adjusted his sunglasses and gave Deming a hard stare.

“This is my aunt’s residence. We’re her guests. I’m also her attorney, Deming Swann. What’s going on?”

The cop folded his arms and said nothing. His strong, silent act quickly bored me.

“Is Chief Smith here?” I asked. “We’re friends of his.”

That perked up Dirty Harry. “On his way,” he said. “ETA—two minutes out.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, everything’s two minutes out in this burg.” Deming narrowed his eyes and put his hands on his hips. “If my aunt is injured because of your delays, I’ll file a lawsuit that’ll make your head spin, Officer. Trust me, your name will be in it.”

The atmosphere grew tense, like the shootout scene in
High Noon
. Deming played Gary Cooper, but I won the Grace Kelly role. Before the crisis heightened, another siren announced the arrival of the paramedics and Chief Raylan Smith.

He leaned out of his cruiser and immediately took command. “Thanks, Edward,” he said. “How about letting the ambulance and these good folks inside. Hop in my car, you two.”

We sat in the backseat holding hands, and in my case at least, praying that all was well. Raylan led the solemn procession through the winding road to Pert’s house.

“We got a call ten minutes ago,” he said. “Not long after Eja left my office. Somehow Persus ended up in the pool, unconscious.”

“Oh, God,” I squeaked in a voice so small I didn’t recognize it. “Is she okay?” My palms moistened, and I felt woozy.

“Steady, girl.” Deming rubbed my arm. “Where’s Mrs. Cantor now?”

Despite the circus atmosphere, Raylan maintained his composure. He pointed toward the stretcher being carried out from the back of the house. The tiny immobile figure, wrapped in thick sheeting, looked child-sized and frighteningly still.

“This was an accident, I presume?” Deming’s eyes never left the chief’s face. His voice sounded casual, as if he were discussing a tort claim. It was an act, a total charade. His fingers gripped my forearm hard enough to leave a bruise.

“No one knows. From what I heard, Krister was the hero of the day. He dove in, rescued Pert, and started CPR. I guess Paloma went into shock. Just stood there screaming.”