The Blood Red Indian Summer (15 page)

He left them there and piloted his Studey through the Big Branch Road shopping district toward The Works, his mind on that beautiful, terrified young girl whom they’d rescued on the beach. If they hadn’t stumbled upon Kinitra Jameson, she would be dead right now. Was that what she’d wanted? To do herself in? Des had phoned from the clinic with ample reason why. Someone had been brutalizing the poor girl up, down and sideways.
And
gotten her pregnant.

The Works was a European-style food hall located in what had once been a huge red-brick piano works on the banks of the Connecticut River. There were food stalls that sold locally grown produce and farm-fresh eggs. There was a coffee bar that stayed open until late at night. A juice bar that sold fruit smoothies. A butcher, a fishmonger, a deli counter, a kick-ass bakery. Out in the center of the food hall there were tables and chairs where people could hang out over a cup of coffee or meet for a sandwich.

Mitch’s first stop was the bakery, where he bought two dozen chocolate biscotti. One dozen was for tonight’s dessert, the other to devour right goddamned now. Next he intended to buy a slab o’ salmon to throw on the grill. Dinner was going to be real simple and healthy. The Deacon was on a heart-smart eating regimen. Chet was watching his cholesterol and blood pressure. And Des was on her trendy Connecticut Gold Coast Clenched Stomach Diet.

As he was crossing the food hall Mitch encountered Stewart Plotka seated at a table having lunch with his turbocharged power lawyer, Andrea Halperin. Plotka was plump, soft-shouldered and boneless. Gave the impression of being constructed entirely out of blubber. And that black eye patch of his really wasn’t working for him. Moshe Dayan the man wasn’t. His eye and hand injuries didn’t seem to be hurting his appetite. He was attacking a foot-long shrimp salad hero, potato chips and a chocolate milk shake. Andrea was nursing a black coffee.

“Mitchell Berger, am I right?” she said, showing him her nice white teeth. Andrea was in her late thirties and, unlike her client, lean and taut. Her pinstriped suit was impeccably tailored. Her white blouse was silk. Her pearls were real. She had chicly styled hair, full red lips and terrific legs. Quite a sexy package if you were partial to greedy, soulless predators. “Join us, won’t you please?”

“Sorry, I really have to get to work,” Mitch said as her client continued to devour his lunch like a feral four-year-old. The man was spraying shrimp, mayo and shredded lettuce everywhere.

Andrea reached over and dabbed at Plotka’s mouth with a napkin. Mitch wondered if they were sleeping together. He doubted it. Plotka wasn’t exactly in her league. “Just for a moment, Mitchell. It’s quite important.”

Reluctantly, he sat down with them.

She sipped her coffee and said, “I miss your reviews on television. You were
the
best thing about the midday news. Was it a contractual thing?”

“No, it was more of a self-image thing.”

“Are you sure? Because if it’s about money, I’m the girl who can get it for you. Just turn me loose.”

“I’m not a talking head, that’s all.”

“But you were so
good
at it. Funny, charming, even a bit sexy, if you don’t mind me saying so. A lot of my friends had crushes on you.”

“I’m happy doing what I’m doing. I didn’t like being on TV.”

She let out a laugh. “Who does?” Like any top-flight lawyer, NBA point guard or professional assassin, Andrea Halperin could pivot on a dime. “It’s merely a way to get what you want.”

“Like what?” Mitch asked.

“Like restitution,” Plotka answered around a mouthful of shrimp salad. “Take me for a sec, okay? I had a beautiful future with a beautiful girl all lined up. Now I’ve got squat. My Katie’s never been the same since Tyrone Grantham attacked her. She has crying jags like you wouldn’t believe. Plus her dumb-assed shrink got her so hooked on happy-happy pills that she had to go into rehab.” He paused to take a loud slurp of his shake. “When I saw Grantham at Dave & Buster’s that day I was just trying to explain it to him. I wanted him to understand what he’d done to my nice girl. A nursing student. An angel of mercy. He came at me like a wild animal. Now I have permanent retinal damage plus tendon and ligament damage in my wrist.”

“And what’s happened to Katie?”

“Katie is down in Boca Raton at the present time,” Andrea answered delicately. “Her mother isn’t well. Katie’s been taking care of her and trying to get her own life back together. She hasn’t had an easy time of it, emotionally or financially. Stewart is well aware of that. He fully intends to share the proceeds with her when we reach a financial settlement with Mr. Grantham. And we
will
reach a settlement.”

“Did she graduate from nursing school?”

“Katie hopes to resume her nursing studies very soon,” Andrea replied. “But her family obligations have made that impossible. She’s currently working as a dancer at a gentlemen’s club in Boca.”

Mitch blinked at her. “She’s a stripper?”

“It’s a perfectly respectable way for a single woman to earn a living, Mitchell. The club is very high-end. And just because Katie happens to be earning her living that way now doesn’t mean she was ‘asking for it’ three years ago from Tryone Grantham. In fact, I’m surprised you even went there.”

“I didn’t. You did. Still, I’m amazed that the tabloids aren’t all over it.”

“Don’t be. It’s cost me dearly to keep it under wraps. My favor bank is practically belly up.”

“So why tell me?”

“Because I want you to know that I’m being totally straight. I’ll never shade the truth with you, Mitchell. I won’t even try. The truth is I advised Katie against working there. I told her that in these sorts of cases appearances are crucial.”

“And what did she tell you?”

“I can’t repeat it. My mother told me to never use such words in public.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“That I don’t use naughty language in public?”

“That you had a mother.”

Andrea threw back her head and laughed. “You are
so
funny. We have to get you back on TV.”

Mitch looked over at Plotka. “And how do
you
earn your living now?”

“Well, I can’t work with computers anymore,” he answered bitterly. “I have a disability. Besides, I don’t have time. I’m too busy trying to get justice. It’s taking
forever
.”

“Justice requires patience,” Andrea lectured him. “Look how long it took to bring the Nazi war criminals to trial at Nuremberg.”

“Please don’t ever do that again,” Mitch said to her.

“Do what, Mitchell?”

“Mention the Holocaust and this case in the same breath.”

“Before that bastard came along,” Plotka said angrily, “Katie and me were planning a June wedding. I had a good job. I was putting down a deposit on a house in Mineola. Now look at me.”

“I’m trying to,” Mitch responded. “But it’s really hard. That eye patch is just so totally
Pirates of the Caribbean
. Seriously, all you need is a peg leg and a parrot on your shoulder. Can you say ‘Aaarggh?…’ Can you?”

“Shut the hell up,” Plotka growled at him.

“Andrea, you said this was important?…”

“Yes, it is. We need to talk about what really happened at the Grantham house last night.” She was all business now. “I’ve seen the video of the dust-up between cousin Clarence and that feeble old man. The whole world has. But the whole world doesn’t know why it happened. Or whether Tyrone Grantham was or was not in the middle of it. No one in the family is talking, naturally. And the resident trooper has written it off as a minor misunderstanding.”

“So?…”

“So a little birdie told me that you and she showed up at the front gate together.” Andrea arched a sculpted eyebrow at him. “It’s not exactly a secret around these parts that you two are friends with privileges. I thought you might speak to her on my behalf.”

“And say what?”

“That I’m someone who can help her if she’ll help me. All I’m asking for is a little cooperation.”

“You mean information.”

“I’ve done my homework, Mitchell. I know that Desiree Mitry wasn’t always a lowly resident trooper. A high-profile case such as this one could put her career right back on the fast track. The limelight has a way of doing that.”

“A bit of advice, counselor. That argument didn’t work when Robert Vaughn tried it on Steve McQueen in
Bullitt
and it won’t work now with you and Resident Trooper Mitry. Besides, you’re no Robert Vaughn.”

“Okay, I have no idea what you just said.”

“And you never will. How cool is that?”

“I need someone on the inside, Mitchell.”

“Sorry, I can’t help you.”

“You can’t or you won’t?”

“Okay, I won’t.”

“Fair enough,” she said easily. “But it might interest you to know that we intend to produce irrefutable evidence this afternoon.”

“Evidence of?…”

“Direct, intimate sexual contact between Katie O’Brien and Tyrone Grantham. We’ll be holding a press conference outside his gate in a short while. I’m timing it so that ESPN can make it their top story on
NFL Live
.” Andrea Halperin smiled at him savagely. “Stay tuned, Mitchell. This is about to get extremely down and dirty.”

C
HAPTER
9

“I
T’S GOOD TO SEE
you again, Miss Thing.”

“Right back at you,
Lieutenant
Snipes.”

“Cut that
Lieutenant
bull.”

“I’m so proud of you, Yolie.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you, girl.”

“Yes, you could. And you did.”

Des and Detective Lieutenant Yolanda Snipes of the Major Crime Squad were catching up outside the entrance to Middlesex Hospital while Yolie’s sergeant parked their car. They’d shown up there at Des’s request from the Central District headquarters in Meriden. It was not an official request. It was Des reaching out to a friend who happened to be so smart, tough and good that she’d finally blasted her way through the concrete ceiling and made lieutenant. Her promotion, as Des saw it, was way overdue. But it hadn’t been easy for Yolie Snipes. She was half-black, half-Cuban and all pit bull—an intimidating, fearless hard-charger who did not play well with others. She stood five-foot-nine barefoot and was into power lifting. The sleeveless knit top she had on showed off her tattooed guns.

“How’s the Deacon doing?” she asked Des.

“Better every day.” Which was entirely true … from the neck down.

“And your boy, Mitch?”

“Actually, he’s the reason why you’re here. Our sexual assault victim washed up on his island. If she is a victim. That’s up in the air right now.”

“What’s she saying went down?”

“She isn’t saying.”

“Well, who’s the complainant?”

“There isn’t a complainant.”

Yolie looked at Des doubtfully. “Girl…”

“Just hear my thing, okay?”

“No prob, I can do that,” Yolie said as her female sergeant came marching across the parking lot toward them, arms pumping, fists clenched.

They’d given her a pint-sized young brunette to break in. She was a feisty-looking little thing in a shiny black pants suit who had the sort of sculpted big hair that Des thought went out with leg warmers and Pat Benatar. Her boobage was big, too, and she wasn’t shy about displaying it. The top three buttons of her tight red blouse were unbuttoned to reveal cavernous cleavage.

“What’s the deal, Loo?” she demanded, her chin stuck out at them.

“Master Sergeant Des Mitry, kindly give it up for Sergeant Toni Tedone,” Yolie said with a grin on her face. “She’s Rico’s younger cousin.”

Des’s eyes widened. “No way.”

“Totally way,” Yolie said, nodding.

Rico “Soave” Tedone had been Des’s semi-bright weasel of a sergeant back when she was a homicide lieutenant on Major Crimes. Until, that is, she blew up her career—with a not-so-generous assist from Rico—and got demoted to resident trooper. When Rico made lieutenant he was assigned Sergeant Yolie Snipes. Now Yolie was a lieutenant and Rico was living large on the state’s Organized Crime Task Force, strictly because he was a Tedone and therefore hard-wired into the Waterbury Mafia—the Italian-American clan of brothers, uncles, cousins and in-laws who pretty much ran the Connecticut state police. The Brass City boys were a force within the force. And there were so damned many of them that, well, Des supposed it was inevitable one of them would turn out to be a she.

“Rico is
all
up in my face about you,” Toni informed Des. “I’m supposed to watch how you walk, talk, work the room. I was, like, do I have to follow her into the bathroom and watch how she takes a crap, too? And he’s, like, just pay attention, okay? And I’m, like, you think I suffer from A.D.D. or something? And he’s like, whatever.”

Des waited for her to come up for air. She was definitely a Tedone—raring to go, chippy, knew it all. “Pleased to meet you, Toni. How long have you two ladies been partnered up?”

Yolie glanced at her watch. “Two days, three hours and seventeen minutes. So who’ve we got here, girl?”

“A sweet, innocent, eighteen-year-old girl named Kinitra Jameson.”

“No one who’s eighteen is innocent,” Toni shot back. “Trust me, I went to Catholic schools my whole life.”

“Kinitra washed up on Big Sister early this morning in her underwear, half drowned. She had bruises around her throat and wrists and she was terrified. She’s a talented young singer who’s been living in one of the waterfront mansions on Turkey Neck with her big sister Jamella—who is married to Tyrone Grantham.”

Yolie’s eyes widened. “Okay, this just got a lot more interesting.”

“Tyrone’s cousin, Clarence, threw a big party at the mansion last night. Kinitra claims she got high on wine and weed, took herself a midnight dip and accidentally got swept up in the river current. But her doctor at Shoreline Clinic found no trace of alcohol or drugs in her blood. The rape kit results were negative but the doctor did find scarring from repeated, forcible vaginal and anal penetration. Kinitra’s also eight weeks pregnant. Jamella went nuts when she found out. Says the girl’s never had so much as a boyfriend.”