The Blood Red Indian Summer (22 page)

Des frowned at him. “Laundry day?”

“Laundry day.”

“And I’m supposed to know what that means?”

“She wanted me to tell you. She was real intent about it.”

Des glanced over at her father. “Maybe she found the rest of Kinitra’s clothing.”

“Will that help you build your case?” Mitch asked.

“There
is
no case,” he stated once again.

A brisk wind picked up and began to blow through the cottage. Off in the distance, Mitch could hear a rumble of thunder.

Chet eyed Des shrewdly across the coffee table. “You’ve got your eye on somebody other than Tyrone Grantham. Boo-Boo’s told us how razor sharp your mind is.”

“Boo-Boo has a habit of exaggerating.”

Mitch sighed. “Is there
any
chance I can get you to never call me that?”

She looked at him through her eyelashes and said, “None.”

“So who do you like?” Chet pressed her.

“Stewart Plotka has a major grudge against Tyrone. He was in and around the Glen Cove vicinity eight weeks ago, and he and his lawyer are presently staying at the Saybrook Point Inn. The lawyer went to her room after dinner last night. He stayed at the bar until eleven. Maybe he slipped out after that and drove to Turkey Neck. Maybe he’s the one who made that hole in Tyrone’s fence. Maybe he burrowed through that hole and—”

“And
what
?” Mitch interjected. “Waited around on the patio until Kinitra just happened to slip out in the middle of the night for a swim?”

“Maybe they had a prior arrangement to meet.”

“If that creep raped her, why on earth would she agree to meet with him?”

“Because he told her he had some important information about Tyrone.”

“Or possibly her sister,” the Deacon put in.

“That’s good, Daddy. That totally works. The man’s shameless. And I wouldn’t call Kinitra overly bright.”

Mitch nodded his head slowly. “Okay, but how did he set up the meeting?”

“Easy. He bumped into her at the store some time in the past couple of days. Passed her a note. I’m not saying that’s what happened. I’m just saying it’s possible.”

“Who else?” Chet asked. “Who else could have bumped into her and arranged this clandestine meeting?”

“Des never uses the word ‘clandestine,’ Pop.”

“She doesn’t? I thought all the pros used it.”

“Maybe they do, but she doesn’t.”

“How about hush-hush? Does she say hush-hush?”

“No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard her—”

“Boys,
please
!” Ruth scolded them.

“There’s the neighbor, Justy Bond,” Des continued. “He’s clashed with Tyrone from Day One. His auto empire is collapsing. He drinks. The man’s your classic all-American mess. His wife, Bonita, claims he drank himself to sleep last night same as always. Except Bonita wasn’t in bed with him and therefore can’t be sure he didn’t go next door and attack Kinitra.”

“Wait one second,” Mitch said sharply. “Where was Bonita?”

“On board the
Calliope
with June. Not that either of them will admit it.”

“But you can bank on it,” the Deacon said.

Mitch reached for another handful of soy nuts. “So it’s like that?”

Des nodded. “It’s like that.”

Ruth said, “Desiree, is this Justy Bond devious enough to trick the girl into a late night meeting with him?”

“He’s a car salesman. Need I say more?”

“And what about his son, June? Is he a suspect, too?”

“In theory? Yes. But I seriously doubt June is involved. He already has enough going on.” Des gazed down into her wine glass. “We also have to consider Tyrone’s other neighbor, Winston Lash. The old man knew about the hole in the fence. And he did bite that girl on the butt at Clarence’s party.”

Chet’s eyes widened, “He
what
?”

“Winston’s a dementia patient, Pop. He’s lost his sexual inhibitions, but he’s basically harmless. Hell, half the time the old fellow doesn’t even make any…” Mitch trailed off, scratching his head.

Des narrowed her gaze at him. “Make any what?”

“Never mind. I just thought of something I forgot.”

“Are you going to share it with the rest of the class?” Chet asked.

“It’s nothing. My point is he’s no rapist.”

Chet said, “The girl consented to a rape examination at the clinic this morning. Clearly, she wants your help. So why won’t she accept that help and tell you the truth? Who is she so afraid of?”

“Her big sister,” the Deacon answered quietly. “This is just us folks talking. But my own view is that Kinitra swam away like she did because of Jamella. Jamella has made a home for her, cared for her, supported her musical ambitions. Kinitra owes her a lot. And it’s eating her up inside.”

“What is, Buck?” Ruth asked.

“That she ‘let’ her sister’s husband have his way with her. Not that she could have stopped a two-hundred-forty-pound bully like Tyrone Grantham. If he was intent on having his way, there wasn’t a thing that girl could do.”

“So
you
think Tyrone Grantham is your man,” Chet said.

“There’s very little doubt in my mind that Tyrone Grantham is the father of that girl’s baby,” the Deacon said. “He wanted her. He took her. He’s been a taker all of his life. The league’s given him an official spanking. And he’s been mouthing all of the right words about changing his ways. But men like that don’t ever change.”

Des stiffened, staring at the Deacon with a startled expression on her face.

“What is it?” Mitch asked her.

“Nothing. I just thought of something that I forgot.”

“Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around.” Mitch heard another rumble of thunder. This one a bit closer. “The coals should be ready by now. I’d better put our fish on before the rain gets here.”

Des’s cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen and took the call. “Hey, Yolie … No, no, it’s okay. What’s?…” Her face dropped as she listened to what Yolie Snipes had to say. “Okay, I’ll be there in five.” She rang off, jumped to her feet and darted toward Mitch’s wardrobe cupboard, where she always kept a spare uniform. “Daddy, we officially have ourselves a case now.”

The Deacon peered at her. “What case is that?”

“Somebody just shot Stewart Plotka in the parking lot of White Sand Beach. He and his lawyer Andrea Halperin. They’re both dead.”

C
HAPTER
13

W
HITE
S
AND
B
EACH, WHICH
was the only stretch of precious sand anywhere in town that was open to all Dorseteers, was a dinky little public beach by most people’s standards. Two hundred yards wide at most, with parking for no more than a few dozen cars. There was a covered picnic area with a couple of picnic tables. And, during the peak summer months, there was a lifeguard on duty watching over a roped-off swimming area. After Labor Day, there was nothing. Just sand.

A pair of troopers from the Troop F barracks had secured the perimeter a half-mile back where Old Shore Road intersected Brighton and Seaside, the two roads that led down to the beach. News vans and satellite trucks were already crowded there. TV reporters were busy doing their stand-ups for the cameras. It sure hadn’t taken them long. They were the same mob who’d been camped out on Turkey Neck in front of the Grantham place. And nothing, but nothing, jump-starts news crews like a 911 call about a multiple homicide. They love blood. Anything with blood.

The trooper who’d sealed off Brighton Road let Des in, and she eased her cruiser through the two-block-long colony of summer cottages, slowing for the speed bumps that had been installed years ago for the safety of the children who lived there. They were small, squat cottages that were nestled close together. Almost all had been in the same working-class New Britain and Hartford-area families for generations. Almost none were winterized. Since the calendar said it was nearly November, most of the cottages were already shuttered for the season. Only a few lights were on here and there.

As she inched along between the speed bumps, Des saw a flash of lightning in the southern sky over Long Island. The storm was moving in fast. Soon, Mitch would be taking the salmon off the grill and the Bergers would be sitting down to eat. Des had insisted they go ahead without her. Ruth hadn’t cared for that idea. She wanted to wait for Des to return.

“That’s very sweet of you,” Des said to her. “But I’m liable to be gone for hours and hours. Please enjoy your evening, okay?”

The Deacon had come along for the ride. Sat right there beside her in the cruiser, big hands resting on his thighs, face impassive. The grown-up inside of Des was thrilled that he wanted to be at a crime scene again, be involved. This was a good sign. But her inner child definitely felt funny about him breathing down her neck while she was on the job. Not funny ha-ha. Funny freaked.

A trooper was stationed at the entrance to White Sand Beach’s dimly lit parking lot. Another was posted over at the lot’s exit on Seaside. Traffic in and out of the lot was routed that way so the streets absorbed the beach flow evenly. When Des pulled into the lot, she encountered a hive of activity. The crime scene techies were there with their blue and white cube vans. So was the death investigator. Everyone was crowded around Andrea Halperin’s black Mercedes sedan. Bright camera flashes kept going off as they photographed the bodies, the car, the pavement surrounding the car, it all.

“Your instincts were good,” the Deacon said as she pulled up and parked. “You thought something nasty might go down. You had it right.”

“Daddy, that’s not giving me a whole lot of comfort right now.”

“Wouldn’t expect it to. Sometimes, being smart can be a real curse.”

“Now you tell me.” Des climbed out, giving her big hat a tug against the wind that gusted off the water. A few raindrops were starting to spatter.

Yolie spotted her and came right over, shaking her head in amazement. “Damn, girl, I
forgot
how whack this town of yours is. It’s so peaceful here that you’d swear everyone’s on Prozac. Except every time I turn around somebody’s getting shot or poisoned or bashed over the head with a-a-a…” She broke off with a sputter, her eyes growing round as she realized who’d just climbed out of the passenger door of Des’s cruiser. “Deputy Superintendent Mitry, it’s great to see you up and around again, sir. How are you feeling?”

“Hungry, Lieutenant. I was just sitting down to dinner when you called.”

“I’m so sorry to break into your evening.”

“You didn’t. Your shooter did. Besides, I’m not on active duty. Merely observing.”

Toni scurried over to them now like an anxious little spaniel. “Good evening, Deputy Superintendent Mitry,” she exclaimed with a big smile. “So pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Sergeant Toni Tedone.”

“Of course you are,” he said to her dismissively.

Toni stood there with her mouth open. No sound came out.

“Would you like me to run it for you, sir?” Yolie asked him.

“Well, I
didn’t
come down here to inhale the sea air, Lieutenant,” he barked in response.

This
was the Deacon who Des knew. The Deacon whose intimidating presence could make even a hardened twenty-year veteran lose his lunch. She hadn’t seen this Deacon in a long while. It made her smile inside, she had to admit.

“Sir, we have two victims in the front seat of the vehicle,” Yolie reported. “The passenger’s Stewart Plotka. The driver’s Andrea Halperin, his attorney. If you’ll come with me…” She started toward the Benz, Des and the Deacon following her. “Guys, could you step back for just one moment, please?” she asked the techies. “Thank you.… Her window was rolled down, sir. His wasn’t, as you can see by the shattered glass. The engine was running when we got here, and the air conditioning was on. It would appear that they were idling in comfort while they waited.”

The Deacon stared at her. “Waited for?…”

“I’m surmising that they had a prearranged meeting here with someone.”

“You’re surmising this based upon what, Lieutenant?”

“I’ll get to that in a moment, if you don’t mind. Miss Halperin probably rolled her window down when the shooter arrived. She took two in the forehead from point-blank range, here and here…” Yolie pointed to the wounds with a Bic pen. Andrea’s eyes were open wide. She had a totally shocked expression on her dead face. An expression that Des doubted she’d ever had in life. “Mr. Plotka took two to the left side of the head, as you can see. He was also shot once through his left hand and twice more in the chest. We make seven shots fired altogether. We just dug a nine-mil slug out of the armrest on Mr. Plotka’s side. It’s likely to be the shot that went through his hand.”

“Did you find the weapon?” Des asked, head spinning and spinning.

“No weapon.”

A powerful gust of wind buffeted them. It was a chill wind. The air suddenly felt ten degrees colder. Lightning crackled in the sky over the Sound, followed one, two, three, four seconds later by a clap of thunder.

“We’d better let these people get their work done before the rain comes,” the Deacon said, stepping under the overhang of the covered picnic area. Des, Yolie and Toni joined him there. “When did it go down, Lieutenant?”

“A neighbor one house up on Brighton Road heard shots fired at two minutes past seven and phoned it in. And a young couple out walking on the beach phoned it in three minutes after that when they came upon the scene. The shooter was long gone by then. We took their statements and sent them on their way. The girl was pretty upset. We can reinterview them tomorrow.”

“Did this neighbor hear the shooter drive away?”

“No, sir. But if he exited the lot over there on Seaside, then our Brighton Road caller wouldn’t necessarily have heard him. I have men canvassing the neighbors on Seaside now.”

“How about prior to the shooting? Did your Brighton Road caller observe either car entering the lot?”

Yolie nodded. “The Benz. Not a second vehicle.”

“And what does that tell you?”

“The shooter could have come and gone on foot,” Des suggested. “Parked his car up by Old Shore Road. Approached the Benz nice and quiet in the darkness, let them have it, then hightailed it back to his car.”