The Blood Red Indian Summer (23 page)

Yolie nodded. “I’m with you. We’re asking the neighbors if they saw anybody out walking or running.” She glanced uneasily at the Deacon. “Sir, we sealed off the perimeter ASAP but a couple of tabloid photographers slipped through and ID’ed the victims before we could chase them off. So I’m afraid we’ve got ourselves a real circus.”

“That can’t be helped. Just do your job and accept the fact that they’re doing theirs.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was another crackle of lightning followed almost instantly by a deafening clap of thunder. Rain began to hammer down on the roof over their heads.

“Before I jump to an obvious conclusion I always pause to consider the less obvious,” the Deacon said, thumbing his jaw thoughtfully.

Yolie frowned at him. “As in?…”

“Is there any chance that your victims had become romantically involved? That they were down here admiring the sunset together and were attacked by a jealous lover?”

“Stewart Plotka’s lady friend, Katie O’Brien, presently lives and works down in Boca Raton,” Des said. “I’m not up on Andrea Halperin’s love life but I doubt she’d go there. She was way out of Plotka’s league.”

“There’s no telling who a woman will fall for,” he countered.

“True enough,” Des allowed, wondering if she’d imagined that extra little edge she’d heard in his voice.

“Lieutenant, you were surmising that your victims arrived here for a prearranged meeting with someone. Possibly a seven o’clock meeting given the time of the shooting. Who would that someone be?”

“Well,
that’s
pretty clear,” Toni the Tiger spoke up. “I mean, isn’t it?”

He turned his frosty gaze on her. “I’ve only been on this job for thirty-two years. Absolutely nothing is clear to me.”

“If you ask me what
I
think, it reads Tyrone Grantham all the way,” she went on. “Da Beast made up his mind that Plotka raped Kinitra Jameson and decided to make him pay. The lawyer’s merely collateral damage.”

The Deacon nodded his head slowly. “Fair enough, Sergeant. Except you neglected one critical detail.”

“Which is what, sir?”

“I didn’t ask you what you think.”

“Yes, sir.” Toni gulped, her big-haired head beginning to swivel spasmodically atop her neck. “I mean, no, sir.”

He turned back to Yolie now. “You had something more to tell me.”

“Yes, I was just coming to that, sir.” Yolie held up a plastic evidence bag that had a cell phone inside. “It’s Andrea Halperin’s. Her most recent incoming call, at 6:33 p.m., came from the landline inside the Grantham home.”

“Therefore, you’re surmising that someone in the Grantham home called her and arranged the meet. Does the time frame work?”

“The victims were staying at the Saybrook Point Inn,” Des said. “That’s a fifteen-minute drive from here. Twenty if there’s traffic. It works.”

The Deacon considered this for a moment. “What sort of a call would prompt the victims to jump in her car and drive down here at the drop of a hat?”

“A settlement offer,” Des answered, shoving her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose. “A nice, quiet settlement offer in a nice, quiet place. The victims stood outside Tyrone Grantham’s house this afternoon waving a red blouse for the cameras and challenging him to take a DNA test. It was not a good day for Team Grantham. Maybe Tyrone decided he was ready to shove some cash at them so they’d go away.”

“Who’s authorized to negotiate such a settlement? Is Grantham’s attorney currently in Dorset?”

“He wasn’t as of a few hours ago,” Des replied. “Although it’s certainly possible that he came out from New York late this afternoon.”

“That’s not an acceptable answer,” he growled at her.

“I’ll find out,” Des said quickly.

“Much better.” The Deacon never showed her any favoritism—especially in front of others. “If his lawyer
isn’t
present then who would be authorized to negotiate a settlement?”

“His brother, Rondell, handles all of his business affairs,” Yolie said. “Rondell also happens to be madly in love with Kinitra. I have a trooper posted outside her hospital room in case someone decides to pay her a visit. No one has, according to hospital security, but there’s no telling what we’re into now.”

“It appears as if you’ve done a pretty fair job so far, Lieutenant,” the Deacon said. “Although your shooter did serve it up awful nice and easy by leaving Miss Halperin’s cell phone behind that way. You wouldn’t figure someone who’s smart enough to lure her down here would be dumb enough to leave such incriminating physical evidence behind. In fact, if I were you, I’d be wondering if someone’s playing with my head.”

“I
am
wondering that, sir.”

“What’s your next move?”

“Paying a call on Tyrone Grantham.”

“Mind if we tag along?”

“Not at all,” Yolie responded, raising her chin at him. “As long as you remember one thing.…”

The Deacon looked at her, stone-faced. “And what’s that?”

“It’s
my
case.”

“Good answer, Lieutenant.”

*   *   *

By the time they got to Turkey Neck the rain was coming down in blinding sheets. Des could barely make out Yolie’s taillights ahead of her as they sloshed around the bend to the Grantham place. And it was drumming so hard on the roof of the cruiser that she practically had to shout when she asked the Deacon if he wanted to borrow her hooded rain slicker. He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

When they reached Tyrone’s driveway, Yolie pulled in and lowered her window to talk to Oly, who’d taken cover inside his cruiser next to the gate. Most of the media throng had relocated to the double-homicide scene. The few who’d stayed put had sought refuge inside their own rides. But at the sight of two cruisers pulling into the driveway they jumped out and came splashing toward them, hollering and screaming for an update, a quote, something, anything. Des had nothing to say and refused to roll down her window. Just waited for Oly to open the gate so she could follow Yolie inside, the gate closing behind them.

Yolie came to a stop almost immediately and got out.

Des rolled down her window, feeling the hard, chilly rain on her face. “What’s up?”

“Tyrone’s not home,” she reported, huddled inside her hooded rain jacket. “Oly said he drove off in his Escalade at about six-thirty and hasn’t come back.”

“Was he alone?”

“He was alone. Told Oly he was going to get some ice cream for Jamella.”

“Ice cream,” the Deacon repeated, staring straight ahead.

She dashed back to her car and jumped in and they followed her to the front entrance to the house.

Clarence answered the door, looking wide-eyed and tense. He was also not his usual yappy self. Led them in silence into the vast, high-ceilinged living room where those six sharks swam restlessly, endlessly, inside their giant aquarium. Rondell, Jamella and Chantal were seated on the white leather sofas grimly watching CNN’s live news coverage of the White Sand Beach murders on the flat-screen TV. The rain-soaked correspondent, who stood under an umbrella at the Brighton Road perimeter, was reporting that Stewart Plotka and his attorney, Andrea Halperin, had been gunned down “gangland style” in the front seat of her late-model Mercedes at approximately 7:00
P.M.
The correspondent also pointed out that Tyrone Grantham had left his luxurious waterfront estate on nearby Turkey Neck Road at approximately 6:30
P.M.
in a black Cadillac Escalade and had not yet returned home. Thereby leaving viewers to connect the dots for themselves. It wasn’t exactly hard.

When Rondell noticed them standing there with Clarence, he muted the sound on the TV. It fell silent in the room—except for the wind-driven rain that was pelting against the glass walls.

Rondell and Chantal hadn’t met the Deacon yet. Des made the introductions. They were so distraught they barely seemed to hear her.

“He just went out to get me some ice cream,” Jamella protested, plopped there forlornly on the sofa, her hands folded across her big belly. “That’s all he did.”

“That’s right, hon,” Chantal said to her comfortingly. “Ain’t no law against that. Is there, Trooper Mitry?”

Des mustered a faint smile. “No law at all.”

Rondell could not stop fidgeting or clearing his throat. He was dressed way sportier than usual. Instead of a sober, neatly tucked oxford button-down, he wore a loose-fitting electric blue Hawaiian shirt emblazoned with a white palm tree. “I—I’ve tried him numerous times on his cell,” he stammered nervously.

Yolie narrowed her eyes at him. “And?…”

“He’s not picking up. Here, I’ll try again.…” Rondell hit speed dial and listened, shaking his head when the call went to voice mail. “It’s
me
, big man,” he said into the phone. “
Please
call me, will you?” He rang off, aware of Des’s eyes on him. “This shirt’s not me at all, is it?” he acknowledged self-consciously. “Tyrone bought it for me in Honolulu. It’s a genuine Tori Richard, whatever that means. Silly thing’s made of silk.”

“It’s not silly at all,” Toni spoke up. “I think it’s beautiful.”

Rondell looked at her in surprise. “Really?”

“Where’s Calvin?” Yolie asked, glancing around.

“In the pool house, last time I looked,” Chantal responded with a discernible chill in her voice.

Yolie nodded to Toni. She immediately went marching off to fetch him.

“And how about Monique?” Des asked Chantal.

“She’s up in her room watching the TV.”

“Ask her to join us, please.”

“The girl’s simple. She don’t know nothing.”

“Please ask her anyway.”

Chantal craned her head around and yelled, “
Monique
?…”

“
What
?…” Monique hollered back.

“
Get your ass in here, girl
!”

It took her a while but Monique came scuffing in. At the sight of all of them there, her dull-eyed gaze went down to the floor. “I do something wrong, Chantal?” she asked, standing there knock-kneed in her T-shirt and cutoffs.

“You got nothing to worry about. Just sit right here next to me. These folks want to talk to us, that’s all.”

Toni returned now with Calvin, who was clutching a fresh can of Bud.

He popped it open and took a thirsty gulp. “What’s all of this fuss?”

“Have you been watching the news?” Yolie asked him.

“Naw, I was playing around on my laptop.”

“Watching that filthy online porn of yours again,” Chantal said reproachfully. “It’s
sick
, you ask me.”

“Who’s asking you?” he shot back, bristling. “You’re just jealous because there ain’t no man alive wants to look at you that way no more.”

“Please shut up,” Jamella begged them wearily. “Both of you.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up in my own son’s home,” Chantal huffed. “Tell
him
to shut up—insulting me to my face that way.”

Lightning flashed outside the glass walls, followed by a tremendous clap of thunder. The household lights flickered but stayed on.

Toni said, “He
was
watching online porn, Loo. I could see it on his screen through the window.”

Calvin shrugged his shoulders. “So what? That’s no crime, is it?”

“No, it is not,” Yolie said to him. “But murder is.”

His eyes widened. “Who’s talking about
murder
?”

“Stewart Plotka and Andrea Halperin are dead, Mr. Jameson,” the Deacon informed him. “Someone just shot them in the parking lot of White Sand Beach.”

“Dang…” Calvin exhaled slowly, glancing over at Rondell and Clarence. They sat there in tense silence, staring down at their hands. “Hey, where’s Tyrone at?”

“He’s out getting me some ice cream,” Jamella answered in a small voice. “He’s been gone for over an hour.”

“Don’t take but five minutes to get to that ice cream parlor you like.”

“I know that, Popsy.”

Calvin frowned. “I’m not liking the sound of this at all.…”

“Don’t you be thinking what you’re thinking,” Chantal said to him. “My boy wouldn’t kill
nobody
.”

Des’s cell phone rang on her belt. She answered it and listened to the voice on the other end, then rang off and said, “That was Oly. Tyrone’s home. He just passed through the gate.”

“Well, praise the Lord for that,” Chantal said.

Des heard the slam of a car door outside, then the front door to the house open and close.

“I’m back, girl!” Tyrone called out from the entry hall. “Got your pistachio for you! Yo, what’s up with those police cars parked out in our?…” He trailed off as he arrived in the living room and saw all of them. Stood frozen there in a tank top and spandex shorts, his giant tattooed muscles bulging, rain drops glistening on his shaved head. In one hand he held a bag from Clancy Muldoon’s ice cream parlor, in the other his car keys.

“Good evening, Tyrone,” Des said to him quietly.

“Evening, Trooper Mitry,” he responded guardedly. “Who’s the suit?”

“The suit happens to be my father, Deputy Superintendent Mitry. He and I were having dinner together when I got the call.”

“What call? You got some news for us about Kinitra?”

“They’re not here about Kinitra,” Rondell informed his brother somberly.

“Well, then what’s going on? Somebody tell me, will you?”

Jamella swallowed, her eyes puddling with tears. “Baby, where have you
been
all of this time?”

“I told y’all I’d be gone for a while. Was starting to feel like a caged tiger. Needed to take a drive and clear my head. You heard me say so. You and Cee both. Right, Cee?”

“True that,” Clarence acknowledged. “I heard you.”

“Where did you drive to, Tyrone?” Des asked.

“What difference does that make?”

“Please answer the question,” Yolie said to him.

“Up into the hills by that Devil’s Hopyard waterfall. Man, it is peaceful up there. I could listen to that waterfall all night long.”

“Did anyone see you there?” Yolie asked.

“
See
me? How would I know? I was just kicking it. Minding my own business—until it started to pour down rain. So I came back to town, got my girl’s pistachio and here I am.”