by Donna Doyle
Maybe Leo would be able to find something out. He’d gotten a security job, as he’d intended, guarding one of the federal buildings in Pittsburgh. He had told Troy that the work wasn’t hard, and some of the people he worked with had impressive contacts from other jobs; one, he said, was even a retired FBI agent. Maybe the state police trooper would be more forthcoming than some of her colleagues.
Troy sighed. The morning was a cool, sunny one, requiring the wearing of sunglasses. The temperature was predicted to rise later in the morning but for now, it was comfortable. He scanned the crowd, keeping people along the sidelines as the soldiers marched by, returning the salute of Chief Stark.
The Vietnam veterans passed by, some of them on foot, some on motorcycles, their appearance as disheveled as the era in which they had served. What had it been like, Troy wondered, to wear the uniform at a time when soldiers were despised and the war in which they fought was a fuse for all the social unrest of a generation? Had war become tidier in the years after, or had the military brass learned a lesson about leadership?
His father had ideas on that, but then, his father had ideas on everything.
Troy looked across the street. Kelly caught his attention and she waved to him. She was wearing a white summer skirt that swayed in the light breeze. Her blouse was blue and the jacket and sandals she had on were red. She managed to combine the colors of the holiday with her own style. He wondered who had ever said that redheads couldn’t wear red. She looked first rate.
As he watched, he saw her smile slowly fade from her face, to be replaced by a puzzled expression. He followed her gaze.
The veterans of the first Iraq War were passing by. Behind them were the contemporary soldiers who had done their service in the second Iraq War and in Afghanistan. Among them, marching as a group, were six or seven men, each holding up a photograph of Sean in uniform. The photographs had been enlarged so that they were big enough to be seen by the crowd. Around him, Troy could hear the buzz of speculation as the spectators pondered the reason for the photograph in the parade.
Troy glanced over to the grandstand where Chief Stark, his face stony, continued to salute. He could not refrain from it, even though his expression no longer reflected the genial bonhomie for which he was known.
Then Troy noticed Doug, darting out from an unknown position, taking aim with his camera, capturing the shot with swift, professional accuracy and the photographer’s intuition which had told him that this was where the story was.
Across the street, Kelly was smiling again, not in joy, Troy noted, but in resolve. He raised his sunglasses and she looked over. And smiled again.
When the parade ended, she crossed the street quickly. “Did you know they were going to do that?” she asked.
Troy shook his head. “No, but I’m glad they did.”
“Me, too. Did you see Chief Stark’s face?”
“I saw it.”
“Did you see Representative Eldredge lean over and whisper something to Mrs. Stark?”
Troy hadn’t seen that. “No,” he answered. “Are you sure?”
Kelly nodded. “Maybe it’s nothing, but I couldn’t help but wonder. Well, I’d better get back over to the organizing station.”
“Isn’t the parade over?”
“It is, but we give a certificate to the marchers. I have to hand them out.”
“Will I see you later?”
“If you want to. I’m going on a picnic this afternoon, but I’ll be home in the evening. Are you off tonight, or are you scheduled to work all day?”
Chief Stark’s scheduling seemed to be designed to prevent Troy from knowing from week to week what hours he was to work. The returned police chief had expressed the intention of cutting back on the overtime that had weighted the department’s payroll since Leo had been suspended and the other two officers were doing their best to provide sufficient coverage. But Stark seemed reluctant to give Troy much time off and the overtime had continued. Today was a holiday and he would receive holiday pay after putting in his eight hours. But his shift was scheduled to end at 6:00 p.m. After that, the state police would provide coverage.
“Not quite,” he said. “I’ll be off at six. Where do you want to meet?”
“I can bring picnic food to your place if you want to do the grilling,” she suggested.
It was a deal. They separated, each to their own appointments, and although the holiday was not over, the parade and the program were concluded. The visiting veterans were invited to a steak dinner in the VFW hall. Families would be enjoying cook-outs as the summer season officially got underway. The discounts and enticements to buy food and drink were still in effect for the remainder of the day, but Troy had a hunch that the high-flying indulgence of the previous couple of weeks would be done.
But Sean was still dead. The man Troy suspected of murdering him seemed to have vanished. No one intended to follow up on the abduction of Mason Shaw because he had returned home safely. There was a lot to do and now that the holiday was over with, Troy felt that he could focus on it. He knew that Kelly would be there alongside him, determined to right the wrong that had been done and especially committed to the pursuit of justice because she felt that Sean’s death was a violation of the justice in which she believed. She was not naïve, Troy knew. But she was passionate about the ideals in which she believed, just as she had been intensely dedicated to proving that Lucas Krymanski was not guilty of the murder in Daffodil Alley on Halloween Night.
21
Questions from Jimmy
Troy expected that much of his day would be centered on complaints about neighbors who were setting off illegal fireworks, playing music too loud outside during their cook-outs, some traffic issues, and some public drunkenness. But after the parade, Chief Stark sent him out to clock drivers in the local speed trap, a section between the outskirts of town and the Settler Springs border where the speed limit went from forty-five miles per hour to twenty-five miles per hour. It was an area well known by locals, less so by strangers, and as out-of-town relatives and friends entered, they were almost always caught. By the time he’d been there for two hours, Troy was hot, tired, cranky and thirsty. As he left the spot where the police officers waited for the unwary drivers, he realized that he was ready to drink a gallon of whatever liquid was available and he’d decide later if he wanted to eat.
He drove to the pizzeria in Warren Borough, ordered pizza by the slice and was already on his third refill of soda before he’d finished his first piece of pizza.
“Hey, what are you doing in here?”
“Waiting to see if I can get a commission on speeding tickets,” Troy joked.
Jimmy Patton was carrying a stack of pizzas. “Oh, the holiday hazard,” he guessed, referring to the spot where Troy had been positioned. “I’ll bet you can singlehandedly make a week’s payroll with tickets.”
“I’ll let you know after my shift ends.”
Jimmy put the pizzas down on the counter next to Troy’s seat. “You’re going back? I thought it was just a couple hours.”
“Not today.”
“Huh.” Jimmy, a genial man in his mid-forties whose cheerful demeanor was a source of comfort for the anxious patients and their families who summoned the ambulance when an emergency struck, looked down at the floor, frowning. “Hot out there?”
“Hot enough,” Troy answered, puzzled by the remark.
“I suppose dehydration might be a risk.”
“I have water with me, and I’ll get more before I leave here.”
“Still . . . better to be careful.”
“Jimmy, I’m not planning on calling 9-1-1 so your crew can bring me something to drink.”
He wondered why Jimmy wasn’t smiling at his jocular remark.
“If you need us, you call.”
“Yeah, right. Why would I need you?”
“I don’t know. Say—is there bad blood between you and Stark?”
Troy felt that if he’d had antennae on his
forehead, they’d have gone into operational mode. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. Just wondering.”
“Why don’t you wonder out loud and let me know what you mean.”
“If things are hunky-dory with you and Stark, no sense in rocking the boat.”
“What about you?”
Jimmy shrugged and looked down at the floor, his forehead creased in thought.
“I’ve heard that he’s not happy that we’re bringing back so many addicts after they’ve OD’d,” he replied.
“What does he want you to do?”
“Let ’em die, I guess. He says that after we’ve given someone one chance, it’s a waste of resources to give them Narcan again.”
“You don’t agree?”
“I don’t drive an ambulance so I can let people die.”
“Jimmy . . . what do you think about the drug trafficking in town?”
Jimmy looked to his left and right as if he were concerned that his words would be overheard. “Drug trafficking?” he queried. “What drug trafficking? You think we have a drug problem in town?”
He clapped Troy on the back and picked up his pizzas. “Back to work. I told the crew that lunch is on me; my thank you to them for giving up their holiday. Stop by the ambulance station some time.”
Troy nodded and put his glass out for another refill of soda. A cryptic conversation, but maybe intentionally so.
That was Kelly’s opinion as well when she arrived at his house later that evening. By that time, he’d showered and changed into tan cargo shorts and a white tee-shirt, no shoes on his feet. He was at the grill when he saw her car park by the alley next to his back yard and she walked up through the grass, a picnic basket in her hands.
Long, tanned legs, the taut-muscled limbs of a runner that gave her walk a gliding motion. She wore a pair of white capri pants and a beige eyelet short-sleeved blouse and white sandals. He looked from her attire to his own.
“Looks like we both got the memo,” he said, noting the coordination of colors.
Kelly grinned and put the wicker basket down on the picnic table.
“Do you travel with that in summer?” he asked as he stood over the grill, flipping the hamburgers and turning over the hot dogs.
“I have a confession to make,” she said as she brought out a pitcher of lemonade that had slices of lemon and lime floating in it. “I’m not a very good cook. So I make a lot of side dishes because they’re really just a matter of combining ingredients, and I bring them everywhere I’m invited to come and eat.”
He watched as she produced platters, plates, and bowls of food that she had prepared. The slices of pizza that he’d had for lunch had not set well upon his stomach; it wasn’t food for a hot day. But the potato salad, sprinkled with paprika on top, the macaroni salad flavored with tuna, the fruit salad a vivid summer tableau of color and flavor, the slices of tomato, chopped onions, and pieces of green lettuce all united to create air conditioning for the palate.
“What, no dessert?” he teased, recalling the chocolate cake that she’d brought when they went to the lake up at Leo’s camp.
She reached into the basket and held up a cake frosted with strawberry icing.
“I thought you said you can’t cook.”
“I can bake.”
“Can we start with dessert?”
“Not by the looks of those burgers,” she said. “They look just about done.”
She sliced the buns, poured lemonade into glasses that she brought out from his kitchen, and had the places set by the time he’d taken the meat off the grill and put the platter in the middle of the picnic table.
Troy drank from his glass, draining it of its contents. “I don’t know if you can cook or not,” he said. “But you know how to make the best lemonade I’ve ever had.”
She smiled her appreciation for his compliment. “I heard that you spent most of the day in the speed trap out on the River Road,” she said.
“You heard?”
“Jimmy Patton told me. I stopped by the ambulance center to drop off a cake for them.”
“The Kelly Armello news network. I’m not sure why he thought it worth mentioning. He came by the pizzeria when I was there. He told me to stop by the center sometime. Right after he said there’s no drug trafficking in Settler Springs.”
“Jimmy said that?”
“Yeah. Sounded weird to me. He didn’t sound like he believed it.”
“Jimmy would know almost better than anyone what the drug trade is like in town. Was he trying to tell you something?”
“I don’t know but I’ll definitely be stopping by the ambulance center sometime
soon.”
Kelly nodded. “I talked to Lucas after the parade. He said his family is really upset over Sean’s death.”
Troy didn’t want to talk about Sean. He couldn’t, not yet. His grief was safer if he kept it locked up inside where it couldn’t be exposed. “This potato salad . . . it’s the best.”
Kelly’s eyes were warm and understanding. Troy didn’t want to talk about Sean’s death. But it wasn’t a subject that could be put aside. “Troy—”
“Thanks for bringing the food,” he interrupted her. “I got pretty hot at the speed trap. Jimmy made it sound like I was going to need an ambulance to rehydrate.”
“The police force doesn’t usually have someone out there all day,” she said. “A couple of hours is all. Do you think Chief Stark is punishing you?”
It wasn’t entirely a detour from the subject of Sean, but he was grateful to her for the change of subject.
“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “He got rid of Leo, maybe he wants to get rid of me, too.”
“But does he want to get rid of you because you uncovered the truth about the Daffodil Alley murder, or because he’s afraid you’ll find out the truth about other things?”
Troy shook his head. He’d asked himself that question a number of times since he’d gotten the news that Sean was dead. “Maybe both. I don’t know. I’m still a new guy in town; if I’m booted, there’s not going to be an outcry. They’ll hire someone new, someone who follows orders. Stark might end up with the loyal police force he wants.”
“You mean the force that he needs,” Kelly corrected him. “He needs officers who won’t ask questions. Who hires for the force?”
“He does, with help from the mayor. Council approves the hiring, but he’s the one who does it.”
“So he could hire officers who wouldn’t ask questions and would turn a blind eye to what’s going on.”
“They don’t have to turn a blind eye. We can’t find out who’s taken over from Travis Shaw. This past month it’s been impossible to find out who’s doing anything in delivering drugs. Most of my work lately has been in the bars.”
“Wouldn’t bars be a good place for selling drugs?”
“Maybe, but the bar owners are tough guys and honest, for the most part. I don’t get the feeling they’d be a party to anything like that. They handle their rough customers and they stick to booze. Drugs, that’s a whole new problem.” He thought of the bar owners he’d spoken with while the veterans from the region had swarmed into town for the Memorial Day events: Tony, Ern, Stush . . . they weren’t the cream of the Settler Springs crop in terms of refinement, but they weren’t the kind of men who’d pander to a criminal element, either.
“Does it have to be done through the bar owners? Why can’t customers just do it, on the sly? People like that Eddie Kavlick that you mentioned.”
“No one has seen him. I went to Art Speering to find out what he knew about him. He said Kavlick gave his home address as Apple Ridge, but when I checked it out, he didn’t live where his driver’s license said he did. I asked around; no one knew him.”
“A fake driver’s license? Art wouldn’t be likely to check too closely, as long as someone had identification. It’s not set up to be a real rigorous vetting process. Someone just has to be able to prove that the
y’re a veteran.”
“Kavlick was in the Marines, all right. He had his discharge papers, Art saw those. But that was from years ago.”
“So what’s next? After Sean’s funeral.”
He ignored her comment. “I need to find out who on the state police force is involved with Stark.”
“You mean who’s crooked and who’s not?”
“Not necessarily. Someone might not suspect Stark of any wrongdoing. They might be willing to follow what their supervisor tells them and not ask questions. The state police are overworked; they provide police coverage for a lot of the little towns that can’t afford more than a part-time force.”
“But wouldn’t that make them more suspicious if they’re always being called in, since Settler Springs does have three full-time officers? Four if you count Leo still being paid while he’s suspended.”
“I don’t know. I’ve talked to a couple of them. The ones I’ve spoken to aren’t going to be poking around looking for clues. But there’s a trooper I don’t know. She’s new. If there is a clique, she’s probably not in it. Some cops are pretty clannish when it comes to opening up to women.”
“I guess that’s why Settler Springs doesn’t have any female officers.”
“Not officially, we don’t.” Troy grinned. “But we have you.”
22
The Funeral
Trooper Susan Callahan, he learned, was more of a glorified secretary than a state police officer. She rarely went on calls and was scheduled to remain at the station, relaying calls and messages and taking care of the paperwork. She’d been a soldier in the Iraq war and had gone to the police academy after her discharge. She was married, the mother of two, and wary of Troy’s questions.
“You’re pretty curious,” she said bluntly.
Troy had timed his visit with a combination of luck and guesswork. The state police station parking lot only had one car in the lot when he pulled in. Inside, the office was empty except for a woman in uniform who looked up at him as he entered, noted the uniform he wore, and waited expectantly.
