“But that’s mean to stupid people.”
“True.”
We drove in silence or a while. “There’s got to be some group it’s okay to make fun of, Dad.”
“How about rich kids?”
“That’s good! So we need a rich kid joke. How many super rich kids does it take to screw in a light bulb?”
“None? Their nannies do it for them?”
“And their parents give them self-driving cars as a reward and then tell them what great little drivers they are.”
“Right. While they sit in the backseat playing Grand Theft Auto on their iPhones.”
I gave him a high five. “You can definitely get away with that one.”
“Yeah. Rich kids suck.”
We drove along.
“So,” I said finally. “Mr. Springer thinks you cheated on the midterm exam.”
“What?”
“That’s what Bissell wanted to talk to me about.”
“That’s stupid. They should accuse me of cheating on my algebra test. I should have cheated on my algebra test. Ms. Albertson said I created a whole new system of mathematics.”
I laughed. “Sounds good.”
“Except it doesn’t work.”
“Right.”
“She was pretty nice about it.”
“She’s nice.”
“Yeah.”
“So what happened with the Cross-Grade poetry? Your mom thought you shouldn’t even take a class with all those older kids.”
“They’re okay, except for Dave Prescott.”
Dave was the Whalers’ quarterback. “What’s he doing in a poetry class?”
“He needed a gut class to bring his marks up.”
“A gut class? I guess he didn’t know Fred Springer too well.”
“Nope.”
“They found the answer sheet for the midterm in your locker, Tim. You think Dave put it there?”
“Maybe. Or he had someone else do it.”
“But why you?”
“Well, Jake Sauter’s on the team. They’re friends.”
Jake was a bully who’d been tormenting Tim since seventh grade. I’d gotten into a fight with the boy’s father a few years ago. Pat Sauter was a grown-up version of his son, designed to make a dismissive father think twice about advising his kid to stand up to bullies. Sauter had almost killed me that afternoon, I was pretty well banged-up going in to the brawl, and he probably would have finished the job if a group of stalwarts—including Tim himself—hadn’t come to my rescue. The thought that junior might still be plotting against Tim struck me as grimly plausible. I wasn’t sure exactly what to do about it, though. I touched the side pocket of my coat. The paper itself might hold some answers.
“Speaking of Mr. Springer…” Tim started.
“Oh, God. What now?”
“He wants us to bring in a Christmas poem.”
“There aren’t any good Christmas poems. Unless you think of ‘A Child’s Christmas in Wales’ as free verse.”
“That’s too long anyway, Dad.”
“Yeah.” I thought for a few moments, as we came around the last turn and the ocean rolled out beyond the summer fairgrounds. ‘“River’ is kind of a Christmas poem.” He looked blank. “Joni Mitchell? I wish I had a river I could skate away on?”
“What is that?”
I squashed a quick surge of irritation—this gap in his education was my fault. “I need to play you some Joni Mitchell,” I said, and started singing. “It’s coming on Christmas, they’re cutting down trees, putting up reindeer singing songs of joy and peace—”
“That’s a song, Dad. If I could bring in a song I’d just use some old Christmas carol.”
“Right, sorry. So what are you going to do?”
He hesitated. I sensed it coming before it arrived—like that pre-impact, hip-to-pavement that you feel in the first split-second when you slip on the ice. “That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Okay.”
“I told him you’d write one.”
“Tim—”
“You’re a poet! You’ve been published and everything!”
“In four little magazines that pay with copies.”
“I said you’d do it.”
“He accused you of cheating and now he wants me writing-to-order for him? Great. Can I do his laundry, too? How about the ironing? I’m good at pleats.”
“Dad…”
“Well, ordinarily I’d say no. But you’re in luck this afternoon. I actually had an idea for a Christmas poem the other day. So I’ll donate it to Mr. Springer. Plus I’ll figure out who tried to frame you for cheating. He can get the full use of my talents. How’s that for playing Santa?”
“Pretty good.”
“And I’m actually playing Santa tomorrow.’
He stared at me. “What?”
“Oh, yes. Homer Boyce bailed on it.”
“They can’t find anyone else?”
“I volunteered.”
“So you’re really going to do it? I mean…the whole thing? Kids on your lap? Ho ho ho?” I nodded. “With the red fat suit and the beard?” I nodded again. He gave me the verdict. “Carrie is going to kill you.”
I shrugged. “Finding new ways to embarrass the children is an essential part of any parent’s job, son. Wait until I dress up as a giant bunny for the big Easter egg hunt.” I almost laughed at the genuine panic on his face. “Just kidding.”
We reached the wide open array of fields and parking lots fronting the ocean. The town held the annual demolition derby here, and the carnival set up on the bluff every July. In between, the place was mostly deserted—perfect for learning to drive. There was even a steeply canted section of road that led down to some disused garages. It made a stress-free arena for getting into gear on a hill.
I had mastered these same skills at the crest of La Cienega Boulevard, where it tips over onto Sunset in West Hollywood. I always felt like the car was going to pitch-pole on that unforgivingly vertical street, invariably with a Maserati or Bentley idling an inch from my back bumper.
Tim had it easier. He could roll backward onto the flats with no one behind him and nothing to hit, no worries. He had had done that several times, stalling out Jane’s old Ford Ranger in the process, and he was just getting the hang of the clutch, letting in the gas as he released the pedal, when I said, “Drive up to the top again and cut the motor.”
“What’s going on?”
“I just want to see something.”
He got us to level ground above the ramp, killed the engine and set the brake. “Dad? What is this?”
I patted his knee. “Police work.”
He twisted around to look out the windows. “What’s happening? I don’t see anything.”
“The dark green Hummer, stopped next to the dinged-up Chevy Cobalt. Anything strike you as odd about that?”
“Maybe they’re just asking for directions.”
“Could be. But I don’t think so. They’ve been there too long—since we started down the ramp last time. Directions are like ‘you passed Old Tom Nevers Road. It’s your first paved right on the way back.’—thirty seconds, tops.”
“Old friends?”
“In a Hummer and a Cobalt? Not on Nantucket.”
“So, that means the Cobalt guy is selling drugs?”
“No, I think the Cobalt guy is buying drugs.”
“From some dude in a Hummer.”
“It’s possible. Remember that shooting in Madaket last month?”
“Not really.”
“Shots were fired on Madaket Road, just past the dump. The purported victim, one Gary Pressman, claimed it was an attempted carjacking.”
“Why would you jack a car on Nantucket? Where would you go?”
&nbs
p; “I wondered that myself. He said it was two Jamaican kids and one of them flashed the gun at the Chicken Box a few nights later. We picked him up and he told us the Madaket incident was a drug deal gone wrong. The guy was overcharging for prescription Vicodin. The kid thought he was getting ripped off. An argument ensued and the gun went off. No one was hurt. No drugs changed hands.”
“The guy selling the Vicodin was the guy in the Hummer?”
“Himself. Or anyway, that’s what they said. Mr. Gary Pressman, of Nantucket and Newport, Rhode Island. Member in good standing at the Sankaty Head Golf Club and the Nantucket Yacht Club. His grandfather was Commodore there. Old Nantucket money. He lives in the family house on Tuckernuck.”
“And he’s selling drugs?”
“According to Alfred Bailey, of Nantucket and Kingston, Jamaica, now serving two years at Barnstable Correctional.”
“Did anyone believe him?
“You mean besides me? Take a guess.”
“So what did you do?”
“I waited.”
“For what?”
“For this.”
Tim stared at the two cars, the wisps of exhaust scattering from their exhaust pipes in the sharp wind. I took out my binoculars and a pad, scribbled down the license plate numbers.
“Are you going to arrest them?” Tim was getting excited.
“Not today.”
“Why not? They’re right there!”
“Well, I could only get one of them, and I’m not interested in the buyer. The seller has nothing on him now but cash and Gary Pressman always carries a roll of cash—twenties and fifties. I asked him about that after the incident. He said it was a family tradition. ‘Whenever my dad had a problem, he’d just peel off a twenty.’ That’s what Gary told me. ‘It’s usually a fifty now. A Nantucket five-spot, as they say.’”
“What a jerk.”
“All the more reason to have solid evidence before I arrest him.”
We watched as the two cars peeled away from each other and then drove off back along Tom Nevers Road.
“Well, they got away,” Tim said.
“Not for long.”
Tim lapsed into his oddly persuasive John Travolta imitation. “That’s a bold statement, my friend.”
I might as well admit it, I had let him watch Pulp Fiction. He was going to watch it anyway; it was his best friend Ethan’s favorite movie and Ethan was basically unsupervised most of the time, with an absentee father and a mother who worked two jobs. I made the practical decision—keep Tim’s introduction to Quentin Tarantino at home, where I could hover, pointing out that lowlife criminals I had encountered in Los Angeles were almost never as entertaining as Vincent Vega and Jules Winnfield, that slaves never actually went to war against plantation owners, and most important—that the U.S government never donated Nantucket real estate to an ex-pat Nazi…although that last notion sometimes struck me as disturbingly plausible. And it wasn’t just me. I remember Mike Henderson walking out of a screening of Inglourious Basterds at the Dreamland saying, “I think I painted that guy’s house!”
“Wait and see,” I told Tim now. “I’ll get Pressman. Probably before the New Year.”
But I had other criminals to root out first. I dropped Tim at home and drove to the station.
Shepherd Rollins was waiting for me, with a manila envelope in hand—the skeleton’s dental X-rays.
“You’ve been busy,” I said.
“It beats one more trip to the whaling museum. Or tramping around Squam Swamp, reading those markers. As if I didn’t know that red maples thrive in wetland soils! Anyway, you’re lucky—a pal of mine lent me his equipment.”
“You have a dentist pal on Nantucket?”
“We met at a conference on digital impression scanning last year. Fascinating stuff.”
I sensed a major tangent hurtling toward me. “So tell me what you found on the X-rays,” I said.
“The—oh, right. Sorry. Well, there are some very interesting variations in tooth morphology. If you can find a proper array of ante-mortem dental records, the search is on!”
“I’m sure my detectives will be thrilled to hear that.”
“I know it’s a lot of work, but productive—if you stick with it. Here, look, I can show you a few things to look for.”
I walked him into one of the ground floor conference rooms, and he pulled the photographs for me, laying them out like tarot cards on the big table. “Basically, you’re looking for a these three anomalies. If you find them grouped together, you’ll have a solid ID on your victim. The teeth don’t lie.” He pointed down at a little fang resting against one of the molars, inside at the gum line. “That’s a talon cusp. Very unusual! Combine that with these two impacted wisdom teeth—see, right there, both of them still buried in the alveolar bone? And this diastema in the front teeth—the gap between them? Taken together, they’re as unique as a fingerprint. All your men have to do is sort through the radiography for the diastema. Once they find it, they can check for the talon cusp. It only takes a few seconds. The impacted wisdom teeth should clinch it.”
“Sounds good.”
“Let me know if you find anything.”
“I will.”
He shook my hand. “Good hunting!”
I called Kyle Donnelly and Charlie Boyce into my office, filled them in on the case and showed them the X-rays. They didn’t share Rollins’ enthusiasm, but I hadn’t expected them to. I said, “Each of you take two ambitious uniforms and start going through the files of every dentist here and on the Cape who’s been in business since the late nineties. I want to identify this man.”
Kyle shook his head. “That’s a lot of work, boss.”
“What else have you got going on?”
“Someone’s dumping old furniture in the moors. And a lot of these off-island deer hunters are bagging above the limit.”
“That can wait.”
“We’re still looking for the drug dealer, Chief,” Charlie said. “We have a big-time supplier and he’s in the wind right now.”
“No leads?”
“Not so far.”
“I may have one. But I’m going to follow it up myself. Meanwhile, you guys can help solve a murder.”
“A twenty-year-old murder,” Kyle sniffed.
“Doesn’t matter. And you know it. The killer could still be around. He could have killed again. There could be other bodies buried in the moors. Let’s take this one off the books.”
Downstairs, in our new forensics lab, Monica Terwilliger, obese but light-footed, bounced up to greet me and wished me an early Merry Christmas. I told her what I needed and she plucked the Poetry midterm answer sheet out of my hand.
“Back in a sec,” she said.
While she took the prints, I wandered the suite of rooms, admiring all our new toys—photo tables and fuming chambers and evidence-drying cabinets.
Twenty minutes later she was back. “All done.”
“What have we got?”
Okay…I pulled four clear sets of prints. I ran them all through the IFIAS database. One was Mr. Springer, the English teacher. The second was Alice Damaso—she works at the school. And the third one was you!”
“How about the fourth one?”
“No hits anywhere. Sorry. Not even UCIS. Of course they don’t fingerprint kids under the age of twelve. And some of these kids come here as babies.”
“So it’s not an adult immigrant, a criminal with an arrest record, or someone in the military.”
“Or law enforcement. Plus…it’s a pretty distinctive lift, at least this thumbprint is. Take a look.” She handed me a blow-up of the latent. It looked like a regular fingerprint to me. She leaned in. “See that little whorl inside the central loop? That’s called a ‘peacock’s eye.’ Very distinctive. Uncommon on any finger. On the thumb? You j
ust hit the jackpot. If you ever come across this individual’s prints again, that is.”
“Right.”
“It’s a start.”
“Absolutely. Thanks, Monica. I have to think about this.”
“You just keep thinking, Butch. That’s what you’re good at.”
Movie quotes! There was no escaping them today. I gave her my best mad grin on the way out, jabbed my finger at the ceiling and shouted, “Bolivia!” Though maybe I should have said, “Who are those guys?!” since, despite my boasting with Tim, I still had no solid evidence of anyone’s involvement in anything—the toy thieves. the test-cheaters, the Red Ticket scammers, the drug dealers, and whoever had capped the Madaket skeleton all those years ago…they were all doing just fine, despite my best efforts.
On the way out I stuck my head in Haden Krakauer’s office door. “Hear anything about a load of opioids hitting the island?”
He looked up from his computer. “Nope. But I’ll check with my peeps.”
“Peeps?”
“My people, Chief. I have people.”
“But mostly they’re birders.”
“True.”
“And birders are not high-incident opioid users.”
“Also true.”
“But it never hurts to stay alert.”
He gave me a mock salute and went back to his computer.
I stopped by Sam Trikilis’ house on the way home, to give him a heads-up about the possible Red Tickets scam, and to warn Alana about the risk she was running. A heightened level of awareness might prevent her from taking a drink from a stranger on Christmas Eve. The attempt to rig the drawing might be an empty rumor, or it might involve some sort of complex plan I hadn’t figured out yet. You do what you can.
“Never gonna happen,” Sam told me.
“Well, that’s good news.”
We were standing in his big messy kitchen. He poured himself a mug of coffee and extended the French press to me. When I shook my head he set down the pot. “I used to be addicted to booze. Now I’m addicted to work and coffee.”
I smiled. “Do they have a support group for that?”
“Nah. We’re all working too hard. For all the good it does us. One of my customers, some summer person up on Cliff Road, she asked me when I was going to retire. Can you believe that? I told her, we don’t retire on Nantucket. We work till we’re dead!”
Nantucket Red Tickets Page 9
