The shimmering blond sister bam-7

by David Handler

  “Or I’m out, is that what you’re telling me? Because that’s bull, Captain. I did nothing wrong. And the witness statements will back me up.”

  “Hell, I know that,” Richie acknowledged easily, rocking back and forth in Rundle’s chair. “Rico keeps lobbying to get you back. Swears you’ve paid your dues for that unfortunate misstep of yours a while back.”

  Meaning when she’d gone up against Superintendent Crowther. She’d been investigating a murder out on Big Sister Island. It had been her first visit to Big Sister. First encounter with a chubby widower from New York named Mitch Berger. The case led her smack-dab into the superintendent’s own tangled role in a murder investigation thirty years earlier. They tussled. She won, as in solved the case. But lost, as in she was lucky she still had a job after the dust settled.

  “There’s always room for an effective team player on Major Crimes,” Richie went on. “What would you think about coming back to the headmaster’s house with the big people?”

  “I’m happy right where I am, sir.” Des glanced down the hallway. “Is Captain Rundle around?”

  “I’m not done yet!” he snarled.

  Des raised her chin slightly, studying him. “What is this, Captain? Why are you really here?”

  He let out a short laugh. “You trying to tell me you don’t know?”

  “I’m not trying to tell you anything. I really don’t know.”

  “Okay, fine. Play games if you want.”

  “I’m not playing.”

  Richie stared at her long and hard. “Who knows? Maybe you’re not. He is an awfully hard nut.”

  “Who is?”

  “The Deacon. Your da-da. Who’d you think we were talking about? Christ, for a smart girl you can be awful dumb. Anybody ever tell you that?”

  Des drove her Saab up Route 9 alongside the Connecticut River in the direction of New Britain, the historic home of Stanley Tools. She was heading to Kensington, a working class suburb of the Hardware City. To the small, neat house where she grew up. She pulled into the driveway behind her father’s cruiser and got out, glad that she’d changed out of her uni into shorts. It was ten degrees warmer away from the shore. And a whole lot stickier.

  Buck Mitry had just gotten home from church. Des knew this because he was still dressed up for church. Her father believed in being dressed up for church. He believed in quiet, dignified charcoal gray suits. Owned at least half a dozen of them. He believed in white shirts, muted ties and shined shoes.

  The screen doors were open, front and back. He didn’t believe in air-conditioning. She could smell his coffee brewing in the kitchen. He drank at least ten piping hot cups a day, even in the swelter of August. Used to be a heavy smoker, too, but he’d quit as a twenty-fifth anniversary gift to her mom. In exchange, she’d left him for her high school sweetheart in Augusta, Georgia. He lived there by himself now. Unless you counted Cagney and Lacey, the two neutered strays Des had foisted on him.

  He was standing there in the kitchen waiting for his coffee to be ready. He was a big man, six feet four, still straight and broad shouldered, though his brow was deeply furrowed now, his hair graying. He had the hugest hands Des had ever seen on any man. Had played first base in the Cleveland Indians organization for two years after high school before he met her mom and got serious. He took the state police exam back when they were looking for a few good black men. Rose steadily through the ranks to become the highest-ranking man of color in Connecticut history. He got there by being sober, honest and careful. He believed in obeying the rules. He believed that human emotions were a form of weakness that ought to be contained. That was why everyone on the job called him the Deacon. It was also why her mom had left him. “I have rediscovered laughter and joy,” she’d told Des at her wedding.

  “How are you, Daddy?” she asked, kissing him on the forehead.

  “Getting along. Surprised to see you here, Desiree.”

  “Am I interrupting anything?”

  “Not at all. I was just going to change into my work clothes and mow the lawn.” He took off his jacket and hung it on a kitchen chair. Poured each of them a cup of coffee, sat at the kitchen table and waited for her to say something.

  She sat across from him and waited for him to say something. The two of them were so much alike it was scary. It certainly scared her. Because she did not want to end up like him-closed off, distant, alone.

  “I like your hair this way,” he said to her finally. “Short.”

  She nodded in response. She’d lopped off her dreads over a year ago but he still hadn’t gotten past his horror over them.

  “How is your friend Mitch doing?” The Deacon actually liked Mitch, in spite of his pinkness. Thought he was a decent, kind-hearted man.

  “Mitch is fine. Happy with his new job.”

  “And how about Mr. Brandon Stokes of the US Attorney’s office?” he asked, curling his lip at her. Despite her ex’s Yale Law degree and chiseled ebony good looks, the Deacon had never been a fan. Thought that Brandon smelled like a no-good player. Which, hello, it turned out he was.

  “I wouldn’t know, Daddy.” She sipped her coffee. “It seems there’s a lot I don’t know.”

  “Such as…?”

  “I had a murder last night.”

  “I heard.”

  “Unfortunately, I had a public altercation with the victim on Friday.”

  “Heard that, too. Anything to it?”

  “Nothing whatsoever. He was a drinker. He got out of hand. I dealt with him by the book and the witness statements will back me up. But that creep Richie Tedone just came sniffing around. Making all sorts of veiled threats about my future. It seems that I’m ‘standing on a precipice.’ Where do they even learn to talk like that?”

  He lowered his eyes. “So it’s come to that, has it?”

  “Richie so much as told me that my ‘predicament’ has something to do with you. Care to fill me in?”

  The Deacon was not one for rash responses. He considered his answer for a long moment before he said, “Desiree, there’s no cause for you to be concerned about your future. It’s not your job they want-it’s mine.”

  “Daddy, what are you talking about?”

  “Superintendent Crowther intends to retire at the end of next year. The Brass City boys want one of their own in my slot so that he’ll be next in line to take over the whole operation. They’ve wanted my job for a long time. And now they’re trying to use you to get at me. That’s how they operate. I can guarantee you I’ll be getting a phone call about this from your Captain Richie Tedone very soon.”

  “A phone call saying what?”

  “That if I announce my retirement tomorrow they won’t proceed with an IA investigation into your behavior. They’ll even take a serious look at promoting you back to Major Crimes. Did he tell you there’s always room at the headmaster’s house for an effective team player?”

  Des peered at him. “And if you don’t announce your retirement?”

  “They’ll drag you through a full-frontal probe that will taint you for the remainder of your career-assuming you still have one by the time they’re done.”

  “Daddy, those bastards have nothing on me, I swear.”

  “I believe you, Desiree.”

  “So tell them to go to hell.”

  “Ordinarily, I would. Unfortunately, I’m in a somewhat vulnerable position myself right now.”

  “You are? Why is that?”

  He didn’t answer her. Just sat there in suffocating silence.

  “Daddy, what’s going on?” she demanded.

  “The vultures are circling, that’s what,” he answered at long last, staring down into his coffee mug. “Those Brass City boys swoop right in when they smell blood. Anyone who’s even the slightest threat to them ends up getting-”

  “Wait, I’m still missing something here. Why do they smell blood?”

  “I’m taking a brief medical leave,” he explained with a dismissive wave of his giant hand. “In
credibly minor matter. Some partial blockages in my pump that need rerouting. Just a simple plumbing job. But to them it’s a-”

  “Hold on just one second.” Des’s pulse had begun to race, and her palms were suddenly all sweaty. “Are you… you’re having coronary bypass surgery?”

  “At Yale-New Haven,” he acknowledged, nodding. “On Wednesday.”

  “Which Wednesday?”

  “This Wednesday.”

  Des gaped at him in shock. “You’re having open-heart surgery this week and you don’t tell me? The Waterbury Mafia knows about it and your only daughter doesn’t? Jesus Christ, Daddy, how fucked up is that?”

  “Watch your mouth, young lady.”

  “Were you ever planning to tell me? Or were you just hoping I didn’t notice that you’d temporarily relocated your office to the

  ICU?”

  “I didn’t want you getting all hot and bothered,” he explained with maddening calm. “You’ve got your own life. I’ll be fine. Charlene’s coming in from Scranton.” His widowed older sister. “She’ll stay with me when I get home. Honestly, it’s nothing to worry about. Minor surgery, like I said.”

  “Damn it, Daddy, there’s no such thing as minor open-heart surgery!”

  He didn’t respond. Just sat there drinking his coffee in self-contained silence. Des wanted to shoot him.

  “Does Mom know?”

  “No,” he answered sharply. “And I’d rather she didn’t, understood?”

  “No, but okay.”

  “I won’t be on the shelf for very long. The doctor said I’m looking at four to six weeks of rehab. Should be good as new after that. But in the meantime…”

  “The vultures are circling.”

  “They are indeed. And, who knows, maybe they’re right. Maybe this is my time to go. I can teach a class or two at the academy. Write training manuals. I’ve got a good pension coming. The house is paid for. Part of me thinks I ought to step down and enjoy life a little. Except for one minor detail.”

  “Which is…?”

  “Those bastards are not going to use you to drive me out. That will never, ever happen. I’ve put in thirty-two years on this job. I’ll go when I’m good and ready-and not a minute sooner. I deserve that right. I’ve earned it.” He got up and refilled their cups, his gaze softening slightly. “I’m just sorry you got caught in the crossfire.”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry. I gave them an opening.”

  “No, you didn’t. If it hadn’t been this Augie Donatelli business they’d have made up something else. Is your ex-sergeant, little Rico, mixed up in this?”

  “Hard to say. His wife’s about to give birth to their first child.”

  “Just what the world needs-more Tedones.”

  “I do know that he’s very loyal to them.”

  “They’re loyal to each other. They understand loyalty. Hell, they prey on it. That’s why they know I can’t let you go down.”

  “They know squat. Listen, there’s a really easy way to make this whole thing go away. They can have my damned job, okay? I’ll quit.”

  “You will not,” he growled. “You have your whole career ahead of you. Mine’s behind me.”

  “No, it’s not. You’re fifty-six years old, Daddy. You’ve still got a lot of good years left. Which is exactly what they’re afraid of-you being named superintendent. They’re afraid you’ll break up their little feifdom.”

  “Can’t be done. Not by me anyhow.” He puffed out his cheeks, sighing gloomily. “There’s too many of them, Desiree. And they’re too strong. And I’m tired. I’ve been getting tired a lot lately.”

  “You’ll feel better once you get your heart fixed.”

  “That’s what the doctor said. I don’t know…”

  “Well, your doctor does. And so do I,” she told him confidently, even though at that moment she could feel the whole world shifting underneath her feet. Her father had always been a tower of strength. Not once had she seen him give in to defeat. Not ever. This was a first. But it didn’t sadden her. Quite the contrary. It made her mad. Really mad.

  It was never a good idea to make Des Mitry mad.

  The Deacon’s cell phone rang.

  He removed it from his belt and set it on the table, staring at its little screen. “Captain Richie Tedone-right on schedule.”

  It rang five times before the Deacon’s voice mail took it. Then they sat there, staring down at their coffee mugs in silence.

  “I want you to call him back after I leave,” Des said finally. “Tell him you’ll think it over. Let him think he’s got you boxed in, okay? Don’t show him your hand.”

  “My hand?” He let out a humorless laugh. “What hand?”

  She got up and put her mug in the sink. “Just leave that part to me.”

  He looked at her suspiciously. “What are you up to, Desiree? What’s going on?”

  “They just made a huge mistake, that’s what. They made this personal. And now they’re going to be incredibly sorry.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I’m going to make it personal, too.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Some guy was waiting there at the security barricade. Looked as if he had been for a while. He was sprawled out on the grass in the shadow of his motorcycle, which was a wicked vintage Norton Commando. When Mitch pulled up there in his Studey, the guy stirred and climbed to his feet, slinging a knapsack over one shoulder.

  “Nice bike,” Mitch called to him through his open window. “Is that a ’67?”

  “Sixty-eight,” he called back. “Inherited her from a friend. He started a family and decided it was time to part with his toys.”

  “Lucky you.” Mitch used his coded plastic card to raise the barricade. “Are you waiting here for someone?”

  “I’m waiting for you, dude,” he replied. “You’re Mitch, aren’t you? Sure you are. I’d know you anywhere. Although the last time I saw you, up close and personal, you had a scraggly beard and a Jewfro yay-high.”

  Mitch studied this guy more closely. He was thirty or so. An unshaven rock and roller with a lot of wavy black hair, an earring and those soft brown eyes that women get jelly knees over. He was dressed in a sleeveless gray sweatshirt, torn jeans and black biker boots. He wasn’t particularly tall but he was in shape-his biceps and pecs rippled. He was also intensely hyper, nodding his head up and down to a beat that he alone could hear.

  “I’ve kept track of you over the years, natch.”

  “Natch?”

  “And I’m a large fan of your work. It’s Very.”

  “Very what?”

  “Very, Very. It’s my name, dude. Detective Lieutenant Romaine Very.”

  Mitch was still trying to figure out how they knew each other. He hadn’t worn his babe-repelling chin spinach for at least ten years. “You’re the Major Crime Squad guy who’s taking over for Rico Tedone?”

  “Not exactly, dude. I’m not local. I’m from the two-four.” He fished his shield from the back pocket of his jeans. It was an NYPD shield. And the license plate on his Norton, Mitch now noticed, was a New York plate. “I was wondering if I could talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “Augie Donatelli. I’m kind of Dawgie’s next of kin. The man had no family. Just me. He changed my diapers, metaphorically speaking. Broke me in when I was new on the job. He was a cop’s cop. The best.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, but what does this have to do with me?”

  “I owe the man, okay? Have to make sure the state police out here do right by him. I’ve been trying all morning to find out what’s up with the investigation. I hear you folks have an ongoing situation with a weenie waver, but beyond that I can’t get squat.”

  “Again, why are you talking to me?”

  “Because the detective who’s running the show, a Sergeant Snipes, won’t return any of my calls. And the unis won’t let me within ten feet of Dawgie’s apartment until she green lights me. I’ve got information, okay? I’m
in a position to help. Word is you’re tight with the resident trooper. Besides, you and me go back a few years.”

  “You said that before. I’m still not placing you.”

  “Really? I sat next to you all of the time in postmodern European lit.”

  “You went to Columbia?”

  “Try to get the incredulity out of your voice, will you? It’s insulting.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

  “I was a year behind you. Majored in Romance languages-which did me beaucoup good. Wore my hair down to my shoulders in those days.”

  “Hold on a sec…” Mitch shook a finger at him. “You’re the Jiggler.”

  “The what?”

  “Your knee. It used to jiggle all through class and drive everyone nuts. Sounded like there was a woodpecker in the room.”

  “I had an energy situation, as in I had too much of it. Still do.”

  “And how did you end up becoming a cop?”

  “It was a family thing.”

  “Your dad’s on the job?”

  “Not really,” Very said, leaving it there.

  “I’d like to help out, Lieutenant, but I really don’t know anything.”

  “I’m down with that. I’m just asking you to listen. Can you do that?”

  “Sure, I can do that. Come on out.”

  Very jump-started his Norton with a roar and eased his way across the wooden causeway behind Mitch. When they reached the cottage he killed his engine and climbed off, glancing around. “Stabbin’ cabin, dude,” he observed, his head bobbing up and down, up and down. “If you have to be out of the City, I mean. Me, I get ootsie if I’m not standing on good, solid pavement.”

  “I’m sorry, did you just say ootsie?”

  “Why, you got a problem with ootsie?”

  “No, no. It’s a fine word. How long are you planning to be here?”

  “For as long as it takes. I took some vacation time.”

  “Do you have a place to stay?”

  “Figured I’d find a motel room somewhere.”