The Hot Pink Farmhouse

by Unknown

  They had made their way to the lighthouse now. They stopped, gazing out at the moonlit water.

  “Desiree is my only child,” the Deacon said. “And she’s always made me proud of what she’s accomplished. She graduated from West Point with honors. Served her nation proudly. Rose through the ranks of the state police faster than any woman of color in history. Brandon was a fine young gentleman, a Yale Law School graduate. Yet, somehow, none of it quite worked out the way she planned. It occurs to me that what may be happening now is that Desiree is simply floundering a bit.” He paused, clearing his throat. “What I mean to say, Mitch, is that you might be her walk on the wild side.”

  “No, no. That can’t be. I own no motorcycle. I wear no goatee. I’m no one’s walk on the wild side.”

  “Nonetheless, she’s doing things she’s never done before. Taking these art classes. Dating a white man—which is fine with me, by the way. I’m not troubled by that at all. We’re all learning as we go along. Finding out new things about ourselves. My own wife, for instance, recently discovered that she was still in love with her high school sweetheart. And now I live alone, which I—”

  “You aren’t lonely? I’d be lonely.”

  “I’m quite all right,” the Deacon answered crisply. “I’m fine. What I’m trying to say to you, Mitch, is that the life you two are building down here may simply be a phase Desiree is going through. She may want back on Major Crimes in another few months. You may not be in her plans. I wondered how you would feel about that.”

  “I’d be very unhappy,” Mitch replied. “But you have to accept what the people you love want to do. Otherwise it’s not love.”

  “Is that what it is?”

  “Absolutely. I’m totally gaga over her.”

  “And how does she feel?”

  “You’ll have to ask her that.”

  “I already did.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She told me to mind my own damned business.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like her.”

  The Deacon let out a short laugh. “You don’t worry about the differences?”

  “When I’m with her, I don’t worry about anything.”

  “And your folks. How do they feel about it?”

  “They’re just thrilled that I’ve met someone who makes me happy.”

  Mitch could hear Des calling them now from down the beach, see the beam of her flashlight. He waved his beam in return, and she caught up with them, clad in the same heavy sweater that Mitch had lent to Takai.

  “Bella’s cooking the greens,” she announced. “Ready to head back?”

  “I am,” the Deacon said. “How about you, Mitch?”

  “Absolutely.”

  They started back, Des sneaking quick, nervous glances at the two of them. “So, did you two have your man-to-man talk?”

  “Well, we did talk,” the Deacon replied solemnly. “And we’re both men. So I guess the answer to your question is yes.”

  Delighted, she squeezed in between them, hooking one arm inside her father’s and the other inside Mitch’s. “Why does this ratty old sweater of yours reek of perfume?”

  Mitch told her.

  “What did that girl do, pour a whole bottle over herself and roll around in it naked?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You are so lucky I’m not the suspicious type,” Des said to him sweetly.

  “Wait, you are the suspicious type.”

  “That’s right, I am,” she shot back, laughing wickedly. It was a laugh that Mitch had never heard come out of her before. Sheer relief—she’d been dreading this meeting with her father even more than she’d let on.

  “What’s that up there at the edge of the water, Mitch?” the Deacon spoke up, as his flashlight beam glanced over a large lumpy shape ahead of them.

  “Another seal beached itself.” Mitch aimed his light on it. “Usually it only happens in February, but—”

  But it was not a seal. Not unless it was a seal wearing a soggy flannel shirt and waterlogged jeans.

  The Deacon flipped the body over, ignoring the salt water foaming over his shiny shoes. It was a woman’s body, and when Des got a good look at her she let out a startled gasp.

  “Know her?” the Deacon asked.

  “I do,” Des said. “Her name was Melanie Zide.”

  CHAPTER 12

  There were lights everywhere. Headlight beams from cruisers. Overhead beams from the Coast Guard choppers circling above them. The blob of cold, dead meat that had once been Melanie Zide lay on a tarp, her skin the color of wet clay.

  Des could not get her mind around this. She kept seeing Melanie bathed in golden light up on that pedestal at the art academy, her naked flesh rosy and alive. Now she was just a floater covered with seaweed and sand. She had two bullet holes in her that Des could see—the size of the wounds indicative of a smaller caliber weapon than the Barrett. And there were people everywhere. And everyone was gazing at her. And no one was drawing her.

  The medical examiner’s people were there. Soave was there with Tommy Salcineto. The Deacon was there, Soave tiptoeing his way around him like a cowed little boy.

  And Mitch was there, too, standing next to Bella with a stricken expression on his face. Not exactly the get-acquainted dinner that he’d had in mind.

  Des went over to him and said, “Our Hoppin’ John will have to wait, baby. I’m on the job for the rest of the night.”

  “I kind of figured that,” he said. “Go ahead and do what you have to do.”

  “Mitch and I will be fine, Desiree,” Bella added reassuringly.

  “I think I was making a real good first impression,” Mitch said. “Until we found the dead body in my front yard, I mean. I think he liked me.”

  “How could he not?” Bella said. “You’re a nice, polite gentleman. You’re steadily employed, a published author . . .”

  “Don’t puff the boy up, Bella,” Des warned her. “He’ll become a total pain.”

  “As if,” Bella sniffed.

  Now Des turned her gaze out at the Sound, her mind on the job. “When things wash up out here, where do they usually come from?” she asked Mitch.

  “Off boats, mostly. I pick up all kinds of garbage. You wouldn’t believe what pigs people are.”

  “Oh, yes, I would,” Bella said with withering disapproval.

  “Who’s still going out?”

  “The yachters have pretty much packed it in for the season. I still see a few Boston Whalers—guys fishing or checking their lobster pots. That’s about it.” Mitch pointed westward to the tidal estuaries where the Connecticut River emptied into the Sound. “Upriver’s also a good bet. The current brings stuff down. I’ve found dead animals beached out here lots of times.”

  “What kind of animals?”

  “Deer, raccoons . . . I had a coyote a few weeks ago.”

  She glanced eastward in the direction of Dorset’s rugged coastline. “Does stuff float out here from the town beaches?”

  “The tide has to be going out,” Mitch said. “And you need a north wind. But, yeah, it happens.”

  “What’s the tide doing right now?”

  “It’s coming in.”

  “What about last night?”

  “Same story.”

  Des considered this, her mind weighing the possibilities. So many possibilities. Could be that Melanie’s body had been dumped upriver and drifted down on the current. Could be it washed out to sea from a town beach early that morning, when the tide was going out, and now had made its way back on the incoming tide. Could be her killer took her out on a boat last night and dumped her. The Coast Guard would be able to narrow it down somewhat by computing how far Melanie could have floated based on the tide and wind direction. Likewise the speed of the river’s current. And the medical examiner could estimate how long she had been dead based on her body temperature, the water temperature, and state of decomposition. Sure, they’d be able to narrow it down. But as o
f right now, where and when Melanie Zide had been killed was wide open.

  In fact, there was almost nothing that Des knew for sure—except that Melanie had been right to be afraid.

  “Where are you at, Lieutenant?” the Deacon was asking Soave, his manner icy and exacting. There wasn’t a young officer in the state who didn’t quake under his questioning.

  “Sir, she was dead when she hit the water,” Soave answered miserably. Melanie’s death blew a huge hole in the scenario he’d been working. “I’m guessing she’s been dead since—”

  “I don’t want your guesses, son,” the Deacon said sharply. “I have no use for guesses. I’m only interested in what you know.”

  Soave cleared his throat, chastened. “Okay, what I know is . . .” One knee started to jiggle nervously. “I know we’ve been holding a man for questioning on the Mary Susan Frye homicide and . . .”

  And, despite Des’s warnings not to commit himself too soon, Soave had boasted all about it on television and now his career was passing right before his eyes. Because his case against Jim was in shreds—Jim had had a twenty-four-hour baby-sitter on him for the past two days. He couldn’t have shot Melanie. Not unless he’d somehow managed to slip out on his guard undetected, which was highly unlikely. Meaning that Jim was an innocent man. Unless, that is, these two small-town murders were completely unrelated. Which was even more unlikely.

  “I repeat, Lieutenant,” the Deacon said, scowling, “Where . . . are . . . you . . . at?”

  “Back to square one,” Soave conceded, smoothing his see-through mustache. “I’ll reach out immediately to Captain Battaglio for more manpower. And I’d also like to employ Resident Trooper Mitry’s services until we can clear this up. She knows the principals and, as you know, has Major Crimes experience.”

  “Mind you, I would not have suggested that to you,” the Deacon said in response. “But since you’ve raised the idea, I would call it sound, mature thinking. What about this man you’re holding, Bolan?”

  “We’ll have to take a good hard look at releasing him in the morning.”

  Right now, there were press vans waiting on the other end of the causeway and Soave had to deal with them. He had to give the cameras something, anything for the eleven-o’clock news. And he had nothing—not even Melanie’s name. Tommy was still trying to locate a legally competent next of kin. Her mother’s nursing home did have an address for Melanie’s brother up in Portland, Maine, but until Tommy could track him down, they could not release her name.

  Soave kept glancing hopefully at the Deacon as the three of them strode across the wooden causeway to the cameras. Des could tell he was praying that the Deacon, as senior officer on the scene, would want to step up to the mike—thereby letting him off the hook. But she knew better. Her father was never one to make an officer’s job any easier. This was Soave’s case, in good times and bad, and either he could deal or he couldn’t.

  So it was Soave who had to stand before those bright lights, blinking, and say, “At the present time we don’t know how or if this death relates to the Mary Susan Frye murder investigation. We are presently gathering evidence, and we are extremely confident we will have a suspect in custody shortly.”

  Which was official police-speak for: Help me, I’ve fallen and I can’t get back up!

  Afterward, he sidled over to Des, ducking his head glumly. “I guess you’re feeling pretty good about things now.”

  “If you think that, Rico, then you don’t know me at all.”

  “I don’t think that,” Soave insisted, sneaking a peek over at the Deacon, who stood at the railing looking out at the water, his broad back to them. “I really don’t. I’m just . . . I just . . .” He broke off, his breathing becoming shallow and rapid. Soon, she thought he might need to stick his head in a paper bag. “Des, I sure could use your help on this.”

  “Just tell me what I can do.”

  “I want to get some unis canvassing right away. I thought I’d have them try the town beaches for starters. But if you have any other ideas . . .”

  “I’d check out the Dorset Marina,” she offered. “See who took their boat out last night. Based on the way the tides are running, her body might have been dumped at sea. Or it might have drifted downriver. Better check the river moorings—there’s Dunn’s Cove Marina, North Cove, the Essex Yacht Club, Millington Boat Basin. There’s also a car ferry at Millington.”

  Soave was writing this down. “Okay, good. Anything else?”

  “Did you nail down the identity of Colin Falconer’s online lover yet?”

  “Who, Cutter? Not yet.” Soave peered at her, intrigued. “What’s that got to do with this?”

  “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.”

  “Okay, sure. We’ll call the Internet provider’s security people right away.”

  “I’d like to re-canvass a couple of people on my own,” Des added. “I might be able to eliminate some things.”

  “What things?” Soave demanded.

  “I’ll keep you informed,” she assured him.

  “See that you do,” he growled officiously. Then he started back across the causeway to the crime scene, arms held stiffly out from his sides in the classic bodybuilder’s strut.

  She stayed behind with the Deacon. “Sorry about your party, Daddy.”

  “Not to worry, girl. We’ll do it another night.”

  She lingered there, waiting for him to say something else, anything else. Nothing. Not a word. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you,” she said finally.

  “That you will, Desiree. Oh, by the way . . .” He flashed her a quick smile. “Your friend is all right.”

  Your friend is all right?

  Just exactly what in the hell did he mean by that? Des dissected it, fuming, as she steered her cruiser toward Griswold Avenue. By “friend,” did he mean Mitch was a trivial, unsubstantial plaything, a toy, as opposed to a substantial individual suitable for a serious relationship? Or had he just not known what else to call him? And what did he mean by “all right”? All right as in so-so, fair to middling, better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick? Or all right as in totally, one-hundred percent . . . righteous? God, that man could be so cryptic sometimes, so vague, so . . .

  Impossible. That was the word to describe her father.

  Chuckie Gilliam, the unemployed carpenter with the faith-based advertising tattooed on his knuckles, had him some company tonight. He and Sandy, the frizzy-haired waitress from McGee’s, were sprawled in front of the television watching a college football game and drinking beer when Des knocked on his door. Otherwise, not much had changed around there. Chuckie’s computer was still parked on the card table in the middle of the room, and it was still turned on. And Chuckie was still wearing his orange hunter’s vest over a soiled white T-shirt.

  “Hey, it’s the cat lady!” Sandy exclaimed when she spotted Des there in the doorway. Sandy’s voice was cheerful, but her eyes were wary pinpoints. “What are you doing, trooper, making house calls now?”

  “I need to talk to you some more, Mr. Gilliam,” Des said to him quietly.

  “Yeah, sure,” grumbled Chuckie. To Sandy he said, “It’s okay, I know what this is about.” He grabbed his beer and stepped out onto the porch with Des, closing the door behind him. Clearly, he did not want Sandy to hear their conversation.

  And Sandy didn’t like it. Through the front window, Des could see her stomp off into the kitchen, where she started slamming cupboard doors. Des wasn’t happy about doing this. She didn’t want to complicate Sandy’s life for her. But there was really no way around it. She needed answers.

  “Melanie’s body washed up on Big Sister tonight, Mr. Gilliam. Somebody shot her. Just wanted to let you know.”

  “Jeez, that’s too bad,” he said heavily, gazing across the road at her house. “If you want me to keep an eye on her place or something, I’ll be happy to. Anything I can do.”

  “Well, now that you mention it, I’ve been asked to eliminate certa
in peripheral parties such as yourself. Strictly routine stuff.”

  Chuckie’s semi-smart eyes narrowed warily. “Yeah . . . ?”

  “I noticed your computer is on—do you spend a lot of time online?”

  “I guess,” he grunted, taking a swig from his beer.

  “Which Internet provider do you use?”

  He gave her the name. It was the same service on which Colin claimed he had met Cutter. This didn’t necessarily mean anything—millions of people used it. Still, it was certainly worth knowing.

  “What’s this got to do with Melanie?” Chuckie asked.

  “Mr. Gilliam, have you ever been in trouble with the law?”

  He scratched at his unkempt beard, his eyes avoiding hers. “Maybe,” he admitted.

  “Um, okay, this is really a yes-or-no kind of a deal, Mr. Gilliam,” Des told him. “I can check it myself, but it’s better if I hear it from you.”

  “Look, I had a run-in with a contractor I was working for, okay?” he muttered, his manner turning decidedly surly now. “Tim Keefe accused me of taking some roofing materials off of a job. I lost my temper and popped him one. The piss-ant bastard filed assault charges against me. I ended up serving six months county time.”

  “Did you do it?”

  “Do what, lady?”

  “Steal the roofing materials.”

  “Stuff happens,” he grumbled, scratching impatiently at the J-E-S-U-S on his right knuckles. “What else do you want to know?”

  “The real deal about you and Melanie.”

  Chuckie glanced nervously over his shoulder at the door. “Okay, so we went out a few times,” he admitted, lowering his voice. “But she wouldn’t have nothing to do with me after the thing with Tim.”

  “Why was that?”

  “She didn’t want to be some guy’s mother, was how she put it.”

  “How did you feel about her modeling at the art academy?”

  Chuckie made a face. “If she wanted to show off her body to a lot of old ladies and fags, that was her business.”