The Hot Pink Farmhouse bam-2

by David Handler

  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 of 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 certain 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.”

  “Okay, let’s talk about last night,” Des said. “You told me you saw her car leave the house about nine, then come back again a half hour later, right?”

  “Right…”

  “Then you saw her load up her car and clear out again, this time for good. Mr. Gilliam, are you absolutely sure that’s what you saw?”

  Chuckie took a long time draining his beer before he said, “Lady, why are you climbing me?”

  “Believe me, I’m not. I’m just thinking about something I learned myself at the art academy-it’s not strictly old ladies and gays, by the way. They get all kinds. And one thing they tell you is to draw what you see as opposed to what you know. Did you really see what you saw? Or do you just know you did? Are you with me?”

  “Not even close,” he said, running a hand through his thinning hair.

  “How good a look did you get at her? Try to be as specific as possible. Believe me, it’ll be worth your while-if you can help me, I’m in a position to help you.”

  “Uh-huh, I get it now,” Chuckie said sourly. “If I don’t help you, you’ll be all over me for every little thing, right? My taillight’s out on my pickup. My dog’s disturbing the neighbors. Sure, I know how it goes. Well, let me tell you something, lady. I don’t got no dog!”

  “And that’s not how I go about my business.”

  “Bullshit,” he shot back. “You got the law on your side and I got nothing.”

  “Here’s the deal, straight up,” Des said evenly. “If you help me I can tell the big bad lieutenant to steer his investigation right around Chuckie Gilliam. Chuckie Gilliam is a cooperative, fully rehabilitated citizen who did everything he could to be of assistance. If you don’t, given your record chances are excellent he’ll be stuffing your frame in a cruiser and taking you up to Meriden. Days and nights will go by. Sandy will have to come get you, if she still wants you. And there won’t be a single thing I can do to help you. Now let’s try it one more time, shall we? Tell me what you saw.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said hotly. “What I saw was Melanie getting out of her car and running inside.”

  “Describe her.”

  “Well, she was kind of hunched over. And she was wearing this big red ski parka like I seen Melanie wear a million times. It has a hood that’s lined with coyote fur or something.”

  Des nodded. Melanie was not wearing a coat when she washed up. “Okay, good,” she said encouragingly. “Did she have her hood up?”

  “Uh… yeah.”

  “And so you assumed it was Melanie. Anyone would, right?”

  Chuckie frowned at her, perplexed. “Huh?”

  “Think about this for a second: Is it possible that the person who you saw wasn’t her?”

  “You’re saying, like, what if some other woman was driving her car and wearing her jacket?”

  “Yes.”

  “I guess it’s possible,” Chuckie admitted.

  “And is it possible it wasn’t even a woman at all?”

  “What?”
/>   “You saw a hunched-over figure in a big, hooded jacket. You and I both know that Melanie was a good-sized girl, solidly built. This street’s dimly lit. You were standing all the way over here. So I’m asking you: Is it possible that the person you saw was a man? Think hard, please. It’s important.”

  “I guess…” he allowed. “But why would someone do that?”

  “To make it look like Melanie was skipping town, when in reality she was already dead. I think you saw her killer, Mr. Gilliam. The hooded parka was strictly in case a neighbor such as yourself might be watching.” And it might have played, too, if Melanie’s body hadn’t washed up so soon. That couldn’t have been part of the plan. A mistake. Had to be. Des lingered there on the porch, sensing that Chuckie was still holding on to something. He had a semi-foxy look on his mega-dumb face. “You told me that Melanie had no man in her life lately,” she mentioned, taking a stab.

  “That I know of,” he acknowledged, scratching at his beard. “None dropped by is all I know.”

  “Did anyone else drop by?”

  “Like who?”

  Des raised her chin at him. “Like anyone else.”

  He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Well, she did get visits from Greta Patterson. Melanie used to do clerical work for her over at the gallery.”

  “You mean before she went to work for Superintendent Falconer?”

  “Yeah, three, four years back. I recognized Greta on account of I’ve done work for her myself on her house-siding, sill work.”

  “How often?”

  “How often have I worked for her?”

  “How often did she stop by to see Melanie?”

  “Pretty often,” Chuckie admitted.

  “What, once a week?”

  “Twice a week, maybe.”

  Des took off her big hat and stood there twirling it in her fingers. “You say Melanie used to work for Greta. Is that all she was to her?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he answered sharply.

  “Yes, you do.” Des stared at him intently. “You know exactly what I mean.”