… and nearer… and finally went all the way inside the trap as Des slammed it shut behind him.
They had him. He hissed. He yowled. He hugged the ground, swatting at them. Damn, he was mean. Like a little caged lion. But they had him at long last.
“Big Willie is in the house!” exulted Des, triumphantly highfiving Bella.
“You go, girl!”
Dr. John would have to check him over in the morning. Until then, they quarantined him in Bella’s garage-Des had a full house right now with Dirty Harry being back in residence. But Des had no doubt that once the vet gave Big Willie a clean bill of health he would end up with her. He was her kind of he-cat. Although she would have to find Dirty Harry a new home first. Where?
Des had herself a hot shower and a cold Sam Addams, good and tired from her day of physical activity. She heated up Bella’s stuffed cabbage and wolfed it down. Then she went in her studio for her therapy.
She had two photos of Tal Bliss pinned to her easel. One was his official I.D. photo, the one that had been distributed to the media. It was a standard head-on portrait of a lawman, gaze direct, his jaw strong. Tal Bliss had been the living image of a state trooper-brave, determined and fair. He had an honest face.
The other picture was a crime scene photo of him slumped at his redwood picnic table with most of that face gone.
Des stared at it long and hard, slowly reawakening her senses. Summoning up the smell of bacon and sage in the air. The sound of laughter from the kayakers out on the lake. The sunlight streaming through the trees and onto the deck. Remembering how at peace Tal Bliss had seemed, standing there in his kitchen making fruit salad in his spotless white T-shirt and apron. Remembering her horror, her anger. Remembering…
Now she began to draw him in vine charcoal, stroking boldly and rapidly. Gesture drawings at first, one after another. Placing Tal Bliss on the page. Finding her major contours and shapes. Locating her light source, her core shadows. Then she began to get more specific, gradually taking away with her kneaded eraser, squinting as she searched for the values in his shattered face, the cast shadow of the gun on his chest. After two hours she had a drawing that was beginning to work on a technical level. It was three-dimensional. She had her information down, her shapes and values. What she did not have was her emotion. The drawing was not alive yet. It merely sat there, cold and remote.
Draw what you see, not what you know.
She switched to a hard graphite stick, focusing less on values and more on lines. To free herself from what she knew, she turned his photograph upside down and tried drawing it that way. An exercise she had once been taught. She drew a portrait of Tal Bliss with her left hand. Another with her eyes closed. She drew for hour upon hour, deep into the night, until the floor around her was heaped with discarded drawings. But it still didn’t work. She could not make it work. Exhausted and frustrated, she hurled her stub of graphite stick against the wall.
She didn’t believe it. That was why.
Tal Bliss was no killer. He was an old-school cop-a good, decent man who lived to serve. Tal Bliss had believed in the code. He was prepared to put his own life on the line to protect someone else. That was his job. That was his duty.
Des got up and went into the bathroom to wash the charcoal from her hands, her mind beginning to race… What if… Jesus, what if that was what really happened? It sure made a hell of a lot more sense, didn’t it? What if Tal Bliss hadn’t committed those murders at all? What if he had shot himself to spare the life of the woman he loved? What if he had been protecting Dolly Seymour?
Des didn’t know the true story. But she did know that her portrait of the man wouldn’t come to life until she did. Nor would she be able to rest. Not until she knew what happened. She had to know what happened.
She was staring long and hard at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, wondering what on earth she was going to do about this, when her phone rang.
CHAPTER 17
THE SANDWICH BAG FULL of oatmeal cookies that Sheila Enman had pressed upon Mitch as he left was empty by the time he reached the army of TV reporters who were staked out at Peck Point, desperate for a chewy morsel of their own.
Mitch barreled his pickup right through them and out onto the bridge, paying scant attention to their shouted queries. His head was still spinning. Had Tuck Weems been in on it with Bliss? Was there someone else-a third person? Or was Sheila Enman merely an addled old lady who refused to believe her beloved boy was capable of such monstrous behavior on his own?
Mitch wondered. He most definitely did.
He played back the tape of their conversation when he got home, Sheila’s voice firm and strong over the cascading waterfall… “I don’t believe Tal could have dreamt this whole scheme up all by himself.”
Listening to her. And wondering some more.
He cranked up his computer and got to work. He’d put a lot of thought into his opening paragraph. He felt pretty sure he had it:
I think that many of us have a yearning for the joyous and pastoral New England scene. It is the stuff of Currier and Ives, this scene. And Norman Rockwell. The feel-good Yuletide bathos of Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life is poured all over it like Vermont maple syrup. But I am here to tell you that the reality does not quite match the fantasy. In fact, it is not even close.
Mitch had his opening, all right. What he did not have was the rest of it. And it was bugging the hell out of him.
By now, the sun was getting low over the sparkling blue Sound, casting long shadows through his living room windows. The tide was out so Mitch went for a walk among the tide pools. One question kept nagging and nagging at him as he plodded along in the wet sand among the crabs and oysters: Why? He could not shake it. It was there as he heated up some three-day-old American chop suey and scarfed it down. Why? And while he watched a few choice minutes of Hombre. The stagecoach scene early on where it slowly begins to dawn on the other passengers that Newman is a half-breed. Ritt’s camera never leaves his riveting blue eyes. Why? When Mitch flicked on his Stratocaster and went chasing after “It Hurts Me, Too,” the old Elmore James blues number, it was still there:
Why had Tal Bliss killed his very best friend in the whole world?
Say Sheila was right. Say he and Tuck Weems had pulled off the murders of Niles Seymour and Torry Mordarski together. Why would he then proceed to eliminate Tuck? Had the two old friends had a falling-out? Had Tuck threatened to expose him? Was this simply a case of Bliss covering his own tracks? Or had another conspirator shot both of them? Someone who was now walking around, free and clear?
It didn’t make sense. Well, it made some sense but not absolute sense. Maybe because Mitch was searching for a proper villain like Richard Boone in Hombre. But this was no Western, its morality clearly etched. This was real life-complex, interwoven and exceedingly murky. And these were real people. Real people did not necessarily have intelligent reasons for the way they behaved. In fact, they might very well have no reasons at all. At least none that were sane or rational.
Mitch arrived at this unhappy conclusion after several hours of lying in bed in the darkness with his wheels spinning. Clemmie was curled up on his chest, purring away. He stroked her soft fur gently, gazing up at the half-moon through his skylight. Take Niles Seymour-why did he show up at the Saybrook Point Inn flaunting his young girlfriend for everyone to see? The man had even told Jamie Devers about her. Why does a married man who’s cheating on his wife do that? Why be so reckless and foolish?
Baffled, Mitch roused Clemmie from her sound sleep and went downstairs to put on milk for cocoa. It being chilly he built a small fire in the fireplace and lit it, the kindling crackling in the quiet. He fixed his cocoa and sat in his easy chair with it, gazing into the flames. After a moment he heard small plopping noises-Clemmie venturing downstairs after him, step by step by step. She let out a squeak to announce her wee presence in the room, then leapt up into his lap. After a few minutes of pad-pad-padding she curled up
and fell instantly back to sleep.
Unlike Mitch, she did not have a lot on her mind.
Questions. He had so damned many of them… If there was a third person, who was it? Bud Havenhurst? The man’s timing was awfully fortuitous. After all, he had chosen virtually the same precise moment to raid Dolly’s funds as Tal Bliss had chosen to murder Niles Seymour. Bud’s explanation was that when he’d seen Niles and Torry together at the inn he felt certain Niles was about to skip town. And so, faster than you can say Rouben Mamoulian, he cleared out her accounts to protect them from the man’s evil clutches. Was that believable? Or did Bud know more than he’d let on? He and Red Peck had been together that day at the inn. Both of them had seen Niles with Torry. This made them the only two people who ever had, didn’t it? Hadn’t Lieutenant Mitry said that none of Torry’s friends or coworkers ever saw Stan? Because if that were the case, then that would mean… Wait a minute…
Mitch suddenly sat up in his chair, awestruck. Slowly, he found his gaze drawn over toward the wall-at the art that was hanging there, aglow in the dancing golden firelight. The more he kept looking at it the more the pieces started to fall into place. Ghastly, horrible place. They fit. Sure they did. All of the pieces fit. He had his answer. But how to prove it? How to prove any of it?
Now Mitch jumped to his feet, dislodging Clemmie. She blinked up at him quizzically, unable to comprehend anything that might be more significant than her natural rest. Mitch raced to the phone. He’d tracked down the lieutenant’s home number when he was thinking about calling her. Now he dialed it, his heart pounding. She answered on the second ring.
“Did I wake you up?” he asked her, not bothering with hello.
“Why, no…” Her voice sounded guarded and cool. “I was drawing.”
“Good for you. How is that coming? Have you thought about what we talked about?”
“I have had a few other things on my mind, Mr. Berger.”
“What happened to Mitch?”
“How did you get my home number, Mitch?”
“I went to journalism school, remember? They teach us things like that.”
“And did they teach you how to tell time? It’s four o’clock in the morning.”
“You said I should call if something came up.”
“That was then. I’m on the shelf now, in case you haven’t been paying attention. So if you don’t mind…”
“I do mind. It wasn’t fair. What they did to you. What they said about you in the papers. It wasn’t fair.”
“It’s never fair. If I hadn’t achieved some measure of closure, they would have said I was in over my head. Either way, I end up as toast. Your classic lose-lose situation.” She fell silent briefly. “Actually, there was something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Tal Bliss told it to me before he died…”
It was about that day in New York, when Mitch had almost been pushed in front of the subway train. Bud Havenhurst had informed the resident trooper that it was Mandy who had done it. That it was a sex game with her. With the two of them. Bud had even been in the apartment later that night when she’d tried to seduce Mitch.
Mitch considered this news for a long moment, his emotions teetering back and forth between anger and just plain revulsion… No, I really do not understand these people… Finally, he said, “I don’t buy it, Lieutenant. Well, maybe I buy that Bud was hiding there in the apartment. After all, why make up anything so sick? But I don’t buy the rest of it.”
“Neither do I,” she concurred. “The numbers simply do not add up. Mandy Havenhurst weighs in at, what, a hundred and twenty pounds? One-twenty-five? And you must weigh-”
“A lot more than that,” Mitch conceded quickly.
“She couldn’t have pulled you back in time. Not even if she’d wanted to. She’s not strong enough. Only a good-sized man could do that.”
“Which means one of two things,” Mitch mused aloud. “Either Mandy really did intend to kill me or Bud lied to Tal Bliss about who was responsible. What do you think?”
“I think that I’m all done thinking,” the lieutenant replied wearily. “Man, what in the hell do you want, anyway?”
“I don’t think this case is closed. I don’t buy that either. And I can’t believe you do. Surely you’re not satisfied.”
She let out a short, bitter laugh. “Satisfied? That is one strange way of putting it.”
“Okay, fine, I’ll put it to you another way-you don’t believe Tal Bliss did all of this by himself, do you?”
“The case is closed, Mitch.”
“You’re not answering me. What do you believe?”
“I believe in evidence.”
“So do I. That’s why I called. I have a very important question to ask you: Is there any chance that Bliss didn’t shoot himself?”
She fell silent for so long that Mitch said, “Hello…?”
“What, you mean like was he murdered?” she finally responded. “Not a chance. I got there in two seconds flat. I saw no one leaving the scene. And the coroner found nothing to indicate a struggle. The man’s clothes were clean. The man’s skin was clean-other than the powder burns on his face. The only prints on the gun were his. And the handwriting on the suicide note was his. No, it was suicide. Bank on it.”
Mitch thought this over carefully. Sheila could be wrong about that element. But that didn’t necessarily blow his theory out of the water. There was another explanation. An even simpler one.
Now it was Lieutenant Mitry who plunged into the silence. “Exactly where are you going with this, anyway?”
“You said Torry Mordarski registered at the Saybrook Point Inn under an assumed name.”
“Correct. Angela Becker was the name on the driver’s license.”
“Did anyone see Angela Becker and Niles Seymour together?”
“Well, yeah. Bud Havenhurst and Redfield Peck did. And they positively identified Angela as Torry from Torry’s photos. This is old news. You know all of this.”
“No, I mean, did anyone else see them together?”
“Such as who?”
“Such as a chambermaid or room service waiter. Another guest in the dining room.”
“I don’t remember. Why, is it important?”
“Ultra.”
“Then let me get my notes, okay?”
Mitch waited anxiously while she fetched them. He could hear her footsteps as she returned. Hear a whole lot of meowing, too.
“I’m showing no other corroborative testimony,” she said, leafing through her notepad. “That’s a no.”
“So Bud and Red are the only ones who saw them together?”
“That’s a yes. What of it?”
“Where are you going to be tomorrow, Lieutenant?”
“I’m driving to Newport in the morning.”
“Pick me up on your way. I’m coming with you.”
“Um, okay, I don’t recall inviting you.”
“But don’t come anywhere near Big Sister. I don’t want people to know we’re still in contact. I’ll be waiting for you in the parking lot of the Super Stop and Shop in Old Saybrook. What are you driving?”
“My usual ride, but-”
“Fine. Shall I look for you around ten?”
“Give me a reason. Give me one good reason.”
“I can give you two. There’s a place in Newport called the Black Pearl that’s supposed to serve the world’s best New England clam chowder. And we have to talk.”
“About what?”
“Not what,” Mitch corrected her. “Who.”
She drew her breath in, exasperated. “Okay, who?”
“Yogi Berra-as in it ain’t over till it’s over. Good night, Lieutenant.”
Mitch hung up the phone and flicked on his computer. A plan was forming in his mind. One that was ingenious and daring and foolproof. He began to write, setting the wheels of his plan in motion. As his fingers flew over the keyboard he realized he was so excited that he could barely sit still.
It wou
ld work. Mitch knew it would work.
He knew it because he had seen this movie before.
CHAPTER 18
MITCH BERGER’S HIGH RIDING, kidney-colored Studebaker pickup truck was not exactly hard to spot in the half-empty Stop amp; Shop parking lot. The man himself was seated there behind the steering wheel, drumming it nervously with his fingers when Des pulled into the empty space alongside of him.
He climbed out and got in next to her, looking rumpled and unshaven. His hair was uncombed, his sad puppy eyes red and puffy. “Morning, Lieutenant. How’s your cold?”
“It was never a cold. And I feel a whole lot better than you look, if you want to know the truth.”
“I didn’t sleep very well last night.”
“Why all of this secrecy?” she demanded as the two of them sat there in her cruiser, engine idling.
“It’s important that no one on the island see us together.”
“You told me that already. What you didn’t tell me was why.”
“I’ve never been in a police car before,” he spoke up, glancing around at the interior with keen, sudden interest. “You don’t have an on-board computer?”
Des shook her head. “Mobile data terminals cost major bucks. And we’re a big public agency. The bigger they are, the slower they are at keeping current. The IRS is still using equipment that’s twenty years out of date.”
“Well, that’s comforting.”
“The only agency using equipment that’s even older is the FAA.”
“Well, that’s not,” Mitch said, his fingers busily probing the dashboard. “What’s this thing?”
“My radio.”
“And what does this do?”
“Stop touching my damned stuff, will you?!”
“Sorry, I’m a little wired this morning,” he said. “Kind of grouchy yourself, aren’t you?”
“I have excellent reason to be,” Des huffed, easing her car out onto Route 1 in the direction of the I-95 on-ramp.
Mostly, she was anxious. When Mitch had said there might be more to the Tal Bliss suicide, she had had to find out what it was. She desperately wanted there to be more-something, anything that would make her feel less responsible for his death. She also knew, down deep inside, that she had agreed to let Mitch tag along because she wanted to see him again. Although now that the man was sitting there next to her she could not imagine why. He was pudgy. He was strange. He dressed like a high school chemistry teacher. Plus he was edgy and annoying and way, way white.
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