Idyll Threats (23 page)

“He play sports?” I asked. His size was right for basketball.

Tiffany said, “Soccer and track. But he's not a jock.”

Ah, the classification system of high school. “So what is he?”

She pursed her lips. “Well he's not straight-edge or a nerd or one of
the potheads. He's been elected to vice president, but he's not really a student-government kid. I don't know. Chris is just Chris.”

But was Chris a killer? Probably not. And yet he was too curious and too helpful about the murder. With large feet and a big belt buckle. I'd keep him in the picture, for now.

2015 HOURS

I'd never been so happy to be home. Idyll Days was over, for me. They'd be tearing down tents and cleaning the streets, taking down posters from lampposts and utility poles. But I wouldn't be there. My stomach gurgled. I recalled that I still had the treat I'd bought at the bake sale in my pocket. The famed Mother Lode. I tried to undo the pink ribbon holding its cellophane wrapper together. I couldn't. The knot was tight, and my big fingers couldn't work it apart. I grabbed a pair of scissors, cut the ribbon, and pulled at the crinkly cellophane. This had better be worth it.

I took a bite and chewed. And chewed. And chewed. “Ugh.” After a minute of mastication, it felt like half of it was still stuck in my molars. I reached into the fridge. Drank milk from the carton. It helped dampen the sweetness. I tossed the remains of the Mother Lode into the trash. Well, that was one more thing I didn't have in common with the townsfolk. Their taste in sweets was awful.

To get the smell of horse, hay, and small-town fun off me, I showered. While I lathered up, I considered my next move on the murder and thought about my conversation with Mike Shannon. I'd asked him a few days earlier if he knew about the golf course as a cruising spot. He'd laughed and said no. Made a joke about a hole in one. Unlike Damien Saunders, he wasn't upset by my assumption he'd know such things. He'd asked if the murder was keeping me busy. A slight prod. Testing the waters to see if I recalled my promise of a rain check.

“That and Idyll Days.”

He'd laughed and scratched his beard. “Idyll Days. Where small-town living is a grand adventure!”

I'd said I'd see him after things quieted down. Probably would. He was a nice guy. Fun. Uncomplicated.

I grabbed some fresh clothes from the bedroom, smelling of the fabric softener used at Suds. Then I got dressed and moved to the living room, sat in my recliner, and groaned. My feet. They'd never feel good again. I flexed my toes. Ow.

The talk I'd had with Tiffany and Chris still nagged at me. His belt buckle, unworn in weeks, and his attitude. Something was off. I moved to my gun safe and unlocked it. Grabbed Elmore's list and scanned it for Chris or Christopher. There were three, but none of them with the surname Warren. I squinted at the list again. No one on it was under age twenty-three. I wondered if Elmore subscribed to the opinion that many young men experiment, or if gay was on the decline among Idyll's youth. Either way, Christopher Warren wasn't on the list.

I locked the safe and wandered into the kitchen. The only other person to talk to would be Mrs. Ashworth. I recalled her dogs on my legs. No. I'd call her.

She answered on the fifth ring, when I'd begun to think she must be out.

“Oh, Chief Lynch,” she said. “I saw you at Idyll Days yesterday!”

“Yes,” I said. “I was calling about the murder.”

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

I assumed she meant at Idyll Days.

“Very lively. I just wanted to ask—”

“I thought the fireworks show this year was less spectacular than last year's. Lacked a certain…oomph.”

“Could the man you saw peeing on the golf course have been younger?”

“Than you? Sure.” Her rapid answer implied most people were younger. Christ. I was only forty-four. “How young?” she asked.

“A teenager, perhaps?”

“I suppose he could've been.” She chuckled. “I bet he got in trouble when he got home. Stumbling drunk at that age.”

“I bet. Well, thanks for your time. Have a nice evening.” I hung up before she could say another word.

I returned to the living room and sat in my recliner. Rubbed the worn nap of the arm with my finger pads. Closed my eyes and saw images. Cecilia's corpse on the course. The shoe prints. A belt buckle. The gun. Where was the damn gun? How would a teen get one? Did his parents own one?

And without thinking on it hard, I decided I'd pursue this angle alone, for now. I suspected the detectives would scoff. And anyway it was just a small thing to keep to myself. I already had so many secrets. What was one more?

I picked up the copy of Cecilia North's autopsy report. Looked at the wound chart. This was where the bullets entered, this where they exited. Rick had only one entry and exit wound, but it had been enough. And his autopsy, required because of who he was and how he died, was the bullet in my career. The exit wound blew me to pieces.

They found traces of cocaine in his system. His hair showed he'd been using for months. Sometimes at night I still hear my super's voice asking, “Why didn't you tell me, Lynch?” I hear and feel his anger and, worse, his disappointment. I'd been Rick's partner. I should've protected him from everything, including himself.

They didn't formally discipline me. No one wanted to ruin the image of a cop dying on duty with news of his drug habit. But it was understood that I would never be promoted, never be trusted as I had before.

So I left. Came to Idyll. Kept my head down and played by the rules. Until I hadn't. And look where that had gotten me. I couldn't come clean about seeing Cecilia North. I set the autopsy report on the side table and knuckled my brow. Secrets were overrated. The moment I had a real lead, no matter the suspect, I'd share it. Who cared if my men laughed? I'd survived worse.

I'd sent a description of Christopher Warren's shoes to the forensic lab's tread expert for a comparison to our 11.5 crime-scene print. But the tech went on vacation to Jamaica. Today he was supposed to be at work.

“Where is he?” I said into the phone. I squeezed the stress ball I'd taken from Finnegan's desk. It had sparkly bits inside, like a squishy snow globe.

The receptionist at the forensic lab said, “He hurt his back on the trip home.”

“When do you expect him to return to work?” I squeezed again. The gooey ball protruded up and out, over my thumb.

“I couldn't really say.”

“And he's the only person who can analyze the shoe treads? Really?”

She said, “Sorry. I'll let him know you called.” And hung up.

This is the stuff you don't see on TV crime dramas or cop shows. The tedious, mundane shit. Techs go on vacation, MEs get sick, lawyers die midcase, and you're left to wait until they come back or their work is reassigned to get your results.

Stymied, I went in search of Revere. Maybe he could ask the staties for help with the tread. He was alone, transferring items from his desk to Finnegan's disaster area.

“Little late for spring cleaning,” I said.

“They're pulling me back to the Eastern.” He picked up cards, pens, maps.

“What?” We'd had him less than six weeks. Surely the Eastern District could spare him longer. “Why?”

“Boss says he can't spare me.”

“This case isn't over. We've got the techs working on the footprints. They might have a shoe brand for us tomorrow.” Not true. But I was willing to stretch or even abandon the truth, if it meant he'd stay on. “And I've got the budget to dredge Hought's Pond.” I'd pushed it through last night. Got Mr. Neilly on board by praising Idyll Days, specifically the Mother Lodes. And I'd won Mrs. Kettle over by asking for gardening tips. “The gun could be there.”

“Or it could be at the bottom of the Connecticut River,” he said. “It could be anywhere. Look, I'm sorry I can't stay. But there's nothing I can do.” He massaged his crew-cut fuzz and said, “The state thinks this one's a goner. And they prefer to keep the stink off them.”

“Rather than help solve the case?”

“It's not my call.” He tossed his mobile phone and notepad into a duffel and hefted it onto his shoulder. “Good luck, Chief.” He held out his hand. I wanted to smack it away. He was a good detective. Knew his stuff. And he was leaving. Taking all his contacts with him. I shook his hand. It was warm and dry.

“And the next time Billy cracks a gay joke, say something.” He picked up a takeout container and tossed it into the trash. “You got to nip that shit in the bud.”

Why was Revere so passionate on the topic? I looked him over from his crew cut to his shined shoes. No. No way. Revere was straighter than a ruler.

He glanced at the board. There were a few new items, but nothing about Christopher Warren. I couldn't say anything yet. Not until I had one solid piece of evidence.

“I hope you get him,” he said. He turned away from the board. “I really hope you do.” He left.

A minute later, Billy appeared, two coffees in hand. “Where's Revere gone to? I got his coffee.”

“Home,” I said.

“Home home or back to his station?”

“Station.”

It took a moment for him to process what this meant. “But the case!” His voice cracked.

I left Billy and the board and returned to my office.

I'd review the equipment folder, overdue by a week. If I couldn't solve large problems, I'd manage little ones. Three pages in, I saw that one of our patrol cars had been in an accident. The car was nearly totaled. The driver? Officer Yankowitz. I buzzed Dunsmore and told her to come to my office immediately.

She arrived in five minutes. Her idea of immediate.

“Yankowitz nearly totaled a patrol car. Why is this the first I'm hearing of it?” I pointed to the folder.

Her wrinkled face got more puckered. “I couldn't say.” No, she wouldn't say. Wouldn't say, “Gee, Chief, the men don't seem to have warmed to you. Or they'd have told you straightaway about Yankowitz's latest wreck.”

“Get him in here,” I said.

“He's out sick.”

I grunted. Of course he was.

“You shouldn't be too hard on him.” She adjusted her pearls. Must be bridge-club night.

“Give me one good reason.” I picked up the stress ball. It was sweaty.

“He writes eighty-five percent of our tickets.”

“He's the meter maid.”

“Yes, and he takes that duty seriously, unlike some I could mention.” She pointed to the folder in my hand. “Yankowitz always deals with Caroline Ross.” Our cranky bad driver. “He's the only one brave or compassionate enough to take her on. The others just let her park in front of the hydrants or double park in front of the dentist until someone calls to complain.”

“Why is she such a pill?” I asked.

“She's Chief Stoughton's ex-wife. The first one.”

Huh.

She said, “Yankowitz is a poor driver, but he won't hesitate to ticket other poor drivers. Did you know he paid that ticket you wrote him the day you arrived?”

I said, “He parked in my spot. Two spots, actually.”

“Yes. But you didn't actually think he'd pay the ticket, did you?”

“Since I wrote it on a napkin, no, I didn't.” I'd been trying to establish my authority, and to lessen the sting I'd played it off as a joke. No one had laughed.

“He put the money into the Widows and Orphans Fund. The others laughed at him for it. But he said he deserved it. Should've been more careful.”

Her guilt trip wasn't working. Not entirely. I sighed, “Fine. I won't fire him, yet. But I'm sure as hell removing him from the patrol cars. He can be on bike patrol.”

“We don't have a bicycle patrol,” she said.

“We do now.”

I opened a new folder with my free hand. She could show herself out. “What the hell is this?” I yelled after I'd scanned the first page.

She sighed and said, “What?” I extended the sheet to her. She held it away as far as her arms allowed. She must've left her glasses on her desk. “Oh, this is the estimate from the carpenter. You know, for changing the nameplate.”

As if I'd forgotten. “That's what he plans to charge?” I squeezed the stress ball. It made an odd squealing noise.

She pointed to the nameplate. “It's attached with screws. He'll need to remove it, repair the door, and install the new one. Probably resize it too. Your name is shorter.”

The stress ball exploded with a splat. Liquid hit my face, torso, and desk. I wiped at my eyes. Opened them. Yuck. Goo covered my desk. Covered me.

“Is that glitter?” she asked.

Small sparkly bits covered my hands. I was a human disco ball.

“Tell you what,” I said. I tossed the rubbery shreds of the ball into the trash. “I'm not waiting another damn day for the carpenter.” I walked to
the equipment room. Took the key from my ring, and unlocked the door. Searched the shelves. Found what I wanted, and walked to where Mrs. Dunsmore stood, arms crossed over her mighty bust.

She saw the crowbar in my hand. “Chief!”

“Look at it this way.” I inserted the crowbar's end underneath the “S” of “Stoughton” and pulled toward me. The plate screeched and cracked in half. “This'll save money
and
time.” I repositioned the metal bar and pulled. The first half of the nameplate dropped to the carpet along with a chunk of the door.

“Don't worry.” I kicked aside the wood. Then I wedged the bar under the remaining part of the nameplate and yanked hard. The plate and its screws fell to the floor. “I'll make a replacement.”

She said, “You've ruined it!”

I grabbed a red marker and wrote CHIEF THOMAS LYNCH on a blank sheet of paper. I taped my sign so that it half-covered the damaged area. “There.” I set the crowbar against the wall and admired my handiwork. “Good as new.”

A few men stood in the hall, drawn by the sounds of my labors. I called, “Hey, fellas! There's a new chief in town. Spread the word.” A few clapped. Billy whistled. Mrs. Dunsmore said I'd pay for the repairs and stomped off. Probably to report me to the carpenter or the selectmen. Or both.

“Chief!” Finnegan hustled over, his breathing labored. His pant legs were wet. He glanced at my door and said, “Huh.” Then he stared at me for several long seconds and said, “Do you have glitter on your face?”

“Did you know you can explode a stress ball?” I said.

“Nope. Hey, I got something you'll like.” Finnegan's idea of “something” could be a donut, a new sports car he could never afford, or a lingerie model he'd pegged to be the next ex–Mrs. Finnegan.

“Yeah?” I picked up the two largest pieces of wood from the floor. A splinter stuck me. “Got tweezers?” I frowned at the needle of wood protruding from my skin.

“Nah,” he said. “But I've got your murder weapon.”

I forgot the splinter. “What?”

He grinned. His stained teeth were appalling. “And you're never going to guess who found it.”

“Who?”

“A dog named Biscuit. Its owner threw a stick, and the dog brought back a Smith & Wesson .45. So the owner, Mr. Dunlop, called us. Found it in Baumer's Pond, which is really just a big puddle a few minutes from the golf course.” His smiled dimmed. “Any chance the techs can get prints off it?”

“It's been in the water and in some dog's mouth? Plus the dog owner's hands?”

“Still, we got it,” he said.

“Has the lab been notified?”

“Yup.”

I put up my non-splintered hand, and Finnegan smacked his palm against it. We had the gun.

“Way to go, Biscuit,” I said.

Finnegan examined his hand. “I think you got glitter on me.”