Idyll Threats (4 page)

Downstairs, the Norths sat at the kitchen table in silence. “Did you find anything?” Mrs. North asked.

“No. I'll send someone by, to talk to Renee later.” Their older daughter. They'd have to fetch her home. “I'm sorry for your loss.” Mrs. North still held the photo of Cecilia. I extended my hand. She pulled it
to her chest. Her husband put his arm around her and said, “We don't need it.” Her shoulders rounded and she handed it to me.

Inside my car, I worked a time line. I'd seen the victim around 11:00 p.m. The ME said she'd been dead seven hours. So about an hour after she left the cabin, she was shot. I glanced at her ex-boyfriend's photo. He was young, blond, with a pointy face this side of weasel. Not the guy at the cabin.

The boyfriend would be the prime suspect. Unless I told the detectives that there'd been a man with our victim last night near Hought's Pond. But to tell them would require an explanation of my cabin tryst. If you give a cop a choice between a gay man and a leper for a partner, he'll take the leper every time. Trust me. I've been a cop twenty-two years.

I didn't have to tell the truth. I chewed my cheek until I tasted blood. No, any lie would collapse if the cabin man were found. He'd recognize me. And he'd talk.

“Shit.” I slammed my hands against the steering wheel. The car felt stuffy. My chest hurt. This tiny fucking town was closing in on me.

1200 HOURS

The desk sergeant covered his phone's mouthpiece and asked, “Any word on the homicide?” I walked past without comment. He called, “Are the staties coming soon?” I grunted and slammed my door, rattling the brass nameplate. It said Chief Stoughton. Seven months and they hadn't changed it. At my old station, I would've offered more on the murder. But this wasn't my old station. The carpet underfoot was unstained. The file cabinets opened and closed, no kicking required. And my door had someone else's name on it.

The phone rang, a button lit green. Active call. I snatched it up.

“Chief Stoughton?” The voice was soft, female.

“Chief Lynch.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. The directory said—”

“It needs updating.”

“Shirley Winston from the
New Haven Register
. I heard you had a murder. Can you confirm that—”

“No comment.”

“Why, Chief, you haven't let me finish my question.”

“Would you prefer that I let you finish and then say ‘no comment'? It's too early. When I know something, you'll know something.” I hung up. Time to see if my detectives had done any detecting.

The
rap-rap-rap
on my door torpedoed that idea. “Come in, Mrs. Dunsmore.” She came, her orthopedics quiet on the carpet. She surveyed my office, looking for faults and finding plenty. Mrs. Dunsmore was a secretary, presumably mine, but I'd sooner lay claim to a rabid dog.

She dropped a manila folder on my desk. “Time to review the applications for patrol supervisor.”

“I'll do that once I get this murder squared away.” I pushed the folder aside. The bright pain inside my forehead exploded into a supernova.

“We need a patrol supervisor.” She pushed the folder toward me.

“Did you know Cecilia North?” I asked. Distraction. It worked on wild animals, occasionally.

“She was in my grandniece's Girl Scout troop. Nice girl.” She clasped her hands at her waist and asked, “When will the state officers be coming?”

I set my mitts atop the folder. Stopping our tug-of-war. Afraid she'd win.

“Why does everyone think we need the staties?”

She shuffled to my window and examined the plant on the sill. She'd given it to me on my first day. I'd poured coffee and soda on it. Plucky thing wouldn't die. It had a cop's constitution. “We don't solve murders,” she said.

“That's going to change. Excuse me.”

I exited my office and scanned the station. Heard the desk sergeant answer the phone, “Idyll Police.” It still sounded like a joke. Idle police.
The space was half full of uniforms. Most patrols were back from the golf course. I clapped my hands until only the desk sergeant was speaking. “Quick announcement,” I said. The men formed a wobbly circle around me. “If a reporter calls you, stops you on the street, or climbs into your shower, the answer to any question she has is ‘no comment.'”

“What if it's a he?” someone called. Wiseass.

“By all means, offer him some soap. And then tell him ‘no comment.'” They laughed. A bunch of straight guys never tempted by another man. Or were they? One cop, Klein, laughed harder, his eyes checking his colleagues. Bingo.

Our detectives, Wright and Finnegan, sat farthest from the coffeepot but closest to our only interview room. Visually, they made quite a pair: Wright, tall, thin, and black, and Finnegan, short, schlubby, and ashen white. My first month here, I thought of them as Wright and White. Finnegan's desk was covered with chewed pens, takeout containers, and files that belonged in cabinets. It was dominated by a plaque that read “A clean desk is the sign of a full dumpster.” Wright's desk was tidy. Near his phone sat a photo of his wife and kids. It needed dusting.

I cleared my throat. They looked up. “Any news?” I asked.

“Some, sir.” Finnegan, from Boston, had an accent that could strip paint. “I drove to Charlie Fisher's house in Coventry. He was drinking coffee with his wife.” I imagined the scene. Old Mr. and Mrs. Fisher drinking from mugs that said “Decaf is the Devil's Blend.” “Charlie said he'd made his rounds at nine thirty p.m., a half hour earlier than usual. He needed to drive his wife home from a church function.”

“He see anything?”

“Said the course was fine. Walked the whole thing. Always does. They've told him he can use a cart, but he prefers to walk. Says it's more effective even if it's not efficient.” Good old Charlie, walking the course. Not likely he'd miss a body. “Poor bastard.” Finnegan scratched his chest. “He asked if he'd come at his usual time, if it would've made a difference.”

“So you don't think he did it?” I said.

“He's sixty-plus years old. She could've outrun him easy.”

“She couldn't outrun a bullet.”

“He owns a shotgun. Used for hunting. I checked it out. Smelled dusty.”

“Okay. The timing matches what her parents said. Sometime after nine p.m. she leaves the house and ends up dead around midnight. Let's find out how. I want Billy to help.”

“You want Hoops?” He didn't say more. Billy was young and raw. And he'd trampled the crime scene.

“He's an Idyll native. He knew the victim.” I held up my hand. “I know. You think that's a problem. If it is, we'll cut him. But for now, keep him in the loop.” Billy's youth was an asset. He'd do as I said and keep me informed. No questions asked.

Wright said the techs had retrieved three bullets from the scene. “Handgun.” He scanned his notepad. “Three people in the area heard loud noises. Two said around midnight and the third said sometime after eleven thirty p.m.”

“Did they call it in?” I asked.

He held up a finger. “One did. A Mrs. Riley. Dix checked it out. He made a loop around the block. Nothing. Since he'd only got the one report and he saw nothing, he thought—”

“It was a car backfiring?” I'd seen tourists in New York make the opposite mistake. Hit the deck when an old taxi drove by. Always good for a laugh.

“Yup.” Wright put his notepad in his inner pocket. Unlike Finnegan, his clothes fit. Because, unlike Finnegan, he still had a wife. “I'm going to look in on our boy, Anthony Fergus.” He leaned forward on his chair. Ready for action.

“The wife beater?” I asked. Anthony was heroin skinny, in need of a dentist and anger-management classes. Wright had hauled him in two months ago. His wife had dropped all charges two hours after his arrest. Showed up with tears in her black-and-blue eyes and apologies on her lips. It had steamed Wright but good. He'd broken the coffeepot. Dunsmore had complained, but I'd told her to let him alone. I knew what it was like to watch a perp walk. I'd broken more than coffeepots.

“Why are you looking at him? We've got a murder,” I said.

“Plenty of wife beaters graduate to murder.” He wiggled his brows.

I leaned against his desk. “They usually kill their wives.”

He scooted his chair back. “He owns a gun.” He made a pistol with his thumb and forefinger.

“He's not the only person in town who does.”

“He worked at the golf course. Maintenance. Was let go for missing work too often.” He fired his finger gun.

I looked at Finnegan. He studied his fingernails. “And you think that makes him a suspect?” I asked.

Wright said, “I think it's worth checking where he was last night.”

“Make it quick. We've got work here that
needs
doing,” I said.

His ass was out of his chair before I'd finished.

“You think Anthony Fergus shot our victim?” I asked Finnegan.

He no longer feigned interest in the state of his hands. “I think we don't have any likelier suspects,” he said. An attempt to back his colleague. So he was loyal. There were prices for loyalty. I almost warned him.

I asked, “What did the techs give us?”

“Besides a lecture on not destroying the crime scene?” He tapped his desk with a well-chewed pen. “Another lecture on the rewards of patience.”

“Start getting us background on the victim. And get an interview with her employer. What did she do?” Her parents had been vague.

“Insurance, human resources. Working with new employees. Those gunshots prevented a slow death by boredom.” Real cops regard desk jobs as hell on earth. It's funny, given how much paperwork we do.

“We'll need a tip line,” I said.

“We'll have to hire extra help.” Money woes were a regular gripe. The station leaked. On rainy days, wastebaskets were deployed. Not Washington Heights, but not Beverly Hills.

“You okay being full-time 'til this wraps?” I asked.

“Sure thing.” He was my half detective, a casualty of budget cuts. I needed the selectmen's blessing before I changed his status. Ah, well. As Rick used to say, “It is better to ask forgiveness than beg permission.” That nicely summed up my dead partner's philosophy.

Back in my office, the phone rang and rang. Mrs. Dunsmore answered it when the feeling moved her. “Chief Lynch.”

“Chief, hello. Lieutenant Doug Martin, from the Eastern District Major Crime Squad.” Ah, the staties. “Heard you got a homicide. Young white woman?” He didn't wait for my response. “I'm assigning Detective Carl Revere to liaison with you.” My headache migrated to my eyes. I thought about that old proverb. The one about keeping your enemies closer. Plus, if I let him in, everyone would stop asking about the state police.

“I look forward to meeting him.” My tone said otherwise.

“I'll send him to tonight's press conference.”

“There won't be one.”

“Girl found dead on a golf course? You'll need one.”

“I'd like to get the autopsy results first.”

He said, “Ah, I see. ME giving you a hard time? He's an odd duck.”

The doctor had tasted the victim's Pop Rocks. Unorthodox, yes. But again, most MEs were.
You think he's handsome
, my inner voice said.
Shut up
, I told it.
Blue eyes
, it said.
What is it about blue eyes with you?

“If you'll excuse me, I've got a murder to clear,” I said.

“Sure thing.”

As pissing contests went, I'd been in bigger and wetter. I didn't like being told I'd host an outside detective. He'd probably expected gratitude. Color us both surprised. I scanned the Filofax I'd inherited. Under “Medical Examiner,” the typed “Franklin Connor” had a red line through it. Below was handwritten “Damien Saunders.” I dialed his number.

“Chief Lynch.” His voice, deep and slow, suited his purpose. No hurry needed around the dead. “I've scheduled your autopsy for Tuesday at eight a.m. And before you ask, I'm sorry, but I have bodies in queue. I can't do it sooner.”

I fought my reflex to argue. The cause of death wasn't much of a mystery. “Eight a.m. Tuesday is fine. See you then.” I hung up, wondering how he got his scar.

Billy fetched me lunch. I didn't want to leave the station. The last murder in Idyll was in '90. Domestic. Wife confessed on scene. This
one looked tougher. I ate three pizza slices and made lists of things to check. It felt like the old days, the good ones. Except I knew something about our murder case that I couldn't share. Who was I kidding? The good old days had been full of secrets.

Back in the pen, Finnegan had Cecilia North's college transcript. An average student. Involved with animal rights. Otherwise unremarkable. Wright, returned from chasing Anthony Fergus, worked at his typewriter, pecking with one forefinger at a time.

I said, “Victim's autopsy's scheduled for Tuesday morning. I'm going.”

Finnegan wrinkled his nose. Not a fan of the morgue.

“How's the tip line coming?”

“Once they get us a number, we're in business.” Finnegan lit a cigarette. “They claim it's in use for the Morris case.” He exhaled a stream of smoke, keeping the butt balanced on his lip. Trick of a longtime smoker.

“Wasn't that put to bed before I got here?” I took a shallow breath. Smoking bothers me. It's inconvenient in my line of work. But so is being gay.

“Yup.”

“Tell the genius in charge of getting us a number that if I don't have one in an hour, I'm going to visit his house and cut
his
phone line. Then I'm going to cut every cable around his house. Maybe I'll puncture his car tires.”

“Will do,” Finnegan said. He sketched a two-finger salute.

Wright stopped typing. He looked up and said, “Anthony Fergus claims he was home watching TV last night.
Walker, Texas Ranger
reruns. I'll check
TV Guide
.”

“Do that after you've pulled and reviewed the victim's phone records.” Jesus, it was lucky Idyll had few murders. Chasing local apes wasn't how you solved them. “Eastern District wants to send us a helper. Carl Revere. Know him?”