“I’m taking it easy right now. Giving my body a chance to repair itself. Two hours of lifting in the morning. Two hours of cardio after lunch.”
“That’s your idea of easy?” Des asked.
“The game doesn’t get any easier after you turn thirty. I’ve been watching my carb intake, too. Eating a lot of chicken and fish. Kitchen’s down this way.”
It was a commercial-sized kitchen with a six-burner Viking range, two ovens and the biggest refrigerator Des had seen in anyone’s home in her life. It was very sunny in the kitchen. A set of French doors opened out onto the patio, swimming pool and pool house. Des could also see the dock where his cigarette boat, Da Beast, was tied up.
A mountainous gray-haired woman was putting groceries away in the walk-in pantry. She wore a lavender fleece sweat suit, sneakers and somewhere between six and eight chins.
Tyrone smiled at her. “Hey, Moms. You made it back from the store.”
“That I did, praise the Lord,” she replied, wheezing slightly. She needed to lose at least seventy-five pounds. Take off a hundred and she’d still qualify as meaty.
“This here’s Trooper Mitry. Came to say hello.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Grantham.”
“It’s Chantal, honey,” she said to Des warmly. Chantal Grantham had attracted a great deal of attention after her son was selected in the first round of the NFL draft. The lady was a recovering crack whore who had totally neglected her two young boys until she found God and fought her way back from the gates of hell. “Skinny thing, ain’t she?”
“I think she’s cute,” said Clarence. “We’ll have to get her out on Da Beast. ”
Tyrone nodded in agreement. “You like boats, Trooper Mitry? I took Moms out one time but she won’t go again.”
“ Never again,” Chantal said emphatically. “You bounced me up and down so hard I swear I lacerated a kidney.”
“Well, I ain’t going out either if Rondell’s behind the wheel again.” Clarence mimicked a bug-eyed Rondell gripping a steering wheel tightly in the ten until two position, swiveling sharply left, right, left, whipping his hands back and forth spasmodically. “He almost flipped us, I swear.”
“I was merely familiarizing myself with the boat’s handling capabilities,” little Rondell said defensively.
“You was merely freaking out!” Clarence laughed.
Des heard footsteps on the stairs that were next to the kitchen door. A barefoot girl in her late teens or early twenties came tromping down. She was a heavy, homely girl. Moon-faced, pimply and dull-eyed.
“This here’s Monique,” Chantal informed Des. “Daughter of a dear friend of mine who passed last year. I look out for her now. Monique’s not well suited to being on her own.” She tapped her own forehead to indicate that Monique was intellectually challenged. “But she’s a good girl. Helps me around the house. Keeps me company. It works out well for both of us.” Chantal smiled at her. “Monique, what were you doing up in your room?”
“Nuthin’ much, Chantal.”
“We need to finish stocking that pantry, hon.”
“Yes, Chantal.”
Clarence stepped in front of the girl and began to tickle her playfully. “ Hey, Monique.”
She giggled. “ Hey, Cee.”
“Leave her alone, Cee,” Chantal ordered him.
“I’m just funning with her.” Clarence tickled the girl some more. “She don’t mind, do you, Monique?”
Des heard a strange noise next to her. Turned to discover it was the sound of Tyrone Grantham breathing in and out very hard and very fast. A vein was throbbing in his forehead. “Don’t you disrespect my mother!” he roared at Clarence, his eyes bulging with fury. “Don’t ever do that!”
In all of her years of law enforcement Des had never seen a man flare so hot so fast.
Clarence backed down at once, cowed by fear. “I-I didn’t mean nothing, cuz. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me! Apologize to Moms!”
“Sure, sure…” Clarence moistened his lips with his tongue. “Sorry, Moms.”
“It’s okay, Clarence,” she assured him.
And with that Tyrone relaxed instantly. Seemingly, the man was an emotional roller coaster. His gaze fell on Des now. He seemed to be measuring her. “You have family?”
“I’m an only child. My mom lives in Georgia. My dad’s with me right now. He just had some surgery.”
He processed her answer carefully, nodding his shaved head. “You’re taking care of him?”
“Just until he gets back on his feet.”
“That says a lot about you. Your folks must be real proud of you.”
“I’m proud of both of my sons,” Chantal pointed out. “They’ve come so far. You got yourself a man, Trooper Mitry?”
“Of course she does, Moms. She goes with that movie critic’s on the TV all of the time. Jewish guy with those funny eyebrows.”
“Wait, she who?” Clarence was aghast. “Why you want to be doing that for when there’s a fine available brother right here?”
Tyrone let out a laugh. “Give it up, Cee. She’s too smart for you.”
The patio door opened now and a middle-aged black man stood there gaping at Des in horror. Or, more specifically, at her uniform. He was quick to recover, grinning as he strolled on in. But he was too late. Des already smelled yard on him.
“Trooper Mitry, this here’s my father-in-law, Calvin Jameson,” Tyrone said. “He came up from Houston as soon as Jamella got pregnant. Lived with us in Glen Cove over the summer. Now he’s staying out in the pool house.”
“Pleased to meet you, miss,” said Calvin, who was in his late forties or early fifties. Hard to tell exactly because he dyed his hair an inky black. And wore a half-jar of pomade in it. He was a bit of a peacock. The sports shirt and slacks he had on were loud and louder. His cowboy boots were snakeskin. He was not very tall. And he was for sure not very fit. His gut hung way out over the waistband. He fetched himself a can of Bud from the fridge, popped it open and took a long drink, smacking his lips. “You get my smokes, Chantal?”
“Get your own damned smokes,” she responded, her face tightening.
“Chantal, why you all of the time got to be busting on me?”
“Because you’re no good freeloading trash. Don’t do nothing all day but sit around drinking beer and watching porn.”
Calvin shook his head at her. “Can’t we just get along?”
“I don’t get along with punks.”
“I’m no punk. I’m a grown man with two grown daughters.”
“You’re still a punk.” Chantal turned her attention back to Des. “I hope you’ll watch out for my Tyrone. The people don’t like him, you know.”
“Which people?” Des asked her.
“I worry about him day and night. Pray to the good Lord that no harm will come to him.”
Des glanced at Tyrone. “Have there been any incidents or threats I should know about?”
“Not a thing,” Rondell interjected. “We’re fine.”
“Moms is just being Moms,” Tyrone agreed. “Pay no attention.”
“No, pay attention! I ain’t no crazy person. I know what I know.” Chantal reached over and clutched Des by the wrist. She had a powerful grip. “I have nightmares every night. Keep dreaming that something awful’s about to happen.”
“Lighten up, Moms,” Tyrone said. “You’re freaking everybody out.”
“Do you keep any weapons in your home?” Des asked him.
“I have a Glock 19 for my personal protection. It’s the preferred pistol of the NYPD. I’ve got a permit for it.”
“In Connecticut?”
His face dropped. “New York. Why, is that a problem?”
“Now that you’ve established your residency here you’ll want to swing by Dorset Town Hall and apply for a local pistol permit. Once you get that you can apply for one from the state-if you want to be in complete compliance, I mean.”
“Oh, he does,” Rondell assured her. “Absolutely.”
“Are there any other weapons around?”
“No, ma’am,” said Clarence, who would not go down in history as one of the world’s great liars.
Chantal still had not let go of Des’s wrist. Des’s fingers were getting numb. “ Promise me you’ll watch out for my boy!”