Not unless they really wanted to.
Rondell drove Da Beast directly into one of the bridge’s centermost granite support pilings. The boat exploded on impact. Its quarter-tank of fuel was plenty enough to set off a ball of fire that shot at least 500 feet into the rainy air. Witnesses later reported seeing it from as far as ten miles upriver. The explosion was felt by residents twice that far away.
“Call Amtrak,” Yolie ordered Toni. “Alert them that their bridge just took a major hit. They’ll have to shut down all of their trains between New York and Boston. I’ll call Homeland Security. They’ll probably be getting a hundred calls in the next sixty seconds from neighbors who think we just got attacked by Al Qaeda. Des, could you?…”
“On it.” Des got busy contacting the emergency marine responders who’d close off the river and deal with the burning wreckage.
The Deacon stood by quietly and observed. He did not interfere.
Tyrone, Jamella and Clarence could only huddle there together, hugging each other and sobbing.
“I’ll see you a little later,” Mitch said to Des somberly when she’d finished making her calls. He was profoundly shaken by what had happened. “I’m going to walk Winston home. The girls will be worried about him. And I want to check on my parents. The power was out when I left. I want to make sure they’re okay.”
“Tell them I’m sorry about dinner. We’ll try dinner some other night, okay?”
“Sure, I’ll tell them,” he said, his gaze fastened on the dock at their feet.
“You did good tonight.”
He looked up at her, his eyes searching hers. “Did I?”
“Hell, yes. You cracked the Plotka-Halperin killings wide open.”
“Des, I didn’t crack anything open. And now two more people are dead.”
“Calvin got what he deserved.”
“But Rondell didn’t. He was a nice guy. He didn’t deserve this.”
Des looked out at the flaming pieces of wreckage that were strewn across the oil-slicked water. Then she took his hand and squeezed it. “You’re absolutely right, he didn’t. Neither did Kinitra. Now you know why I sit up all night drawing portraits of victims until my fingers bleed.”
“No offense, but I wish I didn’t know these things.”
“So do I, boyfriend. Believe me, so do I.”
EPILOGUE
(TWO DAYS LATER)
The four violent deaths that occurred that stormy evening went 24/7 on the cable TV news channels, sports channels and Internet gossip sites. The public just couldn’t seem to get enough of the story. Not that the public actually knew the real story. Only the people who were actually there in Tyrone Grantham’s living room knew the real reason why Rondell shot Calvin. But they weren’t talking. And Kinitra certainly wasn’t. In fact, the name Kinitra Jameson was never so much as mentioned. The public only knew the version of the events that was fed to the media by Yolie-which was that Calvin had confessed to several Connecticut State Police officers, as well as members of his own family, that it was he who had murdered Stewart Plotka and Andrea Halperin. An enraged Rondell had shot Calvin and then taken his own life despite everyone’s best efforts to stop him.
The public wasn’t totally satisfied with this version. They wanted more. And got more. One authoritative cable TV talking head after another held forth in sonorous tones about what really happened. That Tyrone had really sent Calvin to White Sand Beach to scare Plotka and Halperin off and things got out of hand. Or that Calvin, who had a long criminal record, had really been taking money under the table from Andrea Halperin to feed her dirt on Tyrone and got found out. Or that straight-arrow Rondell, who really had a serious drug problem, had really brokered a settlement with Plotka without telling Tyrone. There was a ton of speculation, most of it outright fiction. Usually, the talking heads cited “friends close to the family,” which Des had learned from Mitch was reporter-speak for “ I’m totally making this shit up.” She already knew from her own personal experience that any time there was a violent family dispute involving black people, the media automatically assumed that drugs were involved.
No one had the real story. And that was as it should be, as far as Des was concerned. No one outside of the family needed to know that Kinitra’s own father had raped her and gotten her pregnant. It was no one else’s damned business. Kinitra’s privacy was being zealously protected by the family. And Yolie had made it very plain to anyone who’d come in contact with Kinitra at Middlesex Hospital or Shoreline Clinic that she’d land on them super-hard if they ever breathed a word about her. The Jewett sisters didn’t have to be told. They always kept their mouths shut.
The murder-suicide rampage was one more giant blot on Tyrone Grantham’s troubled reputation. Even though Tyrone wasn’t personally responsible, the NFL commissioner wasn’t happy. The events of that night brought just the sort of “unsavory” attention to the league that he’d warned Tyrone about when he suspended him. Consequently, it was no longer a sure thing that Da Beast would be back on the field next season. A lifetime ban from the league was a distinct possibility.
Not that Tyrone was thinking about his career just now. He’d returned to his hometown of Los Angeles to lay Rondell to rest in the cemetery where their grandparents were buried. Lay his soul to rest, that is. There were no earthly remains-Rondell’s casket was empty. But Tyrone wanted to give him a proper burial. Chantal and Clarence went out there with him, as did Monique. And more than a dozen of Tyrone’s teammates flew to L.A. for the funeral, which Des thought was very nice of them.
Jamella, who was entering her thirty-fourth week of pregnancy, stayed behind. Her blood pressure had gotten a bit high and her doctor didn’t want her to fly. Plus, she had Kinitra to take care of. And, after the Medical Examiner released the body, she had to arrange to have Calvin cremated. There was no funeral service. She and Kinitra simply stood together at the end of Tyrone’s dock and scattered their father’s ashes into the Connecticut River.
Jamella told Des this when Des dropped by the estate on Turkey Neck at her request. Actually, Kinitra’s request. “My sister has something to say to you,” was how Jamella put it to her on the phone.
It was a blustery, slate gray day, the temperature in the upper forties. Indian Summer was now officially over. And Des now had on her normal cold weather wool uniform and a Gore-Tex jacket. A skeleton crew of tabloid TV cameramen and paparazzi remained camped outside the estate.
It was moving day. Giant vans lined the long driveway. Justy Bond had won out. He was getting his precious neighborhood back, although the proud owner of Connecticut’s highest volume G.M. dealership could hardly be called a happy fellow. June had sailed off for the Florida Keys on the Calliope just as he’d promised he would-and taken Bonita with him, much to the giddy delight of the village gossip hens. Justy was devastated. He also needed to find himself a new Bond Girl. Callie Kreutzer had informed him that she did not intend to utter the words “Just Ask Justy” aloud on TV, or anywhere else, ever again for as long as she lived.
A dozen or more movers were busy loading the vans with furniture and boxes. The front door to the house was braced open. Des found Jamella standing in the living room gloomily watching a crew from the aquarium company perform the delicate task of transferring Tyrone’s precious sharks to temporary holding tanks and disassembling the giant tank, coral reefs and all.
“Taking them with you?”
“Moving them next door,” she answered softly. “Tyrone wants Mr. Lash to have them. A bunch of electricians are over there right now rewiring the whole downstairs. Tyrone told them to just put it on his tab.”