“Don’t puff the boy up, Bella,” Des warned her. “He’ll become a total pain.”
“As if,” Bella sniffed.
Now Des turned her gaze out at the Sound, her mind on the job. “When things wash up out here, where do they usually come from?” she asked Mitch.
“Off boats, mostly. I pick up all kinds of garbage. You wouldn’t believe what pigs people are.”
“Oh, yes, I would,” Bella said with withering disapproval.
“Who’s still going out?”
“The yachters have pretty much packed it in for the season. I still see a few Boston Whalers-guys fishing or checking their lobster pots. That’s about it.” Mitch pointed westward to the tidal estuaries where the Connecticut River emptied into the Sound. “Upriver’s also a good bet. The current brings stuff down. I’ve found dead animals beached out here lots of times.”
“What kind of animals?”
“Deer, raccoons… I had a coyote a few weeks ago.”
She glanced eastward in the direction of Dorset’s rugged coastline. “Does stuff float out here from the town beaches?”
“The tide has to be going out,” Mitch said. “And you need a north wind. But, yeah, it happens.”
“What’s the tide doing right now?”
“It’s coming in.”
“What about last night?”
“Same story.”
Des considered this, her mind weighing the possibilities. So many possibilities. Could be that Melanie’s body had been dumped upriver and drifted down on the current. Could be it washed out to sea from a town beach early that morning, when the tide was going out, and now had made its way back on the incoming tide. Could be her killer took her out on a boat last night and dumped her. The Coast Guard would be able to narrow it down somewhat by computing how far Melanie could have floated based on the tide and wind direction. Likewise the speed of the river’s current. And the medical examiner could estimate how long she had been dead based on her body temperature, the water temperature, and state of decomposition. Sure, they’d be able to narrow it down. But as of right now, where and when Melanie Zide had been killed was wide open.
In fact, there was almost nothing that Des knew for sure-except that Melanie had been right to be afraid.
“Where are you at, Lieutenant?” the Deacon was asking Soave, his manner icy and exacting. There wasn’t a young officer in the state who didn’t quake under his questioning.
“Sir, she was dead when she hit the water,” Soave answered miserably. Melanie’s death blew a huge hole in the scenario he’d been working. “I’m guessing she’s been dead since-”
“I don’t want your guesses, son,” the Deacon said sharply. “I have no use for guesses. I’m only interested in what you know.”
Soave cleared his throat, chastened. “Okay, what I know is…” One knee started to jiggle nervously. “I know we’ve been holding a man for questioning on the Mary Susan Frye homicide and…”
And, despite Des’s warnings not to commit himself too soon, Soave had boasted all about it on television and now his career was passing right before his eyes. Because his case against Jim was in shreds-Jim had had a twenty-four-hour baby-sitter on him for the past two days. He couldn’t have shot Melanie. Not unless he’d somehow managed to slip out on his guard undetected, which was highly unlikely. Meaning that Jim was an innocent man. Unless, that is, these two small-town murders were completely unrelated. Which was even more unlikely.
“I repeat, Lieutenant,” the Deacon said, scowling, “Where… are… you… at?”
“Back to square one,” Soave conceded, smoothing his see-through mustache. “I’ll reach out immediately to Captain Battaglio for more manpower. And I’d also like to employ Resident Trooper Mitry’s services until we can clear this up. She knows the principals and, as you know, has Major Crimes experience.”
“Mind you, I would not have suggested that to you,” the Deacon said in response. “But since you’ve raised the idea, I would call it sound, mature thinking. What about this man you’re holding, Bolan?”
“We’ll have to take a good hard look at releasing him in the morning.”
Right now, there were press vans waiting on the other end of the causeway and Soave had to deal with them. He had to give the cameras something, anything for the eleven-o’clock news. And he had nothing-not even Melanie’s name. Tommy was still trying to locate a legally competent next of kin. Her mother’s nursing home did have an address for Melanie’s brother up in Portland, Maine, but until Tommy could track him down, they could not release her name.
Soave kept glancing hopefully at the Deacon as the three of them strode across the wooden causeway to the cameras. Des could tell he was praying that the Deacon, as senior officer on the scene, would want to step up to the mike-thereby letting him off the hook. But she knew better. Her father was never one to make an officer’s job any easier. This was Soave’s case, in good times and bad, and either he could deal or he couldn’t.
So it was Soave who had to stand before those bright lights, blinking, and say, “At the present time we don’t know how or if this death relates to the Mary Susan Frye murder investigation. We are presently gathering evidence, and we are extremely confident we will have a suspect in custody shortly.”
Which was official police-speak for: Help me, I’ve fallen and I can’t get back up!
Afterward, he sidled over to Des, ducking his head glumly. “I guess you’re feeling pretty good about things now.”
“If you think that, Rico, then you don’t know me at all.”
“I don’t think that,” Soave insisted, sneaking a peek over at the Deacon, who stood at the railing looking out at the water, his broad back to them. “I really don’t. I’m just… I just…” He broke off, his breathing becoming shallow and rapid. Soon, she thought he might need to stick his head in a paper bag. “Des, I sure could use your help on this.”
“Just tell me what I can do.”
“I want to get some unis canvassing right away. I thought I’d have them try the town beaches for starters. But if you have any other ideas…”
“I’d check out the Dorset Marina,” she offered. “See who took their boat out last night. Based on the way the tides are running, her body might have been dumped at sea. Or it might have drifted downriver. Better check the river moorings-there’s Dunn’s Cove Marina, North Cove, the Essex Yacht Club, Millington Boat Basin. There’s also a car ferry at Millington.”
Soave was writing this down. “Okay, good. Anything else?”
“Did you nail down the identity of Colin Falconer’s online lover yet?”
“Who, Cutter? Not yet.” Soave peered at her, intrigued. “What’s that got to do with this?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.”
“Okay, sure. We’ll call the Internet provider’s security people right away.”
“I’d like to re-canvass a couple of people on my own,” Des added. “I might be able to eliminate some things.”
“What things?” Soave demanded.
“I’ll keep you informed,” she assured him.
“See that you do,” he growled officiously. Then he started back across the causeway to the crime scene, arms held stiffly out from his sides in the classic bodybuilder’s strut.
She stayed behind with the Deacon. “Sorry about your party, Daddy.”
“Not to worry, girl. We’ll do it another night.”
She lingered there, waiting for him to say something else, anything else. Nothing. Not a word. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you,” she said finally.
“That you will, Desiree. Oh, by the way…” He flashed her a quick smile. “Your friend is all right.”
Your friend is all right?
Just exactly what in the hell did he mean by that? Des dissected it, fuming, as she steered her cruiser toward Griswold Avenue. By “friend,” did he mean Mitch was a trivial, unsubstantial plaything, a toy, as opposed to a substantial individual suitable for a serious relationship? Or had he just not known what else to call him? And what did he mean by “all right”? All right as in so-so, fair to middling, better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick? Or all right as in totally, one-hundred percent… righteous? God, that man could be so cryptic sometimes, so vague, so…