“From my workout. I really should have taken that shower.” Mitch sat back in his chair, sipping his latte. “I think you’re underestimating Beth. She strikes me as plenty savvy. But I’ll mention your concerns to Des. She can smell a shark from a mile off. Seriously, she’s like Robert Shaw in Jaws. There’s no need for you to worry about some schmuck moving in on Beth. It won’t happen.”
“That’s awesome, Berger,” he said gratefully. “Thanks.”
“No prob. Except now I have to ask you something weird. Because there’s something I still can’t figure out.”
“You want me to explain what I do for a living?”
“Oh, hell no. I’d never understand. This is about the Dorset Flasher.”
“The late Augie Donatelli, you mean.”
“Actually, they don’t know for sure that Augie was the Flasher.”
“Really? Stupid me, I just assumed. What do they know?”
“That the Flasher has been operating on the weekend. And that, by a strange twist of circumstance, you happen to visit Dorset every weekend.”
“Wait, are you asking me if I’m the Dorset Flasher?”
“No, absolutely not. But I do keep wondering if there’s some connection between your visits and his activities.” Mitch’s gaze locked onto Kenny’s. “Is there?”
“Very good question,” Kenny answered forthrightly. “I’ve been wondering about that myself. I solve analytical problems for a living, okay? That’s actually what I do. And ever since this nut started waving his meat up and down the block I’ve been thinking: Why does this always happen while I’m here?”
“And where has your thinking taken you?”
“Berger, I don’t have the slightest freaking idea.”
CHAPTER 10
Des showed up at the Troop F barracks in Westbrook right on time, only Captain Rundle wasn’t there. Which is not to say that her troop commander’s small, plainly furnished office was unoccupied. Captain Richie Tedone of Internal Affairs was standing at the window watching the traffic whiz by on Interstate 95.
Soave’s older cousin-and Yolie’s one-time flame-was a key Waterbury Mafia player. A ball buster who’d been positioned in Internal Affairs so as to weed out anyone and everyone who dared to challenge their hold on power. The Brass City boys, according to the Deacon, always made sure they had a designated thug like Richie in IA. He was a chesty lug nut in his late thirties with tight, curly black hair and a twenty-inch neck. He wore a cheap, shiny black suit and an air of tremendous self-importance. The man was way smug. Also way into looking Des up and down as she stood there in the office doorway, his eyes unbuttoning her uniform, helping her off with her shoes and socks. She hadn’t met a Brass City boy yet who didn’t have a chocolate fantasy.
“Unfortunate bit of business last night, Master Sergeant Mitry,” he said gruffly. “High profile, all over the TV news. Have a seat. We’ll talk about it.”
Des stayed in the doorway, on high alert. What in the hell was Richie Tedone doing here at nine o’clock on a Sunday morning? Why was IA even involved? “I thought I was here to see Captain Rundle.”
“He’ll be along. I just asked him to give us the room for a few minutes. Sit down.”
She didn’t budge. “If this is an IA inquiry then I’m entitled to representation.”
Richie sat behind Rundle’s desk, his stubby hands clasped before him. “It’s not an inquiry. No notes. No tape recorder. I’ve got nothing up my sleeve,” he assured her, waving his hands in the air like a second-rate magician. “I just want to have a conversation, okay?”
Des leaned against the door jamb, her arms crossed. “A conversation about…?”
“You,” he replied. “I’ve been keeping my eye on you, Master Sergeant. My cousin Rico claims you taught him everything he knows. He thinks you’re wasted down here in scenic Dorset.”
Des said nothing to that.
“Tell me, do you feel you’re doing an effective job as resident trooper?”
“I do, captain. And the crime statistics back me up. They’re among the lowest in the state, per capita.”
“And yet you’ve had another murder on your watch.” Another murder. “This time a highly decorated retired New York City police detective. Are you sure you’re cut out for this particular post? Given your advanced level of training and expertise, I mean.”
“Exactly where are you going with this, Captain? Because it’s starting to sound a whole lot like an employment counseling session.”
“Watch your lip.” Richie glared at her. “There are going to be some major, major departmental changes taking place in the very near future. And, whether you know it or not, you’re standing on a precipice. Your present predicament is-”
“Wait, what predicament are you-?”
“This is the part where I talk and you listen, okay? You had a physical altercation with the murder victim in front of several witnesses. That sort of ugly behavior will make it hard for you to remain in your current post. Damned near impossible, I’d say. Which is why you’re standing out on that precipice.” Again with the damned precipice. “The way I see it is you can go one of two ways. Either you move back up to Major Crimes or…”
“Or I’m out, is that what you’re telling me? Because that’s bull, Captain. I did nothing wrong. And the witness statements will back me up.”
“Hell, I know that,” Richie acknowledged easily, rocking back and forth in Rundle’s chair. “Rico keeps lobbying to get you back. Swears you’ve paid your dues for that unfortunate misstep of yours a while back.”
Meaning when she’d gone up against Superintendent Crowther. She’d been investigating a murder out on Big Sister Island. It had been her first visit to Big Sister. First encounter with a chubby widower from New York named Mitch Berger. The case led her smack-dab into the superintendent’s own tangled role in a murder investigation thirty years earlier. They tussled. She won, as in solved the case. But lost, as in she was lucky she still had a job after the dust settled.
“There’s always room for an effective team player on Major Crimes,” Richie went on. “What would you think about coming back to the headmaster’s house with the big people?”
“I’m happy right where I am, sir.” Des glanced down the hallway. “Is Captain Rundle around?”
“I’m not done yet!” he snarled.
Des raised her chin slightly, studying him. “What is this, Captain? Why are you really here?”
He let out a short laugh. “You trying to tell me you don’t know?”
“I’m not trying to tell you anything. I really don’t know.”
“Okay, fine. Play games if you want.”
“I’m not playing.”
Richie stared at her long and hard. “Who knows? Maybe you’re not. He is an awfully hard nut.”
“Who is?”
“The Deacon. Your da-da. Who’d you think we were talking about? Christ, for a smart girl you can be awful dumb. Anybody ever tell you that?”
Des drove her Saab up Route 9 alongside the Connecticut River in the direction of New Britain, the historic home of Stanley Tools. She was heading to Kensington, a working class suburb of the Hardware City. To the small, neat house where she grew up. She pulled into the driveway behind her father’s cruiser and got out, glad that she’d changed out of her uni into shorts. It was ten degrees warmer away from the shore. And a whole lot stickier.
Buck Mitry had just gotten home from church. Des knew this because he was still dressed up for church. Her father believed in being dressed up for church. He believed in quiet, dignified charcoal gray suits. Owned at least half a dozen of them. He believed in white shirts, muted ties and shined shoes.
The screen doors were open, front and back. He didn’t believe in air-conditioning. She could smell his coffee brewing in the kitchen. He drank at least ten piping hot cups a day, even in the swelter of August. Used to be a heavy smoker, too, but he’d quit as a twenty-fifth anniversary gift to her mom. In exchange, she’d left him for her high school sweetheart in Augusta, Georgia. He lived there by himself now. Unless you counted Cagney and Lacey, the two neutered strays Des had foisted on him.