“No, it’s not. You’re fifty-six years old, Daddy. You’ve still got a lot of good years left. Which is exactly what they’re afraid of-you being named superintendent. They’re afraid you’ll break up their little feifdom.”
“Can’t be done. Not by me anyhow.” He puffed out his cheeks, sighing gloomily. “There’s too many of them, Desiree. And they’re too strong. And I’m tired. I’ve been getting tired a lot lately.”
“You’ll feel better once you get your heart fixed.”
“That’s what the doctor said. I don’t know…”
“Well, your doctor does. And so do I,” she told him confidently, even though at that moment she could feel the whole world shifting underneath her feet. Her father had always been a tower of strength. Not once had she seen him give in to defeat. Not ever. This was a first. But it didn’t sadden her. Quite the contrary. It made her mad. Really mad.
It was never a good idea to make Des Mitry mad.
The Deacon’s cell phone rang.
He removed it from his belt and set it on the table, staring at its little screen. “Captain Richie Tedone-right on schedule.”
It rang five times before the Deacon’s voice mail took it. Then they sat there, staring down at their coffee mugs in silence.
“I want you to call him back after I leave,” Des said finally. “Tell him you’ll think it over. Let him think he’s got you boxed in, okay? Don’t show him your hand.”
“My hand?” He let out a humorless laugh. “What hand?”
She got up and put her mug in the sink. “Just leave that part to me.”
He looked at her suspiciously. “What are you up to, Desiree? What’s going on?”
“They just made a huge mistake, that’s what. They made this personal. And now they’re going to be incredibly sorry.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I’m going to make it personal, too.”
CHAPTER 11
Some guy was waiting there at the security barricade. Looked as if he had been for a while. He was sprawled out on the grass in the shadow of his motorcycle, which was a wicked vintage Norton Commando. When Mitch pulled up there in his Studey, the guy stirred and climbed to his feet, slinging a knapsack over one shoulder.
“Nice bike,” Mitch called to him through his open window. “Is that a ’67?”
“Sixty-eight,” he called back. “Inherited her from a friend. He started a family and decided it was time to part with his toys.”
“Lucky you.” Mitch used his coded plastic card to raise the barricade. “Are you waiting here for someone?”
“I’m waiting for you, dude,” he replied. “You’re Mitch, aren’t you? Sure you are. I’d know you anywhere. Although the last time I saw you, up close and personal, you had a scraggly beard and a Jewfro yay-high.”
Mitch studied this guy more closely. He was thirty or so. An unshaven rock and roller with a lot of wavy black hair, an earring and those soft brown eyes that women get jelly knees over. He was dressed in a sleeveless gray sweatshirt, torn jeans and black biker boots. He wasn’t particularly tall but he was in shape-his biceps and pecs rippled. He was also intensely hyper, nodding his head up and down to a beat that he alone could hear.
“I’ve kept track of you over the years, natch.”
“Natch?”
“And I’m a large fan of your work. It’s Very.”
“Very what?”
“Very, Very. It’s my name, dude. Detective Lieutenant Romaine Very.”
Mitch was still trying to figure out how they knew each other. He hadn’t worn his babe-repelling chin spinach for at least ten years. “You’re the Major Crime Squad guy who’s taking over for Rico Tedone?”
“Not exactly, dude. I’m not local. I’m from the two-four.” He fished his shield from the back pocket of his jeans. It was an NYPD shield. And the license plate on his Norton, Mitch now noticed, was a New York plate. “I was wondering if I could talk to you.”
“What about?”
“Augie Donatelli. I’m kind of Dawgie’s next of kin. The man had no family. Just me. He changed my diapers, metaphorically speaking. Broke me in when I was new on the job. He was a cop’s cop. The best.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, but what does this have to do with me?”
“I owe the man, okay? Have to make sure the state police out here do right by him. I’ve been trying all morning to find out what’s up with the investigation. I hear you folks have an ongoing situation with a weenie waver, but beyond that I can’t get squat.”
“Again, why are you talking to me?”
“Because the detective who’s running the show, a Sergeant Snipes, won’t return any of my calls. And the unis won’t let me within ten feet of Dawgie’s apartment until she green lights me. I’ve got information, okay? I’m in a position to help. Word is you’re tight with the resident trooper. Besides, you and me go back a few years.”
“You said that before. I’m still not placing you.”
“Really? I sat next to you all of the time in postmodern European lit.”
“You went to Columbia?”
“Try to get the incredulity out of your voice, will you? It’s insulting.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
“I was a year behind you. Majored in Romance languages-which did me beaucoup good. Wore my hair down to my shoulders in those days.”
“Hold on a sec…” Mitch shook a finger at him. “You’re the Jiggler.”
“The what?”
“Your knee. It used to jiggle all through class and drive everyone nuts. Sounded like there was a woodpecker in the room.”
“I had an energy situation, as in I had too much of it. Still do.”
“And how did you end up becoming a cop?”
“It was a family thing.”
“Your dad’s on the job?”
“Not really,” Very said, leaving it there.
“I’d like to help out, Lieutenant, but I really don’t know anything.”
“I’m down with that. I’m just asking you to listen. Can you do that?”
“Sure, I can do that. Come on out.”
Very jump-started his Norton with a roar and eased his way across the wooden causeway behind Mitch. When they reached the cottage he killed his engine and climbed off, glancing around. “Stabbin’ cabin, dude,” he observed, his head bobbing up and down, up and down. “If you have to be out of the City, I mean. Me, I get ootsie if I’m not standing on good, solid pavement.”
“I’m sorry, did you just say ootsie?”
“Why, you got a problem with ootsie?”
“No, no. It’s a fine word. How long are you planning to be here?”
“For as long as it takes. I took some vacation time.”
“Do you have a place to stay?”
“Figured I’d find a motel room somewhere.”
“On the Connecticut shoreline in August-without a reservation? Good luck with that.”
Inside of the cottage, Very made straight for Mitch’s sky blue Fender Stratocaster, which was propped against his monster pair of Fender twin reverb amps, stacked one atop the other with a signal splitter on top. “Ow, mommy-mommy! Awesome setup, dude.”
“I make some noise.”
“I’ll bet you do.” Now Very went over toward the table where Mitch’s computer sat amidst heaps of printouts, notepads and DVDs. “Mind if ask what you’re writing about this week?”
“Icebox questions.”
“Icebox… hunh?”
“It’s an expression coined by Hitchcock. His way of shrugging off really obvious lapses in logic or credibility. He believed that as long as the audience was loving the movie they wouldn’t care. Like, say, in The 39 Steps…”
“Never saw it.”
“You never saw The 39 Steps? You must. That scene with the finger totally slays. Anyway, Robert Donat and Madeleine Carroll have to spend the night handcuffed together in a room in a remote country inn, okay? And she’s convinced that he’s an escaped killer on the run. It’s really tense. Also pretty damned sexy for 1935. They’re actually lying on top of the bed together, okay? And she’s even removed her wet stockings. You’re totally into the scene. So into it that, in Hitchcock’s words, it isn’t until you get up for a glass of milk in the middle of the night and are standing there at your icebox that you ask yourself: ‘What did they do when one of them had to go to the bathroom?’ Just like with his famous crop duster scene in North by Northwest.”