“Mitch, I’m really not up for this right now.”
“Up for what?”
“This. The whole touchy feely thing. It’s not me. So let’s just not.”
“If you say so, girlfriend.”
“I do say so, okay? Because I can’t. I-I really…” Then, with a shudder, she surrendered into his arms and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.
CHAPTER 12
Captain Richie Tedone of Internal Affairs lived in a vinyl-sided raised ranch in a charm-free development of nearly identical vinyl-sided raised ranches in the Hartford bedroom community of Glastonbury-better known to Des as Shoot Me Right Nowville. Cousin Rico lived in the neighborhood. Half of the Brass City boys did, having abandoned the crumbling brick remains of Waterbury years ago for greener ChemLawn pastures. A red Chevy pickup sat in Richie’s driveway next to a blue Dodge minivan. His slicktop was parked at the curb.
And Des was parked three houses down the street in her Saab, watching the place through the zoom lens of her Nikon D80. And waiting.
Richie was out in the driveway in a T-shirt and jeans, helping his little daughter learn to ride her tiny pink tricycle-pushing her along, yelling helpful encouragement to her as she pedaled around and around, laughing with delight. Richie’s plump, dark-haired wife was weeding a flower bed, their newest arrival dozing in a stroller next to her. Just a typical Sunday afternoon in Richie World, where life was beautiful and nobody tried to put the screws to anybody.
Des waited. It was warm in the car. She had a chilled bottle of water for company. And her brain pain. It bothered her how easily Mitch had blown by her defenses. She hadn’t said one single word about the Deacon. Yet Mitch knew from the second she got out of her car. How? Because he’s your soul mate, that’s how. It also bothered her that her father had purposely chosen to shut her out of his life. She was his only child. She cared about him. She loved him. How could he not tell her that he had a serious heart condition? Because he’s a stubborn butthead, that’s how.
There was some movement now Chez Tedone. The chesty lug nut was taking a call on his cell. Barking into it, one hand on his hip, ultra take charge. He flicked it off and went inside of the house. Came back out two minutes later with a gym bag. Heading out to hit the weights with a lifting buddy, it appeared. He kissed his wife good-bye, then hopped into the pickup, backed it out of the driveway and took off down the block.
Des waited until he was a safe distance away before she started up her Saab and went after him. She had good reason to. The man had smelled like a player to her. He’d sure leered at her like one in Captain Rundle’s office-which was why she’d asked to speak to Yolie back at Mitch’s house, girl to girl.
And here’s what Yolie told her about Captain Richie Tedone of Internal Affairs who, contrary to popular wisdom, she had not been romantically involved with back when he was single: “We worked cases together, period. He was plenty hot for this, but I was not about to give him any.”
“Why not, Yolie?”
“Wasn’t interested in picking up an STD, that’s why not. That man had seriously skeejie personal habits. No doubt still does, if that’s your next question. Guys like Richie don’t change their ways when they become family men. They just cheat on their wives.”
“You think his wife knows any of this?”
“No way. Those Brass City boys go out of their way to marry girls who are sheltered, naive and-wait for it-dumb. Real, the man has Mr. Sleazeball tattooed across his forehead. You’d have to be dumb to marry that.”
Mr. Sleazeball got onto Route 91, heading south in the direction of Middletown, which was where he’d turn off if he were heading to the headmaster’s house in Meriden. He drove fast. Pushed it up to eighty. Des kept right with him, staying two cars back.
He wasn’t heading to the headmaster’s house. He stayed on 91 south past Middletown, all the way down to New Haven, the city that was one part Yale University for the privileged and two parts ghetto for the not-so privileged. Most of those black, some Hispanic. Richie steered his pickup onto Whalley Avenue, which took him around the historic, beautiful campus and into a business district that turned rundown fast. Liquor stores, check-cashing stores, fried chicken joints. Most everything was closed on Sunday. A few idlers hung out on the sidewalk doing nothing good.
When he got near Edgewood Park he made a left onto a street of ratty old three-story wood frame houses that had been broken up into apartments years ago. His destination was the Edgewood Vista, a 1960s-era two-story cinder block apartment complex that had been erected around a parking lot. The downstairs apartments had entrances right off of the parking lot. And bars on their windows. Richie pulled in and parked. Des parked across the street and watched him get out. He had his own key to one of the units. He let himself in, closing the door behind him. Des rolled down her window, reached for her camera and zoomed in on the door. It was apartment C. There was an air-conditioner in one of the windows. The curtains were drawn. She snapped a couple of pictures, then sat and waited. A couple of boys went by her in the street, dribbling a basketball and talking trash. A shirtless middle-aged man with ink all over his arms and chest was working on a Coupe de Ville in his driveway, sweat gleaming off of him. He paused now and then to sip from a can of beer and check her out.
Forty-five minutes later the door to apartment C opened. Des zoomed in and began snapping away as Captain Richie Tedone of Internal Affairs stood there in the doorway playing grab ass with a lanky, barefoot young black girl in a purple silk robe. The girl didn’t want him to leave. Flung her body against his. They kissed and kissed. Couldn’t keep their hands off of each other. His started roaming inside of her robe right there in the doorway-until she shoved him away, laughing. Des snapped two dozen nice, clear close-ups of all of this before Richie’s girl finally shut the door on him. He swaggered back to his pickup, jumped in and roared his way out of there. Des ducked down so he couldn’t see her as he drove by. Then she sat back up and kept her camera trained on the door to apartment C.
Richie’s girl left twenty minutes later, teetering on sandals with four-inch stiletto heels-the better to show off her nice long legs and fancy purple toenails… Smile for the camera, honey… Her frilly pink minidress barely covered her butt. And that cascading canary yellow wig she had on looked about as real as spray-painted bubble wrap in the hazy summer sunlight. She was a skinny thing with broad shoulders and almost no hips. Des studied her through the zoom lens, frowning, as she unlocked the red BMW convertible parked outside of her unit and put the top down. Des snapped several close-ups of the license plate as the girl took off, leaving a trail of cheap perfume behind her.
Des promptly got out, locked the Saab and strolled across the street to the apartment complex’s main entrance. Most of the tenants’ names were scrawled on ragged pieces of masking tape over the mailboxes. On the mailbox for apartment C there was a powder blue note card with Eboni written on it in purple ink. The letter i was dotted with a little heart.
The building manager lived in apartment A behind a door that had a steel security grill. Des knocked. A mountainous black woman in polyester sweats opened it-unleashing all kinds of good smells from her kitchen. The TV was blaring in her living room. A half dozen little kids were sprawled there, transfixed by a cartoon.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” Des said politely, flashing her badge. “I wanted to ask you a couple of questions if you don’t mind.”
“Who’s in trouble now?” she demanded, instantly chilly.
“Nobody.” Des showed her a big smile. “Know what? Your place smells just like my grandma’s house. That’s sausage and biscuits you’re making, am I right?”
“Your people must be from the South, like mine,” the woman allowed, thawing slightly.