“And you know this because?…”
“It kept revving and revving before it shifted into second with a real lurch. I smelled burnt rubber, too.”
Des didn’t bother to tell him they’d already located Tommy’s Trans Am. Just nodded and said, “A beat-up old black Trans Am with a bad tranny. Got it.”
“His Trans Am is toast, you know. When that tranny goes it’ll cost more to replace it than the whole car’s worth.”
She stared at him in disbelief, her pulse quickening. “I swear, sometimes you terrify me. You’ve got frostbite and a possible concussion.…”
“Definite concussion,” Dr. Cindie interjected.
“And yet you did it again.”
He frowned at her, his gaze slightly out of focus. “Did what?”
“Cracked my case.”
“I think I cracked a tooth. They were chattering so hard.”
“I’ll have a look at it in a second,” Dr. Cindie promised him.
Des bent down and kissed him. “I have to leave you for a little while. I’ll be back soon, okay?”
He didn’t answer her. Couldn’t. He was unconscious again.
The house was dark except for one light on inside. The porch light was out. Des rang the bell and stood there in the dark for a long time before she finally heard footsteps and the front door swung slowly open.
“Yes, what is it?” She peered out at Des from the darkened front hallway.
“I’m sorry to bother you again, Paulette, but I have more news for you. May I came in?”
Paulette stood there in taut silence for a moment before ushering Des inside, turning on lights as she led Des to the TV room, where Dr. Phil was in the process of stampeding his lame self into someone’s life. Des had always wondered who watched Dr. Phil. Now she knew. Dorset’s postmaster was still hard at work on the Carlo Rossi Chablis, a fresh gallon jug that was nearly full. The ashtray next to her recliner was crammed with cigarette butts.
“I seem to have lost track of time.” Paulette muted the TV as she slumped into her chair. “My phone rang a couple of times a while ago but I didn’t feel like answering it.”
“Paulette, have you eaten anything today?”
“I may have,” she answered vaguely, her eyes searching Des’s face. “What do you want to tell me?”
“This will be hard to take right on top of Hank’s loss but I’m sorry to say that we’ve just found Casey dead.”
The color drained from Paulette’s face. “Dead…” Her voice was a whisper. “What did … How did it happen?”
“He was stabbed to death at the Yankee Doodle Motor Court. We subsequently obtained information that his body had been left out on the beach at Breezy Point. We just found him there.”
“Oh, lord…” Paulette reached for a Merit and lit it with a disposable lighter, her hand trembling. “Who would do such a thing?”
“Tommy Stratton. We have him in custody.”
She shook her head, bewildered. “Why would he want to hurt Casey?”
“He claims that Casey’s been supplying him with prescription meds, cash and whatever else he could steal from Hank’s route. That Casey was our grinch.”
“And you believe him? That’s absurd. Hank was the grinch. You and I both know that.”
“Do we?”
“He confessed to it last night, didn’t he? I saw his confession with my own two eyes. He texted it to me before he killed himself.”
“He didn’t, actually,” Des said. “Kill himself, I mean. We were waiting for all of the forensics results to come back before we had this conversation with you but we believe that Hank was murdered last night-by a pair of killers who staged it to look like a suicide.”
“But he apologized to me. Sent me that text message.”
“Hank didn’t send it to you. His killers did.”
Paulette heaved a sigh of exasperation. “Des, I don’t understand what you’re saying. Why would anyone want to murder Hank?”
“Because he’d discovered what was really going on. He even told me so at the Post Office. Only I was too dense to grasp it.”
“Told you what?”
“That Casey was in a deep hole. I thought he meant a psychological hole. He meant a financial hole-a huge gambling debt. Hank knew the real deal. That’s why he was killed. The only thing we haven’t been able to nail down is the identity of Casey’s partner.”
Paulette furrowed her brow. “I thought you just said Tommy the Pinhead was his partner.”
“No, Tommy worked for the loan shark who Casey owed the money to. Someone else was helping Casey steal all of that stuff from Hank’s route. The same someone else who helped him stage Hank’s suicide scene last night. Someone who’s careful and shrewd. I don’t mean to cast aspersions on Casey but he was more of a follower than a leader, wouldn’t you say?”
“Well, yes. I suppose that he was a…” The doorbell interrupted her. “I wonder who that is.”
“I’m expecting company. Hope you don’t mind.” Des went to the front door and opened it. Grisky, Questa and The Aardvark were clustered out on Paulette’s front porch in the frosty cold, all three of them peering at her with mystified expressions. “Come on in, gentlemen.”
They came on in, Grisky’s eyes swiveling to take in the surroundings. “Shmokin’ hot train set,” he observed. “But what is up with all of those tubas?”
“Please follow me,” Des said, leading them back to the TV room, where Paulette sat, grief-stricken, staring at Dr. Phil on the muted flat-screen. “I’ve just informed Paulette that we found Casey. I was filling her in on what happened as best as I could.”
Grisky nodded grimly. “Terrible situation.”
“We’re sorry for your loss,” Questa said. “This must be an impossibly hard day for you.”
“Thank you,” Paulette said softly.
“If it’s any consolation,” Grisky said, “I can assure you that Lieutenant Snipes has both suspects in state police custody.”
Paulette looked at him curiously. “Both suspects?”
“Tommy had a helper,” Des explained. “Gigi Garanski.”
Paulette made a face. “I knew she was no good. I told him and I told him. But he wouldn’t listen. He just wouldn’t…” She trailed off with a sigh. “May I offer you coffee or something?”
“No, we’re good,” The Aardvark told her.
Then he and the other two men stood there waiting for Des to explain why she’d summoned them.
“I was telling Paulette that we don’t believe Hank committed suicide. Or that he was stealing his own mail. Hank was just an innocent bystander to this ugly mess. But he knew too much. He knew that Casey had a gambling problem. He knew that Casey owed Slick Rick Fontanella a lot of money. And he knew that to pay Slick Rick off Casey had resorted to stealing his mail. We’re positive that Casey was our grinch. But we don’t believe he acted alone. It’s simply not credible that Casey figured out a way to raid all of the mailboxes in the Historic District in broad daylight over a period of two weeks without ever being noticed. Casey was a part-time employee. He worked on Saturdays, period. And Inspector Questa has assured us that the Dorset branch of the U.S. Postal Service is a secure, well-run branch. Am I correct so far, Inspector?”
Questa nodded his huge head. “Correct. Casey Zander couldn’t have pulled this off on his own. We have too many security measures in place.”
Paulette stubbed out her cigarette, considering this carefully. “Then how could he have done it?”
“I’ve been giving that a lot of thought,” Des replied. “In my opinion the best way to steal Hank’s mail would be by pulling up a few minutes behind him in a second mail truck. Who better to steal the mail than another mail carrier? It would never occur to a resident or passerby that the second carrier was removing the mail as opposed to delivering it. Nor would they think twice if they noticed a second truck pulling up just after Hank went by. They’d just figure that you folks had so much volume during the holidays that you had to add an extra carrier.”