The Blood Red Indian Summer

CHAPTER 5

When her cell rang she snatched it off the nightstand and said, “This is Resident Trooper Mitry.” It was nearly ten-thirty, according to her watch.

“Young lady, you need to get over here right now,” a familiar male voice thundered at her.

“What seems to be the problem, Mr. Bond?”

“He has an out-of-control dance party or rave or whatever they call it going on over there. Hundreds of them are swarming the neighborhood…” Them. “They’re screaming like banshees and-and playing their thug music so loud it’s shaking my whole house. I demand that you do something.”

“I’ll be right over.”

Des had just swung her size twelve-and-half AA bare feet to the floor when her cell rang again. This time it was the 911 dispatcher. A call had just come in from Mr. Rondell Grantham requesting an ambulance to treat the victim of an “incident” at the Grantham residence. Little brother hadn’t asked for state police assistance but it was automatic for Des to be called. She hurried down the stairs for her uniform and discovered Mitch throwing on a T-shirt and shorts. “You going somewhere, boyfriend?”

“Winston has wandered off again. The Joshua sisters are afraid he may have headed over to Tyrone Grantham’s.” He watched her jump into her uniform. “And you?”

“They’re having a party. And there’s been an incident of some kind.”

Mitch frowned at her. “Des, you don’t suppose?…”

“I don’t suppose anything yet.” She was fully dressed in less than two minutes. Her West Point training. “But you’ll never get in the gate on your own. I’m flooring it there. Can you keep up with me?”

“You betcha. Mind you, if I had a brand new Silverado with the 360-horsepower Vortec-”

“Mitch, you don’t need a new a truck.”

“Be right behind you, Master Sergeant.”

She went outside to her cruiser, jumped in and pushed it across the rickety causeway. Mitch stayed right behind her on the dirt road that twisted through the Nature Preserve, but once she made it onto the smooth pavement of Old Shore Road and floored it, he fell back a bit, his vintage sepia-toned headlights growing weaker in her rearview mirror. When she turned onto Turkey Neck and ran into the hot mess there, he caught up with her again.

Dozens and dozens of parked cars were crowded onto shoulders of the narrow road. Des spotted plenty of New York license plates, not to mention New Jersey and Rhode Island. Partiers were coming and going on foot right down the middle of the street. Boisterous groups of young guys, joshing and laughing. Couples walking hand in hand. All of them black. Them. She had to hit her siren to get through, Mitch snug on her tail. The media mob, when she managed to get near the Grantham place, seemed even bigger than before. The bright lights of the news cameras lit up the driveway out front like a red carpet movie premiere. People were lined up at the gate trying to get in. Big, impassive Trooper Olsen was turning them away.

“Hey, Des,” he said when she pulled up at the gate. “The Jewett girls got here two seconds ago.” Marge and Mary Jewett ran Dorset’s volunteer ambulance service.

“What happened, Oly?”

“Fist fight between a couple of partiers, I hear. I was just on my way back to check it out.”

“You can stay here. I’m on it.”

“It was supposed to be a small party, Des. Clarence had a very short guest list. He left the father-in-law, Calvin, up here to make sure no one else slipped in. Because I told him flat out-I’m a state trooper, not your doorman. Well, you know how it goes with parties. Word gets out and everyone just starts showing up. Good old Calvin let in pretty much anyone who had a pretty girl with him. I’ve got it on lockdown now.”

Des looked around at the media crowd. “Any sign of Plotka?”

“Him I haven’t seen, thank God.”

She jerked a thumb back in Mitch’s direction. “He’s with me.”

She eased down the gravel driveway with Mitch on her tail and pulled up behind the Dorset volunteer ambulance van, hearing the music loud and clear. Jay-Z and Alicia Keys were singing “Empire State of Mind.” Not exactly her idea of “thug” music but what did she know? Mitch pulled up behind her and got out.

“If Winston’s here, you hustle him home and don’t look back,” she said briskly as they started around the house toward the pool. “Just clear out, got it?”

“Got it.”

At least a hundred partiers were enjoying the warm night air, the swimming pool and each other. They were dancing to the music. Splashing around in the water in their bathing suits. Shrieking, laughing, having a great time. And why not? They were kicking it at the mansion of an NFL superstar. There was a long table loaded with food, an open bar and more than a trace of reefer smoke in the air. A DJ was working the music. Lights were on inside the house, upstairs and down, but the party seemed to be confined to the outdoors.

Des didn’t spot either of the Grantham brothers or Jameson sisters. She did see Calvin floating in the pool on an inflatable chaise, his man boobs sagging, beer gut hanging out. Des could have gone her whole life without seeing Calvin Jameson in swim trunks. She went directly to the DJ and ran a finger across her throat. He cut the music at once. A chorus of boos met the silence until the partiers noticed her uniform. Then they fell silent, too.

The Jewett sisters were crouched over a lounge chair by the pool house with a cluster of guests gathered around them. It was Winston Lash who Marge and Mary were attending to. The old fellow was stretched out there, in a pair of striped PJs and bedroom slippers, bleeding from his nose and mouth. Marge was packing his nostrils with gauze while Mary pressed an ice pack against his upper lip and blood-soaked handlebar moustache.

Standing nearby, sobbing and carrying on, was a deeply upset twenty-something sister who was wearing a gold string bikini and a lot of exotic war paint. She was amply built. Her full breasts and even fuller booty were pretty much exploding out of that little bikini.

Clarence was standing there, too, seething with anger. Two burly young guys were trying to settle him down. At least half a dozen partiers had whipped out their cell phones and were sending streaming video of it all to their friends.

“Evening, girls,” Des said to Marge and Mary, ultra-mindful of the camera phones. Bystanders routinely produced them at crime scenes these days and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it-other than go about her business the right way. “How’s Mr. Lash?”

“He’s responsive, which is good,” Marge answered.

“What the hell happened to him?” Mitch wanted to know.

“He got punched in the face by that giant over there,” Mary said, meaning Clarence. “The back of Winston’s head hit the pavement pretty hard but he never lost consciousness, according to the witnesses. His pupils are reactive to light. He’s not complaining of dizziness or ringing in his ears or nausea. Mind you, he’s normally a tad confused due to his dementia but we don’t believe he suffered a concussion. Just a bloody nose and a cut lip.”

“What’s your name?” Des asked the girl in the bikini.

“Asia,” she responded, sniffling.

“Your full name, please.”

“What you be needing my full name for?”

“If I’m going to file an incident report then I have to have your name, your address…”

“Why you be needing to file an incident report?” Asia turned plaintively to Clarence. “Why she be needing to file a-?”

“Why don’t you just tell me what happened,” Des said to her patiently.

Before Asia could do that, Rondell came rushing across the pool area toward them, looking like a middle-aged businessman in his button-down shirt and tailored slacks. The first thing little brother did was plead with everyone to put away their phones. They grudgingly complied. Then he approached Des, forcing an uneasy smile onto his face. “I appreciate you attending to this matter personally, Trooper Mitry.”

“Actually, I’m responding to a neighbor’s complaint about your music.”

“I apologize for that. Didn’t realize it was so loud. As you can see, there has been an unfortunate altercation of a physical nature. It is my hope that we can alleviate this situation with a minimum of public blowback.”

“That all depends on what happened, Rondell. Where’s your brother?”

“Tyrone doesn’t care for parties anymore. He’s been upstairs in the master suite all evening watching a movie with Jamella.”

“Which movie?” Mitch inquired.

“I’m not sure.” Rondell frowned at him. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, was it an action picture or a chick flick or-?”

“Excuse me, who are you?”

“He’s with me,” Des said. “Mitch?…”

“Sorry, my bad. Go ahead.”

“Jamella happens to be seven months pregnant, as you know. She doesn’t care for parties either. And Kinitra never hangs around with this sort. Nor do I.” Rondell glanced around at the crowd with keen-eyed disapproval. “I’ve been crunching numbers in my office. Kinitra’s been working on a new composition on her piano.”

“If all of you hate parties what are these people doing here?”

“Clarence invited them. It’s his party. My brother’s not even around, as you can see for yourself.”

“It’s Tyrone’s house, Rondell. That makes it his party.”

Rondell moved closer to her, lowering his voice. “Is there any way you can square this with the media?”

“That’s not my concern right now. Just give me some breathing room, okay?” Des turned her attention back to Asia. “Tell me what happened.”

“I was just…” Asia trailed off, fanning her face with her fingers to calm herself. Her nails were at least an inch long and painted purple and white. “I-I was dancing with Clarence. And that filthy old man, he came over to me and he-he…”

“He bit her on the booty!” Clarence blurted out. “That crazy man got down on his hands and knees and he bit her like some kind of a-a animal. So I let him have it.”

Des shook her head. “You’re telling me that big bad you punched out a seventy-two-year-old dementia patient?”

“He attacked my girl,” Clarence said defensively. “He’s some kind of sex offender.”

“He has a medical condition,” Mitch said.

“Medical condition my ass!” Clarence huffed.

“No, my ass!” Asia sobbed. “Will I need to get, like, a shot?”

“Here, hon, let me see…” Madge knelt behind her to examine her butt cheek. “No, he didn’t break the skin. It doesn’t even show. You’re fine.”

Mary had Winston up on his feet now and was walking him around.

“How did he get in?” Des wondered. “The estate’s fenced all the way around. There’s a trooper on the gate. How did he just waltz in here in his PJs?”

“I couldn’t say,” Rondell answered. “But I assure you we will undertake a thorough security review first thing in the morning.”

Des heard hushed, reverent oohs and ahhs now as Tyrone Grantham made his way through the crowd toward them, ignoring the partiers one and all. He showed no interest in the pretty girls in their bikinis. Or in the guys who were patting him on the back and capturing live footage of him with their phones. Only in the altercation. His hooded eyes flicked from Des over to Winston, then to the Jewett girls, Clarence and Asia before they returned to Des. “Who’s the old man?” he asked her in a low voice. “And why is he bleeding?”

“He’s Winston Lash, your next door neighbor. Clarence punched him.”

Tyrone grimaced. “Why you be wanting to do that, Cee?”

“He tried to bite my girl Asia here,” Clarence explained.

“Winston doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Mitch spoke up. “He has a medical condition.”

Tyrone narrowed his gaze at Mitch before he turned back to Clarence and said, “I told you to keep it low profile. I also told you to collect their phones at the door. Don’t you get what’ll happen now? This’ll go viral.” He looked around at all of the partiers. “And you said a few friends.”

“That’s all I invited, I swear,” Clarence insisted. “A dozen folks. It was Calvin who let all of these others in. I left him on the gate with the guest list.”

“Yeah, that was a real smart play.” Tyrone’s eyes located his father-in-law, who was chatting up a pair of tipsy young babes as he floated there in the pool. “We’ll talk about this later, Cee.”

“I swear I didn’t invite all of these people.”

“And I said we’ll talk about it later.” Tyrone looked at Mitch again. “What sort of a medical condition?”

“He has frontotemporal dementia. It’s a degenerative disease of the frontal lobe of the brain that causes him to do sexually inappropriate things. He doesn’t know he’s doing them.”

“Are you his doctor?”

“No, I’m a movie critic.”

“Mitch is with me,” Des explained.

Tyrone thawed slightly. “Oh, sure, you’re Mitch Berger. Glad to know you, man.” He stuck out a gigantic fist and held it there until Mitch bumped knucks with him. “I saw you on TV a while back dumping all over the new James Cameron movie.”

“Yeah, that sounds like me.”

“I didn’t agree but I admire your passion.” Tyrone stared at Winston intently. “I’ve got no beef with any man who has dementia. I’ve met retired players who had their bell rung so many times they barely know their own names. Can’t drive a car. Can’t feed their families. Breaks my heart.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You say he lives next door?”

Mitch pointed toward the Joshua place. “Right over there.”

“How’d he get in here?”

“We’ll endeavor to ascertain that in the morning,” Rondell promised.

Tyrone moved over toward Winston, who was seated in a chair now holding the ice pack to his mouth. “I want to apologize for what happened, sir. It was an unfortunate misunderstanding. I’m Tyrone Grantham, your new neighbor.”

Winston removed the icepack and said, “My, you’re a big one, aren’t you?”

“Big enough. Can I help you get home or maybe send for someone?”

“That would be me,” Mitch said.

“He’s a friend of yours?”

“Yes, he is.”

Winston noticed Mitch standing there and waved to him. “Hey, Brubaker, is this a party or is this a party?”

Mitch gave him two thumbs up. “Winston lives with his late wife’s two sisters,” he told Tyrone. “They’re having a hard time of it. I make deliveries three times a week from the Food Pantry.”

Tyrone’s eyes widened. “Real?”

“Real.”

“I thought this was a rich town.”

“You thought wrong.”

“Man, you push right back, don’t you? You’re all right. Figured you would be. Otherwise our resident trooper wouldn’t be wasting her time on you.” Tyrone turned to his little brother and said, “Ask Moms to pay a call on them tomorrow, okay? Maybe take them a mess of her fried chicken and potato salad. Tell her to make a whole lot. And you are going over there with her,” he informed Clarence. “Those ladies need anything done-a light bulb changed, brush cleared, carpet vacuumed-you’re doing it for them, hear?”

“I don’t vacuum carpets,” Clarence said indignantly.

“Yeah, you do,” Tyrone assured him.

“Okay, whatever,” he conceded. “But we still got us a situation here. This old man sexually assaulted Asia. He should be arrested.”

“What do you think about that?” Tyrone asked Des.

“We can go that route. But if I charge Mr. Lash then I’ll have to charge Clarence, too.”

“With what?” Clarence demanded.

“You criminally assaulted him.”

“I was defending my girl!”

“You cold-cocked a helpless old man, Clarence,” Des pointed out. “And if you pursue this, you will get the attention of the media-especially given your criminal record.”

Clarence’s eyes widened. “How do you know about that?”

“It’s my business to know.”

“Maybe you ought to let it slide, Cee,” Tyrone suggested.

“No maybe about it,” Rondell put in firmly. “We do not need more negative attention.”

Des said, “Actually, it’s not up to you gentlemen to decide. Asia is the alleged victim here.”

“That’s right, girl,” Asia said, nodding her head up and down. “And there ain’t no ‘alleged’ about it. He bit me.”

“Do you wish to file a criminal assault charge against him?”

Asia hesitated, peering over at Winston. “My grandmoms has Alzheimer’s. She don’t even know where she is half the time. I don’t want to break bad with some sick old man. That’s just wrong. Can we forget the whole thing?”

“Yes, we can. We’ll call it a minor disagreement. Clarence, if you and Mr. Lash will shake hands on it, I’ll be on my way.”

“I’m not shaking that pervert’s hand,” Clarence grumbled.

“Yeah, you are,” Tyrone assured him.

Reluctantly, Clarence went over to Winston. “Hey, I’m sorry, awright?”

Winston grinned up at him. “My, you’re a tall one, aren’t you?”

“Just shake my damned hand, will you, old man?”

The two of them shook hands.

Des asked the Jewett girls if Winston was okay to go home now.

“He’s fine,” Marge said.

“I’ll take it from here,” Mitch said, starting toward him.

“Anything else we can do for you, Trooper Mitry?” Tyrone asked.

“Yes, there is.” Des glanced at her watch. “While we were standing here having all of this fun, the clock just ran out. Pull the plug for me, will you? This party is history.”