The Blood Red Indian Summer

CHAPTER 8

“Sa-weet room! ”

“Real glad you like it, Pop.”

Mitch had made sure he booked Chet and Ruth into the Admiral Bramble room of the Frederick House, which had a canopy bed, a private bath with a claw-footed tub and a terrific view of the Lieutenant River. It was the same room that Mitch had stayed in when he’d first shown up in Dorset-highly reluctantly, if he remembered right-on a weekend getaway assignment for his newspaper’s travel section. He’d barely gone out of his apartment in those brutal months after Maisie died, let alone traveled anywhere. Lacy, his editor, had thought he needed a wake-up call. Lacy was very clever that way.

“It’s a charming room, sweetheart,” Ruth said brightly, gazing around at the antique furniture.

“Sa-weet!” Chet exclaimed.

His father would, Mitch felt certain, totally freak if he knew just how much sa-weet cost per night in Dorset. But Mitch had also made sure that his father would never see the tab.

“Get yourselves settled in, okay?” he suggested. “Come on back out to the island whenever you’re ready. We’ll have drinks and a bite to eat. It’ll be fun.” Was it his imagination or had his voice started changing back to his pre-Bar Mitzvah falsetto? He was definitely sporting two fresh zits on his forehead. But, hey, his parents were not making this easy for him. They were stubbornly refusing to spill one word about those “appointments” of theirs in the City. Chet had said they’d talk about it tonight and he’d meant it. The man had always been maddening as hell that way. “And I’m real sorry about this morning,” Mitch added. “Finding a half-dead girl on the beach isn’t really a typical way to start your day out here. Well, actually it is , come to think of it. But Dorset’s really a very nice place-once you get used to the fact that everyone’s a bit funny in the head.”

He left them there and piloted his Studey through the Big Branch Road shopping district toward The Works, his mind on that beautiful, terrified young girl whom they’d rescued on the beach. If they hadn’t stumbled upon Kinitra Jameson, she would be dead right now. Was that what she’d wanted? To do herself in? Des had phoned from the clinic with ample reason why. Someone had been brutalizing the poor girl up, down and sideways. And gotten her pregnant.

The Works was a European-style food hall located in what had once been a huge red-brick piano works on the banks of the Connecticut River. There were food stalls that sold locally grown produce and farm-fresh eggs. There was a coffee bar that stayed open until late at night. A juice bar that sold fruit smoothies. A butcher, a fishmonger, a deli counter, a kick-ass bakery. Out in the center of the food hall there were tables and chairs where people could hang out over a cup of coffee or meet for a sandwich.

Mitch’s first stop was the bakery, where he bought two dozen chocolate biscotti. One dozen was for tonight’s dessert, the other to devour right goddamned now. Next he intended to buy a slab o’ salmon to throw on the grill. Dinner was going to be real simple and healthy. The Deacon was on a heart-smart eating regimen. Chet was watching his cholesterol and blood pressure. And Des was on her trendy Connecticut Gold Coast Clenched Stomach Diet.

As he was crossing the food hall Mitch encountered Stewart Plotka seated at a table having lunch with his turbocharged power lawyer, Andrea Halperin. Plotka was plump, soft-shouldered and boneless. Gave the impression of being constructed entirely out of blubber. And that black eye patch of his really wasn’t working for him. Moshe Dayan the man wasn’t. His eye and hand injuries didn’t seem to be hurting his appetite. He was attacking a foot-long shrimp salad hero, potato chips and a chocolate milk shake. Andrea was nursing a black coffee.

“Mitchell Berger, am I right?” she said, showing him her nice white teeth. Andrea was in her late thirties and, unlike her client, lean and taut. Her pinstriped suit was impeccably tailored. Her white blouse was silk. Her pearls were real. She had chicly styled hair, full red lips and terrific legs. Quite a sexy package if you were partial to greedy, soulless predators. “Join us, won’t you please?”

“Sorry, I really have to get to work,” Mitch said as her client continued to devour his lunch like a feral four-year-old. The man was spraying shrimp, mayo and shredded lettuce everywhere.

Andrea reached over and dabbed at Plotka’s mouth with a napkin. Mitch wondered if they were sleeping together. He doubted it. Plotka wasn’t exactly in her league. “Just for a moment, Mitchell. It’s quite important.”

Reluctantly, he sat down with them.

She sipped her coffee and said, “I miss your reviews on television. You were the best thing about the midday news. Was it a contractual thing?”

“No, it was more of a self-image thing.”

“Are you sure? Because if it’s about money, I’m the girl who can get it for you. Just turn me loose.”

“I’m not a talking head, that’s all.”

“But you were so good at it. Funny, charming, even a bit sexy, if you don’t mind me saying so. A lot of my friends had crushes on you.”

“I’m happy doing what I’m doing. I didn’t like being on TV.”

She let out a laugh. “Who does?” Like any top-flight lawyer, NBA point guard or professional assassin, Andrea Halperin could pivot on a dime. “It’s merely a way to get what you want.”

“Like what?” Mitch asked.

“Like restitution,” Plotka answered around a mouthful of shrimp salad. “Take me for a sec, okay? I had a beautiful future with a beautiful girl all lined up. Now I’ve got squat. My Katie’s never been the same since Tyrone Grantham attacked her. She has crying jags like you wouldn’t believe. Plus her dumb-assed shrink got her so hooked on happy-happy pills that she had to go into rehab.” He paused to take a loud slurp of his shake. “When I saw Grantham at Dave amp; Buster’s that day I was just trying to explain it to him. I wanted him to understand what he’d done to my nice girl. A nursing student. An angel of mercy. He came at me like a wild animal. Now I have permanent retinal damage plus tendon and ligament damage in my wrist.”

“And what’s happened to Katie?”

“Katie is down in Boca Raton at the present time,” Andrea answered delicately. “Her mother isn’t well. Katie’s been taking care of her and trying to get her own life back together. She hasn’t had an easy time of it, emotionally or financially. Stewart is well aware of that. He fully intends to share the proceeds with her when we reach a financial settlement with Mr. Grantham. And we will reach a settlement.”

“Did she graduate from nursing school?”

“Katie hopes to resume her nursing studies very soon,” Andrea replied. “But her family obligations have made that impossible. She’s currently working as a dancer at a gentlemen’s club in Boca.”

Mitch blinked at her. “She’s a stripper?”

“It’s a perfectly respectable way for a single woman to earn a living, Mitchell. The club is very high-end. And just because Katie happens to be earning her living that way now doesn’t mean she was ‘asking for it’ three years ago from Tryone Grantham. In fact, I’m surprised you even went there.”

“I didn’t. You did. Still, I’m amazed that the tabloids aren’t all over it.”

“Don’t be. It’s cost me dearly to keep it under wraps. My favor bank is practically belly up.”

“So why tell me?”

“Because I want you to know that I’m being totally straight. I’ll never shade the truth with you, Mitchell. I won’t even try. The truth is I advised Katie against working there. I told her that in these sorts of cases appearances are crucial.”

“And what did she tell you?”

“I can’t repeat it. My mother told me to never use such words in public.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“That I don’t use naughty language in public?”

“That you had a mother.”

Andrea threw back her head and laughed. “You are so funny. We have to get you back on TV.”

Mitch looked over at Plotka. “And how do you earn your living now?”

“Well, I can’t work with computers anymore,” he answered bitterly. “I have a disability. Besides, I don’t have time. I’m too busy trying to get justice. It’s taking forever.”

“Justice requires patience,” Andrea lectured him. “Look how long it took to bring the Nazi war criminals to trial at Nuremberg.”

“Please don’t ever do that again,” Mitch said to her.

“Do what, Mitchell?”

“Mention the Holocaust and this case in the same breath.”

“Before that bastard came along,” Plotka said angrily, “Katie and me were planning a June wedding. I had a good job. I was putting down a deposit on a house in Mineola. Now look at me.”

“I’m trying to,” Mitch responded. “But it’s really hard. That eye patch is just so totally Pirates of the Caribbean. Seriously, all you need is a peg leg and a parrot on your shoulder. Can you say ‘Aaarggh?…’ Can you?”

“Shut the hell up,” Plotka growled at him.

“Andrea, you said this was important?…”

“Yes, it is. We need to talk about what really happened at the Grantham house last night.” She was all business now. “I’ve seen the video of the dust-up between cousin Clarence and that feeble old man. The whole world has. But the whole world doesn’t know why it happened. Or whether Tyrone Grantham was or was not in the middle of it. No one in the family is talking, naturally. And the resident trooper has written it off as a minor misunderstanding.”

“So?…”

“So a little birdie told me that you and she showed up at the front gate together.” Andrea arched a sculpted eyebrow at him. “It’s not exactly a secret around these parts that you two are friends with privileges. I thought you might speak to her on my behalf.”

“And say what?”

“That I’m someone who can help her if she’ll help me. All I’m asking for is a little cooperation.”

“You mean information.”

“I’ve done my homework, Mitchell. I know that Desiree Mitry wasn’t always a lowly resident trooper. A high-profile case such as this one could put her career right back on the fast track. The limelight has a way of doing that.”

“A bit of advice, counselor. That argument didn’t work when Robert Vaughn tried it on Steve McQueen in Bullitt and it won’t work now with you and Resident Trooper Mitry. Besides, you’re no Robert Vaughn.”

“Okay, I have no idea what you just said.”

“And you never will. How cool is that?”

“I need someone on the inside, Mitchell.”

“Sorry, I can’t help you.”

“You can’t or you won’t?”

“Okay, I won’t.”

“Fair enough,” she said easily. “But it might interest you to know that we intend to produce irrefutable evidence this afternoon.”

“Evidence of?…”

“Direct, intimate sexual contact between Katie O’Brien and Tyrone Grantham. We’ll be holding a press conference outside his gate in a short while. I’m timing it so that ESPN can make it their top story on NFL Live.” Andrea Halperin smiled at him savagely. “Stay tuned, Mitchell. This is about to get extremely down and dirty.”