The Snow White Christmas Cookie

CHAPTER 13

The world-class pissing contest-more commonly known as a team meeting-was held in the auxiliary conference room of Dorset’s Town Hall, a stately white-columned edifice that smelled all year round of mothballs, musty carpeting and Ben-Gay. Everyone was there at nine o’clock sharp with the noticeable exception of the agent from the FBI, who Des had no doubt would start throwing his weight around as soon as he walked in. The bureau was incredibly dependable that way.

Four members of the Connecticut State Police were in attendance: Des, Yolie, Toni and Capt. Joey Amalfitano, a rumpled old-timer who was with the Narcotics Task Force. Des had worked a drug case with Amalfitano on Sour Cherry Lane last spring. Everyone called him The Aardvark due to his huge, down-turned snout of a nose. Des thought of him more as a weasel.

The U.S. Postal Service had sent Inspector Sam Questa from New York City. Questa was in his late forties and bore a startling resemblance to Fred Flintstone. His huge, blunt featured head was set directly atop a massive torso with almost a complete absence of anything resembling a neck. Seated there at the conference table, Questa gave the impression of being a large man. Yet Des doubted he stood much taller than five-feet-four. He had the stubbiest little arms and legs she’d ever seen. She could not imagine how the man found clothing to fit him. He wore a plain gray suit, white shirt and muted tie. Kept his gleaming black hair combed carefully in place, but didn’t do nearly as good a job of keeping his emotions in check. He glanced repeatedly at his watch, growing more and more pissed as the minutes ticked by. The man didn’t like to be kept waiting by the FBI. The man was feeling disrespected.

And, at precisely 9:17, the man decided he’d had enough. “What do you say we get started here?” he growled. “I got a full plate and I can’t sit around all morning waiting for the goddamned bureau to grace us with its presence.”

“Okay by me,” said The Aardark, slurping loudly from his container of coffee.

Yolie nodded her head in agreement.

Questa glanced down at a yellow legal pad. “Fine, then let’s get down to business here.…”

That was when the conference room door burst open and in strutted a twenty-something testosterone jarhead wearing a pair of aviator shades and a snug-fitting red ski jacket. He whipped off his shades, then off came the jacket, too. Underneath it he had on a white merino wool turtleneck that was stretched so tight across his pumped-up muscles that Des swore she could make out his entire six-pack of abs as he stood there styling self-importantly for everyone’s benefit, his granite jaw working on a piece of chewing gum.

“Lord help us, they’ve stuck us with Maverick again,” Yolie groaned under her breath. “Did we piss somebody off?”

“Possibly in a previous life,” Des murmured unhappily.

“You know him?” whispered Toni, who was positively goggle-eyed.

Yolie looked at her, aghast. “Don’t tell me you want that,” she whispered in response.

“Loo, I swear I’ve just laid eyes on the father of my children.”

“Trust me, you won’t feel that way once it opens its mouth.”

Toni continued to gape at him. “Oh, it doesn’t have to talk.”

“Oh, yes it does. And every single word that comes out of its mouth rhymes with ‘asshole.’”

“Sorry I’m late, people,” he declared in a booming, authoritative voice. “They closed I-95 because of a jackknifed tractor trailor and I had to make it out here on Route 1. I’ve never seen so many muffler shops in my life. Seriously, how do folks out here afford to eat three meals a day if they’re always buying so many mufflers? Am I right or am I right?” He went around the table and shook hands. First with Sam Questa. “Grisky, FBI, how are you? Then with Joey Amalfitano. “It’s Grisky.”

“We’ve already met, Agent Grisky,” The Aardvark pointed out. “We worked the Sour Cherry Lane case last spring.”

“Sure, we did.” Grisky’s eyes said he didn’t remember The Aardvark at all.

But he did remember Des. “Hey there, girlfriend,” he exclaimed, grinning at her wolfishly. “Sure never thought I’d find myself back in your sleepy little hamlet again.”

“It’s not sleepy and I’m still not your girlfriend,” Des said. “You remember Yolie Snipes of the Major Crime Squad, don’t you?”

“You kidding me? How could I forget a sweet-looking sister like Miss Yo-lan-da Snipes. How goes it, Sarge?”

“It’s lieutenant now,” Yolie informed him between gritted teeth.

“Moving on up, hunh? Good for you. And, whoa, look who they gave you for a sergeant-it’s Snooki. Are we on MTV right now? Seriously, am I or am I not standing in the presence of Miss … Nicole … Polizzi?”

“Actually, my name’s Toni Tedone,” she simpered breathlessly. This qualified as a major departure for Toni the Tiger. The last time someone at the Headmaster’s House dared to call her Snooki he got a knee in the cojones.

“Real glad to know you. And, hey, lovin’ the patchouli,” he said as he made his way to the other end of the conference table.

Toni gaped at him, awestruck. “I’m going to marry that man.”

Des and Yolie exchanged a horrified look before Des said, “Toni, there are two very important words you need to know about a man like Grisky.”

“What are they?”

“Premature and ejaculation.”

Toni frowned at her. “You say that like there’s some other kind.”

Grisky parked himself in a chair and said, “I just heard that the DEA’s jonesing to get in on this, too. That means they’ll be crawling up our butts if we don’t nail it in the next thirty-six hours-which I’ve assured my boss we will. We have to. I’m flying to Cancun late tomorrow night to hook up with my Quantico buds for a sacred ritual. We spend the week before Christmas down there every year and I cannot, will not, miss it. So let’s hit this out of the park and I mean now. So far it looks to me like we’ve got ourselves quite a little shitstorm. Possible organized drug activity, theft of the U.S. Mail, a dead mailman…”

“Postal carrier,” Questa grunted.

Grisky raised his chin at him. “Sorry?”

“They’re known as postal carriers, Agent Grisky. I thought you’d like to know since you seem to think you’re in charge of my investigation. What we’ve got here is a matter for the U.S. Postal Inspectors to deal with.”

“Well, that’s a big no,” Grisky fired back cheerfully. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t all be sitting here at this large table with you. We’re all working together on this one, Inspector. And we need to share what we know. So how about you put your dick in a box and tell us what you’ve got, okay?”

Questa shifted around unhappily in his chair. “I’ve had two teams of investigators on the ground since approximately nine o’clock last evening,” he said grudgingly. “One of my teams is presently up in Norwich working the supply chain. The other’s at the Dorset Post Office conducting interviews. I personally interviewed Postmaster Zander at her home early this morning. The victim, Hank Merrill, was her live-in lover. She’s grieving and extremely upset. I also spoke with her son, Casey, who’s a part-time carrier. I found him to be reasonably cooperative, although I did think he gave me an attitude.”

“It was nothing personal,” Des said. “He gives that to everyone.”

“At the present time,” Questa continued, “there is no reason to suspect Postmaster Zander has been complicit in any wrongdoing. But, based on my experience, the odds are good that she knows more than she was willing to admit about what’s been going on.”

“Which is what?” Grisky asked.

“High-value parcels have been disappearing from Hank Merrill’s route for the past two weeks-retail gift cards, choice little Christmas presents from the likes of Amazon and, most notably, prescription meds.”

“How much are we talking about? Can you give us a dollar figure?”

Questa shook his giant head. “We’ll have to canvass each resident on his route before we know that. Frankly, I’m still not entirely certain why Postmaster Zander didn’t contact us immediately when she became aware of the situation.”

“I may be able to help you with that,” Des said. “Dorset’s a small town with small-town traditions.”

Questa stared across the table at her. “What kind of traditions?”

“Folks put Christmas tips in their mailboxes for Hank. Some of them bake cookies, others leave him cash. Hank donated the cash to the Food Pantry.”

“I don’t care who he donated it to,” Questa blustered. “Mail carriers are prohibited from accepting holiday gratuities.”

“I know this. I also know that the boxes aren’t supposed to be used for anything other than official U.S. Mail. But in Dorset they are. Lem Champlain, our busiest private plowman, conducts his business by mailbox. That’s how he bills his customers and that’s how they pay him-mostly in cash. Lem told me he’s short about two thousand dollars this month in payments that his customers swear they put out for him, although I’m not one hundred percent sold on his credibility.”

Questa gazed at her sternly. “Sounds to me like you know an awful lot about this case. Was Postmaster Zander in contact with you?”

“Let’s just say I got wind of it, okay?”

“Homegirl keeps her ear to the ground,” Grisky said admiringly.

“When did you get wind of it?”

“Yesterday. I spoke to Hank Merrill about it at the Post Office.”

“That’s not your job,” Questa fumed. “It’s mine.”

“I’m aware of the protocol, Inspector. But Paulette was highly resistant to contacting you. She was worried about how it would look. I told her that I’d be willing to make some informal inquiries on the matter if she’d agree to contact you. I was making a concerted effort to move the investigative process your way. She promised me she’d reach out to you.”

“Well, she didn’t.”

“Well, that’s not my fault.”

“Well, it’s somebody’s fault.”

Des let out a sigh. “Inspector, do you want to throw down or do you want to figure out what happened to Hank Merrill?”

Questa didn’t respond. Just glowered at her.

“So you spoke with the victim yesterday?” Grisky asked Des.

“Informally,” Des reiterated.

“And now he’s formally dead. What do we know about this gee?”

“We know that he had financial problems stemming from his divorce,” she replied. “We know that he texted Paulette a suicide note in which he appeared to confess to stealing the mail himself. The trouble is…”

“Okay, I need for you to stop talking now,” Grisky broke in. To Questa he said, “Tell us what you’re doing about this.”

“We’ve brought in a temporary supervisor from Norwich to take over for Postmaster Zander. He’ll assign a part-time carrier to Hank Merrill’s route until this matter resolves itself. We have to keep the mail moving. That is, and always will be, job one for the USPS. Meanwhile, we work our fundies.”

Grisky peered at him curiously. “Work your what?”

“Our fundamentals,” Questa said, louder this time. “We acquaint ourselves with every aspect of the operation at this individual branch. Interview each and every carrier and clerk. Determine if anyone has recently transferred, retired or been terminated. Determine when the keypad lock in the office was most recently updated. We undertake a top-to-bottom investigation of the security procedures that are in place. Check the padlocks and deadbolts, the safe where the scanners and vehicle keys are kept. According to Postmaster Zander, only she and her senior clerk know the combination to that safe. We’ll have to see about that. We’ve encountered these types of thefts numerous times before. Maybe we’re looking at a dirty carrier. Maybe not. There are other possible scenarios. One is that the theft of these valuables occurred before they got to the carrier. A dirty clerk or clerks can divert them as soon as they come off of the truck, repackage them and send them on to a complicit third party. I’ve seen it happen.”

Des considered this, wondering if Hank had accidentally seen something going on in the back room. Wondering if this was what he’d wanted to talk to her about.

“If that’s how it went down,” Toni said, “then wouldn’t parcels have been disappearing from more than just Hank Merrill’s route?”

Grisky raised his eyebrows, impressed. “Snooki makes an excellent point.”

“Thank you, Agent,” she said, blushing. The poor girl was totally gaga. A temporary and treatable affliction, Des hoped and prayed.

“Not necessarily,” Questa responded. “Hank Merrill had the choicest route in Dorset. And if stuff from all over town started disappearing that would have set off too many alarm bells. Besides, that’s just one possible scenario. Another is the supply train, by which I mean the trucks that bring the mail to this branch from the distribution hub in Norwich. The postal service outsources the trucking to private contractors these days. We perform background checks on all of the drivers, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have ourselves a bad apple. So we work that, too. Interview each and every driver who comes in contact with the Dorset-bound mail. Review the security procedures that are in place in Norwich, then keep on backtracking from there. The Norwich hub gets its mail from Hartford and Wallingford. If mail comes into this state by air it arrives at Bradley International and is trucked to Hartford. We’ll follow it every step of the way. And if we turn up a bad apple I assure you we will prosecute him to the full extent of the law. We’re the US Postal Service. We take our responsibilities seriously. We were on the front lines in the War Against Terror from day one, in case you’ve forgotten the anthrax scare. Because we haven’t. We’re professional investigators who do a professional job. We’re not clowns.”

“It never occurred to any of us that you were,” The Aardvark assured him.

“What he said,” Yolie agreed, nodding his head.

“Kind of thin-skinned, aren’t you, Inspector?” Grisky asked.

“Maybe I’m just sick of you gung-ho frat boys from the bureau taking over our cases.”

Des found herself starting to like little Sam Questa, even if she did keep expecting him to let loose with a yabba-dabba-doo.

Grisky ratcheted down his hard-charging tone a bit. “No one here is doubting that you know how to do your job. And I’m not trying to muscle you. I just do what I’m told, same as you.”

“We all do what we’re told,” The Aarvark agreed. “So let’s just get it done, okay?”

“Fine,” Questa growled.

Grisky looked across the table at Des. “The trouble is?…”

“Excuse me, Agent?”

“You were saying that Hank Merrill had money problems stemming from his divorce. That he texted Paulette Zander a suicide note in which he appeared to confess to stealing his own mail. But that the trouble is…”

“That he didn’t commit suicide,” Yolie spoke up. “Hank Merrill was murdered last night on Kinney Road. There was a cylindrical bruise on his right temple. Early this morning our medical examiner confirmed that it matches the nose of a.38 caliber Smith and Wesson Special. The victim didn’t have a gun permit for any such weapon. We’re checking to see if any of his close friends or coworkers do. There were bruises on the left side of his neck that indicate he was physically coerced. Also bruising beneath his lower lip that suggests he was forced to drink the large quantity of the bourbon that he ingested shortly before his death. His blood alcohol level was.26-more than three times the legal limit to drive in this state. No way he drove his Passat to such a remote locale in that condition. He drank it after he got there. Had to. Yet we can’t find a bottle. If he tossed it out the window then the town plowman most likely shoved it into the snowbanks surrounding the parking lot. I’ve got eight trainees from the academy digging their way through those snowbanks as we speak. If there’s broken glass they’ll find it. We’re also canvassing Hank’s neighbors on Grassy Hill Road to determine if any of them saw him drive away last evening and if so what time. One more thing-when we searched Hank’s jacket pockets we found an unmarked prescription bottle with a half dozen pills in it. The M.E. identified them as ten-milligram doses of diazepam, better known as Valium. Hank had what they estimate to be twenty milligrams of diazepam in his bloodstream when he died. He still had traces in his stomach. We just checked with his personal physician. Hank had never been prescribed diazepam.”

“Sounds to me like he was pacified into submission,” Des said.

“I hear you,” Yolie agreed.

“Were his fingerprints on that pill bottle?” The Aardvark asked her.

Yolie shook her head. “It was wiped clean. The passenger seat floor mat was removed. The passenger seat was moist. The duct tape and box cutter on the seat were wet. Yet when Resident Trooper Mitry found Hank, his hair and shoulders were dry. So were his shoes and the floor mat under them. The man never got out of that car. Someone else duct taped the garden hose to the tailpipe. We found Hank’s fingerprints on the hose. No prints on the duct tape that was wrapped around the tailpipe. Not that we would. The car’s exhaust heated the tailpipe enough to evaporate any fingerprint residue on the tape. We’re continuing to search the car and its contents for prints. We still have to take fingerprint samples from Paulette and Casey Zander, who’ve doubtless ridden in that car a million times and probably driven it, too. We need to eliminate their prints so we can isolate any others that don’t belong. Although I’m guessing that these people were careful enough to wear gloves. And I do mean people. We believe we’re looking for a pair. One drove up there with the victim. The other followed in a getaway car.”

“That’s good work,” Grisky concluded. “Sounds like you’re right on top of this case.”

“We may be talking two cases. Resident Trooper Mitry caught another suicide earlier in the day-a man named Bryce Peck who lived out on Big Sister Island.”

“Are you telling us Bryce Peck was murdered, too?”

“I’m telling you we’re looking into it.”

“Initially, Bryce’s death played suicide all of the way,” Des explained. “He was someone who had a long history of depression and substance abuse. And I found nothing at the scene to suggest a struggle.”

“How did he die?” Questa asked her.

“By washing down a one-month supply of Vicodin, Xanax and Ambien with a bottle of Jose Cuervo Gold.”

“Prescription meds again,” The Aardvark reflected, slurping his coffee.

“Bryce had legitimate prescriptions for the pills. And his live-in girlfriend, Josie Cantro, swears that all three bottles were full last time she looked. But we only have her word for that. And we won’t know for a fact what Bryce swallowed until we get his toxicology results, which Lieutenant Snipes fast-tracked last night, right after Hank Merrill’s death.”

Grisky furrowed his brow. “Have you got reason to believe that this Josie Cantro might have been less than truthful with you?”

“Let’s say I have more information about her today than I did yesterday.”

“What kind of information?”

“Bryce Peck’s attorney drew up his will for him last week. It seems that he left Josie his house on Big Sister, which he owned free and clear. It’s worth in the neighborhood of five million.”

Sam Questa let out a low whistle. “Nice neighborhood.”

“Josie’s a life coach who has a thriving little practice around town. She had a professional relationship with Hank Merrill. And she currently has one with Paulette Zander’s son, Casey, who she also happens to be sleeping with. I know this because I walked in on them getting busy yesterday, less than two hours after Bryce Peck was pronounced dead.”

Now it was Grisky who let out a low whistle. “Josie’s a baad girl. Is she a babe?”

Des nodded. “She’s a babe.”

“Sounds to me like she’s up to her pretty eyeballs in this thing.”

“Whatever this thing is,” Des acknowledged.

Now Grisky turned to The Aardvark. “Okay, what does the Narcotics Task Force have for us?”

Joey Amalfitano took another loud slurp of his coffee before he said, “What this thing is, maybe. We’re spending more and more of our time going after dealers of stolen prescription meds. They sell them at a cut-rate price to low-wage working people who have no access to health insurance-diabetics, asthmatics, women who need birth control pills and so on. I’m not talking about a couple of skeejie characters peddling Oxy in a dark alley. These are organized, highly profitable black-market pharmacies that are operating under the protection of the Castagno crime family. Last summer we busted an operation in Bridgeport that was selling meds in broad daylight out of ice cream trucks at the playgrounds. The kids were buying Rocky Road. The grown-ups were buying Celebrex.”

“And this wasn’t counterfeit stuff from China or whatever?” Grisky asked.

“The real stuff,” The Aardvark assured him. “It’s turning into a huge problem for us. There is absolutely no way we can choke off the demand. Not when so many people are barely scraping by. So we’re attacking it from the supply end. We have an ongoing investigation into a gang that exists for the sole purpose of stealing prescription drugs for these black-market pharmacies. Some of these guys were connected with the gang we took down in Bridgeport. They’re still operating-with the blessing of the Castagnos-in places like New Haven, New London and Norwich. And they have a million different ways of getting what they need. The big-timers go after drug warehouses and delivery trucks. I’m talking armed, serious pros. Lower down on the food chain you’ve got hundreds of hustlers who gobble it up wherever they can find it. They steal it from the curbside mailboxes in wealthy rural towns like this one. And they have legions of little people who do their dirty work for them. Some of these people are pharmacy cashiers, motel chambermaids, cleaning ladies and the like. A lot of them are ordinary high school kids who’re just looking to score some pot or coke. You wouldn’t believe what these kids are lifting from their parents’ medicine chests. They swap it for their own drug of choice, legal or illegal, or for just plain old cash-which, as we know, never goes out of style. None of it’s real flashy, but it’s very profitable and it’s everywhere.” He glanced over at Questa. “If you discover that the postal service has some bad apples diverting prescription meds from the supply trucks into the hands of these guys then we may be able to bring down some major players. These are nasty boys, Inspector.”

Questa considered this for a moment. “Maybe Hank Merrill got in over his head with them.”

“If that’s the case,” Des said, “then he must have had a contact. Someone who was buying the stuff off of him.”

“And we need to have a conversation with that someone,” Yolie said. “Captain, I’d like to put some names and faces to the operation in this part of the state. Who the players are, where they hang out. We need to grab somebody and throw him in an interview room. He doesn’t have to be a big-timer. Just someone who we can pry open.”

“I’ll put my people to work on it,” The Aardvark said.

“Whoa, I feel like we’re really getting somewhere here,” Grisky exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. “You see what happens when we all pull together as a team? Okay, let’s slice this bad boy up. Inspector Questa and his people will work the postal side. Captain Amalfitano and his task force have got the prescription meds angle. The girls will run their investigation into the murder itself. Or murders, if that’s how it plays out. Resident Trooper Mitry will continue to assist as needed. Sound good?”

“All except for one small detail,” Yolie said coolly. “Sergeant Tedone and myself are homicide investigators attached to the Central District branch of the Connecticut State Police’s Major Crime Squad.”

He frowned at her. “Okay, really not following you.”

“She means we’re not ‘the girls,’” Toni explained.

“Gotcha. My bad, Snooki.”

“And my name’s not Snooki.”

“Whatever you say. Questions?”

Toni raised her chin at him. “Yeah, I have one.”

Grisky flashed her a grin. “You keep right on coming. I like that. Okay, what is it?”

“Exactly what are you going to be doing?”

He blinked at her, taken aback. “I’m sorry, you were sitting here at this large table just now, weren’t you? Paying attention to what was going on?”

Toni nodded her head slowly. “Yeah?…”

“That was me doing it.”

Kylie was in a third-floor room for two that she had all to herself. Bright sunlight streamed in through the window.

She lay propped up in bed with her surgically repaired right ankle in traction. They had her on a morphine drip for the pain and she seemed to be in a semi-zonked state when Des walked in. There were abrasions on her lips and forehead from the Honda’s air bag, and her hair lay limp and flat on her head. But she was still a cutie in the way that so many big-eyed, soft-mouthed little eighteen-year-old girls are cuties. There was no telling what Kylie Champlain would look like in ten years when she lost her baby fat and the bones in her face started to become more pronounced. She might resemble her father more than her mother, though Des certainly hoped not, for her sake.

“Hey, Trooper Des,” she said groggily. “I must have dozed off for a sec. Are my folks here?”

“Don’t appear to be.”

“They went out for coffee awhile ago. Guess they’re not back yet.”

“That’s okay, Kylie. I came to see you.”

Kylie lowered her gaze, swallowing. “I’m really sorry about what happened. It was all my fault. I told him that.”

“Told who?”

“The policeman who was here this morning.”

“Someone came here to talk to you?”

“Uh-huh. I don’t remember his name. He said he was with … it sounded like the IRS, except not. Internal something.”

Des felt her abdominal muscles tighten involuntarily. “Internal Affairs?”

“That’s it.”

“What did he ask you?”

“Whether you made me drive faster than I wanted to.”

“Did I?”

Kylie let out a weak laugh. “No way. I’m the one who’s stupid, not you.” Then she looked up at Des, frowning. “You’re not in trouble, too, are you?”

“No. It’s routine procedure any time there’s an accident of this type.”

“I panicked, Trooper Des. Totally lost it. You must hate me. Everyone must.”

“No one hates you, Kylie. I certainly don’t. But do you mind if I ask you something, girl to girl?”

“I don’t mind. What is it?”

“Why did you try to steal those boots?”

“Because I have to look nice. Guys don’t notice me otherwise.”

“Sure, they do.”

“No, they don’t. Trust me, there’s girls who guys notice and then there’s girls like me-sort of okay looking except not really. My legs are too short and I have these thick calves and fat little toes. I look like a troll in shorts and flip-flops. Plus I’m a total dimwit.”

“No, you’re not. You’re eighteen. Believe me, I screwed up a lot when I was your age. We all do.”

Kylie let out a sigh. “I don’t even know why I keep screwing up. Except sometimes I just feel like I’m going to explode, you know?”

“I know.”

“How did … I mean, what did you do?”

“Figured out who I really wanted to be. And then came up with a plan. As long as I stayed focused on my plan I was okay.”

“I’ve tried doing that but I always … I–I daydream.”

“What do you daydream about?”

“Being tall and skinny like you. Looking good in a bikini. Lying on a beach in Malibu with a really cute guy who’s rich and nice and totally into me. We have a house right there on the beach. Everything in it’s new and clean. I have my own walk-in closet with a hundred pairs of shoes. And I have a dog. I love dogs. Big, slobbery ones.”

“Kylie, do you ever daydream about working?”

She looked at Des blankly. “Why would I want to do that?”

“No reason. I just wondered.”

“My mom wants me to be a nurse. I’ve been watching the nurses since I got here. They’re so smart and together. I don’t think I could be that way all day long.”

“Sure, you could-if you really wanted to. It does help if you have someone else in your corner.”

“You mean like my parents? No way. They are so screwed up and miserable.”

“I didn’t mean your parents.”

“Oh, you mean like a guy.” She shook her head. “Not going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“I just told you-I’m a dimwit. They only want me for sex. Not one of them is willing to just chill with me. Go for walks on the beach. Talk to me.”

“I know a guy just like that.”

“Sure, because you’re tall and skinny and gorgeous.”

“No, I mean a guy who’d walk on the beach with you.”

Kylie tilted her head at Des quizzically. “Who are we talking about?”

“Pat.”

“The Pat who works for my dad? No way. I mean, yeah, we hung out a couple of times, but he’s not into me. He didn’t even try to kiss me.”

“He’s shy.”

“Shy around me?”

“What I’m saying.”

Kylie thought this over. “That red beard of his … it looks itchy.”

“Tell him to shave it off.”

“He’d do that for me?”

“He’d jumped off of the Baldwin Bridge for you,” Des said, wondering what else Pat would do for her. Would he steal? Would he kill?

“Trooper Des, I’m kind of zonked right now. Are you chumping me?”

“I’m not chumping you.”

Kylie gazed glumly at her elevated ankle. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to walk on the beach like a normal person again.”

“Sure you will. Let’s not turn this into an old Bette Davis…” Des drew in her breath. “Damn, I almost did it again.”

“Did what?”

“Kylie, you will walk like a normal person again. You’re young. You’re getting excellent care. And you’ll be a beast when it comes to rehab.”

“No, I won’t. I’m incredibly lazy on top of everything else.”

“You used to be lazy. You’re not anymore.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I have a feeling about these things.”

Des heard a noise out in the hall and Kylie’s mammoth, bearded father appeared in the doorway, glowering at her. She stepped out of the room and joined him.

“What do you want now?” demanded Lem, who wasn’t in a particularly friendly mood today.

“Just came by to see how you folks are holding up,” she said, glancing around for Tina.

“My wife’s in the ladies room. Anything I can do for you?”

“Actually, there is something I wanted to ask you. Did you tell Pat Faulstich to plow the driveways on Kinney Road last evening?”

“Kinney Road?” Lem scratched at his long, not-so-clean beard. “I’ve only got two customers up there, the Beckmans and the Shermans. I usually handle ’em myself. Don’t recall telling Pat to go up there. Slipped my mind, I guess, what with Kylie and all. But it wouldn’t surprise me if he did. He has a lot of initiative. Well, some initiative. I hear that’s where you found Hank Merrill.”

“You hear right. I ran into Pat while I was at the scene. He told me he was making his first pass of the day through there. I wondered if you might have sent one of your other drivers to Kinney Road earlier. Someone who could help us verify what time Hank arrived there.”

“That’s a no. I didn’t even talk to any of my other men yesterday. Just Pat.” Lem glanced down the hallway at the sound of approaching footsteps. “Well, well, speak of the devil…”

Pat Faulstich was trudging his way toward them carrying a bunch of tulips and looking extremely uneasy.

Lem noticed how uncomfortable his young driver seemed. “What’s the trouble, Pat? Did one of our trucks screw the pooch?”

“No, sir,” Pat said. “Everything’s fine. Just came by to, you know, pay my respects.”

“Aw, hey, that’s awful nice of you. I’ll be sure to give those to Kylie.”

“Maybe Pat would like to give them to her himself,” Des suggested.

“Why, sure. What am I thinking? Go right on in, son.”

Pat studied the floor bashfully. “You don’t think she’d mind?”

“You kidding me?” Lem said. “She’ll be happy for the company.”

Pat squared his shoulders and went on in.

“I suppose she could do worse,” Lem said with a shrug.

Tina came darting down the hall toward them now, looking bug-eyed with fright at the sight of Des standing there. “What is it now?” she demanded.

“It’s nothing, hon,” Lem assured her. “Relax, will you?”

“I am relaxed. I want to know why she’s-”

“I just stopped by to look in on Kylie,” Des said.

Lem’s cell phone rang. He glanced down at the screen. “It’s one of my men. I got nothing but headaches this season, I swear.” He went off down the hall, grumbling into the phone.

“One of his men, my ass,” Tina said sourly. “It’s that tramp Debbie.”

“Could be. Then again, we did have a blizzard yesterday.”

Tina glared at her. “Did you come here just to be nasty again?”

“I’m sorry if that’s how I came across. I was just doing my job. And I wondered how you were doing.”

“I’m doing lousy, okay?” Tina shot a glance over her shoulder to make sure Lem was out of earshot. “Matt left for Cabo San Lucas this morning with his wife. They’ll be there straight on through Christmas. Together in the same hotel room, day and night. My Matt and that cold bitch. I need him right now and I can’t contact him. She watches him like a hawk.”

“She’s his wife, Tina.”

“Matt doesn’t love her. He loves me. I don’t know what to do.”

“You could try using this as an opportunity to reconnect with Lem. You two will be taking Kylie home soon. Maybe this is a chance for you to regroup as a family. Maybe something positive can come out of this.”

“And maybe you are totally full of crap. Did that ever occur to you?” Tina looked at Kylie’s doorway, frowning. “Is that her surgeon in there with her?”

“No, it’s Pat Faulstich.”

“What does he want?”

“He brought her some flowers.” Des moved farther away from the room, motioning for Tina to join her. “You told me yesterday that if I really want to know what’s what I should ask a cleaning lady. So I’m asking. What do you know about Pat?”

“I know I don’t like him.”

“Why not?”

Tina hesitated. “Look, his parents are decent, hard-working people. But he’s got this older brother, Mickey, who he really looks up to, okay? And Mickey’s absolutely no good.”

“Don’t think I’ve run across him.”

“That’s because he’s been in prison in Virginia for the past couple of years. He got pulled over down there with something like three hundred pounds of marijuana in the trunk of his Camaro.”

“Do you know if Pat hangs with Casey Zander?”

“Nobody hangs with Casey. He’s a total mama’s boy. Not to mention just plain weird. Have you seen that haircut of his? I swear, Paulette must have dropped him on his head when he was a baby.”

“What’s Casey’s deal with Gigi Garanski?”

Tina’s face fell. “There’s no deal. Gigi’s just a pathetic, drugged-out mess. She was such a sweet little girl, too. Her folks lived next door to mine. I used to baby-sit her when she was a kid. It makes me sick what’s happened to her.”

“Tommy Stratton’s her boyfriend?”

“Pimp is more like it. He passes her around to those horny losers at the Rustic like she’s a bowl of peanuts. She’ll do anyone Tommy tells her to as long as he keeps her supplied with dope. Tommy the Pinhead is total trash.”

Total trash, Des reflected, who happened to have low-level ties to the Castagno crime family.

“He gave Kylie the eye when were at the supermarket together last week. I said to him, ‘What are you looking at, you piece of filth?’ He just blew me a kiss and went sauntering off like he thinks he’s some big shot.” Tina peered at Des curiously. “Why are you asking me all of this?”

“Just trying to figure something out. I have an itch I can’t scratch.” Des’s cell phone rang. She glanced down at it before she excused herself and took the call. “What’s up, Yolie?”

“Grisky wants to hold another team meeting at two o’clock.”

“What for?”

“He told me that he likes to touch base regularly with his quarterbacks.”

“I see myself more as a shifty wide receiver.”

“Real? I see myself placekicking that man’s buns of steel all the way out to Block Island.”

“What have you got that you didn’t have this morning?”

“Plenty. I’ll fill you in when I see you.” Then Yolie rang off.

Des was alone in the hospital hallway. Tina had gone into Kylie’s room to hurl herself between Kylie and Pat. Lem was still off somewhere talking on the phone to whomever he was talking to. Maybe Debbie. Des couldn’t imagine him talking to one of his men for this long. She stood there for a moment before she found herself speed dialing Mitch for no reason other than that she needed to hear his voice right now. Needed a brief moment where everything and everyone in the world didn’t feel completely dysfunctional and insane. Because it wasn’t an itch she was feeling. It was pure dread. She didn’t know why. Just knew that she felt it. And needed a dose of Mitch’s sunny, calming self.

Except he wasn’t answering his cell or his home phone. Mitch had been planning to take Rut Peck over to visit Paulette. Then he was going to drive Rut back to Essex Meadows and head on home. He ought to be there by now, she figured, glancing at her watch. Ought to be parked squarely in front of his computer writing crazy, funny, brilliant things about his all-time favorite Christmas movies. But he wasn’t. He hadn’t checked in either. Hadn’t called her. Hadn’t texted her.

Honestly? Des couldn’t help wondering where in the hell her doughboy was.