The Snow White Christmas Cookie

CHAPTER 15

Grisky was pacing the conference room and flexing his biceps. Pacing and flexing. The G-Man was impatient. The G-Man was amped. Partly, this had to do with his sacred Christmas travel plans. “Every damned flight out of JFK tomorrow night has been scrambled because of the damned blizzard,” he blustered. Mostly it had to do with the fact that Postal Inspector Sam Questa had failed to show up on time for Grisky’s two o’clock quarterbacks meeting.

Yolie and Toni were there. Des was there. Capt. Joey Amalfitano of the Narcotics Task Force, aka The Aardvark, was there. The sandwiches and coffee from McGee’s Diner were there. But Questa was a no-show. And would be one, Des felt certain, until precisely 2:17. Grisky would be kept waiting the same exact number of minutes that he’d kept Questa waiting earlier that morning. Boys. They could be so pissy.

“Do you realize I may actually have to spend Christmas here instead of in Cancun?” Grisky raged on, pacing and flexing.

“Boo-freaking-hoo,” Yolie growled.

Des glanced at her watch. It was 2:16.

Sam Questa came bustling through the door ten seconds later-smack-dab on pissy man-time. Questa removed his coat and sat down at the table, reaching for a sandwich and a container of coffee. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, biting into his sandwich. “Got held up in an interview.”

Grisky narrowed his gaze before he sat down, too. “Okay, let’s see where we’re at,” he said, rubbing his hands together briskly. He really liked to do that, and it was really starting to get on Des’s nerves. “Resident Trooper Mitry? The ball’s yours.”

“Pat Faulstich’s story didn’t exactly check out,” she reported. “Lem Champlain didn’t send him to plow those driveways on Kinney Road last night.”

Grisky shook his head at her. “And this is important because?…”

“Everywhere I go I keep tripping over him. He’s clean, but he has an older brother, Mickey, who’s doing a nickel at the Baskerville Correctional Center in Mecklenburg County, Virginia, for transporting three hundred pounds of marijuana. And he’s a Rustic Inn regular, same as Casey Zander.”

The Aarvark shifted uncomfortably in his chair at her mention of the Rustic, though he said nothing.

“What does all of this add up to?” Grisky demanded.

“Maybe something, maybe nothing. But I’m keeping my eye on him.”

“Fair enough. Snooki, you’re next.”

Toni the Tiger stared across the table at him in silence.

He tilted his jarhead at her curiously. “Snooki?…”

“My name is Toni,” she said to him between gritted teeth. “I also answer to Sargeant Tedone. But if you call me Snooki one more time I am going to make a bow tie out of your balls. Got it?”

Grisky held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Got it.”

“Good,” she said, slamming the door on what had to be the shortest crush on record. There truly was hope for this girl-even if she was a Tedone. “I’ve just spent several hours at the Headmaster’s House with the geek squad looking into Josie Cantro.” Toni leafed through her notepad. “Our local life coach has what I’d classify as a lively bio. For starters, her birth name isn’t Cantro. It’s Hoyt. Josie Ann Hoyt was born on August 1, 1981 in Augusta, Maine. Cantro is her mother’s maiden name. We found this out when we deepened our search into the details surrounding her father’s shooting death.”

Des blinked at her in surprise. “Josie’s father was shot to death?”

Toni nodded. “When Josie was twelve. Officially, it was closed out as a hunting accident, shooter unknown. Unofficially, the Maine State Police didn’t view it as an accident. The shooting took place in a wooded area less than a quarter mile from Hoyt’s home. No hunters admitted to being in the area at the time. And Hoyt was shot from close range.”

“How close?” Grisky asked.

“Less than ten feet.”

“Yeah, down here in the Nutmeg State we don’t generally call that a hunting accident,” Yolie said. “We call it murder.”

“They looked very hard at Josie’s mother for it,” Toni said. “It was commonly known that he’d been beating the crap out of her for years. But they had no weapon, no witness, no case. So they wrote it off and moved on. The next time Josie pops up on our radar screen is six years later in Lewiston when she applies for a Maine driver’s license as Josie Ann Cantro, age eighteen. Her life on paper officially starts here-Social Security records, credit cards and so on. She rented an apartment in Lewiston. To support herself Josie Cantro was employed at the Down East Bar and Grill and at a Snap Fitness Center. Meanwhile, under the name Adele Slade, she was also employed as a pole dancer at a club called the Matrix, where she was arrested on numerous occasions for soliciting prostitution and lewd public behavior.”

“Girl, you haven’t lost your edge,” Yolie said to Des admiringly.

“What edge?” Grisky asked.

“The Resident Trooper told us last night that Josie smelled wrong.”

“She never served any time,” Toni pointed out. “Just got slaps on the wrist. I spoke to an old-timer on the Lewiston PD who remembers her. He told me she’d been out on the streets, hooking and using drugs, ever since she was sixteen. But that she was a smart, scrappy kid who cleaned up her act. She even enrolled at Bates College. Studied there for one semester, according to her transcripts. Then she left town one day and was never heard from again. According to her Social Security records, she relocated to Castine, home to the Maine Maritime Academy, where she worked as a waitress and chambermaid at the Castine Inn. She lived on the premises until 2005 when she filed for a change of address to the home of one James Allen Miller-better known as J.A. Miller, the author of a series of bestselling science fiction novels featuring someone called Torbor the Reclaimer. Do we have any sci-fi fans in the house? No? Anyway, Josie was twenty-four at the time. Miller, age fifty-six, was a widower with two children who were both older than Josie. I spoke to someone on the local PD. It seems that Miller used to eat dinner at the Castine Inn every night. He and Josie struck up an acquaintanceship and eventually it led to something more. He taught marine systems engineering at the academy before he became a bestselling author and bought himself the historic waterfront home that he invited Josie to share with him.” Toni paused to gulp down some coffee. “James Allen Miller died of an overdose of the prescription sleep aid Ambien in 2007. A therapist had been treating him for anxiety-related depression. They closed it out as a suicide.”

“Damn, this is starting to sound familiar,” Yolie said. “Did the local PD have any reason to suspect it wasn’t suicide?”

“None. Miller was seeing a therapist, like I said. Had been increasingly despondent in the days leading up to his death, and he left a suicide note.”

“What did it say?” asked Des.

“It said, ‘Forgive me, Torbor.’ But guess what Miller did two weeks before he died: He changed his will. Left his waterfront home to Josie instead of to his two kids.”

Des shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose. “God, maybe she is a black widow.”

“What’s a black widow?” Sam Questa wanted to know.

“An attractive young woman who snags rich, lonely men, picks them clean and kills them before she moves on.”

“I never heard of one of those,” The Aardvark said.

“Maybe they only exist in the movies,” Des conceded.

“Maybe not,” Yolie said.

“Miller was well liked in Castine. Josie was regarded as a scheming little tramp. His children contested the will. Threatened to fight her in court if they had to. She accepted a cash settlement of $100,000 and left town.” Toni glanced down at her notes again. “She shows up briefly on our radar screen next in Portland, Maine, then in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where she rented an apartment for a few months before she moved to New Haven. When she got to New Haven she enrolled in an online life-coach program. After that she rented a cottage here in Dorset, set up her practice and eventually met Bryce Peck. You know the rest.”

“That’s good work, Sergeant,” Yolie said.

“Real good,” echoed Grisky. “Aside from the fact that we don’t know the rest. Is she or isn’t she responsible for the deaths of Bryce Peck and Hank Merrill?”

“And what, if anything, does she have to do with our stolen mail?” Questa wondered.

“Maybe she and Hank were in on it together,” Des said. “The two of them had mutual interests. Hank had serious money problems. And Josie needed drugs-the drugs that she used to kill Bryce. We know that she’s a clever girl. Clever enough to cook up this grinch smoke screen. Clever enough to persuade Hank to steal for her by promising him that when she got hold of Bryce’s house she’d bail him out with his ex-wife.”

“That plays pretty sweet,” Grisky said. “Keep talking.”

“When the grinch thing started setting off alarm bells Josie went proactive. First, she took care of Bryce the same way she took care of J.A. Miller in Castine. Then, last night, she eliminated Hank because he was the one man, the only man, who could link her to Bryce’s death.”

“It was a two-person job,” Toni pointed out. “Who helped her?”

“Casey Zander, who else? That’s why she’s been sleeping with him. She’s got Casey wrapped around her little finger. He’d do anything for her-including help her do away with his own mother’s boyfriend.”

“I’m liking this more and more,” Grisky said. “We’d better make sure baad Josie doesn’t leave town.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Des assured him. “Bryce’s half-brother, Preston, is on his way here from Chicago to contest Bryce’s will. Odds are she’ll accept a financial settlement just like she did in Castine. But she’ll stay put until then.”

Grisky turned his attention to Yolie. “Please tell me you’ve come up with some forensics that actually tie her to these deaths.”

“The M.E.’s office fast-tracked Bryce Peck’s autopsy,” she responded. “Bearing in mind that it takes them longer to find what they aren’t looking for than what they are, the toxicology so far confirms that it went down exactly as it appeared-Bryce washed down massive doses of Vicodin, Xanax and Ambien with a bottle of tequila. They’ve found no bruising. His skin and fingernails have yielded nothing. It still looks like a straight suicide.”

Grisky frowned at her. “Then how’d she do it?”

“Maybe she forced him to swallow the pills at gunpoint,” Des suggested. “There’s a.38 in the mix, remember?”

“Maybe,” Grisky allowed. “But good luck proving that. How about the Kinney Road crime scene, Lieutenant? You find the missing bourbon bottle?”

“I’ve had eight trainees digging through the snowbanks around that parking lot for six solid hours. And more men searching the woods seventy-five feet in every direction just in case Hank got out of the car and heaved it. So far we haven’t found so much as a shard of broken glass. There are no fingerprints on Hank’s cell phone. No partials or smears, no nothing. It was wiped clean. We tracked the so-called suicide text message that he sent to Paulette Zander. It did originate from that locale on Kinney Road. And when Paulette received it she was in the vicinity of her home on Grassy Hill Road.”

“She told me she was downstairs doing laundry,” Des said. “Didn’t notice she’d gotten it until a few minutes later.”

“We had troopers canvass her neighbors up and down Grassy Hill Road. A woman who lives across the street, two houses down, said she saw Hank’s Passat go out at about 5:30, which confirms what Paulette Zander told Master Sergeant Mitry. He headed off in the direction of Frederick Lane, which would be the way he’d go if his destination was Kinney Road. She also saw Casey’s Toyota Tacoma go out an hour or so later. Casey went the opposite way-toward the Old Boston Post Road, which is where the Rustic Inn is located.”

“Could the neighbor confirm that Hank was alone in his car?” Des asked.

Yolie shook her head. “Couldn’t even confirm that it was Hank behind the wheel. Just Hank’s car. Same goes for Casey’s Tacoma.”

Grisky frowned at Des. “Where the hell are you going with this?”

“Just playing out the what-ifs.”

“We can’t build a case on what-ifs,” he said pointedly.

“My bad, Agent Grisky. Next time I have a question I’ll raise my hand. Will that make you happy?”

“Results will make me happy,” he barked, swiveling his jarhead back to Yolie. “Did you get anything from Hank Merrill’s autopsy?”

She glanced down at her notepad. “The M.E. confirmed that the cylindrical bruise on his forehead is a dead-nuts match for the nose of a Smith and Wesson.38 Special. Hank didn’t have a permit for any such weapon. No handgun permit at all. But he did have a coworker who owns one. A carrier at the Dorset Post Office named Abe Monahan.”

“Monahan, Monahan…” Sam Questa leafed through his own notes. “Here we are: Abe’s been at the Dorset branch for seven years. His wife’s a Realtor with Coldwell Banker. They have two kids, ages ten and twelve. Own a home on Bittersweet Lane. Abe keeps the.38 Special on a shelf in his bedroom closet.”

“How in the hell do you know that?” Grisky asked him.

“After Lieutenant Snipes mentioned the bruise this morning, I instructed my people to ask each and every employee if they own a.38 Special.” Questa’s eyes hardened at him. “Like I told you-we’re professionals.”

“We’d better take a good look at this Abe Monahan,” Grisky said.

“He’s in Boca Raton with his family,” Questa said. “Has been for the past three days. We had to interview him by phone. It was a planned vacation. He bought the travel package two months ago.”

“His neighbor on Bittersweet has a key to the house,” Yolie reported. “She let us in so we could determine if his.38 Special was still in his bedroom closet-which it was. There’s always a chance it was removed and then put back, so we’re having our people examine it for prints and skin residue.”

“Do we know if anyone has been inside of that house since the Monahans left for Boca?” Des asked.

“Yeah, we do.” Questa stuck out his lower lip as he scanned his notes. “A lady who cleans for them once a week-Tina Champlain.”

Grisky looked at Des curiously. “Is she related to Lem Champlain?”

“She’s his wife. Hmm…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Des smiled at him sweetly. “Not a thing, Agent.”

“The.38 Special’s a common weapon,” Yolie pointed out. “Someone else who Hank knew could have purchased one illegally.”

“Or someone who he didn’t know,” Toni said.

“Could be,” Yolie acknowledged.

“Could be won’t get me to Cancun,” Grisky huffed. “That’s not good enough. The ball’s yours, Inspector Questa. What have you got?”

Questa took another bite of his sandwich, chewing on it thoughtfully. “A very well-run branch office of the U.S. Postal Service. The building security is excellent. The keypad code has been updated according to proper procedure. All keys to the deadbolts are accounted for. All vehicle keys and scanners are stored overnight in the safe. Only Postmaster Zander and her senior clerk know the combination to the safe. The U.S. Postal Service isn’t perfect. We encounter branches that are sloppily run. Branches where the employees take liberties. This isn’t one of those. Postmaster Zander’s people respect the job and they respect her. These are all first-rate employees-with the possible exception of that son of hers, Casey, who comes across like a bit of a whiner.”

“Only because he is one,” Des said.

“Bottom line? The only blemish on Postmaster Zander’s record is that she didn’t report these mailbox thefts to us in a timely fashion. But I think it’s obvious to everyone at this table why she didn’t. We’re continuing to explore every possible avenue. Delving into the bank records and spending patterns of every driver, loader and clerk in Norwich who comes in contact with the Dorset-bound trucks. My opinion? We won’t turn up a thing. It looks to me like Postmaster Zander’s boyfriend, Hank Merrill, by all accounts an otherwise decent guy, got into financial trouble with his ex-wife and resorted to stealing his own mail in order to pay her back. When he realized he was going to be subjected to the public humiliation of a criminal investigation he decided to take his own life.”

“Makes sense,” Yolie said. “Except we’re positive he didn’t take his own life.”

Questa nodded his huge head. “Which means we’re back to looking at Josie Cantro, his alleged partner in crime. She killed him and tried to make it look like a suicide. That’s the only way it makes sense to me.”

Grisky turned to The Aardvark now. “Do you have anything new? Please, God, say yes.”

“I have a name,” he answered, slurping loudly from his coffee container. “Richard Paul Fontanella, age fifty-four. Better known as Slick Rick.”

“He deals in black-market meds?” Grisky asked.

“Not exactly. He’s a bookie and loan shark.” The Aardvark passed around copies of a surveillance photo of the man getting out of a silver Cadillac Coupe de Ville. Slick Rick had gray hair and wore a Kangol cap. “He operates out of a dozen or so bars, clubs, and VFW halls in Southeastern Connecticut under the protection of the Castagnos. Not a big player, but a good, steady earner. As I mentioned this morning, the black-market meds gang that we took down in Bridgeport was operating under the protection of the Castagnos, too. There are still plenty of those bastards out there doing their thing. And, according to our contacts, there’s a direct link between them and Slick Rick.”

“What kind of a link?” Grisky asked.

“Slick Rick has a muscle man who goes everywhere with him just in case anyone needs to be persuaded to pay up. A fellow who grew up here in Dorset by the name of Thomas Burke Stratton, better known as-”

“Tommy the Pinhead,” Des said, nodding.

“You know him?” he asked her.

“We’ve tussled. He’s a local lout. Low-level muscle, like you said.”

“He also does a spot of pimping on the side,” The Aardvark said. “Runs a girl named Gigi Garanski who has herself a serious heroin habit. Tommy keeps Gigi supplied with smack in exchange for which she does guys out of a motel called the Yankee Doodle Motor Court. But it’s not just a business arrangement between these two. This is a truly heartwarming love story. They live together and everything. Most days and nights, Gigi can be found at a bar on the Old Boston Post Road called the Rustic Inn. The Rustic’s owner, Steve Starkey, lets Slick Rick set up shop there two afternoons a week in exchange for a sweet discount on his beer from the regional distributor, which happens to be owned by the Castagnos. If anyone falls behind to Slick Rick, Tommy the Pinhead takes a mighty dim view of it. We know that Tommy’s supplying Gigi with heroin. That means he has drug contacts. We also know that Hank Merrill used to drop in at the Rustic from time to time. So put two and two together. If Hank was stealing prescription meds from his postal route then it stands to reason that his local buyer was Slick Rick and/or Tommy.”

Des considered this for a moment, frowning. “Captain, how is it that you know so much about the Rustic?”

The Aardvark cleared his throat uneasily. “The Narcotics Task Force put a man in there undercover last week.”

She glared across the table at him. “You have a man operating undercover in my town and you don’t tell me?”

“It was strictly a need-to-know matter, Master Sergeant.”

“We needed to know about it this morning!”

“I wanted to touch base with my man first,” he responded calmly.

Des shook her head at him angrily. “This is the same crap that you pulled on me before on Sour Cherry Lane. You come sneaking into my town, make a mess, and then stick me with the job of cleaning up after you.”

“Look, I understand your frustration.…”

“No, I don’t think you do, Captain.”

“But we’ve had leaks on our undercover operations.”

“I don’t leak!”

“I’m not saying that you do. But I’m under strict orders, from the top, to tell no one.”

“I don’t like the way you weasels operate,” Des fumed.

“It’s not your job to like it. And don’t call me a weasel.”

“Is your man still there?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if he was?”

“Uh, excuse me for getting in the way of this little love fest,” Grisky interjected, “but did your man have anything for us, Captain?”

“Possibly,” The Aardvark replied. “Paulette Zander’s son Casey is a heavy, heavy sports bettor. Football’s his game. He’s lousy at it. And Gigi knows how to play him like a fiddle. She eggs him on, gives him a little taste now and then. The end result, according to my man, is that Casey Zander’s into Slick Rick for a whopping twenty large.”

“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere,” Grisky said eagerly. “Let’s play this out. Casey Zander has to raise twenty large to pay off Slick Rick. He’s a part-time mail carrier. He’s involved with Josie Cantro. We know that Josie’s a naughty little girl. We know that valuable mail on Hank Merrill’s route was disappearing in the weeks prior to his death.”

“And we know that Casey can’t be the brains behind this,” Des said. “He’s not bright enough-especially if the security at the Post Office is tight.”

“It’s very tight,” Questa said. “Plus he only drives on Saturdays.”

“So what does that make him?” Grisky wondered aloud.

“The weak link in the chain,” Yolie answered. “Let’s find him and break him.”

“He’s a U.S. Postal Service employee,” Questa said. “I’ll be the one to talk to him.”

Yolie shook her head. “He’s a person of interest in our homicide investigation. We’re talking to him.”

“We’ll all talk to him, okay?” Grisky said. “Any idea where he is?”

“At home with his mother, I assume,” Des said as her cell phone rang. She peered down at the screen. It was the Rustic Inn calling. She stepped out into the hallway to take the call. “This is Resident Trooper Mitry.”

She heard heavy wheezing at the other end before a voice said, “Des, this here’s Rutherford Peck calling.”

“What can I do for you, Rut?”

“Well, it’s like this. I’m at the Rustic and I don’t have any way of getting home.”

“Not a problem. I can arrange a ride for you. How did you get up there in the first place?”

“Your friend and mine Mitch Berger brought me up here for a friendly glass of beer.”

“Did that old Studey truck of his break down again?”

“Not exactly. Although he did say that he wanted to get something out of his truck. He went out to the parking lot, oh, maybe a half hour ago or so.”

“And?…”

“And he never came back.”

Des felt her pulse quicken. “Where is he, Rut?”

“That’s just it, young lady. Nobody seems to know. His truck’s here but Mitch isn’t. And I can’t find anyone who knows what happened to him.”

“Rut, are you okay?”

“Fine and dandy. It’s Mitch who I’m worried about.”

“Stay put. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

She rang off and turned to discover Yolie and Toni standing there in the hallway with her.

“What’s going down?” Yolie wanted to know.

Des shook her head in amazement. “He did it to me again.”

“Did what?”

“Went barging into the middle of things like Robert Mitchum on a bad-hair day. I’m going to kill him, I swear. But first I have to find him. I can’t believe he…” She broke off, her stomach in knots. “Want to get in some trouble?”

“You know me, girl. I’m up for anything. Let’s roll.”

“You could end up back in a gunnysack like me,” Des cautioned her.

“Not a problem. I look hot in gray. Whatever it is, I’m in.”

“Me, too,” Toni said.

“This ain’t your fight,” Yolie told her. “Besides, I need you holding down the fort here.”

“No way, Loo. I’ve been chained to a computer all day. And if I have to spend five more minutes in a room with Grisky I’m going to shoot him. Enough with the talking thing, okay? Let’s get out of here and break bad.”

Yolie’s fierce face broke into a smile. “Good answer, Sergeant.”

Mitch’s dear old truck was parked in the slushy lot just as Rut had said it was. Unlocked, with nothing and no one inside. Quite a few other pickups were crowded into the lot. There was no sign of Mr. Slick Rick Fontanella’s silver Coupe de Ville.

Des could feel the tension inside the Rustic the second that she and Yolie walked in the door. The sight of two very large sisters, one of them in uniform, tends to do that in a bar that is frequented by pigment-challenged workingmen. Toni stayed outside to conduct a thorough search of the parking lot and the area out back.

Des’s eyes scanned the room. She saw no sign of Tommy the Pinhead or Gigi Garanski. No sign of Rut Peck either, for that matter. She made her way over to Steve Starkey, who stood behind the bar with a wary look on his face.

“Afternoon, Des,” he said, forcing up some good cheer. “What can I do for you today?”

“I got a call from Rut Peck a few minutes ago. He wanted a ride home.”

Steve’s face fell. “He told me he was calling the Jewett sisters. I didn’t realize he called you.”

“He seemed a little confused about a few things. Thought I’d better check them out. Steve, say hello to Lieutenant Yolanda Snipes of the Major Crimes Squad.”

“Major Crimes?” Steve’s eyes widened. “Hey, what’s going on here?”

“That’s what we’d like to know,” Yolie growled.

“Where is Rut, Steve?”

“Lying down in my back room. He had one beer too many and got a little light-headed. Come on around, I’ll take you to him.”

Steve’s back room was a combination kitchen, storeroom and office. Chili bubbled in a huge pot on the stove. Cases of beer were stacked practically to the ceiling. There was a desk cluttered with papers. Also a beat-up old sofa where the occasional Rustic regular had been known to spend the night if he’d had one or seven too many. Rut lay stretched out on it with a blanket thrown over him. He was awake but looked a bit wan.

“Are you okay, Rut?” Des asked him.

“I’m fine, young lady. Sure didn’t mean to kick up a fuss. I’m just having a little bit of trouble sorting things out. Plus I think I ate one too many of Steve’s chili dogs,” he confessed, belching discreetly. “I feel like a fool for putting you to so much trouble.”

“No need to. There’s only one fool in this picture and it’s not you. Where is he?”

“That’s what I can’t sort out. Mitch asked me if I’d mind stopping off here for a beer on our way to Essex Meadows.”

“Did he say why?”

“No, he didn’t. And I didn’t care why. It was fine by me. Except now he’s gone and I don’t know where.”

Des glanced over at Steve. “What can you tell us?”

“Not a whole lot. Rut popped in a couple of hours ago with a young guy who he introduced to me as your friend Mitch Berger.”

“Mitch’s truck is still here,” Des said. “Where’s Mitch?”

Steve hesitated, licking his lips. “Look, I run a friendly bar. A place where regular guys can hang out and relax.”

“I’m going to keep this real simple, Steve. I’m not holding you personally responsible for anything that’s happened here today-unless you start playing games with me. Then I promise that you’ll be sorry this day ever happened.”

Steve let out a sigh, then opened the bottom drawer of his desk and removed a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey. He poured a stiff slug into a not-very-clean-looking glass, drank it down, and then poured himself another slug. “Des, you’re going to get sore no matter what I say.”

She stood there in silence, clenching and unclenching her fists.

“Rut and your friend Mitch were sitting at the bar enjoying a Guinness and a chili dog, okay?”

“Best chili dog in town,” Rut said. “I had two.”

“And Casey Zander showed up looking for Gigi. Casey wasn’t in a friendly mood. When Rut offered to buy him a beer he gave Rut the brush-off.”

“And he was downright rude about it,” Rut said. “How a fine woman like Paulette could raise such a no-good louse I have never understood.”

“Then Gigi sashayed in and right away those two are snarling at each other. She told Casey to get lost and went over to talk to Tommy.”

“This would be Tommy the Pinhead?” Yolie demanded.

Steve blinked at her. “Yeah. He was sitting in the corner with a fellow who he sort of associates with.”

Yolie nodded. “Slick Rick Fontanella. We know all about him. And we’re not interested in that right now. We’re interested in what happened to Mitch.”

Steve took another swallow of Wild Turkey. “Gigi does pretty much whatever, whoever, Tommy tells her to. He beats her if she doesn’t. I’ve seen her in here with a fat lip, bruises all over her arms. It’s not pretty. Anyhow, after she talked to Tommy she came right back to Casey and started acting all nice. The two of them made a date. Casey told her he just had to take care of some business first. He went outside to the parking lot. Tommy followed him out there.”

“That’s when Mitch told me he had to get something out of his truck,” Rut recalled. “I told him it would cost him another chili dog, which is how it came to pass that I ate two of them.”

“So Mitch went outside just after Casey and Tommy did?” Des asked.

Rut nodded his tufty white head. “Correct.”

I’m going to kill him. First I have to find him, then I’ll kill him.

“Keep talking,” Yolie ordered Steve.

“Tommy and Casey came back inside a few minutes later. Casey had a real sick look on his face. Was kind of bent over, too. He and Gigi took off together right after that.”

“And what about Tommy?”

“He sat back down with Slick Rick. They talked for a sec and then he left, too. Slick Rick stuck around for another fifteen minutes. And that was that.”

“Except for the part where Mitch never came back inside,” Des said. “Stupid question, Steve. What do you think happened to him?”

Steve looked down into his glass. “It’s not my business to say.”

“I’m making it your business.”

“I figured he took off to party with Casey and Gigi. She’ll do that. Two guys at once, I mean. I just … I assumed he went out there to find out if he could get in on the action.”

“And, what, he just ditched Rut here?”

Steve shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “Happens all of the time, Des. I don’t mean to throw stones. Guys are going to do what they’re going to do.”

“Rut, is that what you think happened?”

“Never,” the old man answered with total certainty. “Mitch is true-blue. He’d cut off his own foot before he’d cheat on you-especially with that one. Why in the heck do you think I called you? I’m worried.”

Des bent over and kissed him on the forehead. Couldn’t help herself.

“Steve, you were saying Tommy left right after Casey and Gigi did,” Yolie put in. “What does Tommy drive?”

“A black ’98 Trans Am, Loo,” Toni answered as she came through the doorway from the bar. “I just ran his plate and texted it to you along with his last known address.” She paused, her face tightening. “I found something outside that you need to look at.”

Toni led them back through the bar and out the front door into the waning afternoon sunlight, Des moving on legs that felt numb. There was a fenced enclosure near the front door where Steve kept a stack of firewood and bags of rock salt.

“I found some fresh drops of blood in the snow right over here,” Toni reported. “And some blood on that snow shovel, see?”

Yolie stared down at the blood drops in the snow. “Sergeant, here’s what I want you to-”

“The cruisers from Troop F are already on their way,” Toni assured her. “I made sure that one of them has a K-9 partner. A Troop F detective will be here in ten minutes. And I’ve called for a tech crew to take blood samples and dust the shovel for prints. Also Mitch’s truck.”

“Good work.” Yolie peered over at Des. “What are you thinking?”

“He went Bulldog Drummond. He was hiding here watching the action in the parking lot-until someone sneaked up behind him and brained him with that shovel. Someone named Tommy the Pinhead.”

“Sergeant, no one leaves this place without showing proper ID. I want the name of every man who was in here in the past two hours. I want every car in that lot searched. We have less than an hour of good sunlight left. As soon as the K-9 unit gets here make sure the woods surrounding this place are-”

“He’s not in the woods,” Des said softly. “He’s not here at all.”

“What makes you say that?” Toni asked her.

“Because if he was here I’d know.”

“Have them undertake the search anyway,” Yolie ordered Toni. “You’re in charge here until you’ve brought the detective up to speed. Then I want you to catch up with us, got it?”

“Got it, Loo, except…”

“Except what?”

“I don’t know where you’re going.”

Yolie glanced inquiringly at Des. “Do you?”

Mostly, the Yankee Doodle Motor Court offered privacy. Its decaying circa-1957 bungalows were spaced a discreet distance apart, and the parking spaces were around in back so that no one driving by could see who was getting busy there.

Danny Rochin, the manager, was a cadaverous Swamp Yankee whose jet-black Grecian Formula hair contrasted sharply with his two-day growth of white stubble. The plaid wool shirt that Danny had on was a couple of sizes too large and made him look shrunken. His bony hands trembled slightly as Des stood across the counter from him in the office bungalow, Yolie by her side.

“Gigi showed up in a blue Tacoma about an hour ago,” he confirmed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I rented them Bungalow Six.”

“Who was she with, Danny?”

“Don’t know his name.”

“Have you seen him here before with Gigi?”

“Oh, sure. He’s one of her regulars. Odd-looking sort of guy. Real pale and soft. Colors his hair red. Wears it like one of the Beatles.”

“How did Gigi seem to you?”

“She was high, same as always. Sloppy high. Fell halfway over this counter, slurred her words. She’s a mess, that one. If she lives to be thirty I’ll be surprised.”

“How about the fifth Beatle?” Yolie asked him. “Was he high, too?”

“He was something. Like he was in pain.”

“And how about the other guy?” Des asked.

Danny peered at her in confusion. “What other guy?”

“The other guy who was in the truck with them. Big fellow with curly black hair, eyes like a sad cocker spaniel.”

“I didn’t see anyone like that. Just them two. I rented them Bungalow Six. They parked in back and went in and then…” Danny hesitated, his grayish tongue flicking over his dry lips. “Tommy the Pinhead rolled in a few minutes after that.”

“So you know Tommy?”

“I’ve known that bastard since he was a little kid. He used to beat up my nephew because the kid stuttered. Gave him a bruised kidney once in the fifth grade. Poor kid pissed blood for a week.”

“What happened after he showed up, Danny?”

“He barged in here demanding to know which bungalow Gigi was in.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Damned straight I told him. You think I want to piss blood? He pulled in front of Bungalow Six, got out and started pounding on the door, acting like he was all crazy with jealousy or something. Can’t imagine how he could be, the way that girl sleeps around. She opened the door and they stood out there jawing at each other.”

“Could you hear anything they said?”

Danny shook his head.

“Is anyone staying in the adjacent bungalows?”

He shook his head again. “Afternoons are quiet here during Christmas season. Business will pick up again soon as New Year’s gets here.”

“What happened after that, Danny?”

“He went inside of the bungalow with her and closed the door.”

“And then?…”

“A nice, clean-cut young couple showed up. Couple of college kids home for the holiday is my guess. I got them settled into Bungalow One, good and comfy. A few minutes later I noticed Tommy and Gigi pulling out of the driveway in his Trans Am and heading off together.”

“How long ago was this?”

“An hour ago, maybe.”

“And what happened to the fifth Beatle?”

“Still there, as far as I know. Sleeping one off or whatever. The Tacoma’s still parked around back.”

Yolie headed right out the door to have a look at Casey’s pickup.

“Danny, I’m going to need the key to Bungalow Six.”

“I run a decent place here. I respect the privacy of my guests.”

“I’m not saying otherwise. But I still need that key.”

He let his breath out slowly. “Yes, ma’am.”

She strode across the plowed gravel parking lot, the shadows growing long in the weak late-day sun. It got dark early in the days leading up to Christmas. They were the shortest days of the year. The chill of night was already settling in.

Yolie met her outside of the bungalow. “There’s nobody in the Tacoma.”

And nobody was home in Bungalow Six, which was small and sparely furnished. All of the bungalows were small and sparely furnished. People didn’t come to the Yankee Doodle for the ambiance. They were strictly interested in a bed. The bed in Bungalow Six hadn’t been used. A pair of men’s scuffed Wolverine work boots were on the floor at the foot of it, where the covers were slightly rumpled. Otherwise, the quilt was smooth, the pillows plumped, sheets and blanket freshly made. Aside from the boots, no trace of Gigi, Casey or Tommy had been left behind. The ashtrays on the nightstands were clean. The wastebasket was empty. The closet was empty. The bedroom was spotless.

The same could not be said for the bathroom.

Blood was spattered all over the floor, sink and walls. More blood was smeared in the bathtub. The shower curtain was gone. So were all of the towels.

“You just relax, girl,” Yolie said to her as they backed their way carefully out of the bungalow. They didn’t want to compromise any trace evidence. “Don’t jump to any conclusions, hear?”

Des said nothing in response. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

I will die. If anything has happened to Mitch I will curl up and die.

Toni pulled into the parking lot now, hopped out and came charging toward them. “Detective Kinsler’s taken charge of the Rustic Inn crime scene, Loo,” she reported. “Techies just got there.”

“We have another crime scene in Bungalow Six, Sergeant,” Yolie informed her quietly.

Toni’s eyes widened. “Is there a body?”

“Just blood. Lots of it. In fact, here’s a couple of drops right here,” she said, noticing them in the gravel just outside of the bungalow. “There’s no trail though. Just the drops. Sergeant, this entire motel needs to be secured. And we need to find out if this blood’s a match for what’s on that snow shovel at the Rustic.”

“On it, Loo,” Toni said, reaching for her cell phone.

“Danny didn’t say nothing to us about any gunshots,” Yolie mused aloud. “Sure didn’t smell like somebody fired off any rounds in there.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“So Tommy must have gutted Casey with a knife.”

“Must have.”

“And then, let’s see, Danny said Tommy parked his Trans Am out front here, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did.”

“I’m guessing he wrapped Casey up in the shower curtain, popped his trunk and threw Casey’s body in there before he and Gigi took off. That would explain the blood drops in the gravel. Danny never saw it happen-the open trunk blocked his view from the office. Plus he told us he was busy with another couple, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did.”

“That make sense to you?”

“Perfect sense, Yolie. All except for one thing. Where’s Mitch?”

“Don’t you worry about him. I won’t let nothing happen to your boy.” Yolie reached for her cell and started thumbing away. “Okay, here’s Tommy’s address. It’s in Cardiff-Dunn’s Lane, number 10A. Know where that is?”

“I know where it is.”

“I’ll follow you.” She turned to Toni and said, “Sergeant, this is now a Major Crime Squad case. I need you to coordinate both crime scenes. I’ll be back for you just as soon as I can.”

“Sure thing, Loo.”

They started toward their cruisers, moving quickly.

Danny Rochin came out of the office, his shoulders hunched. “Everything okay?” he asked nervously.

“Afraid not, Danny,” Yolie replied. “Sergent Tedone has to search all of the other bungalows. Also your grounds and the woods surrounding the grounds. Oh, and Danny?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“You’re going to need a new shower curtain.”

Des floored it up the Post Road into Cardiff with her hands gripping the wheel tight and Yolie hugging her tail. Cardiff wasn’t nearly as affluent a town as Dorset. It had no beaches or marinas. No picture-postcard Historic District. Just a shuttered GM assembly plant, an abandoned thread mill, assorted fast-food franchises and a lot of rundown houses filled with rundown people who couldn’t find work. The roads weren’t nearly as well plowed as they were in Dorset, and the countryside wasn’t nearly as bucolic. Bleak was more like it.

At Upper Pattaganset Road she made a left and sped past an apartment complex, then a neighborhood of vinyl-sided starter Capes before she passed a frozen lake. Beyond it, the houses were older and saggier. Kids were having a snowball fight out in front of an abandoned farmhouse. The zoning became jumbled after that, which is to say nonexistent. There was a plumbing supply warehouse next to a mobile home park next to an auto wrecking yard. Dunn’s Lane, which was just past that, was a cul-de-sac of tract homes for GM workers that had been built on the cheap in the 1970s before the plant closed down. Now, in what was rapidly becoming Not-the-American Century, it qualified as a Swamp Yankee slum. Junked cars sat on blocks in more than one of the driveways. Plywood boards covered broken windows. And the street was still buried under deep snow. Des doubted that the town plow had made more than one pass through here yesterday. She inched her way slowly along as she looked for street addresses. Behind her, Yolie had killed her headlights. In this sort of neighborhood the sight of two cruisers arriving together would send off silent alarm bells up and down the block.

There were no lights on at number 10. No cars parked out front. As Des eased on by she saw that 10A was around in back-an apartment over the garage at the end of the driveway. There were lights on in those windows, and a car was parked there. She drove two houses farther down the block before she edged over to the snowbank and parked, Yolie right behind her. They got out, closing their doors quietly. A dog barked at them from across the street. They stayed where they were until it fell silent, then made their way quietly up the driveway. As they got closer to the garage they could hear heavy metal music coming from the upstairs apartment. And make out that the parked car was a black Trans Am.

Des pressed her hand against its tailpipe. It felt warm.

The wooden staircase up to Tommy the Pinhead’s apartment was on the outside of the garage. It was icy-slick and creaky as hell, but the music was plenty loud and the hand railing held them steady as they inched their way up. When they reached the landing they drew their SIGs and exchanged eye contact in the light from Tommy’s front window. Yolie’s gaze was steady and fearless.

Quietly, Des tried the doorknob. No good. Locked.

Yolie, who outweighed her by a solid thirty pounds of muscle, nudged her to one side. Then she took a deep breath and kicked the whole freaking door in. They went in low, guns drawn as “Welcome to the Jungle” greeted them on Tommy’s stereo.

He and the girl were naked in the bed, Gigi on top, riding him. Tommy’s eyes bulged as he saw them burst through the door. He tossed Gigi aside like a small child and started to reach for the Glock on his nightstand.

“Go for it,” Yolie urged him as they stood at the foot of the bed with their SIGs pointed right at him. “You’ll be doing the whole world a favor.”

He froze, then lay back against the pillows with his hands up, his eyes narrow, hostile slits.

Des turned off the music, her nostrils twitching. It stank in the one-room apartment, a musky smell that was equal parts marijuana smoke, soiled bedsheets and soiled people. A half-eaten pepperoni pizza sat in an open box on the dinette table in what passed for a kitchen. There was a microwave and a minifridge. A work sink filled with dirty dishes. No stove. And not much furniture other than the bed and a beat-up old dresser. Des had seen nicer fleabag motel rooms. Hell, she’d just been in one. It wasn’t particularly warm in there. In fact, it was downright cold. Tommy had nothing more than a kerosene space heater.

He and Gigi continued to lie there naked. Tommy appeared to spend a lot of his free time in a tanning salon. He also waxed his huge, rippling chest-the better to show off his tasteful swastika and Iron Cross tats. Gigi was so pallid and gaunt it was painful to look at her. Her arms and legs were barely more than sticks. Her skin was blotchy and covered with bruises. She wore a nipple ring in her right nipple. Beneath her belly button she had a tattoo of a cupcake with a glistening cherry on top.

Her eyes were huge and she was shaking. “I’m f-freezing. You mind if I cover myself up?”

“Please do,” Yolie said to her with obvious distaste.

Gigi pulled the top sheet and blanket over them, shivering.

“What do you bitches want?” Tommy demanded, folding his body builder arms in front of his chest.

“Where is he?” Des asked.

“Where’s who?”

“Mitch Berger.”

“Don’t know who you’re talking about. This must be some kind of mistake. Me and Gigi haven’t been out all day, except to get a pizza.”

Yolie aimed her SIG directly in between his eyes. “Try again, Pinhead.”

He bristled at her. “I don’t like that name.”

“And I don’t like being jerked around, Pinhead.”

“Like I just said, we been here all day. Smoked us a little weed, made love. I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Then let me put it in a language you can understand,” Yolie said. “If you tell us right goddamned now what went down at the Yankee Doodle then I promise we won’t shoot both of you dead.”

He let out a laugh. “You can’t lay a finger on us. That there’s Resident Trooper Mitry. She has to play by the rules. I don’t know who you are.…”

“I’m your worst nightmare. An angry black bitch with a loaded gun. You have three seconds to tell us what went down or I start shooting.”

“I got nothing to tell you. Me and Gigi have been here all-”

Yolie fired at the wall right next to his head-once, twice, three times.

Gigi screamed. Tommy just lay there, glowering.

“Next one goes in your shoulder,” Yolie promised him. “Where is he?”

“Tell her, Tommy.”

“Shut up!”

“Tommy, I swear I–I’m gonna piss myself if you don’t.”

“And I said shut up,” he snarled, his jaw muscles clenching. “Just forget it, lady. I’m not getting in any trouble.”

“Fool, you are in trouble.”

“I think he means in trouble with Slick Rick,” Des said. “Slick Rick’s connected. If Tommy crosses him he’ll wind up in a pork sausage factory somewhere in Providence. The girl, too.”

Gigi let out a gasp of horror.

Tommy the Pinhead said nothing. Just continued to glower. It was what he did best.

Yolie shook her head at him. “You are failing to grasp the reality of your present situation. Your problem is with us. Neither of you will make it out of this apartment alive if you do not give up everything right goddamned now.”

Gigi started to sob, her heavy eye makeup running down her cheeks in black gobs. “Tommy, please…”

Yolie aimed her weapon at Tommy’s left shoulder. “Talk.”

“Lady, I got nothing for you.”

She fired a shot into the wall that Des swore was less than a half-inch from his skin. “Talk.”

“I just told you. I got nothing.”

“Okay, I’m all done playing games with this fool,” huffed Yolie, who never left home without her Smith amp; Wesson SWAT spring-assist folding knife, size large. There are times when a combat knife can be vastly more persuasive than a SIG. This was one of those times. Yolie squeezed the knife’s thumb release and its razor-sharp four-inch blade sprang open with a click. Then she flung the bedcovers from Tommy and exposed his family jewels. “Hold his legs, girl,” she commanded Des. “I’m going to cut our boy Tommy down to size.”

Tommy wasn’t without nerve. He lay there sneering with contempt while Des grabbed his legs. And kept on sneering-right up until the moment when Yolie had that scary blade less than six inches from where he and his progeny lived. That was when he began to squirm, his eyes bulging. “Wait, lady!” he roared. “Are you crazy?”

“There’s an honest difference of opinion about that,” Yolie answered soberly. “But the state shrink cleared me for active duty. Let’s do this, girl.”

“I said wait!” he protested. “W-What do you want to know about?”

“Casey Zander,” Des said. “How things went down at the Rustic.”

“South in a hurry,” he said, his eyes never leaving that knife. “Casey was acting all spooked, okay? Said the law was getting hip to things now that his mom’s boyfriend was dead.”

“Hip to what things?”

“That he was stealing meds out of the mail to pay off Slick Rick.”

“Who was stealing them-Casey or his mom’s boyfriend?”

“Don’t ask me. I don’t know how blubber boy’s been doing it. Don’t know, don’t care. I just know he was into Slick Rick for big bucks and he’s been paying him off with meds, iPods, anything else he can lay his hands on. He’s been making good, too, until today out in the parking lot of the Rustic he starts whining like a little bitch about how the postal inspectors are grilling him and he’s getting real nervous. I went back inside and told my employer.…”

“Slick Rick, you mean?”

Tommy nodded. “He told me we’ll be toast if the feds start leaning on blubber boy. Casey would give us up in a heartbeat to save his own sorry ass. Slick Rick said to take care of it. I’d just sent Gigi to the Yankee Doodle with Casey to settle him down. Figured I’d follow them there. Except when I got outside there’s some dude crouched by the woodpile watching them drive away. Same dude who was just inside the Rustic asking Steve a bunch of questions. I figured he had to be the one.” He swallowed hard. “Put that thing away, will ya?”

Yolie held the knife even closer. “The one? What one?”

“The undercover cop. Slick Rick heard there might be a state narc hanging around. Word gets out.”

Des felt her stomach tighten. “What did you do about him?”

“Whacked him over the head with a snow shovel and tossed him in my trunk.”

“Why did you do that?”

“I couldn’t just leave him lying there. People would notice him.”

“No, dumb ass,” Yolie growled. “Why’d you whack him over the head?”

“Because I didn’t want him following me to the Yankee Doodle. I had business to take care of there. I had no personal beef with the guy but he intruded into my thing. So I did what I had to do.”

Yolie raised her chin at him. “Of course you did.”

“Then I drove to the Yankee Doodle, except Gigi had locked the bungalow door.”

“I always do,” she whimpered. “I told you I was sorry.”

“Just shut the hell up, will you? I had to pound on the freaking door. Attract all kinds of attention to myself. That’s real smart, isn’t it?”

“Not here to listen to you two bicker,” Yolie growled, poking at the tender flesh of Tommy’s scrotum with the tip of her knife.

Tommy held up his hands, shuddering. “Okay, okay. Just take it easy, will ya? When I went in, Casey was sitting on the bed taking his boots off. Still had his clothes on which, believe me, was a good thing.”

“I hated doing him,” Gigi said. “He was totally fat and he had these acne scars all over his back that were disgusting.”

“Yeah, like you’d know from disgusting,” Yolie said.

Gigi frowned at her. “Did you just insult me?”

“Then what happened?”

“I pulled a blade and he ran into the bathroom, squealing like a little girl.” Tommy’s voice was eerily flat and emotionless now. “I went in there after him and stuck him until he wasn’t squealing anymore.”

“What did you do with him?”

“Wrapped him in the shower curtain and threw him in my trunk.”

“With the other guy?”

“Yeah, with the other guy.”

“Was the other guy still unconscious?”

“Don’t know. I wasn’t paying much attention to him.”

Des’s gaze flicked over to the windows, then back at the bed. “Are they still out there in your trunk?”

“No way. You think I’m stupid?”

“You don’t actually want us to answer that, do you?” Yolie responded.

“What did you do after you left the Yankee Doodle?” Des asked him, struggling to maintain her calm.

“Dumped Casey’s body.”

“Where?”

“Breezy Point.”

Breezy Point was a state park ten miles east of Dorset’s Historic District. It had a nice stretch of beach and miles of bike paths and hiking trails that overlooked Long Island Sound. During the summer it was a popular destination. During the winter it was windy and desolate. Hardly anyone went there.

“Why Breezy Point?”

“It’s my favorite place in the whole world,” Gigi answered, brightening. “That’s where Tommy and me met. Right, baby? I was wearing that little pink T-shirt and you said, ‘Hey, I like pink.’ Which I thought was the lamest line ever. But you were so cute I started talking to you anyway and…” She trailed off, sniffling. “I thought it would be, you know, funny.”

“I don’t get the joke. Yolie, do you get the joke?”

“Afraid not.”

“So you drove out to Breezy Point, dumped Casey’s body and then?…”

“Picked up a pizza and came back here,” Tommy the Pinhead said. “That’s the whole story, I swear. Now put that knife away, okay?”

Yolie shook her head at him. “Not quite. The guy who you brained with the shovel…”

“What about him?”

“Did you gut him, too?”

“Nope. Didn’t have any cause to.”

Des walked around to his side of the bed and pressed the nose of her SIG against Tommy the Pinhead’s forehead. “What did you do with him?”