The sour cherry surprise

CHAPTER 9

“I don’t make friends with anyone who is so totally and completely full of shit.”

The bubble bath felt heavenly after the punishing hour in her weight room capped off by a five-mile run through the hills around Uncas Lake. Des’s body was good and relaxed now. All muscle tension gone.

If only her mind would ease off, too.

She could not stop obsessing about her encounter with Jen Beckwith at The Works. Replaying their conversation. Wondering how she might have handled it differently. Teenagers were just so damned hard. Trust was hard. Hell, Dorset was hard. It always got tricky when she waded into the lives of these people. Sometimes, as much as Des hated to admit it, she missed the moral clarity of a nice, clean gunshot wound to the head.

She shaved her long fine legs. Rubbed them with baby oil after she’d rinsed off. Dabbed some perfume behind her ears and between her breasts. Put on her tiny, low-cut red mini with not a stitch underneath. Barefoot, she set the table with her good china and silver and wine goblets. Lit the candles. Got the Reverend Al Green going on the stereo, feeling tingly and girlie-girl all over.

Brandon arrived home at six on the dot bearing a dozen long-stemmed red roses and two chilled bottles of Dom Perignon. “My god, Desi!” he gasped, gaping at her from the front hallway. “You look so foxy you’re going to throw me completely off my game.”

She sashayed over to him, worked his tie off and draped it around her own neck. “Which game is that?”

“I… had this speech all worked out.”

“This isn’t a courtroom, baby,” she said, gazing up at him. “It’s just us. Talk to me.”

“Fair enough,” he began, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I understand why you were upset last night. It was wrong of me to shut you out of Operation Burrito King. I should have told you what was going on. You had every right to know. I simply let work get the best of me. I have to do a better job from now on, and I promise you I will. I’ve already lost you once, Desi. Lord knows I don’t want to lose you again. I’m nowhere without you. I really mean that. And I-I… Damn, this was all going to sound fine until I saw you in that little dress.”

“It sounded plenty fine,” Des assured him. “Besides, it’s not all on you. They told you to keep it quiet. You were being a professional. It was wrong of me to judge you. Sometimes I get a little turfy about this place and these people. I feel responsible for them.”

“I know that.” Brandon’s eyes gleamed at her. “And it makes me so proud.”

She glanced over at the champagne he’d brought. “Are you planning to open one of those or are they just for show?”

He went to work easing a cork out while she fetched their goblets from the tablet. He poured. They clinked glasses. They drank, gazing at each other as Reverend Al crooned smooth and silky on the stereo.

“So how awful was your meeting at the barracks?” he asked her.

“Let’s just drop that, okay? I’ve punched out. Don’t want to talk about work anymore.”

“Well, what do you want to talk about?”

She put her arms around his neck. “Who wants to talk?”

They kissed, her heart pounding so hard she felt weak in the knees.

“All day long I’ve been wanting to hold you in my arms,” he purred at her.

She melted into him, her head nestled on his shoulder as they slow-danced right there in the kitchen, pausing now and again to sip their champagne and get lost in each other’s eyes. Just like it was when they first met. When she couldn’t believe this one in a million man noticed her, liked her, wanted her. Couldn’t believe how gentle he could be. How lucky she was.

“God, you smell good.” He ran his big hands up and down her bare back. “And you are smooth all over.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, raising her mouth to his. “Just so you know, there’s steak.”

“How can you think about food at a time like this?”

“Why, are you thinking about something else?”

“Girl, you are naughty. Know what happens to naughty girls, don’t you?”

“Haven’t the slightest idea.” She put a finger to his lips before he could say another word. “Don’t tell me. Show me.”

For starters, that dress came right off over her head. And now Brandon’s tongue was on her breasts. And now, oh, God, it was slip-sliding its way downtown. He fell to his knees, the better to devour her. She threw one leg over his shoulder and let out a groan, her breathing growing deeper and deeper… until he picked her up and carried her off to their bedroom.

It was long past dark out, nearly ten, by the time she stirred and got up, searching for something to throw on.

“Where are you going?” he asked her sleepily, sprawled there in bed.

“To start dinner.”

“Now that you mention it, I’m starved,” he admitted. “Only, wait, there’s something else I wanted to say to you. Let’s disappear from this place for a couple of days. Jump in the car tomorrow morning and head for the Cape. Find ourselves a little inn near a beach somewhere. What do you say?”

She flashed her wraparound smile at him. “I say, what time do we leave?”

That was when her phone rang. It was the 911 dispatcher. A call had come in from the Sullivan residence on Sour Cherry Lane. Amber Sullivan phoning to report she’d just heard some sort of a fight out in the lane. Followed by the sound of a man screaming.

There were plenty of lights on at Kimberly and Jen’s, as well as across the lane at the Procters. But the lane appeared to be deserted as Des eased past their cottages. Until little Molly suddenly loomed before her there in the road-standing out in front of the Sullivan cottage with her eyeglasses shining in the headlights.

Des rolled down her window and called out, “Girl, what are you doing out here at this time of night?”

“I heard something,” Molly answered in a quavering voice. “Somebody’s hurt.”

Des nosed her cruiser up to the pile of cedar mulch in Amber and Keith’s driveway and got out, flashlight in hand. The night air was very heavy and still. It smelled of a skunk that had been marking its territory. With her light, Des looked the girl over carefully as Molly stood there in her UConn jersey, baggy shorts and floppy socks. She seemed frightened but unharmed. “Were you up in your tree house for the night?”

Molly nodded her head, swallowing.

“Did you see anything?”

She shook her head gravely.

“Well, what did you hear?”

“Voices. Men’s voices. They came from out there somewhere.” Molly pointed past the Sullivan place toward the utter darkness at the end of the lane.

Des shined her light out there. Saw nothing other than wild, overgrown brush crowding both sides of the pavement. The road dead-ended at Jersey safety barriers after a hundred feet or so. Beyond the barriers was the bank of the Connecticut River.

“How many men did you hear?”

“Two, I think.”

“And you’re sure they were both men?”

“W-What do you mean?”

“Could one of them have been a woman?’

“I don’t know. Maybe. One of them… he screamed.”

“Then what happened?”

“I don’t know. I listened real hard, but I didn’t hear anything else.”

“And you’re sure you didn’t see anyone?”

Molly gazed up at her, mystified. “Like who?”

“Someone running away from here. Or driving away. Did anyone pass by your place after you heard the scream?”

“I didn’t see anybody. But I-I was…” She faltered, lowering her gaze.

“You were what?” Des asked, hearing footsteps now. Amber and Keith were approaching them.

“Scared to come down.” Molly let out a sob. “I hid in my tree house until I saw you coming.”

Meaning she may not have seen someone fleeing in her direction. Des knelt and hugged the frightened girl, her thoughts on Grisky’s team in the woods. What had they seen and heard? And where in the hell were they? “You did the right thing, Molly. You were smart to be afraid. But you don’t have to be afraid now, okay?”

Actually, Amber looked plenty scared herself. Those big brown eyes of hers were huge and shining. “Des, I really, really hope I didn’t get you out here on a wild goose chase,” she said in a frantic voice.

Beefy, blond Keith trailed along a few steps behind her clutching a bottle of Sam Adams. He wore a T-shirt, shorts and a pissed off expression. A vibe of tension was coming off of the two lovebirds.

The source of which tumbled straight out of Keith’s mouth: “I am totally sorry about this, Des,” he growled. “I told her not to waste your time.”

“Stop being such a know-it-all,” fired back Amber, all ninety pounds of her in a halter top and linen drawstring trousers. “I am a sentient adult being. I know what I heard.”

“What you ‘heard’ was a couple of raccoons,” Keith argued. “I’ve heard ‘em fighting in the night a million times-and you’d swear it was a person being gutted with a grapefruit knife.”

“It wasn’t raccoons,” Molly said in a low, insistent voice.

“You see?” Amber huffed at him. “Molly heard them, too.”

Keith shook his head disgustedly. “Fine, whatever.”

“I heard them when I was taking out the trash.” Amber gazed toward the end of the lane same as Molly had. “They were down there somewhere.”

“And how about you?” Des asked Keith.

“I was watching the Red Sox game in the living room,” he replied, swigging from his beer. “Didn’t hear a thing.”

“How are our boys doing tonight?”

He made a face. “Toronto’s killing us.”

“That figures.” Des looked over in the direction of the Procter and Beckwith houses, guessing that no one in either place had heard anything. If they had, they’d be out here in the street telling her about it by now. “I’m going to ask you folks to please follow me, okay?”

She strode back to her ride with the three of them and left them standing there in the driveway. Backed out into the road and pointed the cruiser so that its high beams lit up the end of the lane right down to the Jersey barriers. Then she got out and slowly checked out the wild brush growing alongside of the pavement, left hand gripping her flashlight, right hand resting lightly on the holster of her Sig. She trained the light on the tangled profusion of sour cherry trees, blackberry bushes, forsythia and lilac. She saw no broken branches. No signs of trampling. The brush did not appear to be disturbed on either side of the lane.

Until, that is, she got to within twenty feet of the barriers. Here, the lane began to dip downward as it neared the shallows of the river, the wild brush giving way to boggy salt marsh where Spartina grass and phragmites grew.

Here, the marsh grasses were newly trampled. There were mucky shoe prints on the pavement. And there was more.

There was blood. There was a lot of blood. And droplets leading down toward the water.

Stepping carefully around them, Des approached the riverbank and waved her light out into the water. She wondered if someone had pitched a body out there-figuring it would float out to sea on the current.

She did not have to wonder for long. She spotted the floater maybe fifty feet downriver where a dead tree had washed up in the mud. One of its branches had snagged him as he’d drifted past. Or at least it looked like a he from where she stood. The body lay facedown in the water, bobbing up and down in the gentle current of the river. Des didn’t want to disturb the crime scene. But she also didn’t want the body to break free and drift out into Long Island Sound. So she went down there and fetched it, keeping a watchful eye out for shoeprints or any other disturbances in the mud as she tiptoed her way along the water’s edge.

It was a man, all right. Dressed in a light blue shirt, khaki trousers and hiking shoes. Gently, she untangled him from the branches that held him there. Then she pulled him ashore and flopped him over, her abdominal muscles clenching as the pang of recognition hit.

It was Richard Procter. Someone had cut his throat from ear to ear.

It took the uniformed troopers less than ten minutes to get there from the Troop F barracks. They immediately set up a vehicular cordon all of the way back up Turkey Neck at Old Shore Road. And another cordon around the perimeter of the crime scene itself, which included all of Sour Cherry Lane, the riverfront and, at Des’s suggestion, the woods between Sour Cherry and the Peck’s Point Nature Preserve.

Soon after that, the Major Crime Squad crime scene technicians rolled up in their blue and white cube vans along with a death investigator from the Medical Examiner’s office.

By now it was nearly midnight. The residents of Sour Cherry were huddled together out in the lane like the survivors of an apartment house fire. By now Des had expected to see or hear from Grisky. But she’d had no contact from him or Cavanaugh or anyone else associated with Operaton Burrito King. She didn’t know what to make of that beyond the fact that they seemed content to let the normal investigative process unfold. So she went ahead and did her normal thing, which was to conduct preliminary interviews of the neighbors.

Kimberly and Jen Beckwith were standing out there with Molly. Kimberly was sobbing and moaning, utterly blown away. Her frizzy red hair was wet and uncombed-she’d been in the shower when Jen answered Des’s knock on their door. When Kimberly heard what had happened to Richard she threw on a purple caftan and came running, a damp towel still wrapped around her neck. Neither she nor Jen had heard the screams. Nor had they seen anyone fleeing the scene.

Jen seemed quite shaken herself, but unlike her mother was trying to keep her emotions in check for Molly, whose own mother was nowhere to be seen.

Molly had a surprisingly serene look on her freckled face as she stood there holding Jen’s hand. It was almost freakish how composed the girl was.

She was certainly holding up better than Amber and Keith, both of whom had turned goggle-eyed with shock and disbelief when Des told them what she’d discovered.

Patricia Beckwith stood slightly apart from the others, her posture erect, facial expression stony. Whatever emotions she was experiencing were private. Not to be displayed in front of others. “Richard and I ate a good dinner together,” she told Des in a firm, measured voice. “Scallops, rice and string beans. He had a fine appetite. He seemed very positive and upbeat. After we’d had our coffee he said he felt like taking a walk. I asked him if he would like some company. He said he’d be fine on his own, and went striding out the door shortly after nine.”

“Mrs. Beckwith, did he happen to speak to anyone on the phone before he left?”

“Not that I am aware of,” Patricia responded, pursing her thin, dry lips. “I shouldn’t have let him go by himself, I suppose.”

“He wasn’t your prisoner,” Des told her. “He was free to come and go as he pleased. So don’t blame yourself for this, ma’am. Whatever this is.”

Actually, Des thought she had a pretty fair idea what it was as she gazed over at Clay and Hector. The two of them were seated on the front porch of the Procter house drinking Coors and acting completely innocent. They’d been playing Texas Hold ‘Em at the kitchen table all evening, or so they claimed. Neither of them had heard a thing, or so they claimed. No screams in the night. No footsteps. No cars leaving the lane. Nothing but good ol’ country quiet.

Neither man had a scratch on him. No indication that he’d been involved in anything remotely physical that evening.

As for Carolyn, she’d been sacked out in the bedroom since nine o’clock, according to Clay. “The poor woman still can’t chase that virus,” was how he put it to Des. “You want me to get her up?”

“No, let her sleep for now,” Des replied, detesting the man. He and Richard had already fought once over Carolyn. Tonight, they’d fought again. There was no doubt in her mind about it.

What a mess. What a great big steaming turd of a mess this ruthless drug trafficker had made in her nice little New England town.

The homicide investigators from the Major Crime Squad were the last to get there from Central district headquarters in Meriden. They sent a two-person team that Des happened to know real well-Lt. Rico “Soave” Tedone and his half-Cuban, half-black sergeant, Yolie Snipes. Soave had been Des’s stumpy, bulked-up young pup of sergeant back in her glory days when she was still the state police’s great nonwhite hope. And Yolie, a brash hard-charger out of Hartford’s burned out Frog Hollow section, was someone who Des had very high hopes for. Yolie had a Latina’s liquid brown eyes. Lips, nose and an hour-and-a-half glass figure that said sister all of the way. The boys all called her Boom Boom because of what went on inside of her sweater. She wore a sleeveless one tonight, tattoos adorning both biceps. In her chunky boots she towered over Soave, who was still trying to win cool points with that goatee and shaved head look of his.

“Hey, Miss Thing,” Yolie exclaimed, showing Des her smile.

“Back at you, girl.”

“Haven’t seen you since you and your ex got back together. How is that?”

“All good.”

“And it shows. You look fantastic.”

“Thanks. You’re the first person who’s told me that in… ever.”

“Yo, dumping that fat doofus Berger was the smartest move you ever made,” Soave declared with great assurance. “The two of you had zero future as a couple.”

“Thank you, Rico,” said Des, who was certainly ready to change the subject at any time.

“What have you got for us?” he asked.

“One dead Wesleyan history professor named Richard Procter. Our victim was the estranged husband of Carolyn Procter, who lives in that scenic farmhouse on your left. She recently took up with another man, Clay Mundy. He’s the one sitting on the porch in the white T-shirt.”

“Who’s the other gee?”

“Hector Villanueva. Works for him. Are you ready to look at the victim?”

“On it,” barked Yolie, who immediately went charging down toward the crime scene personnel gathered on the riverbank. She was more comfortable around techies than Soave, who tended to get edgy and snappish with them. Partly because he wanted quicker answers than they were able to give him. Mostly because he got insecure around people who he feared were smarter than he was. When it came to self-esteem Des’s little man was still very much a work in progress.

She could see the flashbulbs go off down there as they photographed Richard’s body. Not so long ago, she would have wanted a set of those photos. Wanted, needed to draw Richard. Richard with his carotid artery severed-the deep, puckering knife gash washed clean by the river. Richard with his eyes wide open and that look of complete surprise on his ghostly bluish face. Her fingers would have itched at the prospect. Tonight, she felt no such itch. Only the knots in her stomach.

She filled Soave in on how Richard and Clay had scuffled in the driveway a few nights back. How she’d found him in out on Big Sister in a despondent state. How he’d been hospitalized, then had moved in that very afternoon with Patricia Beckwith.

Which was when he stopped her. “Wait, who’s Patricia Beckwith?”

“The elderly mother-in-law of Kimberly Beckwith.”

“And she is…?”

“That redhead over there in the caftan. Kimberly lives across the lane from the Procters with her daughter, Jen. Patricia was very fond of the victim. Happy to take him in for a few days until he got back his act together.”

Soave mulled this over, nodding his gleaming dome. “Who called it in?”

“A neighbor named Amber Sullivan. She lives in the house that’s nearest to the crime scene. Amber’s a grad student at Yale. The victim happened to be her mentor, for whatever that’s worth. She told me she heard a scream. Her husband Keith didn’t. But Molly Procter did. She’s the victim’s nine-year-old daughter. Molly was up in her tree house at the time. Neither she nor Amber witnessed anyone fleeing the scene. Nor did anyone else I’ve spoken with. Translation: Whoever did this to Richard is still right here among us. Or took off through the woods. Or swam, though I highly doubt that. The current is treacherous down here at the mouth of the river.”

“How about a little boat?”

“That’s possible,” Des allowed. “Though it suggests there was some degree of premeditation. To me this doesn’t play out as any kind of planned thing.”

“Fair enough. Anything else?”

Des shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose and said, “Couple of things. I still haven’t spoken to Carolyn.”

“She’s next of kin. Why haven’t you?” Soave started his way down toward the crime scene now.

Des walked with him. “Clay Mundy claims she’s asleep in bed. He told me she has a quote-unquote virus. But when I visited yesterday I got the distinct impression she’s way into crystal meth. Not to mention both Clay and Hector.”

Soave let out a short laugh. “Nice, tight little bunch you got here.”

“Welcome back to Dorset, Rico.”

“I love this place, Des. Really, I do. Every time I think the real world’s spinning out of control I come to this safe, sane little haven of yours and discover that things are even more whacked than I thought.”

“Well, then you’d better prepare yourself, wow man. Because when it comes to whacked out I am just getting rolling.”

“Why, what else have you got?” he asked, peering at her.

By now they’d arrived at the trampled marsh grass where Des had found the blood. Yolie was huddled with the medical examiner’s man and several techies. Lots of ears. Too many. The rest of her story would have to wait.

“He’s been in that water no more than two hours, boss,” Yolie reported as they approached.

“Totally consistent with the time of the nine-one-one call,” Des said, glancing at her watch.

“Mind you, that’s strictly a preliminary estimate,” cautioned the death investigator. “This is a tidal estuary. You’ve got your colder salt water from Long Island Sound ebbing and flowing with the warmer river currents. A formulation for determining the mean water temperature for any prolonged amount of time is highly complex. I’ll have to reference the tidal charts for this evening as well as factor in the-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” blustered Soave, who had an extremely low geek speak threshold. “He put up any kind of a fight?”

“Doesn’t appear so,” Yolie answered. “No obvious defensive cuts or bruising. But we won’t know for sure until they get him on the table. We’re looking at a single cut, very deep. A smooth, sharp blade. Something along the lines of a carving knife. The cut was most likely made from behind, which means we’re talking about a person who was strong enough to overpower him.”

“Unless there were two of them,” Des said.

“I’m down with that,” Yolie agreed. “It would explain how the body was moved from here all of the way down to the water. We’re talking, what, thirty feet? The victim was good-sized, yet there’s no sign he was dragged.”

“Meaning he was carried.” Soave tugged at his goatee thoughtfully. “Got to figure his blood got all over the person or persons who did this. There ought to be bloody clothing and shoes around here somewhere. Not to mention the carving knife. Only, jeez, is it dark down here or what? Have they ever heard of a little thing called streetlights in this place?”

“You’re in the country, Rico,” Des reminded him.

“Whatever. Come daylight, I want our scuba divers down here searching the river for the knife and for weighted-down clothing. They can hook up with the DEP if they need a boat. And I want all available men combing this marsh, that brush back there, the woods, everywhere.”

“Right, boss.” Yolie flipped open her cell phone.

“Anything I can do to help, Rico?”

“Would you mind informing the victim’s wife? We’ll catch up with you in a minute.”

Des strode back to the Procter house, her thoughts straying to Carolyn’s sister Megan. Wondering if she was en route here from Maine at this very moment. Wondering if her arrival just a few precious hours sooner would have saved Richard’s life tonight.

Clay and Hector remained seated on the porch, eyeballing her calmly. They were cool customers. Des had to give them that much.

She tipped her hat and said, “Gentlemen, I need to give Carolyn the news about her husband now.”

Slowly, Clay reached for a cigarette and lit it. “I’ll be the one to tell her, if you don’t mind.”

“I appreciate you wanting to soften the blow, Mr. Mundy. But according to the laws of this state it’s my official duty to notify the next of kin. You’re not going to impede me, are you?”

“No, ma’am,” he assured her. “Absolutely not. Do what you got to do.”

A nightstand light was on in the bedroom, which was a soiled zoo cage reeking of sour sheets, overflowing ashtrays and its sweaty, unwashed occupant. Carolyn lay naked atop the wrought iron bed with an iPod plugged into her ears, head nodding lazily to the beat. Her eyes were open but she did not seem to notice Des standing there. Or Clay hovering behind Des in the doorway. She was in a stoned-out stupor. The lady was sporting a couple of fresh cigarette burns on her arms, Des noticed. But she did not spot a blow pipe or ice any other illegal drugs on the nightstand. Only beer cans.

“Carolyn…?” she said, standing over her.

No response. Nothing.

She reached down and pulled the earphones off. “Carolyn…?”

Slowly, Carolyn’s eyes began to focus. Or almost. “You… still here?” Her voice faint and dreamy.

“That was yesterday, Carolyn. I’m back again now. I need to talk to you about Richard.”

“He… left. I-I told you.”

“I’m very sorry, but I’m here to inform you that he’s dead.”

Carolyn blinked at her. “Away. Richard went away.”

“Carolyn, I just found him floating in the river. His throat has been cut. He’s dead, do-you-understand?”

With tweakers there was no such thing as an emotional middle ground. One moment the lady was lying there in a persistent vegetative state. The next, as the reality of her husband’s death hit home, Carolyn Procter turned into a wild woman.

“Where’s Richard?” she screamed, vaulting from the bed with a surge of instant rage. “Richard, where are you…? Richaaard…?“ She was still calling out his name as she went flying out of the room-past a stunned Clay-and right out the front door of her house, stark naked. Des in hot pursuit. The others, including Molly, standing out there in the lane gaping at her. “Where’s Richard? I have to be with him! Richaaaard…?“

Big Yolie, who happened to be there talking to Kimberly, grabbed Carolyn at once and frog-marched her back inside the house as Des phoned the Jewett sisters on her cell.

“Where’s the bedroom, girl?” Yolie hollered, puffing as she wrestled the squirming madwoman across the living room.

Des led the way. When they got there Yolie threw Carolyn down on the bed and pinned her there. Although Carolyn wasn’t done fighting her. She even tried to take a bite out of Yolie’s forearm.

For which Yolie slapped her hard in the face. “Behave yourself! Your little girl is out there. Want her to see you this way?”

Des found a man’s white button down-shirt hanging in the closet. Richard’s most likely. It took both of them to muscle Carolyn into it.

“He needs me!” she groaned, thrashing around wildly, her head swiveling from side to side. “Richard needs me!”

“Richard is gone!” Des hollered at her. “It’s Molly who needs you now!”

At the mention of Molly’s name the fight seemed to melt right out of Carolyn. She lay there limply now, panting for breath, foul-smelling sweat pouring from her.

“Are you going to behave?” Yolie demanded.

Carolyn nodded her head up and down. Yolie released her. Slowly, she sat up and fumbled for a cigarette on the nightstand, her hands trembling so badly that Yolie had to light it for her.

“I need a drink,” she gasped, drawing the tobacco deep into her lungs.

“You need to get clean,” Yolie countered angrily. “What are you into? Crack? Smack? Ice? All of the above?”

Clay reappeared in the bedroom doorway. “Everything okay in here?” he inquired, the picture of tender concern.

“Fool, what do you think?” Yolie snarled at him.

Now Carolyn had the full-blown shakes. Des could hear her grinding her teeth. It was not a pretty sound.

“I think Carolyn got upset,” Clay informed Yolie politely. “Which is perfectly understandable. Plus she’s been under the weather lately.”

“Oh, is that what you call it?” Yolie’s eyes were daggers.

Outside, Des could hear the Jewett sisters rolling up to the state police cordon. She went out there to meet them. Hector watched her coolly from the porch, saying nothing.

“Where is she, Des?” asked Marge, her eyes taking in all of the residents and sworn personnel gathered there. Mary was getting their gear out of the back.

“In the bedroom,” Des answered, lowering her voice as they hurried inside past Hector. “I want Carolyn Procter out of here, okay? Get her admitted to the hospital for acute psychological trauma. Or shock. Or a severe allergic reaction to prescription medication. I don’t care what. Just take her where she can get help, understand?”

“Afraid not,” Mary said briskly. “What kind of help?”

“Have either of seen her lately?”

They shook their heads.

“Then you had better prepare yourselves,” she said as the sisters barged past Clay into the bedroom.

Mary let out a gasp as soon as she laid eyes on Carolyn.

“Can you do it?” Des asked Marge.

“Consider it done,” she promised Des.

“Carolyn’s doing okay, really,” Clay tried to assure them. “Just needs a little shot of something to settle her nerves down.”

Marge ignored him completely. “Honey, you are coming with us,” she told Carolyn. “Can you walk?”

“She can walk,” said Yolie, pulling Carolyn roughly to her feet.

“Where am I going?” Carolyn wondered, gazing at Mary in bewilderment.

“To get you a hot shower, for starters,” Mary replied, wrinkling her nose. “You used to be the prettiest, most accomplished young mother in all of Dorset. I’d see you shopping for groceries in the A amp; P, always a smile on your face, always a polite word, and I’d say to myself that is one classy lady. Lord, honey, what on earth has happened to you?”

In response, Carolyn spat right in her face. Then began fighting with Yolie all over again. “Leave me the hell alone!” she cried out, struggling in Yolie’s iron grip.

“Out of our way, mister!” Marge barked, elbowing Clay aside as they hustled Carolyn out of there.

Clay didn’t try to stop them. He knew when to fold his cards. Just watched from the porch with Hector as the sisters loaded Carolyn into their ambulance, kicking and screaming.

Happily, Molly was no longer out there to see any of this. Jen had taken her inside her own house.

“Molly can stay with us for as long she needs to,” Kimberly promised Des after the sisters had rolled out of there, lights flashing.

“We’ll all look after her,” Amber chimed in, clutching Keith’s hand. “The important thing is that Carolyn get well.”

“I’d like Molly to stay out of that house while her mother is away,” Des said to them. “I don’t want her in there. Kimberly, please make sure Jen understands that, okay?”

Kimberly glanced over at Clay and Hector on the porch, swallowing. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”

“It shouldn’t be for very long. I’ve been in touch with Carolyn’s sister Megan up in Maine. She’s already on her way down to take charge of things.”

“That’ll be great,” Amber said enthusiastically. “Megan’s a really capable person.”

“In fact, I’m expecting her to turn up pretty much any minute now.” While she’d been waiting for the crime scene techies to arrive, Des had phoned Megan’s farm in Blue Hill. Woke up her partner, Susan, who sleepily told her that Megan had left for Dorset that very day at around noon. It was generally an eight-hour drive if the traffic was light, Susan said. Ten if it wasn’t. Which, according to Des’s calculations, meant that Megan should have reached Dorset at about the same time Richard was murdered. Unfortunately, Susan had no idea where she presently was or how to reach her. Megan would not buy a cell phone. She was convinced they caused brain cancer. “Amber, would you mind keeping an eye out for her?”

“Be happy to, Des. I’ll let you know just as soon as Megan gets here.”

Now Soave waved to Des from his slicktop, where he and Yolie were hashing things over.

“Cut to the chase,” he said to her when she joined them. “I know you schooled me to keep an open mind and all of that, but Clay Mundy’s a slam dunk, right?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Oh, I dunno. Maybe because he stole the guy’s wife. Got her strung out on dope. Moved into his house. Beat the crap out of him a few nights back. Plus he looks seven different kinds of skeegie around the edges and he has a running buddy. Two-man job, remember? Otherwise, I can’t imagine why.”

Des watched Clay and Hector there on the porch, smoking and talking. “It’s whacked-out, Rico.”

“Yeah, you said that before. Whacked-out how?”

Her cell phone rang. She took the call and listened. “Right, I understand,” she said. Then she flicked it off and showed them her smile. “Prepare to get funky.”

They were setting up a temporary command headquarters in the auxiliary conference room of Dorset’s town hall, a stately, white-columned edifice that smelled all year around of mothballs, musty carpeting and Ben-Gay. Troopers in uniform were busy booting up computers and plugging in phones. Which was standard procedure for a murder investigation. But there was absolutely nothing standard about the collection of law enforcement professionals who had assembled by the time Des arrived with Soave and Yolie. Cavanaugh, the bland, cautious supervising agent from the DEA, was there. And Grisky, the testosterone cowboy from the FBI. And Captain Amalfitano from the state’s Narcotics Task Force, alias the Aardvark. Also a very polished and polite U.S. Attorney out of New Haven by the name of Brandon Stokes.

Who Yolie absolutely could not stop staring at. She looked as if she were going to hyperventilate when Des introduced him to her. “Girl, have they got any more like him at home?” she whispered after Brandon had crossed the room to confer with Cavanaugh. “Has he got like a brother? A cousin? Distant cousin?”

“Sorry, Brandon’s one of a kind.”

“I’m down with that. Mitch was cute but this one is the bomb. Real, know who he reminds me of?”

“Let me guess-Harry Belafonte?”

“No, I was going to say Denzel.”

“My bad.”

“What’s up with Maverick over there?” Now she was checking out Des’s non-favorite G-man. “He ever stop flexing?”

“That’s a no,” Des replied, making a face.

The Aardvark asked the other uniformed troopers to let them have the room. Then he closed the door and they seated themselves around the conference table. Someone had picked up bags of burgers and spiral fries at McGee’s diner before it closed for the night. Grisky attacked the food ravenously, biceps bulging in his tight T-shirt. So did Brandon, who had eaten no dinner. Neither had Des, but she wasn’t hungry. Or happy. Her eyes found Brandon’s across the table. He wasn’t happy either. They were both thinking the same thing: So much for our wild and wet getaway to the Cape. So much for escaping from our responsibilities for a few days. That will have to wait. We will have to wait.

Soave listened to Cavanaugh’s Operation Burrito King rap in respectful silence, nodding his shaved head as the soft-spoken DEA man detailed their six-month investigation into the Vargas drug cartel, the Atlanta connection, Clay and Hector, the stash house on Sour Cherry, it all.

When Cavanaugh was done talking Soave sat back in his chair, tugging at his goatee thoughtfully for a moment. “This is all awesome stuff, guys,” he declared finally. “But I’ve got a homicide investigation to run. Homicide takes priority over whatever you’ve got going on. So I sure hope you aren’t trying to strong-arm me.”

Des had never been prouder of her little man.

Cavanaugh and Amalfitano exchanged an uneasy glance before the Aardvark said, “That’s absolutely understood, lieutenant. Obviously, we’ve got a vested interest in keeping our own investigation under wraps. But we in no way wish to impede yours. We’re just here to offer you whatever assistance and support we can.”

“Glad to hear it,” Soave said, turning his gaze on Grisky. “You can start by telling me what your men saw and heard from your setup in the woods.”

“That would be me.” Grisky dipped a spiral fry in a puddle of ketchup and chomped on it with his mouth open, splotches of blood-red ketchup flecking his lips. And Des couldn’t imagine why she wasn’t hungry. “I was up tonight. I was set up maybe a hundred feet behind the Beckwith house, angled slightly toward Turkey Neck so I’d have a direct sight line with the Procter place. That means the Sullivan cottage stood right smack dab between me and the crime scene. I was blocked out is what I’m saying. Didn’t see a thing.”

“Did you hear anything?” Yolie asked him.

“Maybe I did,” he replied, taking a starved bite out of his burger. “Maybe I didn’t. What I heard was a shriek of some kind. I thought maybe coming from the direction of the river. But I really wasn’t sure. It’s a warm night. People’s windows were open. I thought maybe the Beckwith girls were watching a scary movie on TV. Or Amber and Keith Sullivan were getting it on yet again. They never quit, those two. And they are not quiet. Or maybe it was a couple of alley cats out there in the brush fighting over territory. I didn’t know. I hear all kinds of noises in those woods at night.”

“And so you did what exactly?” Soave asked him.

Grisky stuck out his jaw and said, “Stayed put. No way I’m about to compromise my setup because of anything like that. Trust me, it wasn’t that much out of the ordinary.”

“I hear you,” Soave said, nodding. “Subsequent to this, what did you call it, a shriek…?”

“Shriek, scream, whatever,” Grisky said with a shrug.

“Did you see or hear anyone leaving the scene-either through the woods or up Sour Cherry Lane? Did you observe a car going by? Any kind of activity whatsoever?”

“Not a damned thing, lieutenant. Not until she rolled in.” Meaning Des. “At which point I checked in with Agent Cavanaugh by cell phone.”

“After I spoke with Agent Grisky,” Cavanaugh interjected, “Captain Amalfitano and I interfaced jointly with Captain Polito of the Major Crime Squad.”

Polito was Rico’s commanding officer, not to mention his brother-in-law.

“And we’re all in agreement,” the Aardvark declared. “Our best move right now is to stand back and give you folks a chance to do what you do.”

Brandon didn’t say a word. Just sat there and listened as he polished off his burger. The man was the tidiest burger eater Des had ever seen. Even his very last teensy-weensy bite was a perfectly arranged stack of patty, bun, lettuce, tomato and onion.

She cleared her throat now and said, “If I might…?”

“Jump right in, Des,” Soave urged her.

“What went on prior to this shriek, agent? The reason I’m asking is that the victim told Patricia Beckwith he felt like taking an after-dinner stroll. It’s not unreasonable to assume he strolled in the direction of home. Possibly hoping to visit Molly or, worst case scenario, have more words with Carolyn and Clay. Did you see him come knocking on his own door?”

“Nope,” Grisky answered flatly.

“Did you see anyone leaving the Procter house at any time?”

“I didn’t see a soul walk up or down that lane. I never do. There are no streetlights.”

“But you saw Richard and Clay going at it in the driveway the other night, didn’t you?”

“Because the porch light was on,” he confirmed, nodding. “Tonight, it wasn’t. It was pitch black over there. The entire Fighting Illini marching band could have gone by and I wouldn’t have seen them.”

Des mulled this over before she said, “Sounds reasonable.”

“Whoa, huge thank you,” Grisky jeered at her. “I so totally live for your approval, master sergeant.”

Des studied him curiously. “Something you feel like getting off of your chest?”

“Hell, yes, there is. It’s because of you that this went down. You’re the one who arranged for the victim to move in with the old lady when he got released.”

“We don’t really need to go here, do we?” Cavanaugh said to him.

“Why not?” Grisky shot back. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

“It absolutely is,” Des acknowledged. “Because the poor man had nowhere else to go. And because when I made those arrangements I had no idea the Procter home was a stash house. That’s on you, gentlemen. You’re the ones who chose to keep me in the dark about your operation. So don’t lay your stink on my doorstep, agent. I was just doing my job.”

“And these jurisdictional battles are not helpful,” Brandon asserted, speaking up for the first time. This was how he operated. He watched. He listened. Then he stepped in and took charge. “We are all fighting the same battle.”

“Sure, take her side,” muttered Grisky, just like a petulant little boy in need of a spanking. Trouble was, he’d probably enjoy it.

“I am not taking sides, Agent Grisky,” Brandon said abruptly. “And I would urge you to get on board or first thing tomorrow morning I will recommend you be drop-kicked from this operation.”

Grisky bristled but held his tongue, his chest rising and falling.

Des’s cell phone rang now. She glanced down at the illuminated screen, then excused herself and stepped out in the hallway, closing the door behind her.

Amber Sullivan was calling to tell her that Carolyn’s sister, Megan Chichester, had just arrived from Maine in her beat-up Chevy pickup. Upon being told the awful news about her brother-in-law, Megan had rushed over to Kimberly and Jen’s to be with Molly. She wished to see her sister as soon as possible, reported Amber.

“Absolutely,” Des said. “Carolyn is being treated at Middlesex Hospital. Can you tell Megan how to get there?”

Amber told Des that would be no problem. Des thanked her and returned to the conference room.

“Let’s review where we’re at, shall we?” Brandon said, glancing down at a lined yellow note pad as Des sat back down. “If no one was observed fleeing the crime scene then Professor Procter was most likely killed by a resident or residents of Sour Cherry Lane, correct?”

“Unless our search of the area tomorrow morning reveals evidence to the contrary,” Soave said. “And our prime suspect appears to be your boy Clay Mundy, with an assist by Hector Villanueva. Unless I’m missing something. Did anybody else have a good reason to be pissed off at the guy?”

“How about his wife?” Yolie asked. “She’s an all-out methrage monster. Also strong as a bull. I wouldn’t cross her off of my list.”

“Fair enough,” Soave said, turning to Des. “Anyone else?”

Des thought it over carefully before she replied, “Not that I’m presently aware of.”

“Then it seems we have ourselves a situation here,” Cavanaugh said. “It so happens that your prime suspect is the very same individual who is the target of our own investigation. Now what are we going to do about that? Because we do not want to compromise Operation Burrito King if we can avoid it.”

“I don’t wish to belabor the obvious,” Brandon said to him, “but this particular facet of our operation is already compromised. There is virtually no chance the crystal meth shipment from Atlanta will arrive here as planned. Not with the entire vicinity crawling with state police.”

“No chance,” the Aardvark concurred, thumbing his chin glumly. “You also got to figure that Mundy’s plenty spooked right about now. He’s pinned down there with a major stash and a murder rap hanging over him. I wonder why he and Hector didn’t just try to run?”

“Admission of guilt,” said Brandon.

“Plus they’re responsible for that ice,” Grisky added. “The Vargas family would not be happy about them ditching it. I’ve seen what they do to people who bail on them. Trust me, it ain’t pretty.”

“Those two can’t run and they can’t hide,” Soave said. “They are totally screwed.”

“And they’re in it together,” Yolie said. “Unless we can convince one to flip on the other.”

“So what’s our next move?” the Aardvark wondered. “Do we go ahead and show them our hand? Swoop down and nail them for possession with intent to distribute?”

“No way,” Grisky argued. “If we do that then this ends right here. We can’t connect it to the cartel.”

“Then again, maybe we can,” the Aardvark countered. “Clay and Hector are a pair of pros. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t expect either of them to rat out the Vargas family. But Mundy is staring at a murder charge. That gives us big-time leverage.”

“No question,” Brandon agreed. “And my office would certainly consider a plea deal in exchange for detailed sworn testimony about the Vargas operation. Depending on how far he’s willing to go, we might be able to reduce the whole package down to involuntary manslaughter.”

“Sure, he thought the professor was a prowler,” the Aardvark said, warming to it. “The man was defending his own home. He’d get, what, five years?”

“And shanked his first night in jail,” Grisky said.

“So promise him witness protection,” the Aardvark fired back. “I say we go right at him. And if he don’t want the deal then maybe Hector will. We can play one of them against the other, like Sergeant Snipes said.”

Cavanaugh stayed strangely silent throughout this back and forth exchange. Just sat there with his hands clasped before him, his eyes cast downward at the table. The supervising agent looked as if he were saying grace. Until he raised his eyes and said, “In principle, I agree with everything you’re saying, Captain. And I appreciate your input. But I’m not ready to make such a move yet. Agent Grisky and I have been dogging these people for a whole lot longer than you folks from the state have. We’ve invested a lot in Operation Burrito King. I am talking months and months of man-hours, millions of taxpayer dollars. We are tasked to go after the really big game here. Not just a couple of petty hoods.”

“You mean murderers, don’t you?” Soave said.

“Nonetheless,” he went on, undeterred, “I’d like to see how the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours play out before we show our hand. We still have our wiretaps and cell phone traces in place. Maybe Mundy will get shook enough to do something dumb-like break silence and reach out to Atlanta. Why not wait and see what he does before we roll up the whole damned operation?”

Des didn’t like what she was hearing. If it were her call to make they’d land on Clay and Hector that very night. Swarm the house and sweat a murder confession out of them. Hell, they had the bastards right where they wanted them. So take them. Because if you didn’t, if you got greedy and held out for more, then things had a not-so-funny way of slipping through your fingers. But it was Cavanaugh’s case, not the Aardvark’s and for sure not hers. And the Feds were always going to have it their way-because they could.

“Besides which,” Cavanaugh added, “we don’t even know where the damned dope is hidden.”

“Actually, we do,” Des said, all eyes turning her way.

“Don’t play cute, master sergeant,” he said, glaring at her. “What do you know that we don’t?”

“That right after he moved in Clay Mundy ordered Molly Procter to stay out of the root cellar. It’s directly under the kitchen, which is where the trapdoor is. It’s a dirt floor crawl space, most likely. That’s how they built the old farmhouses around here. Especially in low-lying areas like Sour Cherry. A full basement would just flood during the rainy season.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this yesterday?”

“Didn’t know it then.”

“It plays,” Grisky said grudgingly. “We’ve never seen them go near the barn or anywhere else. And I’ve heard about dealers burying their crystal under dirt for safekeeping.”

“Which leaves us where?” Soave demanded impatiently. “Last time I looked I still have a homicide investigation to run.”

“So run it,” Cavanaugh said easily. “We’ll stay on the sidelines, watching and listening. Just do us a small favor and stay out of that root cellar for now. We can’t have you stumbling over our evidence.”

“But what if there’s evidence down there that links Mundy to the murder?”

“Actually, you gentlemen are getting a bit ahead of yourselves,” said Brandon. “I seriously doubt that a judge would even grant you a warrant to enter the house. Not based on what I’ve heard so far.”

Soave shook his shiny dome at him. “Why the hell not? We’re looking for the murder weapon and bloody clothing. The stuff’s got to be somewhere.”

“Somewhere doesn’t constitute probable cause for entering a home.”

“Mundy and the professor fought in that very driveway just a few nights ago,” Soave argued, stabbing the table with his index finger.

“Not good enough,” Brandon reasoned. “No one saw the victim entering the home tonight. No one saw Mundy or Villanueva leaving the murder scene and going in the home. The two men claim they were playing cards at the time of the murder. You have no evidence or testimony to the contrary. Neither man has so much as a single prior arrest. Consequently, you have no reason to believe the evidence is in that house. What you have barely even rises to the level of a suspicion.” He paused to take a sip of his coffee. “Furthermore, Agent Cavanaugh makes an excellent point. You do not want to go anywhere near that meth while in the process of looking for something else. You’d be leaving the door wide open for defense counsel to claim an illegal search and possibly get it thrown out. You haven’t even undertaken your search of the area yet, let alone exhausted it. If I were you, lieutenant, I’d stay out of that house altogether for now. If there’s anything down there, it’s not going anywhere. And neither are Clay Mundy or Hector Villanueva.”

“I’ll have to talk to my C.O. about this,” Soave grumbled.

“Do what you have to do,” Cavanaugh said with cool condescension. “Just touch base with us regularly so there are no communications lapses.” To Des he said, “Yesterday, you had safety concerns regarding the family. The wife has now been hospitalized, correct?”

“Correct. And Molly’s tucked in across the street with the Beckwiths. I’ve made it very clear to them that she’s to stay out of her own house.”

“Are they hip as to why?” Grisky wondered.

“No, they’re simply of the belief that Clay and Hector are too unsavory for the girl to be around.”

“Which, real, they are,” Yolie said.

“Then I think we’re all done here.” A faint smile creased Cavanaugh’s impassive face. “I’d like everyone to know that I’m extremely comfortable with our game plan.” His game plan. “In fact, I have a remarkably good feeling about our chances.” His chances. “Let’s suit up, shall we?”