There were lights everywhere. Headlight beams from cruisers. Overhead beams from the Coast Guard choppers circling above them. The blob of cold, dead meat that had once been Melanie Zide lay on a tarp, her skin the color of wet clay.
Des could not get her mind around this. She kept seeing Melanie bathed in golden light up on that pedestal at the art academy, her naked flesh rosy and alive. Now she was just a floater covered with seaweed and sand. She had two bullet holes in her that Des could see-the size of the wounds indicative of a smaller caliber weapon than the Barrett. And there were people everywhere. And everyone was gazing at her. And no one was drawing her.
The medical examiner’s people were there. Soave was there with Tommy Salcineto. The Deacon was there, Soave tiptoeing his way around him like a cowed little boy.
And Mitch was there, too, standing next to Bella with a stricken expression on his face. Not exactly the get-acquainted dinner that he’d had in mind.
Des went over to him and said, “Our Hoppin’ John will have to wait, baby. I’m on the job for the rest of the night.”
“I kind of figured that,” he said. “Go ahead and do what you have to do.”
“Mitch and I will be fine, Desiree,” Bella added reassuringly.
“I think I was making a real good first impression,” Mitch said. “Until we found the dead body in my front yard, I mean. I think he liked me.”
“How could he not?” Bella said. “You’re a nice, polite gentleman. You’re steadily employed, a published author…”
“Don’t puff the boy up, Bella,” Des warned her. “He’ll become a total pain.”
“As if,” Bella sniffed.
Now Des turned her gaze out at the Sound, her mind on the job. “When things wash up out here, where do they usually come from?” she asked Mitch.
“Off boats, mostly. I pick up all kinds of garbage. You wouldn’t believe what pigs people are.”
“Oh, yes, I would,” Bella said with withering disapproval.
“Who’s still going out?”
“The yachters have pretty much packed it in for the season. I still see a few Boston Whalers-guys fishing or checking their lobster pots. That’s about it.” Mitch pointed westward to the tidal estuaries where the Connecticut River emptied into the Sound. “Upriver’s also a good bet. The current brings stuff down. I’ve found dead animals beached out here lots of times.”
“What kind of animals?”
“Deer, raccoons… I had a coyote a few weeks ago.”
She glanced eastward in the direction of Dorset’s rugged coastline. “Does stuff float out here from the town beaches?”
“The tide has to be going out,” Mitch said. “And you need a north wind. But, yeah, it happens.”
“What’s the tide doing right now?”
“It’s coming in.”
“What about last night?”
“Same story.”
Des considered this, her mind weighing the possibilities. So many possibilities. Could be that Melanie’s body had been dumped upriver and drifted down on the current. Could be it washed out to sea from a town beach early that morning, when the tide was going out, and now had made its way back on the incoming tide. Could be her killer took her out on a boat last night and dumped her. The Coast Guard would be able to narrow it down somewhat by computing how far Melanie could have floated based on the tide and wind direction. Likewise the speed of the river’s current. And the medical examiner could estimate how long she had been dead based on her body temperature, the water temperature, and state of decomposition. Sure, they’d be able to narrow it down. But as of right now, where and when Melanie Zide had been killed was wide open.
In fact, there was almost nothing that Des knew for sure-except that Melanie had been right to be afraid.
“Where are you at, Lieutenant?” the Deacon was asking Soave, his manner icy and exacting. There wasn’t a young officer in the state who didn’t quake under his questioning.
“Sir, she was dead when she hit the water,” Soave answered miserably. Melanie’s death blew a huge hole in the scenario he’d been working. “I’m guessing she’s been dead since-”
“I don’t want your guesses, son,” the Deacon said sharply. “I have no use for guesses. I’m only interested in what you know.”
Soave cleared his throat, chastened. “Okay, what I know is…” One knee started to jiggle nervously. “I know we’ve been holding a man for questioning on the Mary Susan Frye homicide and…”
And, despite Des’s warnings not to commit himself too soon, Soave had boasted all about it on television and now his career was passing right before his eyes. Because his case against Jim was in shreds-Jim had had a twenty-four-hour baby-sitter on him for the past two days. He couldn’t have shot Melanie. Not unless he’d somehow managed to slip out on his guard undetected, which was highly unlikely. Meaning that Jim was an innocent man. Unless, that is, these two small-town murders were completely unrelated. Which was even more unlikely.
“I repeat, Lieutenant,” the Deacon said, scowling, “Where… are… you… at?”
“Back to square one,” Soave conceded, smoothing his see-through mustache. “I’ll reach out immediately to Captain Battaglio for more manpower. And I’d also like to employ Resident Trooper Mitry’s services until we can clear this up. She knows the principals and, as you know, has Major Crimes experience.”
“Mind you, I would not have suggested that to you,” the Deacon said in response. “But since you’ve raised the idea, I would call it sound, mature thinking. What about this man you’re holding, Bolan?”
“We’ll have to take a good hard look at releasing him in the morning.”
Right now, there were press vans waiting on the other end of the causeway and Soave had to deal with them. He had to give the cameras something, anything for the eleven-o’clock news. And he had nothing-not even Melanie’s name. Tommy was still trying to locate a legally competent next of kin. Her mother’s nursing home did have an address for Melanie’s brother up in Portland, Maine, but until Tommy could track him down, they could not release her name.
Soave kept glancing hopefully at the Deacon as the three of them strode across the wooden causeway to the cameras. Des could tell he was praying that the Deacon, as senior officer on the scene, would want to step up to the mike-thereby letting him off the hook. But she knew better. Her father was never one to make an officer’s job any easier. This was Soave’s case, in good times and bad, and either he could deal or he couldn’t.
So it was Soave who had to stand before those bright lights, blinking, and say, “At the present time we don’t know how or if this death relates to the Mary Susan Frye murder investigation. We are presently gathering evidence, and we are extremely confident we will have a suspect in custody shortly.”
Which was official police-speak for: Help me, I’ve fallen and I can’t get back up!
Afterward, he sidled over to Des, ducking his head glumly. “I guess you’re feeling pretty good about things now.”
“If you think that, Rico, then you don’t know me at all.”
“I don’t think that,” Soave insisted, sneaking a peek over at the Deacon, who stood at the railing looking out at the water, his broad back to them. “I really don’t. I’m just… I just…” He broke off, his breathing becoming shallow and rapid. Soon, she thought he might need to stick his head in a paper bag. “Des, I sure could use your help on this.”
“Just tell me what I can do.”
“I want to get some unis canvassing right away. I thought I’d have them try the town beaches for starters. But if you have any other ideas…”
“I’d check out the Dorset Marina,” she offered. “See who took their boat out last night. Based on the way the tides are running, her body might have been dumped at sea. Or it might have drifted downriver. Better check the river moorings-there’s Dunn’s Cove Marina, North Cove, the Essex Yacht Club, Millington Boat Basin. There’s also a car ferry at Millington.”
Soave was writing this down. “Okay, good. Anything else?”
“Did you nail down the identity of Colin Falconer’s online lover yet?”
“Who, Cutter? Not yet.” Soave peered at her, intrigued. “What’s that got to do with this?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.”
“Okay, sure. We’ll call the Internet provider’s security people right away.”
“I’d like to re-canvass a couple of people on my own,” Des added. “I might be able to eliminate some things.”
“What things?” Soave demanded.
“I’ll keep you informed,” she assured him.
“See that you do,” he growled officiously. Then he started back across the causeway to the crime scene, arms held stiffly out from his sides in the classic bodybuilder’s strut.
She stayed behind with the Deacon. “Sorry about your party, Daddy.”
“Not to worry, girl. We’ll do it another night.”
She lingered there, waiting for him to say something else, anything else. Nothing. Not a word. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you,” she said finally.
“That you will, Desiree. Oh, by the way…” He flashed her a quick smile. “Your friend is all right.”
Your friend is all right?
Just exactly what in the hell did he mean by that? Des dissected it, fuming, as she steered her cruiser toward Griswold Avenue. By “friend,” did he mean Mitch was a trivial, unsubstantial plaything, a toy, as opposed to a substantial individual suitable for a serious relationship? Or had he just not known what else to call him? And what did he mean by “all right”? All right as in so-so, fair to middling, better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick? Or all right as in totally, one-hundred percent… righteous? God, that man could be so cryptic sometimes, so vague, so…
Impossible. That was the word to describe her father.
Chuckie Gilliam, the unemployed carpenter with the faith-based advertising tattooed on his knuckles, had him some company tonight. He and Sandy, the frizzy-haired waitress from McGee’s, were sprawled in front of the television watching a college football game and drinking beer when Des knocked on his door. Otherwise, not much had changed around there. Chuckie’s computer was still parked on the card table in the middle of the room, and it was still turned on. And Chuckie was still wearing his orange hunter’s vest over a soiled white T-shirt.
“Hey, it’s the cat lady!” Sandy exclaimed when she spotted Des there in the doorway. Sandy’s voice was cheerful, but her eyes were wary pinpoints. “What are you doing, trooper, making house calls now?”
“I need to talk to you some more, Mr. Gilliam,” Des said to him quietly.
“Yeah, sure,” grumbled Chuckie. To Sandy he said, “It’s okay, I know what this is about.” He grabbed his beer and stepped out onto the porch with Des, closing the door behind him. Clearly, he did not want Sandy to hear their conversation.
And Sandy didn’t like it. Through the front window, Des could see her stomp off into the kitchen, where she started slamming cupboard doors. Des wasn’t happy about doing this. She didn’t want to complicate Sandy’s life for her. But there was really no way around it. She needed answers.
“Melanie’s body washed up on Big Sister tonight, Mr. Gilliam. Somebody shot her. Just wanted to let you know.”
“Jeez, that’s too bad,” he said heavily, gazing across the road at her house. “If you want me to keep an eye on her place or something, I’ll be happy to. Anything I can do.”
“Well, now that you mention it, I’ve been asked to eliminate certain peripheral parties such as yourself. Strictly routine stuff.”
Chuckie’s semi-smart eyes narrowed warily. “Yeah…?”
“I noticed your computer is on-do you spend a lot of time online?”
“I guess,” he grunted, taking a swig from his beer.
“Which Internet provider do you use?”
He gave her the name. It was the same service on which Colin claimed he had met Cutter. This didn’t necessarily mean anything-millions of people used it. Still, it was certainly worth knowing.
“What’s this got to do with Melanie?” Chuckie asked.
“Mr. Gilliam, have you ever been in trouble with the law?”
He scratched at his unkempt beard, his eyes avoiding hers. “Maybe,” he admitted.
“Um, okay, this is really a yes-or-no kind of a deal, Mr. Gilliam,” Des told him. “I can check it myself, but it’s better if I hear it from you.”
“Look, I had a run-in with a contractor I was working for, okay?” he muttered, his manner turning decidedly surly now. “Tim Keefe accused me of taking some roofing materials off of a job. I lost my temper and popped him one. The piss-ant bastard filed assault charges against me. I ended up serving six months county time.”
“Did you do it?”
“Do what, lady?”
“Steal the roofing materials.”
“Stuff happens,” he grumbled, scratching impatiently at the J-E-S-U-S on his right knuckles. “What else do you want to know?”
“The real deal about you and Melanie.”
Chuckie glanced nervously over his shoulder at the door. “Okay, so we went out a few times,” he admitted, lowering his voice. “But she wouldn’t have nothing to do with me after the thing with Tim.”
“Why was that?”
“She didn’t want to be some guy’s mother, was how she put it.”
“How did you feel about her modeling at the art academy?”
Chuckie made a face. “If she wanted to show off her body to a lot of old ladies and fags, that was her business.”
“Okay, let’s talk about last night,” Des said. “You told me you saw her car leave the house about nine, then come back again a half hour later, right?”
“Right…”
“Then you saw her load up her car and clear out again, this time for good. Mr. Gilliam, are you absolutely sure that’s what you saw?”
Chuckie took a long time draining his beer before he said, “Lady, why are you climbing me?”
“Believe me, I’m not. I’m just thinking about something I learned myself at the art academy-it’s not strictly old ladies and gays, by the way. They get all kinds. And one thing they tell you is to draw what you see as opposed to what you know. Did you really see what you saw? Or do you just know you did? Are you with me?”
“Not even close,” he said, running a hand through his thinning hair.
“How good a look did you get at her? Try to be as specific as possible. Believe me, it’ll be worth your while-if you can help me, I’m in a position to help you.”
“Uh-huh, I get it now,” Chuckie said sourly. “If I don’t help you, you’ll be all over me for every little thing, right? My taillight’s out on my pickup. My dog’s disturbing the neighbors. Sure, I know how it goes. Well, let me tell you something, lady. I don’t got no dog!”
“And that’s not how I go about my business.”
“Bullshit,” he shot back. “You got the law on your side and I got nothing.”
“Here’s the deal, straight up,” Des said evenly. “If you help me I can tell the big bad lieutenant to steer his investigation right around Chuckie Gilliam. Chuckie Gilliam is a cooperative, fully rehabilitated citizen who did everything he could to be of assistance. If you don’t, given your record chances are excellent he’ll be stuffing your frame in a cruiser and taking you up to Meriden. Days and nights will go by. Sandy will have to come get you, if she still wants you. And there won’t be a single thing I can do to help you. Now let’s try it one more time, shall we? Tell me what you saw.”
“Okay, okay,” he said hotly. “What I saw was Melanie getting out of her car and running inside.”
“Describe her.”
“Well, she was kind of hunched over. And she was wearing this big red ski parka like I seen Melanie wear a million times. It has a hood that’s lined with coyote fur or something.”
Des nodded. Melanie was not wearing a coat when she washed up. “Okay, good,” she said encouragingly. “Did she have her hood up?”
“Uh… yeah.”
“And so you assumed it was Melanie. Anyone would, right?”
Chuckie frowned at her, perplexed. “Huh?”
“Think about this for a second: Is it possible that the person who you saw wasn’t her?”
“You’re saying, like, what if some other woman was driving her car and wearing her jacket?”
“Yes.”
“I guess it’s possible,” Chuckie admitted.
“And is it possible it wasn’t even a woman at all?”
“What?”
“You saw a hunched-over figure in a big, hooded jacket. You and I both know that Melanie was a good-sized girl, solidly built. This street’s dimly lit. You were standing all the way over here. So I’m asking you: Is it possible that the person you saw was a man? Think hard, please. It’s important.”
“I guess…” he allowed. “But why would someone do that?”
“To make it look like Melanie was skipping town, when in reality she was already dead. I think you saw her killer, Mr. Gilliam. The hooded parka was strictly in case a neighbor such as yourself might be watching.” And it might have played, too, if Melanie’s body hadn’t washed up so soon. That couldn’t have been part of the plan. A mistake. Had to be. Des lingered there on the porch, sensing that Chuckie was still holding on to something. He had a semi-foxy look on his mega-dumb face. “You told me that Melanie had no man in her life lately,” she mentioned, taking a stab.
“That I know of,” he acknowledged, scratching at his beard. “None dropped by is all I know.”
“Did anyone else drop by?”
“Like who?”
Des raised her chin at him. “Like anyone else.”
He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Well, she did get visits from Greta Patterson. Melanie used to do clerical work for her over at the gallery.”
“You mean before she went to work for Superintendent Falconer?”
“Yeah, three, four years back. I recognized Greta on account of I’ve done work for her myself on her house-siding, sill work.”
“How often?”
“How often have I worked for her?”
“How often did she stop by to see Melanie?”
“Pretty often,” Chuckie admitted.
“What, once a week?”
“Twice a week, maybe.”
Des took off her big hat and stood there twirling it in her fingers. “You say Melanie used to work for Greta. Is that all she was to her?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he answered sharply.
“Yes, you do.” Des stared at him intently. “You know exactly what I mean.”
He looked away, swallowing. “Okay, maybe I do. But I don’t know the answer.”
“You didn’t wonder?”
Chuckie heaved a pained sigh and said, “Sure, I did. I wonder about a lot of stuff, lady. That don’t mean I get it.”
“Now you’re living on my side of the street.” She put her hat back on, flashing a smile at him. “Don’t take it so hard, Mr. Gilliam. We’re not supposed to know all the answers. In fact, we’re lucky if we even figure out what the questions are. Please be sure to tell Sandy that I said good night, will you?”
There were lights on inside the Patterson Gallery. And when Des slowed up her cruiser out front she could see Greta seated in there at her oak partner’s desk, pecking away at a computer in the soft glow cast by her desk lamp’s old-fashioned green glass shade.
Des got out and rapped her knuckles on the glass front door. Greta squinted at her over her reading glasses, then waved and came over to let her in.
“I hope I’m not interrupting you,” Des said, as Greta unlocked the door.
“Not at all, trooper,” she said cheerfully. “I was just trying to catch up on some of my gallery work. I’m afraid that Wendell has hogged most of my time lately. First he had me handling some estate-related matters. Then I had to find a criminal attorney for Jim Bolan. Do have a seat,” she said, filing the work she had on her computer screen.
Des sat in the wooden chair next to Greta’s desk, crossing her long legs. “This estate work you were doing-it wouldn’t have any bearing on Moose’s death, would it?”
“You know I can’t talk about that,” Greta responded with a grin.
“Never hurts to ask,” Des said easily. “What can you talk to me about?”
Greta sat back in her swivel chair, studying her. “Try me.”
“How about Melanie Zide?”
She let out a harsh laugh. “What about that little cow?”
“Somebody shot her. Her body just washed up on Big Sister.”
Greta froze for a second, stunned. Then her squarish, blotchy face seemed to scrunch inward upon itself, like a beer can being crushed in a strongman’s fist.
Des had wondered if she’d get a reaction. She got one. She got pain. Definitely pain. “I’m told that Melanie used to do clerical work for you.”
“That’s true,” Greta said hoarsely. “She’s… she was a good little worker. But she needed more hours than I could give her, so I helped her get that job with the school district.”
“You two were close?”
“If by that you’re wondering whether we were mixed up in some form of unwholesome, incorrect, same-sex physical relationship, the answer is yes,” Greta said bluntly. “And in answer to your next question: Yes, I did care about her. What else do you want to know?”
“Did Colin know about you two?”
“We have no secrets from each other.” Greta’s voice suddenly sounded very tired and old. “I told you that already.”
“And I didn’t believe you. Everyone has secrets.”
Greta got up out of her chair and went over to a landscape painting by Hangtown’s grandfather that hung over the fireplace. It depicted the tidal marshes near Lord’s Cove at dawn, with the steam rising off the water and the early-morning sunlight slanting low. “I love the light in this painting. Every time I look at it I feel as if I’ve never truly seen the dawn before.” She gazed at it a moment longer, then shook herself and turned back to Des. “I was devastated when Colin moved out. It made me realize that you really can’t count on anyone else in this world. We’d had our ups and downs, naturally. But I’d still expected that he’d be there by my side when I got old and decrepit. Now…” Greta trailed off, shaking her head. “Now I’m not so sure. He’s not sure. And so I find myself living these days in a constant state of paralyzing fear, I’m ashamed to say.”
“Fear’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I’m one of the reasons why the school board wants Colin out, you know,” Greta pointed out bitterly. “I didn’t want to say anything to you about this last night, in front of him, but they don’t approve of me-the concerned young mothers. They don’t think I am a suitable school superintendent’s wife. It’s the Salem witch hunt all over again, you know. The intolerant and self-righteous are taking over, and they’re imposing their mean, narrow vision of correct behavior on everyone else. If you’re not one of them, then you are someone to be shunned, someone evil. The new school building is just a smoke screen. The real reason they want Colin out is that he’s a bisexual depressive with an aging bull dyke for a wife. They don’t want him or me anywhere near their dear, precious kids, twisting their dear, precious minds. These are scary times, trooper. These are not the enlightened sixties and seventies of my youth. I was fooled. I thought we had become more open-minded, more accepting of other people’s differences. We didn’t. The pendulum has swung back the other way, and now we are hurtling back to the dark ages all over again, fighting the same old battles. Only now we’re losing.” She came back to her desk and sat down again, her eyes beginning to puddle with tears. “Poor Melanie… Poor cow.”
“Where did you go last evening after the lieutenant and I spoke with you at your house?”
“I was home with Colin all evening,” she answered, cocking her head at Des curiously.
“You didn’t leave?”
“No, I didn’t leave. I was concerned about him. So we threw another log on the fire and we worked on a jigsaw puzzle together-Fountain Head. We do that one every year. We went to Hawaii on our honeymoon, you know. Doesn’t that just quaint you to death?” Greta broke off, her chest rising and falling. “Now if you’ll please excuse me, trooper, II have a lot of work to do.”
Des thanked her for her time and started for the door. By the time she had closed it behind her she could hear Greta Patterson sobbing.
“Can I buy you a round, trooper?”
Dirk Doughty was drinking hot cider all alone at a tavern table in front of the fire in the Frederick House’s wood-paneled pub. On the table before him was a copy of The Sporting News, opened to the waiver-wire page with its long columns of agate type detailing which teams have signed or cut which players. In the world of journeymen ballplayers, old habits apparently died hard.
“I think I’d like that,” said Des, taking a seat across from him. An older couple was sipping brandy at one of the other tables. Otherwise, they were alone in the pub. “But let’s put it on my tab, because I never did get my dinner tonight.” She ordered a roast turkey sandwich to go along with the cider, then said, “I’m real sorry to bother you again, but there are some other things I need to ask you.”
“That’s okay by me,” he said, squaring his broad shoulders. “I’m always better off when I’m talking to other people. I don’t do well if I sit by myself for too long. I think too much.”
“I guess we can all do that.”
Dirk sat back in his chair, folding his arms in front of his chest. He wore a navy-blue fleece top emblazoned with the logo of a sneaker maker. “How can I help you?”
“By telling me what you know about Melanie Zide.”
Dirk reddened slightly. “Melanie? Well, sure. We went to high school together. In fact, I ran into her just the other day over at Doug’s Texaco. We stopped and got caught up. She was real glad to hear I’ve remarried and I’m staying sober and all.”
The pink-cheeked barmaid returned now with Des’s sandwich and cider.
Des dived in hungrily. “Were you ever involved with Melanie?”
“Why are you so interested in her?”
Des told him why. “Naturally, the lieutenant’s asked me to find out as much background about her as I can,” she explained.
Dirk sat there staring grimly into the fire for a moment, a thumb absently stroking his square jaw. “I can help you out, I guess. But I want you to know this is not something I would talk to you about under normal circumstances, and I take no pleasure in doing so now. I always liked Melanie, understand?”
“I do.”
Dirk shot a furtive glance over his shoulder at the other couple in the pub, then leaned across the table toward Des, lowering his voice. “The real deal is that everyone was involved with Melanie-me, Timmy Keefe, Timmy’s brother, Will… Back when we were fifteen years old, Melanie was a rite of passage, I guess, you’d call her. Everybody’s first. You got yourself a couple of joints, a six-pack, and you hit the beach after dark with Melanie Zide. It wasn’t like she’d do just anybody. If she thought you were stuck-up or phony, she wouldn’t let you anywhere near her. But if she thought you were okay then, well, you were in.” He trailed off, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “I can’t believe somebody shot her. You say her body washed up on Big Sister?”
“It’s possible that someone took her out on their boat and dumped her.” Des took another bite of her sandwich, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin. “You mentioned you’ve been out on Tim’s Boston Whaler.”
“That’s right. He and I…” Dirk’s eyes suddenly widened in alarm, his body tensing. “Wait, you don’t think I did it, do you? I swear I didn’t. You’ve got to believe me.”
“It’s not my job to believe or disbelieve you, Mr. Doughty,” Des said, calmly sipping at her cider. “I’m simply recanvassing, that’s all. Since I’m the lowly resident trooper, I’ve been given the longest of the long shots. But I have to do my job, understand?”
“I guess.” Dirk relaxed a bit, although his big calloused hand was still gripping his cider mug so tightly that his knuckles were white. “As long as you understand I had no reason to kill Melanie. I mean, hell, why would I?”
“In theory? Because she knew something that could hurt you.”
“Like what?”
“Like, say, the identity of Colin Falconer’s male cyber lover, Cutter.”
“Why the hell would I care about that?”
“Because you’re Cutter.”
Dirk gaped at her in shock. “Now look, I know I use a laptop, but that’s to keep track of my billing, not to carry on some… some
… Hey, we are still talking theory here, right?”
“All we’re doing is spitballing,” Des assured him.
“That’s good,” he said, pausing to sip his cider. “Because I honestly can’t think of a single reason why I’d want to carry on with Falconer that way.”
“I can-to ruin his career.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because he was having an affair with Moose Frye, and you still loved her. You never stopped loving her. That’s why you came back to Dorset-to try to win her back.”
“Whoa, I’m calling time-out here…” Dirk furrowed his brow at her, bewildered. “Are we still spitballing?”
Of course they were. But there was no reason he had to know that. So Des said, “You tell me. She got you that job with the Leanses, didn’t she?”
“Well, yeah,” he admitted. “But what does that mean?”
“That you were still in touch with her, maybe.”
“She was like a sister to me,” Dirk insisted, his voice catching slightly. “We all grew up together-me, Moose, Takai, Timmy, Melanie-all of us.”
“And your wife, Laurie?”
“What about Laurie?”
“Is your life together back in Toledo as solid as you’ve been portraying it?”
“It’s rock-solid,” Dirk said, his face a tight, angry mask.
“Would she echo that if I called her up on the phone?”
“Okay, so we have some issues,” he said defensively. “Name one couple that doesn’t. I want kids. A whole bunch of kids. She wants to keep working full-time. My work takes me on the road a lot. She hates the road. She loves Toledo. I hate Toledo. But the important thing is I’m staying focused and sober. We can work this stuff out. We can work it all out.”
“When was the last time you spoke to Laurie?”
“Three weeks ago,” he admitted, ducking his head. “How did you know about us anyway? Have you already called her?”
“No, but you should. The more you talk, the better.”
“You sound awful sure about that,” Dirk observed.
“Only because I’ve been through it. He was in Washington. I was in New Haven. Our marriage died somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike, just outside of Trenton. You have to stay each other’s best friend, Mr. Doughty. The day the friendship stops, the marriage stops. So call her. Call her to say good morning. Call her to say good night. Damn it, just call her, will you?”
The charred remains of the feed troughs and livestock had been cleared away from the ditch out in front of Winston Farms. But a foul stench still lingered in the air, just to serve as a reminder of what had happened there-not that Des or anyone else in Dorset would ever be able to forget.
She cruised another half mile past the crossroads before she turned at the fire station onto Mill Road. Tim Keefe’s was the third house on the right, an old wood-shingled farmhouse with a sagging porch. His pretty blond wife, Debbie, was finishing the dinner dishes in the kitchen. Tim was out in his shop, she informed Des cheerfully.
It was a converted barn fully rigged up with a big band saw, lathe, drill press, router and workbenches. It smelled of linseed oil, glue and fresh-sawed lumber. Husky young Tim, with his ruddy face, walrus mustache and air of steady maturity, was brushing a coat of water-based polyurethane sealer onto some oak kitchen cupboards, ZZ Top providing background music on the radio.
“Come on in, Trooper Mitry,” he called to her, turning down the music. “Just getting your cabinets ready for installation. How do you like ’em?”
“They look great, Tim.” In fact, they were even nicer than she’d imagined. “Really great.”
“I think so, too,” he agreed. “Hey, we got those new roof joists in for you today.”
“So the roofers can start tomorrow?” she asked hopefully.
“If the weather holds.” Tim never, ever just said yes. Always, there was an if. “What brings you by-is it the Melanie thing?”
“You heard the news on the radio?”
“No, Dirk just called me,” he answered, continuing to brush on the sealer, his strokes smooth and sure. “Why would someone want to do an awful thing like that to her?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. I understand you and Dirk knew her pretty well back in high school.”
Tim immediately reddened, just as Dirk had, and shot a nervous glance through the open barn door at the house. “That was a long time ago,” he pointed out delicately. “Before Debbie and me ever started going together.”
“You went to school with Moose, too, am I right?”
“You bet,” he agreed, eager to change the subject. “Absolutely.”
“How did she feel about Dirk?”
“She loved the guy, no two ways about it. Would have married him, too, if Takai hadn’t turned his head. Dirk, he liked Moose well enough, but he didn’t appreciate her. Not when we were seventeen, eighteen years old. Let’s face it-when guys are that age we’re drawn to certain flashier qualities in women.”
She smiled at him. “You mean you’re taken in by certain flashier qualities, don’t you?”
Tim let out a laugh. “Okay, you win. What Moose had going for her was intelligence and warmth and good, common sense. She would have made a fine wife and mother, a partner for life. Dirk would have come to realize that as time went on, but he never got the chance. Takai made sure of that,” he added with obvious distaste.
“Why did she?”
“Because she could,” he answered simply. “And because she never could stand Moose having anything that she didn’t have. That’s Takai. Hell, she never really wanted Dirk. But she got him. And she poisoned that well for all time. I’ve always felt bad about it, to be honest. If she’d just left him alone, cast her spell on some other poor slob, he and Moose might have had something solid together. Moose would have kept him level-headed, despite all of those ups and downs of his ball-playing career. He’d have a life there on that farm with her. He’d have been happy.” Tim finished coating the cupboards and went over to the work sink in the corner to wash out the brush. He kept an old refrigerator next to the sink. He offered her a beer. She declined. He pulled out a cold bottle of Corona, popped the cap and took a long, thirsty gulp. “As it turned out, neither one of them ever got happy.”
“And Takai?”
“I don’t know how that nasty bitch lives with herself. But she’ll get hers, and it won’t take any shotgun, either. One of these days, not so many years from now, she’ll be a wrinkled, dried-up old hag. No man will so much as look at her. And she’ll totally freak. That’s a day I’m looking forward to, trooper. I’ve got it circled on my calendar. And if that sounds small and mean of me, then I guess I’m small and mean.”
“Dirk told me you two have been going out together on your Whaler.”
“Yeah, we’ve gone out a few times since he’s been back. For me, being out on the water is like going to church.” Tim let out an easy laugh. “Actually, it’s instead of church.”
“I know I’m a landlubber, but it’s getting a little late in the season, isn’t it?”
“Not for lobstering. Best time to catch ’em is in January. Mind you, there’s a real art to it-you need a strong back and a weak mind. Me, I’m strictly what the old Maine lobstermen call a ragpicker. An amateur with six measly pots.”
“When’s the last time you went out?”
“Sunday. Got us four fine lobsters.”
“You haven’t taken her out since then?”
“Nope.”
“Could someone else? Without you knowing about it, I mean?”
Tim stared at her stonily. “Someone like Dirk?”
“Yes.”
“There’s no chance of that, trooper. None.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“She’s grounded, that’s how. Her engine was misfiring on Sunday. I pulled it when we got back, and haven’t fixed it yet. It’s still sitting on a tarp in my garage. Go take a look,” Tim challenged her, his temperature starting to rise. “Take a look if you don’t believe me.”
“Don’t get sore on me, Tim. I’m just asking you the questions they told me to ask.”
“Sure, okay,” he said grudgingly. Clearly, Tim Keefe was being protective of his childhood friend. He was also not someone who liked having his word doubted. “I understand. Go ahead and ask away.”
“Dirk’s marriage is not so hot, I gather.”
“Straight up, Dirk Doughty’s a guy I feel sorry for,” Tim said, taking another gulp of his beer. “You wouldn’t think a carpenter like me could ever feel sorry for a big leaguer like Dirk, but I do. See, when he was a teenager they told him that he was going to win the lottery. Live a life that the rest of us can only dream about. That was dangled right in front of him, okay? And then-whiff-it was snatched away, and I don’t think he’s ever recovered. When you’re a guy like me you know there are certain things you will never be. I will never be famous. I will never be rich. I will never sleep with a supermodel. I know these things. I know who I am and where I belong and who with. Dirk doesn’t know any of those things. And he’ll never be happy settling for anything less than what he thinks he deserves. That’s how his drinking came about. He gets itchy.”
“And what does Chuckie Gilliam get?” Des asked him.
“Chuckie?” Tim curled his lip at her. “Why do you want to know about that loser?”
“He lived across the street from Melanie, and was mixed up with her. Said he used to work for you.”
“He did,” Tim answered shortly. “Until I caught him loading some of my materials onto his truck. When I confronted him about it the stupid jerk popped me one in the nose. I’d have cut him some slack over it-he has his troubles. But that was over the line. I don’t take that from any of my men.”
“What kind of troubles?”
“Gambling. Chuckie’s poison of choice is blackjack. He can blow his whole paycheck up at Foxwoods in ten minutes.”
“Every time I’m at his place he’s on the computer. What’s up with that?”
“He’s always trying to come up with some formula for how to beat the house. All he’s come up with so far is a way to lose every dime he’s ever made-and then some.”
“And what about that Jesus Saves thing on his knuckles?”
“He saw God for a while,” Tim answered dryly. “I don’t think he sees him anymore. Or maybe he just didn’t like the odds God was giving him. Hey, look, Chuckie’s a swamp Yankee through and through, just like me. Most of us are good, hard-working people. Some of us aren’t.” He hesitated now, eyeing Des carefully. “You don’t really think Dirk’s a killer, do you?”
“Tim, I don’t know what to think. But I had to ask, like I told you.” Des swallowed, steeling herself for what she was about to do. “And there’s something else I need to ask you…”
A wary expression crossed his ruddy face. “What is it?”
“Do you think you could finish my damned house by next week?”
“Oh, hey, we’re getting there,” he assured her cheerfully. “And if everything breaks right we’ll-”
“No, sir. No more ifs,” she said firmly. In her mind, Bella was cheering her on. “I hear that word if again and I will scream. I know that quality work takes time. I have tried to be patient. But the monster is out of her cage. I need my own space and I need it now, understand?”
Tim nodded his head vigorously. “I do. I absolutely do. And if
… I-I mean, I sure will do my best to finish up as fast as I can. You’ve got my word on that. Ask anyone in town-my word’s gold.”
She knew that. She gave him her biggest smile and told him so.
But that still didn’t stop Des from waving her flashlight around inside his garage as she was on her way back to her cruiser. And, yes, there was a blue tarp in there. And, yes, there was a greasy outboard motor sitting on it. But for how long? There was no guarantee that it had been sitting there since Sunday. None.
And she knew that, too.
She swung by the Dunn’s Cove Marina on her way back down Route 156. Found it to be deserted. There were no cars parked in the gravel lot. No cabin lights coming from the yachts and cruisers moored there. The rich boys were all home for the night. Good. She killed her engine and got out, flashlight in hand. It was very nearly pitch-black out. The boatyard was not floodlit, and the moon had disappeared behind some low heavy clouds that had moved in, smelling of rain.
Bruce Leanse’s boat, The Brat, was as huge and beautiful as Mitch had said it was. He had also mentioned that it was scrupulously maintained. Des took off her black brogans and hopped aboard in her stocking feet. Carefully, patiently, she checked over its deck from bow to stern, hunched low over her flashlight beam in search of scuff marks. She found none-the deck’s surface was spotless. Perfect condition. Next she started in on the railings and brasswork, looking for any gouges or scratches, no matter how tiny. Anything that might indicate a struggle had taken place on board. But it was as if someone had just gone over the entire boat with Brasso and a toothbrush. Des found not one thing anywhere on deck to suggest that The Brat had been used to dispose of Melanie Zide.
As for the cabin, well, the cabin was locked. And she had no authority to bust in. No authority to be on board, period. Not unless she thought she’d heard a prowler. Which would be her story if anyone found her there.
And, damn, now she did see headlights. A car coming down the marina’s gravel drive directly toward her. It pulled up right next to her cruiser and somebody got out. She heard footsteps crunching on the gravel. Footsteps coming directly toward her. Des bit down hard on her lower lip. She was in no mood to be found on board The Brat by Bruce Leanse. She really did not want to have to explain herself to that man. Hurriedly, she grabbed her shoes and hopped back onto the dock, where she immediately ran smack-dab into a short, stocky man who grabbed her by the arm, shining his light on himself so she could get a good look at him.
It was Soave. “I was just going to call you when I spotted your car in the lot. Find anything interesting?”
“Didn’t find anything, period. And you can let go of my arm now.” He released his grip on her and she stepped back into her shoes, bending over to tie them. “Why were you going to call me?”
“I got an ID on Cutter from the Internet service. Man, they do not make it easy. I’ve been jumping through flaming hoops for like the last two hours.” He grinned at her. He was pumped. “Take a drive with me, Des.”
“Where to, wow man?”
The Leanses. They took Soave’s slicktop, Des riding shotgun.
“Your father hates me,” Soave said to her as he drove. “Treats me like I’m some kind of a total yutz.”
“Rico, he treats everyone that way.”
Soave glanced across the seat at her. “Even you?”
“Especially me. He demands best effort, and he accepts nothing less. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time when we partnered up? Because I’ve been getting hammered by that man since I was four years old.”
“Are you just saying this to make me feel better? Because I have to tell you something-it’s working.”
“Rico, it’s the real deal.”
He furrowed his brow thoughtfully now. “Tawny thinks that you and me never got along because deep down inside I feel threatened by you.”
“Smart girl, that Tawny. She’s wasting a fine brain, sitting there all day in a beauty parlor with an emery board in her hand.” Des paused, raising her chin at him. “Do you two talk about me a lot?”
“You’ve been on my mind a lot lately, Des,” he confessed, suddenly sounding like a painfully earnest adolescent. “Some of the things you said to me about my future. I guess I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately…”
“Careful, that can become habit-forming. Before you know it, you’ll be doing it every day.”
“You’re never going to let me back up, are you?” he demanded, flaring. “There’s no second chances in this perfect world you and your father live in, is that how it goes?”
“I don’t live in that world anymore. I dropped out, remember?”
“Like hell you did. You’re still the same ball-buster you always were.”
Des smiled at him sweetly. “You really do miss me, don’t you?”
“Aw, shut up.”
All lit up at night, the Leanses’s post-modern mountaintop home reminded Des of the Mount Rushmore house in that superb Hitchcock movie Mitch had shown her, North by Northwest. This was a brand-new phenomenon, it dawned on her. She never, ever used to compare real life to movies, not until she met that man. Mitch was rubbing off on her. Was she rubbing off on him? She doubted it.
“This house looks like a damned space station,” Soave observed, gaping at it through his windshield.
“Just don’t tell him you find the architecture interesting, or he’ll bite your head clean off.”
“Yo, I wasn’t going to.”
They got out and rang the bell to the big oak front door. It was the little pumpkin head, Ben, who answered.
“Good to see you again, Ben,” Des said to him pleasantly. “Give it up for Lieutenant Tedone. Ben here was our DARE essay winner.”
“No way!” Soave exclaimed, sticking out a hand. “Glad to know you, Ben.”
“Glad to know you, too, sir,” the boy responded in that gurgly voice of his. “My dad’s on the phone in the den-whoa, what a surprise. My mom’s down in the gym. Come on in.”
The Leanses’ living room was a cube-shaped lookout of stone and glass. The living room floor was polished concrete, as was the stairway that led down the hill to the rest of the house. There were no rugs. No adornments anywhere. Only bare walls and windows and clean surfaces. What furniture there was-a grouping of low leather banquettes, a table and chairs of polished blond wood-was spare to the point of sterile. It struck Des as something out of an architectural magazine, not a real place where real people lived.
“Ricky Welmers was bragging that he took a ride in your cruiser,” little Ben said to her as he ushered them in, their footsteps resounding on the polished floor like rim shots on a snare drum. “Is that for real?”
“It is.”
“How come you gave him a ride?”
“He needed one. I’ll be happy to give you one, too. Anytime you want.”
“She’ll even handcuff you,” Soave confided.
“Really!?”
Des heard a set of footsteps coming briskly up the stairs now and Bruce Leanse charged into the room with a broad, manly smile on his face. “Trooper Mitry,” he said brightly, showing her thirty or more of his perfect white teeth. “Really good to see you again. And, hey, you must be Lieutenant Tedone. Welcome to my home-both of you.” Bruce was dressed casually in a gray turtleneck sweater and jeans, and he was working the chummy thing hard. Too hard. Underneath, he seemed edgy and preoccupied. “How may I help you?”
“The lieutenant and I just came from your boat…” Des responded.
“Please don’t tell me somebody broke in. That can’t be. This is Dorset.”
“No, nothing like that, Mr. Leanse,” Soave spoke up. “We wanted to talk to you is all. We tried you there first, but nobody was around.”
“Because he’s been working there much too late these past few weeks,” Babette Leanse said pointedly as she came padding up the stairs to join them, perspiring freely from her workout. She had on a blue leotard and sneakers. A towel was around her neck, and her bushy hair was gathered up in a rubber band atop her head. “I insisted he stay home with his family this evening.”
Des nodded, wondering if Attila the Hen was hip to his thing with Takai. Sounded like it. “The lieutenant and I would like to have a talk with you both.”
“This sounds serious,” Babette said, managing once again, somehow, to look down her nose at Des-who still could not figure out how the woman managed to perform such a physical impossibility. “Do we need a lawyer present?”
“Entirely up to you,” Soave answered grimly.
Babette’s mouth tightened. “Ben, would you please excuse us?”
“No way!” Ben exclaimed. “This is just starting to get good!”
“Ben…”
Glumly, the little boy headed downstairs.
Babette waited until he was gone before she turned to Des with a defiant expression on her face. “Well, do you recommend we phone our lawyer or not?”
“That’s your decision,” Des replied, offering nothing.
The Leanses exchanged a hopelessly bewildered look before Bruce shrugged his shoulders and said, “Come on, let’s sit in the kitchen.”
Their gleaming gourmet kitchen was down one flight of stairs from the living room. It was vast. It was to die for. Commercial Jenn-Air range with built-in grill and two ovens. Sub-zero refrigerator and freezer. Copper pots and pans galore. A center island with stools where the four of them sat. In comparison, Des realized, her own beautiful new kitchen would look like something belonging inside a trailer park in Homestead, Florida. But that was okay by her. Because she would never want to trade places with Babette Leanse.
Not now. Not ever.
“You made a play and you lost, Mrs. Leanse,” Soave began, his voice chilly and authoritative. He played the blustering intimidator well. He loved to stick it to people. Especially rich people. “Your days as head of the Dorset school board are over. You are toast. That’s a given. But if you’re straight with us, we may be able to keep you out of jail.”
Babette’s eyes widened with alarm. “Jail?”
“Whoa, time-out here,” Bruce broke in, staggered. “What are you talking about?”
“Melanie Zide is dead,” Soave fired back. “Maybe you heard the news.”
Babette sat there limply, the color draining from her face. “Dead?” Evidently, she hadn’t.
“Someone shot her,” Des said quietly. “And then tried to make it look like she left town.”
“We now have a positive ID on Cutter,” Soave continued, staying on the offensive. “What we don’t have, Mrs. Leanse, is the real reason why Melanie was pursuing her sexual-harassment claim against the superintendent. What was in it for her? Who put her up to it?”
Babette said nothing in response. Just sat there in tight-lipped silence, her small hand wrapped around a plastic water bottle.
Her husband, however, flew into a panic. “Honey, if you know anything, you’d better tell them!” he said in an agitated voice. “I am trying to build something huge here. If there’s so much as a whiff hanging over me I am roadkill-no planning commission approval, no building permit, nada. They won’t let me build a damned phone booth in this town, get it?”
Des was certainly trying to. Mostly, she found herself wondering if Bruce’s little speech was scripted for their benefit. She found it doubtful that anything this elaborate had been undertaken without his knowledge.
Now he was getting up off his stool. “Do you want me to call Jack?” he asked his wife. “Maybe I’d better call him at home in New York. We’ll put this on speakerphone so he can advise you what to say or what not to say or-”
“No, don’t,” Babette said faintly, putting a hand on his arm. “I want to tell them everything I know. I need to. I’m positively ill about this whole thing.”
“Okay, if that’s what you want…” Bruce settled back down on his stool.
Babette sat there for a long moment in silence, a deeply pained expression on her face. “But first I want you officers to understand that this was all my doing. My husband knew nothing about it. You must believe that. Everyone must believe that. If he had known, he most certainly would have told me not to do it.”
“Fine, whatever,” Soave said impatiently. He wasn’t buying this either.
“A few months ago,” Babette began slowly, “I discovered Melanie was mixed up in a kickback scheme involving our district’s classroom supplies-she’d switched us to a new distributor in exchange for money under the table. I found out about it from our old supplier, who’d refused to ante up. It wasn’t a lot of money-a few hundred here, a thousand there-and it is a fairly common practice among office managers who do institutional ordering. But it’s highly unethical.”
“Grounds for dismissal, too, I’d imagine,” Des said.
“Absolutely,” Babette concurred. “When I confronted Melanie about it she was extremely contrite. And laid this whole sad story on me about her poor sick mother in the nursing home. And then she said, ‘Isn’t there any way we can work this out?’ I said, ‘Melanie, I can’t imagine what you mean.’ And she said, ‘Well, what are our common interests?’ Of course, I knew immediately what she meant. She was well aware that I’d prefer to have a superintendent who backs the new school. Then she said, ‘I have this friend who’s a secretary in the tax collector’s office up in Hartford and she got rid of her boss, a real nasty jerk, by claiming he’d sexually harassed her.’ I said to her, ‘Melanie, has Colin been making improper advances to you?’ Melanie said, ‘No, but he doesn’t even have to.’ All her friend did was buy some gay porn magazines and leave them lying around her boss’s office. Then she filed a complaint against him, claiming that she’d been made to feel sexually harassed by his conduct. The state, which was not anxious to have the story hit the news, immediately offered him a lucrative early retirement package if he’d go quietly. And he did, even though it was a complete fabrication, because he didn’t want to put his wife and family through the embarrassment of having it go public.” Babette paused to drink thirstily from her water bottle. “Melanie knew that Colin was partial to online chat groups,” she continued, her voice low and strained. “Particularly the gay ones. She’d observed him participating in them during his lunch hour. She suggested we find someone to engage him in a male cyber romance. All she had to do was catch him at it in his office one time and she’d testify against him. Faced with public humiliation and shame, she felt sure Colin would fold his tent the same way her friend’s boss had.” Babette took a deep breath, swiping at the perspiration on her face with her towel. “And that’s the whole dirty, rotten little plan-Melanie would keep her job, Colin would lose his, and Dorset would get its new school.”
“Honey, I don’t believe this!” Bruce protested, aghast.
Again Des found herself wondering whether his reaction was strictly for their benefit.
“This whole scheme was Melanie Zide’s idea?” Soave demanded, glaring at Babette Leanse accusingly. “You had nothing to do with it?”
Babette lowered her eyes. “I-I had the power to tell her no. And I didn’t.”
“It means that much to you?” Des said to her.
Babette looked at her blankly. “What does, trooper?”
“The school. It’s worth ruining a man’s life just for the sake of a new building?”
“Nothing is more important than our children’s well-being,” Babette replied with total conviction. “Colin was too bound up in local tradition to see that.”
“And so you flattened him,” Des said.
“Yes,” she admitted quietly.
“The new school’s also pretty important to the future of The Aerie, am I right?”
“One’s got nothing to do with the other,” Bruce argued hastily. “Not a thing.”
“Really? That’s not what I’m hearing,” Des said.
“Why, what are you hearing?” he demanded.
“That you’d like to build a New Age retirement village on three thousand acres of prime farmland and forest adjacent to the river,” she replied. “That in order to lock up zoning and wetlands approval you’ve paid to play by donating the land and the design plans for this new school that you insist the town needs, even though a lot of people don’t happen to agree with you. From where I sit, Mr. Leanse, you’re the one who needs the new school.”
“Our children need the new school,” Babette insisted. “Center School is unhealthy.”
“And there’s no quid pro quo,” Bruce said vehemently. “That’s a lie. A vicious, evil lie. People repeat it often enough, they think it becomes the truth. It doesn’t. It’s still a damned lie!”
God, they were cagey, Des reflected. From their lips it was impossible to tell truth from spin. Perhaps the two were one and the same to people such as these. Perhaps the whole cyber-romance scheme had been Babette’s idea, not Melanie’s. It wasn’t as if Melanie were around anymore to dispute her version of the facts.
“I-I didn’t want Bruce to know about Colin,” Babette spoke softly. “I wanted this to be my own contribution. To accomplish something on my own.”
“You accomplished something, all right,” Soave said to her coldly. “You placed yourself right in the middle of two murders.”
“And a suicide attempt,” Des added. “Let’s not forget that.”
“I shouldn’t have let it happen.” Babette’s eyes were beginning to shimmer, as if she might cry. “It was sneaky and wrong, just wrong. And I am deeply ashamed. But Colin did willingly engage in that pornographic online relationship. And he did leave smutty material on his screen for Melanie to see. That was his own doing. No one held a gun to his head. If he had behaved appropriately, then he would have had nothing to fear. He’d-” She broke off, her voice quavering. “Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself. But it was an awful thing to do to someone, and I know it. I could have stopped it from happening, and I didn’t. And now I will have to accept the consequences.”
Soave stared at her in disapproving silence. “Who shot Melanie Zide, Mrs. Leanse?”
“I have no idea who, Lieutenant,” she replied. “Or why. Possibly Melanie got greedy. It was certainly like her to get greedy.”
“Forgive me if I sound dense,” Bruce cut in, running a hand through his short, spiky hair. “But there’s one thing I’m still not getting…”
“Which is what, Mr. Leanse?” Soave asked him.
“This online lover of Colin’s,” he said slowly. “This Cutter fellow-just exactly who the hell is he?”