Her first thought was hit and run.
Old Pete was always pedaling his funked-up contraption right along the edge of the road in the predawn darkness. It was entirely possible that some half-awake commuter had accidentally clipped him and sent him flying into the ditch. Wouldn’t be out of the question for the driver to keep right on going, afraid to phone it in, afraid of trouble, afraid.
Except that Des could find no skid marks of any kind. Nor any fresh dings in the bike or carts.
And then there were all of those shoeprints in the muddy forest floor. Enough shoe prints for two people. Also a deep toe gouge in the moist earth, as if someone had tripped and fallen. A number of the bare branches in the deep thicket had gotten trampled and broken. Whoever accidentally hit Pete may have dragged him deeper into the woods-out of sight, out of mind. Or, a struggle of some kind may have taken place here.
He was lying face down. Smelled strongly of liquor. What she could see of his face was weathered and grimy. There were no obvious wounds to his body. Not that there necessarily would be if he’d been struck by a car. His innards could be completely crushed and it wouldn’t be apparent until he was laid out on an autopsy table. As she looked at him lying there on the cold ground, discarded and dead, Des realized that Pete bore an uncanny resemblance to roadkill.
She didn’t even know what his last name was.
He wore an old pea coat, stained wool trousers, cracked and oily work boots. The toes of his boots were not caked with mud. A knit stocking cap lay on the ground next to him. Des crouched down for a closer look at the back of his head and, just like that, her hit and run scenario flew right out the window. The man had suffered multiple skull fractures from a linear object of some kind, such as a baseball bat. His hands were crusted with dried blood. There appeared to be numerous broken bones in both of them. No doubt he’d been trying to shield his head from the blows-at least some of which he’d suffered right here. His scalp wounds had bled down into the moist ground beneath him. He was ice cold. Rigor had begun.
Des glanced around her for a possible weapon. Nothing was immediately apparent to her, and she was not about to search any further. She did go through his pockets. Found a broken half-pint of Captain Morgan in his coat, which explained the smell. Found no wallet. No identification of any kind. All Pete had on him were two rumpled dollar bills, a handful of change and a pen knife.
The uniformed troopers from Troop F barracks got there first and began rerouting traffic north and south of the crime scene onto alternate roads. Then the forensic nurse from the medical examiner’s office arrived. Des took her to the body. Soon, the white-and-blue cube vans had shown up and the crime scene technicians in their blue windbreakers were unloading their gear.
Lastly, a pair of slicktops pulled up onto the shoulder of the road, one behind the other, and out popped Soave and Yolie, who were two people Des knew very well. Back when she’d been a lieutenant on Major Crimes, Lt. Rico “Soave” Tedone had been her stumpy young bodybuilder of a sergeant. Smart enough, but seriously lacking in the maturity department. Also major insecure, due to his short stature and overbearing, higher-ranking big brother. Thanks to family juice, Soave was now a lieutenant. And somewhat more mature-although still a work in progress. He’d revamped his look since the last time Des saw him. He was experimenting with that goatee and shaved head thing. Plus the wardrobe was new. For as long as she’d known him, Soave had always dressed like a pallbearer for hire. Today he had on a very nice gray pinstripe with a powder blue shirt and a bold pink and yellow patterned tie.
“Let me guess, Rico,” she said after they’d done the hello thing. “Has Tawny started dressing you?” Tawny was the high school sweetheart he’d finally married after the longest courtship in recorded history.
“She took me shopping for my birthday,” he answered defensively. “Why, no good?”
“It’s all good, Rico. Especially the tie. Did Tawny talk you into that clean head, too?”
“This was all my own idea.” He ran a hand over his smooth, shiny dome. “How does it look?”
“Seriously pigment challenged.”
“I hear that,” agreed Yolie Snipes. “You need to get you a tube of bronzer, Rico. Right now, your head glows in the dark like one of those plug-in night lights.” Yolie flashed Des a huge smile. “Miss Thing, it is so good to see you again.” Yolanda Snipes, Soave’s brash young half-black, half-Cuban sergeant, had grown up in a hurry in Hartford’s Frog Hollow section, and owned a knife scar on her cheek to prove it. Yolie had a Latina’s gleaming, liquid brown eyes. Her lips, nose and braids said sister all the way, as did her hour (and a half) glass figure. The guys in Meriden called her Boom Boom because of what she had going on up inside of her sweater. She wore slacks with it, and a pair of boots with chunky heels that had her towering over Soave. “And how’s that cute teddy bear of yours?” she asked Des warmly.
“Mitch is fine. We’re fine. Everything’s fine.”
“You two set a date yet?”
“Feel free to move on to the next question any time.”
“Suits me,” said Soave, who couldn’t fathom Des and Mitch at all. “So what’s going on here this morning in your nice, quiet country hamlet?”
“We’ve got ourselves two noteworthy events, Rico. Possibly related. Happily, that’s your job to decide, not me.”
“Big thanks for the procedural pointer.”
“One is the theft of a slammin’ ’56 Mercedes Gullwing from the house right up that driveway over there-estimated Kelley Blue Book value north of three hundred thou. Belongs to Poochie Vickers, who is our most notable of notables. A true grande dame. Not to mention a television celebrity and best-selling author.”
“No need to tell me that,” Yolie said. “I’ve got all of her cookbooks.”
“The lady is highly beloved and way trusting. She left the garage unlocked and the keys in the ignition. They just drove it away. I say they because it was most likely a two-man job, given how far we are from town. Our other event is the murder in these woods of Dorset’s resident recycling bin scavenger, old Pete. Ready to have a look?”
“Tell us about him,” Soave said as they followed her into the brush toward Pete’s bicycle.
“Pete was an odd soul. Spoke to no one. Avoided people like poison. But he was harmless enough, and folks looked out for him.” Des recalled that First Selectman Paffin had urged her to keep an eye on Pete when she first came on the job. “Today is recycling day in this neighborhood. Chances are, he was making his rounds at about the same time the Gullwing was taken.”
“Sounds like he witnessed it and they shut him down,” Yolie put in.
“Sounds like,” Soave said. “You agree, Des?”
Des came to a stop before Pete’s ditched bike and grocery carts. “I’m on board, except that you’ll notice his cans and bottles are gone. If this was just about silencing him then why did they make off with his haul?”
“Maybe somebody else came along later and took them.” Soave, tugged at his goatee with his thumb and forefinger. “Maybe they didn’t see his body in there.”
“There appears to have been a struggle over here. Note the deep toe mark in the mud.”
A techie was snapping pictures. The death investigator was crouched over Pete’s body, dictating her notes into a tape recorder.
“He received several blows to the back of his head,” Des said. “The weapon was some sort of club or crowbar. There are defensive wounds to the hands. Also, he bled-out here.”
“What do you think in terms of time?” Soave asked the death investigator.
She flicked off her recorder and stood up. “He hasn’t been here all night, if that’s what you’re wondering. Three or four hours is more like it.”
“Which fits with our time frame,” Des said, glancing at her watch.
“Yolie, have these woods searched but good. I want that weapon.” Soave started back through the brush toward the road.
“Totally whack idea,” Yolie offered as they followed him. “Any way these two crimes are completely unrelated? Like, could this one just be a straight robbery gone bad?”
“I don’t buy it,” Soave replied. “Too coincidental. It’s not like this is a high crime area. It’s a no crime area. Am I right, Des?”
“This is Dorset,” Des agreed. “Not many people around here are so desperate for pocket cash that they’d beat a scavenger to death for his empties.” As they made it back to the road, she noticed that the troopers had waved in several television news vans from the local Connecticut stations. “The Vickers family is looking to low profile this if at all possible, Rico.”
“No problem. We can put a cruiser at the foot of the drive. Keep talking, Des. Give us the big picture here.”
“Big picture? You’ve walked into an old-school family feud.” Des filled them in on how the Kershaw brothers had just been released from Enfield for stealing from the Vickers. On how their father, Milo, had gone to jail for torching the Vickers’s barn. On Justine Kershaw, who was dating Poochie’s grandson, Be-ment Widdifield, the very person who’d called the law on her brothers. On his mother, Claudia, who was estranged from her cash-strapped architect husband, Mark. And how Claudia was also at odds with her brother, Eric, not only for hiring the Kershaw brothers but for failing to help her take control of the family purse strings. Des told them all about Poochie’s worrisome behavior of late-fishing her out of Duck River Pond, that hoard of candy bars in the attic, Claudia’s assertion that the congenitally frugal Poochie had started showering expensive gifts and sums of cash on Guy Tolliver, her companion.
Which was when Soave stopped her. “Time out, he’s her what?”
“Her companion, Rico.”
“I grew up in Waterbury, remember? I don’t know from ‘companion.’”
“The man lives with her but he’s gay,” Des explained patiently. “Get it now?”
“Yes,” he replied firmly. “But no.”
“Neighborhood canvass has turned up squat so far on the stolen car. But before this got bounced to you, Detective Olman did learn that an unmarked tractor-trailer was idling in the commuter parking lot early this morning. He also dug up a sheet on one of our principals that you’ll want to run with. I have the printout in my ride. And he’s available if you need backup.”
“Why would I need backup?” demanded Soave, bristling. He did not play well with others. Felt threatened. “You saying I can’t handle this on my own?”
“Not at all, Rico.”
“Sure sounded like it.”
“You know, I really don’t think it did.”
“Freudian therapy, little man,” Yolie chided him.
“What about it?”
“You really need you some.”
He shot Yolie a withering look. “See what I have to deal with, Des? Nothing but lip, day in and day… what are you smiling at?”
“Not a thing, Rico. I just miss the two of you, God help me.”
“I want you with us up at the house. Can you stick around?”
“Be happy to. Just prepare yourselves. You’re about to get all tangled up in weird.”
“Damn, girl!” Yolie cried out as she stood there inside the fragrant warmth of the conservatory, gazing up, up at its four-story dome. “Somebody lives here?”
“Wait until you see what she’s got hanging on her parlor walls.”
Soave was speechless as he took in the highlights-the brightly colored tropical birds perched up there among the cast iron trusses, the vintage Lionel train that was chuff-chuff-chuffing its way around on its raised track.
Decked out in a pair of outlandish hot pink shades and a straw hat big enough to bathe in, the mistress of Four Chimneys was vigorously trimming back one of her Meyer lemon trees. “Why, it’s an entire contingent, Tolly!” Poochie exclaimed merrily at the sight of them.
Guy Tolliver was seated on the wicker sofa reading a copy of Vanity Fair and looking considerably more together than he had earlier that morning. His silver hair was neatly brushed, his loose-jowled face clean shaven. He wore a soft yellow flannel shirt with a gold silk ascot and a pair of green moleskin slacks. Beside him on the sofa, Bailey lay asleep. Tolly stood to greet them, a hopeful smile on his face. “You’ve found the Gullwing, have you?”
“I knew you would!” Poochie came charging toward them, yanking off her garden gloves. “Where was it, Des, at the beach?”
“Poochie, there’s been a new development since the last time we spoke. I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Rico Tedone and Sergeant Yolanda Snipes. They’re with the Major Crime Squad.”
“Surely a joyride doesn’t constitute a major crime in this state.”
“This isn’t about that, Mrs. Vickers,” Soave said.
“Please call me Poochie. And that good-looking home wrecker is Tolly.”
“Absolutely love your tie, lieutenant,” Tolly said pleasantly.
“Thanks,” Soave grunted, reddening.
Poochie removed her pink shades, the better to examine Yolie. “My, my, you’re a strongly built young lady. Do you lift weights?”
“Three times a week, ma’am.”
“I like the prideful way you hold yourself. Too many full-bosomed young women develop slumpy shoulders. Are you drinking plenty of milk?”
Yolie glanced at Des in bewilderment. “Um, not really…”
“You must start,” Poochie ordered her. “I myself drink four glasses of farm-fresh milk a day, and my height hasn’t changed a fraction of an inch since I was twenty-one. Now, Des, what is all of this?”
“We’ve found Pete the Can Man in the woods down near the foot of your driveway. Somebody bashed his head in.”
Poochie’s blue eyes flickered, as if her entire body had been zapped by an electrical current. “Do you mean… he’s dead?”
“It appears likely that it happened right around when your car was stolen.”
“Oh, my lord, they’re going like hotcakes…” Poochie sank into a wicker armchair, ashen-faced. Her voice sounded hollow, shaky. In fact, her entire edifice of peppy optimism seemed to have crumpled from within. “That’s what mother said when everyone… when they all started to die on her. Poor Pete. Such a dear soul.”
“You didn’t happen to see him when you took your wagon down there this morning, did you?” asked Des, surprised by how hard she was taking it.
Poochie didn’t answer Des. Didn’t seem to hear her.
“Des wants to know if you saw Pete today,” Tolly prodded her gently.
“Why, no…” she replied after a long moment. “He hadn’t come yet. Not until around seven, usually.”
Des heard footsteps now. Claudia was crossing the conservatory toward them.
“Who’s this?” Soave murmured at Des.
“The daughter, Claudia Widdifield.”
“Am I going to like her?”
“You could always surprise me.”
“Have you arrested the Kershaw boys?” Claudia asked.
“It’s old Pete, Claude,” Poochie said, her voice still quavery.
“He took your car? Mummy, I told you he wasn’t that harmless.”
“We’ve found his body near the foot of your drive,” Des explained. “Somebody murdered him.”
Claudia stared at her in surprise. “Why would someone do that to an old wino?”
“Pete was not a wino,” Poochie said indignantly. “He was a sensitive human being who did the best he could under very difficult circumstances. He didn’t complain. And he never harmed a soul.”
“Fine, have it your way.” Claudia turned back to Des. “About the Gullwing?…”
“We’re making good, steady progress, ma’am,” Soave told her. “Nothing we’re prepared to go into just yet.”
Claudia looked at him and Yolie rather doubtfully. “How can you be making ‘good, steady progress’ when you’re all standing around here?”
“Claude, dear?…” Poochie had a pained smile on her face. “Don’t you have someone’s interior to make over?”
Claudia flared instantly. “You don’t want me here, is that it?”
“I’ll keep you posted, dear,” Poochie assured her.
Claudia stormed off, her black pumps clacking sharply on the quarry tile.
“Please pardon my daughter, officers. The poor thing got brains and looks but no heart whatsoever.” Poochie retrieved her sunnies and gardening gloves from the coffee table. She’d already recovered her composure, it seemed. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Actually, we were wondering if we could have a word in private with Mr. Tolliver,” Soave said.
“Why, of course,” she said. “I want to finish my cassoulet, anyway. You’ll stay for lunch?”
“I don’t believe so, ma’am,” Soave said. “But thanks.”
“Very well. I shall be in the kitchen if you need me. Come along, young sir!” she roared, smacking her ancient dog on the rump.
Bailey stirred, yawning, and padded slowly along behind her.
“Do join me, please,” Tolly said, smiling at them graciously.
The three of them sat-Des beside Tolly on the sofa, Soave and Yolie in facing armchairs.
“Mr. Tolliver, exactly how do you support yourself?” Yolie asked him.
His smile slipped a bit, though he quickly recovered. “No small talk with you new generation types, is there? You just go right ahead and stick the knife in.”
Yolie didn’t respond. Just gazed at him steadily. With her big shoulders and battle-scarred street face, she could be very intimidating when she chose to be.
Tolly swiped at some invisible lint on his moleskin slacks. “Obviously, you’ve checked to see if I’ve ever run afoul of the law. Obviously, the answer is yes. You’ve asked me how I support myself. The short answer is that I don’t. I have a checking account in a New York bank with a small cash balance. No income. No investment portfolio. No retirement plan. I’ve been a gypsy my entire adult life. Mostly, my friends are kind enough to take me in.”
“Are you sure they’re not the ones being taken in?”
“I’m not following you, young lady,” he responded politely.
“Is that right? Because trouble sure has an amazing knack for following you around, sir.” Yolie glanced down at the computer printout that Des had passed her. “In ’94 you were charged with passing forged checks belonging to your hostess, a Mimi Over-meyer of Old Westbury, Long Island. The charges were later dropped by Mrs. Overmeyer, but similar charges were leveled the following year in Aspen, Colorado. This time your hostess was a member of the Ford family. In ’96 some valuable jewelry disappeared from your hostess’s horse farm in Jackson, Wyoming. A Degas disappeared six months later in Palm Beach. This list just goes on and on, Mr. Tolliver-a Cartier watch in Maui, a Tiffany diamond bracelet in Montecito. In Beverly Hills we’ve got credit card fraud-”
“Eva loaned me that card,” Tolly objected, after having suffered the rest in composed silence. “Besides, what you’ve failed to mention is that not once have I been convicted of any crime.”
“True that,” Yolie conceded. “But the sheet doesn’t lie. Wherever you’ve stayed some wealthy lady has wound up paying for it. You’re quite the smooth operator, aren’t you?”
“You make me sound like a gentleman thief out of an old Hollywood movie.”
Des was thinking the same thing herself. Didn’t know which movie, but she had a pretty fair idea who would.
“I didn’t say anything about you being a gentleman,” Yolie pointed out, raising her chin at him.
“Young lady, that was not a nice thing to say.”
“We’re just trying to be thorough,” Soave interjected soothingly. “Mrs. Vickers has lost herself a pretty valuable car, and a man is dead.”
“I’m neither a murderer nor a car thief,” Tolly said. “I had nothing to do with any of this.”
“Why did you leave the keys to the Gullwing in the ignition?” asked Yolie.
“Poochie told me to.”
“Sure it wasn’t your idea?”
“Positive.”
“We can subpoena this house’s phone records. Find out who you’ve been in contact with.”
“Go right ahead. You won’t get anywhere. Not regarding me you won’t.”
Soave peered at him. “You have some idea who is behind this?”
“I have my ideas,” Tolly acknowledged. “None I care to share with you.”
Yolie kept right on coming. “I understand Mrs. Vickers has her some mighty tasty artwork around here.”
“Sergeant, this is not you being thorough, merely insulting,” Tolly said to her calmly. “But you’re wasting your breath. I am impervious to insults. You see, I’ve been a queer my whole life.”
“Have you got a man in your life right now?” she inquired.
“I haven’t, no,” he replied wistfully. “In recent years, it’s been my pleasure to befriend a handful of great, kind ladies. Lonely ladies who make me a part of the family. Mind you, other family members tend to have it in for me-witness Claudia.”
“What about her?”
“She despises me, simply put. I’m a rival for her mother’s affections. I’ve encountered this before. If something goes amiss, I’m the fellow they try to pin it on, and you people are only too happy to see it their way. I’m just the sort who you classify as ‘the likely suspect.’ I’m a lone wolf, and I’ve never owned things. As if things legitimize you. The most disreputable people I’ve ever known owned things-multinational corporations, banking empires. Trust me, they’re the criminals in this world. But the law always picks on me. You people are so compliant in that regard. Besides which,” he added pointedly, “Poochie knows all about what’s on that sheet of yours. I’ve told her. And she trusts me completely. She also needs me. Not just because I’m her friend, but because I pull my weight around here. I help out in the yard, shop for her, wash dishes. She has no maid, you know.”
“Claudia told me you’re putting together a book of your photos,” Des said.
Tolly brightened considerably. “My photos are my legacy. Before I go, I want to show your generation what real style was about. What they were about. I was Babe Paley’s favorite, you know. She’d let no other photographer near her. I shot all of the great ones-Jackie Kennedy, C.Z. Guest, Slim Keith. They had such elegance, such breeding.”
“You were a fashion photographer?” asked Yolie.
“I never shot fashion,” he replied crisply. “Although that’s a common misconception, Sergeant, so don’t get too down on yourself for making it. I shot fabulous ladies going about their daily lives. I shot them lunching with friends. I shot them riding horses, throwing charity galas. I was their chronicler, and now that I’m closing in on eighty I want to publish my chronicle. Those ladies are a part of our heritage. They speak to a wonderful bygone era when sophistication and grace ruled our society. Who are our standard bearers now? Paris Hilton? Britney Spears? The Olsen twins?” Tolly let out a discreet snort of disgust. “They’re all gone now, except for Poochie. She’s a national treasure, really. And she’s grown even more beautiful as she’s gotten older. Because of her spirit. She savors every single day of her life.”
“Do you still take pictures, Mr. Tolliver?” Yolie asked.
“Haven’t touched a camera in years. These days, I’m nothing more than a remarkably well-preserved relic.”
“Which brings us back to the subject of how you support yourself.”
“I haven’t a cent, Sergeant, as I’ve already told you. Could I use one of those sweet golden parachutes that the corporate titans are awarded for running their companies into the ground? Absolutely. Instead, I’m relying on Poochie for the roof over my head, for my pocket money, for my everything. I adore that woman. She’s good to me, and I’m good to her. We laugh an awful lot. We’re happy together. I have peace here. I have security. And I didn’t steal her Gullwing. Not worth it to me at this point in my life. Which is not to admit that it ever was. May I be excused now?”
“You can stay right here if you want,” Soave told him. “We’re leaving.”
As soon as they were outside Soave undid his flowered necktie and ripped it from around his throat. “I knew this thing made me look light in the loafers,” he fumed. “I should never have listened to Tawny.”
“You don’t look gay, Rico,” Des assured him.
“You trying to tell me that old guy wasn’t hitting on me?”
“He was simply paying you a compliment. That wasn’t gay code.”
“That there is one sly old boots,” Yolie mused aloud as they crossed the gravel courtyard toward their rides. “Did you believe anything he said?”
“Not a single word,” Soave replied, scowling.
“Dig, how do we know he doesn’t have a young stud on the side?” she suggested. “A partner who does the heavy lifting while he’s being all lovey-dovey.”
“We should definitely check his phone records,” Soave said. “Also his bank account. His and everyone else’s. Maybe we’ll turn up a funky deposit or withdrawal. And, Des, you ought to nose around at your quaint local inns. See if any unattached male guests came and went recently.”
“I’ll get right on it, Rico.”
“So who are you liking for this, the Kershaw brothers?”
“My mind’s still open. But my gut hunch is Pete’s killer wasn’t some out-of-town leather boy who’s hooked up with Guy Tolliver. We’re looking for people who Pete knew. People who were afraid he might blab their identity to someone.”
“Girl, you told us the man barely spoke,” Yolie pointed out.
“I know I did. Just walking it around. Sorry if I’m muddying the water.”
“That’s okay, don’t ever hold back. I had a wise lieutenant once who taught me that.” Soave flashed a grin at Des as they arrived at their cars. “Let’s cowboy up, ladies. Yolie, grab some uniforms and recanvass the neighbors and school bus drivers. Find out if anyone saw Pete on his rounds this morning. And we need to go after the Gullwing hard. If we find the car we find our killers. They had to unload it somewhere. And we’re not talking some chop shop in Bridgeport. We’re talking high-end operator, which rhymes with m-o-b.”
“I know a task force Fed in New Haven I can reach out to,” Yolie said.
“You also might want to contact the supervisor of the guard detail up at Enfield,” Des suggested. “The Kershaws are strictly small time, but they may have hooked up while they were there. Maybe one of the guards saw them hanging with a guy who has a background in car theft.”
“That’s good, Des,” Soave said. “I’ll get right on that. Could you-?”
“You want me to notify Pete’s next of kin, am I right?”
“Any idea who that might be?”
“Rico, I don’t have a clue. But I do know where to start.”