Des was frowning at him as she came through the door of McGee’s Diner in her uniform and Smokey hat. “You okay?” she asked, sliding her slender frame into the booth. “You have a funny look on your face.”
“It’s nothing serious,” Mitch assured her. “My heart just skips a beat every time you walk into a room.”
She drew her breath in, her pale green eyes growing soft. “Mitch, you can’t say such things to me when I’m on duty. My toes get all wiggly and I’m no good to anyone.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he said, squeezing her knee underneath the table.
“Sir, that there’s a class-two IPG.” When Des was in uniform she had ironclad rules regarding Inappropriate Public Groping.
“How about we skip lunch and head straight for my palatial island getaway? You can show me your tattoo. I can show you my feather.”
“Baby, I would love nothing better. But I’m up to my eyeballs in a murder.”
In fact, she’d told him she could only give him a few minutes when he’d phoned her to meet him at his favorite greasy spoon. McGee’s was known throughout New England for its fried oysters and its view of Long Island Sound. During the summer, the place was packed with beachgoers. This time of year, it was downright sleepy. A couple of local carpenters were chowing down on cheeseburgers at the counter. Four old geezers were hanging in a booth, nursing cups of coffee and listening to Perry Como on Dick McGee’s cutting edge jukebox.
One of those geezers kept sneaking glances their way. Mitch was used to being stared at whenever he and Des showed up in public together. But this wasn’t the usual look. This was more along the lines of intense nosiness. After all, the critic and the resident trooper had split up-everyone in Dorset knew that. Or thought they did.
Allison Mapes scuffed her way over to their booth with his order, her waitress uniform stretched a bit tight across her generous hips. Justine’s streaky-haired roommate looked a bit on the trashed side today. There were dark circles under her eyes. But she still managed a big smile as she approached. “Here we be, Mr. Movie Guy,” she declared, setting his fried oyster hero down before him. “I slipped a few extra spiral fries on your plate when Dick wasn’t looking.”
Des ordered coffee. Allison nodded curtly, filled her cup, then moseyed off toward the kitchen. Des watched her go, a rather stony expression on her face.
“You’re not eating?” Mitch asked, diving headfirst into his lunch.
“I had a huge breakfast. Besides, you’re already eating for two.”
“Go easy on me, thinnie. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“So you said on the phone. What is up?”
“You first. How’s the case going?”
She told him what she’d learned. That the Can Man had actually been a wealthy eccentric named Peter Mosher. That he, not the Gullwing, may have been the intended target all along.
“So the car theft was like a staged misdirect?”
Des nodded. “To provide cover for the real crime. It’s a theory, anyway.”
“And it jibes with something Bement Widdifield just told me-that Pete wasn’t necessarily killed because of what he saw. It seems that Bement overheard something when he was a little kid. He wouldn’t tell me what.”
“Lot of that going around today. Glynis wouldn’t tell me how much money Pete had or who he left it to. Not until a judge signs off on a warrant.”
“Is that going to happen?” Mitch asked, munching on his sandwich.
“Soave’s on it as we speak. I just hate the waiting, is all.”
“So go at it another way. Reach out to someone who isn’t constrained by official procedure.”
“Such as who?”
“Such as your sweet baboo,” he replied, grinning at her.
“I knew this was where your twisted mind was going. Mitch, you can’t go messing in a murder investigation. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“Des, you have to admit that I’ve been of immense help to you in the recent past.”
“What I have to admit is that you’ve almost gotten yourself killed in the recent past. Not to mention me fired off of the job. We are not going to do this again. You are not going to do this. Talk to me about Guy Tolliver. Was he the real deal?”
Mitch popped a fry in his mouth and said, “Sure, Guy Tolliver was a major name back in the Fifties and Sixties. His specialty was slick magazine spreads full of rich, goyish people hanging out at home looking rich and goyish. Actually, he’s kind of retro-chic these days. The style mavens at my paper are ga-ga for him. Why are you asking?”
She told him how Tolly had been relying on the kindness of rich widows like Poochie Vickers for years. And how jewelry and other valuables seemed to disappear whenever he moved on.
“No way!” Mitch erupted excitedly. “This is straight out of EW. Hornung’s The Amateur Cracksman-better known to film-goers as Raffles. Very cool stuff. The 1930 version with Ronald Colman is the best, although the 1940 David Niven isn’t bad. I’ll have to put that on our to-watch list.”
“Mitch, I have to admit something-my own first thought was that Tolly seemed straight out of an old movie. That never used to happen before I met you. I was strictly a reality-based individual. God, how ill is that?”
“I don’t think it’s the least bit ill,” he replied, cramming the last of his sandwich into his mouth. “It’s romantic. Tell me, has Tolly ever been involved in anything violent?”
“No, that part doesn’t sound like him. Mind you, he may keep a partner on the side-someone who plays rougher than he does. I just checked around at our local inns for any stray male guests. No likely candidates in the past few days, which doesn’t necessarily mean-” Her pager started beeping at her. She glanced down at it. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
“I’ll be here,” he promised, smiling contentedly as he watched her stride out the door.
Allison came over to clear his plate and fill his coffee cup. “Kind of surprised to see you and her together again.”
“Don’t believe what you hear. We’re doing fine.”
“Justine told me she thinks you’re cute. Know what I told her? Hands off, I saw you first.”
“If you don’t watch out I’m going to take you seriously one of these days.”
“How about today?” Allison’s eyes gleamed at him invitingly.
Mitch poured cream into his coffee, no longer sure whether she was kidding around or not.
She lingered, a hand on her hip. “Are you just going to leave me hanging? You’re supposed to say, ‘Awesome, Allison, want to get together for a drink?’ ”
“I just told you-I’m still with Des.”
She shrugged her soft shoulders. “Some things I believe. Others I don’t.”
The door opened and Des strode back inside, her Vulcan Death Stare trained directly on them. Allison immediately headed back toward the counter.
Des folded herself back into the booth. “That was Yolie. Crime scene techies found the murder weapon in the woods a hundred feet from Pete’s body.”
“What was it?”
“A two-foot length of one-inch black iron pipe. Pig iron, they call it. Nothing special about it, aside from the fact that it has blood, scalp tissue and hair on it-which will, presumably, turn out to be Pete’s. No fingerprints on it. None they could find on preliminary examination, anyway.”
“The killers wiped it clean?”
“Wore gloves, more likely. We have some partial shoe prints in the mud. No slam dunks, but they’re making impressions. Might prove helpful.”
“Des, when you found Pete’s body did you notice any blood or tissue under his fingernails?”
She smiled at him. “Now I’m rubbing off on you-this I am digging. He sustained wounds to his hands. To me, they looked like defensive wounds. But he may have struggled with his assailants. We can determine whether any of the blood belongs to someone else. The state has Stevie and Donnie’s DNA on file. If it’s one of them, we’ll know right away.”
“Did Yolie have anything else?”
“Recanvass turned up nothing,” she replied, glancing down at her notepad. “But a Fed who she knows schooled her about Poochie’s ride. There’s only a select handful of Mercedes Gull-wings on the U.S. market at any one time. The experts know each car’s pedigree. You can’t just unload one somewhere. No reputable dealer would touch it.”
“What about a disreputable dealer?”
“Well, here’s where it gets interesting. The Feds landed hard last year on an operation that was cherry-picking high-end vehicles from Gold Coast towns up and down the I-95 corridor between New York and Boston. They paid low-level hoods a flat fee-maybe five grand-to deliver the ride to a nearby locale, where they’d whisk it into a big rig. The truck would then transport it to a container ship docked in New York. Within twenty-four hours, the ship’s on its way to Saudi Arabia, loaded to the gills with rare, valuable sports cars. Those royal boys love their toys, and they don’t care how they come by ’em. A black market Gullwing like Poochie’s will fetch a cool million in cash over there. And did I mention that an unmarked tractor-trailer was spotted in the commuter parking lot early this morning?”
“I thought you said the Feds shut that operation down.”
“Doesn’t mean someone else hasn’t taken their place. Yolie’s man is sure someone has. There’s been an uptick of thefts lately. And there’s never a shortage of raggies looking to make a quick buck. Speaking of which, Rico reached out to the guard at Enfield Correctional who was in charge of Stevie and Donnie’s cell block. The guard says they pretty much kept to themselves. Doesn’t mean they didn’t hook up with a guy while they were in. The guards don’t see everything. But hey…” She closed her notepad, raising her chin at him. “Enough about my job. You wanted to talk to me about something.”
“I did. I do.” Mitch drained his coffee and sat back. “But this has to stay between us. Strictly off the record, okay?”
“Okay…”
“Hypothetically speaking, what are the legal obligations of someone who might be in possession of information regarding adult males having sex with a teenaged girl without her consent?”
Des regarded him with cool, professional detachment now. “How old a girl are we talking about?”
“Fourteen.”
“A girl that young it’s statutory rape even with her consent. Does this hypothetical girl want to reach out to the law?”
“Not necessarily. In fact, I’d say no.”
“Then I mustn’t know her identity-not even off the record. I’d be legally obligated to pursue a criminal investigation. And you should be aware that in Connecticut we have a Mandatory Reporting Statute. If a teacher or coach gets wind of this type of situation then he or she is obligated to pass the information on. The statute extends to any adult who’s serving in an advisory role. A tutor, even a mentor.”
By invoking the m-word Des was signaling that she had a pretty fair idea where he was skating, and that the ice was not safe. “Even if she’s an adult now?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m still obligated to investigate.”
“Okay, but here’s the truly strange part. There’s a decent chance that she made it all up.”
“Why would she want to do that?”
“I really can’t go into the specifics.”
“What makes you even think it?”
“Because she’s presently in a long-term relationship with a man who insists it never happened. He’s quite vehement. I just don’t know if I believe him. He’s got a temper, Des. I’m concerned he might go after someone.”
“Such as who?”
“Once I tell you that we’re past the point of no return.”
Des puffed out her cheeks, exasperated. “Mitch, I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all. If someone gets hurt, then it’s on you.”
“I know that, and I promise I’ll tell you everything just as soon as I can. Give me today, okay?”
She stared at him hard. “Okay,” she allowed, signaling for the check.
“One sec!” called out Allison, who was topping off the four geezers’ cups for about the eleventh time.
As they sat there waiting for her, Des impulsively reached over and put her hand on top of Mitch’s, squeezing it.
He glanced down in surprise. “Master Sergeant, are you aware that your uncommonly delectable fingers are in direct, public contact with mine own?”
“I am,” she replied, her eyes twinkling at him.
“Here we go, folks…”As Allison put their check down on the table her gaze fell on their hands locked together there. And lingered a second before she added, “Have a good one.” Then she scuffed back toward the kitchen.
“Why, you sly vixen,” Mitch said, beaming at Des across the table. “You’re feeding the village gossip mill, aren’t you?”
“Just playing the game according to house rules,” she said, pulling her hand away. “I’m out of here. Have to go canvass the bottle return centers to see if anyone brought in an unusually large load this morning.”
“Oh, is that right?…”
Des narrowed her gaze at him. “Do you know something?”
“Let me put it to you this way-you’re about to be reminded, yet again, why I’m what’s known on Wall Street as a blue chip investment. I pay dividends.”
“Mitch, tell me what you know right now or I swear I’ll rearrange your facial features with that ketchup bottle.”
So he told her.