I Shall Not Want (26 page)

“Sorry if I’m late,” he said. He glanced at Clare. “Reverend Fergusson.” Looked at Nguyen. “Amy. It’s been awhile.”

She reached over the table to shake his hand. “It has been. I was so, so sorry to hear about your wife. I can’t imagine what a terrible loss it must be for you.”

“Thank you,” he said stiffly. “It’s been—yes. Thank you.” At Nguyen’s gesture, he attempted to wedge himself into one of the chairs. He did not look at Clare.

“Okay, here’s the situation.” Nguyen laid her hand on the file she had been reading. “The Christies’ attorney is holding up the bail application because she wants us to drop all charges against her clients.”

“What?” Russ sounded outraged. “The hell she does! If I hadn’t gotten there when I did—”

Nguyen held up one hand. “In exchange,” she stressed, “they will drop their suit against you and the Millers Kill Police Department for assault and battery.”

Russ rocked back, threatening to tip the flimsy chair.

“Yes,” Clare said. “I’m willing to drop all charges. Go ahead.”

“No!” Russ turned toward her. “That bastard could have killed you!” He scowled at the ADA. “Neil and Donald Christie broke into her church and tried to beat the crap out of her. Look at her! Either one of ‘em is twice as big as she is.”

Nguyen picked up a piece of paper. “According to the Christies, they went into an open unlocked church seeking an acquaintance. When they tried to find him, Reverend Fergusson”—she looked over the top of the paper at Clare—“assaulted them with a large wooden staff.”

“The processional cross,” Clare said, realizing the moment she said it that only the worst sort of pedant would correct someone accusing her of attacking them.

“They claim Ms. Fergusson struck Donald unconscious, broke Donald’s nose, and battered both of them with the—ah, cross.” She picked up five or six papers clipped together. “Their attorney helpfully included the records from their admission at Washington County Hospital, which backs up this account of their injuries.” She almost smiled at Clare. “If I’m ever in a dark alley someplace, I hope you’re with me, Reverend.” She turned to Russ. “Donald Christie then goes on to attest that before he had a chance to comply with your demand that he assume a prone position pursuant to arrest, you punched him several times in the face.” She rattled the hospital records. “Also borne out by the medical evidence.”

“Look,” Russ began.

Nguyen shook her head. “I don’t want to hear it. If their attorney files this, our office will have a responsibility to investigate. Don’t tell me anything.” She dropped the papers and braced her arms on the table. “I read your report. And the Reverend Fergusson’s statement. Believe me, I get the picture of what really went down. But this is going to be a bear to prosecute, Russ. The trespassing will never stick, they have good traction with the self-defense, and if we go ahead with resisting arrest, their lawyer’s going to make damn sure the jury knows about their pending lawsuit against you. Which, I will point out, is going to cost the town a hell of a lot of money, even if you successfully defend yourself against judgment. Maybe—
maybe
—I can get a win on threatening, for a whopping five-hundred-dollar fine.”

He stared at his knees, shaking his head like a bull that had been gored one too many times.

“I’ll drop the charges,” Clare said again. “I’m fine, and Amado’s fine, and that’s the only thing that matters.”

“That’s not the only goddam thing that matters,” he said, his voice low.

Clare risked laying her hand on his arm. “Maybe not,” she said. “But I’m not willing to—”

Buy my happiness with your marriage
. She could see it in his eyes, the echo of the words she had said to him so many months before. Before his wife died. Before they had both been broken.

She inhaled. “To see you endanger your job and the reputation of the police department.” She looked at the ADA. “I don’t need state-sanctioned punishment. As long as they stay away from Amado and me, I’m willing to drop the whole matter.”

Nguyen nodded. “We can absolutely make that part of the deal.”

Russ snorted. “Like a restraining order is going to stop those guys? Please.”

Nguyen steepled her fingers. “I leave the enforcement up to you.”

He still looked deeply unhappy.

“If it makes you feel any better,” she went on, “it appears they truly weren’t after Ms. Fergusson. They indicated in their statements that your handyman”—she gestured toward Clare—“had been seeing their sister, and they wanted to speak to him. They didn’t even know your name.”

The mechanics of dropping the complaint were simpler than Clare had feared. The assistant DA had already prepared the order of restraint, and all Clare had to do was sign it in front of one of the frazzled court clerks, who then stamped her notary seal on the paper and sent them out to wait. After half an hour, they were ushered into Judge Ryswick’s chambers—the ADA had pointedly suggested Russ go out for a sandwich, and he had just as pointedly ignored her—and Clare got to repeat her account of the events of Friday night. Ryswick made a few disapproving
tch
s, jotted a couple of lines on the papers Nguyen had given him, and, after a long look at Clare that made her feel as if she must be guilty of something, approved the order.

She was back outside in the parking lot an hour after she had arrived, clutching a sheet of paper that was supposed to stand between her and the Christies. “That was fast,” she said to Russ, who was scowling at the sunshine as if it were a personal affront. “Who said,
The wheels of justice grind slowly
?”

“That wasn’t justice,” he said. “That was convenience.”

“I told you, as long as they leave me and Amado alone, I’m happy.” She glanced up at him, shading her eyes. “Do you think they told the truth? About Amado dating their sister?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe. That would certainly clear up how they knew him. I haven’t been able to figure out any other explanation. It’s not like the kid’s been out partying at the Dew Drop Inn.”

“So how did he meet the sister?”

“I dunno. You’ve spent more time with him than anyone else. Is he a Latin lothario?”

“Hardly. He strikes me more like Kevin Flynn, if Kevin had been born in a poor village in northern Mexico. Sweet, helpful, and can’t say boo to a woman.”

“Huh. Not anymore. Friday afternoon I caught Kevin propositioning our new officer. Had to read them both the riot act.”

“Kevin Flynn? Propositioned Hadley Knox? I don’t believe it.”

“Well.” Russ hitched at his gun belt. “It was more along the line of asking to carry her books home from school. Which for Kevin is the equivalent of inviting her to meet him up against the wall in the alley. I laid down a blanket no-fraternizing rule.” He glanced back as the courthouse doors swung open, discharging a group of men and women suited in every hue from black to charcoal. “I suppose I’ll have to get the town’s attorney to draw something up for us and make it all legal.”

She was facing away from the sun, toward the parking lot, while he was talking, which is why she saw trouble coming first. “Uh-oh,” she said.

He turned. “What?”

She gestured with her chin to the man ambling across the asphalt toward them. Sleeves rolled up, no jacket, tie loosely knotted—as he drew closer, she could see it had a picture of Snoopy on it—in this bastion of lawyers and defendants and witnesses, no one would mistake him for anything other than a reporter.

“Oh, crap on toast,” Russ said. “Ben Beagle.”

“Be nice.” Clare sounded like his mother.

“Nice? He printed a story in the
Post-Star
implying we spent the night together before I killed my wife! Do you know the circulation of the
Post-Star
? Twenty-five thousand! I looked it up.”

“Ssh.” She got the same look on her face he had seen on the times he’d been to her church: bright, open, welcoming. It wasn’t fake, but it was certainly whitewashed.

“Hey! Chief Van Alstyne. Just the man I was hoping to see. You’ve saved me a trip to the MKPD.” Beagle pulled a small notepad from his pocket and clicked his pen, smiling as if Russ was an old army buddy who owed him a drink. “What can you tell me about the two bodies found this past Sunday in Cossayuharie?”

“How do you know about that?”

Clare cleared her throat. “Uh, Russ—”

“There were close to two hundred people there,” Beagle said cheerfully. “You know what they say. Two hundred can keep a secret if one hundred are dead. Or something like that.” He waggled his fingers at Clare. “Reverend Fergusson. Nice to see you again. I understand it was a little boy from your congregation who started the whole hullabaloo.”

“Uh, yes,” she said.

“For chrissakes, Clare, you don’t have to talk to him.” She frowned at him. Him! “I’m just trying to save you trouble,” he said under his breath. “Every time you land in the newspaper your bishop has a fit.”

“Really?” Beagle’s eyes lit up. “Why is that?”

Her frown became a glare before she turned to Beagle. “Oh, you know Chief Van Alstyne,” she said, going all southern. “He will have his little joke.” Russ was pleased to see Beagle looked dubious. He didn’t have a reputation for little jokes, and he didn’t want one, either.

“A two-and-a-half-year-old wandered away from the St. Alban’s parish picnic,” Clare went on. Her voice took on that precise tone people get when speaking for attribution. “He was lost in the nearby woods for—oh, almost three hours before the Millers Kill Search and Rescue team located him, with the help of a wonderful dog handler from Saratoga. I can’t recall her name, but John Huggins will have it. We’re all very grateful to have him back, safe and sound. That’s St. Alban’s, Five Church Street, Millers Kill: Holy Eucharist Sundays at seven-thirty and nine in the summer, child care provided.” She crossed her arms and smiled sweetly while Beagle scribbled on his pad. Russ couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss her or drop her on her head.

“Thanks,” Beagle said. “Now, Chief. About those bodies—”

“No comment,” Russ said.

“Can you confirm that they’re contemporary and not historical?” Every few years, someone in the county plowed up a forgotten burial site from the eighteenth century.

“No comment,” Russ said.

“Can you confirm that the medical examiner’s office has possession of them pending a homicide investigation?”

“No comment.”

The unending string of rebuffs was making Russ’s jaw tight, but Beagle absorbed them without losing his serenity.

“Can you comment on the connection between the two unidentified bodies found on Sunday and the one found the Friday before?”

He managed to stop himself from demanding to know where the hell Beagle had gotten that information. It must have shown on his face, though, because the reporter’s expression sharpened. “I understand the—ah, Joe Friday was Hispanic. Kind of unusual for this part of the state. Are you considering it a possible race-related hate crime?”

Clare’s brows pulled down in worry. “You mean, somebody targeting Latinos?”

“Or migrant workers.” Beagle clicked his pen as if emphasizing the possibility. “It wouldn’t be the first time. In the teens and twenties of the last century, this area was a KKK hotbed. Lots of anti-Irish, anti-Catholic, anti-immigrant violence.”

“You’re kidding!” She looked appalled. “Russ?”

“No. Comment.”

She drew in a breath, ready to rip into him, but stopped herself. She glanced at Ben Beagle, then at Russ. Her eyes narrowed:
Later for you
. He wasn’t sure if it was a promise or a threat. “I need to be going,” she said. “It was nice to see you again, Mr. Beagle.”

“Please.” The reporter took her hand. “Call me Ben. We should get together for lunch sometime, talk about maybe doing a day-in-the-life story on your church.”

Clare smiled warily. “I don’t think we have much at St. Alban’s to interest an investigative reporter.”

Beagle was still holding her hand. “It’d be a human-interest piece. Heartwarming. Heartwarming sells papers.” He grinned at her. “Not as much as crime and car crashes, but—this being Washington County—sometimes we run short on those.”

Clare looked amused. It struck Russ that the reporter was a lot closer to her age than he himself was, and that Beagle might even have some appeal—to
some
women. Like a scruffy teddy bear won at a carnival, maybe.

“Weren’t you going?” he asked. It came out harsher than he intended.

She stiffened. Then smiled brilliantly at Beagle. “I’d like that, Ben. Give me a call.” She withdrew her hand and, never once glancing at Russ, stalked away to her car.

“Good-
bye
,” he yelled. She sketched a wave without turning.

“Quite a woman,” Beagle said.

Russ grunted.

Ben clicked his pen again and turned to Russ. “So, Chief. Are you going to be able to give me any information on this serial killer haunting the Millers Kill area?”

POLICE DENY SERIAL KILLER, the headline read. Hadley picked the paper up from the kitchen table, where Hudson had dropped it—his morning chore was bringing the
Post-Star
in for Granddad—before dashing back upstairs to get his backpack.

Millers Kill chief of police Russell Van Alstyne refused to comment on the possibility that a serial killer is responsible for three murder victims found in Cossayuharie over the past week, despite strong similarities in each slaying.

Hadley shook her head. The chief would have a heart attack when he saw this.

Speaking of which… she took Granddad’s medicines from the cupboard, untwisted the complicated seals, and shook his daily dose into a cup next to the coffeemaker. He hadn’t been taking them regularly, despite her nagging, so she was trying to make them unavoidable.

“Hudson! Geneva! Hurry up or you’ll miss breakfast!” She grabbed three boxes of cereal from the shelf and hefted the gallon jug of milk out of the fridge. Half gone. She jotted MILK on the back of the National Grid envelope she was using for her grocery list and stuffed it into her tote bag.