Idyll Threats (13 page)

Suds was closed at 5:30 a.m., when I'd begun my day, so I'd had to get coffee from Dunkin' Donuts. Two large cups with sugar. “With sugar” meant they put Brazil's total export into the foam cups. But it ensured my eyes were open two hours later when Mayor Mitchell opened my door. He wore a polo embroidered with the Nipmuc Golf Course logo. Interesting fashion choice.

“Good morning, Mayor.” I didn't stand.

“There was a robbery, out by Lenox Road,” he said. No good mornings today.

Ah, so that's why he was here, and why he was annoyed. “Yes,” I said. Another baby burglary. So called because they'd stolen the video-game system, again. And eaten all the junk food. We were betting some juvies were the criminal masterminds behind it all. This time our baby burglars had also gotten hold of a private video of the owners' “intimate relations.” That had peaked my men's interest. They claimed Mrs. Peterson was super hot. I doubted Mr. Peterson would see his videotape before some shmuck here checked its authenticity. “I'm aware of the burglary.”

He always called them robberies, though the residents were never home when they occurred.

“This is the fourth in six months!” He neared my desk and stared at its chaos. “What are you doing about it?”

“My men are investigating. So far we don't have a lot to work with.” A thought became a stone in my hand. A way to kill two birds. “I'll
assign another cop. William Thompson.” I'd been looking for a way to eject Billy from the murder ever since his snow-blower joke.

“Good. Now, I know you have a murder, but we can't let the crime rate increase because we're focused on one case.”

“We'll close them,” I said. “Soon.”

“Right, then. I'll see you at the Idyll Days committee review.”

“Uh huh.” No idea what he was talking about.

He asked, “You growing a beard?”

I hadn't shaved. “Maybe,” I said, though I didn't plan to. “Ladies love a beard.”

He waved good-bye, missing the joke. Rick would've loved that one.

The quiet lasted five minutes. My next guest was Revere. His buzz cut was freshly trimmed and his shoes polished. “Found something I thought you'd like to see.” He handed me faxed pages, curled at the ends. A theft report for a Smith & Wesson .45. “Douglas Browning reported this?” I asked after I'd read the topmost fields. Donny's father. “He owned the same type of gun used in our murder?”

“He did. Before he reported it stolen.”

“In 1993.” Four years ago. “You found this?”

“Thought I'd check state-wide thefts.”

“You having the resources.” He must've called in some favors.

“Me having the resources.” He relaxed his stance.

“So he owned a gun.” Douglas Browning's gun was one Smith & Wesson. 45. Just one. And yet his son had seen the victim hours before her death. But the store tape showed him there for his whole shift, and the tech boys said the tape hadn't been doctored. Still, it was odd. I didn't like odd. “They have any leads on who stole it?”

“Browning blamed his cleaners. I swung by to see them. They're still upset about it. Two tiny Polish ladies.” He hunched his shoulders, “They don't seem likely.”

I bit my thumb. “Could be a coincidence.”

“Could be.”

“I hate coincidences.”

He took a ballpoint pen from my desk. “They're troublesome,” he said. He unscrewed the bottom cap and pulled out the ink barrel. Then rotated it. This was how he thought. He fidgeted with office supplies, like Finnegan's paperclip. Perhaps Revere was human after all.

“Let's keep this under our hats for now.” I didn't need Wright haring after Douglas Browning, Esquire. Getting us embroiled in a lawsuit that bankrupted the town a second time. “Check if there's a connection between Mr. Browning and our vic. But keep it discreet.”

“Sure thing.” He set the reassembled pen on my desk. “You hear any more on Gary Clark's alibi?”

“Solid.” Finnegan had checked it out. “All of his poker buddies said he'd been present at the game. The host's wife confirmed it, and Finnegan says she didn't like Gary much.”

Revere said, “Your shirt's buttoned wrong.” I looked down. The fabric on my shirt gaped. I'd matched buttons to the wrong holes. The mayor must've noticed. Great.

“Thanks. Have you seen Billy?”

“He's by the board, talking sports with Finnegan.” That's all he said and all he had to. Revere thought Billy was too young. Well, I was about to make Revere happy.

“Send him in.” While he fetched Billy, I fixed my shirt, and fingered my stubble. I'd shave this evening. Get tidied up.

Billy came in looking like an advertisement for milk. He had a slight sunburn. “Good morning, Chief.”

“Billy, I'm reassigning you.”

“What?” All his puppyish good cheer disappeared.

“I need the burglaries wrapped up. Now. You'll report to Hopkins.”

“But I—”

“No buts. Report to Hopkins.”

He crossed his arms. “Did I do something wrong, Chief? I know I don't have much experience, but I think I can—”

“Hoops,” I said. I'd never called him that before. “Report to Hopkins.”

He closed my door so quietly I didn't hear it click.

I visited the gents and pissed away half of my coffee. Then I decided
to take a closer look at the gun-theft report. When I opened the door to my office, I saw I had another visitor. Mrs. Dunsmore looked at a paper, her ample hip brushing the edge of my desk.

“You've got an interview with Mr. Kelly at ten a.m. today.” She stared, expectant. When I didn't reply, she said, “Patrol supervisor. Remember?”

“What's the date?” I asked. Stalling. I noticed she'd colored outside the lines today with her lipstick.

“The nineteenth. Why?”

“The nineteenth?” I blurted, my voice loud and sharp to my own ears. Shit. I'd forgotten. Rick's anniversary. How had I forgotten?

“Is something wrong?” Mrs. Dunsmore eyed me as if she suspected I'd lie.

“Fine,” I said. “Everything's fine.”

A year ago today, Rick and I had gotten a tip that Apollo St. James was dealing near 171st and Fort Washington Ave. We wanted to talk to him. About where he'd been when his cousin, Bertie, had died from multiple stab wounds. We'd heard rumors Apollo had been there and had seen who'd killed his cousin.

I drove, because I'd won the coin toss. Rick gave me shit about it. “Tommy, you know what the difference is between your and my grandmother's driving skills, God rest her soul? She had balls.” He laughed his crazy-high laugh until we spotted Apollo St. James.

And surprise, surprise, he was leaning into a shiny black Audi. The car faced us, idling in the northbound bus lane. Apollo's hand outstretched. This was our lucky day. We'd have leverage. Apollo had been inside twice. This was his third strike.

I parked on the opposite side of the street, facing south. Rick and I exited the patrol car, hands at our guns' butts. “Apollo!” I shouted. He jerked out of the car.

“Hands up!” Rick yelled. “Hands up!”

The asshole driving the Audi jerked ahead and U-turned at us. Rick, midstreet, spun away from the car. I turned to catch its number as it sped away. And while I was staring at the New York plate, committing
its numbers and letters to memory, Apollo was pulling the gun from his waistband.

I turned. Rick was yelling at Apollo to put the weapon down, now! I grabbed my gun. Apollo's face was sweaty. His hands shook. I looked at Rick. His mouth twitched, but his hands were steady. He hadn't used today, then. Oh, God. I hoped he hadn't.

“We just want to talk. Put the gun down.” Rick kept his gun trained on Apollo's midsection. Center mass. That's where you shoot. Rick had never had to. I had. Before we were partnered.

Apollo said, “I ain't going back, man! Not for this!”

“Don't be stupid. We just want to talk.”

Rick held steady and I calculated distance and collateral. There were people nearby. A young girl stood behind Apollo. A shot could easily hit her. Shit. And what if Apollo shoots? Doesn't miss? If Rick gets wounded, I'd get a new partner. Same thing if I get hurt. It would be that much easier to stay with the new guy. We'd have cases in progress. Rick would be fine. He'd be okay. But no, that wouldn't—

Is that idiot moving?

Bam!
The sound tore my ears apart. Rick stumbled backward.
Bam!
Rick fired. I saw the smoke.
Bam!
Apollo, shooting again. People screamed, running for doors, ducking behind cars. Rick fell. I trained my gun on Apollo.
Bam!
Where had my bullet gone? He was running and I took another shot, but my hand was shaking and he was gone, around the corner, out of sight. And Rick was on the ground, bleeding. His freckles were dark against his pale skin, his breathing jagged like there was something between him and oxygen. I got on the damp asphalt beside him. “Rick! It's gonna be okay. Hang on.” He coughed. That sound. I'd heard it at my grandfather's bedside. Death rattle.

I radioed for help, tripping over the words. Rick's right hand clenched closed, then opened. “Tommy?” he said.

“Easy, easy.” I palmed his skull and lifted it so he could see me. His red hair was dry in my hands. His eyes greener than ever. My leprechaun partner. Sirens tore the air into pieces. I'd never been so happy to hear them.

“Rick, hang tight. They're coming. Hear them?”

But he didn't hear them. He never heard them. His heartbeat was gone and the EMTs couldn't get it back, no matter how I yelled at them. And after they declared him dead, over my protests of, “Can't you try again? Just wait! He isn't dead!” I wondered. Wondered what would have happened if I hadn't turned to look at the license plate. What if I'd been thinking more about the present and less about a future without Rick? Because that's what I got. A future without Rick.

That night I called it in on the police radio. “Station to Number 891.” Rick's badge number. I heard nothing but static. “Station to Number 891.” The static spiked. “Station to Number 891.” No answer. “Detective Richard Coughlin is 10-7. Gone but never forgotten.”

10-7 is the code for retired equipment. It's also the code for officers killed in the line of duty. You call their badge number once, twice, three times, and then declare them 10-7. Because they never answer.

“Chief Lynch,” Mrs. Dunsmore said. “Chief, the applicant will be here soon.”

Her words were cold water, abrupt and stinging. I blinked. “We're going to have to reschedule,” I said.

Her granny glasses slid. She pushed them up and demanded to know why.

“I've got a lead on a suspect,” I lied. “I can't meet the applicant.”

She said, “But we've already rescheduled Mr. Kelly once.”

I grabbed a notepad. “Can't be helped. Maybe someone else can interview him.” There was no way I could. Not today. Not on Rick's anniversary.

My next-door neighbor, Mr. Sands, asked if I had plans to put in some lettuce. He pointed with his newspaper at the weedy plot under my bedroom window.

Lettuce? Why would I stick a head of lettuce there?

“Got yourself a bit of a project there.” He waved at my lawn. “We always thought a dogwood would look nice near the road, by your mailbox.” He'd been mentally landscaping my lawn? “Maybe some hostas by the front porch where it's a little bare. Hostas don't take much work.”

“I'll consider it,” I said. Anything to get this guy away from my lawn.

“Great!” He grinned. “I told the others you were busy getting settled, and what with the murder, you hadn't had time to work out a lawn plan.”

The others? The neighborhood was talking smack about my lawn? And what the fuck was a lawn plan? “Yeah, it's been very busy for such a small town.”

He didn't notice the way I threw the last two words like rocks. He said, “How is the murder coming? Any leads? The missus was saying perhaps the state police ought to be brought in. You know, because of their experience with these sorts of crimes.”

I looked to the house I'd wanted to escape this morning. I regretted that impulse now. “We're pursuing several lines of inquiry. And we have a state police detective assisting us with our efforts.”

He saluted me with his newspaper. “Great. That's great. Well, have
a wonderful day, Chief Lynch. And if you need any help with your lawn plan…”

“You'll be the first person I call.”

He walked toward his lush lawn, cut to regulation length. There was a garden gnome near his mailbox. Now, why would I take advice from a man who liked gnomes?

Mrs. Dunsmore handed me a fresh pile of bureaucracy before I'd completed my lap around the station. One of the folders was marked “Idyll Days.” Hands full, I detoured to the pen and stared at the crime board. It hadn't changed much. The Browning gun theft had led nowhere. No new connections found between Browning Senior or Junior to our victim. The Meriden crime similar to ours had no other links we could uncover. We were treading water.

Wright came and stood near my left shoulder. “I got a line.” His breath smelled of stale coffee. “Anthony Fergus wasn't home watching telly when our vic died.”

“You're still on Anthony Fergus?” I turned.

Wright puffer-fished his cheeks, then said, “Yes. He's scum. He likes hurting women.”

“One woman. His wife. Drop it.”

His phone rang. He didn't look at me. Just answered the phone with, “Idyll Police. Detective Wright.” His wary face relaxed as soon as his caller spoke. “Oh, yeah. Sure, hon. When?” He extended his wrist and jangled his watch loose from his shirt's cuff. “I think so. How's he feeling? Good. See you later.”

“My wife,” he said. “I need to drop by the elementary school later.”

“You catch the baby burglars?” I said, offering a joke.

“Nah. We finally got our kids in Idyll schools.” He sounded proud. “Much better than where they are now.”

“I thought you lived in Bloomfield.” I'd heard him bitch about his commute.

“Moving next week. Finally found a place I can afford on what you pay me.” He looked at his family photo.

I didn't say what I was thinking. Bloomfield was one of the few black towns in the state. I'd met exactly seven black people, including Wright, since I'd been living in Idyll. This town was whiter than Wonder Bread. His kids were going to be as exotic as giraffes in their new school. It's not wonderful being the odd kid out.

I cleared my throat. “Anything more on our case?”

“I have a witness who says Anthony Fergus was at Suds an hour before our victim died.” He stood and walked toward the board.

“I'm sure there were plenty of people at Suds on Saturday night. Anthony Fergus isn't our guy. He had no known links to our victim. His gun is a Colt. And he isn't—” Shit. I'd almost said “the man from the cabin.”

“Isn't what?” He rested his hand on Finnegan's desk. Cursed and pulled it away. Something sticky remained on the desk. He grabbed a tissue and scrubbed at his fingers.

“He isn't our guy.”

“What makes you so sure? You know something we don't?”

“Wright—”

“You're not holding out on us, are you?”

He couldn't know about the cabin. He didn't. Still, I felt clammy.

“If I find out you've talked to Anthony Fergus, or so much as looked in his direction, I'll discipline you. Focus on
this
case, not the one you couldn't nail before.”

He picked bits of tissue from his hand. “‘Discipline,' huh?” He sat at his desk and straightened his family photo. “Don't remember hearing any discipline threats when your lapdog Billy danced around the crime scene. Or when that faggot ME conducted ballistics checks without authorization.”

“Billy is a fucking rookie. You're not. Now get your goddamn head in the game or you're off the case.”

Finnegan walked in, catching the last of my words. “Problem?” he said. He looked at me as he said it. Making his loyalties clear.

“Not anymore.” I walked away. And under his breath I heard Wright mutter, “Racist asshole.”

“What did you say?” I stomped back to his desk.

“Nothing.” He leaned back in his chair, eyes wide.

“Don't you
ever
excuse your poor performance with an accusation of racism. Got it? I don't care what your skin color is or how many gods you believe in or what you like to wear at home. But I do care that you do the job and do it well.”

He looked scared. Maybe because I'd gotten close while I laid it all out for him. Maybe because he could see the vein throbbing near my temple. I could feel it, threatening to pop like an overinflated balloon. I got out of there before I forgot my parents' advice about violence not being the answer to my problems.

I stayed in my office, reading the folders Mrs. Dunsmore had given me. Not that I absorbed any of the words. I was losing my grip. I'd nearly hit Wright, and before that I'd nearly told him about the cabin. I rubbed my eyes, but when I opened them nothing had changed. Maybe I'd just stay here, silent, unresponsive. How long until they sent someone inside to check on me? Hours? Days?

Someone knocked on my door. Loudly.

“Come in.”

Billy and Hopkins walked in, smiling like they'd won the lottery. “We caught 'em,” Hopkins said. “The baby burglars. They're getting processed now.”

“Nice work,” I said. “Let's have a look-see.”

I followed them to the fingerprint area. Two men on the wrong side of twenty were having their fingers rolled in ink. Hopkins said, “We caught them coming out of 119 Elm, arms full of things that didn't belong to them.”

“Says you,” one of the men said. His bare arms were a mosaic of bad tattoos. He even had a dancing hula girl. Her lips were crooked. When I looked closer, I saw that all of her was crooked. He deserved a refund for that tat.

“Says the owner of the house,” Hopkins said.

Billy said, “You were right, Chief. About them working at the houses. These guys did landscaping. They cased the homes, learned the owners' schedules, and then robbed them.”

Days ago, I'd suggested they check into workers who'd had access to the robbed houses over the past year. Seems like I was capable of detective work, after all.

I clapped him on the shoulder. “Good work. By the way, did you find the videotape?” The Petersons were quite anxious that their sex tape remain private.

“No,” Billy said. “But these guys have a storage unit. Hasn't been searched yet.”

Hopkins stayed with the suspects. Billy followed me. “Now that I helped solve the robberies…” he said.

I could continue punishing him for offending me. Or I could let it go. He was young. Stupid. Maybe he'd learn. Probably not. I said, “Process them, and go home and shower. Eat something. Come back at seven.”

“I can help?” he asked.

I nodded. Christ knew I could use more manpower. Revere and Wright could deal with having him underfoot. Finnegan didn't seem to mind him much.

“Thanks, Chief.”

“And I mean it about the shower. Mrs. Dunsmore is complaining about our smell.” Which was surprising, given her heavy-handed application of lavender perfume.

So the burglaries were closed. Now if only I could clear our homicide. I picked up the Idyll Days folder. The first page was the poster I'd seen hanging in every local business window. A picture of a family: parents with two blond, blue-eyed kids, picking apples. The title, “Idyll Days,” printed in big, white letters. “September 12–14, 1997. Hay Rides! Apple Picking! Pony Rides! Crafts Fair! Bake Sale!” Everything deserved an exclamation point, including free parking. The blond family reminded me of Wright's accusation. Confronted by this poster every step, working in a station with no other minorities, was it any wonder he felt threatened? But he didn't need to lay that at my door.

My phone was blinking. Messages. I sighed. So much for Dunsmore doing her job. I hit the button.

“Chief Lynch, Doug Martin here.” Revere's boss. Or his boss's boss. “Seems you're having some trouble with the girl's murder.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” I said. I pulled out my lower desk drawer.

“We pride ourselves on having one of the highest murder-solve rates in the country.”

I rooted below a pile of papers. My hand found the crinkly cellophane package. I tugged it up.

“Revere's a sharp detective. I hope you're putting him to good use. Please call me and give me an update. We'd like this one closed, stat.”

I shook a cigarette free from the pack and said, “What the fuck do you think I want? A pony? Shit heel.” I rummaged in the drawer for a lighter and lit the cigarette.

I smoked when I first joined the force. Everyone did. But after a few months I found it harder to breathe and, the truth was, I never took to it. So I stopped. But I still keep a pack on me. I say it's for suspects. You'd be amazed what you can get out of a guy when you offer a ciggie. But the truth is some days I need one. I feel the pull of longing under my skin. It must be something like what Rick had felt, only his need had been a thousand times worse.

I inhaled deeply, and then coughed. Shit. I sounded like Finnegan. I smacked my chest and took a shallow hit from the cigarette. The tar and nicotine and rat poison and whatever else they put in cigarettes made me feel light-headed. But calm. Calm for the first time in weeks. Maybe I should take up smoking again. Maybe then the boys here would accept me as one of their own. And maybe the moon was made of cheese.

I walked over to the window. Looked at the little plant, still struggling bravely to live. I tapped some ash onto it.

A trip of raps on my door. I heaved up the window sash and exhaled a stream of smoke into the muggy summer air. Shit. She'd smell
it. I crushed out the cigarette and tossed it below. It hit some schmuck's car. Not mine.

“Just a second!” I said. I waved armfuls of air into the room. Then I walked to my desk, hid my cigarettes, and said, “Come in.”

Mrs. Dunsmore entered, carrying a folder and a cup. She sniffed. “Have you been smoking?” My anti-smoking policy was the one thing we agreed on.

“What?” I said. “No.”

She handed me the folder. “This is last year's Idyll Days roster. You'll need it for planning purposes.” She brought her cup to the sill and said, “This plant looks dreadful.” I waited for her to find the ash on it. She tipped the cup over the plant and said, “Maybe less direct sun.” And moved the pot a few inches.

I exhaled. My stupid chest betrayed me, and I was racked by a series of coughs.

She narrowed her eyes. “You ought to see a doctor. You sound like Finnegan.”

I nodded. She left. I wiped my hand across my mouth and vowed never to smoke again. It wasn't worth the trouble.

Determined to salvage this dog of a day, I'd check in with the detectives. Tell them we'd solved the burglaries. Maybe mend a fence post with Wright. Then we'd get on the gun. Surely we could find it. When I got near the pen, I heard Wright say my name. He said it low, like you do when you're talking shit. I stopped.