Idyll Threats (17 page)

She considered it. “A one-plus-one. Huh.”

I didn't talk about the case after our food came. I asked about her background and whether she thought she'd stay in insurance. She said it was good for now, but she might like to get her Master's in information science. “Don't suppose you'd like to be a cop?” I asked.

Her hair fanned out as she shook her head. “Um, no. It seems kind of macho, and besides—”

“Yes?”

“I'd look terrible in the uniform.”

I lowered my voice. “Here's a secret. All cops look terrible in uniform. That's why everyone wants to be a detective. So they don't have to wear one.”

“You look good in your uniform.” She coughed. “I mean, it suits you.”

“Thanks, but even I wanted to be a detective to get out of it.” Both true and not. One of my happier days was putting on a uniform the day I graduated the academy. But I'd enjoyed trading the required polyester
blend for a bad shirt of my own. Was happy to move from busting check kiters and spouse abusers to locking up killers. It felt grander, more important. Just doing this: getting background on Gary Clark, felt right. I hadn't prevented Cecilia North's death. I might have precipitated it with my cabin intrusion. But I could nail the son of a bitch who'd killed her. Earn back my uniform.

1600 HOURS

When I reached the station, I went straight to the pen. Billy was sorting messages from the tip line into piles labeled: Follow up, Maybe, and Crazy Town. So they'd found a use for him. “Hi, Chief,” he said. “How's things?” Apparently he didn't think I was dirty. Not with that smile.

“As I'm sure you know, the victim's father paid a visit to our station today,” I said. Everyone but Revere straightened. Finnegan pulled at his lapels; making his suit skew to the right. “He was upset, and he had a right to be.”

Billy said, “That's not fair.”

Revere said, “Yes, it is. We've got bupkis. No murder weapon. No forensics to tie to a suspect.”

“We have forensics now.” I told them about the dress-shirt button. “Plus, lab rats found fibers on Cecilia's clothes. They came from a gray 1997 Honda Accord.”

“Holy shit,” Finnegan said. He knew what Gary drove, thanks to his car-accident story. “She was in Gary Clark's car?”

“The night she died,” I said. “So let's get everything we can on him. Pronto. Billy, stop playing with those papers. Help Wright.”

“With what?” Wright asked.

“With Clark's work history. Any accusations of sexual harassment? Cecilia probably wasn't his first office romance. How's his home life? What's the wife do?”

Revere asked, “What should I do?”

“Check to see if he owns or has access to a gun.”

“You gonna pull him in?” Revere picked up a rubber band. Began stretching it.

“I'd like more evidence before we tip our hand.”

“He's got an alibi,” Wright said. He hadn't moved an inch. Billy watched him, awaiting orders.

“I'm going to bust it. Finnegan, you got the names and addresses of his poker buddies?”

He did. He gave me the list.

“What makes you think you're gonna break his alibi?” Wright asked. He had that tone he'd used on Revere. The one that asked, why do you think you're better than me? God, he had a complex. And I was tired of coddling it and him.

“One of these guys will recant his statement. Once I apply some pressure.”

He made a noise. Not quite a snort. Not quite a cough. “Wright, you got something you want to say?” I asked.

He said, “No.”

I took a step closer to his desk. “Didn't think so. You're the kind that prefers to talk behind a man's back. Accuse a cop of being dirty, but never ask him outright.” His eyes got big. Finnegan wriggled in his chair, like a worm on a hook.

Revere looked from one to the other. “You guys thought he was dirty?” He pointed to me. Billy stared, open-mouthed. They said nothing. Revere gave an aw-shucks shake of his head. “You could've asked me,” he said. “I'd have told you he wasn't.” Under his breath he said, “You think I didn't check?”

“How were we—” Wright began.

“Shut up,” Finnegan said. “Sorry, Chief.” His face got extra bulldog jowly as he offered the apology.

“Right. Have any of Clark's friends done time?” I asked him.

Finnegan tugged his earlobe. “Nah. They're a clean-cut bunch. Nine-to-fivers with mortgages and families.” He sounded relieved I'd brought the talk back to business.

“Any of them divorced?” I asked.

“One, I think. Pat Davenport.”

“Custody issues?”

He said, “No idea. Didn't come up. Why?”

Why? Because I was looking for leverage. I needed a weakness to exploit. And a man's custody privileges are a good bet. Assuming he loves his kids.

Pat Davenport loved his kids. He had photos of them all over his office. It appeared that his gap-toothed daughter fancied T-ball, and his toddler son enjoyed drooling.

He had a corner office on a used-car lot. Giant banners outside advertised once-in-a-lifetime sales and crazy-low financing. The banners shifted and swayed in the wind.

“Detective,” he said.

“Chief of police,” I said.

“Chief.” He sat after I did. “How may I help you?”

“Your kids?” I pointed to a picture of the two, leaning drunkenly into each other beneath an over-decorated Christmas tree.

His eyes flicked to the photo. His face relaxed. “Yeah.”

“Must be a handful.”

He looked away from the photo. “They can be.”

I looked outside, where a balloon arch swayed over a row of Jeeps. “How's business?”

His face tightened. “Good. Look, Chief, can I help you with something?” He arranged objects on his desk, trying to look casual. Failing big time.

“You know what the punishment for obstruction of justice is?” I said. His whole body tensed. “I don't. Sentencing isn't really my area. But I can tell you this. Men who have every-other-weekend custody of their kids often find they have no custody after they've been charged with a crime.” I drummed my fingers on his desktop. “Sad how society always favors mothers in these cases, isn't it?”

“Why are you threatening me?” Sweat dotted his upper lip.

“I'm not threatening you, Mr. Davenport. We found out that Gary Clark wasn't playing poker with you as you testified. There will be consequences. But hey, no custody means you'll have a lot of free time, am I right? You can play poker all weekend.”

“I don't have anything to say.” His hands weren't steady. He was on the edge and just needed a tiny nudge.

“You know, before I file a report, maybe I'll call your ex-wife. Let her know what you've been up to. Family court is really the proper place to rearrange custody-visitation issues, right?”

“All right!” He held up his hands. “Okay! Gary left the game early.”

A surge of energy made it hard to remain sitting. “So when did he leave?” My foot tapped the floor.

“Nine p.m. Sometime around then. We'd barely eaten the pizzas when he got a call and told us he had to go.”

“Did he say why?”

“No.”

“But you knew.” I drummed my fingers.

He winced. “Yeah. We all did. He was seeing a girl from his office. He asked us to keep our mouths shut, so we did.”

“Even when you knew the girl had been murdered.”

He ran his hands through his receding hair. “Look! Gary isn't violent. I swear. He wouldn't hurt a fly.”

“You'll need to come to the station and make a statement.”

He cleared his throat. “Am I in trouble? Do I need a lawyer?”

“Not if you tell the truth. And you might encourage your friends to do the same.” I stood and stretched, my arms wider than his desk. “Oh, and not a word to Gary. I hear you tipped him off, and you'll be lucky to see your kids for one hour on holidays.”

1730 HOURS

Mrs. Dunsmore handed me a folder and said, “For tonight's meeting.”

“Tonight's meeting,” I repeated.

“The Idyll Days planning committee,” she said, reading my echo as ignorance. “You have to go.” She cut off my mutinous reply and handed me a folder. “Here's the work detail. Plus the fines schedules. Give the mayor one copy and his assistant two because he'll lose his.”

“You know we're closing in on a suspect, right?” I asked her. “In the murder investigation.”

She sniffed. “That's what the detectives are here for, Chief.” She emphasized my title. Putting me in my place.

I stood outside the Porter Room, staring at Isaiah's portrait. He looked constipated. Mr. Neilly, a selectman, mistook my stare for interest. “Isaiah was quite a visionary. Have you toured his home?” he asked.

“Ah, no.” I'd not set foot inside one historic town site. And I wasn't looking to break that record.

“He was a talented silversmith. You can see some of his bowls at the house.” He tapped the portrait's gilt frame with a gnarled finger. “Idyll Days is a tribute to his pioneering spirit.” Sure, except they'd named the festival after the town name they chose over Porter's original, Wheaton. What kind of tribute was that?

“Come inside, Chief,” he urged. “Things are about to get underway.”

Inside, it looked like a science fair and a yard sale had mated. Against three of the room's walls were long tables, each draped with a yellow or orange cloth. Poster-board displays and dioramas were assembled on the tables. A television in the corner played video of former Idyll Days.

Mrs. Kettle, the town's lone selectwoman, sidled up to me. “Lovely, isn't it?” Before I could agree, she said, “Every committee member has presented a portion of the program in a visual display.” Her bangles
jingled as she pointed to a poster board showing tents and thatched huts. “That's the arts-and-crafts display, headed by Mrs. Mullen. And that,” her bangles jangled, “is the apple-orchard tours, organized by Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore.” She was a one-woman percussion section as she led me through the room, her hand on my arm, pointing out each “attraction area.” She stopped before the end of a yellow-skirted table. “And here you are.” An 8 ×11 paper marked IDYLL POLICE occupied the only bare space in sight.

“I brought handouts.” I held up my folder.

She removed her hand from my arm. “Oh. Handouts. How efficient.”

I'd hoped the displays meant I could observe, feign attention, hand out my copies, and be on my way. But Mr. Neilly torched that happy idea. “Let's all have a seat,” he said, pointing to the grouped chairs. “It's time to get started.” Started? I'd already spent fifteen minutes admiring handwoven wreaths and scary apple-peel dolls.

Mr. Neilly talked about the history of Idyll Days, interrupted now and again by his aged colleague, Mr. Sousa. Then we had to go around the room and discuss our plans. Mrs. Prior, in charge of the bake sale, spoke first. “This year, we've decided not to sell the Mother Lodes.” Whispers from the group. She adjusted her bejeweled glasses and said, “Or the caramel apples with nuts.” The group revolted with cries of “Why?”

“What are Mother Lodes?” I asked. The room fell silent. Like I'd farted in church.

“Pretzel rods coated with chocolate and dipped in caramel chips, toffee bits, and nuts. They're to die for,” Mrs. Mullen said. “And they sell like hotcakes.”

“Helen, why not sell them?” Mr. Anderson pled.

“Last year we had a lot of concern from parents of children with allergies. Remember that boy with the peanut allergy whose face blew up like a balloon? He had to be ambulanced to the hospital.”

“
Pshaw
,” Mr. Sousa said. He waved her concern aside with his liver-spotted hand. “In my day, no one was allergic to nuts.”

It took a half hour to resolve the nuts-in-baked-goods crisis. And then it was my turn. I handed out copies of the papers Mrs. Dunsmore had drawn up. “Here's all the information needed from the police station.”

The mayor looked at the papers and said, “Parking fines are the same as last year.”