Idyll Threats (19 page)

Wright looked forward to informing Mr. Clark that his lawyer had referred him to a man who'd practiced “some criminal law.” He estimated that Gary would produce another half cup of sweat after this news. I smiled because it was expected. But inside I was furious. At myself. I wasn't going to get near Gary Clark now. Not after he'd told Wright there was a cop in the cabin. I was going to have to be careful, to make sure Gary only ever saw my back.

I took one last look at the board and said, “Right. Good luck, boys. I'm headed home. Call if you need me.”

Revere looked stunned, Finnegan puzzled. Billy said, “You're not staying? But we've got him here.”

“And my detectives are interviewing him. Order some supper and enjoy. I'll see you tomorrow for the searches. Be prepared. I want so much evidence even a blind and deaf jury couldn't acquit.”

“Here, here,” Finnegan said.

Billy watched me zip my jacket, still agape. Wright, on break from interrogating, wished me good night. He hummed a happy tune.

Outside, I rounded the corner, took a deep breath, and punched the station's wall. Fuck! My knuckles throbbed. I shook my hand, inhaled deeply, and leaned my forehead against the cool bricks. I wanted to make Clark confess. And I should've had the chance. But my stupid dick had done my thinking and led me to that cabin. And now I had to stay away, keep out of sight as if I were the criminal. Starting my car, I wondered if this was how Rick felt, when he knew he was spiraling down, endangering his career, unable to stop. And for the first time in over a year, I felt something more than anger at Rick. I felt pity and something like sympathy.

2145 HOURS

I drove to Suds. I was too upset to go home. By the car's interior light, I examined my injured hand. Below my knuckles, the skin was abraded and crusted. I sucked on the dried blood, the taste dark and salty. Then I went inside. The scent of laundry detergent was smothered by beer and fried food. Half the town was inside. I looked behind, at the door. Funny that a crowd should make me hesitate. I grew up on an island crammed with people. It wasn't that. I just didn't want to talk about Idyll Days, the murder, or, God forbid, my lawn plan.

“Hi, Chief,” Nate said, busy at the taps. “What can I get you?”

“Scotch.”

He reached for the bottle of Laphroaig. Within a minute I had a glass in my hand containing one ice cube and a generous amount of liquid gold. I slid a bill onto the counter and nodded my thanks.

I eyed the room for a space large enough to hold my drink and me. Someone touched my elbow. Brown hair, brown eyes, mustache, and beard. He half shouted, “Hello, Thomas.” The lumberjack tech from yesterday.

“Mike,” I said. Mike Shannon. “You live nearby?”

“Not really.” He led me to a table hidden by papers covered with equations and formulas.

“Work?” I asked, taking a seat.

“No. I use these to discourage people from sitting.”

“Clever.” I checked him out. His hair still needed cutting, but he had full lips and ruddy cheeks. He was a total bear.

“Hoped I might see you here,” he said.

“Really?” He knew I was from Idyll. So he took a gamble, visiting the only bar in town. Not much of a gamble. Though if I'd been able to interview Gary Clark, he'd have been out of luck. But I couldn't. I could only worry about how it was going.

“Tough day?” he asked.

I'd been silently thinking for who knows how long. “Sorry,” I said. “Big break in our murder case. Your colleague, Dave, helped. Found us some fibers.”

“Ah, Dave. Very bright boy. Very bad socially.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“I was just about to leave,” he said.

“Oh?” His appearance had lifted me from my self-directed anger. Once he left, I'd be right back to it.

“You staying?” He set his glass down with a thump.

“It's a bit crowded here.” I leaned forward. “You know some place quieter?”

He picked up his papers. “I'm driving a blue truck. Follow me.” He gathered his things and left. I sat and finished my drink, not too fast. Then I headed outside.

In my car, I waited until his blue truck made a U-turn in the lot and pulled out. I reversed. What if he headed east, for Hought's Pond? I couldn't return to the cabin. I wouldn't. It had cost me my place in that interview room with Gary Clark. But his truck turned left, headed west. I cracked the window and drove steady at 45 miles per hour. Was he taking me to his house? He hadn't said where he lived. I imagined a log cabin with a wood-burning stove. He slowed six miles outside town, and turned left again, driving into and through an industrial lot, filled with low-slung cement buildings. He parked at the end of a block and stepped down from his truck cab. The lot was vacant.

He stood outside, waiting. Stupid, but I was nervous. I pocketed my keys and got out. Noticed that the building before us had a large sign on it. Mike's Woodshop. He walked to the front. “Yours?” I said.

He didn't glance behind him. “Mine. Come on.” He used a key on a recessed door. I followed him in. I smelled wood shavings and polyurethane. He turned the lights on. Inside the large, high-ceilinged space were workbenches, tools, and several canoes in various stages of completion. He walked straight to the back. I stopped to stroke the smooth side of a finished canoe, and then followed.

At the end of the large space was a small room with a bed, a three-legged table, a wooden chest, and shelves built into the wall. There was a water glass on the table beside a Frank Lloyd Wright biography. The
shelves had photos of men fishing. Some books. He stepped closer, blocking my view. “I didn't bring you here for décor tips,” he said.

“Good thing.” I unbuttoned my shirt. “You'd regret it.”

He took off his polo. His chest was wide, barrel-shaped, and tan. His skin was smooth and fatty. Muscles rippled below as he moved. He lifted my undershirt above my head and leaned in to lick my neck. My cock stiffened. He struggled out of his pants, hopping to disentangle his foot from the cuff. I stripped. We stood, nude, facing each other. He wasn't as big as I'd expected, but he certainly was ready.

He spat into his hand. My cock swelled. Then he rubbed his saliva over my dick. I groaned and thrust into his hand. He rubbed until I backed away, too near climax. I sat on the bed and pulled him near, stuck my head near his groin and breathed deeply. He smelled like sweat and cotton and man. I took him into my mouth. He sighed low and long. I licked him from tip to stem. Then into my mouth again, where I hummed a little as I worked him over.

“Ah, ah,” he said. He rocked into me. I loved this. Having power over someone's pleasure. Their joy dependent upon me. It had been too long.

I stood and said, “What'll it be?” I stroked his ass and kissed him long and slow.

He bent over and offered himself. Generous. “Lube's in the trunk.”

Under several shirts and a stash of dirty magazines, I found the bottle. I worked the cold gel inside him. He gurgled and thrust his backside nearer. I used the lube on myself, enjoying his whimpers of impatience. Then I rolled a condom onto my stiff dick. Lubed it up.

“Now!” he said. I slid my cock into him by half inches. His ass throbbed, milking me. I pulled out.

“More!”

I pushed back in and he gasped. We rocked and groaned. I fingered his fuzzy balls. Harder, faster, my pelvis slapped his ass, until I shouted and squeezed his balls. He yelled and shuddered beneath me.

After a few moments, he leaned forward and my cock fell out of him. “Bathroom?” I asked. He pointed. I went. A small room adjoined to the workshop held a toilet, a tiny shower, and a pedestal sink. I
turned the shower tap and it blasted a jet of cold water. I adjusted the lever and got the water hot. I stepped inside and soaped myself lightly, still sensitive. With a too-small towel I dried myself to dampness.

He lay in bed, on his side, waiting for me. “Okay?”

“Fine. You?” I asked.

He smiled and rubbed his chest. “Never better.”

“You'll keep this,” I drew a line between us, “to yourself?”

He said, “Of course. Wouldn't want to upset the status quo, would we?” He grabbed my hand.

“What time is it?” I asked.

He glanced at an alarm clock on his shelf. “Eleven thirty. You have to be somewhere?” His voice aimed for teasing but fell short.

I pulled my hand free. “No, but I've got an early morning.” I sat on the bed. It bowed under our weight. “Have to search a suspect's home.”

“So, no round two?” His breath tickled my ear. He drew a line down my back. My dick stirred, rousing from its nap. I needed to go home and sleep. Tomorrow was a big day. I needed to be alert. I couldn't let sex come between this case and me. Not again.

“I can't.” I stepped into my underwear. Over my shoulder I said, “But I'd like to.”

He pushed himself up. “Maybe some other time?”

“Sounds good.” I poked my head though my undershirt. “I'll show myself out.”

The road was dark and empty of other cars. The air smelled sweet, like flowers. I reached for the radio knob, ready to sing along in my off-key voice. Cecilia North and I had something else in common. Ahead, two shiny orbs hung at hood height. Too late, I realized what they were. Eyes. I stomped on the brake and cut the wheel, skidding into the other lane. The deer, startled, ran forward, in front of the car. I saw its face, its white muzzle. We collided. My head snapped back. Metal crunched. My body slammed forward, hard into the wheel. I blinked. The car, stopped, sounded like an angry hornet. I shook my head. Pain. I touched my forehead. No blood. Good.

In front of me was the dark road. No deer. I opened my door with
shaking hands. Adrenaline. My chest felt sore. I stood, holding on to the car frame. The deer's crumpled body visible ahead. I walked forward. It lay on its side, back legs kicking. Its eyes frantic. The front grill of the car done in. The sounds of its flailing hooves on the blacktop made me wince. I rubbed my sore chest and looked away.

I needed help, so I got the radio. Called it in. What was the code for a hit deer? Or animal? “Hey, it's Lynch. I've just hit a deer.”

The dickhead on dispatch thought I was joking. A prank pulled by patrol.

“No, it's me. Listen. Listen! If I don't get some assistance, I'll have you suspended for a week without pay. Got it?”

Now he believed me. He asked about the deer. I told him it was seriously injured. Bleeding at the mouth, but moving its back legs. He asked about the accident. I rambled. Too many words. Still shaken.

“It's gonna have to be put down,” he said, when I'd finished talking.

“Put down.”

“Shot,” he said. “You got your gun?”

“You want me to shoot it?” Somehow I hadn't considered this. I thought they'd send animal control. Try to rescue it. Release it back into the wild.

“I can send someone to help you remove it from the road.”

But he expected me to kill it.

“Okay,” I said.

I wondered if I ought to have a rifle, but it didn't matter because I didn't. Just my .40 Glock. I walked to the deer, hoping it had recovered. Had by some miracle found the strength to regain its legs and hobble to the woods.

“Don't make me do this,” I said. The deer's eyes weren't fearful. They were blank. But its legs twitched, and I knew it wasn't gone. That it needed me to put it out of its misery.

I hadn't fired my gun since Rick died. Since I'd tried to shoot Apollo St. James and missed. Maybe that's why I was so reluctant. I didn't want to inhabit that space again. But the dying animal before me, its side moving up with each panted breath, wasn't going to let me
forget. I pulled my gun from my belt. Took the safety off. Positioned myself. Aimed at its slender head, its marble eyes seeing something I could not.

“I'm sorry,” I said and I fired once, twice, three times. My eyes closing reflexively after each shot. The noise splitting the night in half.

I opened them. Blood streamed toward my feet. The deer dead. I looked up at the stars and waited for sirens. Forgetting for a moment when, and where, I was.

Nate had given me a plaid thermos when I'd asked for a to-go coffee container from Suds. The guys at the station started in on me as soon as they saw it. “Mommy pack you soup?” Lots of laughs. High spirits. They were amped, excited to search Gary Clark's stuff. I recalled the feeling.

“You got a matching lunch box?” Revere asked.

“Hey, Chief,” Billy said. He handed me a folder. “Mrs. D. said for me to give you this first thing.” Billy got away with calling Mrs. Dunsmore by a nickname. I'd have been flayed for that offense. The folder was marked URGENT. I groaned and set it down.

“She said you should read it before we go.” He bit his lower lip.

I rolled my eyes, and flipped it open. Citizen's complaint. I sighed. Scanned the form. Name: Jane Doe. I squinted.

Was Revere giggling near me?

Address was listed as 1512 Woodsy Lane.

What?

Officer's name listed was Thomas Lynch.

What the fuck?

On the night of August 27th, Chief Thomas Lynch drove his police cruiser (like a lunatic) into me, causing me to fall. I sustained grievous injuries. Not satisfied with this, he then took out his gun, and, without provocation, shot me multiple times. His aim was as good as that of a blind, elderly woman. My child, Bambi, will now suffer as an orphan.

I looked up from the report. Billy had his hand to his mouth, his eyes crinkled with pent-up laughter. Finnegan lifted his mug in salute and asked, “How's your car?”

Wright laughed, and Revere let out some more unsettling giggles. Jesus. He sounded like a twelve-year-old girl.

“Undriveable,” I said. After help had arrived and moved the deer corpse from the road, I discovered my car wouldn't start. It had been towed to a repair shop. I had a loaner patrol car now. Its suspension was a memory and the brakes a danger to myself and the general population.

“Welcome to Idyll,” Wright said, toasting me with half a bagel. “Where Mother Nature is much more dangerous than the citizenry.”

They were having fun at my expense. Until someone yanked your chain, you were outside the tribe. I knew that. But it was hard to treat the deer's death as a joke. Because of Rick. They didn't know.

“We really ought to put up some signs,” I said, deadpan. There were, in fact, signs warning drivers about deer. They were the first things I noticed when I'd moved here.

“Good idea. Signs,” Finnegan said. He framed a sign with his hands. “Watch out for Police Chief. Next ten miles.”

I gave him a grin and a middle finger. He was as delighted as if I'd handed him a twenty.

“So, how'd we make out last night?” I asked, hoping to leave Jane Doe behind.

Revere and Finnegan reported that Gary Clark had gone silent on the advice of his lawyer. So they'd moved him to a cell, to await transfer. Finnegan said he'd cried all the way to his new digs. “If you can't handle the crime, don't pull the fucking trigger,” he said. He stubbed out another half-smoked cigarette; too wired to finish smoking one.

We had warrants for his car, office, and home. We weren't allowed to remove files from Liberty Insurance, but we could review them. I assigned Revere to it, along with two helpers. Finnegan would ride with him, to check out Clark's car. And Wright and I would handle the house. I needed to work on repairing my relationship with my lead detective.

Wright drove. We listened to the news as we sped down the highway. “You believe this?” He pointed to the radio. “These guys think that opening a casino will have all these wonderful benefits for the Pequot tribe.”

“Hasn't it?” From what I'd heard, Foxwoods Casino pulled in tons of money. And it paid subsidies to all people who could prove they had Pequot blood.

“Sure. For now. But casinos are trouble. Ask any poor cop stuck in a casino city. Crime skyrockets. And this whole ‘we'll regain out cultural heritage through slot nickels'? I'm not buying it.”

“So you'd rather they stay dirt poor?” I asked.

“I'd rather they didn't sugarcoat that what they've done is finagle the law so they can run a gambling empire.” He switched stations until he landed on some Top 40 nonsense. Some man was mumbling quickly to a beat borrowed from Diana Ross's “I'm Coming Out,” that old standby of pride parades and gay clubs everywhere. Wright was oblivious, tapping the wheel and matching the song word for word.

“You like this?” I asked.

“What?” He spared me a glance. “Notorious B.I.G.? Or rap music, in general?” He looked at my face and laughed. “I'm not as old as you.”

“How can you understand what they're saying?”

He grinned and tapped his right ear. “Again.
Not old
.” He turned up the volume. “Better?”

I had a glimpse of how Wright was outside the station. Looser, funnier, less quick to offense. I turned down the volume, and he said, “Guess we can test this song's theory.”

“Which is?”

“More money, more problems.”

“Sounds like something rich people made up,” I said.

He agreed and checked the rearview. “I'm guessing Mrs. Clark might be worried about her husband, seeing as how he didn't come home last night.”

“Maybe she's used to him being out all night,” I said.

Mrs. Gary Clark wasn't used to her husband being out all night. She opened the door before we'd pushed the bell, which was a shame. I'm sure the
bing-bong
would have been terrific, bouncing off marble surfaces and mirrors wider than I was tall.

“Where is he? Are you here about Gary? Is he hurt? Is he dead?” She was tall, blond, and pretty, though we weren't seeing her at her best. The hollows under her blue eyes were violet. Her pale skin was pink in patches. She wore a soft-gray sweater that reached her knees. I bet it was cashmere. Oh, she had money. Only the rich, accustomed to central air-conditioning, would wear cashmere in late August.

“Ma'am, I'm Police Chief Lynch of the Idyll Police. This is Detective Wright. Your husband, Gary, is in police custody.”

“Custody?”

“We've arrested him on suspicion of murder.”

She looked to Wright as if he might refute what I'd said. “Murder?” she said. “What are you talking about?”

“Ma'am, we have a warrant to search your home.” I showed her the papers.

She snatched them out of my hand. “You can't! I want to talk to my husband!” She tossed the papers. I bent to catch them.

Wright said, “Mrs. Clark, your husband is in custody. If you'd like, you may call his lawyer, Mr. Louis Jacob.”

“Who's Louis Jacob? I've never heard of him. He's not our lawyer.” Her pale skin got pinker with each word. She looked behind us, as if her husband might be in view.

“Your lawyer doesn't handle criminal cases, so he recommended Mr. Jacob,” I said. “Excuse me.” I stepped past her into the house. Wright followed. I said, “We'll be removing items from the house. You'll get an inventory receipt.” Two cars pulled into the driveway. Officers emerged.

“All of these people are going to search my house?” Her eyes were as wide as half dollars.

“With a house this size, we need the men.” I wasn't kidding. You could fit three of my houses inside this one, and still have room to spare. This was going to take all day, unless we found the gun, a signed confession, and some bloody clothes in the first closet we checked.

“Whoa,” Billy said when he crossed the threshold. He looked up at the sparkling underside of a crystal chandelier. “This place is like a castle.”

Mrs. Clark said, “I'm calling the lawyer. Don't touch anything until I get back.” She hurried out of the room, her light steps leaving echoes behind in the vast entryway.

I said, “Billy, Hopkins, and Clyde, you're upstairs. Wright and Smith, take the downstairs. I'll check the garage and outside.”

The garage housed a silver Mercedes Benz. Garden tools were arranged neatly on a pegboard. A shining, metal garbage bin stood near the retractable doors. Other than a broom, bucket, and cleaning cloths, there wasn't much else. I checked the cloths, but they were spotless. I sniffed them. No bleach or detergent. New. Not freshly laundered.

I left the garage and walked around the house, poking in and out of rose bushes. I overturned small statues but found nothing but worms. The lawn was less vast than I'd feared. But it still took hours to walk the property, searching for evidence of fire or recent digging. Any signs that someone had attempted to destroy evidence. Nothing. I'd nearly returned to the front door when I spotted it. A bit of paper stuck near the house's foundation, obscured by a tall hedge. I crouched and grabbed it with gloved hands. A paper packet. Yes! I pulled it close, avoiding twigs. And read the print on back. It was a seed packet. Nasturtiums. Not Pop Rocks. I dropped it.

“Chief?” Wright yelled.

I jogged around the side and found him calling for me near the garage. “Find anything?” I asked.

He held up a dress shirt. “Found this hidden in the back.”

Mrs. Clark called from the doorway, “It needs mending. Clara was going to bring it to the tailor.”

I walked to where I could read the label. Ralph Lauren. “Let me guess,” I said to Mrs. Clark. “It's missing a button.”

“Yes.” She scowled at me.

“Anything else?” I asked Wright.

His eyebrows pinched together. “We found a note from the victim, arranging to meet him at work. But aside from that—” he kicked the ground, “nothing. No weapon.”

Mrs. Clark moved indoors, where she began complaining about a rug.

Wright flexed his hands together. Knuckles cracked. “She's been scolding the men every time they move something.” He rolled his eyes. “I understand why her husband went looking for company.” He didn't bother to lower his voice.

“Chief!” Hopkins stood in the doorway, waving. His gut wobbled.

I hurried to him. “What is it?” Please let it have DNA. Great big blobs of DNA.

“Phone call.” He handed me a mobile phone, like the one the selectmen had said I should own, so I could be reached at all times. I'd promised I'd look into it. I hadn't.

“Yeah?” I hoped it was Revere or Finnegan about to report a major find.

“Chief Lynch?” an unknown voice said.

“Speaking.”

“This is Dan Bergen from the forensic laboratory. We got footprint matches from your golf course. Mike Shannon said I should phone you.” Looked like last night's adventure had scored multiple payoffs. “Frigging miracle we retrieved them, given what the scene looked like. We lifted two prints around the scene and her body. Men's. A work boot, size eight and a half, and a sneaker, size eleven and a half. The sneaker's a partial, but it's fairly distinct. We're checking treads to see if we can ID the brand and style.”

“Great. Thanks.” Two footprints. Two men. The ones Mrs. Ashworth saw? Maybe not. They could've been made earlier. Or perhaps the techs hadn't excluded everyone from our squad. Still, two prints—it made my stomach feel sour. Never a good sign. My stomach went sour before a suspect pushed me down a stairwell sixteen years ago. I'd
bumped my way down three flights. One of those bruised vertebrae can now predict rainstorms.

“Where are Clark's shoes?” I asked Hopkins. Might as well check them.

“Upstairs.” He stepped inside and walked past Mrs. Clark, who said, “Slow down! That's a Tiffany vase there!” I followed him up the stairs to the second floor, down a hall lit with frosted-glass fixtures, and into a bedroom the size of my own. That's where the similarities ended. It was done up in gold and army green. The furniture glowed. Someone spent time polishing it. I doubted it was either of the Clarks. “He has his own bedroom?” Everything in it was masculine.

“Yup. She has her own. You should see the closet. And they have a shared master bedroom. This place is nuts.”

I approached the open closet. Suits hung on cedar hangers, the scent strong enough to scare moths miles away. Below were his shoes. Nine pairs. I picked up a pair of loafers. Size 10.

Hopkins asked, “Is it a match for something?”