Idyll Threats (26 page)

“We need to talk to Kevin. Is he at home?” I asked.

“He's at soccer practice. What's this about? What's he done now?” She looked at our faces, trying to guess. “We just took him off grounding, for trespassing on the golf course.” Right. That was going to look very minor very soon.

“Mrs. Wilkes?” a small voice called.

She looked over her shoulder. “Just a minute, Matthew.” She told us, “I'm teaching now.”

“We're going to need you to bring your son to the station,” I said. A small blond kid walked toward us, his clarinet two-thirds his size. Either he was a child prodigy or he was small for his age.

“Matthew, I'll be with you in a moment. Practice ‘Happy Birthday.'” The kid blinked at her command but did as he was told. He went back inside. Tinny squeaks emerged from his instrument. No prodigy, then.

“You should call Matthew's parents,” Wright said. “Have him picked up.”

“Wait!” Mrs. Wilkes pointed. Wright nudged me with his elbow. At the curb, getting out of the backseat of a BMW, was Kevin Wilkes. “Here he is.”

“Everything okay?” the woman driving called. Two other teens sat in the car, rubbernecking.

Mrs. Wilkes put on her best brave face. “Fine. Thanks.” She waved at them like her hand had springs in it until they drove away.

Kevin cradled a soccer ball to his chest. His shin guards were bright red. His face matched.

“Kevin, the police want to speak to you,” Mrs. Wilkes said.

He looked away from his mother. “I don't have it,” he said. He directed his comment to me.

“Have what?” his mother asked.

“The gun,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I don't have it.”

“I know,” I said. “We do.”

“Gun?” Mrs. Wilkes's voice brought Matthew back to the door. “What gun?” she asked. She grabbed her son's jersey sleeve. He winced, but didn't move.

“You have a gun?” Matthew said, eyeing Kevin. “Cool. Can I see it?”

“Matthew! Go practice!” she shouted.

He took a step backward, tripped, and fell. His small, pointed face got white. “It's okay,” I said. I helped him up. “Want to see my gun?” He nodded. “Let's everyone step inside.”

Mrs. Wilkes led us inside to the living room. There was a piano and another clarinet and two guitars. Also records. Lots and lots of vinyl near a stereo that resembled one I'd had back in the seventies. The furniture looked like an afterthought. Nothing matched, and it was arranged not for comfort but to allow space for the music. I sat on the rose-print sofa and patted the cushion beside me. Matthew hopped up onto it. His legs dangled a foot above the floor. Wright, Kevin, and Mrs. Wilkes stood near the piano.

I jerked my head at Wright. He picked up my cue and said, “Kevin, we'll need you to come to the station with your mom.”

“What? No! I didn't do anything. I gave the gun to Luke.”

“Luke Johnson?” Wright asked. He pulled out a notepad.

I unholstered my weapon. “This is my gun,” I told Matthew. “Its safety is on, which means it can't be fired. You never take the safety off a gun unless you plan to use it.” The boy's small hand reached out. I withdrew my firearm. “No touching,” I said.

“Luke Johnson,” Wright said. “Why did you give him the gun?”

“Yes, why?” his mother shouted. “And where did you get a gun?”

Kevin looked from his mother to Wright. And decided to answer the person not yelling at him. “We were supposed to go target shooting,” he told Wright.

“Target shooting?” Mrs. Wilkes's cry made Matthew turn. But the lure of my gun soon recalled his attention.

“This gun is always locked in a safe when I'm not carrying it. Do you know why?” I asked Matthew.

“We were supposed to go shooting together, but I felt sick, so Luke and Chris went,” Kevin said.

“So bad guys can't get it?” Matthew said.

“Chris Warren?” Wright asked. He looked at me. Gave me a slight nod. Score one for the chief.

Matthew tugged my shirt. “What?” I said.

“Do you lock your gun to keep it away from bad guys?” he asked.

“Yes. And to prevent accidents.”

Kevin said, “Yeah. Chris slept over that night. He snuck out and met Luke. I'd given Luke the gun because I knew my folks would flip if they found it.”

Mrs. Wilkes held up her hand. “Whoa. I think maybe, maybe I should call my husband. We might need a lawyer. I don't think—” She glanced at Kevin and chewed her lower lip.

Wright flipped his notepad closed. “Of course. You can call your husband. Consult a lawyer. That's absolutely your right. But honestly, ma'am, it's just going to slow things down. Kevin will have to make a statement. He can do it now, with you beside him, at the station. Or you can call a lawyer and buy a day or two. When news of this will have spread through town.” He paused. Let that sink in. “It's up to you.”

Nicely played, Wright.

She looked at her son and then glanced outside. “Okay. I want to call my husband, though. Let him know where we're going and tell him to meet us there.”

“Sure thing,” Wright said. “I just have one more question.” He waited for her to protest. She crossed her arms but remained silent. “So Luke had the gun, and Chris went to meet him. Which night was this?” he asked Kevin.

“August ninth.” His voice was low.

I holstered my gun. “We're going to need that statement. Mrs. Wilkes, could you please call Matthew's parents?” I asked.

“I want to go to the police station,” Matthew said.

“The ninth?” she repeated. Her face got pale. “But wasn't that…? Oh my God. The dead girl.” She covered her mouth and crouched. As if she might be sick.

“Can I see the other cops' guns too?” Matthew asked.

“Mrs. Wilkes?” Wright asked. He held his hand out. She made a small sound and waved him away. After a few moments, she stood and steadied herself against the piano. Looked at us and said, “I'll call Matthew's mother now. Have him picked up.”

“Darn!” said Matthew.

The Warren house reminded me of Elmore Fenworth's. It had the same well-groomed, historic look. But Elmore's house didn't have a pool or a three-door garage. Chris answered the door, a half-eaten cupcake in hand. Chocolate with white frosting. There were rainbow sprinkles on top. He leaned against a marble-topped table in the foyer. “Hi, Chief Lynch. Can I help you?” He was so natural, so friendly. Award-worthy.

“I need you to come to the police station.” I waved an arm toward my car.

“Why? Is this about the candy wrapper I found near the golf course?”

“No,” I said. “Would you come with me, please?”

He lifted the cupcake to his mouth. Took a large bite and chewed. I waited. He swallowed. I said, “Now.”

“You can't take me without my parents being present.”

“I can.” And I suspected he knew that.

He squinted at my car, which needed a wash. “I think I'd rather stay home.” He looked over his shoulder. “I'm in the middle of watching
The Usual Suspects
.”

“Come on.” I reached forward but didn't touch him. Who knew how hard I'd grip? He might bruise easy.

“It's a real cliff-hanger.” He finished the cupcake.

“Verbal Kint is Keyser Söze,” I said.

He dropped the cupcake liner onto the floor. “That's plain rude,” he said, “spoiling the ending.” He closed the door behind him. Stayed on the front step. “My parents will be worried when they come home and I'm not here.” He smiled. “They do funny things when they worry. Call people they know. Like the mayor.”

From what I'd learned, his parents were rarely home. Too busy working or socializing to spend time with their son. “You can call them from the station,” I said. As for his threats, they meant less than nothing. The mayor wouldn't back a killer. No matter who his parents were or how much money they donated to town causes.

He sat in the back. I didn't cuff him. He was a minor. Even if Connecticut saw fit to try him as an adult, for now I had to treat him like a baby.

“You haven't told me what this is about,” he said.

I closed the door. Started the car. Checked the rearview. He stared out the window, at his family's lovely house. He didn't look worried.

“I'm arresting you on suspicion of murder. Would you like me to read you your rights?”

A smile spread across his face, and he turned slowly, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. “Oh, why not?” he said. “I bet you've been practicing.”

He was protected from my fist by a panel of Plexiglas. And by years of training.
Don't fight, Thomas. Violence creates problems. It doesn't solve them.
But how I longed to connect my right hand's knuckles with the bridge of his nose. To hear the crunch, to feel the bone collapse beneath my anger.

But I couldn't. So I recited
Miranda
at him while I drove us to the station. Every time I glanced in the rearview mirror, that self-satisfied smile was on his face.

1735 HOURS

The station smelled of burnt coffee. Everyone talked, smoked, and paced. Finnegan was out, getting us warrants. Wright helped Kevin Wilkes review his statement while his parents huddled near him. Christopher Warren sat alone in the interview room, awaiting his family's lawyer. We couldn't find Luke Johnson. Or his mother.

Finnegan stomped into the pen, smelling of wood smoke, and said, “We've got warrants for both boys' homes. However, the judge was less than delighted by our pick of suspects.”

“No one likes kids as killers,” I said. “Disturbs the natural order.” I massaged my hands. They were sore. I'd been clenching them so as not to punch Chris Warren.

“I still can't believe you got it right,” he said, “on nothing more than a look at his sneakers and a hunch.” He was impressed, at last.

Wright led Mr. and Mrs. Wilkes to the hall. Each parent kept one hand on Kevin's shoulders. “Is there anything else?” Mrs. Wilkes asked, equal amounts hope and fear in her voice.

“No, not now. Thank you,” Wright said. He walked them outside to their car. They were on the good guys' team now, and we needed to coddle them. In the coming months, we might need Kevin to testify against his friends in court. Of course, if he resisted, we'd threaten him with an accessory-to-murder charge. Being on the good guys' team isn't all fun.

When Wright returned, I put him in charge of both search teams. “Take all their boots and sneakers,” I said.

“Will do.” He set off quickly, then stopped and returned to me. “You made a good call,” he said. “Sorry I doubted you.” He met my eyes, steady, and I knew he meant more than doubting my pick of suspects. I also knew apologies didn't come easy to Wright.

“Thanks.” I tipped an imaginary hat. “Now go get me some evidence.”

He saluted and hurried out the door.

“What about me?” Finnegan asked.

“You're on interviews.”

“Poor Revere,” he said. “He's missing it all.” He didn't sound sorry.

Thirty minutes later, Christopher Warren's attorney arrived. She was a tall woman who looked like she took her coffee black and her clients wealthy. Her first words were, “I'm Melissa Simon, Christopher Warren's attorney. Where is he? And why aren't his parents with him?”

“Hello,” I said. “I'm Thomas Lynch, Chief of Police. Your client is in an interview room. His parents aren't home. He's sixteen years of age, so they don't need to be here.”

“When did he turn sixteen?” she asked.

“Three months ago. Given the rates you charge, I'm surprised you didn't know.”

She didn't respond. Just tightened her grip on her briefcase.

Forty-five minutes later, Luke Johnson and his mother arrived, both pale and slump-shouldered. His mother held Luke's hand and leaned toward his ear. Finnegan showed them into the second interview room, the room we used as an informal gym. We'd moved the weights and bench into the equipment space and set up a spare table and some folding chairs.