The Bright Silver Star (31 page)

“What’s more, you need my help,” he added. “You’ve got two murders that don’t seem to connect with each other except for the simple fact that they must. And you’re totally flummoxed by it— you, Soave, Yolie, all of you.”

“Well, you’re not wrong there,” she growled at him.

“Would you like to know why you’re so flummoxed?”

“One way or the other, I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“Because all three of you think inside the box. I’m not being critical, mind you. I’m just saying that you’re encumbered by the rules and procedures of your job, and I’m not. This allows me to function as a freer thinker. You might even think of me, well, as a visionary.”

Des reached over in the dark and squeezed his hand. “Baby, I’m not going to have to hit you, am I?”

“What you’ll be doing, before this night is over, is thanking me.”

“Mitch? . . .”

“Yes, Des?”

“What
damned feeling?!”

“That we’ve let our heads get turned by all of this sex. We’ve got so many Dorseteers hopping in and out of bed with each other that we don’t know who loves who, who loathes who, who might want who dead . . . Are you with me so far?”

“You’re talking, I’m listening.”

“Okay, good. We’ve got Abby, Chrissie, and Martine all without alibis for the night Tito died. Two of them had been romantically involved with him. The third was his mother-in-law. Now, we don’t know why Donna Durslag had to die. Therefore we have no idea which one of those three had any interest in killing her. But here’s something that we
do
know—that Dodge Crockett is a sick, bad, morally depraved guy.”

“I won’t disagree with you there.”

“Let’s say that this qualifies him to be our prime murder suspect, okay?”

“That’s a bit of a leap, but go ahead and run with it.”

“We know that he’s home alone tonight. He told me so this morning. So all we have to do now is wait and he’ll show his hand.”

“What hand?”

“Something is going to happen tonight,” Mitch declared with total certainty. “I’m telling you, I can feel it.”

“Whoa, time out, cowboy—
this
is your feeling?”

“Well, yeah. Put yourself in his shoes, Des. It’s not as if a perverted sociopath like Dodge is going to spend his night watching
Send Me No Flowers
on American Movie Classics. Not that it’s a bad movie, mind you. Rock Hudson and Doris Day were an underrated comedy team, and Paul Lynde absolutely goes to town as a funeral home director who loves his work just a bit too—”

“Okay, I
am
going to have to hit you.”

“Someone is going to visit Dodge tonight. Or he’s going to go see someone.”

“And? . . .”

“And that’s our chance to find out what he’s really up to and who he’s up to it with. If he leaves, we follow him. If someone comes by, we tiptoe our way to the house and put our noses to the glass. It’s smart, it’s simple, and it’ll work. What do you say, Master Sergeant, am I right or am I right?”

Des sat there in the darkened silence for a long moment before she said, “You do know that this particular move is straight out of the Hardy Boys, don’t you?”

“Maybe it is,” he admitted. “But it was a darned effective maneuver when they’d exhausted their other options. Besides, Frank and Joe cracked a number of Fenton’s toughest cases.”

“You do know that was fiction, don’t you—for little boys?”

A possum moseyed its way out of the brush and up the Crocketts’ driveway, its long, slinky tail trailing along behind it. Truly one of God’s ugliest creatures, Mitch observed. Right up there with the lowly woodchuck. Just one of the many new things he had learned since he moved to Dorset. “You think this is a stupid idea, is that it?”

“Actually, I’m sitting here thinking you make a shocking amount of sense.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“For starters, I think you have you a personal vendetta thing going on. You admired Dodge and he’s turned out to be a total sleaze and now you want him to fry. Your judgment is clouded, Mitch. That’s not to say I disagree with you. The man is bad news, and he should pay for what he’s done to Esme and Becca and who knows who else. But that doesn’t necessarily make him a murderer. Just a sleaze.”

Mitch considered this for a moment. “Okay, what else?”

“I also think there’s an exceptionally good chance that we’re going to sit here until four in the morning and have nothing to show for it except stiff necks.”

It
was
awfully quiet. They hadn’t seen so much as single passing motorist since they’d been parked there.

“Maybe, but at least we’re together.” He leaned over and kissed her smooth cheek. “You don’t mind that part, do you?”

“No, baby, I don’t mind,” she said, her own knowing lips finding the sweet spot under his ear, the one that turned him into a quivering mass of man Jell-O.

“Did I remember to thank you for stopping at East Coast Grill?” he murmured, finding her mouth with his.

“Three times . . . This makes four.”

“I’m overwhelmed. I’ve never had a woman bring me pork before.”

“If I’d known you were this easy I’d have done it a lot sooner,” she said, groaning softly. “But you’d better pass me some of that coffee. I’ve been up since before dawn.”

Mitch poured her some from the thermos he’d brought, thinking about what she’d said. Because she wasn’t wrong. Not one bit.

He did want it to be Dodge.

They’d had words that morning at Will’s house. Mitch hadn’t needed to stay there with Will for long. As soon as Des took off the poor guy headed straight for the phone to call his father figure. Dodge’s arrival was Mitch’s official cue to leave. Mitch was in no mood to hang around with that man.

Still, their paths crossed out on the front porch as Dodge came bounding up the steps, looking all tanned, virile, and fit, a manila folder tucked under one arm. “Mitch, I’m so glad you’re here,” he said, face etched with concern. “This is just such an awful business. Why would anyone want to hurt Donna?”

“I really don’t know, Dodge.”

“How is our boy holding up?”

“Our boy is pretty shook.”

“We missed you out there this morning,” he said, eyeing Mitch carefully. “The tide was out. It was beautiful.”

“I couldn’t make it,” Mitch said, rather stiffly.

“Sure, sure.” Dodge seemed stung by Mitch’s chilly response. “Oh, hey, I’ve got something for you,” he said, holding the manila
folder out to him. “This is the application for that teen mentoring program over at the Youth Services Bureau. They’d love to have you if you can spare an hour a week.”

Mitch reached for it gingerly. He did not actually wish to touch anything that Dodge had touched. In fact, he felt a form of visceral revulsion just standing on the same porch with him.

After an awkward silence Dodge said, “I’m sorry you had to walk in on my . . . private moment with Becca yesterday.”

Mitch said nothing. He knew that the older man was waiting for him to put his mind at ease. But Mitch didn’t particularly feel like doing that.

“I can tell that you’re still upset,” Dodge persisted.

“Dodge, I really don’t want to talk about this right now. Why don’t you go inside? Will needs you.”

“It’s wasn’t what it looked like, Mitch. Becca and I have a real history together. We go way back.”

“Kind of like you and Esme?” Mitch snapped, immediately regretting it. He should have kept his mouth shut.

Dodge didn’t lose his composure. He simply looked Mitch straight in the eye and said, “I don’t know what you’ve been hearing, or from who, but I love my daughter, and I would never, ever hurt her. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar.”

“You never touched her?”

“I’d like to have an opportunity to discuss this further with you, Mitch. Martine will be with Esme tonight. I’ll be home all evening. We can have a drink on the terrace and talk it through, okay? Maybe by then you will have cooled off.”

“Dodge, one thing keeps puzzling me—why’d you tell me that Martine was having an affair?”

“Because she was,” he said. “And because you and I are friends. Or at least I thought we were.”

“Okay, right, I get it now,” Mitch said, nodding his head.
“I’m
the one who has the problem.”

“Mitch, we all do things that we don’t understand and we can’t
control,” Dodge offered as explanation. “Things that we feel bad about. That’s what makes us human beings. Our only real failure is when we don’t make the effort to understand one another. Will you at least try? Will you do that much for me?”

“Sure, I’ll do that much, Dodge,” he replied grimly, seized by the horrifying certainty that his friend had just confessed to killing Tito Molina and Donna Durslag.

And then Mitch had said good-bye to him and headed home to prowl Big Sister’s tidal pools alone with his hands in his pockets. He pruned his tomato plants, mowed his lawn, picked wild blackberries and beach plums. He was fine as long as he kept moving. Until at long last Des returned to him from Boston, one-quart tub of shredded pork in hand.

And now they sat there together in his truck, Des sipping coffee and stabbing holes in his theory. “What about the fact that Dodge has an alibi for when Tito was murdered?”

“His alibi is Becca,” Mitch pointed out. “I don’t mean to sound cold, because I like Becca, but if Dodge can convince her to get down on all fours with a bag over her head, he can convince her to fib for him.”

“I’ll give you that one,” she responded. “But answer me this—why would Dodge want to kill Tito?”

“Maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was the other way around. Let’s say Tito found out about Dodge and Esme. Maybe Esme told Tito, okay? And let’s say Tito called Dodge out on it. Think about what Tito told me at my house that night. He said he’d gotten himself into something bad, something he couldn’t get out of. This certainly fits the bill, doesn’t it?
‘The hangman says it’s time to let her fly,’
Maybe Tito was telling me that Dodge was about to pay for his sins.”

“Except that Dodge got the best of him up there,” she mused aloud. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“Well, why not? There’s no actual proof that it was a woman who pushed Tito off of that cliff, is there?”

“Not one bit,” Des said. “Only answer me this, boyfriend. Why did Dodge turn right around and kill Donna? What’s the connection?”

“Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe it was just some rough sex that got out of hand. It happens.”

“No sale. You can’t tell me that he
accidentally
happened to kill his second person in three days.”

“Look, I saw with my own two eyes what this guy is capable of doing to women. Frankly, it’s a miracle that more of them haven’t died while they were getting freaky with him.”

“This wasn’t getting freaky, Mitch. Donna was brutally, violently murdered. I am talking about walls spattered with blood.”

“Was there a lot of blood?”

“There was enough. Why, what’s the significance of—?” Des broke off suddenly, drawing in her breath.

Mitch sat right up, hearing the same sound she had—a car starting. It came from across the Crocketts’ meadow. Headlights flicked on now in front of their house and, slowly, the lights turned and made their way down the long gravel drive toward them. Mitch recognized the flatulent burble of the car’s diesel engine. It was Dodge’s old Mercedes wagon.

It was midnight and Dodge was heading out.

“I don’t believe this,” Des muttered at him.

“And I don’t believe you doubted me,” Mitch exclaimed triumphantly. “If I were a less secure person I would actually be hurt.”

“Hush!”

The Mercedes was nearing the carriage lamps at the entrance to the drive. From where they sat, it was impossible to tell if Dodge was alone in the car. For that matter, it was impossible to be sure that it was Dodge who was behind the wheel. As the Mercedes paused at the road, Mitch reached for his key in the ignition.

Des stopped him with a warning hand. “Not yet. Let him get rolling first.”

Dodge pulled out and headed toward Old Shore Road, leaving plumes of diesel exhaust in his wake. Mitch waited until he’d gone around a bend before he started up the pickup and put it in gear.

“No headlights,” Des cautioned him. “Just zone in on his taillights.”

Mitch took off after the Mercedes in the blackness. Fortunately, there were occasional streetlamps to mark his way. Otherwise he would have driven into a ditch for sure.

Old Shore Road was deserted at that time of night. The Mercedes was about a half mile ahead of them, chugging in the direction of town, its headlights casting a soft, film noir glow in the foggy mist that reminded Mitch of the opening sequence of
The Killers,
when William Conrad and Charles McGraw are pulling into that sleepy small town in search of the Swede. All that was missing was the ominous Miklos Rozsa score.

Mitch chugged along after it at a steady forty-five.

“Don’t get too close,” Des said anxiously from next to him, her knees jiggling with excitement. “Give him room.”

He grinned at her. “Want to take the wheel, Master Sergeant?”

“Heck no. You’re doing great.”

“You miss this, don’t you?”

“Miss what?”

“The hunt. You are loving this. I can see it in your eyes.”

“Doughboy, it is pitch-black in this cab.”

“So maybe I’m imagining it.”

“So maybe you ought to keep your imagination on the road. Careful, he’s slowing down. . . . Watch it!”

Mitch hit the brakes, coming to a dead stop. Up ahead, Dodge was pulling into the Citgo minimart, even though it was closed up for the night. The illuminated sign was dark, the big floodlights out. There was only the night-light that the Acars left on inside when they went home. Nonetheless, Dodge drove around in back, where the rest rooms and trash bins were, and shut off his lights.

“Man, what the hell is he doing?” Des wondered as they idled there.

“Meeting somebody?”

Des jumped out, shutting her door silently behind her. “Catch up with me real slow,” she said to him through the open window. “Hit your lights when I signal you, got it?”

“Got it.”

She was off and running now, streaking her way toward the minimart, her knees high, her arms pumping. Mitch eased along behind her, seeing her backlit by the night-light inside. Now he could see her cutting across the parking lot toward Dodge’s car, raising an arm high over her head. Now he could see her lowering it. . . .