The Cold Blue Blood (13 page)

At least none that showed.

As she eased on past the Dorset Academy of Fine Arts, her gaze lingered longingly. There was no postmodern fakery at DAFA. They still believed in the same rigorous, classical training that produced the Renaissance masters. Years and years of study on the human anatomy, on perspective, on materials. It was a private dream of hers to study there someday. Make that a fantasy.

There was a barricade at the end of Peck Point. Here she encountered a horde of cruisers and television news vans. The island itself, which was accessible by a wooden causeway, was shrouded in dense fog. It seemed distant and faintly ominous. It reminded her of the view of Alcatraz across San Francisco Bay.

Tal Bliss, Dorset’s seasoned resident trooper, had taken the initial 911 call. He had immediately called the barracks in Westbrook. They sent out several uniformed troopers to seal the area. They had also contacted Major Crimes.

The instant Des stepped out of her cruiser she was assaulted by news cameras from Connecticut’s four local television stations, 3, 8, 30 and 61. The reporters shoved microphones in her face, crowding her up against her car, demanding answers. They were in a constant ratings battle with each other. And nothing stirred up their blood like a violent crime in a town of wealthy white people.

“Lieutenant, do you have the victim’s identity?”

“Lieutenant, we go on live at noon!”

“We need an update, Lieutenant!”

“Lieutenant, what can you tell us?!”

Des’s heavy horn-rimmed glasses had come sliding down her nose a bit. She pushed them back up, pausing to compose herself before she responded. She had learned from previous experience that if she did not she came across as too hostile. Also her voice had a tendency to bottom out on her when she was nervous. Brandon used to say she sounded like Don Cornelius. “I can tell you very little at the present time,” she stated, blinking into the lights. “As you can see, I have only just arrived.”

“When can you give us a statement?”

“We go on live at noon!”

“Can you give us something between and twelve and twelve-ten?!”

“We need a statement!”

“Now will you please let me do my job?” Des asked them patiently. It was not easy to remain polite with them. They were just so damned insistent. And so positive that nothing, but nothing, was as important to anyone as their own on-air needs. It was perfectly natural that they felt this way. Virtually everyone on the planet conducted their public and private lives around television. And their demands did have to be met. Still, if you were not firm with them they would engulf and devour you whole. “Please step aside
now
!” she barked.

And they let her by. Nobody liked to be around an angry sister. Not one who had a gun.

Tal Bliss met her at the edge of the wooden bridge, as imposing a figure as ever in his wide-brimmed hat, tailored uniform and polished boots. Des had worked with him on the Salisbury case and respected him. He had handled himself like a professional. He had treated her with courtesy. He was a good resident trooper, comfortable with his size, his badge and his domain. He knew this place. He knew these people. The resident trooper program was a blessing for the smaller Connecticut towns that did not have their own police force. In exchange for his around-the-clock presence, the town paid half of his salary.

“Welcome to Big Sister, Lieutenant,” he said, tipping his hat to her.

She smiled at him and said, “Hey back at you, Trooper. And how is Busta Rhymes?”

“Renamed him Dirty Harry, if you don’t mind.”

“Not one bit.”

“And he’s fat and ungrateful, in response to your question.”

She let out a laugh. “Well, he is a cat. Bake anything good lately?”

Des had not been shocked to learn that Bliss had served two tours of duty in Vietnam. He carried himself like an ex-marine. But it had come as a surprise to find out that he’d studied for a year at the Cordon Bleu in Paris and was considered the finest chef in Dorset.

“I’ve rediscovered the quiche. I’ll have to make you one sometime.”

“And I’ll have to be there to eat it,” she said to him, ducking under the yellow crime scene tape and out onto the wooden bridge.

“I don’t seem to see you down around these parts unless it’s something grizzly, do I?”

“That what this is?”

“Gentleman smells none too sweet, I assure you. Victim was Niles Seymour, age fifty-two, estranged husband of Dolly Seymour. Everyone thought he left town a few weeks ago with a younger woman. It appears he never left at all. He’s been down there for quite some time, as you will see. Anything I can help you with before we head on out?”

“How’s the security here?” she asked, glancing at the mechanized barricade. It took an I.D. card to raise it.

“They’ve never had any trouble,” he replied. “If the system is tampered with in any way, the private security firm is out here in ten minutes.”

“Any tampering recently?”

“Negative. Sometimes the local kids stick chewing gum in the card slot for kicks. The Point’s one of their after-dark hangouts. They like to get high out here. I periodically chase them away. But it’s been quiet lately.”

“Anyone besides the residents have an I.D. card?”

“Just Tuck Weems, the caretaker. No one else, Lieutenant. Not even the postman—they pick up their mail at the post office. Although I should point out the tidal situation to you. Right now it’s in, and the water’s plenty deep and treacherous, as you can see …”

She glanced over the wooden railing at the water. It was swirling and foaming on the rocks. Treacherous was right.

“But at low tide,” he continued, “it’s possible to
walk
out to Big Sister. If someone’s on foot there’s no stopping him. Except there’s been no trouble with prowlers for quite a few years. For one thing, whatever they steal they have to lug all the way back to shore with them, on foot, over very slippery rocks. For another, those houses have an awful lot of big windows. You can’t exactly sneak up on the place.”

“You’re saying an outsider didn’t do this, correct?”

Bliss glanced at her uneasily. “In my opinion, it’s highly unlikely we are dealing with a career criminal here. I’d say he was killed by someone he knew. Either someone he buzzed in or a fellow islander—although I must tell you I find the latter possibility extremely hard to imagine. I’ve known these folks my whole life.”

They started their way across the causeway toward the island. It got damper and colder the farther out they got. Des was sorry she had not thought to bring a sweater. Power lines straddled the narrow wooden bridge, she observed. Connecticut Light and Power did not string lines out to private islands for just anyone.

“You’d better tell me about them,” she said, shivering.

“Dolly Seymour is a Peck,” he said with obvious pride. “As in Peck Point. We are talking about the bluest of the bluebloods, Lieutenant. A true lady. Although I suppose that’s considered something of a pejorative term nowadays.”

“Not by me it isn’t,” Des said, wondering how long it would be before she felt the hot breath of Captain Polito down the back of her neck. Not long at all.

“The word around town,” Bliss continued, “was that Niles left Dolly a Dear John letter, cleaned out their accounts and took off for the Virgin Islands—leaving a whole lot of bad feelings behind.”

“The other woman’s name?”

“No one seems to have any idea. She wasn’t a local girl.”

“Who found his body?”

“The tenant of Dolly’s carriage house, Mitch Berger. He and Dolly’s sister-in-law, Bitsy Peck. They were digging up the garden when they encountered it. She was able to recognize him.”

“I’ll be needing a complete list of who lives out here,” Des said to Bliss.

“I can give you that right now. Bitsy and Dolly’s brother, Redfield, live in the summer cottage. Dolly’s ex-husband, Bud Havenhurst, lives in the guest cottage with his new wife, Mandy. He got the house as a settlement after Dolly left him for Niles. And their son, Evan, lives in the lighthouse-keeper’s house with his companion, Jamie Devers. Jamie’s one of our local celebrities, but he keeps a pretty low profile.”

She frowned at him. “Jamie Devers?”

“He was a big television star back in the fifties—
Just Blame Bucky.”
On her blank stare he said, “Before your time, I guess … God, I’m getting old.”

“It doesn’t show one bit,” she assured him. “You are still a fine-looking gentleman.”

“Forget it,” he snapped, instantly on alert. “I won’t take another one.”

“But they’re so much happier when they have company.”

“Dirty Harry is plenty happy,” he insisted, smiling at her faintly. “In fact, given the choice, I’d trade places with him in a second.”

They had crossed the bridge and were out on the island now. It was perfectly, incredibly lovely—Des could imagine someone like Martha Stewart belonging here. She could not imagine herself or anyone she had ever known living in such a place.

A trio of blue and white Major Crime Squad cube vans were parked in the gravel driveway outside of the big yellow house. A dozen crime scene technicians in dark blue windbreakers and light blue latex gloves were already on the job. They were top-shelf people. And prepared for anything—each cube van came fully equipped with all fifty-two items of gear recommended in the guidelines drawn up by the National Medicolegal Review Panel in the wake of the O.J. case. Prior to that, unbelievably, no unified system of on-site death investigation had existed among the nation’s three thousand jurisdictions. Some of the items, like bodybags, were obvious. Others, like insect repellant, were less so.

The vegetable patch was behind an old barn. Soave was there, muscles bulging inside his shiny black suit. The technicians were there. And the body of Niles Seymour was there. It was not a pretty sight or smell. Saponification had begun, his fatty tissues reacting with the salts in the soil and turning to a soapy consistency. Bloating had caused the pressure points in the skin to split open, his eyes and tongue to bulge. His clothing was rotting away from his flesh.

Crime scene photos were being taken. Des would need extra copies of these. She would need to sketch this.

“He was shot twice, loot,” Soave informed her, carefully smoothing his see-through moustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Chest and neck.”

“The slugs still in him?” she asked, feeling her stomach muscles tighten involuntarily. She had a hot, bilious taste in the back of her throat.

“The one in his chest is.”

“This the primary scene?”

Soave shook his head. “There’s not enough blood under him. Man was already dead when he was buried here.”

“Do we have a line on the primary scene?”

“Not yet,” Soave grunted. “And this one’s a mess—the gardeners tromped all over it.”

Nonetheless, a forensic archaeologist was launching a dig. He and his assistants skimming off thin layers of moist dirt. Carefully sifting it for evidence. Depositing it on drop cloths. It was no different from a historic dig. Except that in this case the history was very recent. And living.

Meanwhile, a forensic entomologist was collecting samples of the insects and egg masses that had colonized Niles Seymour’s decaying corpse. The body could not be removed until he was done. The extent of insect development—along with the soil temperature, amount of moisture in the soil and the state of the victim’s decomposition—would tell them approximately how long Niles Seymour had been down there. The type of insects might also help them determine the location of the primary crime scene.

Des had seen enough. She motioned for Soave to join her. The two of them and Bliss moved back toward the driveway.

“Tenant also smeared his muddy prints all over the spade and fork he found in the barn,” Soave mentioned sourly. “That don’t look too promising neither.”

“Any of the islanders own guns?” she asked Resident Trooper Bliss.

“Red hunts a little,” he replied, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “Jamie keeps a pistol for protection, I believe.”

“Rico, I want uniformed troopers to search every house out here for weapons,” she said, knowing perfectly well that the odds of the murder weapon being around were slim to none. But she had to look. She couldn’t
not
look. “Make sure you get permission first. If you don’t get permission, then—”

“We have to get a warrant,” he broke in, a defensive edge to his voice. “I
know
that, loot.”

She knew that he knew it. She also knew that it was her responsibility to remind him anyway. She was the ranking officer on the scene. If she failed to remind him, and the chain of evidence was compromised because of it, it would be her fault.
Be accountable.
If there was one thing the Deacon had drummed into her, it was this. “Have them search every outbuilding and shed, under every rock. Then meet me back here. We got to take statements from the family.”

“Right.” Soave went heading off, his arms held stiffly out to his sides in the classic bodybuilder’s strut.

“Is that deluxe conference room at town hall still available?” Des asked Trooper Bliss. It had been her command center for three days and nights after the Salisbury killing. She could still remember the smell of the place—musty carpeting, moth balls and Ben-Gay.

“It is,” he affirmed. “I’ll see that they’re ready for you. How else may I be of assistance?”

“You can tell me who else besides his wife had it in for Niles Seymour.”

“Everyone,” Bliss replied bluntly. “Niles was not a popular fellow.”

“Any blue chip prospects?”

Bliss took off his wide-brimmed hat and examined it carefully for a long moment. “Tuck Weems,” he said, running a big brown hand over his bristly gray crew-cut. “He accused Niles of roughing Dolly up a couple of months back when he found some bruises on her arms. He, well, threatened to kill Niles. I got involved at that point. Cooled things down—at least I thought I had. She declined to file any charges against Niles. Assured me there was no need to worry, that the two of them were working things out. Dolly and Tuck, they were tight when they were kids. He grew up out here. Tuck’s not a bad fellow. Just has a slight problem with authority. And more than his share of personal demons. His father killed his mother and himself when Tuck was in ’Nam. Happened out here, in the carriage house. And it was Dolly who found them.” He glanced over at the big yellow house, his face a grim mask. “So, you see, this is not the first time there’s been a violent death out here.”