The Hot Pink Farmhouse Page 12

“My father hates the media. This is just about his worst nightmare. Can you post someone at the road to keep them away?”

  Des promised her she’d get right on it. Then she started up her cruiser and headed back toward the crime scene, watching Takai Frye in the rearview mirror as she sashayed back inside in the house, hips swinging in her slinky dressing gown. Even in her grief she’d had her claws out. Inflicting pain was what she thrived on.

  Inflicting pain was Takai Frye’s oxygen.

  The Hartford and New Haven television news choppers were circling overhead now as the Emergency Services people combed the scene in their navy-blue windbreakers and baby-blue latex gloves. The Bomb Squad crime scene technicians were on hand, too. There were so many cube vans clustered together out there in the field beyond the feed trough that it looked as if the traveling circus were in town.

  As Des pulled her cruiser alongside them, an unmarked slicktop with two plainclothesmen in it drew up next to her—and out popped the absolute last person in the world she wanted to see right now.

  Back when she was a lieutenant on the Major Crime Squad, Des had been saddled with a petulant, muscle-bound little weasel of a sergeant named Rico “Soave” Tedone. He’d picked up his nickname from a Latino rap song by Gerardo that had briefly been a hit back when he was in the academy. Soave belonged to the so-called Waterbury Mafia, a tight-knit clan of Italian-American males from the Brass City who formed an elite inner circle within the state police. Most of them were related to one another—Soave was their deputy commander’s kid brother, in fact. And he was, she’d come quickly to realize, someone who was trying desperately to outgrow being that kid brother. He pumped so much iron he looked positively reptilian. Grew a scraggly, see-through mustache that he thought made him look more mature. Dressed in sober black suits to lend himself an air of gravity. But none of it worked. He was a twerp. And their partnership had not been a success. He wasn’t bad at his job, but he was immature and insensitive, not to mention extremely prickly about criticism. He had never reported to a woman before, and he couldn’t deal with it. But he belonged to the Waterbury crew, and Des did not, and when things had gotten tight, he had stabbed her in the front. Now she was here, wearing a uni, and he was the lieutenant in charge of this investigation. And Des was not looking forward to this. No, not at all.

  “Morning, Des,” he said to her, sniffing at the air. “Smells like the parking lot at the Sizzler’s out on the Newington Turnpike, am I right, Tommy?”

  His sergeant promptly let out a reflexive hunh-hunh-hunh of a laugh. “Dead on, Soave.”

  “Nice to see you again, Rico,” Des said politely.

  “Back at you,” Soave said, flexing his bulked-up shoulders, which was something he did when he was ill at ease. “Sergeant Tommy Salcineto, give it up for Master Sergeant Des Mitry. Tommy’s my little cousin.” Another Waterbury boy. “Known him since he was, like, three.”

  “Glad to know you,” said Tommy, eyeballing her up and down. Clearly, Soave had bragged on her frame in the car on the way down. Tommy was younger, taller and decidedly dimmer than Soave. His eyes, which were just a bit too close together, seemed permanently set in a confused squint. He dressed just like Soave, wore his hair just like Soave and hung on Soave’s every word.

  All of which sent the little man off on an ego trip that he clearly relished. Christ, if the kid had breasts, Soave would have married him.

  “So what have we got here, Des?” Soave asked her as they made their way across the field toward the wreckage of the Porsche. The all-clear had been issued—there was no evidence of any undetonated devices.

  She told him that the victim was very likely one Mary Susan Frye, age thirty-two. That the car belonged to her sister, Takai. That she had just been to the house and discovered Takai was home and her sister, who had borrowed the car, had been out all night.

  “Out where?” Soave demanded gruffly. This was him acting take charge for Tommy’s benefit. He even had his chin stuck out.

  “She was visiting a man. Identity unknown.”

  “Maybe she ran into one of these cows in the dark,” Tommy said. “You think?”

  Soave went around to the front of the car for a look. “I don’t think so, T-man. The front end isn’t crunched. Any skid marks, Des?”

  “None,” Des responded. “Assuming the victim was on her way home, she would have come to a stop at the crossroads, then made a left and gone down that road toward the river. The assistant fire chief heard three explosions. He thought the first two might have been gunshots.”

  “Tommy, better have some uniforms canvass the neighbors,” Soave ordered him. “Find out what they heard.”

  Tommy headed off to take care of it. Up above, the choppers were still circling.

  “Anything else I ought to know?” Soave asked her.

  “The victim’s father is Wendell Frye, probably the greatest living sculptor in America. Also a major-league recluse.”

  Soave considered this, stroking his see-through mustache. “He got deep pockets?”

  “I imagine so, yes.”

  “Any chance this is a money-related thing? A kidnapping gone bad, say?”

  “Nothing should be ruled out at this point.”

  “Gee, thanks, I’ll remember that,” Soave said, bristling. Clearly, he felt she was lecturing him.

  Des let it slide. “I’ve told the family a DNA test may be necessary to confirm Moose’s identity—that’s what they called her, by the way. If there’s any way I can assist you from the local level, just let me know.”

  A photographer was snapping pictures of the remains from as many angles as possible. Until he was done, Moose could not be removed to the medical examiner’s office in Farmington. Des noticed that there was a strange, uncharacteristic hush among the technicians as they worked. It was the smell. It was all of the innocent animals that had died.

  Soave was studying her curiously. “You’re not enjoying this, are you?”

  “I never enjoy a death, Rico.”

  “No, I mean the fact that I’m in charge now.”

  She let that slide, too.

  “You know what I keep saying to myself?”

  “Rico, I honestly can’t imagine.”

  “I keep thinking you’re the smartest woman I ever met. But tell me this: If you’re so smart, how come you ended up back in a Smokey hat?”

  “Priorities change,” she answered.

  He shook his head at her. “I don’t get it.”

  “Not many people do.”

  “Are you telling me you’re happy here?”

  “I am.”

  He started flexing his shoulders again. Something was still on his mind. “Look, maybe we better stake out some ground rules—any information you gather on this case I want funneled through me. Are we clear on that?”

  “Of course we are, Rico,” responded Des, who knew exactly what was going on. He felt threatened by her presence here. He was, after all, a man. “Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do. You want community liaison help, it’s yours. You want a command center at town hall, it’s yours. Otherwise, I’m in my ride and out of here. It’s your case. I’m not looking to climb you.”

  He peered at her doubtfully. “You’re not looking to get back in?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “You’re being incredibly mature about this whole thing, you know that?”

  “Yeah, I’m all grown up.” Des glanced at her watch. She was due at Center School for traffic detail. “I’m going to take off now if you don’t need me.”

  “Did you check out her gas tank?” he asked offhandedly, stopping her.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Want to have a look?”

  She frowned at him. One minute he was creased, the next he was fishing for help. “Do you want me to?”

  “Sure, if you’d like.” Again, very offhanded. “I’m just saying I’ve got no problem with that. Unless you’ve got somewhere else you have to be . . .”

 
; “Okay, let’s have a look,” she said, because the truth was that she was very interested in the condition of the Porsche’s gas tank.

  Lab tests would confirm if there had been a bomb—the device would leave nitrate or chlorate residue behind. But Des could tell it with her own two eyes—by the fracture pattern on the gas tank. A bomb explodes outside the tank, setting off a second explosion inside the tank. If, on the other hand, an explosion has been caused by a bullet piercing the gas tank, then it’s the other way around—the tank explodes from the inside out. Entirely different distortion and bending of the metal.

  As Des knelt there, examining the Porsche’s gas tank, she had no doubt about what had happened.

  Neither did Soave. “I got me a shooter, Des,” he declared, as Tommy rejoined them.

  “That you do, Rico,” she agreed, shoving her hornrimmed glasses back up her nose.

  He had Tommy round up a dozen men to undertake a search for the spent bullet by fanning out in five-foot intervals around the wreckage. It was slow, painstaking work, but that was how you did things. And they might find it. Not that they’d be able to match it to a specific weapon—it would be too distorted from the explosion to do them much good in terms of ballistics. But maybe they could determine the class of weapon.

  “Could be somebody was tailing her, Des,” Soave said. “Got off a couple of pops when she came to a stop here at the crossroads, then hightailed it out of here. You think?”

  Des found herself gazing around at the surrounding countryside in search of a shooter’s blind, Soave’s eyes following hers. From the open field where they stood she could make out a spot of high ground in the woods across the road, in the general direction of Wendell Frye’s farm. There was a natural rise there, with an outcropping of bare rock that was partly shielded from the road by trees. “Unless he was waiting up there for her to come home,” she countered. “Less risk that way. If he tailed her, somebody might spot him.”

  “Yo, Tom-meeee!” Rico hollered to his cousin, who was helping the uniforms search for the bullet. “Take a couple of men up to that outcropping across the road! See if you find any fresh shoe prints or anything like that. Be ultra careful, okay? The ground’s damp.”

  “You got it!” Tommy obediently grabbed two troopers and started off with them across the road.

  “What a big doofus,” Soave grumbled sourly. “I have to tell him everything. And then I have to give him a cookie when he does good. He’s not a man, he’s dog. Was I ever that dumb? Wait, don’t answer that . . . You don’t mind sticking around for a little while, do you?”

  “I don’t mind.” Des radioed the barracks to request an available trooper to handle the school traffic. Then she rejoined Soave, who was watching the medical examiner’s men bag and tag Moose’s remains.

  Pictures. I will definitely need pictures of this.

  “How’s the jungle, Rico?”

  “Same.”

  “And your girl—what’s her name, Tammy?”

  “Close, it’s Tawny.” She was a manicurist in New Britain. Enjoyed an IQ roughly equal to that of a muskmelon. “What about her?”

  “How long have you two been seeing each other now?”

  “Uh, since high school.”

  “Which makes it how many years?”

  “Nine, I guess. So what?”

  “Damn, Rico, you belong on ‘Jerry Springer’ or something.” One thing hadn’t changed—with Soave, Des grabbed her pleasure where she could. “What is wrong with that girl? Is she a doormat or is she just plain comatose?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said irritably. “What’s the big deal?”

  “You ought to be marrying her, that’s what. Settle down and have yourself some little Tedones.”

  He made a face. “No offense, Des, but I liked you a whole lot better when you were just trying to stick me with a cat.”

  “No offense taken. But, hey, if you’re really in the market for another kitten—”

  “I’m not,” he snapped. “Believe me, I’m not.”

  “Yo, Swa-vayyyy!” Tommy was calling to him now from the woods across the road, waving both arms excitedly in the air. “Yo! Yo!”

  They started across the road toward him, crashing through the fallen leaves as they hiked over the rugged terrain. What they found when they reached the rock outcropping was Tommy and the two uniforms crouched in a semicircle around a spent cartridge. It lay on the ground underneath a mountain laurel.

  “Looks like you figured right again, Soave,” Tommy said eagerly. At least Des knew what to get the kid for Christmas now—a nice set of knee pads. “Must be he couldn’t find it in the dark.”

  “Didn’t want to risk hanging around,” Soave concurred.

  “We’ve got shoe prints, too,” Tommy added. “Also a cigarette butt—the old-fashioned kind, without a filter.”

  “Nice going, T-man,” Soave said to him warmly. Cookie time.

  As for Des, she found herself puzzled. Because you did not leave a butt behind. Not if you were the least bit careful. She knelt down for a closer look at the cartridge. It was no ordinary one. It was a good six inches long. “Damn, I haven’t seen one of these puppies since Kuwait,” she said, Tommy’s eyes widening at her in surprise. Evidently Soave had neglected to mention that she had game. “This explains what Tim Keefe said to me.”

  “Which was what?” Soave growled. Now he was irritated by her presence.

  She should just go. So why didn’t she? “That it sounded like the mother of all shotguns,” she replied. “What he heard was a Fifty-Cal Pal.” Formally known as a Barrett .50-caliber long-range semiautomatic sniper rifle. The Barrett had been designed by the military for taking out enemy tanks and bunkers. It only weighed about thirty pounds, but had staggering power and range—its armor-piercing bullet could go through a manhole cover from a half mile away. “Pretty much weapon of choice among your wackos,” she added, getting up out of her crouch. “Tim McVeigh owned him a pair.”

  And someone in bucolic Dorset had one, too. Not that Soave would have an easy time finding out who. It was easier to buy a Barrett at a gun show than it was a handgun. All you had to prove was that you were eighteen and had no felony convictions. There was no waiting period, and nothing to stop you from passing it on to someone else. The ammunition was a bit harder to come by, but not much. All of which was crazy, in her opinion. But this was Soave’s crime scene, and she was not there to offer her opinions. So she kept them to herself as she stood there, inhaling the crisp morning air. It didn’t smell of grilled meat up here.

  “He was waiting here for her, Tommy,” Soave said, gazing down at the road from their rocky perch. The view from up here was unobstructed. Also panoramic—the shooter could have seen the red Porsche coming from a mile away. “He planned this whole thing out in advance. Man knows how to shoot, too. What are we talking from here, two hundred yards?”

  “Easy,” Tommy said.

  “Des, you’d better set up that command center for me at town hall, okay?”

  “Be happy to.”

  “And I want you with us when we meet the family. Is there any kind of local angle you can give us? Any idea who might have wanted Moose Frye dead?”

  “All I can tell you is how her sister Takai reads it,” Des replied. “That someone was after her and got Moose by mistake—just Moose’s bad luck that she picked last night to borrow her sister’s car. Takai’s afraid for her life, Rico. She thinks somebody still wants her dead.”

  Soave stood there smoothing his see-through mustache. He did that a lot. Tawny must have told him it made him look serious. “Any idea who?”

  “Offhand, I’d have to say just about anyone who’s ever met her.”

  “Okay, now I’m not following you,” he said, scowling.

  Des flashed a mega-wattage smile at him. “Not to worry, wow man. You will.”

  Des thought Soave was going to flex himself right into a coma when he got his first look at Takai Frye.

&nbs
p; The little man huffed and he puffed as he strutted around the Fryes’s living room, his chest stuck out and his muscles bulging. He was positively desperate to show Takai how in command he was. Takai was exactly the sort of tall, cool rich girl he was always trying to impress. She had put on a pale-green silk dress and high-heeled sandals. Her manner was subdued as she stood before the windows, her slender arms folded before her. She appeared to be in control of her emotions now. She also appeared to be oblivious to Soave and his preening.

  The living room remained cold and gloomy, despite the fire roaring in the fireplace. Hangtown, who still wore his nightshirt and long johns, sat slumped in a leather wingback chair, staring with heavy sadness at the flames. The old man seemed to have aged five years in the hour since Des had been there. His eyes were hollow and bloodshot. His vital, madman’s energy seemed to have been snuffed out. Des could not be sure that he even knew they were there.

  Jim Bolan sat in the other leather chair, chain-smoking Lucky Strikes and acting very much like someone who needed to find a drink. Or an AA meeting. His hands shook.

  Soave had left Tommy behind at the crime scene. The uniformed trooper whom he’d brought along stood there in the living room doorway in stolid silence, hands on his hips, as the little man held forth.

  Right now, it was the cartridge that Soave was talking about. “Somebody fired on that Porsche with a Barrett fifty-caliber rifle,” he declared, keeping his voice deep and authoritative. “That’s no Saturday Night Special, folks. Whoever used it knows his way around serious military hardware. If you know of anyone who fits that description—”

  “You can pull over right there, boss.” Jim spoke up in a hoarse, quavering voice. “I do. I was a sniper in ’Nam.”

  Soave stuck his chin out at him. “You own a gun like that, Jim?”

  “I don’t have no use for guns anymore,” Jim replied, tossing his cigarette butt in the fire. “I already did enough killing to last me a lifetime.”

  “I see that you’re a smoker, Jim.”

  Jim shook another Lucky out of his crumpled pack and lit it. “You going to run me in for that?”