The Sweet Golden Parachute Read online

  “What about a disreputable dealer?”

  “Well, here’s where it gets interesting. The Feds landed hard last year on an operation that was cherry-picking high-end vehicles from Gold Coast towns up and down the I-95 corridor between New York and Boston. They paid low-level hoods a flat fee—maybe five grand—to deliver the ride to a nearby locale, where they’d whisk it into a big rig. The truck would then transport it to a container ship docked in New York. Within twenty-four hours, the ship’s on its way to Saudi Arabia, loaded to the gills with rare, valuable sports cars. Those royal boys love their toys, and they don’t care how they come by ’em. A black market Gullwing like Poochie’s will fetch a cool million in cash over there. And did I mention that an unmarked tractor-trailer was spotted in the commuter parking lot early this morning?”

  “I thought you said the Feds shut that operation down.”

  “Doesn’t mean someone else hasn’t taken their place. Yolie’s man is sure someone has. There’s been an uptick of thefts lately. And there’s never a shortage of raggies looking to make a quick buck. Speaking of which, Rico reached out to the guard at Enfield Correctional who was in charge of Stevie and Donnie’s cell block. The guard says they pretty much kept to themselves. Doesn’t mean they didn’t hook up with a guy while they were in. The guards don’t see everything. But hey…” She closed her notepad, raising her chin at him. “Enough about my job. You wanted to talk to me about something.”

  “I did. I do.” Mitch drained his coffee and sat back. “But this has to stay between us. Strictly off the record, okay?”

  “Okay…”

  “Hypothetically speaking, what are the legal obligations of someone who might be in possession of information regarding adult males having sex with a teenaged girl without her consent?”

  Des regarded him with cool, professional detachment now. “How old a girl are we talking about?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “A girl that young it’s statutory rape even with her consent. Does this hypothetical girl want to reach out to the law?”

  “Not necessarily. In fact, I’d say no.”

  “Then I mustn’t know her identity—not even off the record. I’d be legally obligated to pursue a criminal investigation. And you should be aware that in Connecticut we have a Mandatory Reporting Statute. If a teacher or coach gets wind of this type of situation then he or she is obligated to pass the information on. The statute extends to any adult who’s serving in an advisory role. A tutor, even a mentor.”

  By invoking the m-word Des was signaling that she had a pretty fair idea where he was skating, and that the ice was not safe. “Even if she’s an adult now?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m still obligated to investigate.”

  “Okay, but here’s the truly strange part. There’s a decent chance that she made it all up.”

  “Why would she want to do that?”

  “I really can’t go into the specifics.”

  “What makes you even think it?”

  “Because she’s presently in a long-term relationship with a man who insists it never happened. He’s quite vehement. I just don’t know if I believe him. He’s got a temper, Des. I’m concerned he might go after someone.”

  “Such as who?”

  “Once I tell you that we’re past the point of no return.”

  Des puffed out her cheeks, exasperated. “Mitch, I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all. If someone gets hurt, then it’s on you.”

  “I know that, and I promise I’ll tell you everything just as soon as I can. Give me today, okay?”

  She stared at him hard. “Okay,” she allowed, signaling for the check.

  “One sec!” called out Allison, who was topping off the four geezers’ cups for about the eleventh time.

  As they sat there waiting for her, Des impulsively reached over and put her hand on top of Mitch’s, squeezing it.

  He glanced down in surprise. “Master Sergeant, are you aware that your uncommonly delectable fingers are in direct, public contact with mine own?”

  “I am,” she replied, her eyes twinkling at him.

  “Here we go, folks…”As Allison put their check down on the table her gaze fell on their hands locked together there. And lingered a second before she added, “Have a good one.” Then she scuffed back toward the kitchen.

  “Why, you sly vixen,” Mitch said, beaming at Des across the table. “You’re feeding the village gossip mill, aren’t you?”

  “Just playing the game according to house rules,” she said, pulling her hand away. “I’m out of here. Have to go canvass the bottle return centers to see if anyone brought in an unusually large load this morning.”

  “Oh, is that right?…”

  Des narrowed her gaze at him. “Do you know something?”

  “Let me put it to you this way—you’re about to be reminded, yet again, why I’m what’s known on Wall Street as a blue chip investment. I pay dividends.”

  “Mitch, tell me what you know right now or I swear I’ll rearrange your facial features with that ketchup bottle.”

  So he told her.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE PLACE ON WHIPPERWILL Road that Milo Kershaw was demolishing wasn’t hard to find. It was the one that looked as if it had just taken a direct hit from a Texas twister. The walls were standing, but its roof, roof joists and ceilings had vanished, along with the windows and front door. It reminded Des of extreme storm footage that she’d seen on the Weather Channel, which was the only channel Mitch kept his television tuned to anymore. If her doughboy wasn’t watching an old black-and-white movie then he was glued to Jim Cantore. The fact that she found this trait endearing—as opposed to crashingly boring—was just another measure of how into Mitch she was. Although she could have sworn that he and Allison Mapes had been vibing at McGee’s. Unless it was just her own paranoia. After all, Mitch was not Brandon. Mitch would never two-time her. Mitch was true blue, wasn’t he?

  Well, wasn’t he?

  The house was sided with cedar shingles. Milo was stripping them off and loading them into his truck, which was parked on the lawn right about where you’d expect to find a rental Dump-ster. No such Dumpster for Milo Kershaw. Dumpsters cost money. The little man worked alone and was salvaging pretty much everything he could crowbar out of the place. The kitchen sink and cabinets were piled on a tarp next to the truck, along with a heap of lumber and copper pipes. His snarly Doberman was tied up to a tree, standing guard over these secondhand treasures.

  When he saw Des pull up and get out, Milo muttered sourly under his breath and kept right on prying the cedar shingles loose. The dog barked at her furiously. Milo hollered at it to shut up. It obeyed him, cowering.

  “Taking her down to the ground?” she asked him, looking the place over.

  Milo waited a long moment before he answered her. When he did, his voice was low and hostile. “I got me a demolition permit. It’s posted right there next the doorway, signed and legal.”

  “Not why I’m here, Mr. Kershaw.”

  He paused from his labors now, his jaw clenching. “I’m trying to do an honest day’s work, lady. Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  “I enjoy our little chats so much that I just can’t help myself. You’re like a tonic, Mr. Kershaw.”

  He kept working on the shingles. His hand on the pry bar was deeply scratched, oozing blood.

  “I’ve got a first aid kit in my cruiser. Be happy to slap a butterfly on that.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Mr. Kershaw, we need to talk about those returnables you took to the market this morning.”

  “So your fat boyfriend ran and told you, hunh?”

  “He’s not fat, he’s thick.” And that wasn’t all Mitch had told her. He’d also shared that Milo had gone racial on him. “Besides, this has nothing to with Mitch Berger. I stopped at the A&P in the routine course of my investigation. You were there, Mr. Kershaw. The returns machine gave you a printout that you redeemed fo
r cash at the courtesy desk.”

  “Courtesy my eye. Nastiest bunch of people I ever seen.”

  “That very nice lady on the desk commented on your own sunny disposition. Described you right down to that duct tape on your vest, too. She checked her register tape for me. At 9:53 A.M. you collected on $23.20 worth of returnables.”

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “I was wondering how you came by them.”

  “Saved ’em up.”

  “Is that so? Then how come Justine was so surprised that you had them?”

  “She don’t know everything about me,” Milo replied, peering at her shrewdly. “You did talk to Berger. I knew it.”

  “What makes you think it wasn’t Justine?”

  “Because I brought her up to spit at the law, same as my boys.”

  “And we know you did a good job with them.”

  “You got no cause to get snippy with me, young lady.”

  “Mr. Kershaw, we couldn’t find a trace of Pete’s haul at the murder scene. Somebody took off with it.”

  Milo shook his head at her disgustedly. “You really think I’m fool enough to kill that old bum for a lousy twenty-three bucks?”

  “Poochie’s Mercedes is worth a lot more than that.”

  “Don’t know nothing about it.”

  “Okay, then let’s try this on for size. Let’s say you were driving past Four Chimneys this morning, spotted the stuff lying there by the side of the road and helped yourself. Is that how it went down?”

  Milo didn’t answer. Just kept on working in surly silence.

  “If it is, I won’t come down on you for it, Mr. Kershaw. All we’re interested in is who killed Pete Mosher.”

  “Mosher? Where’d you come by that name?”

  “Why, does it mean something to you?”

  “Not a damned thing. Just never knew it is all.”

  “But you knew Pete. Doug Garvey told me you three were pals back when you were kids.”

  “He lived with them do-gooder schoolteachers for a while. Miller was their name. She always hated me.”

  “Pete’s body wasn’t visible from the road, Mr. Kershaw. It’s totally credible that someone stopped to liberate his load and didn’t see him lying there. If that’s how you came by it then you’ll be doing us a huge solid if you just say so.”

  Milo grimaced at her. “Lady, I been through the system, remember? If I admit to that, then I’ve placed myself at the murder scene. Not a chance. I’m not the village idiot. And I’m done answering questions. I got work to do, so just shove off.”

  “Mr. Kershaw, I still have a few more questions. And if you don’t cooperate then I’ll have to take you in.”

  “You and who else?”

  “I won’t require any backup.”

  “You try mixing it up with me and you’ll be seeing me in your nightmares until you’re old and gray.”

  Des treated him to her sweetest smile. “If you want to find out who has the bigger cojones we can go around back of the house and throw down right now.”

  “Sure, you with a gun on your hip. I lay one finger on you you’ll shoot me dead and call it self-defense.”

  “Fine, I’ll take it off.” Des took off her entire belt, actually. Removed her holstered SIG Sauer from it and set it on the hood of Milo’s truck along with her pager. She stood there holding the belt by its buckle. It was a wide belt made of rugged black bridle leather. “Now we’re even,” she said, snapping it in the air like a whip. “Unless, that is, you’re afraid to get it on with an unarmed afro-disiac.”

  “You stay away from me,” he ordered her.

  “Or what, you’ll call a cop?” She moved steadily toward him. “Or maybe you’d like to take off your own belt and try whipping me.”

  Milo backed away from her, glowering fiercely.

  She kept on coming. “Still whaling on your boys in the woodshed?”

  “Those nippleheads needed discipline when they were young, same as I did.”

  “If you ask me, you still need it.” She snapped her belt in the air again, moving in closer.

  His eyes widening, Milo scampered around behind his truck, where he tripped over a piece of lumber and tumbled to the grass. She immediately put her lace-up boot on his chest and pinned him there, the belt dangling loosely from her hand as the Doberman strained against its chain, snarling ferociously.

  “Kids who are treated violently by their parents tend to resolve conflicts violently themselves when they grow up,” she said calmly, the little man squirming around on the grass under her foot. “Considering how you used to beat on Stevie and Donnie, and still enjoy telling them how worthless they are, it makes perfect sense that they’d cross the line with some poor, defenseless soul like Pete.”

  “They had nothing to do with it,” he insisted, his face twisting with fury and indignation.

  Des raised the belt high over her head in a distinctly threatening manner. “What about you?”

  Milo Kershaw had felt the lash himself. He knew how much pain it inflicted. The likes of Des standing over him this way was enough to make him tremble in terror. “I don’t know anything. And you better let me up or I-I’ll file charges against you.”

  “For what? I haven’t laid a finger on you, Mr. Kershaw. We’re just talking. Tell me where those returnables came from.”

  “I found ’em!”

  “Found them where?”

  “None of your damned business is where, bitch!”

  Des used the belt now—savagely whipping the grass less than an inch away from him.

  Milo let out a strangled yelp. “Okay, okay! I found ’em at my place. Somebody dumped ’em there.”

  “When?”

  “How should I know? Besides, how do you even know they’re Pete’s?”

  Milo was right. Des didn’t know for certain if it was Pete’s haul he’d come into. Except that in her heart she did know it. “Where had they been dumped?”

  “Lady, what do you want from me?”

  “The truth!” she roared, whipping the grass next to him a second time.

  “They were at… at the foot of our drive,” he gasped. “Practically ran the damned bags over when I was… I was heading out for work. I deal in building supplies. People drop crap off… I got out for a look, saw they were empties and t-took ’em with me.”

  “What time did you leave for work?”

  “Seven-thirty… maybe,” Milo panted, his chest heaving.

  She eased off a little. She wanted him to talk, not have a heart attack. “And where were your boys at the time?”

  “Won’t… help you put my boys away.”

  “It’s not me you’re helping. It’s them, if you can give them an alibi. Were Stevie and Donnie home by then or weren’t they?”

  “Ain’t… ain’t saying a-a word.” His face contorted as if he were straining mightily. “Whip me, I don’t care.”

  “You can’t be sure, can you? It’s possible that your boys brought Pete’s load home this morning after they killed him. Is that right?”

  “I don’t know who left ’em there! I just… I just told you… I just…” Milo’s eyes flickered and then, suddenly, the resistance went right out of him. He untensed, his breathing returning to normal. Lay there in defeated silence, glaring up at her. Not so much with hate in his eyes. Hate wasn’t what she saw.

  She saw humiliation.

  As Des looped her belt back onto her uniform trousers a sharp, acrid smell tweaked her nostrils. She recognized it instantly but did not acknowledge it. Did not say another word. Just fetched her weapon and pager from the hood of Milo’s truck and started back toward her cruiser, knowing that from this day on whenever she ran into Milo Kershaw he would flee, his eyes avoiding hers.

  She would never forget the look on that nasty little man’s face when he wet his pants.

  CHAPTER 15

  RUT PECK WASN’T DRESSED for company. He had on an ancient, food-stained wool robe, long johns and carpet slippers. St
ill, the old postmaster seemed happy to see Mitch as he led him into the cozy parlor, where a daytime return of Gunsmoke was blaring away on the TV.

  “You’ve stumbled onto my dirty little secret, Mitch,” he confessed as he flicked it off. “I’m a Marshal Dillon man. He treats people with respect. Doesn’t act tough. Just is tough. That’s my idea of a lawman. But I guess I’m dating myself, aren’t I? It’s my idea of aresident trooper. Our Des has a lot of Matt’s quiet confidence.”

  “That she does, Rut.”

  Rut turned up his hearing aids. “What’s that you say?”

  “She knows how to handle herself.”

  “Say, I’m not being much of a host. What can I get you?”

  “Nothing, thanks.” Mitch took his usual seat at the round oak table.

  “Kind of thirsty myself,” Rut said, smacking his dry lips. “Just might pour myself a glass of my stout.”

  “In that case, I just might join you.”

  Rut waddled into the kitchen and opened the fridge. A moment later he returned with two glasses of stout topped with creamy foam. He handed one to Mitch, eased himself slowly into his worn armchair and put his feet up on the footstool. “You come here to lose more money at cards?”

  “I wanted to tell you that Justine’s novel is quite good. I think I can help her get it published.”

  “Hey, that there’s a piece of good news.” Rut took a celebratory sip of stout, studying Mitch over the rim of the glass. “And yet I’m sensing you’re uneasy. What’s on your mind, son? This about you and Des?”

  “It does involve her. It seems her decoder ring is malfunctioning.”

  Rut frowned. “Sorry, you’ll have to trot that by me again.”

  “She’s in the middle of a case that’s giving her trouble. I told her I’d try to help out if I could. I suppose you’ve heard about old Pete?”

  “I have,” Rut confirmed sadly, resting his half-empty glass on his tummy.

  “Rut, how much do you know about him?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “Because you’re more up on local family history than anyone else I know.”

  “I guess I do know a little, being related to so many folks like I am.” Rut scratched at his chin thoughtfully. “What does Des know?”