David Handler - The shimmering blond sister

“You’re one cold-hearted bitch, know that?”

“If it makes you feel any better to think so go right ahead,” she responded. “Now do we have a deal or do I go knocking on your door?”

“All right, all right,” he growled at her. “You win-this round. But I promise you, Master Sergeant Mitry, if you ever come near my house again I won’t be responsible for my behavior.”

“No offense, Captain, but you crossed that particular bridge a long, long time ago.”

What am I missing?

It kept gnawing at Mitch as he toodled down Dorset Street in his pickup en route to the A amp;P. The something, whatever it was, that he wasn’t seeing. The key to Augie’s murder. The link between Augie’s death and the Dorset Flasher. Because there was a link, he told himself, munching on the last of the four apple-cider doughnuts he’d picked up at McGee’s diner on his way to the market. At a time like this he needed to be fortified by one of his native fat-boy food groups. Well, two actually. Here lay the sheer genius of doughnuts-they counted as both sugar and grease. The Dorset Flasher, he was convinced, was not just some random kid from the neighborhood. This whole mess was linked together somehow. Had to be. Because this was Dorset-ground zero for hidden links that went back God knows how many generations. Like that whopper of a hookup between Beth and Bertha, her grandfather’s one-time tootsie. Therefore, the identity of the Dorset Flasher was critical. Had to be. The Flasher had not indulged in any targeted weenie waving last night, according to Yolie. Not a single sighting of him. Which signified what-that he was dead? That Augie had been the culprit? Or that he was alive and in hiding now?

What am I missing?

Maybe nothing. Maybe he just had a case of Chattering Monkey Brain, as Kimberly called it in yoga class. His head spinning around and around. No outlet for his jumbled thoughts. Nowhere to run with them. He was the only one of them who had no assignment this morning. Des was on her way to Boston to check the tollbooth security cameras for Kenny’s comings and goings. Very was on his way back to New York City to grill Vinnie Brogna. Yolie was preparing to take another crack at Beth, who Very was convinced had been holding out on him. Mitch? He was heading to the supermarket for a half gallon of low-fat milk. And then it was back to his computer to flesh out this week’s column on icebox questions. After he’d filed that he had a mountain of spade work to do on his new film encyclopedia. This was his chosen profession. He wrote about movies. He didn’t solve crimes. Augie’s death was strictly a job for the pros.

What am I missing?

Or maybe he was just shook up from meeting the real Beth after all of these years. The Beth who was a member of the crime family known as the Seven Sisters. The Beth whose first husband, Sy Lapidus, had been in jail for bookmaking back when Mitch befriended Kenny in Stuyvesant Town. The Beth who had been carrying on a ten-year affair with a married mobster. No doubt about it-the first great love of Mitch Berger’s life had never been the woman he’d thought she was. And maybe a man doesn’t just shrug off something like that. Maybe it was hitting home more than he wanted to admit. Same as the Deacon’s impending coronary bypass surgery was. It was body blows like these that made Mitch miss the blissfully clueless innocence of his youth. Before he’d loved and lost Maisie. Before he’d become acutely aware of the pain and pitfalls that lay before him in the years to come-no matter how careful or smart or lucky he might be. Real life in all of its ugly glory. No grand finale. No stirring John Williams musical score. Just a small, quiet fade-out.

Maybe that was it, Mitch reflected, as he eased his old truck through the Historic District. Kids were out enjoying their last week of summer freedom. A couple of giddy thirteen-year-old girls were riding their bicycles. A boy on a skateboard was showing off for them. The girls were pretending they weren’t watching him. As he cruised past the firehouse, Mitch saw the Sidell boys, Phillip and Peter, walking down the street together, the pair of them playing a spirited little game on the sidewalk as they ambled along, chattering away. He honked and waved to them. They looked up and waved back, the pair of them seemingly as happy as could be. Less than eight hours ago Phillip had been screaming in blind terror. And yet now he seemed fine. Bright eyed and carefree as he strolled in the morning sunshine with his younger brother, totally absorbed in their game, smiling and laughing and…

Mitch hit the brakes right there in the middle of Dorset Street, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. Of course! Why hadn’t he seen it before? Why hadn’t any of them? He sat there watching the boys in his rearview mirror, his eyes bulging, head spinning. Then he pulled over and grabbed his cell phone. Des answered on the second ring.

“Listen, how close are you to Boston right now?”

“I had to make a pit stop in Glastonbury. I’m not even in Hartford yet. Why are you asking?”

“How long will it take you to get back here?”

“A half hour. Twenty minutes if I put my cherry on.”

“Put it on, girlfriend.”

“Why, Mitch?”

“Because I need your help. And you’ll want to call Yolie. She needs to be there, okay?”

“Needs to be where? Mitch, what in the hell is going on?”

“I’m about to tell you. But first answer me this: Can you get your hands on a good, sturdy pair of bolt cutters?”

He’d never been inside of their place before.

It was exceedingly formal. A stately grandfather clock ticktocked discreetly just inside of the front door. Oil portraits of dead ancestors hung from the living room walls. The gleaming antique furniture smelled faintly of lemon oil polish.

“What a wonderful surprise, Mitch,” Maddee exclaimed as she led him inside. She wore a floral print summer dress today. And her pearls. And a fresh coating of her alarming magenta lipstick. “Dex will be so pleased to see you.”

“I was out running errands. Hope it’s not too early to pay a social call.”

“Not at all. Dex still keeps Wall Street hours. Once an early riser always an early riser. He’s already done his calisthenics and eaten his breakfast. And Kimberly’s left for her eight o’clock Vinyasa class.” Maddee eyed him critically. “Nonetheless, I’m terribly cross with you.”

“You are? Why is that?”

“You’re empty-handed. Are you honestly telling me you couldn’t find one item of old clothing to pass along to the Nearly New shop?”

“I’m still searching, ma’am.”

“Please keep at it, Mitch. There are people out there who are hurting. They depend on us.”

Dex Farrell was parked at a teak table on the screened-in porch with a cup of coffee and the Wall Street Journal. He wore a crisp white shirt, blue-and-gold bow tie, pressed khaki slacks and white bucks. Maddee had been seated across from him clipping supermarket coupons from the local shoreline weekly newspaper, Mitch gathered. Her coffee cup sat next to a tidy stack of coupons and a small, pointy pair of scissors.

“Why, good morning, Mr. Berger,” Dex said, gazing at him over his rimless eyeglasses.

“Good morning, sir. You suggested I drop by some time for a chat.”

“And here you are. I’m glad. Pull up a chair.”

“Can I get you anything?” Maddee offered as Mitch sat at the table. “Coffee, lemonade?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

“Then I’ll leave you two boys to talk. I have my Meals on Wheels duty this morning.”

“I wish you wouldn’t go just yet, Mrs. Farrell. Can you stay a few minutes? There’s something I wanted to ask you about.”