David Handler - The Blood Red Indian Summer

“Please don’t ever do that again,” Mitch said to her.

“Do what, Mitchell?”

“Mention the Holocaust and this case in the same breath.”

“Before that bastard came along,” Plotka said angrily, “Katie and me were planning a June wedding. I had a good job. I was putting down a deposit on a house in Mineola. Now look at me.”

“I’m trying to,” Mitch responded. “But it’s really hard. That eye patch is just so totally Pirates of the Caribbean. Seriously, all you need is a peg leg and a parrot on your shoulder. Can you say ‘Aaarggh?…’ Can you?”

“Shut the hell up,” Plotka growled at him.

“Andrea, you said this was important?…”

“Yes, it is. We need to talk about what really happened at the Grantham house last night.” She was all business now. “I’ve seen the video of the dust-up between cousin Clarence and that feeble old man. The whole world has. But the whole world doesn’t know why it happened. Or whether Tyrone Grantham was or was not in the middle of it. No one in the family is talking, naturally. And the resident trooper has written it off as a minor misunderstanding.”

“So?…”

“So a little birdie told me that you and she showed up at the front gate together.” Andrea arched a sculpted eyebrow at him. “It’s not exactly a secret around these parts that you two are friends with privileges. I thought you might speak to her on my behalf.”

“And say what?”

“That I’m someone who can help her if she’ll help me. All I’m asking for is a little cooperation.”

“You mean information.”

“I’ve done my homework, Mitchell. I know that Desiree Mitry wasn’t always a lowly resident trooper. A high-profile case such as this one could put her career right back on the fast track. The limelight has a way of doing that.”

“A bit of advice, counselor. That argument didn’t work when Robert Vaughn tried it on Steve McQueen in Bullitt and it won’t work now with you and Resident Trooper Mitry. Besides, you’re no Robert Vaughn.”

“Okay, I have no idea what you just said.”

“And you never will. How cool is that?”

“I need someone on the inside, Mitchell.”

“Sorry, I can’t help you.”

“You can’t or you won’t?”

“Okay, I won’t.”

“Fair enough,” she said easily. “But it might interest you to know that we intend to produce irrefutable evidence this afternoon.”

“Evidence of?…”

“Direct, intimate sexual contact between Katie O’Brien and Tyrone Grantham. We’ll be holding a press conference outside his gate in a short while. I’m timing it so that ESPN can make it their top story on NFL Live.” Andrea Halperin smiled at him savagely. “Stay tuned, Mitchell. This is about to get extremely down and dirty.”

“It’s good to see you again, Miss Thing.”

“Right back at you, Lieutenant Snipes.”

“Cut that Lieutenant bull.”

“I’m so proud of you, Yolie.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you, girl.”

“Yes, you could. And you did.”

Des and Detective Lieutenant Yolanda Snipes of the Major Crime Squad were catching up outside the entrance to Middlesex Hospital while Yolie’s sergeant parked their car. They’d shown up there at Des’s request from the Central District headquarters in Meriden. It was not an official request. It was Des reaching out to a friend who happened to be so smart, tough and good that she’d finally blasted her way through the concrete ceiling and made lieutenant. Her promotion, as Des saw it, was way overdue. But it hadn’t been easy for Yolie Snipes. She was half-black, half-Cuban and all pit bull-an intimidating, fearless hard-charger who did not play well with others. She stood five-foot-nine barefoot and was into power lifting. The sleeveless knit top she had on showed off her tattooed guns.

“How’s the Deacon doing?” she asked Des.

“Better every day.” Which was entirely true… from the neck down.

“And your boy, Mitch?”

“Actually, he’s the reason why you’re here. Our sexual assault victim washed up on his island. If she is a victim. That’s up in the air right now.”

“What’s she saying went down?”

“She isn’t saying.”

“Well, who’s the complainant?”

“There isn’t a complainant.”

Yolie looked at Des doubtfully. “Girl…”

“Just hear my thing, okay?”

“No prob, I can do that,” Yolie said as her female sergeant came marching across the parking lot toward them, arms pumping, fists clenched.

They’d given her a pint-sized young brunette to break in. She was a feisty-looking little thing in a shiny black pants suit who had the sort of sculpted big hair that Des thought went out with leg warmers and Pat Benatar. Her boobage was big, too, and she wasn’t shy about displaying it. The top three buttons of her tight red blouse were unbuttoned to reveal cavernous cleavage.

“What’s the deal, Loo?” she demanded, her chin stuck out at them.

“Master Sergeant Des Mitry, kindly give it up for Sergeant Toni Tedone,” Yolie said with a grin on her face. “She’s Rico’s younger cousin.”

Des’s eyes widened. “No way.”

“Totally way,” Yolie said, nodding.

Rico “Soave” Tedone had been Des’s semi-bright weasel of a sergeant back when she was a homicide lieutenant on Major Crimes. Until, that is, she blew up her career-with a not-so-generous assist from Rico-and got demoted to resident trooper. When Rico made lieutenant he was assigned Sergeant Yolie Snipes. Now Yolie was a lieutenant and Rico was living large on the state’s Organized Crime Task Force, strictly because he was a Tedone and therefore hard-wired into the Waterbury Mafia-the Italian-American clan of brothers, uncles, cousins and in-laws who pretty much ran the Connecticut state police. The Brass City boys were a force within the force. And there were so damned many of them that, well, Des supposed it was inevitable one of them would turn out to be a she.

“Rico is all up in my face about you,” Toni informed Des. “I’m supposed to watch how you walk, talk, work the room. I was, like, do I have to follow her into the bathroom and watch how she takes a crap, too? And he’s, like, just pay attention, okay? And I’m, like, you think I suffer from A.D.D. or something? And he’s like, whatever.”

Des waited for her to come up for air. She was definitely a Tedone-raring to go, chippy, knew it all. “Pleased to meet you, Toni. How long have you two ladies been partnered up?”

Yolie glanced at her watch. “Two days, three hours and seventeen minutes. So who’ve we got here, girl?”

“A sweet, innocent, eighteen-year-old girl named Kinitra Jameson.”

“No one who’s eighteen is innocent,” Toni shot back. “Trust me, I went to Catholic schools my whole life.”

“Kinitra washed up on Big Sister early this morning in her underwear, half drowned. She had bruises around her throat and wrists and she was terrified. She’s a talented young singer who’s been living in one of the waterfront mansions on Turkey Neck with her big sister Jamella-who is married to Tyrone Grantham.”

Yolie’s eyes widened. “Okay, this just got a lot more interesting.”

“Tyrone’s cousin, Clarence, threw a big party at the mansion last night. Kinitra claims she got high on wine and weed, took herself a midnight dip and accidentally got swept up in the river current. But her doctor at Shoreline Clinic found no trace of alcohol or drugs in her blood. The rape kit results were negative but the doctor did find scarring from repeated, forcible vaginal and anal penetration. Kinitra’s also eight weeks pregnant. Jamella went nuts when she found out. Says the girl’s never had so much as a boyfriend.”