David Handler - The Blood Red Indian Summer

“If you ask me what I think, it reads Tyrone Grantham all the way,” she went on. “Da Beast made up his mind that Plotka raped Kinitra Jameson and decided to make him pay. The lawyer’s merely collateral damage.”

The Deacon nodded his head slowly. “Fair enough, Sergeant. Except you neglected one critical detail.”

“Which is what, sir?”

“I didn’t ask you what you think.”

“Yes, sir.” Toni gulped, her big-haired head beginning to swivel spasmodically atop her neck. “I mean, no, sir.”

He turned back to Yolie now. “You had something more to tell me.”

“Yes, I was just coming to that, sir.” Yolie held up a plastic evidence bag that had a cell phone inside. “It’s Andrea Halperin’s. Her most recent incoming call, at 6:33 p.m., came from the landline inside the Grantham home.”

“Therefore, you’re surmising that someone in the Grantham home called her and arranged the meet. Does the time frame work?”

“The victims were staying at the Saybrook Point Inn,” Des said. “That’s a fifteen-minute drive from here. Twenty if there’s traffic. It works.”

The Deacon considered this for a moment. “What sort of a call would prompt the victims to jump in her car and drive down here at the drop of a hat?”

“A settlement offer,” Des answered, shoving her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose. “A nice, quiet settlement offer in a nice, quiet place. The victims stood outside Tyrone Grantham’s house this afternoon waving a red blouse for the cameras and challenging him to take a DNA test. It was not a good day for Team Grantham. Maybe Tyrone decided he was ready to shove some cash at them so they’d go away.”

“Who’s authorized to negotiate such a settlement? Is Grantham’s attorney currently in Dorset?”

“He wasn’t as of a few hours ago,” Des replied. “Although it’s certainly possible that he came out from New York late this afternoon.”

“That’s not an acceptable answer,” he growled at her.

“I’ll find out,” Des said quickly.

“Much better.” The Deacon never showed her any favoritism-especially in front of others. “If his lawyer isn’t present then who would be authorized to negotiate a settlement?”

“His brother, Rondell, handles all of his business affairs,” Yolie said. “Rondell also happens to be madly in love with Kinitra. I have a trooper posted outside her hospital room in case someone decides to pay her a visit. No one has, according to hospital security, but there’s no telling what we’re into now.”

“It appears as if you’ve done a pretty fair job so far, Lieutenant,” the Deacon said. “Although your shooter did serve it up awful nice and easy by leaving Miss Halperin’s cell phone behind that way. You wouldn’t figure someone who’s smart enough to lure her down here would be dumb enough to leave such incriminating physical evidence behind. In fact, if I were you, I’d be wondering if someone’s playing with my head.”

“I am wondering that, sir.”

“What’s your next move?”

“Paying a call on Tyrone Grantham.”

“Mind if we tag along?”

“Not at all,” Yolie responded, raising her chin at him. “As long as you remember one thing…”

The Deacon looked at her, stone-faced. “And what’s that?”

“It’s my case.”

“Good answer, Lieutenant.”

By the time they got to Turkey Neck the rain was coming down in blinding sheets. Des could barely make out Yolie’s taillights ahead of her as they sloshed around the bend to the Grantham place. And it was drumming so hard on the roof of the cruiser that she practically had to shout when she asked the Deacon if he wanted to borrow her hooded rain slicker. He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

When they reached Tyrone’s driveway, Yolie pulled in and lowered her window to talk to Oly, who’d taken cover inside his cruiser next to the gate. Most of the media throng had relocated to the double-homicide scene. The few who’d stayed put had sought refuge inside their own rides. But at the sight of two cruisers pulling into the driveway they jumped out and came splashing toward them, hollering and screaming for an update, a quote, something, anything. Des had nothing to say and refused to roll down her window. Just waited for Oly to open the gate so she could follow Yolie inside, the gate closing behind them.

Yolie came to a stop almost immediately and got out.

Des rolled down her window, feeling the hard, chilly rain on her face. “What’s up?”

“Tyrone’s not home,” she reported, huddled inside her hooded rain jacket. “Oly said he drove off in his Escalade at about six-thirty and hasn’t come back.”

“Was he alone?”

“He was alone. Told Oly he was going to get some ice cream for Jamella.”

“Ice cream,” the Deacon repeated, staring straight ahead.

She dashed back to her car and jumped in and they followed her to the front entrance to the house.

Clarence answered the door, looking wide-eyed and tense. He was also not his usual yappy self. Led them in silence into the vast, high-ceilinged living room where those six sharks swam restlessly, endlessly, inside their giant aquarium. Rondell, Jamella and Chantal were seated on the white leather sofas grimly watching CNN’s live news coverage of the White Sand Beach murders on the flat-screen TV. The rain-soaked correspondent, who stood under an umbrella at the Brighton Road perimeter, was reporting that Stewart Plotka and his attorney, Andrea Halperin, had been gunned down “gangland style” in the front seat of her late-model Mercedes at approximately 7:00 P.M. The correspondent also pointed out that Tyrone Grantham had left his luxurious waterfront estate on nearby Turkey Neck Road at approximately 6:30 P.M. in a black Cadillac Escalade and had not yet returned home. Thereby leaving viewers to connect the dots for themselves. It wasn’t exactly hard.

When Rondell noticed them standing there with Clarence, he muted the sound on the TV. It fell silent in the room-except for the wind-driven rain that was pelting against the glass walls.

Rondell and Chantal hadn’t met the Deacon yet. Des made the introductions. They were so distraught they barely seemed to hear her.

“He just went out to get me some ice cream,” Jamella protested, plopped there forlornly on the sofa, her hands folded across her big belly. “That’s all he did.”

“That’s right, hon,” Chantal said to her comfortingly. “Ain’t no law against that. Is there, Trooper Mitry?”

Des mustered a faint smile. “No law at all.”

Rondell could not stop fidgeting or clearing his throat. He was dressed way sportier than usual. Instead of a sober, neatly tucked oxford button-down, he wore a loose-fitting electric blue Hawaiian shirt emblazoned with a white palm tree. “I-I’ve tried him numerous times on his cell,” he stammered nervously.

Yolie narrowed her eyes at him. “And?…”

“He’s not picking up. Here, I’ll try again…” Rondell hit speed dial and listened, shaking his head when the call went to voice mail. “It’s me, big man,” he said into the phone. “ Please call me, will you?” He rang off, aware of Des’s eyes on him. “This shirt’s not me at all, is it?” he acknowledged self-consciously. “Tyrone bought it for me in Honolulu. It’s a genuine Tori Richard, whatever that means. Silly thing’s made of silk.”

“It’s not silly at all,” Toni spoke up. “I think it’s beautiful.”

Rondell looked at her in surprise. “Really?”

“Where’s Calvin?” Yolie asked, glancing around.

“In the pool house, last time I looked,” Chantal responded with a discernible chill in her voice.

Yolie nodded to Toni. She immediately went marching off to fetch him.