David Handler - The Blood Red Indian Summer

“This is all very interesting, Mitch,” Des said tactfully. “But Mr. Lash doesn’t exactly qualify as a credible witness.”

“Still, it’s worth finding out if he can identify someone here, isn’t it?”

Clarence let out a guffaw. “Show that old man a picture of Mr. Barack Obama and he’ll tell you he’s his buddy. Besides, I fixed that hole.”

“Are you talking about that sheet of plywood you wired in place?” Mitch asked him. “Because it took me less than ten seconds to undo the wire with my fingers in the pouring rain. It hardly even slowed us down, did it, Winston?”

Winston didn’t answer him. He was too busy staring across the living room at someone. “Why, there he is!” he exclaimed, his eyes fixed on one man and one man only. “ There’s my buddy!”

He was gazing at Calvin Jameson.

“Don’t be looking at me,” Calvin grumbled at him. “Only time I ever seen you was last night when you bit a young lady.”

“You don’t remember me?” Winston seemed hurt by Calvin’s chilly rebuff. “We’ve talked in my yard many times about the blessed beauty of tender young fruit. I like to think we understand each other.”

“Popsy, what is he talking about?” Jamella asked Calvin.

“Don’t ask me. Old man’s sick in the head.”

“Did you happen to go out for a while this evening, Calvin?” Mitch inquired. “Possibly slip through that hole in the fence so Trooper Olsen wouldn’t see you leave by the front gate?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Calvin responded gruffly. “And you’re not the law. I don’t have to answer none of your questions.”

“That’s very true, Mr. Jameson,” Yolie acknowledged. “But you do have to answer mine.”

Calvin looked at her in disbelief. “That old man has Alzheimer’s.”

“Frontotemporal dementia, actually,” Mitch said.

“Are you taking his word over mine?” Calvin demanded.

“I can’t speak for the others,” Mitch said. “But I’m going with the old guy with dementia.”

“You shut up!” Calvin blustered at him. “Who are you to come in here making all of these wild accusations?”

“He’s with me,” Des said. “And I’d advise you to answer his question.”

“ Which question?”

“Did you go out earlier this evening?”

Calvin took a long, slow drink from his can of Bud. “The answer is no. I’ve been entertaining myself in the pool house all evening. Downloaded a movie onto my laptop from one of them amateur sites. Bunch of college girls at a frat party having themselves a wild time. Run a check on my computer if you don’t believe me. I’ve been logged on all evening.”

Yolie shook her head at him. “You’ll have to bring something better than that, Mr. Jameson.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you could have downloaded a ninety-minute movie and left it playing on your computer while you took off and came back.”

“Ask the trooper at the gate,” Calvin said easily. “I never left the property. He’ll tell you.”

“See above,” Mitch said. “Re: Hole in the fence.”

“I never left through any hole in any fence,” Calvin insisted. “That’s bull.”

Yolie puffed out her cheeks. “Okay, let’s back this up. Before you walked in that door, Mitch, we were discussing that Mr. Tyrone Grantham had no one to account for his whereabouts at the time of the White Sand Beach shootings. His Glock nine-mil is missing from his nightstand-or so he’s alleging-and the murder weapon happens to be a nine-mil. One of the victims, Stewart Plotka, had a physical altercation with Mr. Grantham that led to Mr. Grantham’s suspension from the NFL. The other victim, Andrea Halperin, who was Mr. Plotka’s lawyer, was on TV this very afternoon demanding a DNA sample from Mr. Grantham as part of the civil case they were pursuing against him. The victims claimed that Mr. Grantham raped Mr. Plotka’s fiancee, Katie O’Brien, three years ago. Meanwhile, Mr. Grantham’s sister-in-law, Kinitra Jameson, is at Middlesex Hospital after her near-fatal drowning early this morning. She is eight weeks pregnant and a physical examination revealed extensive scarring from repeated, forcible sexual contact.” Yolie raised her chin at Mitch. “Real world? Mr. Tyrone Grantham appears to be our chief person of interest. So if you’re offering an alternative scenario I sure would like to hear what it is.”

“I’d like to ask Chantal a question first, if you don’t mind,” Des said, looking over at her. “Are you just going to let them take your son away in handcuffs or are you going to speak up?”

“Speak up?” Chantal blinked at Des in alarm. “Speak up about what?”

“What’s she talking about, Moms?” Tyrone demanded.

Chantal lowered her eyes. “I don’t know…”

“Yes, you do,” Des said to her sharply. “You asked Mitch to let me know that today was laundry day. What were you trying to tell me?”

Chantal took a deep breath and let it out, her mountainous chest rising and falling. She glanced over at Monique next to her on the sofa, then at Tyrone and Rondell. Then she lowered her eyes again. “I didn’t mean nothing.”

“It sure sounded like something to me,” Mitch said.

“You was mistaken. Wasn’t nothing.”

“Yeah, it was, Chantal.” Monique tugged at the woman’s sleeve. “They talking about them clothes I found in the hamper this morning, remember?”

“Hush, girl.”

“Don’t you remember them clothes, Chantal?”

“Girl, this is serious business. You hush, hear?”

“Whose clothes did you find, Monique?” Des asked gently. “Were they Kinitra’s clothes?”

Chantal’s eyes widened. “Keep your mouth shut, Monique!”

“Let her speak, Mrs. Grantham,” Yolie said. “Or we’ll all be taking a ride to the barracks.”

“Were they Kinitra’s clothes?” Des asked Monique once again.

“N-No, ma’am.” Monique’s voice was trembling. “They was a-a man’s clothes. They was all damp. And there was grass stains all over the knees a-and looked like blood on the shirt.”

“Moms, what is this?” Tyrone demanded to know.

“I still got ’em in the laundry room,” Monique added, trying to be helpful.

“Go with her,” Yolie told Toni.

Toni escorted Monique off to the laundry room. Chantal bowed her head and closed her eyes. Her lips were moving-in silent prayer.

Outside, the hard, windblown rain continued to whip against the glass walls.

Winston moved over toward the huge aquarium, transfixed by Tyrone’s sharks. “Amazing,” he said in childlike awe. “What kind are they?”

Tyrone shot an angry, distracted look at him. “What’d you say?”

“What kind of sharks are they?”

“Black tip reef sharks.”

“They’re positively hypnotic. I must get some of my own.”

“Yeah, you do that, old-timer.”

Toni and Monique returned now, Toni clutching a plastic trash bag in one latex-gloved hand. She set it down on the coffee table.

“Let’s have a look, Sergeant,” Yolie said.

Toni reached into the bag and carefully removed a lime green polo shirt that was speckled with dried blood, then a pair of tan slacks covered with grass stains and more dried blood.

“Are these the items of clothing you brought to Chantal?” Yolie asked Monique.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And why did you do that?”

Monique frowned at her, puzzled. “Sorry?…”

“Because that’s what I taught her to do,” Chantal explained. “Any time she finds something out of the ordinary she brings it to me. She’s fine with the regular wash but with something like grass stains she don’t know whether to pretreat or soak ’em or whatever. Right, hon?”