The Snow White Christmas Cookie

“The.38 Special’s a common weapon,” Yolie pointed out. “Someone else who Hank knew could have purchased one illegally.”

“Or someone who he didn’t know,” Toni said.

“Could be,” Yolie acknowledged.

“Could be won’t get me to Cancun,” Grisky huffed. “That’s not good enough. The ball’s yours, Inspector Questa. What have you got?”

Questa took another bite of his sandwich, chewing on it thoughtfully. “A very well-run branch office of the U.S. Postal Service. The building security is excellent. The keypad code has been updated according to proper procedure. All keys to the deadbolts are accounted for. All vehicle keys and scanners are stored overnight in the safe. Only Postmaster Zander and her senior clerk know the combination to the safe. The U.S. Postal Service isn’t perfect. We encounter branches that are sloppily run. Branches where the employees take liberties. This isn’t one of those. Postmaster Zander’s people respect the job and they respect her. These are all first-rate employees-with the possible exception of that son of hers, Casey, who comes across like a bit of a whiner.”

“Only because he is one,” Des said.

“Bottom line? The only blemish on Postmaster Zander’s record is that she didn’t report these mailbox thefts to us in a timely fashion. But I think it’s obvious to everyone at this table why she didn’t. We’re continuing to explore every possible avenue. Delving into the bank records and spending patterns of every driver, loader and clerk in Norwich who comes in contact with the Dorset-bound trucks. My opinion? We won’t turn up a thing. It looks to me like Postmaster Zander’s boyfriend, Hank Merrill, by all accounts an otherwise decent guy, got into financial trouble with his ex-wife and resorted to stealing his own mail in order to pay her back. When he realized he was going to be subjected to the public humiliation of a criminal investigation he decided to take his own life.”

“Makes sense,” Yolie said. “Except we’re positive he didn’t take his own life.”

Questa nodded his huge head. “Which means we’re back to looking at Josie Cantro, his alleged partner in crime. She killed him and tried to make it look like a suicide. That’s the only way it makes sense to me.”

Grisky turned to The Aardvark now. “Do you have anything new? Please, God, say yes.”

“I have a name,” he answered, slurping loudly from his coffee container. “Richard Paul Fontanella, age fifty- four. Better known as Slick Rick.”

“He deals in black-market meds?” Grisky asked.

“Not exactly. He’s a bookie and loan shark.” The Aardvark passed around copies of a surveillance photo of the man getting out of a silver Cadillac Coupe de Ville. Slick Rick had gray hair and wore a Kangol cap. “He operates out of a dozen or so bars, clubs, and VFW halls in Southeastern Connecticut under the protection of the Castagnos. Not a big player, but a good, steady earner. As I mentioned this morning, the black-market meds gang that we took down in Bridgeport was operating under the protection of the Castagnos, too. There are still plenty of those bastards out there doing their thing. And, according to our contacts, there’s a direct link between them and Slick Rick.”

“What kind of a link?” Grisky asked.

“Slick Rick has a muscle man who goes everywhere with him just in case anyone needs to be persuaded to pay up. A fellow who grew up here in Dorset by the name of Thomas Burke Stratton, better known as-”

“Tommy the Pinhead,” Des said, nodding.

“You know him?” he asked her.

“We’ve tussled. He’s a local lout. Low-level muscle, like you said.”

“He also does a spot of pimping on the side,” The Aardvark said. “Runs a girl named Gigi Garanski who has herself a serious heroin habit. Tommy keeps Gigi supplied with smack in exchange for which she does guys out of a motel called the Yankee Doodle Motor Court. But it’s not just a business arrangement between these two. This is a truly heartwarming love story. They live together and everything. Most days and nights, Gigi can be found at a bar on the Old Boston Post Road called the Rustic Inn. The Rustic’s owner, Steve Starkey, lets Slick Rick set up shop there two afternoons a week in exchange for a sweet discount on his beer from the regional distributor, which happens to be owned by the Castagnos. If anyone falls behind to Slick Rick, Tommy the Pinhead takes a mighty dim view of it. We know that Tommy’s supplying Gigi with heroin. That means he has drug contacts. We also know that Hank Merrill used to drop in at the Rustic from time to time. So put two and two together. If Hank was stealing prescription meds from his postal route then it stands to reason that his local buyer was Slick Rick and/or Tommy.”

Des considered this for a moment, frowning. “Captain, how is it that you know so much about the Rustic?”

The Aardvark cleared his throat uneasily. “The Narcotics Task Force put a man in there undercover last week.”

She glared across the table at him. “You have a man operating undercover in my town and you don’t tell me?”

“It was strictly a need-to-know matter, Master Sergeant.”

“We needed to know about it this morning!”

“I wanted to touch base with my man first,” he responded calmly.

Des shook her head at him angrily. “This is the same crap that you pulled on me before on Sour Cherry Lane. You come sneaking into my town, make a mess, and then stick me with the job of cleaning up after you.”

“Look, I understand your frustration.…”

“No, I don’t think you do, Captain.”

“But we’ve had leaks on our undercover operations.”

“I don’t leak!”

“I’m not saying that you do. But I’m under strict orders, from the top, to tell no one.”

“I don’t like the way you weasels operate,” Des fumed.

“It’s not your job to like it. And don’t call me a weasel.”

“Is your man still there?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if he was?”

“Uh, excuse me for getting in the way of this little love fest,” Grisky interjected, “but did your man have anything for us, Captain?”

“Possibly,” The Aardvark replied. “Paulette Zander’s son Casey is a heavy, heavy sports bettor. Football’s his game. He’s lousy at it. And Gigi knows how to play him like a fiddle. She eggs him on, gives him a little taste now and then. The end result, according to my man, is that Casey Zander’s into Slick Rick for a whopping twenty large.”

“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere,” Grisky said eagerly. “Let’s play this out. Casey Zander has to raise twenty large to pay off Slick Rick. He’s a part-time mail carrier. He’s involved with Josie Cantro. We know that Josie’s a naughty little girl. We know that valuable mail on Hank Merrill’s route was disappearing in the weeks prior to his death.”

“And we know that Casey can’t be the brains behind this,” Des said. “He’s not bright enough-especially if the security at the Post Office is tight.”

“It’s very tight,” Questa said. “Plus he only drives on Saturdays.”

“So what does that make him?” Grisky wondered aloud.

“The weak link in the chain,” Yolie answered. “Let’s find him and break him.”

“He’s a U.S. Postal Service employee,” Questa said. “I’ll be the one to talk to him.”

Yolie shook her head. “He’s a person of interest in our homicide investigation. We’re talking to him.”

“We’ll all talk to him, okay?” Grisky said. “Any idea where he is?”

“At home with his mother, I assume,” Des said as her cell phone rang. She peered down at the screen. It was the Rustic Inn calling. She stepped out into the hallway to take the call. “This is Resident Trooper Mitry.”

She heard heavy wheezing at the other end before a voice said, “Des, this here’s Rutherford Peck calling.”

“What can I do for you, Rut?”

“Well, it’s like this. I’m at the Rustic and I don’t have any way of getting home.”

“Not a problem. I can arrange a ride for you. How did you get up there in the first place?”

“Your friend and mine Mitch Berger brought me up here for a friendly glass of beer.”