clear this up. She knows the principals and, as you know, has Major Crimes experience.”
“Mind you, I would not have suggested that to you,” the Deacon said in response. “But since you’ve raised the idea, I would call it sound, mature thinking. What about this man you’re holding, Bolan?”
“We’ll have to take a good hard look at releasing him in the morning.”
Right now, there were press vans waiting on the other end of the causeway and Soave had to deal with them. He had to give the cameras something, anything for the eleven-o’clock news. And he had nothing-not even Melanie’s name. Tommy was still trying to locate a legally competent next of kin. Her mother’s nursing home did have an address for Melanie’s brother up in Portland, Maine, but until Tommy could track him down, they could not release her name.
Soave kept glancing hopefully at the Deacon as the three of them strode across the wooden causeway to the cameras. Des could tell he was praying that the Deacon, as senior officer on the scene, would want to step up to the mike-thereby letting him off the hook. But she knew better. Her father was never one to make an officer’s job any easier. This was Soave’s case, in good times and bad, and either he could deal or he couldn’t.
So it was Soave who had to stand before those bright lights, blinking, and say, “At the present time we don’t know how or if this death relates to the Mary Susan Frye murder investigation. We are presently gathering evidence, and we are extremely confident we will have a suspect in custody shortly.”
Which was official police-speak for: Help me, I’ve fallen and I can’t get back up!
Afterward, he sidled over to Des, ducking his head glumly. “I guess you’re feeling pretty good about things now.”
“If you think that, Rico, then you don’t know me at all.”
“I don’t think that,” Soave insisted, sneaking a peek over at the Deacon, who stood at the railing looking out at the water, his broad back to them. “I really don’t. I’m just… I just…” He broke off, his breathing becoming shallow and rapid. Soon, she thought he might need to stick his head in a paper bag. “Des, I sure could use your help on this.”
“Just tell me what I can do.”
“I want to get some unis canvassing right away. I thought I’d have them try the town beaches for starters. But if you have any other ideas…”
“I’d check out the Dorset Marina,” she offered. “See who took their boat out last night. Based on the way the tides are running, her body might have been dumped at sea. Or it might have drifted downriver. Better check the river moorings-there’s Dunn’s Cove Marina, North Cove, the Essex Yacht Club, Millington Boat Basin. There’s also a car ferry at Millington.”
Soave was writing this down. “Okay, good. Anything else?”
“Did you nail down the identity of Colin Falconer’s online lover yet?”
“Who, Cutter? Not yet.” Soave peered at her, intrigued. “What’s that got to do with this?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.”
“Okay, sure. We’ll call the Internet provider’s security people right away.”
“I’d like to re-canvass a couple of people on my own,” Des added. “I might be able to eliminate some things.”
“What things?” Soave demanded.
“I’ll keep you informed,” she assured him.
“See that you do,” he growled officiously. Then he started back across the causeway to the crime scene, arms held stiffly out from his sides in the classic bodybuilder’s strut.
She stayed behind with the Deacon. “Sorry about your party, Daddy.”
“Not to worry, girl. We’ll do it another night.”
She lingered there, waiting for him to say something else, anything else. Nothing. Not a word. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you,” she said finally.
“That you will, Desiree. Oh, by the way…” He flashed her a quick smile. “Your friend is all right.”
Your friend is all right?
Just exactly what in the hell did he mean by that? Des dissected it, fuming, as she steered her cruiser toward Griswold Avenue. By “friend,” did he mean Mitch was a trivial, unsubstantial plaything, a toy, as opposed to a substantial individual suitable for a serious relationship? Or had he just not known what else to call him? And what did he mean by “all right”? All right as in so-so, fair to middling, better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick? Or all right as in totally, one-hundred percent… righteous? God, that man could be so cryptic sometimes, so vague, so…
Impossible. That was the word to describe her father.
Chuckie Gilliam, the unemployed carpenter with the faith-based advertising tattooed on his knuckles, had him some company tonight. He and Sandy, the frizzy-haired waitress from McGee’s, were sprawled in front of the television watching a college football game and drinking beer when Des knocked on his door. Otherwise, not much had changed around there. Chuckie’s computer was still parked on the card table in the middle of the room, and it was still turned on. And Chuckie was still wearing his orange hunter’s vest over a soiled white T-shirt.
“Hey, it’s the cat lady!” Sandy exclaimed when she spotted Des there in the doorway. Sandy’s voice was cheerful, but her eyes were wary pinpoints. “What are you doing, trooper, making house calls now?”
“I need to talk to you some more, Mr. Gilliam,” Des said to him quietly.
“Yeah, sure,” grumbled Chuckie. To Sandy he said, “It’s okay, I know what this is about.” He grabbed his beer and stepped out onto the porch with Des, closing the door behind him. Clearly, he did not want Sandy to hear their conversation.
And Sandy didn’t like it. Through the front window, Des could see her stomp off into the kitchen, where she started slamming cupboard doors. Des wasn’t happy about doing this. She didn’t want to complicate Sandy’s life for her. But there was really no way around it. She needed answers.
“Melanie’s body washed up on Big Sister tonight, Mr. Gilliam. Somebody shot her. Just wanted to let you know.”
“Jeez, that’s too bad,” he said heavily, gazing across the road at her house. “If you want me to keep an eye on her place or something, I’ll be happy to. Anything I can do.”
“Well, now that you mention it, I’ve been asked to eliminate certain peripheral parties such as yourself. Strictly routine stuff.”
Chuckie’s semi-smart eyes narrowed warily. “Yeah…?”
“I noticed your computer is on-do you spend a lot of time online?”
“I guess,” he grunted, taking a swig from his beer.
“Which Internet provider do you use?”
He gave her the name. It was the same service on which Colin claimed he had met Cutter. This didn’t necessarily mean anything-millions of people used it. Still, it was certainly worth knowing.
“What’s this got to do with Melanie?” Chuckie asked.
“Mr. Gilliam, have you ever been in trouble with the law?”
He scratched at his unkempt beard, his eyes avoiding hers. “Maybe,” he admitted.
“Um, okay, this is really a yes-or-no kind of a deal, Mr. Gilliam,” Des told him. “I can check it myself, but it’s better if I hear it from you.”
“Look, I had a run-in with a contractor I was working for, okay?” he muttered, his manner turning decidedly surly now. “Tim Keefe accused me of taking some roofing materials off of a job. I lost my temper and popped him one. The piss-ant bastard filed assault charges against me. I ended up serving six months county time.”
“Did you do it?”
“Do what, lady?”
“Steal the roofing materials.”
“Stuff happens,” he grumbled, scratching impatiently at the J-E-S-U-S on his right knuckles. “What else do you want to know?”
“The real deal about you and Melanie.”
Chuckie glanced nervously over his shoulder at the door. “Okay, so we went out a few times,” he admitted, lowering his voice. “But she wouldn’t have nothing to do with me after the thing with Tim.”
“Why was that?”
“She didn’t want to be some guy’s mother, was how she put it.”
