new walking buddy was a snake? Or should she keep it to herself?
She made it through her last set of reps on adrenaline and fumes, and collapsed on the bench in a heap, gasping. She gulped down a bottle of water, then showered off.
Des spent very little time in front of the bathroom mirror these days. She wore no war paint. She needed none. She had almondshaped pale green eyes, smooth glowing skin and a wraparound smile that could melt titanium from a thousand yards. She kept her hair so short and nubby that it was practically dry by the time she’d put on her summer-weight uniform and polished black brogans. She strapped on her crime-girl belt, complete with top-of-the-line SIG-Sauer semiautomatic handgun, and called out good-bye to Bella. Then she jumped into her cruiser and headed out.
Des lived in was what was considered a mixed neighborhood by Dorset standards, which meant it enjoyed a highly diverse white population. There were tidy starter houses owned by young professional couples. There were rambling bungalows bursting with multiple generations of blue-collar swamp Yankees. There were moldering summer cottages rented by old-timers from New Britain who played bocce out on their lawns. Right now her mail carrier, Frank, was out walking his golden retriever, and a pair of young mothers were on their way to the lake with a brood of kids, complete with pails, shovels, and water wings. They all waved to Des as she drove past. She raised a hand in response.
Summer was her busy season. Dorset’s seaside renters nearly doubled the town’s year-round population of less than seven thousand, plus the inns, motels, and campgrounds were filled to capacity. More people meant more traffic and more trouble. So did the warm weather. During the cold months, people did their drinking and their fighting behind closed doors. Now it all spilled out onto the front lawn. Dogs barked, tempers flared, neighbors started throwing punches at one another. It could get a little ugly.
And then, dear God, there were the tourists.
First, she headed for the historic district. The lawn in front of the old library on Dorset Street was being set up with chairs for a noon summer concert by Dorset’s town band, which was quite accomplished if you happened to be into oompah music. Des rated their sound one solid notch below Danny Kaye on her own personal hit parade. The concert was part of a full day of quaint small-town activities. Crafts stalls were being erected next door on the lawn in front of Center School, where local artisans would be offering their handcrafted candles and soaps, their driftwood sculptures and wind chimes made of seashells and bits of broken glass. Des pulled in at town hall to see if there was anything of interest in her mail slot-there wasn’t-and to work on Mary Ann, First Selectman Paffin’s new secretary, a lonely widow who desperately needed to adopt two healthy, neutered kittens and just didn’t know it yet. Then she resumed her patrol of the historic district, with its lovely two hundred-year-old homes, steepled white churches and graceful old oaks and sycamores. Trees again. Trees, trees, and more trees…
I should just give up and move to the damned desert.
The art academy was located in the historic district, in the old Gill House. So were the better galleries and antique dealers, the cemetery, firehouse, John’s barbershop with its old Wildroot sign and barber pole.
It was only when she got to Big Brook Road and made a left thatshe returned to the twenty-first century. Here was Dorset’s shopping center, which had an A amp; P, pharmacy, bank, hardware store, and so on. Across the two-lane road from it were the storefront businesses like the insurance and travel agencies, realtors and doctors. It was all exceedingly underwhelming. There was no ostentatious display of signage allowed in Dorset. No Golden Arches, no big box stores, no multiplexes. Most businesses were locally owned.
As a rule, the business district was quite laid back, too. Not much traffic, plenty of parking. It was possible to get around even during the summer. But not this summer. Not with Tito and Esme in town. News vans were crowded into parking spaces wherever they could find them. Des could spot crews from at least a dozen Connecticut and New York television stations, not to mention CNN, Fox News, Entertainment Tonight, and Inside Edition. News choppers hovered overhead. And the sidewalks were positively bursting with sunburned tourists cruising back and forth in the bright sun, back and forth, hoping to catch just one glimpse of them.
Madness. It was just plain madness.
As she nosed her way around, making her presence felt, Des came upon a genuine traffic jam at Clancy’s ice cream parlor. Cars were at a total standstill. Drivers were even honking their horns, which was unheard-of in Dorset. She flicked on her lights and veered over the yellow line so she could get around to it. When she reached Clancy’s she discovered a whale-sized white Cadillac Escalade double-parked out front with its doors locked. Its owner had simply left it there and walked away, blocking the entire lane of traffic. No one else in town could get by.
Des hopped out, straightening her big Smokey hat, and took a closer look. The big SUV had New Jersey plates. No special handicapped tag, no media or law enforcement markings. Just a selfish, thoughtless owner. Shaking her head, she got busy filling out a ticket. She was just finishing it when a middle-age guy with an expensive comb-over came sauntering toward her licking a double-scoop chocolate ice cream cone that he really, truly did not need. His gutwas already straining hard against his tank top. It didn’t help that he was wearing shorts. His skinny, pale legs just made his stomach look even bigger. Summer clothing was very unforgiving.
But not as unforgiving as the resident trooper of Dorset, Connecticut.
“Hey, I just went inside for a second,” he protested when he caught sight of her. “One second.”
“Sir, that was a very expensive second.”
“Now you just hold on,” he ordered her, as more drivers honked their horns. “You’re not giving me a ticket over this.”
“Oh, I most certainly am. You’ve created an unsafe situation, and you’ve inconvenienced a lot of people. Next time, park in the lot.”
“The lot was full.”
“Next time, wait,” she said, as pedestrians began to gather around them, gawking.
“But everyone does it.”
“Not in my town they don’t.”
“I don’t fucking believe this!”
“Please watch your language, sir.”
“You’ve got a real attitude, haven’t you, doll?”
“Sir, I am not a doll. I am Master Sergeant Desiree Mitry of the Connecticut State Police, and you are illegally parked.” She tore off the ticket and held it out to him.
He refused to take it. Just stood there in surly defiance, his ice cream melting under the hot sun and running down his wrist. Too often, Des had discovered, people on vacation were people at their worst. In their view, the world pushed them around seven days a week, fifty weeks out of the year. When they got their two weeks off, they felt entitled to shove back.
“Take the citation, sir,” Des ordered him in a calm, steady voice. “Take it and relocate your vehicle at once. If you don’t, I will place you under arrest.”
“What is it, Tommy?” His slender frosted-blond wife was approaching them now, two appallingly fat little kids in tow, both eating ice cream cones. “What’s wrong?”
“Aw, nothing,” he growled, snatching the ticket from Des disgustedly. “You give some entry-level person a little taste of power and right away they bust your balls.”
Des knew all about this. “Entry-level person” was a code phrase for N-e-g-r-o. But she had learned long ago not to mix it up with jerks. It wasn’t as if they got any smarter if she did. She simply flashed her mega-wattage smile, and said, “You folks have yourselves a real nice vacation.” And stood there, hands on her hips, while they piled back in their SUV and took off.
Once the traffic flow returned to normal she got back in her own ride and continued on down Big Brook Road, making her rounds, her mind still working it, working it, working it…
Why did Martine tell her about Dodge?
CHAPTER 3
Why did Dodge tell him about Martine?
Mitch couldn’t imagine. And it weighed on his mind all morning. It was there while he logged some quality
