was simply designed to keep people off-balance and afraid. He couldn’t tell. Could Tito?
“Tito?!” Esme called out to him from across the food hall. She and Chrissie were waiting at the door. “Come on, let’s go!”
Tito waved in acknowledgement and started toward her.
“One more thing,” Mitch said, stopping the actor in his tracks.
“What is it now, man?” Just like that he’d switched over to irritation.
“This kind of stuff is really beneath you.”
“You know dick about me, man.”
“I know you’re better than this. Much better.”
Tito considered Mitch’s remark for a long moment, tugging thoughtfully at his lower lip. Then he abruptly spat on the floor at Mitch’s feet and stormed off.
“Then again,” Mitch said to himself softly, “maybe you’re not.”
CHAPTER 4
The Citgo Minimart was three miles down Old Shore Road from the village, past McGee’s Diner, past Jilly’s Boatyard, just before the turnoff for Peck’s Point. There were some summer bungalow colonies clustered another couple of miles down the road, so the Citgo usually did a thriving business this time of year. Right now, Des found only a couple of pickups parked outside as she pulled up in her cruiser and got out. Right now, she found trouble.
Their big plate glass window had been smashed to bits.
Most of those bits were scattered inside all over the floor, Des discovered as she strode through the open door, crunching them under her feet. Some pieces remained framed in place, their sharp jagged edges exposed. A young workman was using a rubber mallet to tap them onto a tarp he’d laid on the pavement outside.
The owners of the station, the Acars, were visibly upset. Behind the counter, Mrs. Acar, a tiny woman in a headscarf, was trembling, her dark eyes wide with fright. Her husband was busy sweeping up and acting extremely brisk and take-charge. Also really unhappy to see Des. He wouldn’t so much as look at her.
It wasn’t either one of them who’d placed the call to her. It was the young workman, a customer.
“I got me some plywood I can let you have, Nuri,” he said. “Until you can get a new piece of glass, I mean.”
“That would be very kind of you, Kevin,” Mr. Acar responded, glancing up at him. Which meant he could no longer pretend that Des wasn’t standing there in the doorway “Good afternoon, Trooper. How may I help you?”
“You can tell me what happened here.”
“This happened,” Mrs. Acar responded, placing a smooth, round, granite stone on the counter. It was about the size of a man’s fist. In her tiny hand, it looked huge. Someone had painted 9/11 on it in red paint. “It struck very near to my head,” she said, pointing to a dent in the Sheetrock wall behind her. “It was fortunate we had no customers in line at the time or they might have been hit, with dire consequences.”
“As you can see, no one was hurt,” Mr. Acar spoke up, forcing a tight smile onto his face. “The window is easily replaced. So there is no trouble.”
“Did either of you see who threw it?”
“We saw nothing,” he replied crisply. “It was one of our quiet moments. I was in the back room replenishing some supplies for the men’s lavatory. And Nema was-”
“Where were you, Mrs. Acar?” Des asked, not liking the way he was trying to stampede her. The man was a bit too anxious for her to pack up and go.
“Restocking my case,” Nema replied, indicating the glass case next to the cash register, which was filled with exotic homemade pastries.
“You didn’t see it happen?”
“I heard the crash of broken glass. And I ducked. I saw… nothing,” she said, glancing meekly at her husband. “Then I heard a car pull away very rapidly, a screech of tires. That is all.”
“Did you get a make or license number of the car?”
“No, this was not possible. It was gone before I could get a look.”
“Which way was the car heading when it left-back toward town?”
“The other way, I believe. I am not positive.”
Des went to the door and glanced outside. On this stretch of Old Shore there were no businesses on the other side of the road, just an overgrown tangle of vines, creepers, and wild berries. About a hundred yards past the Citgo, heading away from town, there was a sharp left turn onto Burnham Road, a narrow, residential lane that snaked its way through some old farms and ended up back in the village. Whoever did this most likely turned there and was gone in aflash. Probably two kids in a pickup-one drives, the other crouches in back and throws the stone. Swamp Yankees, if she had to guess. Indigenous lost boys with a hate thing for immigrants. Especially immigrants who were operating a successful new business.
“Have you folks had any trouble like this before?” Des asked Mr. Acar.
“No trouble at all, Trooper,” he answered. “Everyone has been very welcoming. And, while your presence is greatly appreciated, I wish you’d not pursue this matter any further. It will only draw more attention toward it, which we do not consider desirable. We shall happily bear the cost of replacing the glass. As you can see, this gentleman is already helping.”
Des shoved her horn-rims up her nose, and said, “Look, I understand where you’re coming from, Mr. Acar-”
“Please, call me Nuri,” he purred, smiling at her ingratiatingly. More than ingratiatingly. The man was starting to ogle her long form right in front of his wife.
“Nuri, a crime has been committed here,” she said, her stomach muscles tightening involuntarily. The smarm wasn’t just undressing her with his eyes, he was licking her. “I have to file a report-that’s my job. Furthermore, the message on that stone is an obvious reference to the attack on the World Trade Center. We’ve got a task force operating out of the state’s attorney’s office that specializes in hate crimes such as this.”
“But who would hate us?” he asked her imploringly. “We are Turkish people, peaceful people. Turkey is America’s good friend.”
“You and I know that, but the morons who did this may not be too up on their international coalitions. Besides which,” she added, glancing at Nema’s headscarf, “you are Muslims, and that makes you different. Some people don’t care for different. I happen to know a little bit about what that’s like. I also know that when this kind of thing happens, it doesn’t just hurt you, it hurts the entire community. Look, let me show you something, okay?”
She went back out to her cruiser and fished around in her briefcase for the four-by-seven laminated Hate Crime Response Card that theConnecticut State Police had developed in conjunction with the Anti-Defamation League. When she returned with it the Acars were talking heatedly to one other. They broke it off at once. Des had a definite feeling that Nema was more anxious to cooperate than her husband was. Clearly, he didn’t want to involve the law at all. How come? Was something else going on here-say, somebody running a protection racket on him?
“Please, listen to this,” she said, reading to them from the laminated card. “It defines a hate crime as ‘a criminal act against a person or property in which the perpetrator chooses the victim because of the victim’s real or perceived race, religion, national origin, ethnicity, sexual orientation, disability, or gender.’ ” Des glanced up at the Acars, who were staring at her now in tight-lipped silence. “That’s why the task force needs to be brought in. They know the different hate groups and how they operate. They’ll know if someone’s been pulling this elsewhere around the state. It might be part of a pattern.”
“Foolish boys,” Mr. Acar sniffed at her dismissively. “Just a prank by foolish boys.”
“You’re probably right,” Des said, although she did have some nagging doubts. Why during daylight? Early afternoon was not the local bad boys’ usual hour for committing random acts of stupidity-late night was. “But this way we’ll know for sure, okay?”
