fact that it has blood, scalp tissue and hair on it-which will, presumably, turn out to be Pete’s. No fingerprints on it. None they could find on preliminary examination, anyway.”
“The killers wiped it clean?”
“Wore gloves, more likely. We have some partial shoe prints in the mud. No slam dunks, but they’re making impressions. Might prove helpful.”
“Des, when you found Pete’s body did you notice any blood or tissue under his fingernails?”
She smiled at him. “Now I’m rubbing off on you-this I am digging. He sustained wounds to his hands. To me, they looked like defensive wounds. But he may have struggled with his assailants. We can determine whether any of the blood belongs to someone else. The state has Stevie and Donnie’s DNA on file. If it’s one of them, we’ll know right away.”
“Did Yolie have anything else?”
“Recanvass turned up nothing,” she replied, glancing down at her notepad. “But a Fed who she knows schooled her about Poochie’s ride. There’s only a select handful of Mercedes Gull-wings on the U.S. market at any one time. The experts know each car’s pedigree. You can’t just unload one somewhere. No reputable dealer would touch it.”
“What about a disreputable dealer?”
“Well, here’s where it gets interesting. The Feds landed hard last year on an operation that was cherry- picking high-end vehicles from Gold Coast towns up and down the I-95 corridor between New York and Boston. They paid low-level hoods a flat fee-maybe five grand-to deliver the ride to a nearby locale, where they’d whisk it into a big rig. The truck would then transport it to a container ship docked in New York. Within twenty-four hours, the ship’s on its way to Saudi Arabia, loaded to the gills with rare, valuable sports cars. Those royal boys love their toys, and they don’t care how they come by ’em. A black market Gullwing like Poochie’s will fetch a cool million in cash over there. And did I mention that an unmarked tractor-trailer was spotted in the commuter parking lot early this morning?”
“I thought you said the Feds shut that operation down.”
“Doesn’t mean someone else hasn’t taken their place. Yolie’s man is sure someone has. There’s been an uptick of thefts lately. And there’s never a shortage of raggies looking to make a quick buck. Speaking of which, Rico reached out to the guard at Enfield Correctional who was in charge of Stevie and Donnie’s cell block. The guard says they pretty much kept to themselves. Doesn’t mean they didn’t hook up with a guy while they were in. The guards don’t see everything. But hey…” She closed her notepad, raising her chin at him. “Enough about my job. You wanted to talk to me about something.”
“I did. I do.” Mitch drained his coffee and sat back. “But this has to stay between us. Strictly off the record, okay?”
“Okay…”
“Hypothetically speaking, what are the legal obligations of someone who might be in possession of information regarding adult males having sex with a teenaged girl without her consent?”
Des regarded him with cool, professional detachment now. “How old a girl are we talking about?”
“Fourteen.”
“A girl that young it’s statutory rape even with her consent. Does this hypothetical girl want to reach out to the law?”
“Not necessarily. In fact, I’d say no.”
“Then I mustn’t know her identity-not even off the record. I’d be legally obligated to pursue a criminal investigation. And you should be aware that in Connecticut we have a Mandatory Reporting Statute. If a teacher or coach gets wind of this type of situation then he or she is obligated to pass the information on. The statute extends to any adult who’s serving in an advisory role. A tutor, even a mentor.”
By invoking the m-word Des was signaling that she had a pretty fair idea where he was skating, and that the ice was not safe. “Even if she’s an adult now?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m still obligated to investigate.”
“Okay, but here’s the truly strange part. There’s a decent chance that she made it all up.”
“Why would she want to do that?”
“I really can’t go into the specifics.”
“What makes you even think it?”
“Because she’s presently in a long-term relationship with a man who insists it never happened. He’s quite vehement. I just don’t know if I believe him. He’s got a temper, Des. I’m concerned he might go after someone.”
“Such as who?”
“Once I tell you that we’re past the point of no return.”
Des puffed out her cheeks, exasperated. “Mitch, I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all. If someone gets hurt, then it’s on you.”
“I know that, and I promise I’ll tell you everything just as soon as I can. Give me today, okay?”
She stared at him hard. “Okay,” she allowed, signaling for the check.
“One sec!” called out Allison, who was topping off the four geezers’ cups for about the eleventh time.
As they sat there waiting for her, Des impulsively reached over and put her hand on top of Mitch’s, squeezing it.
He glanced down in surprise. “Master Sergeant, are you aware that your uncommonly delectable fingers are in direct, public contact with mine own?”
“I am,” she replied, her eyes twinkling at him.
“Here we go, folks…”As Allison put their check down on the table her gaze fell on their hands locked together there. And lingered a second before she added, “Have a good one.” Then she scuffed back toward the kitchen.
“Why, you sly vixen,” Mitch said, beaming at Des across the table. “You’re feeding the village gossip mill, aren’t you?”
“Just playing the game according to house rules,” she said, pulling her hand away. “I’m out of here. Have to go canvass the bottle return centers to see if anyone brought in an unusually large load this morning.”
“Oh, is that right?…”
Des narrowed her gaze at him. “Do you know something?”
“Let me put it to you this way-you’re about to be reminded, yet again, why I’m what’s known on Wall Street as a blue chip investment. I pay dividends.”
“Mitch, tell me what you know right now or I swear I’ll rearrange your facial features with that ketchup bottle.”
So he told her.
CHAPTER 14
The place on Whipperwill Road that Milo Kershaw was demolishing wasn’t hard to find. It was the one that looked as if it had just taken a direct hit from a Texas twister. The walls were standing, but its roof, roof joists and ceilings had vanished, along with the windows and front door. It reminded Des of extreme storm footage that she’d seen on the Weather Channel, which was the only channel Mitch kept his television tuned to anymore. If her doughboy wasn’t watching an old black-and-white movie then he was glued to Jim Cantore. The fact that she found this trait endearing-as opposed to crashingly boring-was just another measure of how into Mitch she was. Although she could have sworn that he and Allison Mapes had been vibing at McGee’s. Unless it was just her own paranoia. After all, Mitch was not Brandon. Mitch would never two-time her. Mitch was true blue, wasn’t he?
Well, wasn’t he?
The house was sided with cedar shingles. Milo was stripping them off and loading them into his truck, which was parked on the lawn right about where you’d expect to find a rental Dump-ster. No such Dumpster for Milo Kershaw. Dumpsters cost money. The little man worked alone and was salvaging pretty much everything he could crowbar out of the place. The kitchen sink and cabinets were piled on a tarp next to the truck, along with a heap of lumber and copper pipes. His snarly Doberman was tied up to a tree, standing guard over these secondhand
