provoked.
Mitch studied her curiously. “You’ve dealt with drunks like Augie a million times. Why are you letting him get under your skin?”
“You mean aside from the fact he’s a racist, sexist boor?”
“Seriously, why are you?”
She took another drink of her beer. “Because he was on the job. I don’t like seeing what’s happened to him. But enough about that fool. How was your day?”
“Great. I ran into an old flame. She lives right here in Dorset now. We’re invited over for drinks tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry, you just said what?”
He leaned over and kissed her, this time long and lingering. “Beth lived across the hall from me when I was a kid. She was a single mom. I looked out for her boy Kenny. Used to drag him to see old movies with me. He’s a computer geek up in Cambridge now. Comes here every weekend because-get this-he’s engaged to my yoga teacher, Kimberly. She’s Beth’s neighbor at the Captain Chadwick House.”
“So this would be Beth Breslauer?”
“Her name was Lapidus when I was growing up,” he said wistfully. “To me, she’ll always be Beth Lapidus.”
“Mitch, I would swear you’re blushing right now.”
“Am not.”
“No, no, you totally are. Is something going on between you two that I should know about?”
“Why would you say that?”
“You just called her an old flame, remember?”
“Des, she was my very first big-time crush. I was thirteen and she was this incredibly sexy divorcee with knockers out to here.”
Des glanced down at what was inside of her bikini top. Or, more precisely, wasn’t. “Since when are you into knockers out to here?”
“All thirteen-year-old boys are into knockers out to here. Who was yours?”
“Who was my what?”
“First big-time crush.”
Des stretched out on her back, gazing dreamily up at the milky blue sky. “George Michael. I had posters of that man plastered all over my room.”
“Was this back when he was still with Wham or had he already embarked on his trailblazing solo career?”
“Hey, did I chump you about your first crush?”
“Yes, you did. And I’m very mad at you.” He ran his hand up her smooth, bare flank, caressing her. “Very, very mad.” Now he was licking the dried salt from her belly button. “Absolutely, positively furious.” His tongue sliding lower and…
“Mitch, they can see us!”
“Who can?”
“The eye in the sky. Google Earth, NASA, whoever.”
“Let ’em watch. Maybe they’ll learn something.”
She sat up, rearranging her teeny top. “I’ll race you inside.”
“What’s in it for me if I win?”
“Oh, I think you know.”
They were barely in the door before they were out of their suits. They jumped into the shower together and washed off the sand, hands all over each other. And then they were up in his sleeping loft taking it nice and slow and tender. It wasn’t about performing. It was about them. And, God, was them something good.
As dusk approached they lay there in each other’s arms, eyes glittering, unable to keep the silly grins off of their faces, not even trying. Mitch’s indoor cat, Clemmie, lay curled up between them, purring. A sea breeze had picked up, cooling the airy little cottage.
“Can I interest you in some dinner, master sergeant?”
“You can interest me in just about anything right now.”
Mitch put on a T-shirt and shorts and went outside to fire up the grill. She got into his No. 15 Earl the Pearl Knicks jersey and stretched out on a lawn chair, sipping a cold glass of Sancerre while he raided his garden for fingerling potatoes, tomatoes and basil. He put the potatoes on to boil, then flopped down in the lawn chair with a beer. They gazed out at the water, so comfortable with the island’s quiet and each other that they felt no need to talk.
Except she did need to talk-about the case she was working. She had no partner to spitball with. Mitch knew this.
Which was why he blurted out, “How do you know for a fact that it’s always the same guy?”
She frowned at him. He was never short of insights. Most of them whack. But, somehow, he did see things. “Um, okay, you’re going where with this?”
“What if you’re dealing with a gang of flashers? It’s not as if the ladies have given you anything more than a vague description, right? Average height and weight. Wears a ski mask. For all you know, each lady could have been visited by a different weenie waver.”
“You’re not wrong about that. But why are you thinking it?”
“Because this whole thing’s a goof.”
“Mitch, it’s no goof.”
“Yeah, it is. It’s just the kind of dorky stunt a bunch of bored teenaged boys would pull off. Like the Mod Squad, remember?”
“Who could forget them?” There had been five of those boys-high school garbage heads who’d taken to spray painting obscene graffiti all over Dorset. “And that was no goof, Mitch. They almost burned down Center School, as you may recall. But keep talking.”
“You’re not dealing with a sexual predator who’s out there preying on attractive young women. He, or I should say they, have strictly chosen rich old ladies. Plus you’ve got that petty nuisance stuff in the mix. The dead skunk. The funeral home’s sign. I’m telling you-it’s a bunch of pimply kids. That also explains why it always happens on the weekend. Because their parents go out to dinner or the movies on the weekend. They aren’t around to keep an eye on the little weasels. Tell me, have any of the ladies said the perp was… why are you smiling?”
“You said perp. You’re just so cute when you do that. Sorry, go on.”
“Have any of them described him as being, you know…?”
“Locked in the upright position? Not a one. And, believe me, it has really, really been fun talking tumescence with the old girls.”
“So he gives them a limp wave and then he runs. Which means he’s not doing this for a sexual thrill.” Mitch got up to check the grill. The fire was ready. He put the corn on to steam and sat back down next to her. “I’m telling you, girlfriend, this is no pervert. It’s a gang of pranksters.”
“Okay, I’ll admit that it plays your way-in the abstract.”
“What about in the real?”
“Not so much. We’ve got profiles of every kind of human depravity you can imagine-and then some-in our criminal data bank. Your flasher is typically someone who has no gang to run with. He’s lonely, sexually frustrated and often confused about his sexual orientation. But it’s funny that you brought up the Mod Squad. I talked to one of them today-Ronnie Welmers. He’s a junior at Middlebury College in Vermont now. Had a summer job on campus that ended two weeks ago. He’s been home visiting his dad since then.”
“Hmm, interesting. Are you liking him for this?”
“Not really. Ronnie’s cleaned up his act. Plans to go to business school.”
“Wait, I thought you just said he’s cleaned up his act.”
“But he still likes to hang with his ‘homeys,’ as they so quaintly put it here in Funky Town, USA. I kept that boy’s ass out of jail. Ronnie owes me big time. Told me he’s been to a couple of keggers, caught up with old friends. Some of whom still go to the high school. All of them were talking about the Dorset Flasher. And he swears that not one of them has the slightest idea who he is. It’s the best-kept secret around. They all think it’s pretty
