“Obviously, she was mistaken.”
“What if she wasn’t?”
“She was. Had to be. That’s the only way it rolls. I’ll search the desk, okay? You check out the footlocker.”
There were newspapers and empty beer cans heaped on the footlocker. Mitch removed them and opened it. Inside, he found a stack of old Playboy magazines from the late sixties. Each issue had been tucked inside of a protective plastic sleeve.
“This guy was a serious collector,” he said, sifting through them. “He has Barbara McNair’s legendary nude pictorial from If He Hollers, Let Him Go. And here’s the classic Ursula Andress spread from July, ’66. Look at all of these-Julie Newmar, Pamela Tiffin, Stella Stevens…”
“Anything in there besides old time peek-a-boobage?” Very asked as he riffled through the desk drawers.
“Baseball cards. Shoe boxes full of them. Looks as if he has the complete Yankees teams from ’64 through ’72. But there’s not a thing in here that’s the least bit current.” Mitch closed the footlocker back up. “You having any luck?”
“Nada. No notepads. No nothing. Wait, here we go…” He’d found his friend’s Nikon in the bottom drawer. Checked its register before popping it open. “No film inside, damn it.” Very got up and checked out Augie’s bathroom. Poked around in the medicine chest. Then went prowling into the kitchen, flinging open cupboards and drawers and, lastly, the refrigerator. “Got something here, dude.”
“What is it, lieutenant?”
“A cold six of Ballantine. I’m totally there. You want one, too?”
“Why not?”
Mitch joined him in the tiny kitchen and accepted a tall can of Ballantine Ale. Leaned against the sink, opened it and drank some down while Very peered inside the open refrigerator. It was empty except for the Ballantine, a carton of orange juice and assorted condiments. Clearly, the man didn’t do much cooking. Very reached for the mustard jar, twisted its lid off and poked his gloved index finger inside. Then he screwed the lid back on and did the same thing to the pickle relish, the ketchup and the mayonnaise. It was a large jar of mayonnaise. And when Very plunged his finger in down deep-son of a bitch-he found a smaller jar submerged inside. He removed it from its goopy hiding place and rinsed it off in the sink. Inside of it there was a roll of 35mm Kodak film.
“Knew I’d find it eventually,” he said with quiet satisfaction.
“I’m surprised that the crime scene investigators didn’t.”
“Had no reason to, dude. They weren’t looking for it.”
“What do you think is on it, Lieutenant?”
“Dawgie’s last batch of surveillance photos, I’m hoping. That roll he FedExed me of you and Beth having smoothies together-when did he take those?”
“Friday afternoon.”
“These must be from Friday night. Or maybe some time during the day on Saturday.”
“Why didn’t he get them developed? Why did he hide them?”
“No idea. But we’ve got to find out what’s on this roll right away. Is there a place here in town that’s open on Sunday?”
“No, but there’s a quickie photo center over in Old Saybrook. It’s in the shopping center across from the bowling alley.”
“You telling me that’s what people do out here to launch their payload? They bowl?”
“I can drive you over there.”
“Not necessary. I’m on it. Just need you to run me back to your island for my bike.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. I’ve got other business to attend to. Still have to find myself a place to stay tonight, for one thing.”
“If you run into any trouble with that let me know. My neighbor, Bitsy Peck, has at least eight spare bedrooms and loves company. And why don’t you come out for dinner later? If you don’t get a better offer, I mean.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that.” Very sipped his Ballantine, gazing around at his dead friend’s dreary little apartment. “Not much to leave behind when you’re gone, is it, dude?”
“No, Lieutenant,” Mitch said softly. “It’s not.”
CHAPTER 14
“What have you got for me, girl? And, please God, make it good,” blustered Yolie as she barreled across the lawn from her cruiser, fists clenched, jaw clenched, clenched. “Because I really need a break here, understand?”
Des was stretched out on one of Mitch’s lawn chairs savoring the fresh sea breeze after spending so many hours at that damned desk-searching high and low on her computer screen, working the phone. Quirt lay underneath her, his tail swishing in the grass. The geese were flying overhead. The grill was lit. Augie’s killer was still on the loose. The Dorset Flasher, who either was or was not the same person, was still on the loose. Her father was having his chest cut open in three days. It was just a typical Sunday evening in paradise. “I understand, Yolie,” she said. “Chill out, girl. You’re so wired you’re giving off sparks.”
“Damned media people keep messing with my head,” she huffed in response. “Demanding I feed them something for the six o’clock news. What do you tell them when you have nothing to tell them?”
“That this is an ongoing criminal investigation. That you are pursuing numerous fruitful leads, are making excellent progress and have no new information that you can share with them at this time.”
Yolie stuck out her chin. “Yeah, that’s pretty much what I said.”
“Then you should be fine.”
“Rico really doesn’t like me putting my face out there.”
“Rico will really have to deal with it. Sit yourself down, will you? You have to learn how to pace yourself. We’ll talk it out over dinner.”
Mitch had gone to fetch a bucket of sweet corn from Bitsy’s garden. His own fresh-picked salad greens were taking a bath in the kitchen sink. Two organic free-range chickens were marinating in olive oil, lemon juice, rosemary and garlic.
He came trudging up the path now, a Corona in one hand, his bucket of corn in the other. “Hey, Yolie,” he called to her. “Can I get you a beer?”
She shook her head. “No slow juice for me. I’m on duty tonight.”
“In that case, how would you like a cranberry spritzer with a twist of lime and a sprig of my very own homegrown mint?”
“Do I look like some skinny East Side Gap bitch to you?”
“Down, girl,” Des cautioned her.
Yolie puffed out her cheeks. “Sorry, Mitch. Didn’t mean to bite you. I’m just a little stressed right now.”
He grinned at her. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“That cranberry… whatever sounds great.”
“One spritzer, coming right up,” he said as a buzzer went off inside the cottage. Someone was at the causeway gate. Mitch fetched his binoculars from inside of the door and had a look. “Ah, good, it’s Lieutenant Very.”
Yolie’s eyes widened with alarm. “What’s he doing here?”
“I invited him to dinner. Hope you don’t mind.” Mitch pressed the buzzer to raise the security barricade and then went inside to make her drink.
Des watched the New York cop ease his motorcycle across the wooden causeway, hearing its throaty roar.
“I-I had no idea he was coming. None.” Yolie sounded even more wound up now-if such a thing was even
