paying the rent on said prostitute’s apartment and bought said prostitute that cute little red Beemer.”
He glared at her long and hard. “Are you trying to make a point?”
“Well, yeah. You’re keeping house with a key witness in a case you personally investigated. A pro, as it happens. A tranny pro, in fact. Not that I’m passing judgment on your lifestyle. But it’s really, really not the sort of behavior that Internal Affairs looks too kindly on.”
“Did you come here to threaten me?” he blustered in response. “You did, didn’t you? You are actually trying to threaten me. Let me tell you something, Master Sergeant Mitry. You just made the biggest mistake of your miserable life. Because you are done, hear me? You will never work in law enforcement again!”
“Um, okay, this is the part where I talk and you listen,” Des said in a calm, steady voice. “I don’t give a damn who you’re related to. All I have to do is hand these around at the headmaster’s house and you are toast.” She gazed at him, smiling. “I can see those little wheels starting to turn in your head. Don’t waste your brain power. The memory card is stashed somewhere safe. It won’t do you any good to nuke my computer. Or search my house. Or burn it to the ground. The card’s not there.” She’d hidden it at Mitch’s place last night. Taped it under a kitchen drawer. “And if by some weird chance anything tragic should happen to me-like if I were to die a sudden death in a random drive-by shooting-this all gets sent directly to Superintendent Crowther. The arrangements have already been made.” She’d e-mailed the detailed instructions to her lawyer before she’d headed here. “You’re the one who’s done, Captain. I own your ass from now on, hear me? You’re mine. All mine.”
“What d-do you want from me?” he sputtered, his barrel chest heaving with rage.
“For starters, this so-called case of yours regarding my conduct toward Augie Donatelli disappears right now. I want back on normal duty by the end of today. More importantly, when Deputy Superintendent Mitry returns from medical leave in a few weeks-and he will return-he will serve out the remainder of his long, distinguished career in whatever capacity he chooses. He’s fought for that right. And he deserves it. What he doesn’t deserve is to have a pack of jackals nipping at his heels while he’s being wheeled into the operating room. If you try to mess with my father ever again, I swear I’ll go public with these photos. And I’ll make sure your lovely wife gets a complete set, too.”
Richie breathed in and out heavily, struggling to control himself. Clearly, he wanted to dive at Des and strangle her with his bare hands. “You’ll never get away with this.”
“Yes, I will. There’s a pretty little girl with a pink tricycle who’s got my back. You don’t want to lose her, do you?”
“How dare you mention my daughter? You don’t go after a man’s family. That’s way out of line.”
She let out a laugh. “Oh, is that right?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re on the job. That’s different.”
“So are you, Captain. Real different. And I wouldn’t invoke the sanctity of your happy family right now if I were you because you’re on super-shaky ground. Tell me, do you wear a condom when you’re with little Eboni? I certainly hope you do. I’d hate to think you’re jeopardizing your wife’s health.”
He shook a stubby finger at her. “It’s Yolie, isn’t it? Yolie Snipes is behind this. She’s always had it in for me.”
“Yolie doesn’t know a thing about this. Nor does your cousin Rico, if that’s where you’re going next. You’re looking for hate in all the wrong places, Captain. Try checking out the mirror. Now do we have a deal or don’t we? Because if we don’t, I’m going to knock on that front door and show your missus these pictures right freaking now.”
He glowered at Des, the very model of macho defiance. Until, slowly, Captain Richie Tedone of Internal Affairs began to deflate right before her eyes. His shoulders slumped. His pumped-up muscles seemed to shrivel. “I-I can’t get Eboni out of my system,” he confessed miserably. “You think I don’t know how wrong it is? I’d give anything to be free of that crazy little tramp. I-I’ve tried to walk away a million times. Believe me, I’ve tried. But I keep coming back. It’s like a sickness or something.”
She offered him her cell phone. “Call somebody who cares. I don’t. If you choose to spend your free time with a drugged-out tranny skank instead of with your beautiful wife and children that’s your business. Just know that today’s the day it bit you in the ass.”
“You’re one cold-hearted bitch, know that?”
“If it makes you feel any better to think so go right ahead,” she responded. “Now do we have a deal or do I go knocking on your door?”
“All right, all right,” he growled at her. “You win-this round. But I promise you, Master Sergeant Mitry, if you ever come near my house again I won’t be responsible for my behavior.”
“No offense, Captain, but you crossed that particular bridge a long, long time ago.”
CHAPTER 17
What am I missing?
It kept gnawing at Mitch as he toodled down Dorset Street in his pickup en route to the A amp;P. The something, whatever it was, that he wasn’t seeing. The key to Augie’s murder. The link between Augie’s death and the Dorset Flasher. Because there was a link, he told himself, munching on the last of the four apple-cider doughnuts he’d picked up at McGee’s diner on his way to the market. At a time like this he needed to be fortified by one of his native fat-boy food groups. Well, two actually. Here lay the sheer genius of doughnuts-they counted as both sugar and grease. The Dorset Flasher, he was convinced, was not just some random kid from the neighborhood. This whole mess was linked together somehow. Had to be. Because this was Dorset-ground zero for hidden links that went back God knows how many generations. Like that whopper of a hookup between Beth and Bertha, her grandfather’s one-time tootsie. Therefore, the identity of the Dorset Flasher was critical. Had to be. The Flasher had not indulged in any targeted weenie waving last night, according to Yolie. Not a single sighting of him. Which signified what-that he was dead? That Augie had been the culprit? Or that he was alive and in hiding now?
What am I missing?
Maybe nothing. Maybe he just had a case of Chattering Monkey Brain, as Kimberly called it in yoga class. His head spinning around and around. No outlet for his jumbled thoughts. Nowhere to run with them. He was the only one of them who had no assignment this morning. Des was on her way to Boston to check the tollbooth security cameras for Kenny’s comings and goings. Very was on his way back to New York City to grill Vinnie Brogna. Yolie was preparing to take another crack at Beth, who Very was convinced had been holding out on him. Mitch? He was heading to the supermarket for a half gallon of low-fat milk. And then it was back to his computer to flesh out this week’s column on icebox questions. After he’d filed that he had a mountain of spade work to do on his new film encyclopedia. This was his chosen profession. He wrote about movies. He didn’t solve crimes. Augie’s death was strictly a job for the pros.
What am I missing?
Or maybe he was just shook up from meeting the real Beth after all of these years. The Beth who was a member of the crime family known as the Seven Sisters. The Beth whose first husband, Sy Lapidus, had been in jail for bookmaking back when Mitch befriended Kenny in Stuyvesant Town. The Beth who had been carrying on a ten- year affair with a married mobster. No doubt about it-the first great love of Mitch Berger’s life had never been the woman he’d thought she was. And maybe a man doesn’t just shrug off something like that. Maybe it was hitting home more than he wanted to admit. Same as the Deacon’s impending coronary bypass surgery was. It was body blows like these that made Mitch miss the blissfully clueless innocence of his youth. Before he’d loved and lost Maisie. Before he’d become acutely aware of the pain and pitfalls that lay before him in the years to come-no matter how careful or smart or lucky he might be. Real life in all of its ugly glory. No grand finale. No stirring John Williams musical score. Just a small, quiet fade-out.
Maybe that was it, Mitch reflected, as he eased his old truck through the Historic District. Kids were out enjoying their last week of summer freedom. A couple of giddy thirteen-year-old girls were riding their bicycles. A boy on a skateboard was showing off for them. The girls were pretending they weren’t watching him. As he cruised past the firehouse, Mitch saw the Sidell boys, Phillip and Peter, walking down the street together, the pair of them playing a spirited little game on the sidewalk as they ambled along, chattering away. He honked and waved to
