“Are you going to talk to that bastard?” Tyrone demanded. “Because if you don’t, I will.”
“We’ll talk to him,” Des said. “Keep your distance, understand?”
Rondell said, “I’m slightly confused about something. Can’t the doctors simply administer a DNA test to determine who the father is?”
“Yes, they can,” Des affirmed. “But only if Kinitra consents to it. And she’s refusing. She won’t even acknowledge that a crime has taken place. Says she’s been in a consensual relationship.”
“She hasn’t got any man,” Tyrone shot back. “Just her music.”
“That’s what I told the trooper,” Jamella said. “There’s nobody.”
Des looked at Rondell. “How about you? You spend a lot of time around Kinitra. Seem pretty fond of her.”
Little brother cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Of course I’m fond of her. She’s like a sister to me.”
“And how about Clarence?”
“Cee knows I’d break his fool neck if he touched her.” Tyrone glowered at Des. “And don’t you be looking at me. I’m a happily married man, not some animal.”
Des said, “Someone has been sexually assaulting that girl repeatedly for weeks, maybe months. It’s my belief, despite what she told us, that she was assaulted again last night. I believe she had reason to fear for her life. And I believe she’s still afraid. Therefore, I’m going to request the assistance of the Major Crime Squad.”
Jamella looked at her searchingly. “Will your people figure out who did this to my sister?”
“They’re very good at what they do. They’ll get to the bottom of this.” Des mustered a reassuring smile. “Whatever this is.”
CHAPTER 8
“Sa-weet room! ”
“Real glad you like it, Pop.”
Mitch had made sure he booked Chet and Ruth into the Admiral Bramble room of the Frederick House, which had a canopy bed, a private bath with a claw-footed tub and a terrific view of the Lieutenant River. It was the same room that Mitch had stayed in when he’d first shown up in Dorset-highly reluctantly, if he remembered right-on a weekend getaway assignment for his newspaper’s travel section. He’d barely gone out of his apartment in those brutal months after Maisie died, let alone traveled anywhere. Lacy, his editor, had thought he needed a wake-up call. Lacy was very clever that way.
“It’s a charming room, sweetheart,” Ruth said brightly, gazing around at the antique furniture.
“Sa-weet!” Chet exclaimed.
His father would, Mitch felt certain, totally freak if he knew just how much sa-weet cost per night in Dorset. But Mitch had also made sure that his father would never see the tab.
“Get yourselves settled in, okay?” he suggested. “Come on back out to the island whenever you’re ready. We’ll have drinks and a bite to eat. It’ll be fun.” Was it his imagination or had his voice started changing back to his pre-Bar Mitzvah falsetto? He was definitely sporting two fresh zits on his forehead. But, hey, his parents were not making this easy for him. They were stubbornly refusing to spill one word about those “appointments” of theirs in the City. Chet had said they’d talk about it tonight and he’d meant it. The man had always been maddening as hell that way. “And I’m real sorry about this morning,” Mitch added. “Finding a half-dead girl on the beach isn’t really a typical way to start your day out here. Well, actually it is , come to think of it. But Dorset’s really a very nice place-once you get used to the fact that everyone’s a bit funny in the head.”
He left them there and piloted his Studey through the Big Branch Road shopping district toward The Works, his mind on that beautiful, terrified young girl whom they’d rescued on the beach. If they hadn’t stumbled upon Kinitra Jameson, she would be dead right now. Was that what she’d wanted? To do herself in? Des had phoned from the clinic with ample reason why. Someone had been brutalizing the poor girl up, down and sideways. And gotten her pregnant.
The Works was a European-style food hall located in what had once been a huge red-brick piano works on the banks of the Connecticut River. There were food stalls that sold locally grown produce and farm-fresh eggs. There was a coffee bar that stayed open until late at night. A juice bar that sold fruit smoothies. A butcher, a fishmonger, a deli counter, a kick-ass bakery. Out in the center of the food hall there were tables and chairs where people could hang out over a cup of coffee or meet for a sandwich.
Mitch’s first stop was the bakery, where he bought two dozen chocolate biscotti. One dozen was for tonight’s dessert, the other to devour right goddamned now. Next he intended to buy a slab o’ salmon to throw on the grill. Dinner was going to be real simple and healthy. The Deacon was on a heart-smart eating regimen. Chet was watching his cholesterol and blood pressure. And Des was on her trendy Connecticut Gold Coast Clenched Stomach Diet.
As he was crossing the food hall Mitch encountered Stewart Plotka seated at a table having lunch with his turbocharged power lawyer, Andrea Halperin. Plotka was plump, soft-shouldered and boneless. Gave the impression of being constructed entirely out of blubber. And that black eye patch of his really wasn’t working for him. Moshe Dayan the man wasn’t. His eye and hand injuries didn’t seem to be hurting his appetite. He was attacking a foot-long shrimp salad hero, potato chips and a chocolate milk shake. Andrea was nursing a black coffee.
“Mitchell Berger, am I right?” she said, showing him her nice white teeth. Andrea was in her late thirties and, unlike her client, lean and taut. Her pinstriped suit was impeccably tailored. Her white blouse was silk. Her pearls were real. She had chicly styled hair, full red lips and terrific legs. Quite a sexy package if you were partial to greedy, soulless predators. “Join us, won’t you please?”
“Sorry, I really have to get to work,” Mitch said as her client continued to devour his lunch like a feral four- year-old. The man was spraying shrimp, mayo and shredded lettuce everywhere.
Andrea reached over and dabbed at Plotka’s mouth with a napkin. Mitch wondered if they were sleeping together. He doubted it. Plotka wasn’t exactly in her league. “Just for a moment, Mitchell. It’s quite important.”
Reluctantly, he sat down with them.
She sipped her coffee and said, “I miss your reviews on television. You were the best thing about the midday news. Was it a contractual thing?”
“No, it was more of a self-image thing.”
“Are you sure? Because if it’s about money, I’m the girl who can get it for you. Just turn me loose.”
“I’m not a talking head, that’s all.”
“But you were so good at it. Funny, charming, even a bit sexy, if you don’t mind me saying so. A lot of my friends had crushes on you.”
“I’m happy doing what I’m doing. I didn’t like being on TV.”
She let out a laugh. “Who does?” Like any top-flight lawyer, NBA point guard or professional assassin, Andrea Halperin could pivot on a dime. “It’s merely a way to get what you want.”
“Like what?” Mitch asked.
“Like restitution,” Plotka answered around a mouthful of shrimp salad. “Take me for a sec, okay? I had a beautiful future with a beautiful girl all lined up. Now I’ve got squat. My Katie’s never been the same since Tyrone Grantham attacked her. She has crying jags like you wouldn’t believe. Plus her dumb-assed shrink got her so hooked on happy-happy pills that she had to go into rehab.” He paused to take a loud slurp of his shake. “When I saw Grantham at Dave amp; Buster’s that day I was just trying to explain it to him. I wanted him to understand what he’d done to my nice girl. A nursing student. An angel of mercy. He came at me like a wild animal. Now I have permanent retinal damage plus tendon and ligament damage in my wrist.”
“And what’s happened to Katie?”
“Katie is down in Boca Raton at the present time,” Andrea answered delicately. “Her mother isn’t well. Katie’s been taking care of her and trying to get her own life back together. She hasn’t had an easy time of it, emotionally or financially. Stewart is well aware of that. He fully intends to share the proceeds with her when we reach a financial settlement with Mr. Grantham. And we will reach a settlement.”
