on.”
“Maybe he’s been doing more than worship it. He have a sheet, too?”
“No, Rondell’s a real straight arrow. Has an MBA from Wharton. Plus he’s on the twerpy side. The boys’ mother, Chantal, lives there, too. She’s a former working girl and crackhead. Heavily into the Lord now. Or doing a pretty fair imitation of it. A slow girl named Monique helps her around the place. That’s everybody.”
Toni returned to their table now, reeking of cigarette smoke.
Yolie glanced up at her. “Ready to get some honest work done now, Sergeant?”
“You bet, Loo.”
“Then let’s ride. Oh, and, sergeant?…”
“Yeah, Loo?”
“Button your damned blouse up, will you? This is the Major Crime Squad, not Hooters.”
CHAPTER 10
Mitch had already devoured his fourth biscotti by the time he turned off Old Shore Road and started his way through the Nature Preserve. Pressured. He was feeling unusually pressured. He absolutely had to send his Halloween Scare-a-Palooza column off to Lacy this afternoon. And clean his house from top to bottom for tonight’s quasi-monumental dinner party. And go for a three-mile run so as to work off the truly alarming number of calories he’d been mainlining over the past seventy-two hours. And try on every single pair of pants he owned so as to determine if any of them were creeping northward toward his armpits. Plus he felt an overwhelming urge to take a long, hot shower after his little chat with Stewart Plotka and Andrea Halperin. He was positive that Plotka had spit shrimp salad on him. Andrea? She’d just made him feel soiled.
As Mitch neared the barricade to the Big Sister causeway, he came upon a gleaming blue Porsche Carrera convertible parked there with its top down. Rondell Grantham stood leaning against it, neatly dressed in a white button-down shirt and tan slacks. He was a very serious, professional-looking little guy-aside from the half-empty fifth of Grey Goose vodka he was chug-a-lugging. He seemed to have been weeping. His eyes were red and swollen behind his gold-framed spectacles.
“Can I help you?” Mitch asked him through the Studey’s open window.
“Yes, sir, you can,” he answered thickly. Wasted. Rondell was totally wasted. “Are you… Mr. Berger?”
“I am.”
“I am sorry to bother you but my family has suffered a terrible experience. My brother’s wife… Her sister washed up on your beach.”
“I know. I’m the one who found her. And I know you, Rondell. We met last night at the party. I was with Resident Trooper Mitry. I escorted Mr. Lash home, remember?”
Rondell peered at him, his gaze unfocused. “Of course. Please forgive me. I’m a little… upset.” He took a big gulp of the vodka, holding the bottle out to Mitch. “Care for some?”
“No, thanks. It’s a little early for me.”
“I hardly ever drink. Maybe a glass of champagne at New Year’s.”
“Rondell, was that bottle full when you started in on it?”
“Yes, I believe it was. I opened it. Needed a drink.” He took another gulp, wavering as he stood there. “Has Resident Trooper Mitry… told you anything?”
“I know Kinitra’s pregnant, if that’s what you mean.”
Rondell let out a grief-stricken sob. “Who would do such a thing to her?”
“Rondell, would you like to come out for a cup of coffee?”
“Actually, I was wondering… I would very much like to see the spot where you found her.”
“What for?”
“Because I almost lost her. Want to see where she was found. That make any sense?”
“Sure, it does. I’ll be happy to show you. Nice car you have, by the way.”
“Thank you. It was a birthday present from my brother.”
“Why don’t you leave it here? We can take my truck, okay?”
Rondell was certainly an agreeable drunk. He opened the Studey’s passenger door and climbed right in, bottle in hand. “This truck is very much an antique type of truck, is it not?”
“It is an antique type of truck, yes.”
“Most interesting.”
“Glad you think so.”
Mitch steered it across the wooden causeway and pulled up outside his cottage.
Rondell squinted at it through the windshield. “This is very much an antique type of house, too. Rather modest in scale. I thought it would be much grander.”
“It’s plenty big enough for me. I live by myself.”
“Really? I personally have never lived by myself. Wouldn’t even know how. I’ve always lived with my brother. Or a-a succession of college roommates. None of them liked me very much. Do you like me, Mitch?”
“Sure, I like you fine. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because most people do not. They consider me to be a drippy, dweeby sort of individual. I never spent much time with my roommates. I was always at the library studying. I had to be. I couldn’t let Tyrone find out my secret.” He drank down some more vodka, hiccoughing slightly. “Would you like to know my secret?”
“Okay.”
“I’m not very smart.”
“Who are you kidding? You don’t get an MBA from Wharton by being a dummy.”
“No, listen to what I’m saying. Listen. The others were so much smarter. I had to play catch up at the library every single night. Cram and cram and…” Rondell noticed the groceries that were piled on the seat between them. “You do your own cooking?”
“I do.”
“You’re an accomplished type of person, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m what they call a renaissance schlub.”
Rondell blinked at him. “May I see the inside of your home?”
“Absolutely.”
Mitch stowed the dinner groceries in the fridge while Rondell flopped down on the love seat with his vodka bottle, gazing around at the living room.
“Very nice home, Mitch,” he observed.
“Just do me a favor and don’t call it sa-weet.”
“Wasn’t going to. I would be very happy in such a house. It’s exceedingly atmospheric. You play the guitar?”
“I make some noise.”
“Kinitra plays the piano.”
“Yes, I know.”
Rondell set the bottle down sharply on the coffee table. “I would like to see where you found her.”
Mitch led him down the path toward the beach. Rondell walked slowly and carefully, one foot in front of the other as if he were on a tightrope. It was still warm and muggy out. The sky was a hazy summer sky. And yet Mitch could feel a slight change in the air. A breeze was starting to pick up. A few sailboats were out there trying to catch hold of it.
Rondell peered out at them. “Tyrone has a cigarette boat.”
“I’ve seen it. And heard it.”
“I hate the thing. It’s so childish.”
“We’re all children inside.”
“Very true, Mitch. You are a profoundly deep individual.”
“That’s me, all right. I was voted North America’s Deepest Critic at the Cannes Film Festival last year.”
“Were you really?”
