“If that creep raped her, why on earth would she agree to meet with him?”
“Because he told her he had some important information about Tyrone.”
“Or possibly her sister,” the Deacon put in.
“That’s good, Daddy. That totally works. The man’s shameless. And I wouldn’t call Kinitra overly bright.”
Mitch nodded his head slowly. “Okay, but how did he set up the meeting?”
“Easy. He bumped into her at the store some time in the past couple of days. Passed her a note. I’m not saying that’s what happened. I’m just saying it’s possible.”
“Who else?” Chet asked. “Who else could have bumped into her and arranged this clandestine meeting?”
“Des never uses the word ‘clandestine,’ Pop.”
“She doesn’t? I thought all the pros used it.”
“Maybe they do, but she doesn’t.”
“How about hush-hush? Does she say hush-hush?”
“No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard her-”
“Boys, please!” Ruth scolded them.
“There’s the neighbor, Justy Bond,” Des continued. “He’s clashed with Tyrone from Day One. His auto empire is collapsing. He drinks. The man’s your classic all-American mess. His wife, Bonita, claims he drank himself to sleep last night same as always. Except Bonita wasn’t in bed with him and therefore can’t be sure he didn’t go next door and attack Kinitra.”
“Wait one second,” Mitch said sharply. “Where was Bonita?”
“On board the Calliope with June. Not that either of them will admit it.”
“But you can bank on it,” the Deacon said.
Mitch reached for another handful of soy nuts. “So it’s like that?”
Des nodded. “It’s like that.”
Ruth said, “Desiree, is this Justy Bond devious enough to trick the girl into a late night meeting with him?”
“He’s a car salesman. Need I say more?”
“And what about his son, June? Is he a suspect, too?”
“In theory? Yes. But I seriously doubt June is involved. He already has enough going on.” Des gazed down into her wine glass. “We also have to consider Tyrone’s other neighbor, Winston Lash. The old man knew about the hole in the fence. And he did bite that girl on the butt at Clarence’s party.”
Chet’s eyes widened, “He what?”
“Winston’s a dementia patient, Pop. He’s lost his sexual inhibitions, but he’s basically harmless. Hell, half the time the old fellow doesn’t even make any…” Mitch trailed off, scratching his head.
Des narrowed her gaze at him. “Make any what?”
“Never mind. I just thought of something I forgot.”
“Are you going to share it with the rest of the class?” Chet asked.
“It’s nothing. My point is he’s no rapist.”
Chet said, “The girl consented to a rape examination at the clinic this morning. Clearly, she wants your help. So why won’t she accept that help and tell you the truth? Who is she so afraid of?”
“Her big sister,” the Deacon answered quietly. “This is just us folks talking. But my own view is that Kinitra swam away like she did because of Jamella. Jamella has made a home for her, cared for her, supported her musical ambitions. Kinitra owes her a lot. And it’s eating her up inside.”
“What is, Buck?” Ruth asked.
“That she ‘let’ her sister’s husband have his way with her. Not that she could have stopped a two-hundred- forty-pound bully like Tyrone Grantham. If he was intent on having his way, there wasn’t a thing that girl could do.”
“So you think Tyrone Grantham is your man,” Chet said.
“There’s very little doubt in my mind that Tyrone Grantham is the father of that girl’s baby,” the Deacon said. “He wanted her. He took her. He’s been a taker all of his life. The league’s given him an official spanking. And he’s been mouthing all of the right words about changing his ways. But men like that don’t ever change.”
Des stiffened, staring at the Deacon with a startled expression on her face.
“What is it?” Mitch asked her.
“Nothing. I just thought of something that I forgot.”
“Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around.” Mitch heard another rumble of thunder. This one a bit closer. “The coals should be ready by now. I’d better put our fish on before the rain gets here.”
Des’s cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen and took the call. “Hey, Yolie… No, no, it’s okay. What’s?…” Her face dropped as she listened to what Yolie Snipes had to say. “Okay, I’ll be there in five.” She rang off, jumped to her feet and darted toward Mitch’s wardrobe cupboard, where she always kept a spare uniform. “Daddy, we officially have ourselves a case now.”
The Deacon peered at her. “What case is that?”
“Somebody just shot Stewart Plotka in the parking lot of White Sand Beach. He and his lawyer Andrea Halperin. They’re both dead.”
CHAPTER 13
White Sand Beach, which was the only stretch of precious sand anywhere in town that was open to all Dorseteers, was a dinky little public beach by most people’s standards. Two hundred yards wide at most, with parking for no more than a few dozen cars. There was a covered picnic area with a couple of picnic tables. And, during the peak summer months, there was a lifeguard on duty watching over a roped-off swimming area. After Labor Day, there was nothing. Just sand.
A pair of troopers from the Troop F barracks had secured the perimeter a half-mile back where Old Shore Road intersected Brighton and Seaside, the two roads that led down to the beach. News vans and satellite trucks were already crowded there. TV reporters were busy doing their stand-ups for the cameras. It sure hadn’t taken them long. They were the same mob who’d been camped out on Turkey Neck in front of the Grantham place. And nothing, but nothing, jump-starts news crews like a 911 call about a multiple homicide. They love blood. Anything with blood.
The trooper who’d sealed off Brighton Road let Des in, and she eased her cruiser through the two-block- long colony of summer cottages, slowing for the speed bumps that had been installed years ago for the safety of the children who lived there. They were small, squat cottages that were nestled close together. Almost all had been in the same working-class New Britain and Hartford-area families for generations. Almost none were winterized. Since the calendar said it was nearly November, most of the cottages were already shuttered for the season. Only a few lights were on here and there.
As she inched along between the speed bumps, Des saw a flash of lightning in the southern sky over Long Island. The storm was moving in fast. Soon, Mitch would be taking the salmon off the grill and the Bergers would be sitting down to eat. Des had insisted they go ahead without her. Ruth hadn’t cared for that idea. She wanted to wait for Des to return.
“That’s very sweet of you,” Des said to her. “But I’m liable to be gone for hours and hours. Please enjoy your evening, okay?”
The Deacon had come along for the ride. Sat right there beside her in the cruiser, big hands resting on his thighs, face impassive. The grown-up inside of Des was thrilled that he wanted to be at a crime scene again, be involved. This was a good sign. But her inner child definitely felt funny about him breathing down her neck while she was on the job. Not funny ha-ha. Funny freaked.
A trooper was stationed at the entrance to White Sand Beach’s dimly lit parking lot. Another was posted over at the lot’s exit on Seaside. Traffic in and out of the lot was routed that way so the streets absorbed the beach flow evenly. When Des pulled into the lot, she encountered a hive of activity. The crime scene techies were
