twenty-ninth. That means he cooked up this incredible retaliation within four or five days. And he must know Pugh left no evidence of the blackmail behind. So it’s not pictures, letters, memos, anything visual or auditory. Pugh had no safety deposit key, even one he’d think was cunningly hidden. No bus or train station locker key either. Of course he might have sent something to his parents, but I’m guessing he didn’t.”
“Oh, come on, Carmine!” Patsy objected. “Where blackmail is concerned, there’s always physical evidence, even if it’s no more than a written description of an incident.”
“Not here,” said Carmine, straightening. “I’m convinced that Motor Mouth acted with total security. Now that Pugh’s dead, no threat remains. The blackmail evidence died with him.”
“Cop instinct?” Patsy asked.
Halfway to the door, Carmine paused. “How are you coping with the chaos?”
“First off, no outside referrals for the moment. The last of our already autopsied cases will have gone to their funeral homes by ten tonight, and that will give us room to accommodate the murder victims plus whatever I couldn’t deflect,” Patrick said. “I’m sending Gus and his boys to the North Holloman labs to do outside cases there until my crisis evaporates.”
“Poor Gus! North Holloman is a dump.” Carmine resumed his progress. “Meeting in Silvestri’s office nine tomorrow, okay?”
The lights of Holloman’s east shore were twinkling in and out of the wealth of trees for which Holloman was famous as Carmine parked his Ford Fairlane on East Circle shortly before nine that night. Strictly speaking, the vehicle was a police unmarked, with a souped-up V-8 engine and cop springs and shocks, but it didn’t look the part; since attaining captain’s rank, Carmine got a last year’s model every year, so it bore none of the stigmata of the usual cop unmarked. He took the sloping, curving flagged path down to his front door, tried the knob, and let himself in. Desdemona didn’t bother locking doors, correctly reasoning that it would be a very rare criminal who entered Captain Delmonico’s residence. Reasoning like that wouldn’t have held water in a larger city, but everyone in Holloman knew where Carmine lived, which had its disadvantages but also its advantages.
His women were assembled in the kitchen, a large one permitting them to dine in it if they had no guests, thus saving the formal dining room and Carmine’s exquisite Lalique table with matching chandelier for more festive occasions. The kitchen was pure white and clinically clean; in the matter of domestic decor Carmine’s second wife had deferred to his taste as better than her own, and never rued that decision.
She stood at the extra-high counter putting the finishing touches on a dish of lasagna, while her stepdaughter tackled the salad enthusiastically. The counters needed to be forty-six inches high, for Desdemona Delmonico stood six foot three in bare feet; that they were not even higher was a concession to Sophia, a mere five foot seven, and to the economics of offering something usable if ever the family decided to sell. Desdemona’s hair was a little tangled from running her hands through it, as she was a learner-cook who still suffered paroxysms of anxiety over her cuisine, though lasagna was fairly safe. Carmine’s mother and sisters had taken her in hand, so what she learned tended to be southern Italian. Very alien to Desdemona, English to her fingertips, but she had her occasional victories too. A visiting friend from Lincoln had taught her to make a traditional roast dinner and a Lancashire hot pot, both devoured by her husband and his family with great pleasure. Fancy never eating potatoes peeled and roasted around the joint! To Desdemona, it was a terrible omission. Not to mention gravy made on pan drippings.
When she turned to greet Carmine it could be seen that she was rather plain of face, between the overlarge nose and the prominent chin, but when her face broke into smiles it lit up most attractively, and the eyes were truly beautiful, big, calm, the color of thick ice. Motherhood had endowed her with a bosom, all that had been lacking to render her figure splendid, if hugely tall. As her well-shaped legs were proportionately very long, men tended to think her rather dishy. Not a verdict they would have delivered during Desdemona’s days managing the Hug; marriage had done wonders for her.
She went at once to Carmine and bent her face four inches to kiss him, while Sophia hopped from foot to foot, waiting her turn.
At sixteen going on seventeen, his daughter was undeniably lovely; she took after her mother, Sandra, who had aspired to a Hollywood career. Sophia was naturally blonde, blue-eyed, fine-featured, and her figure was everything a young girl could have hoped for. But while her mother was a cokehead still living on the West Coast, Sophia had a brain, considerable ambition, and more common sense than either her father or her stepfather, the famed producer Myron Mendel Mandelbaum, had ever hoped for in Sandra’s child. She had moved from L.A. and the depressing influence of her mother when Carmine and Desdemona married nine months ago, and occupied a teenaged girl’s idea of heaven: a square tower three floors high complete with a widow’s walk. Shrewd enough to realize that its location made it nigh impossible for her to sneak people in or sneak out herself, Sophia had decided that its advantages far outweighed such minor stuff, for she was not by nature a rebel. Though her suite had a little kitchen, she was almost invariably to be found eating with her father and stepmother, with whom she got on very well.
Desdemona enfolded in one arm, Carmine stretched out the other for Sophia, who came into it and kissed him smackingly.
“Lasagna!” he said, pleased. “Are you sure you don’t mind eating so late? I’d be happy with a plate warmed on top of the stove, honest.”
“Sophia and I are sophisticated women of the world” was his wife’s answer. “Eat too early, and one wakes up ravenous long before there’s a chance of breakfast. We have afternoon tea at four, and that lasts us.”
“How’s What’s-His-Name?” he asked, smiling tenderly.
“
“Give in, Daddy,” said Sophia, contributing her mite. “Julian is a great name.”
“It’s sissy,” Carmine said. “You can’t expect a son of mine to go to St. Bernard’s lumbered with a sissy name.”
Sophia giggled. “Go on, Daddy! He’s such a bruiser that he’s more likely to get ‘Big Julie from East Cicero, Illinois.’”
“Curse
The lasagna was being sliced; how did Desdemona know the hour he’d appear for dinner? Sophia had dished salad into bowls and was pouring the dressings of choice over them, then filling the wine glasses with a good Italian red, save for her own, which got a third of red on the bottom and then was topped up with sparkling mineral water. They sat down.
“How about Simon?” asked Sophia in a spirit of mischief.
Carmine reared back like a striking snake. “Sissy going on faggy!” he snapped. “Look, what passes for normal in England is one thing, but this isn’t England!”
“You’re prejudiced against homosexuals,” said Desdemona, her sangfroid unruffled. “And don’t say ‘faggy’!”
“No, I’m not prejudiced! But neither have I forgotten how miserable his classmates can make a kid with a fancy name,” said Carmine, still fighting valiantly. “It’s not about whether I’m prejudiced, it’s about the kids our son will associate with at school. Truly, Desdemona, the worst thing a parent can do to a child is lumber him or her with a stupid name, and by stupid I mean sissy or fancy or idiotic!”
“Then Julian is the best of a bad bunch,” said Desdemona. “I like it! Listen to the sound of it, Carmine, please. Julian John Delmonico.
It has a nice ring to it, and when he’s a famous man, think how good it will look on his letterhead.”
“Pah!” snorted Carmine, and changed the subject. “This is a very good lasagna,” he said. “It’s better than my mother’s, and getting up there with Grandmother Cerutti.”
She flushed with pleasure, but whatever she was going to say never was said; Sophia got in first.
“Guess who’s arriving tomorrow, Daddy?”
“When you speak in that tone, young lady, it can only be one person-Myron,” said her father.
“Oh!” Sophia looked deflated, then cheered up. “He didn’t say so, but I know he’s visiting to keep me company. The Dormer is on midsemester break, and I did drop him a hint.”
“Like a brick, huh? I’m kinda snowed under at work, so he couldn’t have come at a better time,” said Carmine, smiling.
“Bad?” Desdemona asked.
