Addressed to Kill Page 12

  I wasn’t sure why Ben thought that mattered but didn’t ask. Instead, I remembered something I should have asked last night. “When was the last time you talked to your dad?” I asked Dyson.

  “Over the weekend. He was upset as usual about faculty meetings, thought the administrators didn’t know what they were doing. He was always saying that, though. But I know he loves teaching and would never leave it.”

  Ben seemed to notice the slip also, the assumption that Dennis was still with us. He opened the gate and ushered Dyson through to where my desk was. A first for Ben, who usually treated that simple wooden gate as if it were guarding Fort Knox.

  We took seats, Ben hoisting himself on a nearby table, a popular perch for him.

  “Did he have any particular problem with any one person?” I asked.

  “See what I mean?” Ben said. “When she gets going, you know she’s going to get to the bottom of things. Count on it.”

  I’d never heard such an endorsement from Ben. He was spare with his praise, and I saw that it took a young man in pain to bring out his full measure of compassion.

  “What Ben means is that I sometimes help our chief of police when she needs a layperson’s take on things.”

  “Well, thanks, whatever you call it.” Dyson scratched his head. “I’d have to think about the details of that call on Saturday. I know he said he was going to duke it out with some lady over the curriculum. Someone who’s in the Ashcots, too, I think.”

  Joyce Blake, I thought. Not earthshaking, unless they had more to argue about than a curriculum issue.

  “And there was a guy he was always preaching about. I guess this teacher did some awful thing, like take money from a student for a good grade.” Dyson’s eyes opened wide. “Like I would ever try to do something like that. That would have been enough to send my dad over the edge. He was, like, a straight arrow that way.”

  “He was trying to set a good example for you,” Ben said.

  “Totally. He was even thinking of turning in some faculty member he’d seen pulled over by a cop on the turnpike. Can you believe it? I told him, what if the guy just had a busted taillight?”

  I hoped I remembered all these tidbits. I was too intimidated by Ben’s presence to take out a notebook.

  We’d started to dress for the walk to the police station when Mercedes rushed in. She was wearing another of her dramatic winter capes, this one in a mottled pattern of yellows and gold, matching highlights in her hair and reminiscent of a Turner seascape. I stepped to the counter to help her.

  “Dyson,” she said, flustered, opening her arms to embrace him. “Oh, Dy, I didn’t expect to find you here so soon.”

  While they connected, I pulled out the paperwork and retrieved the key to the Ashcots’ post office box and had it ready to hand over to Mercedes.

  I looked at her with a new eye, now that I knew she and Dennis had been an item. More than that, their breakup was apparently memorable. I thought again of one of Aunt Tess’s keen observations, borrowed no doubt from someone more famous than she was: There’s not much to see in a small town, but what you hear makes up for it.

  The question, as always, was how much of it was true?

  Mercedes left, apologizing for being in a rush, promising Dyson she’d see him again, assuring him of her best wishes. There was nothing more personal in her remarks than there was in mine.

  “You taking some time off?” Ben asked Dyson.

  “I’m not sure what I’m going to do. It’s funny how when you come home it’s not really home anymore, except for my dad, and now . . .” Dyson struggled to keep his composure. “We probably should get going. I told them at the station that I’d be there around ten thirty.” He turned to me. “Is that okay, Cassie? Maybe I should have asked you first, about the time.”

  “It’s not a problem.”

  I wondered if Dyson was always so diffident or if the loss of his only family had set his growth and self-confidence back a few years.

  I could see that Ben was already rearranging the desk in the configuration most convenient for him as he took over the duties that had been his alone for so many years. Was this how I was going to be in about thirty years?

  I supposed I could do worse.

  * * *

  Dyson was quiet on our short walk from the post office to the police station on a cold-but-not-bone-chilling morning. I wanted to allow him space but felt compelled to offer advice. I groaned inside, realizing I was already behaving like Ben, whose rule seemed to be: When speaking to someone younger than you, make as many suggestions as you can.

  “You know, the chief of police is going to ask you some questions. Don’t take it as anything like a personal affront, and don’t be afraid to say you don’t know, or that you’ll have to think about it.”

  “Didn’t Mr. Gentry say she was your friend?”

  “She is, but she’s also an excellent detective and she can be intimidating when she’s in the middle of a case.”

  “When I told her that you were coming with me, she seemed happy.”

  “She did?” I hadn’t meant to sound so shocked.

  It crossed my mind that I had some nerve warning an innocent person about Sunni, as if she would be insensitive to the family of a murder victim. The only defense I could think of was that Dyson’s situation brought out memories of the most traumatic days of my life. The chief at the time was an old (to me) man who thought being a cop meant you never smiled and you treated everyone like a past or present criminal or a potential criminal.

  I’d been summoned to the station more than once in the weeks following the wreck that killed my parents. Each time, the top cop made me feel as though (at best) I might be withholding information regarding the crash, or (at worse) I might have had something to do with it. His voice and my thoughts at the time echoed in my head, as clear as if they were not more than half my lifetime ago.

  “Were your parents getting along all right in the last week or so?” I was asked.

  They’ve been getting along for the last twenty years. They loved each other.

  “Do you have any reason to think there was alcohol involved in the crash?”

  The driver of the other car, the two-ton SUV, was drunk, not my parents, who never drank anything stronger than espresso.

  “Did any of your friends have a reason to wish harm on your parents?”

  Are you crazy? A drunk stranger ran into my parents.

  “Did you have any kind of argument with your parents this evening or within the past few days? Maybe before you left for your party?”

  No, no, and no. And it wasn’t my party; it was my friend’s sweet sixteen celebration, which turned out to be a wake.

  As if I didn’t feel guilty enough that I hadn’t accompanied them on their shopping trip and, therefore, hadn’t died with them.

  I looked at Dyson, walking with his head down, like someone with a walker, careful of each step. There was a difference between death by car crash and death by gunshot, but they both said “murder” to me, and in the end, the emotional toll was the same. Enormous.

  “Is there anyone you can stay with for a while? An aunt or uncle?” I asked.

  “I might just hang out at the house for a while. I really don’t know.”

  I took that as a no. No Aunt Tess in Dyson’s life. How much harder this was going to be for him.

  “Of course you don’t know yet. And I don’t mean to pry. I just want you to know that I’m here for you if you need anything.”

  Other than having your family back.

  * * *

  Sunni was ready for us with a brunch of fruit, pastry, and a platter of cheeses spread out on the conference table in a side office. Maybe not college student food, but that was a good thing. She welcomed Dyson with a warm embrace. “I figured you hadn’t bothered to get breakfast this morning,” sh
e said to him.

  Things had changed for the better in the North Ashcot PD. Dyson showed his appreciation by making sure there were no leftovers.

  It turned out that Dyson and Sunni’s daughter knew each other from high school. Dyson was a year or two ahead of Avery, but they’d been on a couple of the same teams and in a club or two together. Sunni and Dyson reminisced about some famous wins and losses on the soccer field, taking Dyson back to a time when this was his home.

  Seeing her in action in this situation, I had the feeling Sunni would have responded this way even if she’d been meeting Dyson for the first time.

  I wished I’d called ahead and gotten some tips from Sunni about what she expected from me during this interview, which seemed more like a reunion for the two of them. Was I supposed to be quiet, seen and not heard? Maybe even leave the room once I finished my third cup of coffee. Probably the one thing she did not want was me asking questions of my own. Did Dyson know about his father’s hate mail? Did he know about Dennis’s relationship to Mercedes?

  I had an answer to at least one of my questions when Sunni turned to me and looked at her watch and then, not too subtly, at the door. “We should be done here in an hour or so, Cassie,” she said.

  I smiled and put on my jacket. “I’ll see you then,” I said.

  Bummer.

  * * *

  The only reason I could think of that Sunni would invite me back was that she assumed I’d picked up Dyson and would drive him home. But she had officers who could do that, so maybe I was to be part of the end of their interview. Either way, the morning hadn’t worked out as I’d hoped.

  I decided to leave Ben at my job for the morning, as he’d originally planned, and do something useful on my own. Granted, I was headed toward a week when I was off more than I was on at work, but it wasn’t as if I were getting a mani-pedi or a haircut, the last of which was obvious. My shoulder-length style would be a midback style, more suitable to the young Officer Greta Bauer if I didn’t take care of it soon.

  There was one more thing I could do before I left the police building. I stopped at the reception area where the blond Greta sat behind a government-issue desk not unlike my own, her long hair tied back in a ponytail. I guessed her age at early twenties, not much older than Dyson. She was tall and fair and, I hoped, naive.

  “I’m going to need some coffee before I face that wind,” I said as I approached the credenza, with its minimal supplies for really bad coffee. Sunni kept her upscale, state-of-the-art machine away from the casual visitor or arrestee.

  “That’s not like the coffee”—she tilted her head toward the room where Sunni and Dyson were most likely carrying on a meaningful interview that I was not invited to—“back there.”

  “I know, but I had to leave to go back to work. I’m so glad there’s finally progress on”—I drew quotes in the air—“the three bad guys.” Winging it.

  Greta chuckled and drew her own quotes. “You mean the two bad guys and a bad girl.”

  I laughed, because she did, and to cover my surprise. “Guilty of gender stereotyping, I guess,” I said.

  “Yeah, nothing’s going to change until we give female crooks their due.” Greta chuckled. “I’m surprised you know about it already. We just brought them in early this morning.”

  I thought about the shadowy figures outside the Somerville residence. Had I just missed an arrest? “Oh, I thought they’d been arraigned earlier.” Still winging it.

  She shook her head. “Sunni’s just beginning to break them.” She lowered her voice. “Apparently, they’re being stubborn about the murder.”

  “You mean they admit to the robberies but not to the murder?” I stirred sugar and yellowish powder into the very bad coffee. Why not? I had no intention of drinking it.

  “Yeah, I’m just sending out the notice for the newspaper and other folks.” She indicated a stack of pages on the corner of her desk. “You want a copy?”

  I pretended to think it over, then said, “Sure,” with as unexcited a voice as I could manage. “Something to read on my break.”

  Greta’s phone rang. I jumped. I imagined Sunni watching a video of her reception area, calling Greta with orders to toss me onto Main Street. Or have me arrested and ushered down to the unpleasant cells in the basement.

  I waved to Greta and left while I had the chance.

  Safely (I hoped) out on the street, I rushed toward Mahican’s coffee shop, tossing the nasty coffee in the nearest trash. I stuffed the paper in my pocket; I didn’t think it would be wise for me to read the memo as I walked. More cameras, probably.

  I made it to Mahican’s before eleven thirty, ordered a cup of real coffee, and took a corner seat. Mahican’s wasn’t the most popular place for dining at this hour, serving only packaged sandwiches and boxed salads, so I had no trouble finding a table in the corner.

  I finally unfolded the paper Greta had forced on me (such was my story) and read the report on the suspects in the string of robberies.

  Chief Smargon of the North Ashcot PD is pleased to report progress in the investigation into multiple home burglaries. Three suspects, ranging in age from twenty-two to twenty-five, have been taken into custody. The suspects are being held for questioning in several burglaries in the last two months. “We’ve had useful tips from the public,” the chief said, “and our lines are still open to new information.”

  I read a couple more lines with the exact dates and addresses of the burglaries, apparently not privileged information. The report read like the general notices that usually appeared in police briefs.

  No names of the suspects, of course, even though they were adults, and no mention of the gender representation. Also, no mention of progress in the more important investigation, Dennis’s murder. How disappointing. And it was all I had. How was I supposed to help Sunni if all I was getting was what the general newspaper-reading public was told?

  A major sticking point was that I’d assumed that if the robbers were following me, that meant they were also responsible for Dennis’s murder, and therefore wanted to keep tabs on my progress. Not that I had any, but I had to acknowledge that I was developing a reputation for assisting the NAPD. It would mean that we—the NAPD and I—didn’t have to look further into Dennis’s friends and coworkers. A stranger, or three, looking for money—that was who did it.

  Wouldn’t it be interesting if I didn’t see my shadowy tails while the two-boys-and-a-girl group were in custody? Through some perverse working of my mind, I was almost disappointed that they’d been grabbed up—my working theory was that they were following me because I was investigating and getting close. Grandiose? There were many who would think so, especially since close was not a word I would use to characterize my progress.

  I was grateful to Greta for the one specific tidbit—two boys, one girl—and thought about cultivating a closer friendship with her.

  I skimmed through the rest of the Police Briefs section. It was hard to tell one day from another in this catalogue of crimes. Motor vehicle accidents, disorderly conduct and malicious disorderly conduct (the difference being?), disturbing the peace, shoplifting.

  The most interesting report was of an unannounced raid in a particularly questionable neighborhood by tow companies, allegedly contracted by the town to remove cars that were in violation of parking rules by even an inch, and tow them away. Some residents said they were ordered to pay as much as four or five hundred dollars to reclaim their vehicles. Residents claimed the city was essentially bailing out a failing towing business at the expense of its citizens. Whether in a small town like North Ashcot or a big city like Boston, politics seemed the same, inscrutable to a layperson.

  I’d almost folded the paper when I caught a glimpse of one more item, this one rare: assault and battery of a police officer. I wondered who’d been involved and remembered that the bulletins covered South Ashcot as well as North
Ashcot, and often a neighboring town if it had been slow that week in the Ashcots.

  The term Ashcots rang a bell, so to speak, reminding me of the not-quite-famous musicians. As usual, my mind made a leap and I remembered Sunni’s request of me when we met on the community college campus.

  “See if you can find out, without being too obvious, who else has seen the letters Dennis showed you at the post office.” Or something close to that, with an emphasis on trying to determine which students might have been involved. I guessed it would be hard for a faculty member to snitch on a student if it came down to cooperating with “townies” over “the gowns,” the term reserved for campus folks. I’d never worked on a campus and could only guess.

  Wouldn’t it be great, I thought, to pull this morning out of the “useless” category and be able to tell Sunni I had a lead? Or a clue. Or anything. Something that might help her “break them,” as Greta called Sunni’s interviews.

  I had an idea.

  I called Ben first, to make sure he and everyone else knew I still considered myself Cassie Miller, North Ashcot postmaster, and would be back at my duties in the afternoon.

  “No problem. It’s not like I’m going fishing in this weather,” dear Ben said. “You be careful, now.”

  “Careful? I’m just going to meet someone for coffee.”

  “Yup.”

  So that was that for Ben.

  I called Quinn, the next step in my data-gathering plan.

  “What’s up?” I asked, though I was more eager to get on with my agenda, which he seemed to have figured out halfway through his opening.

  “I’m working on that table I showed you. I decided a good cleaning wasn’t going to do it. I’m going to have to remove the old finish. That means . . .” He paused. “But I’m betting that’s not why you’re calling.”

  “It is partly. I’m interested in what you’re doing.”

  “Yup,” he said. Yup? What was happening to North Ashcot men? Was there a memo I didn’t get about watching old cowboy movies? “I know you’re out there. Not at your counter dispensing service and goodwill. Fred just came back from the post office and told me Ben was asleep on the chair. He had to wake him up by ringing that little bell on the counter.”