Police, highest-ranking black man in the state’s history. But Des was not her father, and that was why she wasn’t working homicides anymore. At age twenty-eight, Des had been Connecticut’s great nonwhite hope—the only black woman in the state to make lieutenant on the Major Crime Squad. She had produced, too. Outperformed every single man in the Central District.Except she didn’t
get along
with the so-called Waterbury mafia—the inner circle of Italian-American males who pretty much ran things in the state police. They liked to have their big, fat egos stroked, especially by the pretty girls. Des hadn’t played along, hadn’t respected them. And they could tell. And when the chance came to knife her, they had.
“May I offer you a coffee?” Nema asked, smiling at her uncertainly. “A baklava, perhaps?”
“I’m all set, thanks,” Des said, as Kevin began hammering the plywood into place over the broken window.
“I regret the circumstances, but I am so pleased to meet you at long last. Your friend is my friend, after all.”
“My friend?”
“Mr. Mitch Berger,” Nema said. “He is a fine, fine man. And one of my very best pastry customers.”
“I’ll just bet he is,” Des said, her eyes scanning the case of sweets. Some were covered with powdered sugar, just like the powdered sugar he’d had on his collar at lunch. So this was where he came to blow huge holes in his diet. It did occur to Des, standing there at the counter, that Mitch was at heart a fat little boy and always would be. Still, if this was the worst kind of lie he was capable of then she was lucky and she damned well knew it.
“Such a modest gentleman,” Nema added. “No airs, despite his prestigious position with the newspaper. And quite the gourmet. Very discerning.”
“That he is.” Des did not mention his penchant for eating potloads of his god-awful American chop suey, or that she had once found a box of Great Starts microwave sausage-and-egg breakfast burritos in his freezer. She did not want to shatter any illusions, or slow Nema down. The lady was working her way up to telling her something.
“Nuri does not mean to be difficult,” she finally said, clearing her throat uneasily. “We wish only to blend in. Surely you can understand that.”
“Absolutely,” Des said, because she could understand. She justcouldn’t blend in. “Your husband said he was in back when it happened. You were here behind the counter?”
“Yes, that is right.”
“Sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me, one friend to another?”
Nema glanced nervously out the glass doors at her husband. “No, nothing.”
Clearly, the lady was holding back. She was also frightened. Of what? Who? “Well, if you remember anything . . .” Des handed Nema her card and urged her to give her a call, knowing she never would. Then she bagged and tagged the rock, which would go to the Westbrook Barracks along with her report. The task force would take it from there.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to do a bit of canvassing.
Mr. Acar was washing the BMW’s windshield. She tipped her big hat to him politely. He acknowledged her gesture with an equally polite wave. She got into her cruiser and eased it down Old Shore to that quick left onto Burnham, where she parked on the shoulder and got out. She knelt and inspected the pavement carefully for fresh skid marks. Saw none.
Three old farmhouses were clustered there on Burnham not far from Old Shore Road. No one was home at the first house. At the second house she managed to wake up a young man who’d worked the overnight shift at Millstone, the nuclear power plant in Water ford. He hadn’t heard anyone speeding by his house in the past hour and was very grumpy about saying so.
Des approached the third house with some reluctance. This one belonged to Miss Barker, an elderly spinster who had called Des twice in past weeks with dire emergencies. A prowler who turned out to be a meter reader from
get along
with the so-called Waterbury mafia—the inner circle of Italian-American males who pretty much ran things in the state police. They liked to have their big, fat egos stroked, especially by the pretty girls. Des hadn’t played along, hadn’t respected them. And they could tell. And when the chance came to knife her, they had.
“May I offer you a coffee?” Nema asked, smiling at her uncertainly. “A baklava, perhaps?”
“I’m all set, thanks,” Des said, as Kevin began hammering the plywood into place over the broken window.
“I regret the circumstances, but I am so pleased to meet you at long last. Your friend is my friend, after all.”
“My friend?”
“Mr. Mitch Berger,” Nema said. “He is a fine, fine man. And one of my very best pastry customers.”
“I’ll just bet he is,” Des said, her eyes scanning the case of sweets. Some were covered with powdered sugar, just like the powdered sugar he’d had on his collar at lunch. So this was where he came to blow huge holes in his diet. It did occur to Des, standing there at the counter, that Mitch was at heart a fat little boy and always would be. Still, if this was the worst kind of lie he was capable of then she was lucky and she damned well knew it.
“Such a modest gentleman,” Nema added. “No airs, despite his prestigious position with the newspaper. And quite the gourmet. Very discerning.”
“That he is.” Des did not mention his penchant for eating potloads of his god-awful American chop suey, or that she had once found a box of Great Starts microwave sausage-and-egg breakfast burritos in his freezer. She did not want to shatter any illusions, or slow Nema down. The lady was working her way up to telling her something.
“Nuri does not mean to be difficult,” she finally said, clearing her throat uneasily. “We wish only to blend in. Surely you can understand that.”
“Absolutely,” Des said, because she could understand. She justcouldn’t blend in. “Your husband said he was in back when it happened. You were here behind the counter?”
“Yes, that is right.”
“Sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me, one friend to another?”
Nema glanced nervously out the glass doors at her husband. “No, nothing.”
Clearly, the lady was holding back. She was also frightened. Of what? Who? “Well, if you remember anything . . .” Des handed Nema her card and urged her to give her a call, knowing she never would. Then she bagged and tagged the rock, which would go to the Westbrook Barracks along with her report. The task force would take it from there.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to do a bit of canvassing.
Mr. Acar was washing the BMW’s windshield. She tipped her big hat to him politely. He acknowledged her gesture with an equally polite wave. She got into her cruiser and eased it down Old Shore to that quick left onto Burnham, where she parked on the shoulder and got out. She knelt and inspected the pavement carefully for fresh skid marks. Saw none.
Three old farmhouses were clustered there on Burnham not far from Old Shore Road. No one was home at the first house. At the second house she managed to wake up a young man who’d worked the overnight shift at Millstone, the nuclear power plant in Water ford. He hadn’t heard anyone speeding by his house in the past hour and was very grumpy about saying so.
Des approached the third house with some reluctance. This one belonged to Miss Barker, an elderly spinster who had called Des twice in past weeks with dire emergencies. A prowler who turned out to be a meter reader from
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