CHAPTER 7

“IT MAY INTEREST YOU to know that Lance Paffin was extremely well hung. Proud of it, too.”

Des found herself staring across the table at him in amazement. “How on earth did you…”

“Beryl Fairchild just whipped it out, so to speak. She was totally into Lance, by the way. Wanted him more than she’s ever wanted any other man—including her husband, Chase. She never experienced an orgasm during their entire marriage.”

“She told you that?”

“She also told me, and I quote, ‘I must have faked ten thousand orgasms.’ Which, if I’m not mistaken, was the subtitle of Hedy Lamarr’s memoir of her life and times as a Hollywood glamour girl.”

They were at her place overlooking Uncas Lake eating big bowls of her lentil soup by candlelight, the better to see the moonlight reflecting off of the lake. On the stereo was a vintage recording of Mary Lou Williams playing live at The Cookery.

“Lance and Luke Cahoon did exchange words out in the parking lot that night,” he went on, slurping his soup loudly. “The future congressman warned Lance about making any fast and furious moves on Noelle. Or so Noelle told Beryl.”

“Interesting.”

“Cool your jets, thin person. There’s more. Beryl also hinted that Lance and Buzzy Shaver were gay.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me one bit about Buzzy.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because of what I found hanging from his bedroom closet door.”

Mitch gazed at her eagerly. “What did you…”

“His mother’s nightgown and robe. They smelled strongly of her perfume. There’s still a bottle of it in her bedroom, along with all of her clothing. He’s never given any of it away. Her hairbrush still has strands of her hair in it.”

“Whoa, I’m getting that powerful Norman Bates vibe again. Tell me, did you go down into his basement?”

“Feel free to climb off of the Psycho express any time, big boy.”

“Beryl thinks that Lance’s obsessive womanizing might have been his way of proving to himself that he wasn’t gay.”

Des nodded. “I knew a guy like that when I started on the job. He hit on every woman he met to convince himself he was straight. He eventually came out. But Lance was a Navy fighter jock. Guys like him didn’t come out in those days. Hell, they still don’t.”

“So it’s something to consider.” Mitch finished the last of his soup, mopping the bowl with a hunk of bread. “As a possible explanation for what he was doing underneath Dorset Street, I mean. Maybe we’ve been looking for love and/or hate in all the wrong places.” He took a sip of wine. “So listen, I’ve been hangin’ with the girls all day and I’ve got to ask you something serious. Is there anything you don’t tell each other?”

“Seriously? No.”

“Wow, guys are really boring in comparison.”

“Wow, are you just figuring that out?” She pushed up the sleeves of the ancient flannel shirt she had on. It and nothing else. That was what she’d been wearing at her easel when he arrived. She’d scanned several of her crime-scene photos of the skeletal remains and bulldog clipped them to her eighteen-by-twenty-four-inch Strathmore 400 drawing pad. Then made one gesture sketch after another with a graphite stick, using her entire arm, moving nimbly on the balls of her bare feet. She hated every single sketch. There was no freedom, passion, energy, anything. She’d gotten so pissed off that she’d practically hurled the damned easel off of her deck into the lake below. “I figured something out tonight. I really, really need to jump my game.”

He nodded. “Of course you do. In the immortal words of the late, great Warren Zevon, ‘Your shit’s fucked up.’”

She peered at him. “You knew that?”

“I know you. I know you’ve been unhappy with your work for weeks. And you’ll stay unhappy until you make a meaningful commitment.”

“Meaningful commitment as in…”

“Take an extended leave so you can draw full time. Or, hell, quit your job. Because right now you’re not giving your drawing the attention it needs.”

“I do serve two masters,” she acknowledged.

“Three. You’re forgetting about me.”

She showed him her smile. “Right, how silly of me. You honestly think I should quit my job?”

“I think you’re an artist, and that nothing else matters. I think you should do whatever you need to do. Hell, go to Tahiti for six months if you want. Just know this—whatever you decide, I support you.”

“God, you really are the Stepford boyfriend.”

“You would never have known that expression if you hadn’t met me,” he pointed out, beaming at her.

“I also wouldn’t have known the meaning of the word geshrai. Although I’m still not sure I’m down with all of its nuances.”

“Wasn’t there a professor at the academy who you really liked?”

“Susan Vail. What about her?”

“Maybe you could study with her one-on-one. While you’re trying to decide what to do with the rest of your life, I mean.”

“Mitch, do you have any idea how much private studies cost?”

“I know how much it’ll cost if you piss away your talent. Let’s consider it my birthday present to you.”

“It’s not my birthday.”

“Why don’t you call her?”

“I’m not sure she’d even be interested.”

“Call her and find out.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Just call her.”

She glared across the table at him. Mitch was the kindest man she’d ever known, but when it came to the subject of her artist within he could turn downright fierce. “You can let go of this any time.”

“Fine, I’ll let go. But I didn’t bring it up, remember? You did.” He sat back in his chair, gazing out the window at the lake. “You know who I really don’t get? Bob Paffin. How could he go on idolizing his big brother when the guy was boinking Delia whenever he felt like it? For that matter, how could Bob marry her knowing that?”

“Very good questions. I don’t have any answers. But I do have it on good authority that our former first selectman is a crook.”

“Which good authority would that be?”

“Bart Shaver. He’s trying to keep The Gazette alive as an online newspaper. He thinks that community newspapers are the only way to hold local government accountable to the voters.”

“He’s right.”

“He’s a nice young guy. Real dedicated, too. He spent days at the public works garage and nailed Bob cold for using town manpower and resources to regravel his own driveway. But Uncle Buzzy spiked the story.”

“And you’re telling me this because…”

“Bart’s pretty much a one-man operation. There’s no money to pay staffers. He needs volunteers to help out. And he’s a huge admirer of yours. He thinks you write with verve.”

“He said that? He actually said verve?”

“He did.”

“You don’t hear that word much anymore,” Mitch said grudgingly.

“And you don’t meet many people like Bart.”

“Well, well. I just may have to look him up.”

“I thought you might want to.”

“Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”

“Little bit.”

“You’re not bad looking either—in a leggy, insanely erotic sort of a way.”

“It’s the shirt,” she explained, fingering its frayed collar. “With some women it’s silk. With me it’s aged flannel. I look good in it.”

“You look good out of it, too. I just may have to dive across this table and tear that thing off of you—with my teeth.”

She moved her empty soup bowl a judicious eighteen inches over to one side, gazing at him through her eyelashes. “So what’s stopping you?”

A brisk tapping on her front door stopped him. Followed by the click of someone unlocking the door. And in walked the deputy superintendent of the Connecticut State Police—the six-foot-four ramrod whose steely gaze could roil the innards of even the most hardened veterans. The Deacon had lived here with her while he was recuperating from coronary bypass surgery and still had his own key. She hadn’t figured out a tactful way to ask him for it back. How do you tell your father that you don’t want him dropping in on you unannounced because you might be three-fourths naked and just about to have wild sex on your dining room table?

He stood there in her entry hall with a file folder tucked under one arm. Her three live-in cats—Christie Love, Missy Elliot and Kid Rock—sidled over to say hello. Des got up and flicked on a lamp and knew right away that this was no casual social call. There were deep furrows in her father’s forehead. His forehead only did that when he was major upset.

She smiled and said, “Evening, Daddy.”

“How are you, sir?” Mitch chimed in.

“Feeling pretty good. Please keep eating. Don’t let me interrupt your dinner.”

“We just finished up. Have you eaten, Daddy?”

“I’m good.”

“I didn’t ask if you were good. I asked if you’ve had dinner. There’s a gallon of lentil soup in the kitchen. Park it over here and I’ll heat it up for you.”

He unbuttoned the jacket of his charcoal gray suit—one of six identical gray suits that he owned—and hung it on the coatrack by the door, removing a small notepad from the inside pocket. “Well, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” she assured him, first darting into the mudroom for the sweatpants that were hanging in there. Because she was not, repeat not, going to have a conversation with her father wearing a flannel shirt and nothing else. She put the heat on under the soup and sliced some more bread. “How about a glass of wine?”

“None for me, thanks.”

She returned with a clean napkin and spoon to find the two men in her life seated there chatting away about the New York Mets’ bullpen, or total lack thereof. Mitch got along amazingly well with her rigid and intimidating father. The Deacon liked him, despite the pigment issue, because Mitch was genuine and he was good for her. With Mitch there was no artifice or agenda—unlike Des’s ex, Brandon, a lying, scheming slab of ebony out of Yale Law School whom the Deacon had never liked. The man had keen instincts that way.

“I apologize for barging in this way, Desiree,” he said as Kid Rock jumped into his lap and curled up there, purring contentedly. He and the big orange tabby were BFFs. “It’s about that skeleton you found under Dorset Street.”

Her gaze fell on the file folder next to his right elbow. “So it was you who Captain Rundle called.”

The Deacon nodded. “The man’s frightened.”

“Of what?”

“Guilt by association. Some cases are widow makers. This one’s a career killer.”

She narrowed her gaze at him. “Why is that?”

“Because it’s a great big steaming pile of dung and there’s a US congressman parked right on top of it. And until the Major Crime Squad is able to take it over it’s your great big steaming pile of dung.”

“Sounds like you two need to talk business,” Mitch said. “I’ll clear out.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” the Deacon said sternly. “Desiree and I understand each other much better when you’re around. Besides, I’m guessing you already know ten times more about this case than I do. So please stay put while we conversate.”

“Well, okay. Except that’s not a real word, sir.”

“What isn’t?”

“Conversate.”

The Deacon stared at him. “Yes, it is. I see it in e-mails all of the time.”

“We converse. We carry on a conversation.”

Des cleared her throat. “Mitch…”

“Sorry. I’ll shut up now.”

Des could hear the lentil soup bubbling in the kitchen. She went back in there and ladled out a big bowl of it. Placed the bowl and a full basket of bread before the Deacon and then sat back down.

He sampled the lentil soup and pronounced it excellent before he opened his notepad and said, “I have the ME’s preliminary findings. The skeletal remains are those of US Navy Lt. Lance Paffin. His mitochondrial DNA sample matches that of his biological brother Bob. The distinguishing injuries that Bob told you of—broken right collarbone and left wrist—were in evidence. And the academy class ring that was around his right ring finger was a class of ’62 ring with a ruby birthstone and Lance’s name engraved on the inside.”

“What sort of condition was his wallet in?” Des asked.

“There was no wallet on him. No ID other than the ring. They’re still conducting a search for his dental records, but that’s just their way of being thorough. There’s zero doubt that the remains are Lance Paffin’s.”

“Any chance they were able to determine a cause of death?”

“More than a chance.” The Deacon flipped through his notes. “The victim sustained a severe premortem skull trauma. His cranial bone was pierced and shattered by a spike-like object.”

“A spike-like object,” Mitch repeated, frowning at him. “Does that mean somebody drove a nail into the back of his skull?”

“Not exactly. When you’re dealing with shattered bone any sort of signature piercing is extremely difficult to come by. But they did find a clean rectangular edge at the entry point, approximately three-eighths of an inch wide. They believe the object was square in shape and tapered, which is to say narrower at its tip than its base. They’re estimating it was at least two inches in length. At present they have no idea what such an object might have been.”

“Sounds like a square-headed nail to me,” Mitch said.

The Deacon peered at him. “A square-headed nail?”

Mitch nodded. “They used to be square in the old days. And tapered. You’ve been in my cottage. You know those exposed posts and beams of mine? They have a bunch of square-headed nails sticking out of them. I’m guessing the family caretaker hung his tools from them way back when.”

“Why on earth would someone drive an antique nail into Lieutenant Paffin’s skull?” the Deacon asked him.

“Because they could,” Mitch answered with a shrug.

“This is hardly a time for levity, son.”

“Who’s levitating? The guy left a trail of ruined lives in his wake. To know him was to hate him. And you said antique nail, I didn’t. They still make square-headed nails. High-end carpenters use them when they’re restoring old houses. Although the new ones are made of stainless steel, not iron.”

“Daddy, did they find any residue at the entry point? Rust, paint chips?…”

“Not a thing. Not after all of these years.”

Des puffed out her cheeks. “So Lance Paffin was murdered by a spike-like object. Then someone buried him, took his boat out and wrecked it. No way one person acting alone could do all of that. There had to be at least two of them. Somebody to take the Monster out and jump overboard. Somebody else to wait nearby in another boat and fish him out. He couldn’t swim way back to shore. Not during the month of May. The current at the mouth of the Connecticut River is too wicked.”

“It would have taken hours for one man to dig that grave in the middle of Dorset Street by himself,” Mitch concurred. “And Missy Lay did say she heard ‘men’ digging with shovels out there.”

The Deacon looked at him in surprise. “There was a witness?”

“Of a sort. Missy was considered to be quite buggy—even by Dorset standards.”

“How buggy is that?”

“She drank eight fluid ounces of her own urine every single day and there were suspicions regarding the contents of her Halloween brownies. None of which, to my mind, disqualifies her as a witness.”

“Desiree, I think I’ll have that glass of wine after all,” the Deacon said hoarsely.

She got a glass and filled it for him.

He took a small sip. “Here is the reality of our present situation: I am deputy superintendent of the Connecticut State Police. And you, Desiree, are the resident trooper of this place. We are this investigation. How we conduct it will reflect on the character of the institution that it has been our honor to serve.”

She studied him carefully. “Where are you going with this?”

The Deacon glanced down at the file folder on the table. “In my review of Lieutenant Paffin’s case file from 1967 I discovered an appalling lack of professionalism. The responding troopers spoke to two employees of the country club who informed them that not only were Lieutenant Paffin and a group of his friends drinking heavily that evening, but that a quarrel took place out in the parking lot. Yet not one of his friends was questioned about this quarrel after the lieutenant was reported missing. Not one of them was questioned at all. There was no follow-up. There are no witness statements. No re-interviews with the club’s staff. They didn’t canvass the neighbors of the Dorset Yacht Club to determine if anyone heard or saw anything that night. They didn’t examine the trunk or the seats of the lieutenant’s Mustang for blood or other trace evidence. This whole damned file reeks of winky-wink.”

Mitch shook his head. “What’s winky-wink?”

“Exactly what it sounds like, Mitch. A crowd of wealthy young blue bloods getting preferential treatment instead of the tough, hard, investigative scrutiny that was clearly warranted. I’ve even found indications of an outright cover-up.”

“What indications, Daddy?”

“After the wreckage of the lieutenant’s sailboat was found our crime-scene technicians were sent to the site to gather trace evidence. The boat’s tiller was dusted for fingerprints. It was made of laminated ash. Would have yielded good prints. Or should have. Yet, somehow, the fingerprints were misplaced. And our lead investigator, a Sgt. Dave Stank, quit the state police three years later to become chief of staff for a newly elected US congressman named Pennington Lucas Cahoon. Stank remained Cahoon’s chief of staff until he left in 1989 to take a higher-paying job as a lobbyist for a defense contractor.”

“Is Stank still alive?” Des asked.

“Passed away in 2007.” The Deacon sat there in heavy silence for a moment. “Obviously, this reflects poorly on how the Connecticut State Police went about its business in those days. And now, well, we have a situation. We’ve uncovered the murdered remains of a US Navy lieutenant who disappeared after a night of heavy drinking with friends. And one of those friends just happens to be a powerful US congressman. Once we go public with the ME’s findings this will get hot in a hurry. I am talking front-page news. We’ll have the FBI crawling all over it. Probably NCIS as well. We have a very narrow window of opportunity to get this right. I’m going to slow walk the ME’s findings over to the Major Crime Squad tomorrow. That’ll buy us a few precious hours of time,” he said, gazing across the table at her. “And give you a chance to have a friendly, informal chat with Congressman Cahoon. I’ve just conversated … I’m sorry, conversed with his chief of staff. The congressman will be making an appearance at the senior center in Fairburn in the morning. His schedule is in this folder along with the case file. You have permission to speak with him about the remains that you’ve found under Dorset Street. I made no mention of the ME’s findings. As far as the congressman knows we’re still completely in the dark. If he knew how much we know he’d lawyer up and we’d get nothing out of him.”

“This sounds kind of devious,” Mitch said.

“Only because it is,” the Deacon responded, grimacing. “You’ve met him before, am I right?”

Des nodded. “He was grand marshal of our Memorial Day parade last year.”

“And you’re a small-town resident trooper who doesn’t realize what she’s stumbled her way into. Be polite. Be respectful. And be very, very careful. We have to assume that Congressman Cahoon knows what really happened that night. He may even have been an active participant. I won’t be able to keep this under wraps for long, Desiree. We have, at most, twenty-four hours before the curtains are thrown open and the sunlight starts shining on this … this…”

“Great big steaming pile of dung?” Mitch offered helpfully.

“Exactly.”

“Forgive me for saying this, sir, but I’d think you would be eager to expose that this sort of winky-wink rich people’s justice used to go on. Still does, for all I know.”

The Deacon glared at him. “Because I’m a person of color, you mean?”

“Well, yes.”

“I’m deputy superintendent of the entire state police, Mitch. That makes me color-blind. I cannot allow myself to have a racial agenda.”

Des studied her father guardedly. “Exactly what is it you want me to do?”

“Make this case go away before it gets kicked to the Major Crime Squad. You have until the end of tomorrow.”

“I won’t be part of any cover-up.”

“Don’t you think I know that? That’s why I’ve come to you. You’re the one person who I can trust. Put this to bed, Desiree. Do it by the book. But do it on the down low—if you can.”

“And if the down low isn’t an option?”

“Then scream your head off. Just be mindful of the reputations of the men and women who’ve come before us and who will serve after we’re gone. The credibility of our entire organization—past, present and future—is at stake here.”

“Oh, is that all?” On his stony silence she said, “Daddy, please tell me that you feel a tiny bit weird about this.”

His jaw muscles clenched. “If this job was simple and easy then—”

“We wouldn’t be getting paid good money to do it. We’d be the ones paying them.” She’d only heard him say those words about ten thousand times.

“Desiree, if you can figure out what in the hell happened that night you will make everybody happy.”

“Even you?”

“Especially me. Do we understand each other?”

She sat there in grim silence, her stomach in knots.

“I didn’t hear an answer, young lady.”

“We understand each other.”