SIXTY-FIVE
WE returned to the car after “Clarissa Clark” signed up for cross-country riding lessons starting next May. Thankfully no deposit was required, because Miss Clark was going to be canceling.
Detective Quinn, wearing a self-satisfied grin, still held the car keys and got behind the wheel. The roof was down, so Matt jumped into the backseat, sliding aside to make room for me.
I surprised them both by getting into the front seat beside the detective.
“So, what did you deduce from the crime scene?”
“That Harlan Brewster is one unlucky bastard.”
“Hey,” Matt interrupted, “what are you two talk—”
Quinn gunned the powerful engine until it drowned out my ex-husband’s voice. Then he threw the vehicle into gear, raced out of the parking lot and down the long driveway to the main road.
“Why was Harlan unlucky?” I cried over the sound of rushing wind.
“I’ll show you.”
Instead of turning toward Matt’s place, Quinn went in the opposite direction. We drove beside an area of pastureland for a few minutes. Then he slowed down along a desolate stretch of road.
“There,” he said, pointing. “That’s where it happened.”
The damage to the tree was substantial. Though the tree was still standing, a ragged chunk of its trunk had been ripped away, leaving a splintered yellow hole. Studying the area, I noticed something else.
“This is the only tree around in this pasture, the only solid obstacle, in fact. If Brewster’s car had gone off the road anywhere else, it would have plowed through grass until it ran out of steam and stopped.”
I faced Quinn. “It’s almost as if Harlan aimed for the tree.”
The detective’s response was an approving nod. I hardly noticed because my mind was racing.
Did Harlan commit suicide? I wondered. Was he drunk? Did he simply pass out behind the wheel? Was it possible someone else was actually in that car like Gwen Prescott claimed? I had no answers—but then I wasn’t a professional.
“What does it all mean?” I asked.
Eyes on the road, Quinn shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”
“Really?” (Suddenly I didn’t feel so bad.)
“We don’t have enough facts.”
“Then we should find more,” I said. “Where shall we look first?”
“I have an idea. It’s a place that won’t give us any answers, but it will provide us with a lot more facts.”
“Hey,” Matt cried, leaning over the front seat, “what are you guys talking—”
Quinn hit the gas, throwing Matt backward. My ex finally gave up trying to join the conversation, folded his arms, and sulked.
At a stop sign, Quinn fiddled with the GPS device on the dashboard.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“The local police station.”
THE “local” police station was more than a twenty-minute drive from Deerfield Farm, in a picturesque town called Southampton Village.
Located along scenic Windmill Lane, the law enforcement headquarters resembled a Tudor-style leisure station at a national park more than any police facility I’d ever seen. The modern building even had its own stone sign and a long driveway lined with faux-Victorian lampposts.
Detective Quinn found a spot in the busy lot. There were police cars, civilian SUVs, even an official-looking truck with a tow and a boat attached.
“Time for me to do the talking,” Quinn told us.
“I won’t say a word,” I promised.
“No, you won’t, because you’re staying right here,” he said, raising the convertible roof. Despite my disguise, Quinn explained I was still a wanted woman, and even suburban cops can have sharp eyes.
Then Matt and I both watched Quinn stride across the parking lot and through the glass doors.
“You never mentioned Quinn knew how to ride a horse,” Matt complained.
“Don’t put that on me, buster. You’re the one who tried to humiliate him. And don’t forget, for all intents and purposes, I just met the man. For all I know, Detective Quinn spent time in the NYPD Mounted Unit before he took over his special squad.”
Turning my back on Matt, I faced the police station again. No more than a minute later, the glass doors opened and a male figure stepped into the sunlight, but it wasn’t Mike Quinn.
“What’s he doing here?!” I whispered and ducked my head under the dashboard.
“Who? Clare, what the hell are you—?”
“Shh!” I hissed. “See the guy who just came out of those doors? Describe what you see.”
Matt stared for a moment. “He’s middle-aged, stout—built like a fireplug—with thinning red hair, ruddy skin, a jagged scar on his cheek, and bad taste in clothes. I mean, who wears a burgundy corduroy suit? Maybe he was a tough guy once, but he’s gone to seed. Too many beers and doughnuts. I’m guessing he’s a retired officer, maybe a PI, or a rent-a-cop.”
“Bingo on the latter. His name is Stevens. He’s the security chief at the Parkview Palace, and one of the guards who confronted us at the Gotham Suite.”
Matt tensed. “What’s he doing all the way out here?”
“I don’t know. But he was very suspicious of our crashing the crime scene. On top of that, one of his guys worked over Mr. Dante pretty good—and he tried to arrest your mother.”
“Do you want me to punch his lights out?” Matt asked. “I know we’re in front of a police station, but if he threatened my mother—”
“Just watch him. See where he goes.”
Matt groaned a moment later. “The man’s streak of bad taste continues. He’s driving a neon yellow Nissan Juke.”
I peeked over the dash to watch the little yellow car turn onto Windmill Lane and speed away.
“All clear,” Matt said.
Breathing again, I sat up.
“What was he doing here?” we asked in duet.
“Could he be working with the police, trying to find me?” I wondered worriedly. “Maybe he saw me, your mother, Esther, and Mr. Dante pretend to leave the hotel in the cab, and then turn up again in the parking garage. He could have had one of his staff follow your van out to the Hamptons and report back to him.”
“If he did, I doubt he’s specifically looking for you, Clare. But it is possible he’s trying to find out more about where the van ended up and why.” Matt tensed. “And if he’s out here, then it’s also possible he’ll turn up at my place with questions.”
That stopped the conversation dead in its tracks. Before it was resurrected, Detective Quinn was back.