Through the Evil Days: A Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne Mystery (Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne Mysteries) (49 page)

“No.”

“Yeah. I’m sure you know this, but we ran his record and he has multiple possession charges in his past. So I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about anyone taking his accusations seriously. I just wanted to give you the heads-up, officer to officer.”

“Thank you.”

“And a piece of advice? Divorcée to divorcée? Make sure your lawyer knows about this. You never know when you’ll need some ammunition.”

“Yes. I will. Thank you.”

She sat there after she had hung up, remembering that night when they had gotten the kids from Dylan’s hotel room. Flynn staying behind in his car for a minute while she searched for Dylan’s rental. Flynn searching through Dylan’s luggage. And earlier, that Baggie of meth they had taken from Mike Boileau. She remembered tossing it into the glove compartment to keep until they could enter it in the evidence locker at the Albany PD South Station. But they never did that, did they? Boileau had turned out to be DEA and they all went straight to the Federal Building. She couldn’t recall seeing it again after the glove compartment. You were supposed to keep close track of evidence.

Evidence. There was a name for cops who planted evidence.

Flynn’s voice, solid and determined.
You’re not going to give up the kids. And you’re not going to have to move back to California. I promise you, we won’t let it happen.

She didn’t think that Baggie of glassine envelopes was in his car anymore. She laid her head against the steering wheel. “Oh, God, Flynn,” she whispered. “What have you done?”

3.

Flynn decided to change in the locker room, so he missed the earlier hubbub. It was a big package, he knew that, because Harlene and Noble had argued about whether or not it ought to be X-rayed, and then Duane and Tim, who were there to clock in their hours, weighed in that it might be a bomb, until finally Harlene threw up her hands and said she didn’t think al Qaeda was targeting Millers Kill, New York, and she tore off the wrapping.

He got back upstairs, having decided to shower and then change. MacAuley would rib him if he noticed, but what the hell. He wandered into Harlene’s dispatch. “Hey. Hadley gotten back yet?”

“No, she called in. Sounds like a bear of an accident. Bunch of idiots all trying to shift the blame on each other.”

“Ah. Okay.” He didn’t want it to sound like Hadley was the only thing he was interested in. “Anything else happening?”

“Eric finally got ahold of that Amber Willis girl. The one who went up to the lake with the chief? Not very bright, if you ask me. Didn’t think twice about her uncle showing up with his girlfriend’s daughter, and she thought they loaned Hector DeJean’s truck to her and her baby daddy out of the goodness of their heart.”

“Huh.” He couldn’t even fake being interested in Amber Willis. There was a roar of approval from the squad room. “What was in the package?”

Harlene snorted. “Movies. With a nice card, said thanks to all the men of the MKPD for their fine work.”

He shook his head. “What, nothing for you and Hadley? Sexism rears its ugly head again.”

“Hah. I’m not interested in
those
kind of movies. And that lot in there better have ’em off the TV and into the box before the chief gets back or there’ll be hell to pay.”

He walked toward the squad room. Paul and Noble and Duane and Tim had pulled chairs up in a semicircle around the combination TV/DVD/VCR they used for filmed evidence. What they were looking at was definitely not evidence, unless they had had a case involving illegal group sex he hadn’t heard about.

The box was open on the briefing table. Some of the videotapes were in boxes, but most were just the plastic cassettes with stickers on them. He picked up one.
BARELY LEGAL 3: BACK DOOR.
Another one read
CHICKS WITH STICKS: HIGH SCHOOL HOCKEY HONEYS.

“Good God.” He put the video down. “If any of these feature underage performers, you guys will be seriously violating the law.”

“Siddown, Dudley Do-Right.” Paul Urquhart slapped the chair next to him without turning his head away from the screen. “They’re ‘barely legal.’ That means they use eighteen-year-olds and put ’em in pigtails and stuff.”

Kevin glanced over their heads. The cheesy music was fading beneath theatrical moans and groans. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh replaced the synthesizer. He rolled his eyes. “What’s this gem?”

“Girl’s College Go-Down,”
Duane said. “The box says they used real college girls, but I kind of doubt it.”

The camera swung to one heavily made-up brunette who really did look barely legal. She dropped her book bag and said, “Can anybody join this party?”

Her voice reminded him of Hadley, saying,
You’re the only lover I’ve had since I moved to Millers Kill.
He squirmed uncomfortably. The girl onscreen dropped her book bag and stripped off her dress.

“Now see,” Paul said, “this is how you know it’s an older film. The girls got natural tits. Nowadays, they’re all fake. And they all got piercings.”

The girl slowly mounted one of two muscular men lying on a bed.

“I don’t get piercings,” Tim said. “I mean, who wants to rub up against metal?”

The other man moved behind her. The shot cut to a close-up, so there would be no doubt as to what was going where. “Your wife let you do that?” Tim asked Duane.

“Are you kidding? I’m lucky if my wife gives it to me once a month missionary style.”

The threesome began moving. The rhythmic groaning was accompanied by more throbbing cocktail-lounge music.

“Well. This is certainly a morale lifter to come back to.” MacAuley tossed his lid on a desk and walked up to the group.

“Oh, hell.” Paul lurched to his feet. “Is the chief with you?”

“No.” MacAuley’s voice was odd, but Kevin was too intent on the screen to pay attention. “You’ve got another half hour or so.” He pulled up a chair. “Where’d this come from?”

“A gift from a grateful citizen,” Paul said.

“You guys must be better out there than I think.” MacAuley picked up the box. “Real college girls, huh? Now I’m starting to regret I never got a degree.”

The camera swung around the trio. Another girl entered the picture. She kissed the brunette and began to go to work on her as well.

“See, that’s probably more like what they’ve got going on in girls’ schools.” Tim sounded thoughtful.

The movement picked up. “Geez. Look at that.” Paul sounded like he wanted to be alone in the room with the tape.

“Mm-hm. That’s a nice piece of ass.” Duane slid down in his chair.

The man behind the brunette gathered up her long, heavy locks and twisted them, pulling her head back, giving her the sleek look of short hair. Everyone in the squad room froze.

“Hey,” Noble said. “That looks like Hadley.”

The camera lingered on the girl’s look of ecstasy. Kevin felt—he didn’t know what he felt. It was if all his senses had suddenly decoupled from his body. Everything was distant. Fuzzy.

The girl smiled.

“Holy shit,” Paul said. “It
is
Hadley.”

MacAuley stood abruptly and snapped the TV off. “Get that thing out of the machine and back into the box. Noble, I want you to take custody of this.” He pointed at the large carton full of tapes. “Take it out to the dump and leave it there.” He turned to leave, then turned back. “Break the cassettes into pieces, then leave them there.” He left the room.

“Holy shit,” Duane said.

“Lemme see the box.” Paul stood up, the movie in hand, and began rummaging through the carton.

“Hey.” Noble frowned. “Dep said don’t.”

“I’m just looking to see if they have the same actress, that’s all.” He picked one of the boxed cassettes. “Honey Potts,” he said. He looked at the one in his hand. “Honey Potts.” He dropped them onto the desk and dug up another one. “Honey Potts. I’ll be damned. Looks like our Officer Knox was a busy, busy girl back in California.”

Duane told Paul to cut it out, and they started arguing, but it slipped past Kevin like conversation in a passing car. He walked across the hall. He walked down the stairs. He walked through the locker room. He walked into the showers. He turned on two, twisting the knobs until they threatened to snap off. And then, when the water thundered down so no one could hear, he pressed himself into a corner and sank to the floor and sobbed.

4.

“The town appreciates the yeoman’s service given by the police department during the recent weather emergency.” Mayor Cameron leaned against the council table. “I don’t think anyone here would gainsay that.”

“The weather emergency is hardly over,” Russ said. “There are still large areas of the three towns without power. Which means homes without inhabitants and stores without security. Exactly the sort of situation you need in-community policing for.”

“Neighborhood watch,” Harold Collins said.

“And we’re all impressed and pleased that you managed to find the kidnapped girl and the arsonist in such short order.”

“With the help of the FBI, the state police, and the Essex County Sheriff’s Department.”

Jim Cameron gave Collins the side-eye. “You’re out of order, Harold.”

Harold made a noise.

“Did you get the statement from Lieutenant Mongue?” Russ was afraid he sounded desperate. He was regretting sending Lyle back to the station, but the board of aldermen had kept them cooling their heels for almost forty-five minutes, and somebody had to sign off on the hour sheets.

“Lieutenant Mongue’s letter was quite expressive, yes.”

“And Elle Flynn’s recommendation?”

Jim Cameron nodded.

“Hardly a neutral party, is she?” Collins asked.

Russ took a breath. “I’d just like to say—”

Jim cut him off. “We really have all we need, Russ. I’m going to call for a vote. All those in favor of putting a measure on the ballot to allow for the disbandment of the town police department and the assumption of their duties by the state police, say aye.”

Russ counted the hands. Bob Miles, Ed Palmer, and Harold Collins.

“All those not in favor, say nay.” Garry Greuling and Ron Tucker raised their hands.

Jim sighed. “And the mayor votes aye.” At least he wasn’t smiling, like Collins. “I’m sorry, Russ, but the citizens of the three towns have the right to make this decision. It’s their tax monies keeping you afloat.”

Russ walked back to the station slowly. He admired the solid granite face of it, the graceful arches and the stone columns framing the huge windows. It was old and out of date and he loved it. He climbed the steps to the front door, something he had done hundreds and hundreds of times in the last decade. The sigh from the door’s hydraulic hinge could have come from him.

There was talk going on in the squad room, but he didn’t stick his head in. Soon enough time to tell everyone their jobs might be gone. He ducked around the corner so Harlene couldn’t see him and drew up short at the sight of Kevin, standing in his office.

“Kevin,” Russ said. He looked more closely. The kid was in civvies. His face was pale, and his eyes were red-rimmed. “Is everything all right? Family okay?”

Kevin nodded. “Yes. Thank you.” His voice was tight and low. He swallowed. “I just wanted you to know. I’m tendering my resignation. I’m taking the job in Syracuse.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I always thank the ever-supportive folks at Minotaur and Thomas Dunne Books, but this time, I’d like to particularly remember the late Matthew Shear. Everything about Matthew was large—his heart, his laugh, his appetite, his capacity for drink, and, most important, his love of books. Making, selling, writing, and reading them, Matthew knew more about the ins and outs of the publishing business than anyone else I knew, and he was always happy to share his knowledge and enthusiasm. He will be missed.

Thank you, Sally Richardson, Tom Dunne, Andy Martin, Matt Baldacci, Pete Wolverton, and all the terrific talent in the Art department. Thanks to my hardworking editor, Katie Gilligan; her equally hardworking assistant, Melanie Fried; and my very good-natured publicist, Hector DeJean. As ever, Meg Ruley and the good ship Jane Rotrosen Agency had my back.

Thanks to James Taylor, of Taylor Made Design, for my Web site, and to Joan Emerson, who keeps Julia Spencer-Fleming’s Reader Space running. Thanks to all the real-life people who let me use their names as characters (you know who you are). Thanks to all my friends at
MaineCrimeWriters.com
, and to my sister-bloggers at Jungle Red Writers: Rhys Bowen, Jan Brogan, Lucy Burdett, Deborah Crombie, Hallie Ephron, Rosemary Harris, and Hank Phillippi Ryan.

And many thanks to the people in my life who keep me going: Ross, Victoria, Spencer, Virginia, Pat and Julia, Barb and Dan, John and Lois, Rachael and the boys, Les, Tracy, Mary L. Allen, and everyone at the Cathedral Church of St. Luke in Portland.

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To Darkness and to Death

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I Shall Not Want

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR