“Glad you could make it, Master Sergeant Mitry!” Justy’s dazzling white smile went all of the way up to his eyes, where it died a sudden death. “I appreciate you making time for me.”
“Yes, very good of you, Des,” Bob Paffin concurred, baring his own mouthful of dull, yellow teeth. The Dorset old guard didn’t whiten. She had no idea why. Just knew it was so.
Justy led them around to the backyard on a bluestone path. There was a swimming pool back there, a patio with a lot of teak furniture and an acre or so of lawn leading down to the water, where a thirty-two-foot Coronado, the Calliope, was tied up at Justy’s dock. A tanned, shaggy-haired young man in swim trunks was scrubbing the sailboat’s deck. Des waved to June Bond. He waved back. She and Mitch had socialized with June and Callie. Mitch knew Callie’s mom and had helped Callie find a place to live when she’d enrolled at the academy.
“What’s that damned kid still doing here?” Justy fumed. “I swear, he cares more about that fool yacht than he does the family business. He even sleeps out on the damned thing, even though we have a half-dozen perfectly nice bedrooms in the house.”
“A young fellow likes to have his own patch of turf,” Bob said.
“A bit of ambition wouldn’t hurt either.” Justy shot a glance at his Rolex. “When I was his age I’d have made my first three sales of the day by now.”
The view from there was pretty spectacular. Des could see downriver all of the way to the lighthouse on Big Sister Island. Upriver, she could make out the picturesque railroad bridge that had been spanning the Connecticut River on its sturdy granite pilings since 1907. She could also see the newly lengthened dock right next door where Tyrone Grantham’s flaming orange cigarette boat, Da Beast, was tied up. It was a rather menacing-looking thing-more than forty-five feet long, low to the water and emblazoned from stem to stern with images of snarling lions and tigers. Also faintly silly. Like something out of a comic book.
Justy’s gaze followed hers. “I hate that I can see that stupid thing from here. And you should hear it. First time he took her out I thought a jumbo jet was about to crash into our house.”
He turned his back on the view and sat down at a teak table by the pool. Des and Bob joined him there.
“What can I do for you gentlemen?” Des asked, setting her big hat on the table before her.
Bob cleared his throat and said, “Have you met this fellow yet?”
“Tyrone Grantham? No, I haven’t.”
“We were thinking you might want to drop by and introduce yourself.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“To welcome him to Dorset, of course.”
“I’m the resident Connecticut State Trooper here, Bob. If you want the Welcome Wagon give Eve Todd a call. She does a very nice job.”
Justy heaved an exasperated sigh. “Oh, for crissakes, can we just talk plain?”
“Fine by me,” Des said.
“I have had nothing but trouble with this individual since he bought the place. The man does whatever he wants and nobody dares say no. He lengthened that dock of his without town approval. That penitentiary-style fence he’s put in between us is two feet taller than the building code allows. And it’s topped with razor wire, which isn’t allowed either. A twenty-foot stretch of the darned thing is at least eighteen inches over my property line. Plus the cheese heads who installed it mutilated a half-dozen of my trees. Why, I must be spending half of my time every day over at Town Hall filing one official complaint after another. Meanwhile, I’ve got the paparazzi and who knows what other human filth camped outside of my house twenty-four hours a day.”
“You have my sympathy, Mr. Bond.”
“I don’t want your sympathy. I want you to do something.”
“I don’t see a role for me here,” Des told him. “You do have a traffic situation, but I just saw two troopers out there trying to help out. I don’t know what else can be done. We can’t strong-arm the media. All we can do is keep the road clear and try to move the gawkers along. My advice is to be patient. They’ll move on to another story in a few days and your life will return to normal.”
“My life will never be normal as long as that man is living next door,” Justy said tightly. “I should not have to put up with this. I have rights, too.”
“Of course you do,” Bob assured him. “That’s why we thought you might have a talk with the gentleman, Des.”
“A talk about what, Bob?”
Justy glared across the table at her. “Are you purposely playing dumb?”
“I’m not ‘playing’ at anything. I’m the resident trooper. If Mr. Grantham phones 911 and requests my presence I’ll oblige him. If he breaks the law I’ll-”
“He’s broken several laws. I can give you a list as long as my arm.”
“You’re talking about possible building code violations, Mr. Bond. Those aren’t criminal matters.”
The two men exchanged an uneasy look before Bob said, “Des, I want to assure you that what I’m about to say is in no way racially motivated…”
“No, of course not,” Des managed to say, her face revealing nothing.
“But we have… concerns about the criminal element Mr. Grantham has been known to associate with. We want to make sure he behaves himself.”
“And he has,” Des said. “Tyrone Grantham is not wanted in connection with any crime. He’s a high-profile sports celebrity, period.”
“What about his posse or crew or whatever it’s called?”
“I believe it’s called his wife and family,” she replied crisply. “What about them, Bob?”
“Well, one worries about gang-related activity.”
“Like one of those drive-by shootings,” Justy said, nodding his head. “Bonita hasn’t been able to sleep a wink since they moved in next door. She just wanders around the house all night, scared out of her wits.”
“I’m unaware of any such gang-related activity,” Des said, hearing the crunch of gravel out front as a car pulled in and parked. A car door slammed shut and footsteps started toward them on the bluestone path.
The footsteps belonged to Bonita, who was just back from an early morning tennis game at the country club. Or so her sleeveless white polo shirt and trim little white tennis shorts suggested. Bonita was thirty-six trying real hard to look twenty-six. Her day-glo tangerine lip gloss and nail polish were a bit too young for her. So was the matching tangerine scrunchie that held her shiny blond ponytail in place. Bonita was tall and slim with nice tanned legs and a perky little ass. Good, high cheekbones, a kitteny little nose, playful blue eyes-a vanilla princess through and through. Just the sort of pampered blond bitch whom Des had resented her entire life. But Dorset’s many vanilla princesses were not all the same flavor, she’d discovered. Some were actually very nice people. Others were even nastier than she’d ever imagined.
“Hi, darling.” Bonita gave Justy a big, smoochy kiss, mussing his carefully coiffed hair. “Greetings, Bob. Hey, Trooper Des,” she added coolly.
Des said hey back-with equal coolness. She’d had to pull Bonita over on Route 156 last year for exceeding the posted speed limit by more than twenty mph-and driving on the wrong side of the road. She’d flunked her Breathalyzer test and had not been particularly gracious. In fact, she’d called Des a “hostile twat.”