“I don’t mind if you repeat yourself.”
“Plus I happen to know she’s plenty human and…”
Des raised an eyebrow at him. “And…?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way, thinny.”
EPILOGUE
(TWO DAYS LATER)
Maddee Farrell was arraigned in New London Superior Court the morning after her arrest, and charged with murder in the first degree. The courtroom was packed with national media people. Reporters from the major newspapers, TV networks and cable news channels slavered all over it. It wasn’t every day that the patrician wife of a world-famous Wall Street swindler-Dex “Quacks Like a Duck” Farrell-was charged with murdering a retired New York City police detective. Or that Dex Farrell himself was hauled in and charged with being the serial weenie waver who’d been terrorizing the good ladies of Dorset, Connecticut for weeks. The whole scene was one giant made-for-cable newsapalooza. Maddee’s lawyer requested that she be released on bail. The judge denied the request. Judges tend to take a dim view of premeditated acts of murder, even those committed by rich old ladies who wear pearls and magenta lipstick. Dex, meanwhile, was being held at Connecticut Valley Hospital in Middletown pending the findings of a psychological evaluation by a court-appointed psychiatrist.
Des highly doubted that the shrink would find Dex Farrell competent to stand trial. But she had to admit that the Dorset Flasher had been right about one thing: the weather. A blast of fresh, cool Canadian air blew in late Tuesday night, just like he’d predicted. It was the first hint that fall wasn’t far off. And it meant that the Deacon was wearing a hooded state police sweatshirt as he stood there at 5:00 a.m. on his front porch waiting for Des to take him to Yale-New Haven Hospital. He was due in pre-op at 5:45. The Deacon wore pressed chinos and walking shoes with his sweatshirt, and had an overnight bag at his feet. He looked like a kid going off to camp. Lights were on inside of the house. Her aunt Charlene had arrived from Scranton last night and intended to spend the day scrubbing the place from floor to ceiling with Clorox. How she dealt.
Des was alone in the car. Mitch had wanted to come along but she’d told him she’d rather fly solo.
“Is this a Mitry thing or a you thing?”
“Is what?”
“Suffering all alone.”
“Mitch, I’ll be fine. Just step off, okay?”
And so he had.
“My affairs are entirely in order, Desiree,” the Deacon informed her after he’d settled in beside her, his seat belt buckled. He was reserved and calm. Himself. “You’ll find my will and other pertinent personal papers in the top left drawer of my desk in the den. The house goes to you. I own it free and clear. You can sell it or rent it out. Entirely your call.”
“All right,” she said as she steered them onto I-91. There were very few cars on the highway that early.
“I’ve left some money to your mother. Also to my church. The bulk of it goes to you. My investment portfolio and life insurance policy. My wedding ring, wristwatch…”
“Daddy, can we please not have this conversation?”
“I merely wanted you to know that I’ve taken care of everything.”
“I never doubted that for a second. Now will you please shut up about it?”
“Fine.” But he wasn’t done talking. “Girl, what did you go and do?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that our dear friend Captain Richie Tedone called me last night just to tell me what an exemplary state trooper you are. The man could not say enough nice things about you. Why, he practically called you a credit to your race. Wanted me to know that Internal Affairs has no further interest in the Augie Donatelli matter. He also wanted to wish me a speedy recovery.” He gazed at her sternly. “You have something on him, don’t you?”
“Daddy, let’s not have this conversation either, okay?”
“I don’t approve, Desiree. You never come out ahead when you tussle with a Tedone.”
“I wasn’t trying to come out ahead. Just level the playing field a little.”
He stuck out his chin. “You shouldn’t have done it.”
“Well, it’s done. Richie will never bother us again. None of the Waterbury boys will. You can put that in the bank.”
“What on earth did you get on him?”
“It’s better if you don’t know. The mental image will set back your recovery by weeks.”
They got to the hospital in plenty of time. The Deacon signed in. They sat there together in the small pre-op waiting room for an hour.
When his name was finally called he stood and handed Des his wallet and shield. “Hold on to these for me, will you?”
She hugged him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be here, Daddy.”
“See you in a little while,” he said, his voice turning husky. Then he strode through the door to get ready for surgery.
Des moved to the patient-recovery waiting room, a much larger area that was filled with people who were camped out there for however long it took. Which, in the Deacon’s case, would be at least six hours, maybe eight. But Des wasn’t going anywhere. As she sat down she realized she was still clutching his shield and wallet in her hand. She stuffed the shield in her shoulder bag. Opened his wallet and glanced through it. He carried the usual credit and ID cards. Also two fading color snapshots. One was of Des and her mother standing together at Des’s West Point graduation. Des in uniform, all straight and proud. Her mother dressed up, looking beautiful. The other snapshot was an appallingly geeky high school yearbook photo of Des. She’d worn her hair like the business end of a felt tip marking pen in those days, the better to show off the sprinkling of pimples on her forehead and her oh-so stylish Urkel glasses. There were no current photographs in the Deacon’s wallet.
She put it away and took out her sketchbook, graphite stick and the crime scene photos that Yolie had given her. She began to draw, deconstructing the horror that she’d been a part of on Saturday night. Converting Augie’s bashed-in skull and splattered brain matter into lines and shapes and shadows. Her way of trying to deal with the ghastly reality of what Maddee Farrell had done to protect the man she loved. Was proud to do. Would do all over again if she had to. Des wanted to understand. Needed to understand. But Maddee and Dex Farrell would haunt her for a long, long time and she knew it.
She drew like mad for hours, one page after another, so absorbed in what she was doing that she almost didn’t notice someone standing there before her.
“That’s one of the crazy things about hospitals,” Mitch exclaimed, grinning at her maddeningly. “You just never know who you might run into.”
“Mitch, I told you I’d be fine on my own,” she growled.
“I know you did.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“I’m not here. Well, obviously I am. But I’m not. I happen to be on my way to Pepe’s Pizza for my monthly pig out.”
“Your monthly what?”
“It’s a private thing that I do. Something personal. I feel it’s very important to stay connected to my inner fat boy. So once a month I make a pilgrimage to the Elm City and stuff my face on Pepe’s white clam pizza.”
“I didn’t know this.”
“We all have our little secrets. I just got an idea-why don’t you come along? It’s world-class pie. And you could use a break.”
“I’d better wait here. They said they’d page me when they had something to report.”
Mitch glanced at his watch. “That won’t be for at least another two, three hours.”
“Mitch, I’m not leaving.”
“Cool.” He flopped down in the chair next to hers. “If you want to stay here, we’ll stay here.”
“What about your monthly hajj to fat boy Mecca?”
“Hell, I can do that any time. Oh, hey, would you like to come to a wedding on Friday? It’ll be ultracasual. Shoes are optional. I highly doubt that the bride will be wearing any.”