Antiques Roadkill (17 page)

Whatever Tony Cassato’s reason was for coming here, we were lucky to have him.

Shortly after he took over, gangs from Chicago tried to infiltrate the town’s youth, and the chief rounded them up and busted them and stayed on their butts and soon they were scurrying back for the big city. Then he initiated programs to educate students and parents on how to prevent that kind of thing from happening again.

This was not to say that Tony Cassato didn’t have a few enemies, besides the criminals he put away, and those jealous longtime local cops. Some citizens, and the city council in particular, often got annoyed with his brash, sometimes rude, shoot-from-the-hip manner. My mother reported hearing one old-timer refer to the chief as “that dad-blasted city slicker,” but on the other hand, she’d been watching
Green Acres
on TV Land that morning, so consider the source.

My view? In spite of his “perceived” shortcomings, the town was a lot safer with Tony Cassato.

Inside the station, I spoke to the dispatch officer, a woman again, through a hole in the bulletproof glass, asking if I could see the chief. She took my name and advised me to make myself comfortable—always a challenge, considering those hard plastic chairs in the waiting area next to that humming soda machine.

During the next fifteen minutes or so, I read pamphlets on the evils of drugs, learned how not to catch VD, and
brushed up on my rights as a citizen; I was in the process of picking dead leaves off the corner rubber-tree plant when the door to the inner sanctum finally opened, and Tony Cassato strode out.

He was in his midforties, stocky, with a barrel chest, gray temples, a bulbous nose, square jaw, and bullet-hard eyes. While at first glance the chief didn’t seem terribly attractive, he had a confident charisma that radiated like heat shimmer over asphalt.

His eastern accent was subdued but definite, and to these midwestern ears, charming. “What can I do for you, Brandy?”

Softly, I said, “It’s personal, if you don’t mind. Could we go to your office?”

“Sure,” he said, managing to make that one word both brusque and friendly, a uniquely New York accomplishment.

Now, you may be wondering why the head of Serenity’s law enforcement department would be willing to take time out from his busy day to see little old me. You might assume it was because he was keeping an eye on the Clint Carson case, and you might be partially right.

Partially.

Once, when I was home visiting, and still married, Mother had a really bad episode, and I had to summon the police.

The officers who came out—while competent and knowledgeable in a case of spousal abuse or even a rampaging crackhead or for that matter a full-blown hostage crisis—were clueless when it came to dealing with a mentally ill subject like Mother. After the crisis passed, I approached the chief and suggested he put together a team that had training in crisis management, specifically tailored for the mentally disabled.

These poor souls, I pointed out, should not be treated
like regular criminals. He saw my point, and cited a precedent back in New York, and not only created a mobile unit that could travel to the site of such a disturbance, but held periodic seminars for his men using a qualified teacher from NAMI (the National Alliance for the Mentally Ill). He and I had spent hours together working on this—sometimes in Serenity, sometimes over the phone when I was back in Chicago—and we had become friends … a kind of professional friendship, but a friendship nonetheless, colored by mutual respect.

I followed Tony down the beige-tiled corridor to the last corner room. He sat behind his desk, while I took a padded visitor’s chair.

The chief’s office was nothing fancy, strictly functional; no one could fault him for squandering the taxpayers’ hard-earned money on expensive furnishings. Several nice prints spotted the walls (of the duck hunting variety) and a few framed awards and accolades were on display, but this could have been any executive’s office, really. Missing, however, were any family photos.

“How’s your mother?” he asked, settling back in his chair, the leather squeaking.

I told him about her impromptu court performance, her outlandish theatrics, and the sentencing.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe the community service will keep her out of trouble.”

“Don’t count on it,” I said.

“Her meds are right?”

“They’re right—it’s just … certain things get her juices going.” “Ah.”

“You, uh, know, of course … about her—
our
—involvement with the Clint Carson matter?”

“Matter or murder?”

“You’re the detective.”

He smiled vaguely, then waved it off. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

I’d been hoping for more—figuring he might share details about how Carson really died before Mother ran him over—but Tony, ever the professional, was properly tight-lipped.

“So, Brandy,” he said, over tented fingers, “what’s this visit about?”

“Well,” I began, tentatively, “I thought I should mention that when I went out to Carson’s house, yesterday—”

He cut me off by raising a reproachful eyebrow.

I sat forward and couldn’t keep the defensiveness out of my voice. “The crime-scene tape was down! I didn’t trespass or anything.”

“Go on.”

“Anyway, all of his property was gone—not just his personal stuff, but the antiques warehoused in his barn. I ran into the Realtor out there—Sue Roth?”

His nod indicated he knew who I meant.

“Ms. Roth said you took
everything.
… Is that true?”

“Yup. It’s in storage right now.”

I frowned. “Until the estate is settled, or …?”

The chief leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Ever hear of the Crime Control Act?”

“Not really.”

His tone turned crisply businesslike. “It gives the government the right to seize any and all property at the site of a criminal act.”

I blinked. “What criminal act was Carson involved in?”

Tony just stared at me.

With a shrug, I said, “Am I out of line asking?”

He thought for a few seconds, then shook his head, once. “No … Carson was operating a meth lab in that barn.”

“Holy shii.… Well, Tony, I appreciate you sharing that with me.”

He twitched something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You might as well know. It’ll be in the papers, statewide, ‘fore long.”

I wasn’t surprised Carson was dealing drugs—everything had been pointing that way—but I figured it was something more upscale, cocaine supplied through his contacts in Colorado, maybe. Meth labs were more common than cornfields in this part of the world.

And then I remembered the horrible chemical stench of my first nighttime visit to Carson’s place.

Boy, was I dumb.

You don’t have to
agree
with me!

“So,” I said, “what happens now?”

“Ongoing investigation—involving us, the sheriff’s department, BCI—feds, too.”

“No, I mean—to his possessions.”

“Oh. Well, they’ll be sold at auction.”

I sat way forward.
“When?”

His eyes narrowed. “We’ll get a directive from the Treasury Department.… I don’t
know
when.… It’s early days yet.”

This was a new world to me. Somehow I had the presence of mind to ask, “Where does the money from the auction go?”

The chief smiled a little. “That’s the beauty part—back into law enforcement.”

I sighed. “Makes sense.”

Tony, sensing my bummer vibe, asked, “What’s your interest in Carson’s personal effects, anyway? Not thinking about going into the meth business, are you?”

“Not hardly.” I made an embarrassed face. “Some of the furniture in the barn belonged to us.”

His eyebrows tensed. “You don’t mean stolen?”

I shifted in the chair. “Not technically, maybe—for what Carson paid Mother? Just as good as.”

Tony made a clicking in his cheek. “Your mother?”

I nodded glumly. “Yeah—Carson took advantage of her last episode and bought everything on the cheap.”

I opened my purse, withdrew a piece of paper, and placed it on the desk.

“This is the list of the precious things that snake took,” I said. “We’d be forever grateful if you’d give us a heads-up about that auction—maybe we could manage to buy back a few memories.”

He nodded, but said nothing.

I decided to take a shot. “Do you have any leads? On the Carson murder?”

Surprisingly, he answered straightaway: “Well, we have had a couple of confessions already.”

“Really?” Then I noticed the twinkle in those bullet-hard eyes and understood. “Oh … Officer Lawson told you about that.”

“Yes. And I stand behind his decision to leave all of that off the record. But, Brandy, you stopping out at Carson’s place, to check on those antiques you lost …?”

“Yes?”

“Was that the
only
reason you went out there?”

“What else would there be?”

He studied me for a moment. “I heard a rumor your mother was snooping around downtown, asking questions about the case. I’d appreciate it if you’d advise her of how ill-advised that is.”

“Oh. Well. Sure.”

“And that advice would apply equally to you.”

I grinned. How convincing it was, I couldn’t say. “You don’t think I’m out playing Nancy Drew or anything, do you?”

He grinned. And it wasn’t convincing at all. “I hope not.”

The chief was escorting me back down the hallway when I suddenly heard myself blurt, “If Mia took those drugs from lockup, Tony, she
must
have had help from someone else in your department.”

“What gives you
that
idea?” he snapped.

The corridor had gotten decidedly chillier.

Still, I forged ahead, recounting the clandestine meeting between Mia and another officer at Wild Cat Den, but without mentioning Joe.

He put a hand on my arm. “Where did you hear that?”

“I just heard it, that’s all. You know what a gossip mill this town is.”

“Brandy …”

“Yes?”

His grasp tightened. “Leave it alone.”

“Mia used to be my friend, that’s all. Makes me sad that—”

“It’s over and done with. Remember what I said. Stay
out
of it … and that goes for your mother, too.”

“You’re hurting my arm.”

He released his grip.

I straightened myself. “Are you saying Mia’s situation and the Carson case are related?”

“Good-bye, Brandy.”

He opened the door to the lobby and followed me out.

I wondered why my words had struck such a raw nerve with our cool police chief. If Mia wasn’t the only dirty police officer, wouldn’t Tony want to root out the other bad apples? And was Clint Carson’s drug-related murder tied to my old friend’s disgraced removal from the force?

And was Mia’s clandestine cop-shop rendezvous at the Den with Officer Lawson?

I exited the station, mind spinning with questions, but
with an overriding feeling of discomfort, as if eyes—
Tony’s eyes?
—were following me to my car.

I was half conscious of Sushi nudging my face.… No,
scratching
my face, and it hurt.

She’d been out to do her business just before I’d gone to bed, and I had put down water for her, so what the heck did she
want,
anyway? No more dogs! No more
blind
dogs, anyway.…

I tried to shove the pooch away but my arms were like lead.

More scratching, along with whimpering.

This really
was
my last dog! I forced my eyes open, and became acutely, overwhelming aware of a sickeningly unpleasant odor …

…
Gas!

I struggled to my feet, and the room whirled; but I managed to steady myself, and stumbled out into the hall.

Mother’s bedroom was closer to the stairwell, her door—I could see, thanks to the night-light from the bathroom—was open; I moved toward it virtually in slow motion, barely able to lift my feet, as if walking in a swamp.

I saw Mother’s form under her covers, and I lurched forward, falling to my knees by the bed, as if about to pray, but instead grabbing her, shaking her, yelling to her, “Mother!
Mother!
Wake up!”

She was limp as a rag doll.

I turned to the nearby window—closed for airconditioning—threw it open, and knocked out the screen, slamming my fist into the wire like a punch-drunk boxer. Then, summoning strength from somewhere, I dragged Mother out of her bed and carted her bodily over to the window, and propped her head up on the sill.

A warm breeze blew in, fluttering the white lace curtains, and I gulped deeply.

I never knew air could be so damn delicious.

Mother gulped, too, and snorted, taking in air finally, and then moaned, as if having a bad dream.

“Mother! There’s
gas
in the house—we have
got
to get out!”

Her voice was weak, and for once in her life, all theatrics were drained out of her. “Oh dear, oh dear.… Oh, my head, aching
head.
…”

Sushi had found her way next to us, and I picked the pooch up and held her out the window as if about to drop her, but the point was to give her some fresh air, too.

“Take a deep breath, Mother,” I instructed. “And then we’ll go.”

Mother grabbed some air, and then I helped her to her feet …

… but she was so damn wobbly that it took both my arms to keep her from falling!

I had to put Sushi down.

“Follow us, girl!” I commanded. “Mother, keep your breath held till we get out!”

She managed to nod, her mouth sealed.

As we descended the stairs, I could hear Sushi’s nails clicking on the wooden steps behind us. I didn’t dare breathe—the gas smell was everywhere.

Just as we got to the front door, Mother ran out of wind and gulped, taking in toxic fumes, then immediately collapsing in my arms.

But I dragged her out on the porch and unceremoniously down the steps—
klump! klump! klump!
—no doubt creating a few bruises, which was better than the alternative. Then I hauled her across the lawn and propped her up against one of the pine trees.