The Cold Blue Blood (40 page)
Now it flowed. Now he had it.
Now he knew.
Mitch was still clicking away at it that evening, Clemmie dozing contentedly in his lap, when he heard a car pull up outside in the gravel driveway. Followed by footsteps and a tap on his door.
It was Lieutenant Mitry. She was casually dressed—a gray Henley shirt and faded jeans. And she was not empty-handed. She held a gym bag in one hand and a cat carrier in the other. An occupied cat carrier. Meowing was taking place in there. Clemmie was immediately intrigued. So was Mitch. So intrigued that it took him a moment to realize that something was radically different about the lieutenant.
“My God, you cut off all your hair!” No more dreadlocks. Her hair was cropped short and nubby now. Way different but no less striking. It accentuated the long, graceful contour of her neck and shoulders. Her bearing now seemed positively regal. A sculptor would have a field day with this woman. “How come?” he asked her curiously.
“I had my reasons,” she answered, setting down the cat carrier. Clemmie immediately let out a playful squeak and went nose to nose with its resident, both of them crouching low.
“And who, may I ask, is in there?”
She flashed her wraparound smile at him. “Put your hands together for Dirty Harry. Tal Bliss’s cat. I have to move him out now that Big Willie’s in the house.”
“You brought me a dead man’s cat?”
“Hey, you’re lucky and you don’t even know it—I could have brought you Big Willie. Besides, Harry’s a good little mouser. Figured he could show Clemmie the ropes. Cats are happier in pairs, anyway. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Would it matter if I did?”
“Of course not. How’s the leg?”
“It’s fine.”
“Glad to hear it.” She started across the living room with the carrier, Clemmie in eager pursuit. “No need to get up. I know the way.”
She let Dirty Harry out upstairs while Mitch shut down his computer and fetched two beers from the fridge. He handed her one when she came back down a moment later.
“Success,” she reported after taking a long, thirsty gulp. “They’re already hissing at each other like family.”
“Did you eat dinner? I’ve got some of my famous American chop suey left over in the fridge.”
“God, that sounds great, Mitch. But, you know, I’m really kind of full right now.”
Maybe it was a gender thing, Mitch reflected. Maybe women simply didn’t comprehend the finer points of American chop suey.
The lieutenant had something to tell him. Something heavy. Mitch could sense it. She seemed very uneasy now as she stood at the windows in silence, drinking her beer and watching the sun drop into the Connecticut River. Mitch joined her there, listening to the cats tear around after each other up in his bedroom.
“This case made me realize something,” she finally said, her voice low and guarded. “I’ve been in a kind of a holding pattern ever since Brandon left. And the time has come for me to … What I mean is, I’ve decided I need to make some serious changes in my life.”
“Such as?” he asked, watching her carefully.
“I’m putting my house on the market, Mitch. I’m moving somewhere else.”
Mitch’s heart sank.
I will die. I will not make it without this woman in my life.
After a long moment he said, “I’m sorry to hear that, Lieutenant. For strictly selfish, personal reasons. But I’m happy for you that you’re making a positive move. And I hope we’ll be able to stay in touch.”
“So do I.”
“Do you have any idea where you’ll be heading?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Where?”
She turned to face him. “Here.”
Mitch stared at her, dumbfounded. “I’m sorry, I thought I just heard you say the word
here.”
She looked back out at the sunset. “Um, okay, maybe I’d better explain …”
“Well, yeah.” Now his heart was racing. “Maybe you’d better.”
“I am no longer what you might call the state police’s equal opportunity poster child. Which is to say they did not exactly buy my version of how things went down that night.”
“They’ve canned you?”
“In their dreams. If they tried to put me out it would get very messy and very public and Superintendent Crowther does not want that. I know too much. So the Deacon and I have brokered a settlement that allows both sides to come away with something. I’ve agreed to accept a slight reduction in rank and pay in exchange for a new opportunity that will, I believe, allow me greater time and flexibility to pursue other interests that are more—”
“Okay, plain English would be a
really
good thing right now,” Mitch cut in impatiently.
She gave it to him in plain English: “I’m Dorset’s new resident trooper.”
“You’re
what?”
“The village needs someone to fill Tal Bliss’s shoes,” she explained, the words tumbling out quickly now. “And that someone is going to be me. I don’t think I’ll be the most popular choice with the locals. In fact, I’m sure I won’t be. But I’m used to fighting uphill battles. And once folks get to know me, I believe I can earn their confidence and their trust. It’s old-fashioned, hands-on community law enforcement, Mitch. The real deal. I’ll be putting on a uni every day. Dealing with the people one on one. Anything nasty goes down, I pick up the phone and call the Westbrook barracks. But not much does in a town like this.”
“Really? That hasn’t been my experience.”
“This case was way out of the ordinary.”
“So let me see if I’ve got this right …” Mitch mused aloud, scratching his head. “You’re going to be like Roy Scheider in
Jaws
—except without the shark?”
“Hopefully.”
“What about your friend Bella? What’ll she do?”
“She’s been wanting a smaller house for a while. Now she’s looking for one here. She intends to be Dorset’s first angry Jewish woman.
“I’m sure that’s something the community has been wanting for a long, long time. Your dad is cool with this idea?”
“My father thinks I’ve gone insane, actually. But he can’t comprehend how important my art has become to me. My life will be way more my own now, Mitch. And I’ll be like two minutes from the Art Academy. I picked up their catalogue this afternoon. They’ve got night classes all year around—anatomy, three-point perspective, life drawing … I’ll actually be able to take them, which there was no way I could do when I was on Major Crimes. I’ll be able to give it prime time.”
“Okay, this part I like.”
“Do you really?” Her eyes were searching his face now.
“I do. I like it large. In fact, I’ve got something for you. Was saving it for the right occasion. I think this qualifies.” Mitch hobbled over to the narrow closet underneath the stairs and dug out the old oak easel that Evan had sold him. It once belonged to a renowned local painter named George M. Bruestle and the lieutenant had been crazy about it. Or so Jamie had reported to Evan after she visited their shop.
“Man, what in the hell are you doing with that thing?” she demanded, gaping at it in disbelief.
“I bought it for you.”
“Get out of here!” She ran her fingers over it, touching it, stroking it, loving it. Clearly, she was not someone who was accustomed to spoiling herself. “But why?”
“I wanted to see you smile.”
“That was one very expensive smile. I hope you got your money’s worth.”
“Oh, I did. Believe me. Only, can I ask you a personal question, Lieutenant?”
“I’m not a lieutenant anymore, Mitch. I’m a master sergeant.”
Mitch shook his head. “I can’t call you Master Sergeant. Sounds too much like Master Cylinder from
Felix the Cat.
Plus there are the sexual dominatrix overtones. No, no, I don’t think we can go there. What do I call you instead?”
“You call me Desiree.”
“Is there any other reason why you chose Dorset, Desiree? There must be other towns around the state that need a resident trooper.”
Her eyes shied away from his now. “It’s close to the art academy, like I said.”
“And that’s the only reason you’re interested in this place?”
“Man, what do you want me to tell you?”
“What you’re thinking.”
She went back over to the windows and stared out at the view, her posture rigid. She didn’t say anything.
Mitch flicked off the two lamps that were on and crossed the room toward her. He put his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her around to face him. She did not resist. They stood very close, gazing deep into each other’s eyes.
“Why did you turn out the lights?” she asked him softly. She was trembling, just as she had been that day in the Black Pearl when she reached for her coffee cup.
“Force of habit. I do all of my best work in the dark. Can I ask you another personal question?”
She gazed back at him steadily. “Go ahead.”
“What’s in the gym bag?”
“My sketch pad and charcoals.”
“What else?”
“My jogging clothes.”
“What else?”
“My nightshirt,” she said huskily. “Would you like to see my tattoo?”
“Desperately.”
“How desperately?”
“What, there’s a condition?”
“There is.”
“Name it.”
“We don’t worry about what other people are thinking. We don’t ask ourselves whether it’ll ever work. We don’t—”
“Freeze frame. I’ll go you one better—we don’t think about it at all. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Shall we shake hands on it?”
Her lips gently grazed his, sending a jolt of electricity through his entire body. “Oh, I think we can do way better than that.”
Later, much later, as they lay in each other’s arms in the moonlight, Mitch said, “Desiree … ?”
“Hmmm-mmm?” she murmured, running her fingers lazily over his bare chest.
“Your tattoo …”
“What about it?”
“I had a feeling that’s where it was.”
To which Desiree Mitry smiled and said, “Boyfriend, I had a feeling that you had a feeling.”
KIDDO
Boss
THE MAN WHO DIED LAUGHING
THE MAN WHO LIVED BY NIGHT
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE F. SCOTT FITZGERALD
THE WOMAN WHO FELL FROM GRACE
THE BOY WHO NEVER GREW UP
THE MAN WHO CANCELLED HIMSELF
THE GIRL WHO RAN OFF WITH DADDY
THE MAN WHO LOVED WOMEN TO DEATH
THE COLD BLUE BLOOD. Copyright © 2001 by David Handler. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
eISBN 9781429974851
First eBook Edition : March 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Handler, David, date
The cold blue blood : a Berger & Mitry mystery / David Handler.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-312-28003-3
1. Film Critics—Fiction. 2. African American police—Fiction. 3. Connecticut—Fiction. 4. Policewomen—Fiction. 5. Widowers—Fiction. 6. Islands—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3558.A4637 C35 2001
813’.54—dc21
2001041804
First Edition: October 2001
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