"Creepy as in?..."

"He has a major crush on her. Josie asked him politely to go home. He refused. I had to encourage him. It got a little physical-nothing serious-before he finally left. After the funeral home people carted Bryce's body away she started right in on her to-do list. She's incredibly organized and take-charge. I guess it helps to be a professional life coach. When I left her she was already boxing up Bryce's possessions. She has to call his attorney, Glynis, to find out what to do with them." Mitch refilled their wineglasses and sat back down. "She and Casey were lucky they weren't seriously hurt when Kylie slammed into her office. She'll have a shiner from that ceiling tile whacking her in the eye but it could have been a lot worse."

Des pulled in her stomach muscles ever so slightly. So slightly that most people wouldn't have noticed it. Mitch wasn't most people.

He sipped his wine, studying her over his glass. "There's something you really want to avoid telling me. What is it?"

She looked at him in amazement. "I can't hide a thing from you, can I?"

"Don't even try."

"Look, this is kind of awkward for me. I know that you like Josie."

He nodded. "And I know that you don't."

"What makes you say that?"

"You get all stiff-necked whenever she's around."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only to me. What do you want to tell me?"

"When I dashed into her office I found her having sex on the sofa with Casey. Rough sex. That's how she got the shiner. Casey hit her in the eye. When I spoke to her about it she insisted that it was strictly a role-playing exercise. Casey has confidence issues with women and she's been trying to help him out. I asked her point-blank if they're romantically involved. She told me point-blank that they aren't."

"But you didn't believe her."

"Mitch, I saw what I saw."

"She told me she got hit in the eye by a ceiling tile."

"Casey's the one who tangled with the ceiling tile. Josie lied to you."

He listened to the frozen rain tapping on the roof, frowning. "I've been around a lot of world-class liars. I'm talking about movie producers, agents. She's a damned good one."

"How much has she told you about her background?"

"Josie isn't someone who talks about her childhood. All I know is she grew up in Maine and graduated from Bates. She used to live with some guy up in Castine who liked to write sci-fi. After they broke up she moved down here and became a life coach."

"She has a Web site. Have you ever checked it out?"

"No, I haven't. Why?"

"Well, for starters her bio doesn't say she graduated from Bates. It says she studied there. That's a classic resume padder. If you audit a summer school class somewhere you can say you studied there. Her bio also boasts that she's a fully accredited professional life coach. Remember how she mentioned that to us this morning?"

"I remember."

"Do you have any idea what it actually means?"

"Not really."

"It means that Josie completed an online degree program and then became officially certified by the American Life Coach Federation. Which sounds really impressive except, hello, it's not. The American Life Coach Federation and the online degree program are one and the same entity. The outfit that enrolls you in its degree program-at a cost of around three grand-also serves as its very own certifying agency. Josie hasn't been accredited by any official agency that's regulated by the State of Connecticut. She bought her accreditation from a for-profit outfit."

"So you think she's a scam artist?"

"I think I'm not so sure how qualified she is to be doing what she's doing. And after walking in on her and Casey getting sweaty, well, I'm not entirely sure what she's doing." Des trailed off into uncomfortable silence. "I'm not loving any of this. I know Josie's your friend, and I'm fine with that."

"Really? Because I'm not. I don't stay friends with people who lie to my face. That's generally a deal breaker for me." The rain on the roof sounded quieter now. It had switched from frozen to plain old rain. "Did you get anywhere with our grinch?"

"I found out that it's a whole lot bigger than some kids swiping Hank's Christmas cookies. Prescription meds are disappearing. That's serious business. I'm kicking it to the postal inspectors tomorrow. It's their case."

"Now that you bring it up something has occurred to me."

"Um, okay, you brought it up. And something always occurs to you." Des gazed at him sternly before she rolled her eyes and said, "What is it?"

"That the right answer's often the most obvious one."

"You mean that Hank's been stealing the stuff himself?"

"Exactly."

"That did occur to me," she conceded. "It would explain why Paulette's been acting so tense. Maybe she's been thinking it, too. Last thing in the world she'd want to do is bring down her own boyfriend. But answer me this-why would Hank resort to stealing his own mail?"

"He has big-time money problems. According to Rut Peck he owes his ex-wife a fortune."

"Paulette mentioned he'd had a personal setback. He even started smoking again. You do know who helped him quit, don't you?"

"Are we back to Josie again?"

"Does Rut think that Hank's capable of something that extreme?"

"Absolutely. Mind you, Rut's not exactly Hank's biggest fan."

"Why not?"

"Because he sees him a rival for Paulette's affections. Like I told you-Rut's real sweet on her."

"The only mail that's been disappearing is the mail on Hank's route," she said slowly. "If Hank has serious money problems then you'd have to take a good, hard look at him. I watched him deliver packages up and down Dorset Street today. Didn't see him do a thing that wasn't kosher. But I'd just spoken with him at the Post Office. Maybe he was just being careful."

"You'd have to catch him in the act, wouldn't you?"

"I'd have to catch him with other people's mail in his wrongful personal possession. Except it's not going to be me. It's the postal inspectors who'll go at him. And they'll go at him hard."

"There's no way around that?"

"If he turned himself in they might cut him a deal. He'd have to give up his buyer."

"What buyer?"

"Someone has been gobbling up those stolen prescription meds. Hank would have to finger that individual along with whoever else he's been doing business with. If he did that he'd have a chance. He's a solid career employee, active in the community."

"But he'd lose his job."

"Hell yes, he'd lose his job. But if Hank's our grinch then he'll have to pay the price." Her cell phone rang. Des reached for it on the coffee table and took the call, her face tightening as she listened. Then she rang off and started toward the bathroom. Her uniform was hanging on the back of the door in there. "You'd better eat dinner without me. I'm going to be gone for a while."

"What is it, Des?"

"Another suicide, that's what. Hank Merrill just took his own life."

CHAPTER 9.

THE ROADS WERE ALL slushy and soupy now that so much wind-driven rain was coming down on top of all of that snow. Absolutely no one else was out as Des splish-splashed her way up Route 156, the narrow country road that twisted its way north of the village alongside of the Connecticut River into Dorset's rural farm country.

Her destination was Kinney Road, a remote little lane that ran straight down to the river. Two immense riverfront mansions had been built there a hundred or so years ago. Both places were dark and neither driveway had been plowed. Evidently their owners were spending the holiday season somewhere warm. The road itself had been plowed very recently. She knew this because the town's big orange plow truck was idling there in the rain when she pulled into the small parking lot at the foot of Kinney, which was a real happening place during the summer. Folks put their kayaks and canoes into the water there. This time of year no one came around.

Hank Merrill's black VW Passat was parked facing the river. A garden hose was attached to the Passat's tailpipe with silver duct tape. The other end of the hose was poking through the top of the driver's side window, which had been rolled up tight enough to hold it in place. The driver's door was open, the car's interior lights on. Madge Jewett was crouched there in the rain having a look at Hank while Mary talked to the town plowman, Paul Fiore, who'd phoned it in. The girls' EMT van idled next to his plow truck.

Des buttoned her rain slicker and got out, tugging her big hat tight to her head. She started with Paul, a heavyset fellow who worked for the town full-time.

"I made one pass through here this afternoon," he informed her, running a hand over his face. The man was very upset. "It must have been about three o'clock. Nobody was here. When I came through again just now I noticed the Passat parked over there with its engine running. Didn't pay it much mind. Figured it was a couple of kids playing grab-ass. They like these out-of-the-way places, you know?"

"Sure, I know," Des said to him gently.

"I've been plowing nonstop since five o'clock this morning, so maybe I'm not as alert as I should be. I'd practically..." Paul broke off, gulping. "I did almost the whole parking lot before I noticed that hose sticking out of the tailpipe. When I realized what I was looking at I jumped right out and shut off his engine. But I knew I was too late soon as I got a good look at him. His eyes were ... staring at me. And I've never seen anyone that color before."

"Paul, did you touch him or move him? It's okay if you did. I just need to know."

"No, ma'am. Just reached in and shut off the engine."

"Okay, thanks. We'll need a statement from you later, but you can take off now. I know you've still got work to do."

"Paul's going to hang out with me for a few more minutes," cautioned Mary. "He's had a bit of a shock."

Now Des splashed her way over to the Passat.

"Hello yet again," groused Marge. "Is it just me or is this turning into our worst day ever?"

"We've had better, that's for damned sure."

Hank was seated behind the wheel, eyes wide open, his face a bright cherry red-carbon monoxide poisoning turns the hemoglobin bright. He wore an L.L. Bean ski jacket, jeans and snow boots. His cell phone was on the passenger seat next to him, along with a roll of silver duct tape, a box cutter and a business card.

"That's your card," Marge mentioned to her.

It was the one she'd given Hank that morning at the Post Office. He'd wanted to talk to her in private. Had something he wanted to tell her. Now he was dead.

"Any sign of a suicide note?"

"Didn't see one. Maybe he left it at home before he drove out here."

Des moved in for a closer look-and smell. Hank reeked of whiskey. The whole interior of the car did. "Is that Scotch I'm smelling?"

"Smells like bourbon to me."

"It's really strong. Why is it so strong?" She sniffed here, there, everywhere. And discovered that Hank had spilled it here, there, everywhere. On his chest. On his pants. On the upholstery of his seat. "So, let's see, he drove up here and drank a whole lot. Rigged up the hose with the tape, got back in, closed the door and..." She was reaching for Hank's cell phone-maybe he'd called someone-when she suddenly noticed something and stopped herself, her heart beating faster now.

She fetched the big Maglite and a pair of latex gloves from her cruiser and came back, aiming the flashlight's beam at Hank's forehead. On his right temple, there was a highly distinctive purple bruise showing through the cherry red, a perfectly cylindrical ring that was about the diameter of a nickel. She'd seen a bruise just like it once before-when a very messed up Colchester man had pressed the muzzle of a Smith and Wesson .38 Special against his distraught wife's head and held it there for several minutes before he finally made the decision to use the gun on himself.

Des went looking farther now. Carefully, she turned down the collar of Hank's jacket. Found more purple bruising around the left side of his neck. Finger bruising, as if someone had gripped him and held him. There was also bruising beneath his lower lip just above his chin.

She stepped back out into the rain, her eyes flicking over Hank from head to toe. "He's not wearing a hat."

"A guy who's getting ready to do himself in doesn't usually worry about a wet head," Marge pointed out.

"But that's just it, Marge. His hair's dry. So are his hands and his sleeves. Look at his boots. They're dry. So is his floor mat. He's dry all over-except for the rain that's blown onto his leg because we have his door open."

"So?..."

"So the duct tape and box cutter on the passenger seat over there still have beads of water on them." She reached across Hank's body with her left hand. "The back of the passenger seat is damp. And, hello, the floor mat in front of the passenger seat is missing." She waved the Maglite behind the front seat, searching the floor in back. "I don't see a bottle. Do you see a bottle?"

"He must have tossed it."

Des went back to her ride for her Nikon D80 and photographed the wet items on the seat, along with Hank's dry hair and boots, the flooring, all of it. She also photographed the pavement around the car, snapping pic after pic of the puddles in the pavement. Not that the pics would reveal a damned thing. Between Paul's plowing and all of this damned rain coming down, any shoe prints or tire tracks that might have been left behind were history now-drowned, washed away, gone. But she took the photos anyway. Because there was no doubt in her mind that this was a crime scene. Hank Merrill hadn't been alone out here in this remote spot. Someone else had been riding in the passenger seat of the Passat. Someone who'd held that gun to his head. And gripped him by the throat. And rigged up that hose to the Passat's tailpipe to make it look as if Hank had committed suicide.

She phoned it in before she returned to Mary Jewett and Paul Fiore. "Paul, you don't remember seeing a whiskey bottle on the ground, do you? Or broken glass?"

"I'm afraid not," he replied.

She gazed over at the six-foot-high snowbanks that edged the parking lot. The plow truck could have shoved the shards of a broken bourbon bottle into any one of those banks. It would take an exhaustive daylight search to find them-assuming they were even there. "How about another car? When you turned onto Kinney Road did you notice someone else leaving this parking lot?"

"Trooper Des, I didn't see anyone else here. Just him."

Mary cleared Paul to take off now. Two troopers in cruisers arrived from Westbrook soon after that to secure the perimeter. Next came the crime-scene techies in their blue-and-white cube vans, grumbling about the rain. Then a death investigator from the medical examiner's office.

Lastly, a dark blue slick-top arrived from Meriden and out climbed Lt. Yolie Snipes of the Major Crime Squad, Central District, and Sgt. Toni Tedone. Yolie, who was half black, half Cuban and all pit bull, had escaped the Frog Hollow Projects to start at point guard for Coach Vivian Stringer at Rutgers before she joined the Connecticut State Police. She was street tough, street-smart and fierce. Back in Des's glory days, when it was she who was a hotshot lieutenant working homicides out of the Headmaster's House, Des's sergeant had been a Mr. Potato Head named Rico Tedone. The Tedones were big-time players in the Waterbury Mafia, the clan of Brass City Italian-American men that pretty much ran the state police. When they made Rico a lieutenant, the immensely capable Yolie had been chosen as his sergeant. And when Yolie moved up-a promotion that Des felt was long overdue-Rico's younger cousin, Toni, became her sergeant. Toni looked about thirteen but, unlike Rico, she was sharp. She was also the very first Brass City boy who happened to be a girl. Toni was a feisty, lippy little thing-seventy percent big hair, thirty percent hooters. The older detectives called her Toni the Tiger. The younger ones called her Snooki, though never, ever to her face.

Yolie smiled hugely when she saw Des standing there in the rain. "It's been too long, Miss Thing. Good to see you again."

"Same here, Yolie."

"What have you got for us?"

"Please say hello to Hank Merrill," Des said, leading them through the rain-soaked techies who surrounded the Passat. "Hank's my second suicide of the day. Except this one stinks out loud, as my grandma used to say. See these premortem bruises here, here and here? Somebody held a gun to this man's head and restrained him and, judging by that bruise under his lip, made him drink down a whole lot of bourbon. He reeks of it. The whole car does. But there's no bottle. He may have tossed it out the window-in which case the village plowman may have buried it under one of those man-sized snowbanks over there. A little something for us to deal with in daylight. Right now, let's talk about what we're supposed to be thinking."