Free Best Place to Die by Charles Atkins Page B

Jim
, he thought, feeling almost giddy as he tossed the bag and suitcase into the trunk. Joanie was a good kid, maybe getting a little long in the tooth and the house was great and he couldn’t have asked for a better pair of children. But would he miss any of it?
Not so much
, he told himself, pulling out of the garage, and down the winding drive that gave stunning views of the Nillewaug River Valley.
    Focused on the road, he turned right off Grassy Mountain on to River Road and then left on Main. He was completely unaware of two dark-suited men in a black Ford sedan, who’d been waiting behind his neighbor’s dense hedge. Heading down Main, he did glance to the right at Old Farm Road, where he’d normally turn to go to Nillewaug Village. ‘Let’s go long.’ He drove straight and then left toward I-84. Before merging on to the ramp he detoured at the drop off for ‘We Care’, a local church-run charity that ships clothes to third-world countries, and tossed his gym bag into the bin. He never once spotted the Ford, which kept pace three cars back as he sped toward Bradley Airport. Nor did he notice the two dark-suited men as they trailed him from the parking garage to the ticket counter, and then through security.
    It wasn’t until he stood in line for first-class boarding that he noticed the men as they too headed toward the roped-off gate, where a smiling blonde flight attendant was checking tickets and running them through a machine.
    â€˜Jim Warren?’ one spoke.
    He turned, his mind going fast, assuming some colleague or neighbor had just recognized him.
Not a problem, going for a little trip, a mini vacation.
His eyes flitted from the first man, mid thirties, conservative haircut –
not familiar –
to the other, African-American, dark gray off-the-rack suit –
never seen him before in my life.
‘Yes?’
    â€˜Jim Warren.’
    And his eyes flashed on the black man’s hands as he reached back for something and the other continued to speak.
    â€˜Jim Warren,’ the black guy said as he reached out and grabbed his wrist.
    â€˜What’s going on?’ Adrenalin surged, as his hand was firmly twisted behind his back, and he felt something wrap around his wrist. ‘What the . . .!’
    â€˜Jim Warren, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit fraud against the federal government. You have the right . . .’

SIX
    A s Detective Mattie Perez climbed the walk to Lil and Ada’s adjoined condos – cell phone to ear – her thoughts raced. She ended the call with young Jamie, again trying to instil in the newbie detective the vital importance of crime-scene integrity. A tall order in the best of circumstances, and beyond impossible with fires.
And no
, she thought,
still not officially a crime scene,
but little doubt before this messed-up morning was over it would be. Maybe murder, maybe arson, maybe something she hadn’t yet considered. And then there was Hank Morgan tromping through the scene with his buddy the Fire Marshall, who kept insisting it was an accident caused by spontaneous combustion. Sure, she liked Hank, had since they’d first met, but trust him . . . not so much. Something about him, and not the usual differences between local and state cops, where the former is more about keeping the peace and the latter about solving crimes and catching perps. Since first coming to Grenville last fall, Mattie had developed a series of partially tested hypotheses about the place. Postcard pretty on the outside, but something rank festered below the surface. And Nillewaug, with its pricey apartments and polished administrator with her French-tipped nails and perfect blonde coif were emblematic of a town that thrived off the fleecing of old people as they downsized, got ill and eventually passed. The series of murders last fall, the killing of high-end antique dealers who’d gotten fat off of Grenville’s