Free Idyll Threats by Stephanie Gayle Page B

and toward the shower. If I hurried, I could make it into the station before the others. And fake a note pointing them to the cabin.
    A half hour later, I sat behind my desk. My office plant stood at attention as I tried my hand at forgery, again. This was my eighth attempt at replicating the floral script of our tips line coordinator, Joanne. I botched the victim's name, making the C's spike too hard. No good. Checked my watch. Fuck. Wright would be at his desk in twenty minutes. A knock at my door. Damn it. I fanned my folders over my handiwork and said, “Come in.” Billy entered, looking all of sixteen years old.
    â€œHi, Chief. I heard about the videotape.”
    I expected half the town knew by now.
    â€œAnd?” I pinched the skin between my thumb and finger, trying to stave off the headache I felt at the base of my skull, its tendrils squeezing my nerves.
    â€œIs there anything I can do?” he asked. “To help?”
    No, unless…“You know where Cumberland Farms is. Where might Cecilia go from there? If she was meeting someone and wanted to keep it private?”
    His face crinkled in thought. God, if I'd looked like him twenty years ago, I'd have brought the West Village to its knees.
    He said, “There's the railroad museum. And the woods by the golf course.”
    â€œAnywhere else?” Come on , I thought. He had to know.
    â€œThe cabin by Hought's Pond.”
    â€œHought's Pond?” Did my voice sound anxious?
    â€œYeah. It's between Cumberland's and the golf course, but the woods are closer.”
    â€œI thought they were going to tear the cabin down?”
    Billy relaxed against the door. “They've been saying that for years.It belongs to the Sutters. Well, the son now that his parents passed. But he lives in California. The town's been all over him to fix the cabin or demolish it, but he says he has fond memories of it. Doesn't want to spend the money, more like. And he's got the town over a barrel because they want him to leave the farm as is.”
    â€œReally? Why?” Its lonely pastures and sinking barn gave me the creeps.
    â€œThey think it looks old-timey. And they don't want shiny, new condos on the land. It would ruin the whole Idyll Days image.”
    â€œI see. Why don't you check the railroad museum? We know she bought a Coke and some Pop Rocks. See if you find any trace of ’em near the museum. You know how to bag evidence?” He got red, remembering his crime-scene massacre. He nodded. “I'll take a look at the cabin.”
    â€œShould I radio you if I find something?” he asked.
    â€œNo. Just bring it in.” It was a fool's errand. He'd find nothing of value, but he felt included, valuable. We both got something we wanted.

    The cabin looked worse in daylight. It leaned toward the pond, as if drunk. Ivy crept through its sunken steps and twined around a front window that looked like a jagged tooth, only its bottom third of glass intact. I used my foot to open the door. A leaf skittered across the floor. Bottles, wrappers, condoms, and matchbooks littered the place. A charred section of wall showed where someone had played firebug. I looked for evidence of my last visit. There were faint smudges in the dust that could be partial footprints. I could sweep, erase any traces of myself, tamper with the crime scene, as Rick had done once. My mind seesawed.
    â€œWhere's the baggie?” I'd asked Rick. We'd gone through the crack house where Marshall Clements had died. Now it was time to submit our evidence. I couldn't find the baggie with white powder. Rick had grabbed it, though it was on my side of the scene.
    â€œWhat?” He stretched like a cat in a puddle of sunlight.
    â€œThe baggie. You had it last.”
    His eyes were blank, like a shark's. “Tommy, boy, I don't know what you're talking about.” He picked up his bags. Whistling as he walked away. The sunlight glinted off his copper hair. A