followed protocol—he cut the clothes off the deceased, bagged them, and had them delivered to the police station, where they would be processed and sent to Lisa Hitt on the Cape. But the clothes never made it to the station, according to Alexis Lopresti, who was working the processing desk. The Chief went back to the ME—the guy was new, replacing longtime ME Dr. Fields—to ask who exactly he’d sent to deliver the clothes, and the ME admitted he wasn’t sure. He’d handed them off and assumed they would be dealt with.
“Well, where are they, then?” the Chief said. He was about to blow his stack, but the last thing he needed was an ME with a grudge against him. “Never mind—they must be at the station.”
Ed drove to work and stormed up to Alexis Lopresti at the processing desk.
“You did not see or receive the bag containing Vivian Howe’s clothes from the hospital, is that correct?”
“Nope,” Alexis said. “Did you check the evidence room?”
“Yes,” he said. “Twice. Who was on the schedule last Saturday?”
Alexis looked put out by this question. “I don’t know.”
The Chief was tempted to fire her on the spot. She must have noticed his expression because she clickety-clacked on her computer and said, “Dixon and…Pitcher.”
Pitcher was green; he’d been on the force for only nine months. It was entirely possible Pitcher had left the clothes in the back of his squad car.
When the Chief called Pitcher, there was loud music and laughing in the background; it sounded like he was out on the town. He was very young; the Chief remembered that he’d seen Pitcher hanging around Alexis Lopresti’s desk with unusual frequency, probably trying to get a date.
Pitcher said that he hadn’t been the one to pick up the clothes. “I definitely would have remembered that. Clothes and running shoes too, right?”
“Right,” the Chief said. “So you did see them?”
“No,” Pitcher said. “But I know she got hit while running. So there would have been running shoes. What I’m saying is, shoes would have been hard to miss.”
In a last-ditch effort, the Chief called Lisa Hitt to see if, maybe by the grace of God, the clothes had landed in her hands.
“No,” she said. “Why, are they missing?”
The Chief can’t release Cruz’s car until they find the clothes, and he knows he owes Joe DeSantis an explanation, one that should be offered in person.
He swings by the Nickel at two thirty, after the lunch crowd has dispersed. He’s relieved to find only Joe in the place, slicing up a prime rib in the back.
When Joe sees the Chief, a concerned look crosses his face, but he smiles. “The tuna niçoise baguette is sold out, Ed, sorry. You know you gotta get here earlier than this.”
Ed’s stomach rumbles. He could do with a prime rib sliced thin, lacy Swiss, and arugula with some of Joe’s wickedly spicy horseradish sauce on a warm pretzel roll—but that’s not why he’s here.
There are days he hates his job, and he has just lived through a handful of them.
“Do you have a minute, Joe?”
Joe strides across the shop, flips the sign to say CLOSED, and pulls two Cokes out of the cooler. There’s nowhere to sit, so they lean on the counter.
“If you’re not here for lunch, there must be trouble.”
The Chief sighs. “Has Cruz talked to you at all about what happened when he found Vivian Howe?”
Joe shakes his head, cracks open his Coke. “He hasn’t said a word about it except that he told you everything.” Joe takes a drink. “I guess I don’t understand why you still have his car.”
“There are a few things that look bad,” the Chief says. “One of the officers saw him run the stop sign at Hooper Farm and Surfside and then haul ass down Surfside only a few minutes before he called 911.”
Joe is silent.
“When I asked Cruz where he was coming from, he said home, which doesn’t match up.”
“Your officer is sure it was him? There are a lot of white Jeeps on this island, Ed.”
“The officer said it was him, though he could have been mistaken.” The Chief cracks open his own can of Coke and tries to enjoy the first cold, spicy sip. “The tire tracks were no help. Luminol turned up Ms. Howe’s blood on the door handle but not on the bumper or grille—and because of the gash on Ms. Howe’s leg, there would almost definitely be blood on the bumper.”