Touch-Me-Not Read Free Page B

Old County Road. LeRoy tramped down on the accelerator and the van jounced over the speed bumps. He turned onto Old County Road without thinking to look for oncoming cars.
    Christ, he was going crazy. Jerry Sparks, dead in the supply closet. An accident. Call the police? Not after all this time. And whatever Sparks had on his cell phone . . .
    In the state he was in, he’d better be careful driving. What if a town cop stopped him for speeding?
    He slowed down, turned onto State Road, and drove carefully to Vineyard Haven. He passed the boatyard where Jerry Sparks’s girlfriend worked, passed the fuel tanks and the boat-rental place, still closed for the season, and continued on into Oak Bluffs. He parked behind his shop and let himself in with his key, made sure the shades were drawn in front, then turned on the lights in back. He found a pair of needle-nose pliers in his tool chest, knelt down beside the closet door, and went to work on the broken key.
    There was a series of loud raps on the door. “Anybody here?” A male voice. “Watts?”
    LeRoy got to his feet. “Be right there.”
    He turned on the lights in the front of the shop, opened the door, and gasped. A gigantic uniformed police officer stood there. Tall, broad, face shadowed by the visor of his garrison hat. He’s come for me, thought LeRoy. Then with a sudden wash of relief, he recognized the officer. He caught his breath and formed his mouth into a sick grin. “Hey, Smalley. Didn’t expect you. C’mon in.”
    Sergeant Smalley of the State Police stepped inside. His boots reflected the overhead lights. “I was coming from a meeting and saw your lights on in back. Blinds drawn. Just checking to make sure everything’s okay.”
    “Thanks. Had some work to tend to. Guess you’re still on duty. Can I get you a Coke or a Pepsi?”
    “As a matter of fact, I’m not on duty. I’m on my way home. Got something stronger?”
    “Jim Beam do?”
    “Sounds good.” Sergeant Smalley removed his hat and set it on the counter. LeRoy’s tool chest was next to the supply closet. Smalley looked at the chest and then up to the lock. “I see you broke off the key.”
    “Yeah.” Had he seen the Taser cartridge? “I need to get the billing envelopes out of the closet for Maureen.”
    “Here, let me have those pliers.”
    “No way!” barked LeRoy. “You sit down. I’ll pull Maureen’s chair over.”
    “Won’t take but a minute to fix,” said Smalley.
    “How are things with you?” asked LeRoy, getting off the subject of the key as quickly as possible. He shoved the chair toward the sergeant. “You still seeing that woman doc from the mainland? How’s that going?” He went to the bottom drawer in the filing cabinet, hoping Jerry Sparks’s cell phone wouldn’t ring, then remembered with relief that Maureen had turned it off. He brought out the bourbon and two plastic tumblers.
    “Who knows,” said Smalley. “I could go for her, but like they say in the personals, ‘GU.’ Geographically undesirable. The mainland might as well be Australia, as far as dating is concerned.”
    LeRoy poured a couple of fingers of bourbon into each of the plastic cups and passed one to Smalley.
    “Here’s to you!” Before Smalley took a swallow, he sniffed. “What are you working on? Smells like stale piss.”
    LeRoy seated himself on the stool behind the counter. “Kids. You know. Baseball practice . . .” His voice trailed off. Smalley, he knew, didn’t have kids. Wasn’t married.
    West Tisbury’s police chief, Mary Kathleen O’Neill, otherwise known as “Casey,” and Victoria Trumbull, her deputy, were driving up Circuit Avenue on their way home from the All Island Law Enforcement Officers meeting, the same one Sergeant Smalley had attended.
    Victoria raised her cuff to look at her watch. “It’s almost eight. I wonder why the light is on in the electrical store. It seems late for LeRoy to be working.”
    “We might as well check, since we’re