Golden Girl(90)

Joe is angrier than Ed had anticipated. And he’s not wrong. “Hit-and-runs are hard to solve, Joe. Here’s what I can tell you. We’ve checked with the insurance companies and the body shops on-island to see if anyone has come in with a dented bumper but no accident report. We struck out there. We asked every landscaper and contractor who’s doing work on Kingsley Road to see if they sent crews early Saturday morning. Falco interviewed all the neighbors to see if anyone noticed a car turning around in the driveway or any strange car, period, early on Saturday morning. I tried to track down the Bridgeman kid but he’s up in Maine. I came in here for a sandwich and to say hello, but since we’re on the topic, can you give me the names of some of Cruz’s other friends so that I can ask them about the party the night before Vivian Howe was killed?”

Joe swings around. “Why are you worrying about high-school stuff? That’s not where the answer is. My boy didn’t kill Vivian Howe.” Joe makes the Chief’s sandwich, wraps it in white butcher paper, and slams it down on the counter. “You’re ruining my kid’s life, Ed. He doesn’t hang out with his friends anymore. Now, I realize he’s off to college in six weeks and he’ll start the next chapter of his life at Dartmouth. But I worked hard to build the kid a community here and it feels like the community has turned on him.” Joe pauses. “And on me.”

The Chief stares down at the sandwich, though he’s rapidly losing his appetite. “I’m sorry, Joe. Cruz had the misfortune of being the one who found Ms. Howe, and we had to proceed with the investigation the way we did. If it makes you feel any better, I know Cruz is innocent.”

Joe says, “The sandwich is twelve-fifty.”

The Chief hands Joe fifteen dollars and stuffs the change Joe gives him into the tip jar. There isn’t another word he can offer that won’t make him sound patronizing or insensitive, so the Chief raises a hand to say goodbye and heads for the door.

“Jasmine Kelly,” Joe says before the Chief steps outside. “She’s Cruz’s girlfriend. If anything noteworthy happened at the party the night before the accident, she’ll know about it.”

The Chief nods, the bell on the door rings, and the Chief leaves, sandwich warm in his hand.



Jasmine Kelly. The Chief thinks this is Sharifa Kelly’s daughter. Sharifa works in the Town Building, at the Registry of Deeds. The Chief gives Sharifa a call.

“Jasmine’s a lifeguard this summer, Ed,” Sharifa says. “If you can manage to track her down, God bless you. I only see her in a blur, coming and going, which makes me sad. She leaves for Vanderbilt on August tenth. Southern schools start early.”

“Thank you, Sharifa, I appreciate this more than you know,” Ed says. He can call Rocky Moore, who oversees the lifeguards, and ask to speak to Jasmine one morning before the guards do their training drills. He thinks about Joe’s words and wonders if he is wasting his time with the high-school stuff. Somehow, he doesn’t think so. Planting the shoes—who would do that? Someone who wanted to see Cruz blamed, someone who knew Cruz worked at the Stop and Shop. It has an unsophisticated, Hail Mary feel to it—Let’s dump the shoes in the trash where Cruz works and see if that gets him in trouble.

This is starting to feel like an episode of Gossip Girl or whatever show it was that Kacy used to watch growing up. Every show on TV is either police, hospital, or teenagers because that’s where the drama is.



The Chief gets back to the station and has just sat down to unwrap his po’boy when his cell phone rings.

It’s Dick, from the Stop and Shop.

“I just had a very interesting conversation with the daytime custodian, kid named Justin,” Dick says. “He confessed to planting the shoes.”

“What?” Ed shoots up out of his chair and starts pacing his office.

“He’s here,” Dick says, “if you want to talk to him yourself.”



Justin is in his early twenties and looks like a skateboarder, although Ed might be stereotyping—he has a lot of tattoos and piercings and blond bangs that he’s keeping off his face with a little girl’s barrette. He’s sitting up straight and seems clear-eyed and alert when he tells the Chief that some “uptight dude with a very hot chick” offered him two hundred and fifty bucks to put the shoes in the break-room trash.

“I thought it was weird,” Justin says. “Sketchy, you know. But I needed the cash and it didn’t seem like it was hurting anyone, so I did it.”

“Can you describe the two people?” the Chief says. “Did you recognize them?”

“Nah,” Justin says. “They seemed like normal establishment—straight or clean-cut or whatever. She had dark hair and beautiful legs. Honestly, I don’t remember what the dude looked like at all except he had military-grade posture.”

“Were they driving a car?”

“Didn’t notice. They were just standing outside the break-room door when I left work.”

The Chief stares at the kid. He sounds legit, and this all but clears Cruz’s name—unless Cruz has somehow put the boy up to this?

“Why did you decide to come forward now?” the Chief asks.

Justin shakes his head slowly. “I heard through the grapevine that Donald was maybe getting in trouble for it. That guy is like a grandpa to me and I couldn’t let him take any kind of heat.” Justin shrugs. “I just thought it was a quick, easy way to make some jack. I didn’t realize the shoes were…evidence or whatever. Sorry.”