Deadlock (FBI Thriller #24)(21)
And there he was, Chief of Police Matthew Wilde, standing by the large food table chatting with two couples drinking orange Halloween punch from clear plastic cups. She watched Captain Picard dump the contents of a flask into the punch, probably vodka, and wondered how many other partiers had done the same thing and would continue to. She remembered her dad used to carry a flask to this shindig every year, her mom laughing and shaking her head at him. He never said a word about the small vodka bottle in her purse.
She paused a moment and studied the police chief. In the photos she’d seen of him as a detective in Philadelphia only months before he’d quit the force, he’d looked dour and stiff-lipped, showing about as much life as a stick of wood. But tonight, he was smiling and looked relaxed, his once military-short hair now on the long side. He wasn’t wearing a mask or a costume, but sharp-looking civilian black wool slacks, a white shirt that was open at the neck, black boots, and a black leather jacket, what she thought of as the Savich School of Fashion. His eyes were a mix of green and blue, heavily lashed. He looked rangy, lean like a runner. She knew he was three years older than she was, divorced, no children, and she wondered what had happened to break up the marriage. In the photos she’d seen, he’d been clean-shaven. No longer. Now he sported dark beard scruff, a look she normally didn’t like, but on him, it fit. He looked a little tough, maybe a little mean, but overall, he projected calm and trustworthiness. I know what I’m doing and I’ll keep you safe. Was he what he advertised? In her first six months as an FBI special agent, she’d met two police chiefs she’d wanted to punch out for how they’d treated her, a woman FBI agent.
Pippa looked away from him, over the fast-filling ballroom. Probably at least one hundred and fifty people were here. What with the masks and costumes, she hadn’t recognized anyone, but that also meant no one would recognize her.
Time to meet Wilde. She made her way to the food table and poured only half a plastic cup of the spiked Halloween punch to go with the oatmeal cookie she gingerly slipped out from her pocket beneath her red velvet cloak. She sipped her punch, chewed her cookie, and watched him. He was only six feet away. Soon he would see her and come say hello, realize he didn’t know her, and introduce himself.
Sure enough, here he came. “I’d recognize that smell anywhere—it’s one of Mrs. Trumbo’s famous oatmeal cookies.”
He had a deep voice, and a smooth cadence, an accent more mid-Atlantic than Southern.
She broke off a piece from the pumpkin oatmeal cookie, handed it to him. “Here you go.”
He smiled, popped it into his mouth, wiped his hand on his slacks, and stuck out his hand. She shook it. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Matthew Wilde, chief of police here in St. Lumis.”
“I’m Pippa Cinelli.” She eyed him up and down. “You could have at least duded up like a Wild West lawman and worn a yellow duster, a nice big Colt .45 strapped to your leg. Maybe some black gloves.”
“A yellow duster, hmm, like in the old spaghetti westerns with Clint Eastwood? That’s quite an image—maybe next year.”
Pippa pushed back her mask and eyed him. “You’d mosey when you walked, too, make the duster flare out, show off your boots. Men would fear you, and women would want to jump you. Well, at least maybe the teenage girls.”
13
Wilde laughed and looked at Pippa more closely. “Now, there’s a visual. It’s off-season, and we haven’t met. Does that mean you’re here visiting relatives, or did you come for our famous drunken Halloween bash?”
“Actually, I’m here to take a break from the big bad city. A Halloween party at Leveler’s is an overdue treat.” She pointed to the punch bowl. “I wonder how much vodka is swimming around in that orange punch?”
“I’ve already seen at least half a dozen vodka dumps. The noise should increase exponentially as the evening goes on. So, what do you think of Mrs. Trumbo?”
“She’s been nice, she makes marvelous oatmeal cookies, but I wouldn’t want to mess with her. She’s built like a tank. I’ll bet the late Major Trumbo didn’t mess with her, either.”
“She’s a pussycat when you get her talking about her son, Ronald, a textile artist in Baltimore. But you’re right, I wouldn’t want to tangle with her, either.”
“I made plans at the last minute and ended up in the only room available—the honeymoon suite. She was pleased to get a customer, but I could tell she was disappointed I was alone. She hoped to get a groom on the premises to liven things up.”
“I’ve never seen the honeymoon suite. I’m picturing a big waterbed, a mirror in the ceiling, and bordello-red towels in the bathroom.”
“Sorry, no water in the bed, no ceiling mirror. There are, however, red draperies, and the Jacuzzi in the bathroom could host a party.”
“Is this your first visit to St. Lumis, Ms. Cinelli?”
“Actually, I lived here years ago, before my folks moved to Boston. I remember there was another police chief. What was his name?”
“Barnabas Cosby, a fine man with a firm grip. He and his wife took off for Montana. Not to hunt or raise buffalo, he told me. He’s a big skier. His wife isn’t so much, but luckily she likes to shoot snakes and make belts out of them.”