Betrayed (Rosato & DiNunzio, #2)(66)
Judy walked through the parking lot, heading for the police station, which was completely unassuming. It bore no sign except for a small navy-blue keystone, which was unlighted and therefore unreadable in the darkness. Only a single light over its paneled front door illuminated the small, red brick building that could have passed for a modest single-story house, situated between a low-rise Tudor apartment building and a stop-time laundromat, with a misspelled sign that read LAUNDERMAT. A small parking lot around the right side of the station house held five police cruisers, white with a black stripe, and one all-black car, unmarked.
Judy approached the paved entrance in front of the station, which buzzed with activity. Men in suits and brown-uniformed police stood outside, talking or smoking in groups, and neighbors filled the sidewalk, gawking at TV reporters who were positioning themselves in calcium-white circles of klieglights. Boxy newsvans with local TV logos lined the curb, their black rubbery wires making tripping hazards on the sidewalk and their mobile microwave towers dwarfing the colonial rowhouses on the quaint side streets.
Judy made her way through the crowd to the front door, then opened it onto a small, square waiting room full of personnel, reporters, and men in suits. To her left was a closed door with a sign that read MAYOR’S OFFICE, and to her right were blue-padded chairs where reporters and cameramen sat drinking covered cups of coffee, cameras on their lap.
She walked past them, doing a double-take when she spotted on the wall a signed lithograph from one of the Wyeths, the famed painting family who lived in nearby Brandywine. The art alone qualified Kennett Square’s as one of the nicest station houses she’d ever seen, but it also had a thick lapis-blue rug, eggshell-white walls, and one of exposed brick, in which was embedded a rectangular window of glass.
Judy went to the window and introduced herself to a middle-aged woman with bright blue eyes and a warm, professional smile, then said, “I’d like to speak with Detective Boone, in connection with the death tonight of Father Keegan.”
“Is he expecting you?” the woman asked, brightly. She wore her light brown hair in a bun and had on an orange T-shirt with KENNETT SQUARE POLICE printed onto the breast pocket, with khaki pants.
“No, but I left a phone message.”
“Is this a tip? Because he’s very busy tonight.” The woman shook her head sadly. “It’s a terrible loss.”
“I do have information that I believe can help him. He knows me because he’s been working on a case involving my aunt, Barb Moyer.”
“Oh, my, I know who you are.” The woman’s eyes registered recognition. “You’re the woman who was assaulted last night, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Judy answered, moving her hair aside to show her goose egg. “This is me, the real thing.”
“Go to your left, and I’ll buzz you in the door,” the woman said, hurrying off.
Chapter Twenty-nine
“We’re meeting in here?” Judy asked, following Detective Boone, who was unlocking the door to the Mayor’s Office. “Won’t the mayor mind?”
“This is Kennett Square, not New York City.” Detective Boone led her inside a small, completely empty office lined with tasteful walnut bookshelves full of leather-bound volumes of law books and black plastic binders. A clean mahogany desk and old-school courtroom chair sat in the far corner next to the American flag, and nearest the door was a modern round conference table, also of walnut, with three matching chairs.
“Where’s the mayor?”
“It’s after hours.” Detective Boone tugged out one of the chairs and gestured to Judy to sit down. “Please.”
“Thanks.” Judy sat down, getting her bearings. “I thought we’d meet in the squad room, like they do in Philadelphia.”
“Technically, it’s not my squad room.” Detective Boone sat down in the chair opposite her. “The county detectives’ office is in West Chester. When we’re out on a job, like tonight, we’re squatters. How’s that noggin of yours?”
“Fine, but I’m so sorry to hear about Father Keegan.”
“Me, too. He was a great guy. It’s a real blow to the community.” Detective Boone slid a ballpoint pen from his pocket, along with his skinny spiral notebook. He looked the same as he had last night; his close-set blue eyes intense and concerned behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his sandy brown hair in its short, professional cut, and he had on another boxy dark suit with a patterned tie. “Do you have something for me, on Keegan? They said you had a tip.”
“I spoke to him this morning, on the phone. He called me because he’d read that I was assaulted and he wanted to tell me that Iris’s apartment had been broken into and ransacked. Did you know about that?”
“No.” Detective Boone flipped open the cardboard top to his notebook. “Anybody assaulted or injured?”
“No. Nobody was home.”
“Anything taken?” Detective Boone started taking notes.
“Nothing of value. I think they were looking for the money that Iris had stashed in my aunt’s house.” Judy wanted to get to the point. “Detective, I believe that Father Keegan’s death is linked to Iris Juarez’s. I think they were both murdered.”
“What are you talking about?” Detective Boone frowned, looking up from his note-taking. “Father Keegan was a hit-and-run accident.”