Plum Island

  I was still unbuttoning my shirt by the time she was naked. She watched me getting undressed and stared at my ankle holster and revolver.

  A lot of women aren’t into armed men as I’ve learned, so I said, “I have to wear this by law,” which was true in New York City but not necessarily out here.

  She replied, “Fredric carries a gun.”

  Interesting.

  Anyway, I was in the altogether now, and she came up to me and touched my chest. “Is that a burn?”

  “No, a bullet hole.” I turned around. “See? That’s the exit wound.”

  “My God.”

  “Just a flesh wound. Here, look at this one.” I showed her the entry wound in my lower abdomen, then turned again and showed her the exit on my rump. The grazing wound on my left calf was less interesting.

  She said, “You could have been killed.”

  I shrugged. Aw shucks, ma’am.

  Anyway, I was glad the cleaning lady had changed the sheets, glad I had condoms in the night table, and glad Willie Peter responded to Emma Whitestone. I turned the phone ringer off.

  I knelt down at the side of my bed to say my prayers, and Emma got into the bed and wrapped her long, long legs around my neck.

  Anyway, without going into details, we hit it off pretty well and fell asleep, wrapped in each other’s arms. She felt good and didn’t snore.

  When I awoke, the sunlight was fading from the window, and Emma was sleeping on her side, sort of curled into a ball. I had a sense that I should be doing something more constructive than having afternoon sex. But what? I was being effectively sandbagged, and unless Max or Beth shared things with me like forensics, autopsies, and such, I had to proceed without any of the modern technical advantages of police science. I needed phone records, I needed the fingerprint reports, I needed more Plum Island stuff, and I needed access to the crime scene. But I didn’t think I was going to get any of that.

  So, I had to fall back on gumshoeing, phone calls, face time with people who might know something. I’d decided to stick this out no matter who didn’t like the idea.

  I looked at Emma in the fading light. A naturally beautiful woman. And bright.

  She opened her eyes and smiled at me. She said, “I saw you looking at me.”

  “You’re very nice to look at.”

  “Do you have a girlfriend out here?”

  “No. But there’s someone in Manhattan.”

  “I don’t care about Manhattan.”

  I asked her, “How about you?”

  “I’m between engagements.”

  “Good.” I asked, “How about dinner?”

  “Maybe later. I can make something.”

  “I have lettuce, mustard, butter, beer, and cookies.” She sat up, stretched, and yawned. “I need a swim.” She rolled out of bed and slipped into her dress. “Let’s take a swim.”

  “Okay.” I got up and put on my shirt.

  We went downstairs, out through the den, which led to the porch, across the lawn, and down to the bay.

  She looked around. “Private here?”

  “Pretty much.”

  She slipped off her dress and threw it on the foot of the dock. I did the same with my shirt. She picked her way across the stony beach, then dived in. I did the same.

  The water was cool at first, and it took my breath away. We swam beyond the dock out into the dark bay. She was a good, strong swimmer. I felt my right shoulder stiffening, and my lung started to wheeze. I had thought I was getting stronger, but this exertion was too much for me. I swam back to the dock and grabbed on to the old wooden ladder.

  Emma came up beside me and asked, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  We treaded water near the dock. She said, “I love swimming naked.”

  “You don’t have to worry about something biting your worm.”

  “Do you fish?”

  “Now and then.”

  “You can get flounder right off this dock.”

  “I can get flounder in the supermarket.”

  “If you go out in your boat just a few hundred yards, you can get brown trout, porgy, and weakfish.”

  “Where can I get prime rib?”

  “Beef is not good for you.”

  “You had a hamburger for lunch.”

  “I know. But it’s not good for people.” She added, “Neither is sex with strangers.”

  “I’m a high-risk kind of guy, Emma.”

  She said, “I guess I am, too. I don’t even know you.”

  “That’s why you like me.”

  She giggled.

  In truth, most women considered cops safe. I mean, if a woman meets a cop in a bar, presumably he’s not a homicidal maniac, he’s probably got a clean bill of health, and he has a few bucks in his wallet. Women don’t require much these days.

  We bantered a little, we kissed and embraced, which is really nice, naked, half submerged, treading water. I like saltwater. It makes me feel clean and buoyant.

  I put one hand on her incredible butt and the other on her breast as we kissed and treaded. This was as much fun as I’d had in a long time. She put one hand on my butt and the other on my periscope, which went immediately up.

  I said, “Can we do it in the water?”

  “It’s possible. You have to be in good shape. You have to keep treading water and keep air in your lungs to stay buoyant, and at the same time … you know … do it.”

  “No problem. My flotation device is big enough to keep us both afloat.”

  She laughed. We actually consummated this aquatic feat, probably scaring a lot of fish in the process. My lung actually felt better.

  Afterward, we both lay on our backs and floated. I commented, “Look, my rudder is out of the water.”

  She glanced over at me and said, “I thought that was a main mast.”

  Well, enough nautical naughties. I picked up my head a little and watched her floating out away from the shore with the ebbing tide. Truly, her breasts looked like twin volcanic islands in the moonlight.

  She said, “Look up there, John. Shooting stars.”

  I looked in the southern sky and saw them.

  “Make a wish,” she said.

  “Okay. I wish—”

  “Don’t tell or it won’t come true.”

  “It already came true, Emma. Me and you.” I mean, how’s that for romantic? And I already had sex—twice. When the lust is gone, what’s left is loathing or love. I think I was in love.

  She didn’t say anything for a few seconds, then said, “That’s very nice.”

  “I meant it.”

  We continued to float. After a minute or two she said, “Look there, in the eastern sky. Can you see the constellation Andromeda?”

  “Not without my glasses.”

  “Right there. Look.” She attempted to connect a bunch of stars for me, but if there was somebody up there named Andromeda, I didn’t see her. To be polite, I said, “Oh, yeah. Got it. She’s wearing high heels.”

  Emma directed my gaze farther east and said, “There’s Pegasus. You know, the winged horse of the Muses.”

  “I know. I had him to win in the fifth race at Belmont last Saturday. Came in fourth.”

  Emma had learned to ignore me and continued, “Pegasus was born of the sea foam and the blood of the slain Medusa.”

  “It didn’t say that on the scratch sheet.”

  “Do you want to get laid again?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then stop being a wiseass.”

  “Consider it done.” And I meant it.

  So, what a night—a bright, nearly full moon overhead, a gentle shore breeze, the smell of sea and salt, stars twinkling in the deep purple sky, a beautiful woman, our bodies floating, rising and falling with the slow, rhythmic swells. It doesn’t get much better than this. All things considered, this was a lot better than my somewhat unpleasant near-death experience.

  Which got me thinking about Tom and Judy. I looked up at the
sky and I sent out a nice thought to them, a sort of hello and goodbye, and a promise that I’d do everything I could to find their killer. And I asked them to please give me a hint.

  I guess it was the feeling of total relaxation, the sexual release, or maybe looking up at the constellations, connecting the points of light—whatever it was, I had it now. The whole picture, the pings, the points, the lines, it all came together in a sort of rush, and my brain was racing so fast I couldn’t keep up with my own thoughts. I yelled, “That’s it!” and exhaled so much air that I sank.

  I came to the surface sputtering, and Emma was there beside me, looking concerned. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m terrific!”

  “Are you—?”

  “Captain Kidd’s trees!”

  “What about them?”

  I grabbed her by the arms, and we treaded water. I said, “What did you tell me about Captain Kidd’s trees?”

  “I said there’s a legend that Captain Kidd buried some of his treasure under one of the trees up by Mattituck Inlet. They’re called Captain Kidd’s Trees.”

  “We’re talking about Captain Kidd the pirate, right?”

  “Yes. William Kidd.”

  “Where are these trees?” I asked.

  “Just due north of here. Where the inlet empties into the Sound. Why do you—?”

  “What’s with Captain Kidd? What does he have to do with this place?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “No. That’s why I’m asking you.”

  “I thought everyone knew—”

  “I don’t know. Tell me.”

  “Well, his treasure is supposed to be buried somewhere around here.”

  “Where?”

  “Where? If I knew, I’d be rich.” She smiled. “And I wouldn’t tell you.”

  Jeez. This was mind-boggling. It all fit … but maybe I was totally wrong…. No, damn it, it fit. It fit everything. All those disjointed pieces, which had looked like the Chaos Theory at work, now fell into place and became the Unified Theory, which explained everything. “Yeah….”

  “Are you all right? You look pale or blue.”

  “I’m fine. I need a drink.”

  “Me, too. The wind is getting cold.”

  We swam back to shore, grabbed our clothes, and ran back naked across the lawn to the house. I got two thick bathrobes, then retrieved Uncle’s decanter of brandy and two glasses. We sat on the porch, drinking, watching the lights across the bay. A sailboat glided over the water, its white sail ghostly in the moonlight, and thin wispy clouds raced across the starlit sky. What a night. What a night. I said to Tom and Judy, “I’m getting it. I’m getting close.”

  Emma glanced at me and held out her glass. I poured her more brandy and said, “Tell me about Captain Kidd.”

  “What would you like to know?” she asked.

  “Everything.”

  “Why?”

  “Why … ? I’m fascinated by pirates.”

  She regarded me for a moment, then asked, “Since when?”

  “Since I was a kid.”

  “Does this have to do with the murders?”

  I looked at Emma. Despite our recent intimacy, I barely knew her, and I wasn’t sure I could trust her to keep this to herself. I realized, too, I’d been overly excited about Captain Kidd. Trying to be cool now, I asked, “How could Captain Kidd be related to the Gordons’ murders?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m asking you.”

  I said, “I’m off-duty now. I’m just curious about pirates and stuff.”

  “I’m off-duty, too. No history until tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” I asked, “Will you stay the night?”

  “Maybe. Let me think about it.”

  “Sure.”

  I put some Big Band dance music on my tape player, and we danced on the back porch in our bare feet and bathrobes and drank brandy and watched the bay and the stars.

  It was one of those enchanted evenings, as they say, one of those magic nights that are often a prelude to something not so good.

  CHAPTER 19

  Ms. Emma Whitestone chose to spend the night. She rose early, found the mouthwash, and gargled loud enough to wake me up. She showered, used my hair dryer, finger-combed her hair, found a lipstick and some eye stuff in her bag, which she applied in front of my dresser mirror while standing in the altogether.

  As she pulled her panties on, she stepped into her sandals, then slipped her dress on over her head. Four seconds.

  She was a sort of low-maintenance woman who didn’t require a lot of life-support systems for an overnighter.

  I’m not used to women being ready before me so I had to rush through my shower. I slipped on my tightest jeans along with a white tennis shirt and my docksiders. I left the .38 locked in my dresser.

  At Ms. Whitestone’s suggestion, we drove to the Cutchogue Diner, a real 1930s icon. The place was packed with farmers, deliverymen, local merchants, a few touristos, truck drivers, and maybe one other couple who were getting to know one another over breakfast and after sex.

  We sat in a small booth, and I commented, “Won’t people gossip if they see you in the same clothes you wore yesterday?”

  “They stopped gossiping about me years ago.”

  “How about my reputation?”

  “Your reputation, John, can only be enhanced by your being with me.”

  We were a bit tart this morning.

  She ordered a huge breakfast of sausage, eggs, home fries, and toast, commenting that she hadn’t had dinner last night.

  I reminded her, “You drank your dinner. I offered to go for pizza.”

  “Pizza is not good for you.”

  “What you just ordered is not good for you.”

  “I’ll skip lunch. How about dinner?”

  “Sure. I was going to ask.”

  “Good. Pick me up at six at the florist.”

  “Okay.” I looked around and spotted two uniformed Southold cops, but no Max in sight.

  The food came, and we ate. I love other people’s cooking.

  Emma asked me, “Why were you so interested in Captain Kidd?”

  “Who? Oh … the pirates. Well, it’s fascinating. I mean, that he was right here on the North Fork. I sort of remember that now. From when I was a kid. No pun intended.”

  She looked at me and said, “You were all fired up last night.”

  After my initial outburst last night, which I’d regretted, I had tried to play it cooler, as I said. But Ms. Whitestone was still curious about my curiosity. I said to her, “If I found that treasure, I’d share it with you.”

  “That’s very sweet.”

  I said, as nonchalantly as possible, “I’d like to go back to the historical society house. How about this afternoon?”

  “Why?”

  “I need to buy my mother something in the gift shop.”

  “If you join the society, I’ll give you a discount.”

  “Okay. Why don’t I pick you up at, say, four?”

  She shrugged. “Okay.”

  I regarded her across the table. Sunlight fell on her face. Sometimes, the morning after—and I really hate to say this—but sometimes, you wonder what the hell you were thinking the night before, or worse, you wonder if you have a grudge against your dick. But this morning, I had a good feeling. I liked Emma Whitestone. I liked the way she packed down two fried eggs, four sausages, a heap of home fries, buttered toast, juice, and tea with cream.

  She glanced at the clock behind the counter, and I realized she didn’t even wear a watch. This lady was something of a free spirit, and at the same time was president and archivist of the Peconic Historical Society. It was a nice contrast, I thought.

  A lot of people smiled at her and said hello, and I could see she was well liked. That’s always a good sign. If it sounds like I was falling in love for the second time that week, that might be true. However, I wondered about Emma Whitestone’s judgment in men, specifically Fredric Tobin,
and perhaps me as well. Possibly she was not judgmental regarding men, or people in general. Maybe she liked all men. Certainly Fredric and I couldn’t have been more opposite. Her attraction to Fredric Tobin, I suppose, was probably the bulge in the hip pocket of his pants, whereas with me, it was certainly the bulge in the front of my pants.

  In any case, we chatted awhile, and I was determined to stay away from the subject of pirates or Captain Kidd until the afternoon. Eventually, however, my curiosity got the better of me. A long shot popped into my head, and I borrowed a pencil from the waitress and wrote 44106818 on a napkin. I turned the napkin around and said, “If I played these lottery numbers, would I be a winner?”

  She smiled between bites of toast. “Jackpot,” she said. “Where’d you get those numbers?”

  “Something I read. What do they mean?”

  She looked around and lowered her voice. She said, “Well, when Captain Kidd was held in a Boston jail charged with piracy, he smuggled a note to his wife, Sarah, and on the bottom of the note were those numbers.”

  “And?”

  “And everyone has been trying to figure it out for the last three hundred years.”

  “What do you think they mean?”

  “The most obvious answer is that these numbers relate to his buried treasure.”

  “You don’t think it was the number on his dry cleaning slip?”

  “Are we being silly again?”

  “Just kidding. Get it? Kidding?”

  She rolled her eyes. In truth, it was a bit early for my humor. She said, “I don’t want to discuss this here. The last wave of Kidd-mania hit here in the 1940s, and I don’t want to be accused of starting another mass treasure hunt.”

  “Okay.”

  She asked me, “Do you have any children?”

  “Probably.”

  “Be serious.”

  “No, I don’t have any children. How about you?”

  “No children. But I’d like to.”

  And so forth. After a while, I returned to the subject of numbers and in a whisper asked her, “Could those numbers be map coordinates?”

  She clearly didn’t want to discuss this, but replied, “That’s the obvious thing. Eight-digit map coordinates. Minutes and seconds. Those coordinates are actually somewhere around Deer Isle, in Maine.” She leaned across the table and continued, “Kidd’s movements when he sailed back to the New York area in 1699 are pretty well documented, day by day, by reliable witnesses, so any visit to Deer Isle to bury treasure was unlikely.” She added, “However, there’s another legend surrounding Deer Isle. Supposedly, John Jacob Astor did find Kidd’s or some other pirate’s treasure on Deer Isle and that was the start of the Astor fortune.” She sipped her tea and said, “There are dozens of books, plays, ballads, rumors, legends, and myths surrounding Captain William Kidd’s buried treasure. Ninety-nine percent of them are just that—myth.”