Plum Island

  I realized that I was displaying an unacceptable prejudice toward Fredric Tobin, that I really wanted him to be the murderer. Not Emma, not Max, not Zollner, not even Stevens. Fredric Tobin—Fry Freddie.

  Try as I might to cast others in the role of murderer, it came back to Tobin in my mind. Beth, without actually saying so, suspected Paul Stevens, and all other things being equal, it was more likely him than Tobin. My thoughts about Tobin were too involved with my feelings for Emma. I just couldn’t get the image out of my mind of those two screwing. I mean, I haven’t felt that way in a decade or so.

  I didn’t want to railroad Freddie, but I decided to proceed on the assumption that he did it, and I’d see if I could make a case against him.

  Regarding Paul Stevens, he might well be in on this, but if Tobin had recruited Stevens, why did he need the Gordons? And if Stevens was not in on the plan, was he on tothe plan? Was he like a vulture waiting to swoop in and take his share after the long, hard work of the hunt had been done by others? Or was it Stevens acting alone without Tobin or anyone else? I could certainly make a case against Stevens, who had knowledge of Plum Island, the opportunity, the guns, the daily proximity to the victims, and above all, the personality to hatch a conspiracy and kill his partners. Maybe if I was lucky, I’d get Stevens and Tobin a hot squat.

  And then there was the possibility of someone else….

  I thought about all that had come before Tom and Judy Gordon wound up with their brains blown out. I could see Tom and Judy and Fredric living too high, spending too much, alternatingly confident and frantic about the success of their venture.

  They were meticulous in laying the groundwork for the so-called discovery of the treasure. Interestingly, they decided not to locate it on Tobin’s waterfront estate. They decided to go with a local legend, Captain Kidd’s Ledges. Of course, they would tell the world afterward that their research led them to that particular spot, and they’d confess that they hoodwinked poor Margaret Wiley, who will kick herself for selling the land, and she’d be convinced that Thad was punishing her. The Gordons would have presented Mrs. Wiley with a jewel as a consolation prize.

  Often, in a murder investigation, I look for the simplest explanation, and the simplest explanation was simple indeed: it was greed. Freddie had never learned to share and even if he wanted to share, I wondered if the treasure was big enough to cover his debts and save his vineyard. His share would certainly be no more than fifty percent, and the government’s share, state and federal, would be about the same. Even if the treasure were worth ten million dollars, Freddie would be lucky to see two and a half million. Not nearly enough for a spendthrift like Lord Tobin. And if there was another partner—a live one, such as Paul Stevens—then certainly the Gordons had to go.

  But I still had unanswered questions—assuming the Gordons had uncovered the treasure on Plum Island, did they have it all with them on the day they’d met their end in their own backyard? Was the treasure in that ice chest? And where was the original treasure chest, which had to be reburied and found in a way that might satisfy a nosy archaeologist or Treasury agent?

  While I was mulling this over, I wasn’t paying attention to the roulette wheel. Roulette is good for people with things on their minds because it’s such a mindless game; like the slots, it’s pure luck. But with the slots you can time your rate of loss and pass the night in a catatonic, slack-jawed state in front of the one-armed bandits and not lose much more than the grocery money. With roulette, however, at the ten-dollar table, with a fast croupier and fast bettors, you could get hurt fast.

  I got up from the table, took another cash advance on my credit card, and went to find a friendly poker game. Ah, the things I do for my job.

  I did okay at the poker table, and by midnight, I was back to minus two thousand and change. Plus, I was starving. I got a beer and a sandwich from one of the cocktail ladies and played poker until one A.M., still down two large.

  I retired to one of the bars and switched to scotch. I watched a rerun of the news on TV, which failed to mention the Gordon murders at all.

  I reran the entire case in my mind—from the time Max stepped on my porch to here and now. And while I was at it, I thought about my love life, my job, and all that, which brought me to confront the question of where I was going.

  So, there it was, about two in the morning, I was two thousand dollars poorer, I was alone but not lonely, I was slightly lit, I was supposed to be three-quarters physically disabled, and maybe a hundred percent mentally disabled, and I could have easily felt sorry for myself. Instead, I went back to the roulette wheel. I was unlucky at love, so I had to be lucky at gambling.

  At three A.M., another thousand dollars down, I went to bed.

  I woke up on Saturday morning with that weird where-am-I? feeling. Sometimes the woman next to me can help out, but there was no woman next to me. Presently, my head cleared and I remembered where I was, and I remembered getting scalped by the Mashantucket Pequots—or, perhaps I should say I was financially challenged by my Native American brothers.

  I showered, dressed, packed my toothbrush, and had breakfast in the casino.

  Outside, it was another beautiful late summer, almost autumn day. Maybe this was Indian summer. I got in my Jeep and headed south toward New London.

  On the northern outskirts of the town, I stopped at a service station and asked directions. Within fifteen minutes, I was on Ridgefield Road, a sort of exurban street of neat New England clapboards set on good-sized pieces of land. The area was semirural; it was difficult for me to figure out if you needed buckos to live here or not. The houses were medium-sized and the cars were medium-priced, so I figured it was a medium neighborhood.

  I stopped at number seventeen, a typical white clapboard Cape Cod set about a hundred feet back from the road. The nearest neighbors were some distance away. I got out of my Jeep and walked up the front path and rang the doorbell.

  As I waited, I looked around. There was no car in the driveway. Also, there was no sign of kids’ stuff around so I concluded that Mr. Stevens was either unmarried, or married no children, or married with grown children, or he’d eaten his children. How’s that for deductive reasoning?

  I noticed, too, that the place was too neat. I mean, it looked like someone with a sick, fascist, orderly mind lived here.

  No one answered my call, so I went to the attached garage and peeked through the side window. No car. I went around to the rear yard, whose lawn stretched about fifty yards to a woods. There was a nice slate patio, grill, lawn furniture, and so forth.

  I went to the back door and peeked through the windows into a neat and clean country kitchen.

  I seriously contemplated a quick B&E job, giving the place a toss and maybe stealing his diploma for fun, but as I gave the house the once-over, I noticed that all the windows had alarm tape on them. Also, under the eaves to my right was a TV surveillance camera doing a one-eighty-degree sweep. This guy was a piece of work.

  I went back out front, got into my Jeep, and dialed Stevens’ phone. A voice mail came on, giving me several options having to do with his home fax and home e-mail, his beeper number, his post office box mailing address, his office phone, office fax, office e-mail, and finally a chance to leave a voice message after two beeps. I haven’t had that many options since I stood in front of a condom vending machine. I pushed three on my phone pad, got Stevens’ beeper number, dialed it, punched in my mobile number, and hung up. A minute later, my phone rang and I answered, “New London Water Authority.”

  “Yes, this is Paul Stevens. You beeped me.”

  “Yes, sir. Water main break in front of your house on Ridgefield Road. We’d like to put a pump in your basement to make sure it doesn’t flood.”

  “Okay … I’m in my car now…. I can be there in twenty minutes.”

  “That’ll be fine.” I hung up and waited.

  About five minutes later—not twenty—a gray Ford Escort pulled into the driveway, and out of it
came Paul Stevens, wearing black slacks and a tan windbreaker.

  I got out of my Jeep, and we met on his front lawn. He greeted me warmly by saying, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Just out for a drive and thought I’d stop by.”

  “Get the hell off my property.”

  My goodness. I hadn’t expected such a nasty greeting. I said, “I really don’t like to be spoken to that way.”

  “You shit—you busted my balls for half the fucking morning—”

  “Hey, fella—”

  “Fuck you, Corey. Get the fuck out of here.”

  Indeed, this was a different Mr. Stevens than the one on Plum Island, who had been at least civil, if not friendly. Of course, he’d had to be civil then. Now, the tiger was in his own den and his keepers weren’t around. I said, “Now, hold on, Paul—”

  “Are you deaf? I said, get the hell out of here. And, by the way, you stupid shit, there’s well water here. Now get out.”

  “Okay. But I have to get my partner.” I motioned toward the house. “Beth Penrose. She’s behind the house.”

  “You get in your fucking car. I’ll get her.” He turned and began walking away, then called back over his shoulder, “I should have you both arrested for trespassing. You’re lucky I didn’t get out of my car shooting.”

  I turned and walked back toward my Jeep. I looked over my shoulder in time to see him turn the corner of his garage.

  I sprinted across the lawn, across the driveway, and caught up to him as he rounded the far end of the house and turned toward his backyard. He heard me, spun around, and reached into the pit for his gun, but much too late. I caught him on the chin with my fist, and he made one of those umph sounds and did a little backspring with his arms and legs askew. It was almost comical.

  I knelt beside poor Paul and patted him down, finding his little Saturday afternoon special—a 6.5mm Beretta—tucked in the inside pocket of his windbreaker. I took the magazine out and emptied it, putting the rounds in my pocket. I cleared the chamber, replaced the magazine, and returned his piece.

  I looked through his wallet—some cash, credit cards, driver’s license, medical card, a Plum Island ID card, and a Connecticut pistol permit that listed the Beretta, a .45 Colt, and a .357 Magnum. There were no photos, no phone numbers, no business cards, no keys, no condoms, no lottery tickets, and nothing of any special interest, except the fact that he owned two big-caliber guns that we might not have turned up if I hadn’t cold-cocked him and rummaged through his wallet.

  Anyway, I put the wallet back, stood, and waited patiently for him to bounce up and apologize for his behavior. But he just lay there, his stupid head rolling from side to side, and dopey sounds coming out of his mouth. There was no blood on him, but a red spot was starting to form where I’d hit him. Later, it would be blue, then an interesting purple.

  Anyway, I went over to a coiled garden hose, turned on the faucet, and spritzed Mr. Stevens. That seemed to help and presently he staggered to his feet, sputtering, wobbling and all that.

  I said to him, “Did you find my partner?”

  He seemed sort of confused, reminding me of myself this morning when I woke up with a size ten hangover. I could sympathize. Really.

  I said, “Well water. Jeez, I never thought of that. Hey, Paul, who killed Tom and Judy?”

  “Fuck you.”

  I squirted him again and he covered his face.

  I dropped the hose and moved closer to him. “Who killed my friends?”

  He was drying his face with a corner of his windbreaker, then he seemed to remember something and his right hand went into his jacket and came out with the peashooter. He said, “You bastard! Hands on your head.”

  “Okay.” I put my hands on my head and that seemed to make him feel a little better.

  He was rubbing his jaw now and you could tell it hurt. He seemed to be realizing in stages that he’d been tricked, cold-cocked, and doused with the hose. He looked like he was getting angry, working himself up. He said to me, “Take off your jacket.”

  I took it off, revealing my off-duty .38 in the shoulder holster.

  “Drop the jacket, and slowly unstrap the holster and let it fall.”

  I did as he said.

  He asked, “You carrying anywhere else?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Pull up your pants legs.”

  I pulled up my pants legs, showing him I had no ankle holster.

  He said, “Turn around and pull up your shirt.”

  I turned, pulled up my shirt, showing him I had no holster in the small of my back.

  “Turn around.”

  I turned and faced him.

  “Hands on your head.”

  I put my hands on my head.

  “Step away from your gun.”

  I stepped forward. “Kneel.”

  I knelt.

  He said, “You shit—you bastard. Who the hell do you think you are coming here like this and violating my privacy and my civil rights?” He was really, really pissed and used a lot of profanity.

  It is almost axiomatic in this business that guilty people proclaim their innocence and innocent people get totally pissed off and make all sorts of legal threats. Alas, Mr. Stevens seemed to be falling into the innocent category. I let him vent awhile.

  Finally, I got a word in edgewise and asked him, “Well, do you at least have any idea of who could have done it?”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you, you wiseass son of a bitch.”

  “Any ideas why they were killed?”

  “Hey, don’t you question me, you shit. You shut your fucking mouth.”

  “Does that mean I can’t count on your cooperation?”

  “Shut up!” He thought a moment, then said, “I should shoot you for trespassing, you stupid bastard. You’re going to pay for hitting me. I should make you strip and dump you in the woods.” He was getting worked up again and also creative about ways of getting revenge and all that.

  I was sort of getting cramped in the kneeling position, so I stood.

  Stevens screamed, “Kneel! Kneel!”

  I walked over to him, and he pointed the Beretta right at my dingdong and pulled the trigger. I winced even though the gun was empty.

  He realized he’d done something very bad, trying to shoot my balls off with an empty gun. He kept staring at the Beretta.

  I used a left hook this time, not wanting to reinjure his right jaw. I hoped he’d appreciate that when he woke up.

  Anyway, he toppled back onto the grass.

  I knew he’d feel really terrible when he woke up, really stupid and embarrassed and all, and I felt sort of bad for him. Well, maybe not. In any case, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information after the second KO, and I didn’t think I could cajole or trick him into talking. Torturing him was really out of the question, though he was tempting me.

  Anyway, I gathered my gun and holster and my jacket and then, fun guy that I am, I tied Mr. Stevens’ shoelaces together.

  I walked back to my Jeep, got in and drove off, hoping I’d get some distance between me and there before Stevens woke up and called the cops.

  As I drove, I thought about Paul Stevens. The fact was that he was borderline crazy. But was he a murderer? He didn’t seem to be, yet there was something about him … he knew something. I was convinced of that. And whatever he knew, he was keeping it to himself and that meant he was either protecting someone, or blackmailing someone, or maybe he was trying to figure out how to turn a buck on this thing. In any case, he was now a hostile witness, to say the least.

  So, instead of taking the New London ferry back to Long Island—which could put me at one of the points of an all-points bulletin and subject to a hassle by the Connecticut fuzz—I drove west through some scenic back roads, singing along to some dopey show tune station—Ooowk—lahoma! where the wind comes sweeping down the plains, and all that.

  Meanwhile, my right hand was aching and my left hand was stiffening up. In fact
, my right knuckles were a little swollen. Jeez. “Gettin’ old.” I flexed both hands. Oow!

  My cell phone rang. I didn’t answer it. I crossed into New York State where I had a better shot at jukin’ and jivin’ the fuzz if they were on my case.

  I passed the Throgs Neck Bridge exit where most people would cross to Long Island, and I continued on and crossed at the Whitestone Bridge, which may have been appropriate. “The Emma Whitestone Bridge.” I sang, “I’m in love. I’m in love, I’m in love with a wonderful girl!” I love soppy show tunes.

  Over the bridge, I headed east on the parkway, back toward the North Fork of Long Island. It was a very roundabout way because I had to avoid the ferry, but I couldn’t judge what Paul Stevens was going to do about being decked twice in his own backyard. Not to mention falling on his face when he tried to take a step with his tied shoelaces.

  My guess, though, was that he had not called the cops. And if he did not want to report a trespassing and assault, then that was very suggestive. Paul conceded this round, knowing there’d be another. My problem was, he’d pick the next time and place and sort of surprise me with it. Oh, well. If you play hardball, to switch sports metaphors, you have to expect a beanball now and then.

  By seven P.M., I was back on the North Fork, having driven some three hundred miles. I didn’t want to go home, so I stopped at the Olde Towne Taverne and had a beer or two. I said to the bartender, a guy named Aidan, whom I knew, “Did you ever meet Fredric Tobin?”

  He replied, “I bartended a party he had once at his house. But I didn’t exchange five words with him.”

  “What’s the story on him?”

  Aidan shrugged. “I don’t know…. I hear all kinds of things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, some people say he’s gay, some say he’s a ladies’ man. Some people say he’s broke and owes everybody. Some people say he’s cheap, others say he’s easy with a buck. You know? You get a guy like that, comes here, starts a whole business from scratch, and you’re going to get mixed reviews. He’s stepped on some toes, but he’s been good to some people, too, I guess. He’s tight with the pols and the cops. You know?”