I’m not an auditor, but I’ve done enough of these financial analyses to spot things that needed checking out. There was only one such thing in the last twenty-five months of the Gordons’ checkbook printouts—a biggie, a check for $25,000 made out to a Margaret Wiley. The check had been certified for a fee of $10, and the funds to cover the check had been electronically transferred from the Gordons’ money market account. In fact, it represented nearly all their savings. The check was dated March 7 of this year, and there was no notation regarding the purpose of the check. Who, then, was Margaret Wiley? Why did the Gordons give her a certified check for twenty-five large? We would soon find out.
I sipped on my coffee and tapped my pencil on the table in time with the regulator clock on the far wall, and I thought about all of this.
I went to the kitchen cabinet beside the wall phone and found the local telephone directory among the cookbooks. I looked under “W” and located a Margaret Wiley who lived on Lighthouse Road in the hamlet of Southold. I actually knew where that was, it being the road that, as the name suggested, led to a lighthouse: Horton Point Lighthouse, to be exact.
I really wanted to call Margaret, but she might be annoyed at the two A.M. phone call. It could wait until dawn. But patience is not one of my virtues. In fact, to the best of my knowledge, I have no virtues. Also, I had the feeling that the FBI and CIA were not all asleep at this hour and that they were getting ahead of me on this case. Last, but not least, this was no ordinary murder; even as I hesitated to wake Margaret Wiley, a civilization-destroying plague could be spreading over the nation. I hate when that happens.
I called the number. The phone rang and an answering machine picked up. I hung up and dialed again. Finally, the lady of the house was awakened and she said, “Hello?”
“Margaret Wiley, please.”
“Speaking. Who is this?” asked the groggy and elderly voice.
“This is Detective Corey, ma’am. Police.” I let her imagine the worst for a second or two. That usually wakes them up.
“Police? What’s happened?”
“Mrs. Wiley, you’ve heard on the news about the murders on Nassau Point?”
“Oh … yes. How awful—”
“You knew the Gordons?”
She cleared the froggies from her throat and replied, “No … well, I met them once. I sold them a piece of land.”
“In March?”
“Yes.”
“For $25,000?”
“Yes … but what does that have to do with—”
“Where is the land, ma’am?”
“Oh … it’s a nice piece of bluff overlooking the Sound.”
“I see. They wanted to build a house?”
“No. They can’t build there. I sold the development rights to the county.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning … it’s a conservation plan. You sell the right to develop the land, but you still own the land. It has to stay undeveloped. Except for agriculture.”
“I see. So the Gordons couldn’t build a house on this bluff?”
“Lord, no. If the land could be developed, it would be worth over $100,000. I was paid by the county not to develop it. It’s a restrictive covenant that runs with the land. It’s a good plan.”
“But you can sell the land?”
“Yes, and I did. For $25,000.” She added, “The Gordons knew it couldn’t be developed.”
“Could they buy back the development rights from the county?”
“No. I sold the rights in perpetuity. That’s the purpose of the plan.”
“Okay….” I thought I understood now what the Gordons had done—they’d bought a nice piece of Sound-view land that, because it couldn’t be built on, sold for less than market price. But they could plant on it, and I realized that Tom’s fascination with local viniculture had led him to the ultimate hobby—Gordon Vineyards. Apparently, then, there was no connection between this purchase and their murders. I said, “I’m sorry I woke you, Mrs. Wiley. Thank you for your help.”
“Not at all. I hope you find who did this.”
“I’m sure we will.” I hung up, turned from the phone, then went back and dialed again. She answered and I said, “I’m sorry, one more question. Is that land suitable for grapes?”
“Goodness, no. It’s right on the Sound, much too exposed, and much too small. It’s only a one-acre parcel that drops fifty feet to the beach. It’s quite beautiful, but nothing much will grow there except scrub.”
“I see … did they mention to you why they wanted it?”
“Yes … they said they wanted their own hill overlooking the water. A place to sit and watch the sea. They were a lovely couple. It’s so awful.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” I hung up.
So. They wanted a place to sit and watch the sea. For twenty-five thousand bucks they could have paid the parking fee at Orient Beach State Park five thousand times and watched all the sea they wanted every day for the next eight years and still have money left over for hot dogs and beer. Did not compute.
I mulled a little. Mull, mull. Well, maybe it did compute. They were a romantic couple. But twenty-five Gs? That was almost all they had. And if they were transferred by the government, how would they unload an acre of land that had no use for building or agriculture? Who else would be crazy enough to pay $25,000 for encumbered property?
So. Maybe it had to do with maritime drug running. That would make sense. I’d have to take a look at that land. I wondered if anyone had yet found the deed to the property among the Gordons’ papers. I wondered, too, if the Gordons had a safe deposit box and what was in it. It’s tough when you have questions at two A.M., and you’re flying high on caffeine and no one wants to talk to you.
I poured another cup of coffee. The windows above the sink were open, and I could hear the night things singing their September songs, the last of the locusts and tree frogs, an owl hooting nearby, and some night bird warbling in the foggy mist that rolled in from the Great Peconic Bay.
The autumn here is tempered by the big bodies of water that hold their summer heat until November. Terrific for grapes. Good boating until about Thanksgiving. There was the occasional hurricane in August, September, or October, and the odd nor’easter in the winter. But basically the climate was benign, the coves and inlets numerous, the fogs and mists frequent: an ideal place for smugglers, pirates, rum runners, and more recently, drug runners.
The wall phone rang, and for an irrational second I thought it might be Margaret. Then I remembered that Max was supposed to call about the Plum Island outing. I picked up the receiver and said, “Pizza Hut.”
After a confused second, Beth Penrose said, “Hello….”
“Hello.”
“Did I wake you?”
“That’s all right, I had to get up to answer the phone anyway.”
“Very old joke. Max asked me to call. We’re going to be on the eight A.M. ferry.”
“Is there an earlier ferry?”
“Yes, but—”
“Why do we want the cover-up team to get to the island before us?”
She didn’t reply to that but said, “We’ll be accompanied by the island’s security director, a Mr. Paul Stevens.”
“Who’s going on the earlier ferry?”
“I don’t know…. Look, John, if they’re covering up, there’s not much we can do about it. They’ve had some problems in the past, and they do cover-up real well. You’re only going to see what they want you to see, hear what they want you to hear, and speak to who they want you to speak to. Don’t get overly serious about this trip.”
“Who’s going?”
“Me, you, Max, George Foster, and Ted Nash.” She asked, “Do you know where the ferry is?”
“I’ll find it. What are you doing now?”
“I’m talking to you.”
“Come on over. I’m looking at wallpaper samples. I need your opinion.”
“It’s late.”
That almost
sounded like yes, which surprised me. I pressed on. “You can sleep here, and we’ll drive to the ferry together.”
“That would look cute.”
“Might as well get it over with.”
“I’ll think about it. Hey, did you find anything in the computer printouts?”
“Come over and I’ll show you my hard drive.”
“Cut it out.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“It’s too late. I’m tired. I’minmy—I’m dressed for bed.”
“Good. We can play hide the pickle.” I heard her take a long, patient breath, then say, “I would have thought there’d be a clue in their financial records. Maybe you’re not looking hard enough. Or maybe you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Probably.”
She said, “I thought we agreed to share information.”
“Yes, with each other. Not the whole world.”
“What … ? Oh … I see.”
We both knew that when you’re working with the Feds, they’d slap a tap on your phone within five minutes of being introduced to you. They didn’t even bother with a court order when they eavesdropped on friendlies. I was sorry I’d made the call to Margaret Wiley.
I asked Beth, “Where’s Ted?”
“How do I know?”
“Keep your door bolted. He fits the description of a rapist-murderer I’m looking for.”
“Give it a break, John.” She hung up.
I yawned. While I was disappointed that Detective Penrose didn’t want to come over, I was also a little relieved. I really think those nurses put saltpeter in a guy’s Jell-O or something. Maybe I needed more red meat in my diet.
I turned off the coffeepot, flipped the light switch, and left the kitchen. I made my way in the dark through the big, lonely house, through the polished oak vestibule, up the winding, creaky staircase, and down the long hallway to the high-ceilinged room that I’d slept in as a boy.
As I undressed for bed, I reflected on this day, and tried to decide if I really wanted to make that eight A.M. ferry.
On the yes side, I liked Max, and he’d asked a favor of me. Two, I liked the Gordons and I wanted to do them a favor, to sort of pay them back for the good company and the wine and the steaks at a time when I was not feeling my best. Three, I didn’t like Ted Nash and I had this childish desire to screw him big time. Four, I did like Beth Penrose and I had this grown-up desire to … whatever. And then there was me, and I was bored…. No, that wasn’t it. I was trying to prove that I still had the stuff. So far, so good. And last, and certainly not least, the little problem of the plague, the black death, the red death, the multifaceted threat or whatever; the possibility that this would be the last autumn any of us on earth would see.
For all those reasons, I knew I should be on the eight A.M. ferry to Plum Island, not in bed with the covers pulled over me, like when I was a kid and there was something I didn’t want to face….
I stood naked at the big window and watched the fog climbing out of the bay, ghost white in the moonlight, creeping and crawling across the dark lawn toward the house. That used to scare the crap out of me. Still does. I felt goose bumps rising on my skin.
My right hand went unconsciously to my chest, and my fingers found the entry hole of bullet one, then I slid my hand down to my abdomen where the second, or maybe the third shot had ripped through my formerly tight muscles, drove through my intestines, chipped my pelvis, and blew out my rear end. The other shot passed through my left calf without much damage. The surgeon said I was lucky. And he was right. I’d flipped my partner, Dom Fanelli, to see who was going to go into the deli to buy coffee and donuts, and he lost. Cost him four bucks. My lucky day.
Somewhere out on the bay, a foghorn sounded, and I wondered who would be out in this weather at this hour.
I turned from the window and checked to see that my alarm clock was set, then made sure there was a round in the chamber of the .45 automatic I kept on the nightstand.
I tumbled into bed, and like Beth Penrose, and Sylvester Maxwell, and Ted Nash, and George Foster, and many others that night, I stared up at the ceiling and thought about murder, death, Plum Island, and plague. I saw in my mind’s eye the image of the Jolly Roger flapping in the night sky, the death’s head white and grinning.
It occurred to me that the only people resting in peace tonight were Tom and Judy Gordon.
CHAPTER 7
I was up at six A.M., showered, and dressed in shorts, T-shirt, and Top-Siders: suitable attire for a quick change into biohazard gear or whatever they call it.
I did my Hamlet routine regarding my piece—to carry, or not to carry, that is the question. Finally, I decided to carry. You just never know what the day is going to bring. This might be a nice day to paint Ted Nash red.
By 6:45 A.M., I was traveling east on Main Road, through the heart of the wine country.
It occurred to me as I drove that it’s not easy trying to pull a living out of the soil or the sea, as many of the locals did. But the vineyards had been surprisingly successful. In fact, to my left, as I passed through the hamlet of Peconic, was the most successful vineyard and winery, Tobin Vineyards, owned by Fredric Tobin, whom I’d met once briefly and who was a friend of the Gordons. I made a mental note to call on the gentleman and see if he could shed any light on the case at hand.
The sun was above the trees, off to my right front, and my dashboard thermometer said 16 degrees centigrade, which meant nothing to me. Somehow I’d screwed up the computer, and I was on the metric system. Sixteen degrees sounded cold, but I knew it wasn’t. Anyway, the sun was burning off the ground mist and sunlight filled my over-priced sports utility vehicle.
The road was gently curved, and the vineyards were more picturesque than the potato fields I remembered from thirty years ago. Now and then a fruit orchard or cornfield kept the vineyards from becoming monotonous. Big birds sailed and soared on the morning thermals, and little birds sang and chirped in the fields and trees. All was right with the world, except that Tom and Judy were in the county morgue this morning; and very possibly there was a sickness in the air, rising and falling with the thermals, carried on the ocean breeze, sweeping across the farms and vineyards, and carried in the blood of humans and animals. And yet, everything seemed normal this morning, including me.
I turned on the radio to an all-news channel from New York City and listened to the regular crap for a while, waiting for someone to say something about a mysterious outbreak of whatever. But it was too early for that. I tuned to the only local radio station and caught the seven A.M. news. The news guy was saying, “We spoke to Chief Maxwell by phone this morning, and here’s what he told us.”
A grumpy-sounding Max came out of my speakers, saying, “Regarding the deaths of Nassau Point residents Tom and Judy Gordon, we’re calling this a double homicide, robbery, and burglary. This has nothing to do with the victims’ work on Plum Island, and we want to put these speculations to rest. We urge all residents to be alert and aware of strangers and report anything suspicious to the town police. No need to be paranoid, but there’s somebody out there with a gun who committed murder, robbery, and burglary. So you have to take some precautions. We’re working with the county police on this, and we think we have some leads. That’s all I have to say at this time. I’ll talk to you later today, Don.”
“Thanks, Chief,” said Don.
That’s what I like about this place—real down-to-earth and homey. I turned off the radio. What Chief Maxwell forgot to mention was that he was on his way to Plum Island, the place that had nothing to do with the double murders. He also forgot to mention the FBI and the CIA. I admire a man who knows how and when to gaslight the public. What if Max had said, “There’s a fifty-fifty chance the Gordons sold plague viruses to terrorists who may be plotting the destruction of all life in North America”? That would cause a little dip in the Dow at the opening bell, not to mention a stampede for the airports and a sudden urge for a South American v
acation.
Anyway, it was a nice morning, so far. I spotted a big pumpkin field to my right, and I recalled the autumn weekends out here as a kid, going nuts running through the pumpkin patches to find the absolutely biggest, roundest, orangest, and most perfect pumpkin. I remember having some disagreements with my kid brother, Jimmy, on the choice every year, but we settled it fairly with a fistfight that I always won since I was much bigger than he was. At least the kid had heart.
The hamlet after Peconic is Southold, which is also the name of the whole township. It’s about here where the vineyards end and the land narrows between the Sound and the bay, and everything looks a little more windswept and wild. The Long Island Rail Road tracks, which begin at Penn Station in Manhattan, paralleled the highway to my left for a while, then the road and the tracks crossed and diverged again.
There wasn’t much traffic at this hour except for a few farm vehicles. It occurred to me that if any of my fellow travelers to Plum Island were on the road, I might see them at some point.
I drove into the village of Greenport, the main metropolis on the North Fork with a population, according to the sign, of 2,100. By comparison, Manhattan Island, where I worked, lived, and almost died, is smaller than the North Fork and has two million people piled on. The police force I work for has thirty thousand men and women, making it bigger than the entire population of Southold Township. Max, as I said, has about forty officers, if you include me and him. Greenport Village actually had its own police force once, about a half dozen guys, but they pissed off the populace somehow and were voted out of existence. I don’t think that can happen in New York City, but it’s not a bad idea.
Sometimes I think I should get Max to hire me—you know, big-time, big-city gunslinger rides into town, and the local sheriff pins a badge on him and says, “We need a man with your experience, training, and proven track record,” or something like that. I mean, would I be a big fish in a small pond, or what? Would I have ladies stealing glances at me and dropping their handkerchiefs on the sidewalk, or what?