Hard Stop (10 page)

“You gave me his plate number. Believe it or not, the police know how to obtain an ID from just that one little thing. As long as we’re able to use the radio and speak without slurring our words.”

“Great. Where’s he live?”

“Manhattan. Where’d you think?”

“I was hoping out here.”

“Manhattan’s his official residence. But I thought to myself, maybe that’s not his only address.”

He leaned into the table. I sat back to give his story a little room.

“This is why they made you a detective,” I said.

“I went back to HQ and started searching the tax rolls for a similar name within a fifty-mile radius of Southampton. There’re more Dobsons than you might think, though not too many to pick up the phone and call.”

“You’re kidding.”

“The direct approach. Unpopular with today’s technology, but cops find it very handy and effective.”

“So you found him.”

“On the fifth try. His parents have a house in a gated community in Southampton Village, just inside the incorporated limits. On the east side, near the ocean. Five houses in their own private Idaho. They got a guy who sits at the gate all day letting people in and out pretty much as they please, but I guess it makes the owners feel special. I felt special just driving in there, flashing my badge at the hero in the little house and telling him to stick his head back up his ass and open the gate.”

“It’s the softer touch that gets the results.”

“I located the place, saw a Volvo in the driveway, and that was that. I didn’t think you’d authorized the Southampton Police to break down the door, put a black hood over the guy’s head and drag him to the Pequot.”

“Might’ve expedited things.”

“If Ross finds out about half the off-the-books shit I been doing I’ll be busted back to patrol in the time it takes to put on the uniform.”

As he talked he wrote addresses and phone numbers out on a napkin. He slid it across the table and I stuffed it in my pocket.

“You’d love that.”

“Fact is, I would. But the wife is getting used to the pay.”

Soon after, Dorothy brought out the burgers and Sullivan’s porterhouse steak, which I didn’t even know the Pequot served. After that, the place started to fill up in earnest, first with a gaggle of local kids that Dorothy put through a rigorous ID process, then some crews fresh off the day charters, people whose occupation even a blind man could identify if his olfactories were still intact.

“Dotty’s got a funny gig for a girl who can’t harm a fish,” said Sullivan. “The smell in this place is enough to make the fish want to kill themselves.”

“Anomalies are essential to the ambience.”

“If you’re gonna speak French we’re done here.”

In fact, we weren’t done until Eddie, Sullivan and I finished off our meals and another round of drinks, and I snuck enough cash to Dorothy to cover Sullivan’s massive consumption, and we debated the prospects of regional teams as we entered the home stretch of the professional baseball season, and Sullivan quieted down a noisy table by gently holding the forearm of the worst offender and whispering something in the guy’s ear, and Vinko came out of the kitchen in his greasy whites to get Sullivan’s opinion on the porterhouse, and Dorothy tied up the conversation for half an hour with a dissertation on the amazingly contemporary art somebody’d discovered in a tomb inside one of the great pyramids, and Eddie managed to scare the pee out of a young woman who’d been dropping pieces of her meal under the table in an effort to preserve her anorexic body shape, which Eddie keyed in on, and after devouring what was available on the floor, followed the track back toward the girl’s lap by way of her naked, parted legs. Since most women aren’t accustomed to wet, furry objects thrust unexpectedly between their knees, some screaming was involved.

All in all, a satisfactory evening at the Pequot.

Instead of going to work the next day I popped over to Robert Dobson’s parents’ place. I drove Amanda’s shiny red Dodge pickup with the welded-on cargo racks, which was nevertheless far less conspicuous than a 1967 Grand Prix.

First I had to breach the security perimeter at its weakest point: the hut.

“Who you here for?” asked the security guard, a tidy little white guy with dyed brown hair and a thick, straight-cropped moustache.

“The Dobsons.”

“Purpose of the visit?”

“Carpentry.”

He looked up at me from his clipboard.

“Didn’t know they was doin’ work,” he said.

“Thinkin’ about it. The boss sent me over here to appraise the situation.”

“They gotta get approval from the association. This place got regs up the ass. Can’t do shit unless them I’s and T’s are crossed.”

“That’s why I’m here, brother,” I said. “I’m the boss’s man on T’s and I’s.”

“I’m a T and A man myself.”

“I leave that for the weekends.”

He went back to the clipboard, on which he wrote something, who knows what. Then he waved me in. I thought about my hike up the hill to Donovan’s Greenwich neighborhood. Probably could have saved myself a lot of trouble with a frontal attack. Live and learn.

The houses in the complex were each on about two acres, in a variety of architectural motifs, from standard shingle-style postmodern to stuccoed pseudo-Tudor to amped-up bungalow. There was a curious absence of privet hedges, a standard throughout the Village’s estate section. Maybe the developer wrote a hedge ban into the I’s and T’s.

I found the address Sullivan had given me and parked across the street. The Dobsons had chosen a two-story New England colonial with three dormers protruding from the roof and a colonnaded portico over the front door. The driveway swept past the house in a gentle U-shape that provided
two ways in and out. The doors to the three-car garage were closed. A tall white flagpole stood in the middle of the lawn, flagless. The telltales of a professional maintenance crew showed in the edging and tightly trimmed shrubs that lined the drive and hugged the periphery of the house.

Parked up tight to the house was the black Volvo.

I had a cup of Viennese cinnamon coffee from the corner place in the Village and three cigarettes slipped out of the pack on the way out the door that morning. I lit the first one after drinking half the large coffee. Pacing myself. I turned on the public jazz station and pretended to leaf through a file folder opened across the steering wheel. Since a contractor’s pickup was the only thing sighted more often in the Hamptons than a third-rate celebrity, I almost felt invisible.

I hadn’t evolved the plan any further than this. I hoped something would develop on its own, which it did, soon after I finished the coffee and my second cigarette.

I hadn’t seen Dobson leave the house, but I heard the Volvo start up and saw it curve around the driveway. At the street it turned toward the entrance to the complex. I started the pickup and followed as closely as I dared.

I noticed him blow past the hut, so I did the same. He turned north on Old Town Road, which led up to Montauk Highway. It was about nine in the morning, and the low-angled light was mopping up what was left of the mist hanging above the dew-soaked lawns and undeveloped acreage. We’d had a lot of rain in the late summer, so everything was still a dark saturated green, the opulent fecundity of the East End on proud display.

Every other car on Montauk Highway was a black four-door import, but I was able to keep a bead on the Volvo, which was traveling along at an easy pace. We headed east, past a thicket of car dealerships and roadside vegetable
stands on the way toward Watermill, notable for the gigantic windmill on the village green and Jackie Swaitkowski’s engorged office space.

But we didn’t get that far. The Volvo took a sudden right turn into a parking lot serving a small cluster of buildings, one of which housed a Mediterranean café with an authentic aroma of over-roasted beans and an eclectic array of comfy seating options.

I waited in line behind Robert Dobson, my hat pulled down as a meager disguise. He was shorter than me and a lot lighter. His shoulders sloped down from his neck and rolled forward, making a hollow out of his chest. He wore a pink dress shirt, open and untucked, over a white T-shirt, and crumpled off-white chino pants.

He ordered a concoction with an Italian name I couldn’t pronounce. So I avoided the embarrassment by pointing at something on the menu. Dobson had to wait longer for them to whip up his order, so I killed time picking out the only wad of pastry in the glass display that wouldn’t automatically induce a heart attack.

Dobson snatched a real estate glossy out of a wire rack and, fortuitously, moved to a far corner where he dropped into the kind of nubby overstuffed sofa you used to pick up off the sidewalks of Greenwich Village. I waited until he looked settled in, then sat down next to him.

“Hey, Bobby,” I said quietly.

He looked over the top of the magazine, struggling to make sense of the moment. Which didn’t take too long.

“You,” he said, his face now filled with defiant alarm.

“If you run, I’ll catch you for sure this time. And you won’t like what happens next.”

“You can’t do that,” he said, looking over my shoulder as if seriously considering a run anyway. I put my hand on his
forearm like Sullivan did to calm down the rowdy fishermen at the Pequot. It seemed to have the same oddly terrifying, and consequently quieting, effect.

“There’s no reason to get emotional here,” I said, in barely audible tones. “I’m just trying to get some information.”

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m Sam Acquillo. I’m looking for Iku Kinjo. They say she’s your girlfriend.”

Without taking his eyes off me Dobson reached for his foamy light brown coffee and took a sip. Terror and confusion weren’t going to stand in the way of a hot jolt of caffeine. Not at those prices.

“Why are you looking for her?” he asked.

“Why aren’t you?”

“Who says I’m not?”

“You don’t seem concerned,” I said.

“I’m concerned. I’m very concerned.”

“I don’t think you are.”

“What’re you, a psychologist?” he asked.

“An engineer. It’s a type of psychology.”

“Look, I don’t know who you are.”

“Sam Acquillo. I told you that already.”

“But I don’t have to talk to you about anything if I don’t want to.”

I nodded. “That’s right. Though I wonder why you wouldn’t, if you’re concerned about Iku. We should be on the same team.”

“Concern for Iku and wanting to find her are two very different things,” he spat at me, proud to advance the proposition.

“Really?”

“Oh, come on. You think I don’t know what you’re trying to do? Even if I knew where she was, and I don’t, I wouldn’t tell you people.”

“You wouldn’t?”

Courage of conviction didn’t sit that comfortably with Robert Dobson, but as we talked, he warmed to the role.

“Yeah,” he said. “So let go of me and let me get back to my coffee or something’s going to happen that somebody’s not going to be too happy about.”

I realized I was still holding his arm. I let go and said, “What something?”

He obviously hadn’t thought that through.

“If you don’t mind,” he said, starting to rise.

I grabbed his shirt sleeve and shoved him back in his seat.

“What do you mean, ‘you people.’ What people?”

“If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I’m not stupid. You can tell Angel and his overpaid, glorified goons to go jump in a lake. Or the East River, which is closer,” he said, making another attempt at escape, which this time I let him do. Almost.

I followed him out to the parking lot and met him at his Volvo, where he was fumbling with his keys and half-consumed liquid confection.

“I just need to know she’s all right,” I said to his back. “I don’t have to see her or know where she is. Take a picture or a videotape with a current newspaper. That kind of thing.”

He spun around.

“Like a kidnap victim?” he asked.

I moved in closer, forcing him to back up into his car’s side panel.

“Come on, Bobby, loosen up. Nothing bad can happen from this. Only good. I don’t give a shit about why she bugged out, or where she is or where she’s going from here. I just need to know she’s okay. Then I’m gone from her life forever. And yours.”

His face loosened up for a second, then suspicion crept back in again. “That’s all you want? Why?” he asked, the first sensible question of the day.

I told him the truth.

“Somebody’s paying me to find out. All I need is proof she’s alive and unharmed and I’m done.”

“If I did, hypothetically, know how to get her that message, what’s hypothetically in it for me?”

He went to take a sip of his coffee thing. I took the cup out of his hand before it reached his lips, tossed the coffee and shoved the crumpled cup into my pocket. He looked at me like I’d just pissed on his leg.

“You’re not so good at listening,” I told him. “Do this and I’m gone. Don’t and I’m so far up your ass we’ll be sharing sunglasses.”

I wanted to feel sorry for him, but I was having a hard time doing it. Maybe it was that whiny, overfunded, soft-palmed, self-reverential air of blasé entitlement. Or maybe not. Maybe I was just in a bad mood.