Head Wounds (5 page)

“That’s where I worked for him.”

“Get out of here. Don’t remember you. What was it, early sixties?” Hodges asked.

“I was there a little later. You wouldn’t have seen me anyway. Always had my head stuffed in an engine compartment. You’re right, though, now that you mention it. Milhouser always wore a pinstriped button-down shirt. And boots from L.L. Bean, back when New England swells were the only ones who thought that stuff was hip.”

I listened to him talk while I ate another plate of fish he’d brought out for me, which was nicely seasoned and well cooked, though like all Hodges’s preparations, unidentifiable. You could ask him what it was, but it wasn’t worth the trouble. You never got a straight answer.

“So we’re agreeing Jeff Milhouser was a dickhead,” he said in summary.

“We are. Him and his offspring.”

“Don’t know the kid,” said Hodges. “Not that I know of, anyway.”

“He’s been building houses around Noyac and North Sea. His crew’s from Up Island.”

“They might be a little too refined for the Pequot.”

“Better to stay clear of that bunch. You don’t need the trouble,” I said.

“Can’t be worse than a crew of fishermen after a few weeks at sea. Anyway, we got equipment for that behind the bar.”

“They aren’t always men,” Dorothy interjected from across the room.

“Pardon me, I meant fisherpeople,” said Hodges. “She’s right, though. Some of those ladies are scarier than the men.”

After that we found ourselves diverted along some other long and circuitous conversational paths, which was the norm with Hodges. It was still early, but I was getting heavy with tiredness and iced Absolut, the hard labors of the day catching up with me. I told Hodges I had to call it quits.

“I’ll go dig up the check,” he said, starting to stand up, and then paused and sat back down.

“Now I remember,” he said. “It wasn’t the road-salt scam that got Milhouser in all that trouble. It was bank fraud. Damn, I can’t believe I’m remembering this.” He nodded to himself as he chewed over the memory, his face furrowed with concentration. I was almost too tired to take the bait, but I wasn’t getting the check without letting him spill the story.

“Gee, Hodges, what was that fraud all about?” I asked.

“What he did was move a bunch of Town money into one of his own accounts, just long enough to collateralize a loan, then moved it all back out again. This took place inside the same bank, so it must have looked easy to Milhouser, though of course the genius never thought anybody’d notice the transactions. Could have been real trouble, but he got probation on a plea of irreconcilable stupidity.”

“Which bank was this?” I asked.

“Right there on Main Street. Don’t remember the name.”

“Harbor Trust?” I asked him. It was the bank where Amanda used to work and her husband Roy was the manager.

“I think it was some savings and loan. Local deal. They all disappeared a while ago.”

Dorothy saved me from more talk about the Milhousers by bringing me the check and gently shooing her father back into the kitchen. I got out of there and headed back to the tip of Oak Point.

I drove past my house and up to Amanda’s. The Audi was gone and her house was blacked out, leaving only my post
lamp to light our two properties. I walked up to the door anyway and rang the bell. After waiting a minute, I went around to a side window and opened it up. I knew about the missing lock from when the place was owned by an old lady named Regina Broadhurst. I knew about it because she was always on my ass to fix it.

I found my way to Amanda’s bedroom and turned on the light. Her suitcase was missing from the closet. The hair dryer and her makeup bag were gone from the bathroom.

The only thing that could nail it down more was a note that said, “I have left for the night.”

When I got back to my cottage Eddie was waiting on the little porch off the side door. My plan had been to go right to bed without a last cigarette or nightcap, but now I decided on both. Eddie went with me out to the Adirondack chairs. The surface of the Little Peconic was racing toward Sag Harbor before a stiff westerly pouring in through the slot between Robbins Island and Cow Neck. The air was clear enough to turn the lights on the opposite shore into sharp little pinpricks randomly arrayed along the blackened horizon.

I thought drinking out on the lawn would force me into bed, but it had the opposite effect. So instead I went and put on my running shoes. Eddie looked skeptical, so I stowed him in the house and headed off along Bay Edge Drive. The only car to pass me was a BMW roadster going far too fast for the sandy rutted road surface. It would have hit me if I hadn’t jumped out of the way. But I was never in any danger.

I’d been running on that road since time began, and every turn and roll inked into my memory so indelibly I could run it mindless and blind, sure in the embrace of invulnerable night.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I was four stories above the Atlantic Ocean trimming out Joshua Edelstein’s widow’s walk, toe-nailing the turned spindles and attaching custom molding under the handrails, and occasionally stopping to watch the offshore breeze push the swells up into little cliffs before breaking into clean, tubular curls, throwing off plumes of spray lit up by the sun rising over the eastern horizon.

From that vantage point you could see the estate section of Southampton Village, from Wickapogue to the Gracefield Tennis Club. Since it was the beginning of April most of the big houses were unoccupied, though busy with painters, cleaners, landscapers and crews working on irrigation systems.

It felt good to be working outside in the early morning sun, even though the breeze was the same northwesterly that had been icing down Long Island for the last four months. If you kept moving you could pretend it wasn’t as cold as it really was.

Frank Entwhistle had built Joshua a big house, over 10,000 square feet, so it took a lot of moldings, baseboards, and window and door trim to fill it up. I didn’t have to install it all myself; Frank could bring in a whole finish crew for a job this big. I just had to do my part and stay clear of Frank’s efforts to promote me to foreman of the crew. I’d already done my bit in management, once running a corporate division of about four thousand people. None of them were finish carpenters, as far as I knew, but the experience had blunted my enthusiasm for management.

I liked Joshua Edelstein, but I didn’t know why he wanted a house this big, though maybe I would if I could afford one. I did, however, approve of his widow’s walk. I’d definitely have one of those if I could. My cottage on the bay was only a single story. Maybe I could build a separate tower, or a tree house in the Norway maples that lined the back of the property. Achieve a loftier perspective.

Absorbed as I was in the view of the ocean, I didn’t immediately notice the police cruiser working its way toward Joshua’s house through the bordering neighborhood. My attention was caught by the big white number painted on the car’s black roof. Then I realized it was a Southampton Town cop, which surprised me. Southampton Village, a subdivision of the Town, had its own police force.

The cruiser rolled into Joshua’s muddy front yard and parked among the fleet of pickups and vans belonging to Frank’s crew and subcontractors. Frank was there himself, supervising the final stages of construction of what was the biggest house he’d ever built. Not many of the local builders got a shot at the really big jobs, so Frank saw it as an important demonstration. He walked over to the cruiser and leaned against the driver’s side door. He talked for a few
minutes, then looked up at me, shading his eyes against the glare off the ocean.

Two men got out of the car and looked toward where Frank was pointing. I waved when I realized one of them was Ross Semple. I didn’t recognize the other cop. Ross waved for me to come down.

I unsnapped the compressor hose off the back of my pneumatic nailer so I could bring it with me. Tools like that had a tendency to grow little legs on a big job like this, full of guys from Up Island you may or may not see again. I’d owned it for a while and liked the way it fit my hand.

Ross rarely looked you in the eye when he talked to you, and even when he did it was hard to tell because his glasses were so thick. He had a cigarette going, as he always did, stuck between the fingers of his right hand. He put it in his mouth when we shook hands.

“Sam.”

“Ross. You’re up early.”

“With the roosters, baby. Every day.”

Even at ground level I still didn’t recognize his escort, a uniformed patrolman. He stood back a few paces with his hand resting easily on the holster holding his service weapon. I didn’t introduce myself. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Sullivan told me you were working this job,” said Ross.

I looked around for Frank, but he’d left before I got down there. A pair of electricians running outdoor cable down a shallow trench for a post light stole curious glances. A cop car on a job site wasn’t all that common a sight.

“Sorry I missed him,” I said, looking over at the uniformed cop.

“I let him beg off,” said Ross. “He didn’t want his name on the collar. If that’s what this is.”

Ross flicked the half-burned cigarette into the mud. He felt all around his shirt and pants for the next one, eventually digging a crumpled pack out of the last possible pocket. It wasn’t a very graceful move. Nothing Ross did was very graceful.

“Collar?”

“Arrest.”

“I know what a collar is. Who’s getting collared?”

“Nobody, if you just follow me back to the station.”

I understood now why Frank hadn’t hung around. Ross wanted to speak to me in private. The uniformed escort stood still as a centurion. Ross leaned back against the fender of the cruiser and crossed his arms. Then uncrossed them. Then crossed them again. He looked out toward the ocean, squinting his eyes.

“Gonna be a nice day,” he said. “’Bout goddamn time.”

I pulled out one of my own cigarettes, which Ross lit for me after another prolonged search for his lighter. I’d been trying to hold off until after lunch, but all the smoke coming from the Chief had undermined my resolve.

“Am I allowed to ask why?” I asked.

Ross squeezed together his lips and shook his head.

“Nope. That’d make it harder for me. Better it’s like, ‘Sam, old buddy, I’d really like to have a chat with you some time.’ And you say, ‘Why sure, Ross, why don’t I come on over to the station right away?’”

I nodded toward my Pontiac.

“Can I drive my own car?”

“Sure. We’ll follow you. Bring whatever you want off the job. Don’t know how long it’ll take.”

I unbuckled my tool belt and stuffed it with a Phillips head screwdriver, a pair of pliers and a nail set that had found their way into my back pockets.

“Sullivan told me that big old car’s a lot faster than it looks,” said Ross.

“Not as fast as your cruiser,” I told him. “Maybe off the line, but not the same top end.”

“So you won’t be tempted to play Smokey and the Bandit.”

As if there was any place to run to. Technically the South Fork was an island, with only two bridges crossing the Shinnecock Canal. Your only other getaway was the ferry to Shelter Island. Not an ideal escape strategy.

“No reason for any of that, Ross. I’m just coming in for a chat.”

The uniformed cop walked me over to the Grand Prix and watched me stow the tool belt and power nailer in the yawning trunk. He maintained an even distance, outside my reach, but close enough to get his gun out and fully engaged. I’d learned about that procedure years ago, the last time I’d been politely asked to come in for a chat with law enforcement.

It took about half an hour to drive over to the station. It would have been less, but with a patrol car filling my rearview the whole way I felt compelled to stay under the speed limit. Stupid, really. What were they going to do? Pull me over and give me a ticket?

Janet Orlovsky was at the front desk behind a big pane of bulletproof Plexiglas. Before buzzing us in, she studied us carefully, in case people were impersonating the Chief of Police and one of his patrolmen. She glowered at me, which didn’t mean anything. She always did. She assumed I’d done something she wouldn’t like and she just hadn’t discovered yet what it was. My old man used to take the same approach.

The cops and administrative people sitting at desks or standing around file cabinets watched our little parade weave its way to the back of the squad room, where Ross had his office. Somewhere along the way the uniform dropped out.

Ross closed the door behind us and took off his nylon wind-breaker. I sat in one of the two chairs in front of his desk.

“Frank must be getting close to wrapping that place up,” said Ross, getting comfortable in his chair, pushing back into the overloaded credenza.

“Getting there.”

“We radioed Sullivan on the way in. Still busy over at the crime scene.”

“Looks great in his civvies,” I said.

“Yeah, sort of like General MacArthur.”

“What kind of crime scene we talking about?” I asked him.

He leaned forward again and rolled the chair up tight to the desk.

“Did I forget to ask if you wanted coffee?”

“Coffee’d be great.”

He left for a while and came back with two heavy china mugs with the seal of the Town of Southampton stamped on the side. The coffee was good—tasted like the hazelnut/ French vanilla blend you got from the corner place in the Village. I was tempted to ask for a croissant, or a cheese Danish.

“So you haven’t heard,” said Ross, back behind his desk again.

“Something going on? I don’t usually listen to the morning news. Gives me a headache.”

“Somebody told me you go jogging after work.”

“Sometimes. Less recently. I’ve been getting plenty of exercise on the job. Nice of you to take an interest, though, Ross.”

“Lady in your neighborhood said you might’ve been out running last night. Late.”

“Funny time to jog.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He sat back in that abrupt, maladroit way he had and drew heavily on his cigarette. I lit one of my own to keep him company. The windows behind his desk were raised so the sill was just above his head. All you could see were the naked branches of a sycamore tree and a few high clouds dusting the pale blue sky. The wall between the top of his credenza and the bottom of the window was covered with scrap paper in a wide assortment of shapes and colors— some partially crumpled, some half-shredded—stuck to the wall with multicolored pushpins. Typed memos, handwritten notes, grainy Xeroxes of mug sheets and stolen vehicles. Mixed in were kids’ drawings of houses, flowers and police cars, probably created a long time ago, judging by the faded paper and the framed photos of teenagers propped up against the wall.