Ice Cap (15 page)

I woke up the next morning knowing what I wanted to do, I just didn't want to do it by myself. Not that I didn't like being by myself. I did.

What I needed now was someone large and fun to have around no matter what the circumstances.

“Tell me you have cabin fever and are just itching to get outside for a while,” I said to Harry when he picked up the phone.

“How dangerous a criminal are we going to see?”

“She's a rich widow. Don't know how dangerous.”

“Where does she live?”

“You're on the way. I'll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

Harry lived on the fringes of Southampton Village in a converted gas station. This wasn't apparent from the outside, since it had been a very old gas station and the prior owner had done a nice job on the landscaping and architectural cues, including a fireplace and chimney, to blend it into the surrounding residential neighborhood. He was an artist who specialized in big pieces that he could assemble in the garage bays and extract through the big doors. All of that was still there, partly filled with racks Harry occasionally used in his transport business.

I parked next to Harry's Volvo, which looked almost exactly like mine, because I bought mine to allay the envy I felt over his. He greeted me at the door wearing an impressively voluminous down coat with the fur-lined hood pulled up, ski pants, and black goggles.

“I didn't know what to expect,” he said.

“You'll probably survive the walk to the car,” I told him. “From there we'll have to rely on the heater.”

He put the coat in the backseat, revealing the under layer, a fluffy chartreuse fleece with his company's logo on the breast.

“They gave it to me as an incentive to buy a bunch of them for my employees. Since I don't have any employees, I sent my regrets. And kept the fleece.”

“Where'd you get the coat? Admiral Perry's closet?”

“Catchy name. Would go well in these parts,” he said.

“These parts are a famous summertime retreat where you expect to sweat and develop skin cancer. These times are the issue.”

“These times are here to stay.”

“Don't start,” I told him, pointing a gloved finger.

“I spend all day communicating with people all over the world. Everyone has weather like they never had before. Floods, fires, blizzards, cyclones, tornadoes—I think you're allowed to throw in locusts, since there's an agricultural component. It's Armageddon.”

“Whatever happened to Mr. Optimistic Glass-Half-Full-Sunny-Side-of-the-Street Goodlander?”

“I'm optimistic that we'll find a solution before we're devoured by nature. As a matter of fact, climate change will become the great unifier of humanity. All wars will come to an end as our collective genius becomes obsessively focused on bringing carbon emissions down to barely traceable levels. Massive job-creating corporations will rise up as science and technology bend all economic activity toward developing alternative energy sources, and the subsequent wealth will be plowed back into an innovation-based economy. Our children's children will live in a world of infinitely sustainable energy and world peace.”

“Don't start on the kid thing,” I said. “I've got plenty of minutes left on that biological clock.”

“I'm not sure I like children that much. One trip to McDonald's cures the urge.”

“Where did you learn to say exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment?” I asked.

“Years of doing exactly the opposite. There's a theory of learning that says the more you screw up, the smarter you get.”

“Then I'm a genius.”

“Tell me about the widow.”

I conveyed as much information as I could about the case during the drive from Southampton Village to Remsenburg, which was about twenty minutes away. Harry was like a human tape recorder when it came to the essentials of a narrative, so I knew none of my babbling was a lost effort.

The only thing I left out was the little episode in the parking lot at the French restaurant. There was no reason to awaken Harry's hyperprotective impulses, fully dormant now for some time. It would only put a warp in the relationship right when I most needed it to be straight and sure.

Remsenburg is the westernmost outpost of the Hamptons, although location snobs would likely argue over that distinction. Status debates aside, it's a serenely beautiful place, almost entirely residential, and adorned with lots of sumptuous and dignified beachside estates. Eliz Pritz lived in one of them.

Harry navigated to the address with the GPS built into my cell phone. Even so, we had the usual back-and-forth when we got there: You sure this is it? I'm sure. You sure?

And that was just approach avoidance on my part. I'm always hellfire on approach right up until I reach my destination, then the avoiding kicks in.

“I'm assuming you didn't call ahead,” said Harry.

“Never.”

“So now you're wondering if you'll get a warm reception.”

“Always arrive unheralded. Forewarned is forearmed.”

“Which is why we're sitting here at the end of her driveway,” he said.

“I'm assessing local conditions. That driveway is covered in snow.”

Harry leaned closer to the windshield. “Maybe an inch,” he said.

“Okay. Thanks for that. We're going in.”

Her driveway was half the length of Tad's, but more elegantly landscaped. I wished we were in the warmer months so I could see what was really there. Then again, I wished for a lot of things that were basically impossible.

The next decision was one I'd often faced. To bring or not to bring Harry with me to the door. On some occasions, the sheer mass of him had caused some unuseful consternation. On the plus side, he was such a distraction that people often let us into their homes before realizing what they were doing.

I chose the second tack but asked him to stand at the bottom of the stoop while I rang the bell, putting us approximately at the same level.

“I'm sorry, I don't accept solicitations at the house,” said a tinny voice out of a little speaker, well camouflaged, next to the door. It startled me.

“I'm an attorney. I need to ask you a few questions in relation to an important case.”

It was quiet for a moment.

“I can give you the name of my attorney. That is all.”

“I'm defending Franklin Raffini. He's been accused in another murder. I could use your help.”

Another pause.

“Do you have a pen and paper?” she asked.

“I do.”

“Dinabandhu Pandey is the name,” she said, spelling it out and giving me a phone number and address in Hampton Bays. “You may approach him if you wish. If I don't see you leaving immediately, I will call the police.”

I looked around the door frame and saw a pinhole camera, just like mine. Damn.

“That went well,” said Harry as we strode in a purposeful, dignified way back to the car.

“The unheralded approach is not foolproof,” I said, a hint of warning in my tone.

“I have only admiration for how successful it usually is. So now what?”

“Dinabandhu Pandey?”

“East Indian. Hindu. Don't ask me more than that. Names get complicated over there.”

“Let's go see him. We're over here anyway.”

“Unheralded?”

“Absolutely.”

It wasn't much of a trip back east to Hampton Bays, which we'd passed through on the way to Remsenburg. Harry once again used my phone to navigate to the attorney's office. It was a tiny converted house with a coat of fresh white paint over ancient, poorly-scraped clapboard. There was room in the semi-plowed parking lot for three cars. We took the last two spaces, pulling in next to an ancient white Honda Accord that looked perfectly harmonized with the frozen ground. An enormous maple, subspecies unknown, spread its naked canopy over the entire property.

“What's the strategy this time?” Harry asked.

“Frontal assault. Lawyer to lawyer. Mano a mano.”

“This mano will be right behind you.”

“I know that, darling,” I said. “This is one of the things we love about you.”

“We? When do I get to meet the other chick?”

“In your dreams.”

We got an entirely different reception from Attorney Pandey. I pushed the buzzer next to the door and it opened soon after.

A dark-skinned guy in a rust-colored shirt, flowered tie, and what must have been gold silk pants answered the door. His top button was undone and tie loosened, and he wasn't wearing shoes or socks. A strong aroma flowed out of the door with him, and after a second, I realized it was taco sauce.

“Hey, wazzup?” he said. I handed him my business card, which he barely glanced at. “Swaitkowski,” he said, with perfect pronunciation. “Is that Polish?”

“It is. Can we meet with you for a few minutes?”

“Sure. About what?”

There was not a trace of accent in his voice. Friendly welcome and abiding goodwill shone across his face.

“The murder of Donald Pritz and subsequent events,” I said, wanting to cut to the chase.

It didn't deter him.

“Absolutely, dudes.
Entrez-vous,
” he said, swinging open his door and ushering us in. “You can call me Pandey. Even I can't pronounce my first name.”

The place was a shambles. He had an ancient, oaken battleship of a desk, though the workable space amounted to only about ten percent of the surface. Most of the floor was also covered in boxes, loose files, and magazines. The decorative motif was a brainlessly chaotic twentieth-century jumble and the windows hadn't been cleaned in years. A bulldog slept on a Persian throw rug and hardly budged on our arrival.

My kind of place.

There were two unencumbered club chairs near the desk, which I took for client seating. Harry joined me. Pandey sat behind the desk.

“You're an enormous guy,” he said to Harry, who'd heard that before. “It must be hard to move around with everything geared to us little people.”

“I've traveled every continent, including Antarctica, and yes, it's hard to get around,” said Harry graciously. “The leg space is the real issue.”

“Try looking like me.” Pandey pointed to his dark face. “I've been frisked so many times, my crotch is growing calluses,” he said, enjoying his own joke. We enjoyed it, too.

“We tried to talk to Mrs. Pritz, but she refused in no uncertain terms,” I said. “I'm defending the guy who killed her husband. He's mixed up in another murder case. Maybe that explains her reluctance.”

He disagreed. “She's reluctant about everything. Truth be told, she's a bitch. Can't stand her. I was Donny's lawyer. He was my college roommate. I don't know why she kept me on. Easier, I guess. You want water? I have a bunch of bottles in the fridge.”

He jumped up from his desk and dug three bottles of water out of a small refrigerator in the corner of the room. He poured part of his into the dog's bowl, which failed to excite the dog. I looked at the degrees hanging on the walls. Undergrad at Princeton; master's in international affairs, Georgetown; law degree from Stanford. I still couldn't figure out where the taco smell was coming from.

“Sybil's actually very good company,” he said, pointing down at the bulldog. “But she needs her beauty rest. Sweetest thing in the world. Hard to believe these guys used to tear the throats out of bulls. So Franco's in trouble again. What's it this time?”

I briefed him on the outlines of the case, staying within the bounds of public knowledge. He listened carefully, nodding along the way.

“I read about that. Skimmed it, obviously. Didn't notice it was Franco. Guy was born under a bad sign.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Bad luck and trouble's been his only friend,” he said, smiling, waiting for me to pick up on the reference.

“Been down ever since he was ten?” Harry asked, ending the suspense.

“Never knew what he saw in Eliz. Had a perfectly lovely wife of his own and a successful career. Like they'd paved the fast track just for him. I have a guess on the problem Eliz might've had with Donny. Not sure it's shareable.”

He tapped out a snappy beat with a pen on his desk. Then he swiveled his chair to the side and put his feet up on an empty computer stand.

“None of this came out at the trial. Wouldn't have helped him, so don't get mad at me. Might've hurt. Donny confided in me that he and Eliz had some compatibility issues. You know, of that kind.”

“You're right. I think their marital problems were a stipulation,” I said. “Hard to exclude it given the overall circumstances.”

“If you roomed with Donny like I did, you'd understand the issue.”

“He was a little guy?” asked Harry, catching on before I did.

Pandey shook his head. “The opposite. A horse would neigh in envy. And he was such a klutzy dweeb. Had a bitch of a time getting a date. I wanted to put an ad in the
Daily Princetonian
—‘Hey girls, you don't know what you're missin'.' It warped him a bit. Had wicked bad jealousy issues. Just a theory, I'm no psychologist, God knows. Though getting dates was never my problem. It's the ongoing-relationship bit that eludes me. Are you two an item? You introduced him as your friend,” he said to me.

“We are,” I said.

So maybe I was wrong about Franco. Maybe the only appeal was having right-sized equipment. I forced the images out of my mind.

“I've read all the transcripts of the trial,” I said. “Is that how it all went down?”

He shrugged. “Frankly, I didn't follow it all that closely. I was extremely bummed to lose Donny. Goofbucket that he was, Donny was a really good friend. My only official job was to get Eliz through probate, which was a slam-dunk. Husband to wife, you know Surrogates Court. They save their powder for the generational transfers. That's where the big tax bucks are.”