Plum Island (26 page)

“Okay.”

The sea got a little choppier in the middle of the Gut, and I steadied myself against the rail. I looked at Beth, who had
her eyes closed now, and with her head tilted back was catching a few UVs. I may have mentioned that she had one of those
cupid-like faces, innocent and sensuous at the same time. Early thirties, as I said, and once married, as she said. I wondered
if her ex was a cop or if he hated her being a cop, or what the problem was. People her age had some baggage; people my age
have whole warehousesful of steamer trunks.

Her eyes still closed, Beth asked me, “What would you do if you were handed a disability retirement?”

“I don’t know.” I considered, then replied, “Max would hire me.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to do police work if you get a three-quarter. Do you?”

“I guess not. I don’t know what I’d do. Manhattan is expensive. That’s where I live. I think I’d have to move. Maybe out here.”

“What would you do out here?”

“Grow wine.”

“Grapes. You grow grapes and make wine.”

“Right.”

She opened her blue-green eyes and looked at me. Our eyes met, searched, penetrated, and all that. Then she closed her eyes
again.

Neither of us spoke for a minute, then she opened her eyes and inquired, “Why don’t we believe the Gordons stole a miracle
vaccine in order to make a fortune?”

“Because that still leaves too many questions unanswered. First, what’s with the power boat? You don’t need a one-hundred-thousand-dollar
boat to make a one-time score of golden vaccine. Right?”

“Maybe they knew they were going to steal the vaccine, so they knew they could afford the boat eventually, and they had some
fun. When did they buy the boat?”

“April last year,” I replied. “Right before the boating season. Ten thou down, and they’re financing the rest.”

“Okay, why else don’t we believe the Plum Island version of events?”

“Well, why would the customers of this vaccine have to murder two people? Especially if the person or persons on the Gordons’
deck couldn’t be sure of what the Gordons were delivering in the ice chest.”

She said, “As for the murders, we both know people are killed for small reasons. As for the goods in the chest … what if the
Gordons had accomplices on Plum who loaded the vaccine on their boat? The person on Plum calls the person or persons who are
waiting for the Gordons and says the goods are on the way. Think accomplice on Plum Island. Think Mr. Stevens. Or Dr. Zollner.
Or Dr. Chen. Or Kenneth Gibbs. Or anyone on the island.”

“Okay … we’ll put that in the clue bag.”

“What else?” she asked.

“Well, I’m no geopolitical expert, but Ebola is pretty rare, and the chances of the World Health Organization or the affected
African governments ordering this stuff in quantity seem a little remote. People are dying in Africa of all sorts of preventable
diseases, like malaria and tuberculosis, and no one is buying two hundred million doses of anything for them.”

“Right … but we don’t understand the ins and outs of the trade in legitimate therapeutic drugs, whether they’re stolen, black
market, copied, or otherwise.”

“Okay, but you agree that the Gordons stealing this vaccine sounds implausible?”

She replied, “No. It’s
plausible
. I just feel it’s a lie.”

“Right. It’s a plausible lie.”

“A terrific lie.”

“A terrific lie,” I agreed. “It changes the case.”

“It sure does. What else?”

“Well,” I said, “there’s the chart book. Not much there, but I’d like to know what 44106818 means.”

“Okay. And how about the archaeology on Plum?” she asked.

“Right. That was a complete surprise to me and raises all sorts of questions,” I said.

“Why did Paul Stevens give us that?”

“Because it’s public knowledge, and we’d hear about it soon enough.”

“Right. What’s the meaning of the archaeological stuff?”

“I have no idea.” I added, “But it has nothing to do with the science of archaeology. It was a cover for something, a reason
to go to remote parts of the island.”

She said, “Or, it may be meaningless.”

“It may be. And then we have the red clay that I saw in the Gordons’ running shoes and which I saw on Plum. The route from
the main lab, into the parking lot, onto the bus, then to the dock has no place where you could pick up soft red clay in your
treads.”

She nodded, then said, “I assume you took some of the clay when you went to tinkle?”

I smiled. “As a matter of fact, I did. But when I got dressed in the locker room, someone had been kind enough to launder
my shorts.”

She cracked, “I wish they’d done the same for me.”

We both smiled.

She said, “I’ll request soil samples. They can decontaminate them if they get hung up on the ‘Never Leave’ policy.” She added,
“You tend to take the direct approach, I see, such as filching the financial printouts, then stealing government soil, and
who knows what else you’ve done. You should learn to follow protocols and procedures, Detective Corey. Especially since this
is not your jurisdiction or your case. You’re going to get into trouble, and I’m not going to stick my neck out for you.”

“Sure you are. And by the way, I’m usually pretty good with the rules of evidence, suspects’ rights, command structure, and
all that crap when it’s just regular homicides. This could have been—could still be—the plague-to-end-all-plagues. So I took
a few shortcuts. Time is of the essence, the doctrine of hot pursuit, and all that. If I save the planet, I’m a hero.”

“You’ll play by the rules, and you’ll follow procedures. Do not do anything to compromise an indictment or conviction in this
case.”

“Hey, we don’t even have half a suspect and you’re already in court.”

“That’s how I work a case.”

I said, “I think I’ve done as much as I can here. I’m resigning my position as town homicide consultant.”

“Stop sulking.” She hesitated, then said, “I’d like you to stay. I may actually be able to learn something from you.”

Clearly we liked each other, despite some run-ins and misunderstandings, some differences of opinion, dissimilar temperaments,
differences of age and background, and probably blood type, and tastes in music, and God knew what else. Actually, if I thought
about it, we had not one thing in common except the job, and we couldn’t even agree on that. And yet, I was in love. Well,
okay, lust. But significant lust. I was deeply committed to this lust.

We looked at each other again, and again we smiled. This was silly. I mean, really dopey. I felt like an idiot. She was so
exquisitely beautiful … I liked her voice, her smile, her coppery hair in the sunlight, her movements, her hands … and she
smelled soapy again, from the shower. I love that smell. I associate soap with sex. That’s a long story.

Finally, she asked, “What useless land?”

“Huh … ? Oh, right. The Gordons.” I explained about the checkbook entry and my conversation with Margaret Wiley. I concluded,
“I’m not a country boy, but I don’t think people without bucks spend twenty-five Gs just to have their own trees to hug.”

“It’s odd,” she agreed. “But land is an emotional thing.” She added, “My father was one of the last farmers in western Suffolk
County, surrounded by subdivisions of split-levels. He loved his land, but the countryside had changed— the woods and streams
and the other farms were gone, so he sold. But he was not the same man afterward, even with a million dollars in the bank.”

She stayed silent a moment, then said, “I suppose we should go speak to Margaret Wiley, take a look at that land, even though
I don’t think it’s significant to this case.”

“I think the fact that the Gordons never told me they owned a piece of land is significant. Same with the archaeological digs.
Things that don’t make sense need explaining.”

“Thank you, Detective Corey.”

I replied, “I don’t mean to lecture, but I give a class at John Jay, and sometimes a line or two slips out like that.”

She regarded me a moment, then said, “I never know if you’re pulling my leg or not.”

Actually, I wanted to pull her leg—both legs, but I let that thought go and said, “I really do teach at John Jay.” This is
John Jay College of Criminal Justice in Manhattan, one of the best such schools in the country, and I suppose she had a credibility
problem with John Corey as professor.

She asked, “What do you teach?”

“Well, certainly not rules of evidence, suspects’ rights, or any of that.”

“Certainly not.”

“I teach practical homicide investigation. Scene of the crime, and that kind of thing. Friday nights. It’s the ultimate murder
mystery evening. You’re welcome to sit in if I ever get back into it. Maybe January.”

“I might do that.”

“Come early. The class is always overflowing. I’m very entertaining.”

“I’m sure of it.”

And I was sure Ms. Beth Penrose was finally considering it.
It.

The ferry was slowing as it approached the dock. I asked Beth, “Have you spoken to the Murphys yet?”

“No. Max did. They’re on my list for today.”

“Good. I’ll join you.”

“I thought you were quitting.”

“Tomorrow.”

She took her notebook out of her bag and began perusing the pages. She said, “I need from you the computer printouts that
you borrowed.”

“They’re at my place.”

“Okay ….” She scanned a page and continued, “I’ll call fingerprints and forensic. Plus I’ve asked the DA for a subpoena for
the Gordons’ phone records for the last two years.”

“Right. Also, get a list of licensed pistol holders in Southold Township.”

She asked, “Do you think the murder weapon might be a locally registered weapon?”

“Maybe.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Hunch. Meanwhile, keep dredging and diving for the bullets.”

“We are, but that’s a real long shot. Pardon the pun.”

“I have a lot of tolerance for bad puns.”

“Let me guess why.”

“Right. Also, if you round up the hardware on Plum Island, make sure the county does the ballistics tests, not the FBI.”

“I know.”

She detailed a bunch of other odds and ends that needed doing, and I could see she had a neat and orderly mind. She was, also,
intuitive and inquisitive. She only lacked experience, I thought, to make a really good detective. To make a great detective
she had to learn to loosen up, to get people to talk freely and too much. She came on a little grim and strong, and most witnesses,
not to mention colleagues, would get their defenses up. “Loosen up.”

She looked up from her notebook. “Excuse me?”

“Loosen up.”

She stayed quiet a moment, then said, “I’m a little anxious about this case.”

“Everyone is. Loosen up.”

“I’ll try.” She smiled. “I can do impersonations. I can do you. Want to see?”

“No.”

She got all slouchy and wiggley, shoved one hand in her pocket, and scratched her chest with the other, then spoke in a bass
voice with a New York City accent, “Hey, like, what the hell’s goin’ on with this case? Ya know? What’s with this bozo, Nash?
Huh? The guy don’t know a cow pie from a pizza pie. Guy’s got the IQ of a box of rocks. Ya know? The guy’s—”

“Thank you,” I said coolly.

She actually laughed, then said to me, “Loosen up.”

“I do not speak with such a pronounced New York City accent.”

“Well, it sounds like it out here.”

I was a little annoyed, but a little amused, too. I guess.

Neither of us spoke for a few minutes, then I commented, “I’m thinking that this case doesn’t have such a high profile anymore,
and that’s good.”

She nodded.

I continued, “Fewer people to deal with—no Feds, no pols, no media, and for you, they won’t be assigning more help than you
need.” I added, “When you solve this, you’ll be a hero.”

She looked at me a long second, then asked, “You think we’ll solve it?”

“Of course.”

“And if we don’t?”

“No skin off my nose. You, on the other hand, will have a career problem.”

“Thanks.”

The ferry hit the rubber bumpers, and the crewmen threw down two lines.

Beth, sort of thinking out loud, said, “So … in addition to the possibility of bad bugs and bad drugs, now we have the possibility
of good drugs, and don’t forget that Max told the media it was a double homicide of two homeowners who came on the scene of
an ordinary burglary. And you know what? It could still be that.”

I looked at her and said, “Here’s another one for you— and for you only. Consider that Tom and Judy Gordon knew something
they weren’t supposed to know or saw something on Plum Island that they weren’t supposed to see. Consider that someone like
Mr. Stevens or your friend Mr. Nash whacked them. Consider that.”

She stayed silent a long time, then said, “Sounds like a bad movie-of-the-week.” She added, “But I’ll think about it.”

Max called from the lower deck, “All ashore.”

Beth moved toward the stairway, then asked me, “What’s your cell phone number?”

I gave it to her, and she said, “We’ll split up in the parking lot, and I’ll call you in about twenty minutes.”

We joined Max, Nash, and Foster on the stern deck, and we all walked off together with the six Plum Island employees. There
were only three people on the dock for the return to Plum, and I was struck again by how isolated the island was.

In the parking field, Chief Sylvester Maxwell of the Southold PD said to everyone, “I’m satisfied that the most troubling
part of this case has been cleared up. I have other duties, so I’m leaving Detective Penrose to work the homicide angle.”

Mr. Ted Nash of the Central Intelligence Agency said, “I’m satisfied, too, and since there doesn’t seem to be a national security
breach or an international aspect to this situation, I’m going to recommend that my agency and I be relieved of this case.”

Mr. George Foster of the Federal Bureau of Investigation said, “It appears that government property has been stolen, so the
FBI will remain involved with the case. I’m heading back to Washington today to report. The local FBI office will take charge
of this case, and someone will be contacting you, Chief.” He looked at Beth. “Or you or your superior.”