Plum Island (50 page)

It was one of those moments that called for savoir faire, and I said to Beth, “Good morning, Detective Penrose.”

Beth replied, “Good morning.”

I said to Emma, “This is my partner, Beth Penrose. I guess you’ve met.”

Emma replied, “I guess so. We’re having coffee.”

I said to Beth pointedly, “I thought I’d see you later.”

Beth replied, “I had a change of plans. I left a message on your machine last night.”

“I didn’t check it.”

Emma stood. “I have to get to work.”

“Oh … I’ll drive you,” I said.

Beth stood also and said to me, “I have to go, too. I just stopped by to pick up those financial printouts. If you have them,
I can take them now.”

Emma said to both of us, “Sit. You must have work to do.” She moved toward the door. “I’ll call Warren for a ride. He lives
close by. I’ll be in the den.” She didn’t make eye contact with me on her way out of the kitchen.

I said to Beth, “She’s the president of the Peconic Historical Society.”

“Really? A bit young for the job.”

I poured myself a cup of coffee.

Beth said, “I thought I would brief you, as a courtesy.”

“You don’t owe me any courtesies.”

“Well, you were very helpful.”

“Thank you.”

We both remained standing, me drinking my coffee, Beth cleaning up her coffee mug, spoon, and napkin, as if she were ready
to leave. I noticed a briefcase beside her chair. I said, “Sit.”

“I should go.”

“Let’s have one cup of coffee together.”

“Okay.” She poured herself another cup of coffee and sat opposite me. She said, “You look very dapper this morning.”

“I’m trying to change my image. No one was taking me seriously.” She was wearing another tailored suit, this one navy blue
with a white blouse. She looked yummy this morning, fresh and bright-eyed. I said, “You look very good yourself.”

“Thank you. I dress well.”

“Right.” A little severe, but that’s my opinion. I couldn’t tell what she thought about my house guest, if in fact she thought
anything at all. Aside from a small emotional rush that I’d felt for Beth, I reminded myself that she’d cut me loose professionally.
Now she was back.

I wasn’t sure if I should tell her that I’d made some significant progress in her absence; that, indeed, I believed I’d found
the motive for the double murders, and that Fredric Tobin needed to be checked out. But why should I stick my neck out? I
might be wrong. In fact, having slept on it, I was less certain that Fredric Tobin was the actual murderer of Tom and Judy
Gordon. He might very well know more than he was saying, but it seemed more likely that someone else pulled the trigger—someone
like Paul Stevens.

I decided to see what she had that I might need, and what she wanted that I might have. This was going to be a sparring match.
Round One— I said, “Max terminated my career with the Township of Southold.”

“I know.”

“So, I don’t think I should be privy to any police information.”

“Do you mean that? Or are you sulking?”

“A little of both.”

She played with her coffee spoon awhile, then said, “I really respect your opinions and your insights.”

“Thank you.”

She looked around the kitchen. “This is some house.”

“A big painted lady.”

“Your uncle owns it?”

“Yes. He’s Wall Street. There’s lots of money on the Street. I’m mentioned in his will. He’s a heavy smoker.”

“Well, it’s nice that you were able to have a place to convalesce.”

“I should have gone to the Caribbean.”

She smiled. “You wouldn’t have had this much fun.” She asked, “How are you feeling, by the way?”

“Oh, fine. I’m good until I try to exert myself.”

“Don’t exert yourself.”

“I won’t.”

“So, what have you been up to the last few days? Have you followed up on anything?”

“A little. But, as I said, I had the plug pulled on me by Max, and my boss saw me on TV the night of the homicide. Also, I
think your friend, Mr. Nash, put in a bad word for me with my superiors. Very petty.”

“You gave him a
very
hard time, John. I’ll bet he’s a little annoyed at you.”

“Could be. He probably wants to terminate my life cycle.”

“Well, I don’t know about that.”

I do.
I said, “More importantly, I probably have some explaining to do with the big bosses at Police Plaza.”

“That’s too bad. Let me know if I can help.”

“Thank you. It’ll work out. It’s bad PR to screw around with a shot cop.”

“What do you want from the job? In or out?”

“In.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I want to go back. I’m ready.”

“Good. You look ready.”

“Thank you.” I asked her, “So, who killed Tom and Judy Gordon?”

She forced a smile. “I thought you’d tell me by now.”

“You don’t get much for a dollar a week. Or was it a dollar a month?”

She played with her spoon awhile, then looked at me and said, “When I first met you, I didn’t like you. You know why?”

“Let me think … arrogant, smart-ass, too good-looking.”

To my surprise, she nodded. “That’s about it. Now I realize there’s more to you.”

“No, there isn’t.”

“Sure there is.”

“Maybe I’m trying to get in touch with my inner child.”

“Oh, you do that just fine. You should try to get in touch with your suppressed adult side.”

“That’s no way to speak to a wounded hero.”

She continued, “On the whole, I think you’re loyal to your friends and dedicated to your job.”

“Thank you. Let’s get to the case. You want me to brief you about what I’ve done.”

She nodded. “Assuming you’ve done anything.” She said, with a touch of sarcasm, “You appear to have been busy with other things.”

“Job related. She’s president of the—”

Emma popped her head into the kitchen. “Okay, I think I heard a horn outside. Nice meeting you, Beth. Talk to you later, John.”
She left, and I heard the front door open and close.

Beth said, “She’s nice.” She added, “Travels light.”

I didn’t comment.

Beth said, “Do you have those financial printouts for me?”

“Yes.” I stood. “In the den. I’ll be right back.”

I went into the center hallway, but instead of going into the den, I went out the front door.

Emma was sitting in a wicker chair, waiting for her ride. Beth’s PD, the black Ford, was in the circle. Emma said, “I thought
I heard a horn. I’ll just wait here.”

I said, “I’m sorry I can’t drive you to work.”

“No problem. Warren lives right near here. He’s on the way.”

“Good. Can I see you later?”

“Friday night I go out with the girls.”

“What do the girls do?”

“Same as the boys do.”

“Where do the girls go?”

“Usually, the Hamptons. We’re all looking for rich husbands and lovers.”

“At the same time?”

“Whatever comes first. We do deals.”

“Okay. I’ll stop by the shop later.” I asked, “Where’s your potty?”

“In the bedroom.”

“I’ll bring it with me later.”

A car pulled into the long driveway, and Emma stood. She said, “Your partner seemed surprised to see me.”

“Well, I suppose she was expecting me to answer the door.”

“She seemed more than surprised. She was a little … put off. Subdued. Unhappy.”

I shrugged.

“You said you weren’t seeing anyone else out here.”

“I’m not. I just met her for the first time Monday.”

“You met me Wednesday.”

“Right, but—”

“Look, John, I don’t care, but—”

“She’s just—”

“Warren’s here. I have to go.” She started down the steps, then came back up, kissed me on the cheek, and hurried off to the
car.

I waved to Warren.

Oh, well. I went back inside and walked to the den. I hit the play button on my answering machine. The first message at seven
P.M.
last night was from Beth, who said, “I have a ten
A.M.
appointment with Max tomorrow. I’d like to stop by on the way—about 8:30 or so. If this is a problem, call me tonight.” She
gave me her home number, then said, “Or call me in the morning, or call my car.” She gave me her car phone number, then said,
“I’ll bring donuts if you make coffee.”

Very friendly tone in her voice. She really should have called me from the car phone this morning. But okay. My experience
over the years has always been that if you miss a message, something interesting usually happens.

The next message was from Dom Fanelli at eight
P.M.
He said, “Hey, are you home? Pick up if you’re there. Well, okay…. Listen, I got a visit today from two gents from the Anti-Terrorist
Task Force. An FBI guy named Whittaker Whitebread, or something like that, real buttoned-down dandy, and his cop counterpart,
a guy we met a few times, a paisano. You know who I mean. Anyway, they wanted to know if I’d heard from you. They want to
see you Tuesday when you come in for your doc meet, and I have to deliver you to them. I think the FBI doesn’t believe its
own press release about the Ebola vaccine. I think I smell a cover-up. Hey, are we all going to get the black clap and watch
our dicks fall off? By the way, we’re going down to San Gennaro tomorrow night. Get your ass in here and meet us. The bar
at Taormina’s, six
P.M.
Kenny, Tom, Frank, and me. Maybe some babes. We’re gonna mange, mange, mange. Bellissimo. Molto bene. Come meet us if your
pepperoni is lonely. Ciao.”

Interesting. I mean about the Anti-Terrorist Task Force. That surely didn’t sound as though they were concerned about a miracle
cure for Ebola getting into the black market. Obviously, Washington was still in a state of panic. I should tell them not
to worry—it’s pirate treasure, guys. You know, Captain Kidd, doubloons, pieces of eight, whatever the hell that is. But let
them look for terrorists. Who knows, they might find one. It’s a good training exercise.

The Feast of San Gennaro. My mouth was watering for fried calamari and calzone. Jeez, I felt like an exile here sometimes.
Sometimes I got into it—nature, quiet, no traffic, ospreys….

I could conceivably be at Taormina’s at six tonight, though I didn’t want to fly that close to the flame. I needed some more
time, and I had until Tuesday before they got their hands on me—first the docs, then Wolfe, then the ATTF guys. I wondered
if Whittaker Whitebread and George Foster were in communication. Or were they the same guy?

Anyway, I retrieved the pile of financial printouts. Also on the desk was the bag from Tobin Vineyards that held the painted
tile with the osprey. I picked it up, then thought, “no,” then thought, “yes,” then “no” again, then “maybe later.” I put
it down and went back into the kitchen.

B
eth Penrose had her papers from the briefcase spread out on the table, and I now noticed a plateful of donuts. I gave her
the stack of printouts, which she put to the side. I said, “Sorry I took so long. I had to play my phone messages. I got your
message.”

She replied, “I should have called from the car phone.”

“That’s all right. You had a standing invitation.” I indicated the paper on the table and asked, “So, what do you have there?”

“Some notes. Reports. Do you want to hear this?”

“Sure.” I poured us both coffee and sat.

Beth said, “Did you discover anything else in these printouts?”

“Just some increases in their phone, Visa, and Amex after their England trip.”

She asked me, “Do you think the trip to England was anything other than business and vacation?”

“Could be.”

“Do you think they met a foreign agent?”

“I don’t think we’ll ever know what they did in England.” I was fairly certain, of course, they’d spent the week wading through
three-hundred-year-old papers, making sure they signed in and out of the Public Records Office, and/or the British Museum,
thereby establishing their bona fides as treasure seekers. However, I wasn’t prepared to share that thought yet.

Beth made a short note in her book. Maybe some archivist would be interested in a late-twentieth-century homicide detective’s
notebook. I used to keep a notebook, but I can’t read my own handwriting so it’s sort of useless.

Beth said, “Okay, let me begin at the beginning. First, we still have not recovered the two bullets from the bay. It’s an
almost hopeless task, and they’ve given up on it.”

“Good decision.”

“All right, next. Fingerprints. Almost every print in the house is the Gordons’. We tracked down the cleaning lady, who had
cleaned that very morning. We also found her prints.”

“How about prints on that book of charts?”

“Only the Gordons’ and yours.” She added, “I examined every page of that book with a magnifying glass and an ultraviolet lamp,
looking for marks, pinholes, secret writing—whatever. Nothing.”

“I really thought that might yield something.”

“No such luck.” She glanced at her notes and said, “The autopsy shows what you’d expect. Death in both cases came as a result
of massive brain trauma caused by an apparent gunshot wound to the decedents’ respective heads, the bullets both entering
from the frontal lobes, and so forth…. Burned powder or propellant found, indicating close range, so we can probably discount
a rifle from a distance. The ME won’tcommit, but he’s saying the murder weapon was probably fired from five to ten feet away
and that the caliber of the bullets was in the larger range—maybe a forty-four or forty-five.”