Plum Island (59 page)

Beth nodded again. I could see she was mostly convinced of my reconstruction of what had taken place before the murders. I
added, “The Gordons and Tobin would say they all pored through old archives in the various historical societies here, which
is true, and they did the same in England, and so forth. They became convinced that the treasure was on the land owned by
Margaret Wiley, and while they had some regrets about having suckered her out of that parcel, all’s fair in treasure hunting,
and so forth. They’d give Margaret a nice jewel or something. They’d also point out that they took a twenty-five-thousand-dollar
risk because they couldn’t be positive the treasure was there.”

I sat back in my chair and listened to the wind and rain. I felt about as bad as I’d ever felt in my life, and I was surprised
at how much I missed Emma Whitestone, who’d come into my life so quickly and unexpectedly, then moved into another life, somewhere
among the constellations perhaps.

I took another deep breath, then continued, “I assume the Gordons and Tobin had some sort of phony documentation to back up
their claim to have discovered this location in some archive. I don’t know what they had in mind regarding this—a counterfeit
parchment, or a photostat of what was supposed to be an original that was lost, or they could simply say, ‘None of your business
how we found this. We’re still researching for more treasure.’ The government doesn’t care how they found it, only
where
they found it, and how much it’s all worth.” I looked at her. “Does this make sense to you?”

She thought about that and said, “It makes sense the way you laid it out … but I still think that someone would make the Plum
Island connection.”

“That’s possible. But having a suspicion of where the treasure was found and proving it are very different.”

“Yes, but it’s a weak link in an otherwise good plan.”

“Yes, it is. So let me give you another theory, one that fits what actually happened—Tobin had no intention of sharing anything
with the Gordons. He led the Gordons to believe all of what I just said, he put them up to buying the land, and the three
of them constructed this whole story about how they found the treasure and why they were going to share. In reality, Tobin,
too, was afraid of the Plum Island connection. The Gordons were the solution to his problem of how to locate the treasure
and move it from Plum Island. Then the Gordons became a liability, a weak link, an obvious clue to where the treasure had
actually come from.”

Beth stayed silent, rocking in the chair, and she nodded her head and said, “Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.”

“Exactly.”

I continued, “The Gordons were bright, but also a little naive, and they’d never come across anyone as evil and deceitful
as Fredric Tobin. They never smelled a rat because they’d gone through this whole scenario, bought the land, and so forth.
In reality, Tobin knew from the beginning that he was going to kill them. Most likely, he intended to either bury the treasure
on his own property near Founders Landing, which is also an old historical site, and discover the treasure there—or he was
going to fence the treasure, here or overseas, thereby keeping not only the Gordons’ share, but Uncle Sam’s share.”

“Yes. I think that’s a strong possibility, now that we see he’s capable of cold-blooded murder.”

“In any case, he’s your man.”

Beth sat with her chin in her hand, her feet hooked over the front rung of the rocker. She finally asked me, “How did you
meet the Gordons? I mean, how is it that people with such an agenda took the time to … Are you following me?”

I tried to smile and replied, “You underestimate my charm. But it’s a good question.” I considered the question, not for the
first time, and replied, “Maybe they really did just like me. Maybe, though, they did smell a rat, and they wanted a rat catcher
close by. They also made the acquaintance of Max, so you should ask him how that came about.”

She nodded, then asked me, “So, how
did
you meet them? I should have asked you that on Monday at the crime scene.”

“You should have.” I replied, “I met them at the bar in Claudio’s. You know it?”

“Everyone does.”

“I tried to pick up Judy at the bar.”

“There’s an auspicious start to a friendship.”

“Right. Anyway, I thought the meeting was serendipitous, and maybe it was. On the other hand, the Gordons already knew Max,
and Max knew me, and it may have been mentioned that the shot cop on TV was a friend of Max’s and was convalescing in Mattituck.
I had—and still only have—two hangouts, the Olde Towne Taverne and Claudio’s. So, it’s possible … but maybe not … it’s hard
to say. Almost doesn’t matter, except as a point of interest.” I added, “Sometimes things just happen by fate.”

“They do. But in our job, we have to look for motives and agendas. Whatever is left over is fate.” She looked at me and asked,
“How do you feel, John?”

“Okay.”

“I mean really.”

“A little down. The weather doesn’t help.”

“Are you hurting?”

I didn’t reply.

She informed me, “I spent some time talking to your partner on the phone.”

“Dom? He never told me that. He would have told me.”

“Well, he didn’t.”

“What did you speak to him about?”

“About you.”
“What
about me?”

“Your friends are worried about you.”

“They damn well better be worried about
themselves
if they’re talking about me behind my back.”

“Why don’t you cut the tough-guy stuff?”

“Change the subject.”

“Fine.” She stood and went to the railing and watched the bay, which was starting to swell and form whitecaps. She said, “Hurricane
coming. May miss us.” She turned to me and asked, “So, where is the treasure?”

“That’s a very good question.” I stood also and looked out at the rolling water. There wasn’t a boat in sight, of course,
and debris was starting to blow across the lawn. Whenever the wind dropped for a few seconds, I could hear the water slapping
against the stony shore.

Beth asked me, “And where is our hard evidence?”

Still staring at the weather, I replied, “The answer to both of those questions may be in Mr. Tobin’s home, office, or apartment.”

She thought a moment, then said, “I’ll present the facts as I know them to an ADA and request that the DA’s office apply for
a search warrant.”

“Good idea. If you can get a search warrant without probable cause, you’re a lot smarter than I am.” I added, “A judge would
be a little skittish about issuing a search warrant on the homes and business of a prominent citizen with no previous problems
with the law. You know that.” I studied her face as she thought this over. I said, “That’s what’s so great about America.
You don’t have the police and the government crawling up your butt without due process. And if you’re rich, you get even more
due process than the average Joe.”

She didn’t reply to that, but asked me, “What do you think we … I should do next?”

“Whatever you want. I’m off the case.” The swells were turning into breaking waves now, unusual for this part of the bay.
I recalled what Emma said about watching the water as a storm approached.

Beth said to me, “I know I can … well, I
think
I can nail this guy if he did it.”

“That’s good.”

“You’re sure it was him?”

“I’m sure.”

“And Paul Stevens?”

I replied, “He’s still the joker in the deck. He may be Tobin’s accomplice to murder, or Tobin’s blackmailer, or a jackal
waiting to pounce on the treasure, or he may be nothing more than a guy who always looks suspicious and guilty of
something.”

“We should talk to him.”

“I did.”

She raised her eyebrows. “When?”

I explained my unannounced visit to Mr. Stevens’ Connecticut home, leaving out the part where I decked him. I concluded, “At
the very least, he’s guilty of lying to us and conspiring with Nash and Foster.”

She mulled that over and added, “Or he may be more deeply involved.” She said, “Well … maybe we can catch a forensic break
at the two new murder scenes. That would be a clincher.”

“Right. Meanwhile, Tobin will know what’s going on around him, and he’s got half the local politicians in his pocket, and
probably has friends in the Southold PD.”

“We’ll keep Max out of this.”

“Do what you have to do. Just don’t spook Tobin because if he gets on to you, whatever evidence exists that’s under his control
is going to disappear.”

“Like the treasure?”

“Right. Or the murder weapon. Actually, if I’d killed two people with my registered pistol and all of a sudden the cops were
in my office, I’d ditch that thing in mid-Atlantic and claim it was lost or stolen.” I added, “You should announce that you
found one of the slugs. That will spook him if he still has the pistol. Then keep a tail on him and see if he tries to ditch
the gun if he hasn’t already.”

She nodded and looked at me. She said, “I’d like you to work this case with me. Will you do that?”

I took her arm and led her inside to the kitchen. I took the phone off the hook and said, “Call his office, and see if he’s
there.”

She dialed information, got the number of Tobin Vintners, and dialed. She said, “Mr. Tobin, please.” She waited and looked
at me. She asked, “What should I say to him?”

“Just thank him for a wonderful party.”

Beth spoke into the phone. “Yes, this is Detective Penrose of the Suffolk County Police Department. I’d like to speak to Mr.
Tobin.”

She listened, then said, “Just tell him I called to thank him for a wonderful evening.” She listened again, then asked, “Is
there any way to reach him?” She glanced at me, then said into the phone, “Okay. Yes, that’s a good idea.” She hung up and
said to me, “He’s not in, not expected, and she doesn’t know where to reach him. Also, they’re about to close the winery because
of the weather.”

“Okay. Call his house.”

She took her notebook out of her bag, found Tobin’s un-listed number, and dialed. She said to me, “Am I calling his home to
thank him for a wonderful evening?”

“You lost your grandmother’s gold locket on his lawn.”

“Right.” She said into the phone, “Is Mr. Tobin in?” She listened, then asked, “Is Ms. Wells in then?” She listened again,
then said, “Thank you. I’ll call again … no, no message … no, don’t be frightened. You should go to a designated emergency
shelter…. Well, then call the police or fire department, and they’ll come and get you. Okay? Do that now.” Beth hung up. “The
housekeeper. Eastern European lady. Doesn’t like hurricanes.”

“I’m not too keen on them either. Where is Mr. Tobin?”

“He’s absent without explanation. Ms. Wells has gone to Manhattan until the storm blows over.” Beth looked at me. “Where is
he?”

“I don’t know. But we know where he’s not.”

She said, “By the way, you should get out of this house. All waterfront residents have been advised to evacuate.”

“Weather people are professional alarmists.”

And with that, the lights flickered.

Beth said, “Sometimes they’re right.”

“I have to head back to Manhattan sometime today anyway. I have appointments tomorrow morning with those who will decide my
fate.”

“Then you’d better leave now. This is not going to get any better.”

While I contemplated my options, the wind took a chair off my porch and the lights flickered again. I remembered I was supposed
to call Jack Rosen at the
Daily News,
but I’d already missed the deadline for his column. Anyway, I didn’t think the wounded hero cop was going to make it home
today or tomorrow. I said to Beth, “Let’s take a ride.”

“Where?”

“To find Fredric Tobin—so we can thank him for a wonderful evening.”

T
he rain was heavy and the wind sounded like a freight train. I found two yellow ponchos in the coat closet and retrieved my
.38, which I wore in my shoulder holster. The next thing to do was to get out of the driveway, which was covered with limbs
and debris. I started the Jeep, threw it into gear, and ran over the fallen branches. I said to Beth, “Fourteen-inch clearance,
four-wheel drive.”

“Does it float?”

“We may find out.”

I drove through the narrow lanes of my waterfront section of Mattituck, over more fallen limbs and past sailing trash can
lids, then I found the road blocked by a toppled tree. I said, “I haven’t been out in the country during a hurricane since
I was a kid.”

Beth informed me, “This isn’t the hurricane, John.”

I drove up on someone’s lawn, around the huge fallen tree, and observed, “Looks like a hurricane to me.”

“It has to reach wind speeds of sixty-five knots to be a hurricane. Now it’s a tropical storm.”

She turned on the radio to an all-news channel and, as expected, the top story was Jasper. The news guy said, “… tracking
north-northeast, with wind speeds of up to sixty knots, which is about seventy miles an hour for you landlubbers. Its forward
speed is about fifteen miles an hour, and if it continues on its present course, it will make landfall somewhere on the south
shore of Long Island at about eight
P.M.
tonight. There are small craft warnings posted for the ocean and the Sound. Travelers are advised to stay at home and—” I
shut off the radio. “Alarmist.”