Plum Island (9 page)

Somewhere, somehow, through osmosis, I guess, I’d begun to understand the elemental forces of land and sea around me. I suppose
if you add up all the two-week summer vacations out here when I was a kid and the autumn weekends, it’s not too surprising
that something seeped into my urban brain.

There are times I want to get out of the city, and I think about some place like this. I guess I should come out here in the
winter and spend a few months in Uncle Harry’s big drafty house and see if I become an alcoholic or a hermit. Hell, if people
keep getting bumped off around here, the Southold Town Board will make me a full-time homicide consultant at a hundred bucks
a day and all the clams I can eat.

I was uncharacteristically ambivalent about returning to duty. I was ready to try something else, but I wanted it to be my
own decision, not the decision of the docs; also, if the quackers said I was through, I couldn’t find the two hombres who
plugged me. That was serious unfinished business. I have no Italian blood, but my partner, Dominic Fanelli, is a Sicilian,
and he taught me the entire history and protocol of revenge. He made me see
The Godfather
three times. I think I get it. The two Hispanic gents had to stop living. Dominic was working on finding them. I was waiting
for him to call one day when he did.

On the subject of my mortality, I was getting a little fatigued, and I sat on the bench. I wasn’t quite the superman I used
to be before the shooting.

I leaned back and regarded the night awhile. On a small patch of lawn to the left of the Gordons’ dock was a tall, white flagpole
with a crossbar, called a yardarm, from which ran two ropes or lines called halyards. Note how I have picked up some of the
nautical lingo. Anyway, the Gordons had found a whole collection of flags and pennants in a locker in the garage, and they’d
sometimes hang signal pennants from the halyards for fun—such as the pennant for “Prepare to be boarded” or “The captain is
ashore.”

I had noticed earlier that at the top of the mast, the Gordons had run up the Jolly Roger, and I thought it ironic that the
last flag they had flown was the skull and crossbones.

I noticed, too, that on each halyard was a signal pennant. I could barely make them out in the dark, but it didn’t matter
because I was clueless about nautical signals.

Beth Penrose sat down on the left end of the bench. She was wearing her jacket again, which was a disappointment, and her
arms were crossed around her as if she were cold. Women are always cold. She didn’t say anything, but kicked off her shoes,
rubbed her feet in the grass, and wiggled her toes. They also wear uncomfortable shoes.

After a few minutes of companionable silence—or maybe frosty stillness—I chipped at the ice and said, “Maybe you’re right.
It could have been a boat.”

“Are you armed?”

“No.”

“Good. I’m going to blow your f-ing brains out.”

“Now, Beth—”

“Detective Penrose to you, buster.”

“Lighten up.”

“Why were you so nasty to Ted Nash?”

“Which one is that?”

“You know f-ing well which one is that. What is your problem?”

“It’s a guy thing.”

“You made a fool out of yourself, everyone thinks you’re an arrogant idiot, and a totally useless incompetent.
And
you’ve lost my respect.”

“Then I suppose sex is out of the question.”

“
Sex?
I don’t even want to breathe the same air you do.”

“That hurts, Beth.”

“Do
not
call me Beth.”

“Ted Nash called you—”

“You know, Corey, I got this case because I slapped on the knee pads and begged the chief of homicide for it. This is my first
real murder case. Before this, all I got was crap— hopheads blasting away at each other, mommas and poppas settling domestic
disputes with cutlery, crap like that. And not much of it. There’s a low homicide rate in this county.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah. You do this all the time, so you’re jaded, cynical, and smart-assed about it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t—”

“If you’re here to make me look bad, fuck off.” She stood.

I stood, too. “Hold on. I’m here to help.”

“Then help.”

“Okay. Listen up. First, some advice. Don’t talk too much to Foster or your buddy Ted.”

“I know that, and cut the ‘buddy Ted’ crap.”

“Look … can I call you Beth?”

“No.”

“Look, Detective Penrose, I know you think I’m attracted to you and you probably think I’m coming on to you … and you think
this could be awkward….”

She turned her face away and looked out at the bay.

I continued, “… this is really hard to say, but … well … you don’t have to worry about that … about me….” She turned back
and looked at me.

I sort of covered my face with my right hand and rubbed my forehead. I continued as best I could. “You see … one of those
bullets that hit me…. God, how do I say this … ? Well, it hit me in a funny place, okay? Now you know. So we can be sort of
like … friends, partners … brother and sister … I guess I mean sister and sister….” I glanced at her and saw she was staring
out to sea again.

Finally, she spoke. “I thought you said you were hit in the stomach.”

“There, too.”

“Max said you had a serious lung wound.”

“That, too.”

“Any brain damage?”

“Maybe.”

“And now you want me to believe you’ve been neutered by yet another bullet.”

“It’s nothing a guy would lie about.”

“If the furnace is out, why is there still fire in your eyes?”

“Just a memory, Beth— Can I call you Beth? A good memory of a time when I could pole-vault over my car.”

She put her hand up to her face, and I couldn’t tell if she was crying or laughing.

I said, “Please don’t tell anyone.”

Finally, she got control of herself and replied, “I’ll try to keep it out of the papers.”

“Thanks.” I let a few seconds pass, then asked her, “Do you live around here?”

“No, I live in western Suffolk.”

“That’s a long trip. Are you driving home, or staying around here?”

“We’re all staying at the Soundview Inn out in Green-port.”

“Who’s ‘we’ all?”

“Me, George, Ted, some DEA guys, some other people who were here before … guys from the Department of Agriculture. We’re all
supposed to work day and night, round the clock, seven days a week. Looks good for the press and the public … in case the
fudge hits the fan. You know, in case there’s some concern about disease….”

“You mean mass panic about a plague.”

“Whatever.”

“Hey, I have a nice place out here and you’re welcome to stay there.”

“Thanks anyway.”

“It’s an impressive Victorian mansion on the water.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“You’d be more comfortable. I told you, I’m safe. Hell, NYPD personnel says I’m allowed to use the ladies’ room at headquarters.”

“Cut it out.”

“Seriously, Beth, I have a computer printout here—two years’ worth of financial stuff. We can work on it tonight.”

“Who authorized you to take that?”

“You did. Right?”

She hesitated, then nodded and said, “I want them back in my hands tomorrow morning.”

“Okay. I’ll pull an all-nighter with this. Help me out.”

She seemed to mull that over, then said, “Give me your phone number and address.”

I rummaged around my pockets for a pen and paper, but she already had her little notebook out and said, “Shoot.”

I gave her the information, including directions.

She said, “I’ll call first if I’m coming.”

“Okay.”

I sat back down on the bench, and she sat at the opposite end, the computer printouts between us. We stayed silent, sort of
mentally regrouping, I guess.

Finally, Beth remarked, “I hope you’re a whole lot smarter than you look or sound.”

“Let me put it this way—the smartest thing Chief Maxwell has done in his career is to come calling on me for this case.”

“And modest.”

“There’s no reason to be modest. I’m one of the best. In fact, CBS is developing a show called The Corey Files.”

“You don’t say?”

“I can get you a part.”

“Thank you. If I can repay the favor, I’m sure you’ll let me know.”

“Seeing you in The Corey Files will be repayment enough.”

“It sure will. Listen…. Can I call you John?”

“Please do.”

“John, what’s happening here? I mean with this case. You know something you’re not sharing.”

“What is your current status?”

“Excuse me?”

“Engaged, divorced, separated, involved?”

“Divorced. What do you know or suspect about this case that you haven’t mentioned?”

“No boyfriend?”

“No boyfriend, no children, eleven admirers, five are married, three are control freaks, two possibilities, and one idiot.”

“Am I being too personal?”

“Yes.”

“If I had a male partner and I asked him these questions, it would be perfectly normal and okay.”

“Well … we’re not partners.”

“You want it both ways. Typical.”

“Look … well, tell me about yourself. Quickly.”

“Okay. Divorced, no children, dozens of admirers, but no one special.” I added, “And no venereal diseases.”

“And no venereal parts.”

“Right.”

“Okay, John, what’s with this case?”

I settled back on the bench and replied, “Well, Beth … what’s happening with this case is that the obvious is leading to the
improbable, and everyone is trying to make the improbable fit the obvious. But it don’t work that way, partner.”

She nodded, then said, “You’re suggesting that this might have nothing to do with what we think it has to do with.”

“I’m beginning to think there’s something else going on here.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Well … some evidence doesn’t seem to fit.”

“Maybe it will fit in a few days, when all the lab reports are in and everyone’s been questioned. We haven’t even spoken to
the Plum Island people.”

I stood and said, “Let’s go down to the dock.”

She slipped her shoes on, and we walked down toward the dock. I said, “A few hundred yards down the beach from here, Albert
Einstein wrestled with the moral question of the atomic bomb and decided it was a go. The good guys had no choice because
the bad guys had already decided it was a go without any wrestling with the moral questions.” I added, “I knew the Gordons.”

She thought a moment, then said, “You’re saying you don’t think the Gordons were capable—morally capable—of selling deadly
micro-organisms.”

“No, I don’t. Like atomic scientists they respected the power of the genie in the bottle. I don’t know exactly what they did
on Plum Island, and we’ll probably never know, but I think I knew them well enough to say they wouldn’t sell the genie in
the bottle.”

She didn’t reply.

I continued, “I remember Tom once told me that Judy was having a bad day because some calf that she’d become attached to had
been purposely infected with something and was dying. These are not the kind of people who want to see children dying of plague.
When you interview their Plum Island associates, you’ll find this out for yourself.”

“People sometimes have another side.”

“I never saw a hint of anything in the Gordons’ personalities to suggest that they’d traffic in deadly disease.”

“Sometimes people rationalize their behavior. How about the Americans who gave atomic bomb secrets to the Russians? They were
people who said they did it out of conviction—so one side wouldn’t have all the power.”

I glanced at her and saw she was looking at me as we walked. I was happy to discover that Beth Penrose was capable of some
deeper thinking, and I knew she was relieved to discover that I wasn’t the idiot she thought I might be.

I said, “Regarding the atomic scientists, that was a different time and a different secret. I mean, if nothing else, why would
the Gordons sell bacteria and virus that could kill
them
and their families in Indiana or wherever, and wipe out everyone in between?”

Beth Penrose pondered that a moment, then replied, “Maybe they got paid ten million, and the money is in Switzerland, and
they have a chateau on a mountain stocked with champagne and canned food, and they invited their friends and relatives to
visit. I don’t know, John. Why do people do crazy things? They rationalize, they talk themselves into it. They’re angry at
something or somebody. Ten million bucks. Twenty million. Two hundred bucks. Everyone has a price.”

We walked out on the dock where a uniformed Southold policeman was sitting on a lawn chair. Detective Penrose said to him,
“Take a break.”

He stood and walked back toward the house.

The ripples lapped against the hull of the Gordons’ boat, and the boat rocked against the rubber bumpers on the pilings. The
tide was out, and I noticed that the boat was now tied to pulleys to allow the rope to play out. The boat had dropped about
four or five feet below the dock. I noticed now that the writing on the hull said “Formula 303,” which, according to Tom,
meant it was thirty feet, three inches long.

I said to Beth, “On the Gordons’ bookshelf, I found a book of charts—nautical navigational maps—with an eight-digit number
penciled on one of the pages. I asked Sally Hines to do a super print job on the book and report to you. You should take the
book and keep it someplace safe. We should look at it together. There may be more marks on the book.”

She stared at me for a few seconds, then asked, “Okay, what do you think this is about?”

“Well … if you ratchet down the moral dial about halfway, you go from selling plague for money to drugs for money.”

“Drugs?”

“Yeah. Morally ambiguous in some minds, big money in everyone’s mind. How does that sound to you? Drugs.”

She stared at the high-powered boat and nodded. She said, “Maybe we got panicky with this Plum Island connection.”

“Maybe we did.”

“We should talk to Max and the others about this.”

“We should not.”