Riptide (15 page)

Down below, Hang Ten’s latest arrival picked his way through the crowd. He was built like a panther, tall and narrow, with powerful shoulders and biceps you could make out from up here. He wore his dark hair slicked back on the sides and pulled forward on top. Vintage greaser from
West Side Story.

He was older than the average Hang Ten patron by five years, maybe more. If this was a frat guy home from college for the summer, he was a member of the Alpha Delta San Quentin chapter.

As they watched, he plowed into someone deliberately, causing the guy to spill most of his ten-dollar beer.

The guy whipped around and, when he got an up-close look at Tarzan, backed away.

“That’s him,” Ross Middleton said. “Daniel Cunningham.”

Christina Cardiff’s barefoot brunch chef. McManus exchanged a quick glance with his partner.

Cunningham chose that very moment to look up at the one-way mirror high on the wall above his head.

As if he knew.

Their eyes met, and something tugged McManus’s gut. He remembered taking his kids to the Atlantis Marine World in Riverhead. A shark had swum up to the floor-to-ceiling glass right in front of Frank and hung there, treading water, staring at him with those lifeless black eyes until everyone around them noticed.

McManus shuddered, grateful now as he had been then for the heavy glass in front of him.

Jackson stopped writing. “So,” he said in a low voice.

Which meant Jackson felt it, too. “Is he a local?” McManus asked, knowing the answer.

Ross Middleton shrugged. “I have no idea. He started hanging around at the beginning of the summer, sometimes with Cardiff. Sometimes, not. Popular with the ladies.” The Boy Owner pushed his forefingers up under the rhinestone frames and rubbed that sore spot on the bridge of his nose. “That’s all I got.”

McManus waited.

“He’s a rough guy. I mean, I don’t know that for a fact, but the bartenders heard some things. I don’t know.” Middleton spoke rapidly now, his words tumbling out.

You could tell he didn’t want to go down on record as having said Daniel Cunningham was trouble. Even though he was.

“Look, that’s about all I know.” Spoken in the pleading tone of someone who hoped that Detectives McManus and Jackson would get the hell out before his clients realized that cops had moved in.

That hope just wasn’t realistic.

A short time later, Detectives McManus and Jackson had set up shop in a storage area in the club’s basement, with McManus taking statements on two old metal chairs they dragged into a dark corner surrounded by shelves of liquor and paper supplies, while Ben Jackson stood watch over the group they had corralled waiting in the dim hallway.

Like a shepherd tending a jittery flock of sheep.

The girls were haughtiest, which was not surprising since Frank suspected they weren’t guilty of much of anything.

The thinner of the two Barbie-Doll types went so far
as to suggest she wanted to wait for her attorney before answering their questions.

City girl. “Fine,” McManus replied. “Call him, tell him to drive out to Yaphank and wait there. We should get there by”—he checked his watch—“oh, say, two or three in the morning, latest.” Enough to run up a thousand-dollar tab, easy. “Could be later,” he added, “depending on how much cooperation we get here.”

Sounds from the dance floor thundered overhead.

The girl rolled her eyes. “Okay. We work together at Brenner & Colt in the city.”

It was a big PR firm.

She shrugged. “We’re friends. Lisa found a place in Montauk, and we went in on it for a couple weeks.”

The second girl told a similar version, stumbling when McManus asked how they could afford a place in Montauk on an AE’s salary. She chewed her pink-glossed lips. “I’m bad with numbers.”

Lisa, when it was her turn, aimed for something closer to the truth.

“We got it for free,” she said coolly. “Friend of my uncle’s.”

“Must be nice to have friends with money,” McManus remarked, making a mental note to keep his daughter out of clubs until she turned thirty. “What’s his name?”

“I don’t remember.”

“What’s your uncle’s name?”

Lisa shrugged her perfectly tanned shoulders. “I’d have to look that up when I get home and get back to you.”

McManus cut to the chase. “How well did you know Jason Cardiff?”

Lisa blinked. “I don’t know.” She twisted one of her heavy diamond-stud earrings.

The studs looked like platinum. Impressive on an account executive’s salary.

“Did you know him well enough to be invited to parties at his house?”

Lisa recrossed her smooth legs, gave the diamond post in her ear another half turn. “Sometimes.”

McManus stared. “Was his wife at any of the parties you attended?”

“I can’t remember.”

If she twisted that diamond stud any harder, Frank thought, her earlobe would twist right off. “You were at the Cardiffs’ two nights ago, when Jason drowned. Is that correct?”

She said nothing.

She was, McManus reflected, the perfect girlfriend for a married guy. “It was quite a way to go, drowning all alone in his own pool.”

That shook things loose a bit.

Lisa allowed her blue eyes to flutter shut and sank back against the back of her folding chair.

“Was he okay when you left?”

She shrugged again, not opening her eyes. “He’d been partying a lot, but he was okay.”

McManus waited.

Lisa gave her blond head a tiny shake, opened her eyes, and gave a small sniff. “We argued, sort of, you know? And I left with my friends. That’s it.”

McManus watched her. “How’d you hear about his death?”

She sighed. “I heard it on the news, like everyone else.” She sighed again. “I tried to call him the next morning.”

Twice, according to Jason Cardiff’s phone records. Which was two times more than his wife. “But you got no answer,” McManus said, stating the obvious.

Lisa’s tanned shoulders heaved a little bit. “That wasn’t so strange. The way we had it set up, he called me.”

It made sense. McManus nodded. “Did you meet him sometimes in the city?”

She nodded. “It was no big deal with us.” She pressed the tips of her manicured fingers into the flesh beneath her eyes, and Frank saw for the first time that she was trying not to cry. “It was just, you know, a casual fling.”

“How often did you see him?”

“Not often. Maybe once or twice a month. We’d meet at my place in the city when his wife was out here, you know, or sometimes I’d meet him out here if she was in the city.”

And maybe Cardiff would take out a lease on a place in Montauk so Lisa was handy while his wife was safely tucked away in rehab for sixty days.

“Was it serious with you two?”

“No.” Lisa tossed her highlighted mane from side to side, giving her nose a dainty swipe with an index finger. “There was nothing between us. Not really, besides you-know-what,” she said delicately.

By the looks of things, Jason Cardiff had been getting himself some very good and righteous you-know-what. “How’d you meet?”

If he’d thought about it, Jason Cardiff could have pinpointed the moment that ended his marriage.

A light snow was tying things up on Central Park South. Rush-hour traffic crept along Fifth slower than usual, thanks to the weather. Horns blared.

Jason Cardiff, freshly showered after his workout, stood in the lobby of New York’s most elite private club. Weighing his options. He wished he had thought to reserve a car. There was no point calling for a limo now that it was snowing, even if his name was Cardiff.

“Good evening, Mr. Cardiff.” Bailey, the club’s doorman, bounded into the lobby. “Wonderful weather we’re having, sir. Shall I find you a cab?”

“Only if you’re hiding one in your pocket,” Jason cracked.

Bailey laughed his booming laugh until the snow shook from his epaulets.

Job requirement, Jason thought. “Thanks anyway.” He checked his watch. If he started walking now, he’d get there in time to grab a drink before dinner. He pulled up the collar of his Paul Stuart coat. “I’ll walk.”

Bailey frowned. “Where are you headed this evening, Mr. Cardiff?”

“Up Fifth,” Jason said, giving the name of the foundation named for his great-great-uncle that was located twenty blocks north.

“Have you got an umbrella, Mr. Cardiff?” Without waiting for an answer, the doorman handed Jason an oversized canvas umbrella that bore the club logo. “Take mine, sir, I insist.”

“Good man, Bailey.” Jason handed the man a twenty and headed into the night. It wouldn’t look good if he was late to his uncle’s awards ceremony for work he’d done to establish a center in the South Bronx for children with special needs. The mayor was scheduled to speak, followed by a young senator who was a likely GOP nominee for the US presidency.

The reception was in full swing when Jason arrived. Lights blazed inside the limestone town house that had been constructed when the Central Park skyline was level except for the improbable new high-rise that had been dubbed The Dakota for its outrageous location so far from the center of commerce.

The giant lobby chandelier, built in County Waterford and shipped from Ireland, glittered powerfully, its light spilling outside onto the red-carpeted sidewalk, dry even tonight thanks to heating elements embedded in the concrete.

Inside, great-great-uncle Stuart Cardiff kept a stern eye on the proceedings from his perch in a giant gilt frame hanging at the apex of the town house’s famous twin curving staircases.

Liveried footmen rushed across the marble foyer to take Jason’s overcoat and umbrella from him. They had known Jason since he was a little boy, a fact neither of them would dare mention. “Your parents are seated with the mayor, along with your sister and her husband, at the first table, sir. When you are ready, I will announce you.”

Jason nodded. “Very good.”

“Will Mrs. Cardiff join you, sir?”

But Jason Cardiff was preoccupied, staring at the press table that had been set up across the large foyer. Specifically, at the young woman who was working it.

The footman repeated his question.

Jason Cardiff frowned. “My wife’s not coming.”

“Very good, sir. We will rearrange the head table accordingly.”

Jason turned his attention back to the press table.

The blonde with the clipboard bent over, revealing the outlines of a nice ass.

She glanced up, caught Jason watching, and smiled. She leaned lower, giving him a good view of the contents of her push-up bra.

Jason Cardiff crossed the foyer in a few long strides while the blonde held her pose, tits and all. His smile broadened. It was going to be a good night.

Giggling, the blonde straightened up, clipboard forgotten. She looked him over, letting her gaze linger at his crotch. “Sorry,” she said sweetly. “The press seats are all taken.”

Jason’s dinner jacket had been fitted to his body and hand-sewn by the lead designer at a workshop in Milan. Not your average working journalist’s gear, and they both knew it. Jason played along. “I need to make a call.”

“This is a private affair, sir.” She flicked her hair extensions behind one shoulder, releasing a burst of perfume that smelled like figs.

Jason breathed in deep. “Can I borrow yours?” He hitched the waistband of his trousers and, while his gaze flickered up and down her tight little business suit, he used one hand to shift his balls.

She caught it. “Borrow my…what?” She let her head sort of loll back on her neck a bit and laughed.

He could see the points of her nipples pushing through the thin fabric of her suit. Leaning forward so he was halfway across her check-in table, he stared pointedly at her chest. Jason Cardiff licked his lips. “It all looks good.”

She giggled some more and was about to say something but changed her mind.

Jason heard the rat-a-tat of dainty footsteps moving fast, making straight for him.

“Jason! There you are.”

His little sister, Pamela Cardiff Lofting, launched herself at him like he was still nine years old and she was seven. She didn’t so much as glance at the blonde. “Kiss, kiss.” She offered her cheek. “Do you like the dress? It’s a Herrera.”

“Bunny, you look great,” he murmured, using her childhood nickname. He barely brushed his cheek with hers so as not to muss her makeup, which she got professionally done for nights like this.

“Thank God you’re here,” she whispered, wheeling him toward the entrance to the grand hall. “I’m between your empty seat and the senator, who’s a complete bore.” She pressed one dainty hand to her mouth in a faux-yawn. “Daddy’s not on till dessert.”

Jason gave one last glance over his shoulder at the blonde, who blew him a kiss. He felt his hard-on come back for an encore.

Pamela was chattering on. “Fair warning: Maman’s in a snit.”

Maman was their pet name for their mother.
“Comment ça va?”
But Jason already knew.

“Your other half called a while ago. She’s a no-show.” Pamela didn’t bother looking to gauge his reaction. She was busy fussing at a strand of hair in the gilt-framed mirror.

The footmen waited for Jason’s signal to pull open the oak doors that had been hand carved in Florence more than a century ago. Latecomers, as a rule, would not be announced after the Cardiffs had been seated. The arrival of more Cardiffs was the exception to that rule.

“Too bad,” Jason commented. In fact, it was great news. He turned once more and winked at the PR tart.

She winked back.

Pamela pretended not to notice. She hated Jason’s wife. “Let’s do this.” She gave Jason’s arm a squeeze.

The footmen threw open the doors, and a hush fell over the dining room as Jason and his sister made their entrance.

Inside, another liveried man had been waiting. He drew in a deep breath before bellowing their introduction. “Presenting Mister Jason Cardiff of the city of New York, and his sister, Mrs. Pamela Cardiff Lofting, also of the city of New York.”

The pair stood, smiling, on the very same spot where they had been presented countless times before.

“Whatever you do,” Pamela whispered, “don’t get the senator started on standardized tests for children.”