“Nope.”
“Any observations of your own?”
“I think you beat me to them, Chief.”
“Theories, thoughts, hunches? Anything?”
“Nope.”
Chief Maxwell seemed to want to say something else, like, “You’re fired,” but instead he said, “I’ve got to make a phone call.” He went off into the house.
I glanced back at the bodies. The woman with the light tan suit was now outlining Judy in chalk. It’s SOP in New York City that the investigating officer do the outline, and I guessed that it was the same out here. The idea is that the detective who is going to follow the case to its conclusion and who is going to work with the DA should know and work the entire case to the extent possible. I concluded, therefore, that the lady in tan was a homicide detective and that she was the officer assigned to investigate this case. I further concluded that I’d wind up dealing with her if I decided to help Max with this.
The scene of a homicide is one of the most interesting places in the world if you know what you’re looking for and looking at. Consider people like Tom and Judy who look at little bugs under a microscope, and they can tell you the names of the bugs, what the bugs are up to at the moment, what the bugs are capable of doing to the person who’s watching them, and so forth. But if I looked at the bugs, all I’d see is little squigglies. I don’t have a trained eye or a trained mind for bugs.
Yet, when I look at a dead body and at the scene around the body, I see things that most people don’t see. Max touched the engines and the bodies and noticed they were warm, he noticed how the boat was tied, and he registered a dozen other small details that the average citizen wouldn’t notice. But Max isn’t really a detective, and he was operating on about level two, whereas to solve a murder like this one, you needed to operate on a much higher plane. He knew that, which is why he called on me.
I happened to know the victims, and for the homicide detective on the case, this is a big plus. I knew, for instance, that the Gordons usually wore shorts, T-shirts, and docksiders in the boat on their way to Plum Island, and at work they slipped on their lab duds or their biohazard gear or whatever. Also, Tom didn’t look like Tom in a black shirt, and Judy was more of a pastel person as I recall. My guess was that they were dressed for camouflage, and the running shoes were for speed. Then again, maybe I was making up clues. You have to be careful not to do that.
But then there was the red soil in the treads of their running shoes. Where did it come from? Not from the laboratory, probably not from the walkway to the Plum Island ferry dock, not their boat, and not the dock or deck here. It appeared they were somewhere else today, and they were dressed differently for the day, and for sure the day had ended differently. There was something else going on here, and I had no idea what it was, but it was definitely something else.
Yet, it was still possible that they just stumbled onto a burglary. I mean, this might have nothing to do with their jobs. The thing was, Max was nervous about that and sensitive to it, and it had infected me, too, pardon the pun. And before midnight, this place would be visited by the FBI, Defense Intelligence people, and the CIA. Unless Max could catch a hophead burglar before then.
“Excuse me.”
I turned toward the voice. It was the lady in the tan suit. I said, “You’re excused.”
“Excuse me, are you supposed to be here?”
“I’m here with the band.”
“Are you a police officer?”
Obviously my T-shirt and shorts didn’t project an authority image. I replied, “I’m with Chief Maxwell.”
“I could see that. Have you logged in?”
“Why don’t you go check?” I turned and walked down to the next level of the deck, avoiding the little colored flags. I headed toward the dock. She followed.
“I’m Detective Penrose from Suffolk County homicide, and I’m in charge of this investigation.”
“Congratulations.”
“And unless you have official business here—”
“You’ll have to speak to the chief.” I got down to the dock and walked out to where the Gordons’ boat was tied. It was very breezy out on the long dock and the sun had set. I didn’t see any sailboats on the bay now, but a few power-boats went by with their running lights on. A three-quarter moon had risen in the southeast, and it sparkled across the water.
The tide was in and the thirty-foot boat was nearly at dock level. I jumped down onto the boat’s deck.
“What are you doing? You can’t do that.”
She was very good-looking, of course; if she’d been ugly, I’d have been much nicer. She was dressed, as I indicated, rather severely, but the body beneath the tailored clothes was a symphony of curves, a melody of flesh looking to break free. In fact, she looked like she was smuggling balloons. The second thing I noticed was that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Filling out the rest of the form: age, early thirties; hair, medium length, coppery color; eyes, blue-green; skin, fair, not much sun for this time of year, light makeup; pouty lips; no visible marks or scars; no earrings; no nail polish; pissed-off expression on her face.
“Are you listening to me?”
She also had a nice voice despite the present tone. I suspected that because of the pretty face, great body, and soft voice, Detective Penrose had trouble being taken seriously, and thus she overcompensated with butchy attire. She probably owned a book titled Dress to Bust Balls.
“Are you listening to me?”
“I’m listening to you. Are you listening to me? I told you to talk to the chief.”
“I am in charge here. In matters of homicide, the county police—”
“Okay, we’ll go see the chief together. Just a minute.”
I took a quick look around the boat, but it was dark now, and I couldn’t see much. I tried to find a flashlight. I said to Detective Penrose, “You should post an officer here all night.”
“Thank you for sharing your thoughts. Please come out of the boat.”
“Do you have a flashlight on you?”
“Out of the boat. Now.”
“Okay.” I stepped onto the gunwale, and to my surprise she extended her hand, which I took. Her skin was cool. She pulled me up onto the dock and at the same time, quick as a cat, her right hand went under my T-shirt and snatched the revolver from my waistband. Wow.
She stepped back, my piece in her hand. “Stand where you are.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Who are you?”
“Detective John Corey, NYPD, homicide, ma’am.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Same as you.”
“No, I caught this case. Not you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you have any official status here?”
“Yes, ma’am. I was hired as a consultant.”
“Consultant? On a murder case? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Me neither.”
“Who hired you?”
“The town.”
“Idiotic.”
“Right.” She seemed undecided about what to do next, so to be helpful I suggested, “Do you want to strip-search me?”
I thought I saw a smile pass over her lips in the moonlight. My heart was aching for her, or it might have been the hole in my lung acting up.
She asked me, “What did you say your name was?”
“John Corey.”
She searched her memory. “Oh … you’re the guy—”
“That’s me. Lucky me.”
She seemed to soften, then gave my .38 a twirl and handed it to me, butt first. She turned and walked away.
I followed her along the dock, up the three-leveled deck to the house where the outdoor lights lit up the area around the glass doors and moths circled around the globes.
Max was talking to one of the forensic people. Then he turned to me and Detective Penrose and asked us, “You two met yet?”
Detective Penrose responded, “Why is t
his man involved in this case?”
Chief Maxwell replied, “Because I want him to be involved.”
“That’s not your decision, Chief.”
“And neither is it yours.”
They kept bouncing the ball back and forth and my neck was getting tired, so I said, “She’s right, Chief. I’m out of here. Get me a ride home.” I turned and walked toward the moongate, then with a little practiced dramatics, I turned back to Maxwell and Penrose and said, “By the way, did anyone take the aluminum chest in the stern of the boat?”
Max asked, “What aluminum chest?”
“The Gordons had a big aluminum chest that they used to stow odds and ends, and sometimes they used it for an ice chest to hold beer and bait.”
“Where is it?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
“I’ll look for it.”
“Good idea.” I turned and walked through the gate and went out to the front lawn away from the parked police cars. The neighbors had been joined by the morbidly curious as word of the double homicide spread through the small community.
A few cameras popped in my direction, then video lights came on, illuminating me and the front of the house. Video cameras rolled, reporters called out to me. Just like old times. I coughed into my hand in case the disability board was watching, not to mention my ex-wife.
A uniformed cop from the backyard caught up to me, and we got into a marked Southold Township PD, and off we went. He said his name was Bob Johnson, and he asked me, “What do you think, Detective?”
“They were murdered.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” He hesitated, then inquired, “Hey, do you think it has to do with Plum Island or not?”
“Not.”
“Tell you what—I’ve seen burglaries, and this wasn’t burglary. It was supposed to look like a burglary, but it was a search—you know? They were looking for something.”
“I didn’t look inside.”
“Germs.” He glanced at me. “Germs. Biological warfare germs. That’s what I think. Right?”
I made no reply.
Johnson continued, “That’s what happened to the ice chest. I heard you say that.”
Again, I made no reply.
“There were vials or something in the chest. Right? I mean, Jesus Christ, there could be enough stuff out there to wipe out Long Island … New York City.”
Probably the planet, Bob, depending on which kind of bug it was and how much could be grown from the original stuff.
I leaned toward Officer Johnson and held his arm to get his attention. I said, “Do not breathe one fucking word of this to anyone. Do you understand?”
He nodded.
We drove in silence back to my place.
CHAPTER 3
Everyone needs a hangout, at least guys do. When I’m in the city, I hang out at the National Arts Club and sip sherry with people of culture and refinement. My ex-wife had trouble believing that, too.
When I’m out here, I frequent a place called the Olde Towne Taverne, though I usually avoid places with that many silent “e’s.” I think the government should allocate one thousand silent “e’s” to New England and Long Island, and when they’re used up, no one can have any more. Anyway, the Olde Towne Taverne is in downtown (or downetowne) Mattituck, which is about a block long, and really charming. The OTT is okay, the motif is sort of early ship, despite the fact that it’s a town tavern and a mile from the water. The wood is very dark and the floor is oak planking, and the thing that I love is the amber glass lanterns that cast this really mellow, mood-altering glow over the whole place.
So there I was in the OTT, and it was getting on to ten P.M., and the Monday night crowd was watching The Game—Dallas vs. New York at the Meadowlands. My mind was hopping between the game, the double murder, my food, and the waitress with the NordicTrack ass.
I was more nattily dressed than earlier, having changed into evening attire of tan Levi’s jeans, blue polo by Ralph, genuine Sperry Top-Siders, and Hanes all-cotton briefs. I looked like an ad for something.
I was sitting on a stool at one of those chest-high tables near the bar, and I had a good view of the TV, and I had my favorite meal in front of me—cheeseburger, french fries, stuffed potato skins, nachos, buffalo wings, and a Budweiser; a good balance of brown and yellow things.
Detective Penrose of the county police department sort of snuck up on me from behind, and the next thing I knew she was sitting on the stool facing me, a beer in her hand, and her head blocking the screen. She regarded my dinner, and I saw her eyebrows arch.
She turned her attention back to me and said, “Max thought I might find you here.”
“Would you like some french fries?”
“No, thank you.” She hesitated, then said, “I think we got off on the wrong foot back there.”
“Nonsense. I don’t mind having my own gun pulled on me.”
“Look, I’ve been speaking to Max, and I’ve been thinking … if the town wants you as a consultant, that’s okay with me, and if you wanted to pass on to me anything that you think is useful, feel free to call.” She handed me her card, and I read, “Detective Elizabeth Penrose.” Beneath that it said, “Homicide,” then her office address, fax, telephone number, and so forth. On the left was the Suffolk County seal with the words “Free and Independent” around a fearsome-looking bull. I commented, “Not a very good likeness of you.”
She stared at me, her jaw sort of clenched and her nostrils flared as she took a long breath. She kept her cool, which is admirable. I can be annoying.
I leaned across the table until our noses were about a football apart. She smelled good, sort of soapy and healthy. I said, “Look, Elizabeth, cut the crap. You know that I knew the Gordons and that I’ve been to their house and I went out in their boat, and maybe I’ve met their friends and their coworkers, and maybe they opened up to me about their work a little because I’m a cop, and maybe I know more than you or Max put together, and maybe you’re right about that. So, you realize you pissed me off, and Max is pissed at you, and you came here to apologize, and you give me permission to call you and tell you what I know. Wow! What a terrific opportunity for me. However, if I don’t call you in a day or two, you’ll have me down in your office for a formal interrogation. So let’s not pretend I’m a consultant, your partner, your bud, or a willing informant. Just tell me where and when you want to take a statement from me.” I sat back and turned my attention to the potato skins.
Detective Penrose stayed quiet awhile, then said, “Tomorrow, my office”—she tapped her card—“nine A.M. Don’t be late.” She stood, put her beer down, and left.
New York had the ball on their own thirty with third and six, and this idiot of a quarterback throws La Bomba fifty yards into the friggin’ wind, and the ball hangs there like the Goodyear blimp, and the three pass receivers and three Dallas guys are all under it with their arms flapping, hopping around like they’re praying for rain or something.
“Excuse me.”
“Sit down.”
She sat, but it was too late, and I missed the interception. The crowd at the stadium and in the OTT were going nuts, and the guys at the bar were yelling, “Pass interference!” though there were no yellow flags out there, and the Dallas guy ran it back to the fifty. I watched the replay in slow motion. No pass interference. Sometimes I wish I could replay parts of my life in slow motion like that. Like my marriage, which was a series of bad calls.
She said, “I’m going back to the scene now. Someone from the Department of Agriculture is going to meet me at about eleven. He’s coming in from Manhattan. Would you like to be there?”
“Don’t you have a partner you can annoy?”
“He’s on vacation. Come on, Detective, let’s start all over.” She put her hand out.
I reminded her, “Last time I took your hand, I lost my gun and my manhood.”
She smiled. “Come on, shake.”
I shook hands with her. Her skin w
as warm. My heart was on fire. Or maybe the nachos were causing reflux. It’s hard to tell after forty.
I held her hand a moment and looked at her perfect face. Our eyes met, and the same piggy thought passed through both our minds. She broke eye contact first. Someone has to or it gets geeky.
The cute waitress came over, and I ordered two beers. The waitress asked me, “Do you still want that bowl of chili?”
“More than ever.”
She cleared some of the dishes and went to get beer and chili. I love this country.
Detective Penrose commented, “You must have a cast-iron stomach.”
“Actually, my whole stomach was taken out after I was shot. My esophagus is attached to my intestine.”
“Do you mean your mouth is connected directly to your asshole?”
I raised my eyebrows.
She said, “I’m sorry—that was crude. Shall we start yet again?”
“It wouldn’t do any good. Turn around and watch the game.”
She turned around, and we watched the game and had a beer. At halftime with a 7–7 tie, she looked at her watch and said, “I have to go meet this Department of Agriculture guy.”
If you’re wondering about this Department of Agriculture thing, Plum Island is officially a Department of Agriculture installation, and they do things with animal diseases, anthrax, and all that. But rumor has it that it goes beyond that. Way beyond. I said, “Don’t keep the Department of Agriculture waiting.”
“Do you want to come along?”
I contemplated this invitation. If I went along, I’d get deeper into this thing, whatever it was. On the pro side, I like solving murders, and I liked the Gordons. In the ten years I’ve been with homicide, I’ve put twenty-six murderers behind bars, and the last two guys are eligible to take advantage of the new death penalty law, which adds another whole dimension to homicide cases now. On the con side, this was something different, and I was way off my turf. Also, a Department of Agriculture guy, like most government bureaucrats, wouldn’t be caught dead working at night, so this guy was most probably CIA or FBI or Defense Intelligence or something like that. It didn’t matter, and there’d be more of them later tonight or tomorrow. No, I didn’t need this case at a buck a week, or a thousand bucks a day, or at any price.
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