Plum Island

by Nelson DeMille

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 31

  The 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.”

  Beth said, “My house is pretty far inland, if you want to stop by later. From there, it’s less than two hours by car or train to Manhattan, and you could leave after the worst of the storm has passed.”

  “Thank you.”

  We drove in silence awhile, then finally reached Main Road, which was clear of debris but flooded. There wasn’t much traffic and almost all the businesses along the way were closed and some were boarded up. I saw an empty farm stand that had collapsed, and a utility pole that had fallen over, taking the telephone and electric wires with it. I said, “I don’t think this is good for the vines.”

  “This is not good for anything.”

  Within twenty minutes, I pulled into the gravel parking lot of Tobin Vineyards. There were no cars in the lot, and a sign said, “Closed.”

  I looked up at the tower and saw there were no lights in any of the windows, though the sky was almost black.

  On both sides of the parking lot were vineyards, and the staked vines were taking a beating. If the storm got any worse, the crop would probably be wiped out. I remembered Tobin’s little lesson about the moderating influence of the maritime climate—which was true enough until you were in the path of a hurricane. “Jasper.”

  “That’s what it’s called.” She looked around at the parking lot and the winery and said, “I don’t think he’s here. I don’t see any cars, and the place is dark. Let’s try his house.”

  “Let’s pop into the office first.”

  “John, the place is closed.”

  “Closed is a relative term.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  I drove toward the winery, then swung off to the right, out of the parking lot and onto a grassy area between the winery and the vineyard. I turned into the back of the big building where a few trucks sat parked among stacked empty wine barrels.

  “What are you doing?” Beth asked.

  I drove up to the back door at the base of the tower. “See if it’s open.”

  She looked at me and started to say something.

  “Just see if it’s open. Do what I say.”

  She got out of the Jeep and ran to the door, pulling at the handle. She looked at me and shook her head, then started back toward the Jeep. I hit the gas and plowed the Jeep into the door, which flew open. I shut off the engine and jumped out. I grabbed Beth’s arm and ran through the open door into the tower.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “There’s a nice view at the top.” The elevator, as I’d noticed, had a keyed entry, so I started up the stairs. Beth grabbed my arm and said, “Stop! This is called burglary, not to mention any civil rights violations—”

  “This is a public building.”

  “It’s closed!”

  “I found the door broken in.”

  “John—”

  “Go back to the Jeep. I’ll take care of this.”

  We looked at one another, and she gave me that look that said, “I know you’re angry, but don’t do this.”

  I turned away from her and went up the stairs alone. On each landing, I tried the door to the offices, but they were all locked.

  On the third-floor landing, I heard footsteps behind me and drew my .38. I waited at the back of the landing and saw Beth turn the corner. She looked up at me.

  I said to her, “This is my felony. I don’t need an accomplice.”

  She replied, “The door was broken in. We’re investigating.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  We continued up the stairs together.

  On the fourth floor, the executive offices, the door was also locked. This didn’t mean there was no one there—these fire exit doors could be locked on this side, but would have to open out from the other side. I banged on the steel door and kept banging.

  Beth said, “John, I don’t think anyone’s in—”

  “I hope not.”

  I ran up to the fifth floor and she followed. Again, I tried the knob, but it was locked.

  Beth asked, “Is this his apartment?”

  “Yes.” In a glass case on the wall was the mandatory steel-cut fire ax and a fire extinguisher. I took the extinguisher from the wall, smashed the glass, and extracted the ax. The noise of the breaking glass echoed up and down the stairs.

  Beth almost screamed, “What are you doing?”

  I pushed her back and swung the ax at the doorknob, which came right off, but the locking mechanism held. A few more swings opened the steel around the mechanism, and a final blow caused the door to swing inward.

  I took a few deep breaths. My lung felt funny, as though I might have re-opened something that had taken a long time to close.

  “John, listen to me—”

  “Quiet. Listen for footsteps.” I pulled my piece from under my poncho, and she did the same. We stood motionless, and I peered into the doorway I’d just opened. Blocking my view into Tobin’s apartment was a Japanese silk screen which hid the steel door from Mr. Tobin’s delica
te eyes. The apartment was dark and quiet.

  I still had the ax in my left hand, and I pitched it through the door at the silk screen, which toppled over, revealing a large living room and dining room combination.

  Beth whispered, “We can’t go in there.”

  “We have to go in there. Someone smashed the door open. There’re burglars somewhere.”

  The noise we’d made so far was loud enough to attract anyone who was around, but I didn’t hear anything. I had to assume that the rear door was alarmed, but the storm had probably set off dozens of alarms all over the North Fork to various central station monitors. In any case, we could handle the cops if they showed up—in fact, we were the cops.

  I moved into the living room, my piece held in both hands, swinging in an arc from left to midpoint. Beth did the same from right to midpoint. She said, “John, this is not a good idea. Just calm down. I know you’re upset, and I don’t blame you, but you can’t do this. We’re going to back out of here and—”

  “Quiet.” I called out, “Mr. Tobin! Are you home, sir? You have visitors.”

  There was no reply. I went farther into the living room, which was lit only by the dark sky outside the big arched windows and by light filtering in from two big skylights in the twelve-foot-high ceiling. Beth slowly followed.

  It was quite a place, as you can imagine—the living room was a semicircle with the round wall on the north. The other half of the tower, the south half, was divided into an open kitchen, which I could see into, and a bedroom that occupied the southwest quarter of the circle. The bedroom door was open, and I peered inside. I was satisfied that we were alone, or if Tobin was here, he was hiding under the bed or in a closet, scared witless.

  I looked around the living room. In the gray light, I could see that the decor was sort of light-and-airy modern, to match the mood of a tower suite. The walls were decorated with watercolors that depicted local scenes which I recognized—Plum Island Lighthouse, Horton Point Lighthouse, some seascapes, a few ye olde shingled houses, and even the General Wayne Inn. I said, “Nice digs.”

  “Very nice.”

  “A fella could get lucky with the ladies up here.”