by E. G. Scott
I look forward to seeing a lot more of you very soon.
—D
twenty-four
PAUL
You’ve been on my mind.
Amazing seeing you after all these years.
Looking forward to seeing more of you too.
Standing in the deli line, I press SEND and am hit with that glorious, hollow tingle in the pit of my stomach. Dana Atwell. Since I tracked her down a couple of weeks back, our conversations have left me with a sense of certainty. I don’t want to count the years that have passed since I last saw her, but the feeling is undoubtedly still there. The sensation is different, though. She’s still one hell of a good-looking woman, but there’s more to it than that. The old tingle has morphed into something different, something deeper and more grounded.
I feel safe with her in a way that I haven’t with anyone for longer than I can remember. I feel calm. And exhilarated. And centered. I know that seeing her will be what it will take to get my head on straight and put this unpleasantness with Rebecca behind me. This will be the fresh start I know we both need.
I keep thinking back to our last afternoon at her place. I’m lying there staring at the ceiling, describing the dreams that have been plaguing me. Dreams about the car accident. Dreams about snowstorms. Dreams about burying bodies and digging them back up. These last dreams aren’t really dreams at all, but I’ve framed them as such, omitting names and details. Fearing that I’ll lose my mind if I can’t tell another human being. And she listens intently. I feel she’s the only one I can tell. The only one I can trust. The only one who won’t judge me.
“Order eighty-four? Are you here?!”
The tone in the counterman’s voice suggests that he’s called my number more than once. I’ve been daydreaming. Back to planet Earth, Paul.
“That’s me. Sorry, sorry.”
“Here you go.” He hands me the bags in a way that tells me he wouldn’t mind if I went and fucked myself, and moves on to the next customer.
I pay the cashier and head for the parking lot.
I’ve just set the bags down in the passenger’s seat of the Jeep when my pocket vibrates. I withdraw the phone and find myself disappointed that the text is from Wes.
You sneaking around behind your old lady’s back again?
He needs something from me.
What’s it to you, muchacho?
His response bubbles back almost immediately.
Got a last-minute call for a showing. I need you in an hour and a half. You in, dirtbag?
Not ideal. Hmm.
Where is it?
He’s back to me within seconds.
Harbor Beach Road, out in Miller Place. Practically your backyard.
Except I’m not at home. I can just make this work. Just.
Text me the street address. I’ll be there.
This is going to take some doing. But I have to jump on every property I can right now. Once Javier’s crew has the place framed, I’m going to need to be a lot more hands-on with the construction and coordinating the crews, and I may miss out on some sales. Get it while the getting’s good. Plus, a waterfront in Miller Place would be a big, fat commission. A nice cushion to help start over with. And after everything that’s happened, I desperately need this fresh start. Without it, I’m afraid I’ll lose the thread altogether.
I’m on the road to Cold Spring Harbor. I can drop these guys their lunch, be in and out in five, and head back home to grab a fresh suit out of the . . . Fuck! I find my phone in the center console and manage to type a message with one eye on the road.
Madoo, just checking in to see if you made it to work today. Hope you’re all better. Love you.
My phone has buzzed twice by the time I pull into the driveway. I hear the thwack of the nail guns as I check my texts. The first is from Wes, with the street address of the house. The second, from my wife.
Babe, still pretty out of it. Called in sick, and lying in bed with Duff. Thanks for checking in. Love you more.
Shit. Okay, okay.
Sorry to hear that. I’ll swing by and check on you in an hour.
I slip my phone into my pocket. I pull a cup of soup from one of the bags and place it in the cup holder in the center console. I grab the bags from the deli and head for the construction site. The guys are ahead of schedule. Christ, I wish I had this caliber of workers when I was still building full-time.
“Boss, the beams came. We should have everything ready for putting in tomorrow, okay?”
“That’s great, Javier.” I lean in closer. “By the way, you said you could talk to your guy about the copper piping?”
“No problem, boss.”
“Great,” I say. “Tell him I can do cash, if he can still give me that price he quoted.”
“Okay,” he answers. “You going to make a lots of money flipping this house.”
“You know it.” I offer Javier a wink. “I need to run to a showing. You guys good if I leave you for the rest of the day?”
“Is good.”
“Great. I’ll be back first thing tomorrow to help lay in the pine.”
“Okay, boss. Is no problem.”
I walk to the Cherokee and get in. As I key the engine, my phone vibrates.
Paul, don’t worry about checking on me. I’m fine. Just need to sleep, I think. Thank you, though.
That’s not going to work for me.
Need to swing by the house anyway. I’ll bring you some lunch.
Time is of the essence. I get back on the road and head for home.
* * *
UPON ENTERING THE HOUSE, I’m able to quell Duff’s barking quickly. I expect Rebecca to call out to me, but the sound of her voice never comes. I head for the kitchen, where I set the container of soup in the microwave to reheat. It’s been an hour since I got it from the deli. I retrieve a soup bowl from the cabinet and set it on a wooden tray. I’m careful to stop the timer on the microwave before it beeps and leave the soup inside to maintain heat. If I can sneak a quick rinse-off in the downstairs shower and throw on my spare suit, I can get up to Rebecca and feed her before she’s any the—
“Hey, babe.”
I wheel around too quickly, to see my wife eyeing me. “You startled me.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to.” She’s wearing the frumpy robe, and her face looks drawn.
“It’s okay. Was trying to be quiet, in case you were sleeping. Was going to leave some soup for you for when you were up again and hungry.” I make a show of sweeping my arm in the direction of the microwave, as if I’m Bob fucking Barker displaying a fortune in fabulous prizes that might be hers.
“Thanks, honey. I’m sure you didn’t need to warm it up.”
“The guys at the deli didn’t have it as warm as usual. And I didn’t know how long you might be sleeping.” Shut up, nitwit.
“You’re sweet.” She looks at me, as if reconsidering. “Everything okay?”
“Fine. Why?”
She eyeballs me. “I thought Wes had you set up with an early showing today.”
“Yeah, the early one got bumped, which worked out fine, because I needed to take the Cherokee in for an oil change and tune-up. Wes sprang one on me in twenty minutes, though. I actually need to grab a quick shower and throw on a suit.”
“Okay. I’m heading to the doctor in a bit. They had a cancellation, and there’s strep throat going around. I want to get tested.”
“Good thinking.” On the way to the bathroom, I give her a quick squeeze and a kiss on the forehead. I’m surprised at how cool she is to the touch. “I’m meeting up with Wes after this showing to go check out a property, then grabbing dinner. He’s in the doghouse again.”
“God. Those two.”
“I know. Text me after the doctor, and I’ll be home later to look after my gorgeous patient.”
“Feeling better, are we?”
“Getting there.”
* * *
I SHOWER, dress, and am out the door with just enough time to spare. With any luck, I’ll get some action on this property and be able to report back to my trusting wife with news of a good feeling, a possible sale on the horizon. News that will reassure her that her dutiful husband is going about his business and not engaging in some real estate shell game that has her looking at one house while he’s busy plotting the fate of another.
twenty-five
SILVESTRI
“THE PLOT.”
My phone displays 2:37 A.M. The light sears my heavily lidded eyeballs. “The fuck you going on about, Wolcott?”
“When we interviewed Paul Campbell, he mentioned that he had a construction project under way on a plot of land he had owned for a few years.” My partner’s voice is far too clear and energetic for this time of night. It’s pissing me off.
“Where are you?”
“Down at the station house.”
“What the fuck are you doing there? It’s the middle of the night.”
“Couldn’t sleep. Something was bothering me, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then it came to me. Two women go missing, and suddenly one of our suspects is building on a property he’s been sitting on for years?”
I’m suddenly awake. “What’d you find out?”
“Looked up property deeds. Paul Campbell owns a parcel of land out in Cold Spring Harbor that he bought nearly two decades ago.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Seems awfully coincidental, no?”
“I’ll get dressed. You want to pick me up and we can go put eyes on the place?”
My partner chuckles. “Get some sleep. I’m going to do the same. But meet me here bright and early. We’ll go poke around a bit and see if we can’t figure out what this character’s been up to.”
“See you then, bloodhound.” I hang up the phone, knowing that I’ll get no more rest tonight.
* * *
WE’RE SITTING IN THE CRUISER just down the block from Paul Campbell’s Cold Spring Harbor property. Wolcott watches keenly as Campbell and his crew lay beams into the framed structure.
“So, you thinking foundation?” I ask.
“Maybe he’s seen too many mob movies. I’ll tell you, it would sure work with our timeline.”
“You got that straight,” I respond. A sickening thought occurs to me. “Jesus, you don’t think he’s got a two-for-one going in there, do you?”
Wolcott’s stare breaks from the crew for the first time since we took position. He turns to me as a look of disgust spreads across his face. “Hadn’t thought of that,” he sighs.
“I just mean, if you’re going to go to the trouble . . .”
He shakes his head. “I suppose we can’t put it past him.” He mulls this over for a moment. “But how would he get two bodies out here, with a crew to deal with, on a fairly visible stretch of . . .”
“What’re you thinking?” I ask.
He opens the driver’s-side door. “Let’s make a house call.”
* * *
“MAY I HELP YOU, young men?”
We’re standing on the front porch of the house next to Campbell’s lot, where an elderly woman has answered the door.
“Good morning, ma’am,” says Wolcott. “Sorry to bother you. My name is Detective Wolcott, and this is my partner, Detective Silvestri. May we have a moment of your time?”
She eyes us suspiciously. “I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?”
Wolcott flashes his pearly whites. “Oh, heavens no, ma’am. Just a few questions about your new neighbors.” He nods in the direction of the construction site.
“Oh, I see. Just finished watching my stories and was going to make lunch. Would you boys like to join me for a cup of tea?”
“We’d love nothing more,” I say as she ushers us inside.
Audio from a soap opera blares as we cross the living room and enter the kitchen. I almost break my neck tripping over a cat that darts across my path and underneath the sofa. The old broad doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s Hannah. And Harold is around here somewhere.”
Our hostess lights the burner underneath the kettle.
“Ma’am, I wonder if we might—”
“Call me Louise.”
“Louise, my partner and I are following up on some noise complaints filed against the construction site next door. Could you tell me how long construction has been going on over there?”
Louise fishes three tea bags out of a porcelain cookie jar as she considers the question. “Well, let’s see, now. My son comes over on Saturdays to bring me groceries. It was this past Saturday that they started working.”
“Saturday?” I ask. “That’s unusual in construction.”
“Yes, yes,” Louise insists. “It was definitely Saturday. I noticed it when I let my son in with the groceries. I had to turn the sound on the television way up to drown out the hammering.”
“A real racket, I’m sure,” says Wolcott. He produces the notebook from his pocket and begins consulting blank pages. “Now, Louise. Have you heard or seen anything past normal work hours? Any comings or goings late at night, say?”
“Hmm. I’m usually no good after I take my hearing aids out.” She thinks for a moment. “I could have sworn I heard some commotion about a week ago, in the middle of the night, but by the time I got to the window, there was nothing there. But it might have just been the deer.” She pulls three mugs from the drying rack and sets them on the counter. “Those deer are a real nuisance around here.”
“Tell me about it. They wreak havoc on my wife’s vegetable garden.” My partner offers Louise a commiserative look, then goes back to consulting the nonexistent notes. “Now, before they started building the house, do you remember anything from when they were pouring the foundation?”
Louise pauses. She looks at me and then at Wolcott. “You mean the concrete part?”
“Yes, dear,” I chime in. “The concrete part.”
“Well, that was already there.”
“I’m sorry?” says Wolcott.
“Oh yes. The concrete part was put in years ago. I always thought it was funny that it was just sitting there all that time, without any house around it.”
“Louise, you’re sure about that?” I ask.
“Oh, why yes. Herman—my husband—was still alive back then, so it must have been nearly ten years ago. He would always say it was just the queerest thing to have a basement with no house on top. Now, do you boys take milk and sugar with your tea?”
* * *
“MAKES SENSE, with the crash.”
“How’s that?” I ask.
We’re back in the car, watching the crew work away. “Campbell said he took a hit when the housing market crashed. He must have had the foundation poured already when the money dried up.”
“Strange that he’s just picking construction back up now.”
“Well, maybe he got a commission off of a sale and finally has some money to move around.”
“You don’t think he’s got them buried on the property, do you?”
Wolcott ponders my question for a moment. “Even he’s not that arrogant. Plus, it doesn’t make sense. If you can’t bury them under the house, what’s the point?”
“I’m with you on that,” I say.
“You’re right, though. Odd timing.”
“Yup. Oh, and I’ve got a tip for you, with the deer.”
“What’s that?” he asks.
“Get yourself a spray bottle. Fill it with water, then add a tablespoon of vegetable oil, for viscosity, and a few tablespoons of cayenne powder. Give it a good
shake, and spray it all over the vegetables. The deer hate that shit.”
Wolcott laughs. “And here I thought you were going to tell me to shoot ’em.”
“What am I, an animal?” I protest.
My partner’s phone rings. “Wolcott . . . Yes . . . Is that right? Okay, thanks for the call.” He turns to me. “The hits just keep on coming.”
“How’s that?”
“You know Gino’s, that Italian joint just outside of town?”
“Been past it.”
“The manager noticed a car sitting in the back lot for an unusually long stretch. Figured it was abandoned, phoned it in.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Car’s registered to Sheila Maxwell.”
“No shit?”
An approaching voice draws our attention back to the construction site. We watch Campbell bark at his crew as he crosses the lot. With his back to them, the workers give Campbell the finger and simulate humping.
“Look at this dickhead.” I laugh. Wolcott shakes his head.
Campbell climbs into the Cherokee, backs out of the driveway, and turns onto the street.
“Shall we?” I ask.
“Let’s.”
We follow Campbell, from a distance, to a house out in Smithtown. He slows down and pulls into the driveway, next to a Honda SUV. We park down the block, where we’re able to get a good vantage point as he approaches the front door. It’s a two-story, probably three-bedroom, two-bathroom house, of a size to be well suited for a small family. I wonder what the hell he’s doing there.
My partner gets on the radio. “This is Detective Wolcott. Badge number five-three-one-two.”
“Go, Detective.”
“I need a ten twenty-seven on a white Honda Pilot. New York State license plate Alpha-Mike-Delta, one-one-zero-seven.”
“Copy.”
We wait for the dispatcher’s response, as a tall, attractive, thirtyish brunette opens the door and greets Campbell. They hug briefly, and he’s inside the house.