by Unknown
“He said her death was very sudden.”
“It doesn’t get any more sudden—she hanged herself,” Takai shot back, her smooth, finely planed cheeks mottling. “And he did everything but kick the chair out from under her feet. As for me . . .”
“What about you?”
“He’s never wanted my love, and he’s never given me any in return.” She was fighting back tears now, her chest heaving. “Don’t be taken in by him, Mitch. He’s a monster. He destroys people.”
Mitch went over to the fire and poked at it for a moment. “I’ll pass your information on to Resident Trooper Mitry, if you want. Only, do you honestly think your father would falsely alibi Jim for the murder of his own daughter?”
“Mitch, I don’t know what to think.” Takai got up out of the chair and came over next to him. She wasn’t nearly as tall with her heels off, and looked rather frail in his sweater. “I’m not thinking too clearly right now.”
“Because you’re a little upset,” he said, smelling her musky perfume.
A puddle of tears started forming in her eyes. Mitch was just about to offer her a tissue when she let go—hurled herself right into his arms and began sobbing uncontrollably. He held on to her tightly as she sobbed and she sobbed, her face buried wetly in his flannel shirt. Compared to Des, there wasn’t much to her. She was as delicate as a bird.
“God, I am so sorry,” she snuffled when she was finally cried out.
“Don’t be. It’s good for you.”
“I never do that. I never, ever . . .” She raised her face to his, startled. “My God, you’re doing it, too.”
“I’m actually famous for my somewhat free-flowing tear ducts,” he confessed, wiping his eyes. “The other New York critics call me the Town Cryer. I even sobbed through the end of The Blair Witch Project.”
She let out a laugh of relief as he fetched a box of Kleenex. When the two of them were done honking like Canada geese, she went over to the window and gazed out at the barn swallows that were swooping down into the cedars beyond the lighthouse. “Moose was my moral compass. Without her, I’ll be lost.”
“No, you won’t.”
She glanced at him, her eyes red and swollen. “You sound so sure.”
“I felt the same way when my wife died—lost. But I got through it. Not over it, but through it. And you will, too. In a lot of ways, it makes you a much richer person.”
“You’re a very sweet man, you know that?”
Mitch winced in pain. “That’s what girls used to say to me in college when they didn’t want to have sex with me.”
“All I meant was I thought you were a bit of a smart aleck when I first met you. Now I realize you’re not. And I really love this sweater,” she added, snuggling inside it.
“Go ahead and wear it home. Consider it a loan.”
“Thank you, I will. In fact, thank you for everything.” She finished the last of her coffee and said, “If there’s ever anything I can do for you . . .”
“Actually, I could use some help with my story.” Mitch lunged for the heap of plot plans he’d just copied at town hall and hurriedly began spreading the pages out on the floor to form a large map.
“What’s all this?” Takai asked, looking down at them guardedly.
“In the past two years several different development companies have bought up the land surrounding the proposed site of the new school. I was wondering two things,” Mitch said, settling back on his ample haunches. “One, if you brokered any of these sales. And two, if you know anything about these companies.”
“Yes and yes,” she answered promptly.
“Excellent. We’ve got a Pilgrim Properties of Boston, Big Sky Development of Bozeman, Lowenthal and Partners of New York and Great North Holdings of Toronto. What I’m anxious to find out is who actually owns them.”
“Bruce Leanse does. He’s the principal owner of all four companies.”
Mitch stared at her with his mouth open. “What, they’re dummy fronts?”
“No, no, it’s all perfectly aboveboard. Pilgrim’s his New England operation, Big Sky’s his Western subsidiary. Lowenthal is Babette’s maiden name. Great North is a Canadian holding company that gives Bruce a foot in the development door for Prince Edward Island, which he thinks is about to get really hot. For that one, he has a Canadian partner. Has to.”
Mitch peered at the maps intently, scratching his head. “So Bruce Leanse owns all three thousand acres?”
“He does. It’s the single largest tract of undeveloped land in New London County. He bought the parcels under different names because he was afraid the sellers would get wise to him and jack up their asking prices. Common strategy when big developers move into an area. Disney does it all the time.”
“I understand,” said Mitch, who did not understand why Takai was being so candid with him about Bruce Leanse’s plans. After all, the Brat had gone to a great deal of trouble to cover his tracks. Was she so grief-stricken over Moose’s death that she was telling him more than she should? Or was there no longer any need for secrecy?
“What do you get out of this?” he asked her, remembering that Jim had called her Leanse’s “enabler.” “Besides a commission, I mean.”
“Bruce has huge plans. I’m talking about something that will literally reinvent how we live. He’s a visionary, Mitch,” she declared, growing more animated and flushed the more she spoke about Bruce Leanse. “He sees things no one else sees. And he knows how to make them a reality. There will be zoning hurdles, no question. That’s why Babette is running for the zoning commission in February. There will be foot-dragging about the wetlands, the additional traffic—”
“Wait, how much additional traffic?” Mitch broke in.
“But he is totally sensitive to these concerns, and totally sure that this is something Dorset will want to embrace. So am I. It’s our best hope for the future. And I want to be a part of it. I want to be a part of him. That’s what I ‘get’ out of this, Mitch. But if you really want to understand what he’s doing, you should go see him.”
“He’d talk to me about this?”
“Absolutely.”
“What about your family’s land?” Mitch asked her, pointing down to the eight-hundred-acre chunk of prime river frontage that sat smack-dab in the center of Bruce Leanse’s holdings. “What will happen to it?”
“Father’s not stupid. And neither is Greta. She’ll convince him to sell. He’ll have to sell. It’s inevitable.”
“I kind of got the impression he thought Bruce Leanse was Satan.”
“He’s not Satan,” Takai argued. “And nothing is that black or white. You’re a smart man. You should know that.”
“Moose certainly didn’t want to sell.”
“No one wants to sell, Mitch. God, I sure don’t. I wish Dorset could stay exactly the way it is. But it can’t. It’s a living organism. If it doesn’t grow it will die. Look, just talk to Bruce, will you? If you don’t come away convinced, then I’ve misjudged both of you. And I almost never misjudge men . . .” Now Takai tilted her head at him coquettishly, wetting her pillowy lips. “That wasn’t what I was hoping you’d say. When I asked you if there was anything I could do for you . . . Tell me, just how tight are you and that trooper?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I was wondering if you could be pried apart.”
“Not even by the Jaws of Life,” he informed her. “You must be very upset or you wouldn’t say something like that.”
“No, I would, Mitch,” she confessed with a regretful sigh. “I’m a consummate bitch—whenever I see a man who someone else has I immediately want him for myself. Especially if the woman’s pretty, which I suppose Trooper Mitry is, in her way.” Takai went and fetched her bag, complete with loaded handgun, and slung it over her shoulder. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. You must have better things to do than play host to a hysterical female.”
“Can I ask you one more thing before you go? And if it’s no
ne of my business just say so.”
“We shared a good, honest cry together. You can ask me anything.”
“Who was Moose’s boyfriend?”
“I have no idea. She never told me.”
“Weren’t you the least bit curious?”
“Not at all. And this will sound horrible, but it’s the truth—I didn’t care who he was because I knew I wouldn’t be the least bit interested in him. We always had different tastes in men, she and I. Except for one time. Just once . . .” Takai trailed off, a fond, faraway look crossing her lovely face. “But that was a long, long time ago, Mitch. And I was much younger then. We were all much younger then.”
Bruce Leanse ran his Dorset operation out of The Brat, an antique wood-hulled cabin cruiser that he kept tied up at Dunn’s Cove Marina, a deepwater mooring in the Eight Mile River that had access to the Connecticut River and Long Island Sound. The marina was off Route 156 at the end of an unmarked dirt road less than a mile south of the crossroads where Moose Frye had been killed.
It was a small, shabbily exclusive boatyard that catered to the gentlemen farmers who owned the nearby country estates. Here, the boys kept their toys. Yachts, as a rule. Big ones, though none as big as The Brat, which looked like something FDR might have toodled around in. The boatyard was deserted on this weekday afternoon in late October. There was only one car in the gravel parking lot, Bruce Leanse’s shiny black Toyota Land Cruiser.
The developer heard Mitch pull in and came bounding out on deck to greet him, his handshake hard and dry. He had not sounded surprised when Mitch phoned him for an interview. Clearly, he’d already been alerted by Takai. He was dressed in a canary-yellow Patagonia fleece vest over a denim shirt, corduroy trousers and Topsiders. Mitch had seen photographs of Bruce Leanse in the New York tabloids many times over the years, but the pictures did not convey just how robust and self-assured the man was—or how short. Mitch was shocked to discover he towered over him.
“She’s a one-of-a-kind, Mitch,” he responded proudly when Mitch asked him about the boat. “She was built in 1931 for the Connecticut state shellfish commissioner. She’s got a sixty-eight-foot hull made of long-leaf yellow pine on white oak frames. I’ve had her for three years,” he added, Mitch thinking that there was something faintly self-conscious about his dogged used of the nautically correct she.
There was an enclosed wheelhouse. A circular staircase wound its way down to the main saloon, which had interior cupboards of polished Philippine mahogany and banquettes of burgundy leather. A good deal of natural light came from the portholes on either side of the saloon. A built-in teak table served as Bruce’s desk. He had a Power Book, laser printer and fax machine set up there. Papers were heaped everywhere. A fine old Van Morrison recording, Astral Weeks, played softly on his built-in sound system, which Mitch resented. He did not want Bruce Leanse to have good taste in music. He wanted him to be listening to Mariah Carey.
There were three staterooms aft, crew quarters forward. Steam heat, stall showers, all the creature comforts. The galley had a four-burner gas stove, a full oven and refrigerator.
“She runs on a pair of Fairbanks-Morris diesel engines,” Bruce explained, showing Mitch around. “There’s a three-hundred-gallon main tank, a seventy-five-gallon day tank. I can take her to Maine, the Cape, anywhere, except that Babette and Ben both get seasick on her—they can’t stand the diesel fumes. So she’s mostly my floating office. I’m going to hate pulling her for the winter. I always like having a place where I can kick back with my business associates.”
Business associates like Takai Frye, observed Mitch, who could not help but notice her beautiful shearling jacket wrapped around a chair in the main stateroom.
“Can I offer you a beer, Mitch? Or how about some Juniors cheesecake? I had it sent out from the city this morning.”
Mitch’s stomach immediately started rumbling. “You might talk me into that.”
Bruce disappeared into the galley while Mitch poked around in the saloon, the big cruiser rocking gently under his feet. One entire mahogany wall was lined with photos of Bruce Leanse testing life’s limits. There were shots of him rocketing down Alpine ski slopes, scaling remote Tibetan mountaintops, kayaking white-water rapids, shooting big game in Africa.
There were no pictures anywhere on the wall of his wife or son.
He returned now with a slab of cheesecake for Mitch and a frosty Sam Adams for himself. He cleared space for them on the teak table. They sat across from each other.
Mitch dug into the cheesecake, which was excellent. “Do you mind if I tape our conversation?”
“Not at all. I’m going to do the same thing myself.” Bruce flicked off the music and set his own microcassette recorder right next to Mitch’s. “I’ve had some trouble with journalists in the past, Mitch. They decide from the get-go that I’m a rich asshole and then they just go ahead and make up the quotes to prove their point.” He took a sip of his beer, studying Mitch from across the table. “I hope you’re coming to this with an open mind. Because as far as I’m concerned there’s absolutely no reason for us to be adversaries. You and I really have a lot in common, when you stop and think about it.”
Mitch did stop and think about it. Bruce Leanse’s grandfather had been a reviled Lower East Side slumlord, his father a Park Avenue real estate baron who’d spent most of his career and his political capital trying to eliminate rent-stabilized housing in New York City. Mitch was one of those grubby little people who had been raised in a a rent-stabilized apartment. For thirty-six grueling years, his father taught algebra to ghetto kids at Boys and Girls High in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn. His mother was school librarian at the predominately Latino Eleanor Roosevelt Middle School in Washington Heights. A lot in common? Not a chance.
In fact, it didn’t even bear thinking about.
“Why do you think reporters have such a negative opinion of you?” he asked Bruce Leanse.
“Because I’m a happy person,” Bruce spoke up boldly. “The press only likes rich, famous people who are in drug rehab or divorce court or jail. But if you have a wonderful wife and family, work that you love, friends whose company you enjoy, then they go after you. Human nature, I guess. They absolutely cannot accept the fact that someone who has it all enjoys having it all.”
Mitch had himself another bite of cheesecake, wondering if the kids at school ever stole Bruce’s lunch money or threw him in the shower with his clothes on. He doubted it. Bruce Leanse was still very much the Brat—a spoiled prince who’d always gotten his way.
Right now, Bruce was reaching for a set of blueprints and unrolling them on the polished teak table, pinning down the corners with leather-bound paperweights. “I am thrilled to have this opportunity to talk to you about my plans for Dorset, Mitch. What we’re doing here is just incredibly exciting. Let’s have a peek, shall we . . . ?”
What Mitch seemed to be looking at was the plot plan for an entire town, each area marked by an oddly understated designation: The Homes, The Stores, The Farm, The Water, The Woods . . . It seemed to Mitch like something vaguely out of Orwell.
“I want you to do two things for me, Mitch,” Bruce said, launching into a well-grooved sales pitch. “First, I want you to look at the calendar. Can you see what it says? The entire baby boom generation is turning fifty-five. Second, I want you to forget everything you ever knew about continuous living choices.”
“You’re building a retirement village?” Mitch asked him in astonishment.
Bruce shook his head. “Not a chance. I am talking about something entirely new. Let’s face it, the boomers will not want condo colonies. They will not want shuffleboard. Can you see them lining up for the Early Bird dinner special in their lime-green slacks and white shoes? They sure can’t. And neither can I. What I’m looking to do here in Dorset is create a new concept in rural living that they can see—a vibrant, supportive community that revolves around nature. Mitch, I call it The Aerie,” he intoned somewhat grandly,
“because it’s a place where eagles nest.”
Now Bruce paused so that Mitch might pay some form of awed tribute to his genius. Mitch did so with a polite smile and nod. He wanted Bruce Leanse to keep talking, not that he thought for one second the man could be stopped.
“The Aerie will be a self-sustaining collective enterprise,” he continued, his eyes growing bright. “A commune, in plain language. Just like back in the sixties, only this time with a Web site and a business plan and a full-time staff of paid professionals who know what the hell they’re doing. When you buy your individual solar-heated cottage in the woods, you’re also buying a share in the collective. There’ll be a bakery, an organic-produce market, a butcher—all selling products raised and processed in The Aerie by retired professionals from all walks of life. Imagine making your own cheese from your own goats, Mitch. Wool clothing made from your very own sheep. Imagine a grist mill. An art studio where you can paint and draw. A spa so you can stay in shape. A full-time medical staff for when you can’t. It will be like the Woodstock fantasy all over again, except this time it’s real.”
Mitch had to admit that Bruce Leanse was one terrific salesman, his enthusiasm both genuine and contagious. From his lips, The Aerie sounded not only possible but downright inevitable. It was as if by wanting his dream to happen, he could make it happen. All you had to do was click the heels of your red shoes together three times and believe.
“And what’s going to happen here?” he asked, pointing to an area of the map labeled The Lodge.
“That’s our profit hub,” Bruce answered quickly, tapping the blueprint with his finger several times for emphasis. “A spa-type luxury retreat, complete with a world-class restaurant featuring our own organically grown foods. Think Canyon Ranch, except you can actually live on the grounds year-round. Think of the millions of baby boomers who are nearing retirement age.” Now he was back into his spiel. “We have to find a place for them. We have to find a new philosophy. The Aerie is it. I see dozens and dozens of Aeries springing up in desirable rural areas all across America, each one of them a sustainable communal enterprise. It’s the future, Mitch, and it starts right here in Dorset. This is my pilot project.”