“I’m assuming you used that particular example because I grew up in Freeport dodging drug addicts and random bullets. Should I schedule my vasectomy now?”
“I may have been a bit insensitive. My father’s problem is that I’ve disappointed him on both the nature and nurture perspectives. In his eyes, I’ll never live up to my inherited traits, which are a direct reflection of his own DNA. How embarrassing for an overachiever to raise a slacker. To make matters worse, I grew up in the lap of luxury with every opportunity handed to me on a silver platter, yet according to my father, the only thing royal is my ability to screw it up.”
“You’re his life’s work gone bad,” DeRosa summarized.
“I’m his outlier. If you can repeat a science experiment with ninety-nine percent confidence, it still means there’s a one percent chance of failure. And that’s me.”
“And Teddy was his success.”
“Teddy was the best son a parent could imagine.”
Frank pointed to the next exit. “Get off at Roosevelt and we’ll head south toward the water. And lock your door.”
“Is this excursion going to challenge my DNA?”
“CeCe, something tells me World War III couldn’t put a dent in your constitution.”
We drove aimlessly through Freeport, partly because I was out of my element. The north and south shores of Long Island are so distinctly different a tourist might half expect to pass through a passport control booth at the end of an exit ramp. The differences lie in the physical geography. A glacial slide from the last ice age deposited a pile of rocks in the northern half of the island, washing the remains southward to create miles of sandy shores, almost like a melting ice cream cone on its side. North Shore inhabitants travel south for the beaches and the airport, while those on the South Shore find little reason to travel north. Unlike the east/west parkways famous for their congested traffic, the north/south venues are virtually empty.
“It’s so flat.”
“Like a pancake,” DeRosa responded. “Freeport literally spills out into the Great South Bay. There isn’t even a land boundary to mark the end of the town. Let me guess: you’ve been to Jones Beach a million times but never stopped along the way.”
“Guilty of day-tripping.”
Frank thumbed left to a sign advertising the Nautical Mile, a tourist area nestled in one of Freeport’s many canals. It was early in the season, but a few hearty beachgoers were dragging their aluminum chairs across the boardwalk to enjoy the surf close up. I turned into municipal parking, picked a spot, and scrounged around for quarters.
“I got this one.” Frank pulled out a county police card and placed it under the windshield.
“Didn’t know the good old boy network traveled this far south,” I said squinting to see DeRosa’s name on the card.
We exited the Gremlin and Frank gave a passing patrol car the thumbs up.
“I’m not a Cold Spring Harbor cop. I work for the county and got pulled in for the case.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Two weeks ago, a row of ten potted hydrangeas was stolen from the plant nursery about a mile from the labs,” DeRosa said.
“So the men in blue are searching for a thief concerned with curb appeal?”
“Cheski and Lamendola will solve the hydrangea case within the week, but their experience is limited and correlated directly to the amount and type of crimes in wealthy areas on the North Shore. It’s common practice to bring in a county expert on bigger cases.”
“And your expertise is?”
“Anything out of the ordinary,” DeRosa said as he tapped his hand along the dock’s railing. He pointed to a fleet of boats bouncing gently on the water. “Remember the senior couple from the South Shore found murdered in their leisure cruiser off the Bahamas?”
“Sure,” I said, easily recalling the highly publicized case about a seemingly ordinary businessman who was covering up a lifetime of affairs and crooked business deals. “Didn’t the wife hire a hit man to kill her husband and his lover only to be mistaken as the girlfriend herself?”
“Almost. The twist was that the wife was having an affair with the hit man. The hit man was trying to dump her and figured it would be easier just to kill her along with the husband. He farmed out the hit to some loser who couldn’t swim. Apparently, the second hit man killed the wife and husband, fell off the boat, and then washed up in the Caribbean. Problem was, we couldn’t make the connection between the first hit man, the second hit man, and the wife.”
“How did you break the case?” I asked.
“Both men ate lunch at the restaurant across the street.” DeRosa pointed with his chin to an unremarkable fish restaurant. “Every Tuesday for three straight weeks. The restaurant owner had credit card receipts. Then we found a bank envelope with a wad of cash in the second hit man’s car. The envelope was from the wife’s bank, and the fingerprints of all three were on the envelope, indicating that the money had been passed from the wife to each of the men.”
“That’s a good story,” I said.
His face registered insult. “It’s not a story. It’s real. And it’s interesting because it has layers.”
“And Teddy’s case has layers,” I replied.
“You said it yourself: young men do not drop dead without a reason,” he said, confirming my earlier suspicion.
“I guess my father is pleased the department brought in the big guns,” I said as we walked along the boardwalk.
“Powerful men like him come to expect service and attention.” He led me to a fishing shack with five small tables. He signaled the waiter and called for two beers and a plate of steaming oysters. “Unfortunately, people in your father’s position also expect complete control, and in this case, he’s just a civilian. He’s in a tough spot because he still has a company to run and a board to answer to. The fact that your brother was an employee of the organization, and an important one, complicates your father’s role.”
“What’s my father attempting to control?”
The waiter brought the drinks and oysters. I eyed the beer.
“Are you on duty?” I asked.
DeRosa looked at his watch and paused. “Not now.”
I smiled. Maybe there was something real about Detective DeRosa.
“Your father has given us access to the labs, but only under his careful supervision. Teddy’s death puts the labs under a microscope. The longer the case drags on, the more negative exposure there is.” DeRosa took a swig of beer. “Your father wants this to come to an end quickly. On a personal level, however, he won’t allow your mother to be interviewed. He insists there is nothing she can add that he hasn’t already covered.”
“My mother hasn’t been sober since the early eighties,” I said as I picked at the label on the ketchup bottle.
“That might explain his hesitance. And since she’s not a suspect, technically she doesn’t have to speak with us.”
“Maybe.” I felt the foam popping on my upper lip as I took a sip of beer so cold I could feel its tracks down to my stomach. “There may be layers there, too.”
“How so?” he asked.
I tilted my head back and let an oyster slither along my tongue. I was hesitant to explore my relationship with my mother, but if it helped find Teddy’s killer, it was worth it.
“My mother earned a master’s degree in art. Before she married, she had built a following in Europe and traveled extensively.”
“So your artistic talent comes from your mother.”
“A direct DNA transfer. And by all accounts, she was as carefree as I am when she was young.”
“I guess carefree is the new word for rebellious?” Frank tapped his beer mug and a waiter filled it instantaneously.
“I’m being generous in my descriptions.” I rolled my eyes. “Anyway, something derailed her along the way,
although the source of her troubles has always been a mystery to me. I can’t tell you how many times I studied photos of her face from earlier periods of her life trying to recapture a moment from my youth when she appeared genuinely happy.”
“What was she like when you and Teddy were growing up?” DeRosa asked.
“My mother wasn’t hands-on,” I replied, remembering the rare occasion she would tuck us in and kiss us goodnight. “The day-to-day care was provided by nannies and the house staff. She was reserved, somewhat distracted, as if she had lost her focus. In fact, as a child, I never saw her paint.”
“It’s odd she stopped painting. Is it possible she had a breakdown of some kind?” DeRosa barely gave me enough time to reflect on my youth. “Did she leave the home for any period of time?”
The truth was in my pause. My mother had in fact left the house, and more than once. Yet in all these years, I had never examined her absence out of the context it had been presented. “We were told she had chronic fatigue syndrome.” My answer surprised even me.
“And you never questioned it?”
“I was seven years old, and my father is a doctor.”
“Did Teddy ever mention your mother’s illness after he received his medical degree?”
“Damn, Frank, you really are good at this.”
“So he did?”
“About three months ago, he scheduled a round of blood tests for my mother. Honestly, I thought he was concerned with her liver. He told my mother he wanted to check up on her chronic fatigue.”
“Interesting.” I could see DeRosa falling deep in thought. He took out his iPad and jotted down some notes.
“Is this important?”
“I’ll take anything I can get at this point,” he responded.
I gave him a good once-over from the top of his head to the point where the table met his chest. He was broad, bordering on big, with a stillness that seemed practiced. His presence was appealing but at the same time impenetrable, possibly because his job was to evaluate evidence regardless of the outcome. I imagined how witnesses and criminals alike could be drawn in only to be caught off-guard by Detective Frank DeRosa. I did not want to be on the wrong side of this man.
“My parents live down the street. I can walk from here.” Frank motioned to a row of recently renovated buildings along the water. “One of the patrolmen will drive me back to Harbor House tomorrow.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Can I give you some advice?” he asked.
“If it helps the investigation.”
“You’ve got this thing with faces. I can see the way you stare at people for an unnaturally long time. On the upside, you put your talent to work with the sketch of Igor. I liked that.” Frank threw a twenty on the table. “But on a personal level, it’s a little threatening.”
“Get real,” I said. “I eat food from strangers’ garbage cans. Do you think I care that my lingering gaze makes others uncomfortable?” I tossed my head as if I’d let him get the last word. “Later, Frank.”
I drove home from Freeport knowing full well that I’d given more to Frank DeRosa than I’d gotten. I bet the standard police handbook strictly advises against developing personal relationships with the players in a case. Conversely, the investigation required my participation, and I was feeling underappreciated. DeRosa would have to look long and hard to find someone closer to Teddy than me, and whether or not I liked Naomi, I was almost family with Teddy’s now deceased ex-fiancée. In addition, I was still related to my mother, who was still married to my father.
And that’s exactly where I was headed.
twelve
Two understated stone pillars punctuated the gravel drive, signaling an entrance lined with enormous birch trees. Although not visible from the street, the main house rose impressively from the grounds and could be spotted about a half-mile down the way at the end of a circular driveway. I’d always felt our driveway was pretentious since it’s impossible to park efficiently in a circle. The message is, don’t park; wait for the valet. As if a stationary car in full view of the front door is somehow offensive. I did my best to position the Gremlin smack dab in the middle of the cul-de-sac.
I let myself in but felt the hesitation of being unwanted in my own childhood home. It crossed my mind to knock on the front door but that would have been an outright admission of my disinheritance. Within a minute, a cleaning woman popped a head around the corner of a doorway.
“Is my mother home?” I asked.
She nodded toward the plant atrium, a beautifully designed indoor greenhouse off the kitchen. Even as a child, I remembered my mother soaking in the humidity of the glass enclosure. Charlie insisted it was an excellent remedy for sweating off alcohol toxins.
I found my mother resting on a summer lounge, a tall drink balanced on a side table, her lids fluttering in half sleep.
“Mom.”
“Constance?” She turned her head, and I made note of the lines etched deeply around her eyes. Unless my father could find a gene linked to skin elasticity, I was looking at myself in forty years.
“Mom,” I said again.
“Teddy’s dead,” she replied.
I have no idea where it came from and, despite all attempts to control my breathing, an enormous sob erupted from my mouth. The cleaning lady snuck a peek and then skittered off in haste. My mother held her drink out for me.
“Take a sip sweetheart,” she said.
I reached for her glass without questioning its contents.
The shock stopped my tears faster than a shot of vodka. “This is just soda.”
“You’re disappointed?” my mother said.
“Did I miss something? Like a six-month stint at Betty Ford?”
“I’m doing it on my own. An attribute you may be familiar with.”
“I recognize that streak of independence.” I smiled at my mother and, for the first time in years, it was returned. “Trina said you called the other day. She thought you were inebriated.”
“People hear what they want,” my mother said. “I was sober.”
“Congratulations. How long?”
“About two months,” she replied. “Teddy ran some tests on me and suggested I start painting again. A therapy of sorts. I’m a good artist but not good enough to paint drunk.” She patted her lounge chair, and I came forward to sit. “Your father doesn’t know.”
“What? Mom, that’s insane. How could Dad not know?”
“I have the liquor delivered regularly. Norma, that’s the woman you saw when you entered, pours the bottles out for me and we fill the recycling bin each week.”
“But why?”
“Your father doesn’t deserve my sobriety. He’d try to own it, but it’s mine. Teddy helped me see that.”
“That’s pretty harsh,” I said as I took another sip of the soda and rethought my primary purpose for coming here. I’d intended to quiz my mother about Teddy, but I wasn’t prepared to deal with her newfound sobriety. I had very little experience dealing with my mother sober. Given our similarities, I chose a rational approach.
“I think there’s more to Teddy’s death than an accident or an underlying medical condition,” I said, hoping my mother would follow my honest lead. But she remained silent. “Mom, is there anything you can tell the police?”
“I can’t,” she said, and I noticed a slight tremor gripped her hand. “Teddy was never mine. He belonged to your father. There’s nothing I can tell the police except that he was a very special boy and an amazing man.”
“What if it was me who died?” I asked without really wanting to hear the answer. “What would you tell the police?”
My mother’s answer hung at the tip of her tongue, as if she had considered the question before. “I wouldn’t have to tell them anything,” she responded. “You’re a survivor.”
“Whom did I belong to?”
“Yourself,” she said emphatically. “That’s the way I wanted to raise my daughter.” She motioned for me to come closer and as if she were making up for decades of lost time, she ran her fingers through my blond locks.
“I guess I should say thank you, Mom,” I said, “but I have a favor to ask first.”
“You’d like to root through our garbage before you leave?” she said, giving me a quick pinch on the cheek before releasing me.
“Nice, Mom, but I’ll pass. I’m stuck on a painting. I keep sketching the same head over and over without progress. Maybe you could stop by Harbor House and give me some advice now that you’re back at the easel.”
“I actually just started driving again, with Norma as my co-
pilot. As of yesterday, I made it all the way to the main road and back without the shakes.”
“I’m five miles away. Piece of cake in broad daylight. You can bring Norma if you want.”
I gave my mother a peck on the cheek. Her skin felt cool and I recognized her smell: a mixture of expensive perfume and freshly washed hair. As I leaned in, I noticed her earlobes. Just a small, soft droplet, like mine.
Just before I let myself out, I caught Norma’s attention.
“Norma. I wanted to thank you for helping my mother.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I grabbed a pad and pen from the front hall desk and jotted down my number. “Please call me if my mother needs anything.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
thirteen
Activity at Harbor House started to wind down. The investigators had tagged and recorded each and every scrap of Teddy’s garbage. Lamendola entered the information into an evidence database. Cheski handled background checks on the labs’ employees both past and present. Coming up on the two-week anniversary of Teddy’s death, I felt as if the investigation had stalled.
“Hey guys. When do you knock off for the day?” I pulled a chair up to the table and grabbed a handful of homemade chips.
“We’ll probably put in another hour or so,” Cheski said. “We want to make sure Frank has a preliminary report tonight, and then we’ll meet bright and early tomorrow.”
Drawing Conclusions Page 6