by Chris Knopf
I was so comfortable in flotation mode, my eyes closed and brain blissfully unfettered from the recent frenzy and free to roam, I almost fell asleep. Which must have been how it was able to roam into a new line of conjecture.
There was something about the recent financial maneuvering that seemed inconsistent with Betty’s style. It was too big and busy and reckless. I figured she liked to keep her head down, moving quietly and subtly, favoring the long term over the quick hit. The call for help to Eunice had the stink of desperation, not conspiracy.
She knew Eunice wouldn’t cough up that much money without a lien on the house. So she really needed the money. That was a clear-enough assumption to build on, I thought, because it begged an important question.
Why?
That the answer might already be back at Harry’s gas station apartment caused an unfortunate lapse in my state of repose, and I immediately began to sink.
I let my feet drop and looked around, seeing with some alarm that I’d floated a fair distance from the beach. I could barely see the backs of the breakers as they spent their energy in a final gasp of spray and foam. I put my face in the water and started to swim to shore, using an old, reliable ocean crawl that involved a look toward land every three or four breaths. With any greater interval, you could be forty degrees off course before you knew it, and too much looking could wear you out.
I still didn’t panic after noticing I’d made little progress in ten minutes of swimming. I just put my head down and stretched the periodic look-see to six strokes, betting on a gift for single-minded persistence to keep me on course.
And it did. I could feel the rise and fall of the swells increase in depth and frequency, and hear the rumble of the surf through the churning of my swim stroke. I poked my head up in time to see a spray of water off the top of a breaker about fifty yards away. I put my head back down and began to sprint. Minutes later, I felt the surge of the water as a wave caught me and shoved me up and over, and then down the face of the curling break. I swung both arms in front of me and rode the violent turbulence most of the way to shore.
I stopped at the towel just long enough to gather up all my stuff and went back to the car, drying off as I walked and swishing around a mouthful of mouthwash so I wouldn’t offend Harry with cigarette breath. Along the way, I somehow managed to pour and down another glass of wine. Ah, Scope with a chaser of Chardonnay.
As planned, I went directly to Harry’s place. He didn’t answer when I knocked, so I just let myself in. I went to where he worked on his computer, but he wasn’t there. I called his name and he called back from an area of the garage designated as the living room. He was sitting on the couch. His own bottle of wine was on the coffee table. He had his feet up and was sipping comfortably.
“You’re actually here when you said you’d be here,” he said.
“Why aren’t you still deep in analysis?”
“I ought to be in analysis, dating you. Just kidding.”
“Did you compare the account numbers?” I said.
He nodded. “One number. Fuzzy and Betty had the same account. She started feeding in funds a year ago. Fuzzy still has some skin in the game, but most of what’s there came from Betty.”
“So how is he doing?” I asked.
“No danger of Fuzzy becoming a Grand Warlord of E-Spree Traders. I know he’s in love with short selling, but the results hardly justify the devotion.”
“Really.” I sat down next to him.
“Before Betty joined in, he was a two-bit dabbler, honing his money-squandering skills. The problem with Fuzzy, like most day traders, is he trades too much. It doesn’t matter if you’re betting on upswings or down, all that frenzied in and out almost never goes well.”
I put my hand on his knee and looked him in the eye.
“Can you see our Betty staking an endless, reckless losing streak?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“No. I can’t. Not at this rate.”
“At the same time she’s dumping money into Fuzzy’s day trading, she goes crying to Eunice. Secures the credit line. Turns their investment funds into cash. And if you believe Ruth Hinsdale, her homey at the library, goes sober. After which followed a lucrative run at the poker tables,” I said.
I crawled up on top of him, straddling his midriff with my knees. I gripped his six-foot-wide shoulders and tried to shake him, impressing myself that I did, just a little.
“I think I know what happened,” I told him.
“Really.”
“I don’t know if I can prove it. The law requires more than wild speculation. I know this because I’m a defense lawyer and I’ve been well advised by the imperious, self-loving blowhards who make up the criminal judiciary.”
“So what are you going to do?” he asked.
“Take a shower, wash off the salt, and have a little more wine.”
“Okay. And then you’re going to tell me what happened?”
I actually didn’t want to. I didn’t know if what I thought was real or an arrogant delusion, that I’d only succumbed to my own clever speculation. And there was a bit of superstition mixed in—that if I gave voice to my thoughts, some malevolent force would change reality and take it all away from me.
“I will. When I know for sure,” I said.
I brooded my way through the shower and all the after-shower rituals with stuff I’d brought along for the purpose—drying off with oversize fluffy towels, fine-tuning toenails, slathering on skin cream, putting concealer on the welt on my formerly good cheek, checking for things in my teeth, averting my eyes from the mirror.
When I was done, I called Joe Sullivan. He was back at Southampton Police Headquarters with Denny Winthrop, preparing for the interrogation.
“How would Ross feel about me sitting in?” I asked.
“You know how he’d feel.”
“You can change his mind. Convince him I need to be there,” I said.
“He’s not in the mood for convincing.”
“You can do it.”
“Give me an hour.”
When we got to the HQ, Sullivan brought me to a little attorney-client room off the reception area, leaving Harry in the civilian lounge with an anxious Alden Winthrop. I briefed Sullivan on what I was thinking. He briefed me on how he’d persuaded Ross Semple to let me in on the interrogation, which boiled down to waiting until he knew Ross would be out of the office and taking his chances.
“That’s a big chance. I’m grateful,” I said, “though I don’t entirely get it.”
“I knew when I saw you looking at that dead guy in the middle of the road I wouldn’t be able to keep you out of this thing. I know what you’re like when you got a bug up your ass. The only question’s been how I keep that ass out of worse trouble than it deserves.”
“Joe Sullivan, you actually care about me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. We all do things for our own reasons. Now shut up and listen.”
He briefed me on what he’d learned so far from forensics on the Chrysler and the contents of Denny’s Tupperware. Based on this, we quickly worked out a game plan.
“You’re my fairy godfather,” I whispered as we walked to the interrogation room. “I knew it.”
“If this costs me my job, you can go to my house and explain it to my wife. Come armed.”
Denny was already there with his lawyer, a regular competitor of mine from East Hampton named Isaac Fine.
“Izzy, waz up?” I asked, setting my briefcase down on the table.
Fine looked at Sullivan, concern on his face.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand why Miss Swaitkowski, the alleged victim, would be part of these proceedings,” he said.
“Ms. Swaitkowski,” I said.
“Because I want her here,” said Sullivan. “You want a legal justification, we can work that out”—he checked his watch—“maybe two days from now. Meanwhile, based on your request for a delay, we’ll bring Denny to the maximum holding
pen in East Meadow. They love that fresh, young blood.”
Izzy surrendered with a weary nod. He took out a yellow pad and a Montblanc pen. He always looked so at home with luxury accessories and wildly expensive clothes, as if toting around four thousand dollars on your back was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe because he was such a good-looking guy, if you like perfect grooming and meticulousness bordering on prissy.
I pulled out a pad of my own and fumbled around in my purse for a two-dollar Bic with the end half chewed off.
I was glad to have Izzy there. It allowed me to ignore Denny, though I was pleased to see an ugly sewn-up cut on his upper lip. It went nicely with the bruise on his cheek, unlike mine, visible to the world. Missing was the air of imperious entitlement—with any luck, never to return.
“We have preliminary information from the forensics lab in Riverhead,” said Sullivan to kick things off.
“Would it pertain to the freezer?” I asked
“It would,” he said, looking at Denny.
Izzy threw up his hands.
“Whoa, hold the phone. I need to get up to speed here,” he said.
“That’s what I’m doing,” said Sullivan. “Riverhead has discovered a collection of severed body parts in a freezer removed from your client’s place of residence.”
“Can I say something?” I asked Sullivan. He nodded.
“I believe that forensics will prove the body parts belong to a woman named Edna Jackery,” I said, “who was the victim of a hit-and-run, vehicular homicide, August a year ago in Southampton. The driver of the vehicle has never been apprehended. Forensics will also determine that the vehicle itself was found at your client’s residence.”
Izzy held up his hand again so he could finish writing something on his legal pad.
“Sounds like pure speculation. What vehicle are we talking about?” he asked.
“An old Chrysler,” said Sullivan. “We’re also checking your client’s pickup for evidence of an attempted vehicular homicide perpetrated upon Ms. Swaitkowski.”
“Since when?” Denny blurted out. “What are they talking about?”
Izzy told him, gently but firmly, to shut up and just listen.
“At this point, Izzy,” I said, “I’m definitely speculating. I don’t know what this could mean for your client. But you might be interested in hearing anyway, because I’m going to pass it along to the D.A. With Joe’s permission, of course,” I added, getting Joe’s subtle nod.
“Just remember,” said Izzy, looking at Denny, “we’re only listening, not commenting. Silence does not suggest consent in any way.”
Denny sat back and crossed his arms, probably happy to keep his sore mouth shut.
“So,” said Joe.
“So,” I said, looking down at my pad, “that old car is a 1967 Chrysler 300. The late Sergey and Elizabeth Pontecello owned a 1967 Chrysler 300. I know this because I am the coadministrator of their estate. When inventorying their personal effects, I discovered the Chrysler was missing. And now it turns up in Mr. Winthrop’s garage. I was in the process of making that discovery when Denny jumped me and tried to smash my head into the hood of the car. Actually, he succeeded in smashing my head into the car, but fortunately that’s as far as it went.”
Izzy said that wasn’t only speculative, it was prejudicial.
“Relax,” I said. “We’re not in court. I’m just talking here.”
He sat back in his chair, still wary, but attentive.
“Your client might think his maintenance and repair skills would obliterate the evidence. But you know as well as I that if there’s a single twisted DNA strand on that car, those people in Riverhead will find it and identify where it came from.”
“They already found trace,” said Joe. “Blood inside the arm that holds the windshield wiper. Replacing the blades wasn’t enough. Spatter just gets everywhere. They’re running the DNA now. They might’ve already sent the ID to my computer.”
I couldn’t help looking at Denny, whose eyes widened just enough to tell the tale.
“You could save Officer Sullivan the trouble of walking back to his desk and tell us right now,” I said to him.
Izzy put his hand on Denny’s forearm and said, “Hey, that’s not the deal.”
I shrugged. “Fair enough. He’s not talking, just listening. So I’ll do it for him. You remember Edna Jackery?” I asked Denny. “You were in her store plenty of times, buying wax for your surfboard and kayak paddles. Did you know she had a son not much younger than you, and a husband who risked his life to dump her ashes off Kaaterskill Falls? Ashes from that part of her you hadn’t snipped off and stuck in your freezer.”
“Hey,” said Izzy again.
“It came to me talking to Sarah Simms at Great Lawn Cemetery,” I said to Denny. “Her family was in the funeral business, too. That’s how a lot of people get into it. They grow up around it, like you. Hanging around dead bodies, even helping out Daddy in the embalming room. Maybe you don’t have the stomach for it anymore, but you’re way ahead of the rest of us when it comes to dismembering cadavers. The really sick part is carving up a woman whose death you’re responsible for.”
Denny unfolded his arms and leaped to his feet. “Whoa, what’re you talking about? I didn’t kill her.”
Izzy grabbed Denny by the shoulders and shoved him back into his seat.
“What did I tell you?” he said, barely raising his voice.
“The car was in your garage,” said Joe. “The body parts in your freezer. You attacked Ms. Swaitkowski to prevent her from disclosing these facts. How much more do you think we need?”
“Man,” said Denny, looking pleadingly at Izzy. “That’s just wrong. I’ve only had that car a few days.”
Izzy looked on the verge of despair.
“I think we need to end this,” he said to Joe.
Sullivan had been balancing his bulk on the back legs of his chair. He dropped back to all four.
“Here’s the thing, Izzy. We don’t really think Junior Kung Fu here ran over Mrs. Jackery. But we do think he knows who did. You’re a pretty good defense lawyer, you might convince him to cooperate with us on that. Which could put me in a lenient mood. Though make it fast. I’m known for sudden mood swings.”
“Damn fucking right I’m cooperating,” said Denny.
Izzy did everything but slap his hand over Denny’s mouth.
“I understand what’s going on here,” Izzy said to Joe. “Can I just have a minute with my client, and could you turn off the mikes? So we don’t have to go to another room?”
“Sure,” said Joe, escorting me out of the room. “I’ll signal when they’re off.”
When we got to the observation room, he flicked off the mikes and knocked on the one-way mirror. Then he sat down to watch.
“Didn’t say anything about observing,” he said to me.
“Riverhead really got that DNA back in a hurry,” I said.
“It would’ve been a hurry if it was true.”
“You lied.”
He turned around and looked at me.
“I’m allowed to lie in the course of an interrogation. I’m just not allowed to strike the subject or his lawyer, or speak disrespectfully about the bastard’s race, creed, or favorite color.”
Watching the two of them told us everything we needed to know. Izzy was grilling him and Denny was dumping out all the information he could think of. After a while, Izzy did all the talking and Denny just nodded. Then Izzy looked up at the glass and waved to us to come back.
“Knew we were watching,” said Joe. “Crafty son of a bitch.”
We went into the interrogation room and assumed our same seats. Joe leaned back again in his chair.
“I assume you honored our confidentiality,” said Izzy.
“Hey, that offends,” said Joe.
“My apologies,” he said. “My client would like to share some information that may assist the police in their investigation. We simply hope that in d
oing so, his own situation will be taken into account.”
“No assurances,” said Joe. “Tell us what you got and we’ll think about it.”
This set off alarms in Denny, which Izzy calmed with a pat on the forearm and a wise nod. I’d used the same approach myself, more than once. It was meant to say cooperating was good for you, even though that wasn’t always the case.
“Denny?” said Izzy.
“About trying to run over Ms. Swaitkowski—I don’t know anything about that. I never saw her till she barged in on me at Building Two.”
“We don’t care about that now,” I said. Sullivan looked over at me, more surprised than annoyed. “We want to know about you and Fuzzy. All of it.”
“We went to boarding school together,” said Denny. “He was a lot older than me and kind of a dweeb, but more interesting than the jocks I hung with. So we stayed in touch off and on and started e-mailing each other a few years ago. I haven’t actually seen the guy in the flesh since school. But that’s what the Internet is for. We both started blogs, kept e-mailing, the usual shit.”
“No profanity,” said Joe. “That also offends.”
“Okay, sorry. Anyway, Fuzzy had been into day trading for a long time, and he liked to rant about it, but it wasn’t exactly my thing. Then like a dope, I let him get me interested, and he starts feeding me tips, and I get into it pretty heavy. I don’t know why they don’t call it straight-out gambling, because your chances are about the same going to the casino. But guys like Fuzzy think they’re smart enough to beat the odds, and that’s why they keep losing.”
“You both lost money,” I said.
“Oh, yeah. Trouble is, he had a lot more of it to lose. I got caught in this margin call that basically screwed the pooch, but Fuzzy stepped in and covered the loss. I let this happen a few more times, and before I knew it, I was into him for a healthy chunk of change.”