by Chris Knopf
“Who owned the three sub-accounts?”
“Butch Ellington for one. That I remember. The other two names are in a file back at the house.”
“Neville St. Clair and Hugh Boone.”
“Something like that. Interesting names.”
I started getting the feeling I used to get when troubleshooting process systems, that I’d solved the problem but didn’t know it yet. That my unconscious had already drawn the conclusion, and was now just hanging around waiting for the cognitive department to catch up. I drank some of the vodka to hasten the transition.
“Why?” I asked.
“Why indeed.”
“The Feds have released all those assets. Who picked up the shortfall?” I asked.
“Jonathan’s estate. As I said, he had more than enough to cover the delta.”
Some time during the conversation another mounded plate of pasta and seafood appeared in front of me. I only noticed it when I caught myself pulling on the edge of the tablecloth so hard I was dragging everything across the table.
“Who authorized that?” I asked, though I already knew.
“The lawyer for the estate. Szwit. Gabriel Szwit. Has an office in the Village. A good litigator, they say. He’s done some pro bono for this little effort I set up with the public defenders office in Suffolk County.”
I got up from the table and walked over to the window that faced the ocean. A warm damp sea breeze was drifting in through the screens. The ocean looked docile, with only tiny breakers staggering in to shore. A good day to be on the beach. Comatose in a lounge chair, under an umbrella, mind blank, heart at rest.
I asked him what else he had, and we went through some complicated machinations the investigators had used to look for other blips in Jonathan’s behavior patterns, only to come away admiring his skill and honesty.
“Accounting involves a lot more gray area than most people would want to think. There’re conservative and aggressive ways to go about things. Jonathan was very clever, but completely honest.”
“Or would have been if he hadn’t been a complete fraud.”
“Precisely. Completely baffled the investigators.”
I went back to the table and sat down.
“There’s something else I find interesting,” said Burton, “but I’m not sure why.”
“Okay”
“Do you know how an Internet search works?”
“Not exactly.”
“It’s very useful, but somewhat random. Odd items pop up, simply because the word or words you’re searching for appear in an online database.”
“I’m already lost.”
“If you do a search on Arthur Eldridge, the brother, you’ll see he was a witness in an open court proceeding, duly recorded and logged on the court’s website. It was a bail hearing involving an Italian national.”
“Osvaldo.”
Burton looked pleased.
“That’s exactly right. I have the file at the house, but as I remember his full name is Osvaldo Allegre. At issue was a complaint that Mr. Allegre had molested a teenage girl. Arthur and Dione Eldridge were listed as witnesses, though all testimony was sealed, given the girl’s age. But you can surmise it was good enough to charge the Italian, because the judge set a trial date. Which never happened, because about a week before the trial Allegre jumped bail and disappeared. The case was referred to the INS, but that was the end of that.”
I got up again and went back over to the window. The ocean was still there, still calm. The few clouds that had been over the horizon had dissolved away.
“You find that interesting, too,” said Burton. “Or else you’ve been drinking too much coffee.”
“You can’t drink too much coffee, Burt,” I said, still looking out the window. Then I asked him, “Didn’t you once tell me, just because you think it’s true doesn’t mean it isn’t?”
“Yes. Quoted from a former law professor.”
“What if everything you think is true, isn’t? Is that the corollary? What if everything you thought was wrong?”
“At least you’d be consistent.”
I hung out with him until we finished lunch. By then the conversation had moved off Jonathan Eldridge and on to baseball. Neither one of us would watch a game on television, so we agreed on the need to go to Yankee Stadium to see for ourselves the performance capabilities of some recent trades we’d read about in the Times. Burton said he’d call me with some options on dates and match-ups.
“I’ll keep my calendar clear,” I said.
“Splendid.”
We walked out together and I dropped him off at his car, a white, early 1980s Ford Country Squire with fake wood paneling. The rear seats were folded down and the back was filled with garden tools, bags of topsoil and a tray of red and yellow chrysanthemums that Burton was apparently going to plant in some remote corner of the estate reachable only by station wagon.
“I hope I was helpful,” he said as he climbed into the car.
“You always are, Burt,” I said. “At the very least you keep me fed.”
“You seem better, in general, than you’ve been,” he said, squinting against the bright sun, “but specifically out of sorts.”
I leaned on the door panel.
“I’ve been on a program of self-improvement.”
“Has anything improved?”
“Just my appreciation for the stupidity of self-improvement programs.”
“So there you are. Progress.”
—
I waited until he was all the way off the grounds and onto Gin Lane before going back into the clubhouse to call Joe Sullivan. They’d released him from the hospital to convalesce at home, but I knew there was an odds-on chance I’d catch him at his desk at police headquarters.
“So, how’re you feeling?” I asked when he answered the phone.
“I’m breathing.”
“You working regular hours?”
“Ross said I could do half days. Still putting in a whole shift.”
“So you could leave anytime you want? You could say you felt crappy and needed to go home?”
“Is that what I’m going to do?”
“Instead of going home, meet me at my place. It’ll take me about a half-hour to get there.”
“Anything else you want to tell me?”
“Are you allowed to carry?”
“No reason why I shouldn’t,” he said, defensively.
“Bring it,” I said, then hung up on him so he wouldn’t keep asking me questions.
On the way home I drove through the parking lot behind Gabe’s office, but his Jag was gone. I went up the stairs to double-check, but the outside door was secured with a hasp and a beefy combination lock. I couldn’t see through the glazed window pane, so I left.
Probably halfway to Argentina by now.
I stopped at the corner place to get some hazelnut coffee to counteract the two Absoluts I’d had with Burton. The shop was full as it always was that time of year with graceful young women in translucent sarongs and distracted-looking middle-aged couples fresh off the beach, eating a late lunch or scanning the real-estate flyers for hopes and dreams. It took me a while to get to the counter.
The tiny Central American lady who’d been serving me for over five years asked how I was doing. A first. I guess she was feeling a little homesick for the off season. I answered her in Spanish which made her perk up even more. I apologized for my lousy grammar. She said I spoke like they did in Madrid, only not as well.
“Es sólo importante tratar,” she said, handing me my change.
“It is,” I agreed, “and that’s what I’m going to do.”
—
Joe and Eddie were waiting for me out in the Adirondacks when I got to the cottage. Sullivan was drinking one of my beers in more or less the same position I’d found him in the last time, only less bloody and apparently wide awake.
I stopped in the kitchen to get a beer of my own. Leaning against the screen door was an
envelope from an overnight delivery service. I brought it out with me to the Adirondacks.
“I didn’t know they delivered all the way out here,” said Sullivan, nodding at the envelope.
“Yeah. Causes quite a stir in the neighborhood.”
I pulled out a stack of papers with a postcard on top.
Your lawyer is sweet. How did that happen? What’s up with this stuff? You owe me big time. I’m cashing in next week. Tell Eddie to get the hell off my pillow.
Jackie’s search had produced more material than I needed, so I had to shuffle through a lot of extraneous paper until I found what I was looking for.
“What’s all that?” Sullivan finally asked, his patience wearing thin.
“Census data. They collect it in big surveys once every decade. Mandated by the Constitution.”
“So that’s why I’m over here? You gonna survey me?”
“Drink your beer and give me a minute.”
At the top of one of the census reports was a note from Jackie via Allison:
Alena gave me addresses and phone numbers.
The addresses are post-office boxes. The phone numbers go to answering machines. Alena said they conducted business entirely through back-and-forth messages. I see what you’re getting at. It pisses me off when you don’t share anything until after the fact. By the time you get this I’ll be heavily sedated. Don’t wake me up.
There was more in the envelope that might have been interesting, but I had enough. I had what I wanted.
I put my hand on Sullivan’s forearm.
“Can you just stay put for a few minutes while I go talk to Amanda? I’ll get you another beer.”
He frowned at me.
“I can get my own damn beer. Go ahead. I’ll still be here. Especially if somebody stabs me again.”
“You have a cell phone?” I asked him.
“Who doesn’t?”
“What’s the number?”
I whistled for Eddie to follow me over to Amanda’s house. Her car was in the driveway, but she wasn’t out on her chaise. I rang the bell and she answered wearing a terry cloth bathrobe.
“Well, hello,” she said. “I was about to get dressed. Should I not bother?”
“Not in front of the dog,” I said, walking past her into the house. “Actually, what I’d like is for you to take the dog and drive directly to Burton’s house. Stay there until I call. Tell him I’m with Sullivan and to keep you safe until he hears from me.”
“You’re frightening me,” she said.
“Sorry. Just a precaution.”
“Where are you going?”
“To test a theory.”
“That clears that up.”
“Can you go?”
“I guess. Just don’t wait too long to call. Burton’ll be worried. I’ll be worried. I’m worried now.”
I put my arm around her shoulders and gave a squeeze.
“What’s to worry?” I asked.
“I know the risks you take.”
“I’ve got Sullivan with me. Nobody’s stupid enough to mess with a cop.”
I left her and Eddie and went to retrieve Sullivan before Burton’s expensive beer put him to sleep. Though first I had to stop at my house to make a phone call.
A man answered the phone.
“Neville St. Clair?” I asked.
It was quiet on the other end of the line for what seemed a long time.
“Or do you prefer Hugh Boone?” I asked.
“Who is this?”
“Sam Acquillo.”
There was some more silence.
“What do you want?” he said, flatly.
“To meet. Talk about it.”
“Tell me now.”
“You’ll have to meet me.”
“Where?”
I told him to go to Appolonia’s. He didn’t need directions.
“Why now?” he asked.
“Sorry, but it’s a one-time offer. Now or never.”
It was silent again for a moment.
“So you’re saying I haven’t a choice.”
“Not really.”
He hung up the phone. I didn’t know what that meant, so I let it go at that and went out to get Sullivan. I was able to pile him into the Grand Prix and get underway before I had to tell him where we were going.
“To see the spooky lady who’s afraid of the whole world. Appolonia Eldridge.”
“Now I know why I needed the piece.”
“Not for her, it’s the housekeeper you have to worry about.”
I had an approximation of a plan, though I didn’t think it would work. Way too many variables dependent on luck. And timing I couldn’t control. Very incompatible with an engineer’s precise calculations. Though it didn’t have to work all the way. No matter what, something would happen. The fuse was already lit.
The day was getting hotter; the breeze had died off and it felt like vapor was rising from the scorched ground. Sullivan was coming to grips with the Grand Prix’s lack of air-conditioning. Luckily there was so much wind noise inside the car I didn’t have to listen to him bitch about it.
We went out to Route 27, then up Route 24 past the big white duck, the pride of Flanders, then on to the incongruous four-lane road whose original purpose was probably lost in the misty legends of the Department of Transportation. From there over to Appolonia’s barren, treeless neighborhood. We were the first to get there, assuming anyone else would show up. At least I could be reasonably sure Appolonia was there, so we’d have somebody to talk to. Before we rang the doorbell I gave Sullivan a five-minute version of what I thought could happen, and why.
“You’re telling me this now?” he asked.
“I could have left you out. I thought you should be here.”
“I’m supposed to thank you.”
“Unless I got it wrong, in which case, you’re here to arrest me, so it won’t be a total waste of time.”
“Jesus Christ,” he said, hauling his sore gut out of the Grand Prix.
Belinda answered the door, peering at us under the security chain.
“You didn’t call,” she said.
“Sorry. But we need to see Mrs. Eldridge.”
“You can’t come in unless you call.”
Sullivan held up his badge and ID.
“I’m a police officer, ma’am. We’re here to see Mrs. Eldridge. It’s important. May we come in?”
That had an impact on her, but she wasn’t ready to cave.
“I need to talk to the lawyer.”
“No, you don’t,” I said, in a voice loud enough to hear in downtown Riverhead. “You need to tell Mrs. Eldridge that we’re here, and you need to do it now.”
“Belinda, for pity’s sake, let them in,” I heard Appolonia call from the living room.
The door shut, then reopened with the chain off. Belinda backed in as she opened the door. I kept Sullivan between us. He had the gun.
Appolonia was where I’d last seen her, perched more than seated in the high-backed stuffed chair, a book open in her lap. She was wearing a light coral cashmere sweater, clasped at the neck with a tiny silver chain, and black slacks. Her feet were tucked up under her butt.
“Mr. Acquillo. And?”
“Officer Joe Sullivan. Southampton Town Police.”
She shook his outreached hand.
“Nice to meet you,” said Sullivan. “Thanks for letting us in. Nice house.”
“Sam told me about you. Said I’d like you.”
“You have a good memory,” I told her.
“Not hard when it’s so little taxed. What’s the occasion?”
“I’m sorry to just bust in on you like this, but there’re some things we have to talk about.”
“Sounds rather grave. Does that explain the reinforcements? Come, sit.”
Sullivan looked like he’d have been a lot happier standing, but sat anyway on the edge of the Victorian love seat. I took the other high-backed chair.
“I don’t have a l
ot of time to get into long explanations, not now anyway,” I said to her. “I’m sorry for that.”
If this was alarming her, it didn’t show, beyond the simple gesture of closing her book, after carefully marking her place with a slip of paper, and putting it on a side table.
“Very well. Should Gabe be here?” she asked.
“Well, that’s the first thing. You’re going to have to fire him.”
“Really. How so?”
“He’s been defrauding you and misrepresenting himself. For starters.”
“You know this?”
I looked over at Sullivan. He nodded convincingly.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m afraid so.”
“Dammit.”
You couldn’t get any whiter than Appolonia, so she wasn’t turning white. But maybe a little pink was creeping up into her cheeks. Probably good for her.
“You have worse news than that?” she asked.
“I don’t know if worse’ is the word. Different.”
She put her fingertips up to her mouth.
“You know who killed Jonathan.”
“I have a theory.”
“Yes, of course. You’re the scientist.”
“But I need your help to prove it out.”
I realized that Belinda was in the room with us. Had likely been there all along, only now she was close enough to hear the conversation. I pointed to her with my thumb.
“Belinda should be out of the room, and out of the foyer. Another person should be arriving shortly. Officer Sullivan needs to answer the door.”
“Who on earth would that be?” asked Appolonia.
By now she’d realigned herself on her chair, leaning forward, her bare feet side by side on the Chinese rug. I saw her as a young girl, self-conscious and withdrawn, but aware of the world. Amusing herself with an internal monologue, satirizing and excoriating people she knew—teachers, aunts and uncles, nannies—people unaware of her gift for insight, her busy contemplative mind. They wouldn’t know because she’d never allow them to. For Appolonia, thought by definition must be private. Contained and secure within a sealed chamber. A safe haven where both the fruits of perception and passion could be allowed full expression.
Her parents’ death may have been the deciding event in condemning her to complete isolation, but only in hastening the inevitable. Serving up a ghastly, but welcome rationale. An objective, identifiable cause for the foregone effect.