by Blake Banner
Then, as we moved through the hiss and the spray of the sodden city, under the bellying lead skies, I told her about our conversation over dinner. Though I left out her final observations, which I knew, in any case, were absurd. She was very quiet throughout, and as I pulled into Fteley Street and parked outside the station house, she said, “We’re getting into some pretty deep water here, Sensei.”
“We need to run this by the captain—sorry, inspector! If we go after Hennessy there will be consequences.”
She pursed her lips and nodded. “We also need to find this Jackson Lee. My gut tells me he knows where the laptop is.”
“I think your gut is right.”
We climbed out and crossed the road, me hunched into my collar and her striding like a scarecrow turned galactic bounty hunter. We found Captain John Newman, now promoted to inspector, peeling off his hat and coat in his office. He smiled his urbane smile, like he really was pleased to see us at eight-twenty AM, and said, “Stone! Dehan! Come in, come in, please, sit. You’re mighty early. What can I do for you?”
He went behind his desk and we all sat at the same time.
“Sir, do you recall the David Thorndike case, 2008?”
He shook his head. “Not by the name. Give me a clue.”
He smiled like he’d said something funny.
I said, “Investigative reporter, New York Telegraph. He was shot in the head. It went cold through lack of evidence.”
“Oooh, yes. I do recall something. He was married and having an affair. Both came under suspicion but, as you say, there was a lack of evidence. Is that what you’re on?”
It was Dehan who answered. “Yes, sir. But there are…” She hesitated, “Interesting features about the case.”
“Interesting features, Detective?”
“Well, for a start, the nature of the killing is not typical of a crime of passion. It’s more like an execution. But then, it was carried out with his own weapon, a 9 mm Glock, and I never heard of a professional hit man borrowing the victim’s gun before. But then, on the other hand, the article he was working on, and his laptop, vanished without a trace…”
The inspector nodded. “Those are interesting features, I agree. Any thoughts?”
I sighed. “Well, you are not going to like this, sir, but the latest evidence we’ve uncovered points pretty forcefully in one direction. It suggests that Thorndike was investigating allegations of corruption and murder that were being leveled against Senator Carol Hennessy, who was at the time a presidential candidate. Just a few days before he died, he told his editor that his article was not going to be dynamite, it was an atom bomb, it could impact the very constitution and would win him a Pulitzer. A couple of days later he showed up dead, and his article and all his research were gone.”
He rubbed his face with his hands. “You are going after Carol Hennessy now? Former Secretary of State Carol Hennessy? With the greatest respect to you both, have you gone completely insane? You want the 43rd Precinct to take on the White House?”
Before I could answer, Dehan opened her mouth. “With the greatest respect to you, sir, the U.S.A. is governed by the rule of law. That means the Secretary of State does not get to commit murder. She is subject to the same laws as the rest of us. And I am pretty sure that the White House does not condone murder.”
He looked at her frigidly. “You are damn close to impertinence there, Detective, but I take your point. All I am saying to you is, before you go after somebody like that, be damned sure of your facts.”
Dehan opened her mouth, but I looked at her and she closed it again. I knew what she was going to say, that being sure of your facts was no more important with the ex-secretary of state than it was with a trash collector or a bum on the street. Inspector Newman must have known it, too, because he held up both hands in a placatory gesture.
“Always,” he said. “We always need to be damn sure of our facts. But if you screw up in an investigation against Bob Brown at the grocery store, the most he is likely to do is file a complaint and get Internal Affairs to drag you over the coals for a while. But the minute Carol Hennessy realizes you are investigating her, she is going to bring some very heavy guns to bear. Let’s not be naïve about this. You are laying your jobs on the line, and mine with them.”
I nodded. “We are aware of that sir, which is why we are here. And, more to the point, if what our investigation so far suggests turns out to be true, we’ll be lucky to lose just our jobs.”
He grunted. “What do you want to do?”
“We have one lead to follow up first, one Jackson Lee. Back in the day, he was Thorndike’s friend and his attorney. We want to see where that leads us. It may lead us away from Hennessy, in which case, all well and good. But in all likelihood, sir, I think in a day or so, we will be seeking an interview with Senator Hennessy.”
“And then there are going to be fireworks.”
“She doesn’t have a reputation for being cooperative, sir.”
He shook his head again. “Other detectives find a body and it was the wife or the husband, or the lover. You investigate a murder and the captain of the precinct has to resign, the local bishop turns out to be in bed with the Mafia, and now you’re going after a senator. I don’t want to even imagine what your next case might dredge up!”
Dehan answered with a deadpan face. “Actually, sir, we were thinking of having a look at the Kennedy shooting.”
He stared at her, then managed a smile.
“All right, detectives, I trust you to act with the utmost discretion and tact. I have seven years before I retire, and I would like to keep it that way.” We stood and moved to the door. There he stopped us. “And, detectives, if you decide to go after Hennessy, I want you to keep me posted every step of the way.”
“Yes, sir.”
Back at our desk, I picked up the phone and called Bismarck, Jones and Epstein, the firm of attorneys Shelly had told me Lee worked for. They eventually put me through to personnel. Personnel asked me to hold the line and after fifteen minutes an agreeable young man said to me, “Detective Stone? I’m afraid Mr. Lee left our firm about nine years ago.”
“What department was he in?”
“Um… intellectual property. That’s copyright and…”
“I know what it is, thanks. Is there anyone in IP who would remember him?”
“Oh, just one moment…” He put me on hold again, but only for ten minutes this time. “Detective Stone? Cynthia Adamopolous is most likely to have known him. Would you like me to put you through?”
“Please.”
It rang four times.
“Cynthia Adamopolous’ office. How may I help you?”
I explained who I was and how she could help me. She put me on hold for another ten minutes. Then a voice like a Valkyrie with a parking ticket said, “Adamopolous speaking.”
“Ms. Adamopolous, my name is Detective John Stone, with the NYPD. I am trying to get hold of Jackson Lee. I believe he used to work at your firm in your department.”
“Yeah, nine years ago. What do you want him for?”
“We don’t want him for anything. We just want to ask him a few questions.”
“Is he a suspect in a crime?”
“No, would that make a difference?”
“It could.”
“Is he your client?”
“… no.”
“Then it couldn’t. Do you know where I can contact him?”
“I know he had an apartment in Manhattan. I’ll see if I can find out. I’ll call you back…”
“No. I’ll hold.”
I heard her sigh. “Sure…”
I heard her get up from her desk and after a moment there was a quiet, muttered conversation. After a couple of minutes, she came back. “Detective Stone?”
“Did he say he wasn’t in?”
She was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t speak to him. I can give you his Manhattan number, but I believe he is at his house in Oyster Bay. I’m afraid I ha
ven’t got the address or the number.”
“Thank you for your help, Ms. Adamopolous.”
I phoned his Manhattan number and got a Latin-American woman who pretended not to understand me. When I finally persuaded I was not going to arrest Señor Lee she told me she thought he was at Oyster Bay and didn’t know when he would be back. After a little more persuasion, she finally gave me the address and the number at Oyster Bay. I dialed and it rang five times. Then, a pleasant voice said, “This is the Lee residence.”
“Is that Mr. Jackson Lee?”
“No, sir, Mr. Lee is not available at the moment. Who is this?”
“This is Detective John Stone of the New York Police Department. I need to speak to Mr. Lee.”
“As I say, I am afraid he is not available.”
“Well, when will he be available?”
“I am afraid I don’t know.”
“How can I get hold of him?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
“Where is he?”
“He is away, traveling, detective. And I am not sure when he will return. If you like, when he next contacts me, I can pass on your message and ask him to contact you.”
“That would be very kind. Who are you?”
“I am Peter Hollis, Mr. Lee’s personal secretary.”
I squeezed a cheerfulness into my voice that I did not feel and said, “Well, thanks for your help, Mr. Hollis. I’ll hope to hear from him soon.”
“That’s my pleasure, detective. Good day.”
I flopped back in my chair and stretched noisily. Then I stared at Dehan for a while. She was staring at the screen of her laptop. She spoke without looking at me. “Did you find him?”
“Yup. He’s at Oyster Bay.”
“We’ve been there before.”
“Don’t remind me.[2]”
“You talk to him? Is he willing to see us?”
“Not exactly. He thinks I think that he’s traveling around the world in eighty days and he’ll call us when he gets my message.”
“Oh.” She heaved a big sigh, rubbed her eyes, and stretched. I heard her spine crunch and clunk. She switched off her laptop and closed the lid as she spoke. “So are we going to surprise him? What’s the plan?”
I studied her for a long moment. “You are. You are going to surprise him. You want to drive?”
She grinned. “This sounds like fun. Sure.”
“Great. We’ll get some lunch on the way back.”
She stood. “Can we get some lunch now?”
I grabbed my coat. “Now? It’s eleven thirty.”
She shoved her hat on her head and stepped into the relentless rain.
“Not in Bermuda, it’s not.”
NINE
It was a long, tedious drive south over the Throgs Neck Bridge to Long Island, and then east on the Long Island Expressway. Even the most beautiful landscape on Earth can look ugly if you throw enough gray rain and slow-moving traffic at it. And there was plenty of both that day on Long Island. A drive that should have taken forty-five minutes took us an hour.
All the way across the bridge, Dehan sat and stared at the massive, slow sheet of dark water beneath us. At one point, she said, “My dad used to bring us this way, in the summer, sometimes.”
I smiled and asked, “Yeah? You spent summer vacations out here?”
She nodded, but kept staring at the water.
At Alley Park, we turned east onto the Expressway, over the marshy woodland beneath. There she heaved a big sigh and turned to smile at me. It wasn’t a happy smile, but it was a smile.
“So you going to be seeing Shelly again?”
I was a little surprised by the question. “You pointed out yesterday that she was a potential suspect, and you were right. It looks as though she might be in Hennessy’s pocket.”
She gave a non-committal shrug. “Or she might be a feminist sticking up for a politician she believes in.”
I frowned at her and grunted.
“If she’s on the level, after the investigation, will you see her again?”
I smiled. “This again? What is it with you and trying to get me fixed up?”
She shrugged and returned to staring at the traffic. About five minutes later, she said, “I wasn’t trying to fix you up. I was just wondering if you liked her.”
I suddenly had the weird feeling that I had stepped through a door into a totally alien landscape, and the person sitting next to me was no longer my partner but a complete stranger. I wanted to ask her what the hell had been eating her for the last couple of days, but for the first time since we’d been partners I found myself holding back. Instead I glanced at her and said, “You okay, Dehan?”
She turned and gave me a once-over. “Sure, why?”
“I don’t know. You don’t seem yourself for the last couple of days.”
She shrugged and shook her head. “I’m myself. Who else would I be? Don’t worry about it.”
Only I did worry about it. I tried to ignore it and focus on Jackson Lee and David Thorndike’s article, but instead all I could see and hear in my head was Shelly staring at me and saying, “That girl is hopelessly in love with you!”
We drove on in vaguely uncomfortable silence until we came to Jericho. There we turned left and north and I said, “Okay, we make this real simple. You break down outside his house, blocking his drive. You go in and ask for help. Can you please make a call and wait inside out of the rain.”
“What if Lee doesn’t show? What if his secretary tells me to take a hike?”
“Trust me, Lee will show, and Hollis won’t send you packing.”
“How can you be so sure?”
I was sure because even in a ridiculous Australian hat and drenched to her skin, she looked like a million bucks wrapped for Christmas and no red-blooded man would turn her away from his door. I was about to say that, but instead I said, “Just look helpless, lay it on thick, I guarantee Lee will show.”
“If you say so. So what do I do when he shows?”
“Make sure it’s him and call me. Then we confront him.”
“And he tells us to get the hell off his property.”
“Okay, here is where we have to be smart. Don’t lie to him. We are here legitimately looking for Jackson Lee. We got lost and broke down, and through pure luck, happened to break down outside his house.”
“Luck…”
“And you don’t identify yourself as a cop straight away, because you don’t realize it’s his house.”
She grunted. I turned off Sandy Hill Road onto Blair Road and for a couple of minutes wound through leafy lanes among secluded mansions. After a moment, she said, “I still don’t get why you think he’s going to show and talk to me…”
I felt a sudden stab of impatience and snapped, “Because you’re hot, Dehan! You’re not the kind of woman a man turns away!”
I scowled at her and saw she was grinning. She slid down in her seat and pulled her hat over her eyes. “Jeez, boss. I thought you’d never say it.”
“Good grief!” We turned into Cove Road and I slowed. “Okay, it’s that one up ahead.” I pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. “I’ll wait in the shelter of the trees by the gate. You pull up in front of his gate, kill the engine, and lift the hood. Then go in.”
“Okay, you got it.” She took off her hat and handed it to me. “Here, keep your head dry. I’m going for the ‘sexy fresh out of the shower’ look.”
I smiled. “Thanks.”
I climbed out, planted the hat on my head and took shelter under the trees by the gate. Dehan slid across into the driving seat, drove the twenty yards to the gate, killed the engine and rolled into his drive, blocking the entrance. I watched her get out and within a few seconds she was drenched through—and she was right, soaked to the skin she looked both helpless and very sexy.
She lifted the hood and peered into the engine. She made a few helpless gestures for the benefit of anyone who might be watching, then turned an
d ran toward the house. I smiled to myself. She was one in a million.
I approached the gate and settled against the fence to wait, with the rain spattering on the blacktop a few feet away, and tapping coldly on the canopy of leaves above my head. Vaguely, over the sounds of the water, I heard a door open, a man’s voice, an exchange of words and some laughter. Then the door closed again.
I waited ten cold, uncomfortable, wet minutes with my feet getting numb, and then my cell rang. It was Dehan.
“Hey, where are you?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Oh, good. Listen, your car broke down, you should really consider getting something that isn’t sixty years old. But as luck would have it, it broke down right in Jackson Lee’s driveway. Can you beat that? Just keep walking down the road till you see your car. He’s a real nice guy. He made me coffee and everything.”
“You’re funny. Did you know that?”
“No, nobody ever told me that. See you in a minute.”
I hung up and walked around the fence into the driveway feeling cold, wet, and sour. I hammered on the door and after a moment a pretty Filipino girl in a French maid’s uniform opened the door.
I smiled without much humor. “I’m Detective Stone…”
“Yuh, they are expecting you.” She reached out. “Let me take your coat and your hat.”
She hung them up and led me across a broad hall with parquet floors to a large set of doors. She pushed them open and said, “Detective Stone here, Mr. Lee.”
I stepped into a long room with two sets of French windows overlooking a waterlogged lawn framed by pines, oaks, and tall cypress trees. The room was elaborately elegant, with a large, marble fireplace set between the French windows, a heavy, beige Wilton carpet, ornate sofas and armchairs with exposed, tooled wood, and English fox hunting prints on the walls in thin, black frames. Lee was standing by the fire and Dehan was sitting in an armchair, holding a cup of coffee. She looked freshly toweled. They were both watching me. Lee was tall, maybe six-two, and like his room, he was elaborately elegant.
“Detective Stone, may I offer you a hot drink? Please come and sit in front of the fire. Or perhaps you would like to go and dry off in the restroom?”