“Detective? Hello?”
I looked at her. How do you say no to a perfect 10? I said, “I’ll meet you there.”
“All right. What do I owe you for the beers?”
“On me.”
“Thanks. See you later.” She walked toward the door and with the game at halftime, the fifty or so guys in the OTT finally noticed that there was an incredible babe on the premises. There were a few whistles and invitations to stick around.
I watched a little of the halftime stuff. I wished they hadtaken my stomach out, because it was pumping acid into my ulcers now. The chili came, and I could hardly finish the bowl. I popped two Zantac, then a Maalox even though the gastro-doc said not to mix.
In truth, my health, once robust, had taken a decided dip since the April 12 incident. My eating, drinking, and sleeping habits were never good, and the divorce and the job had taken their toll. I was starting to feel forty-something, starting to feel my mortality. Sometimes in my sleep, I remember lying in the gutter in my own blood, lying on a storm drain and thinking, “I’m circling around the drain, I’m going down the drain.”
On the upside, I was starting to notice things like the waitress with the NordicTrack ass, and when Elizabeth Penrose walked into the bar, my little meat puppet sat up and stretched. Truly, I was on the road to recovery, and for sure I was in better shape than the Gordons.
I thought a moment about Tom and Judy. Tom was a Ph.D. who didn’t mind killing his brain cells with beer and wine, and he cooked a good steak on the grill. He was a down-to-earth guy from Indiana or Illinois or someplace out there where they have this sort of twang. He was low-key about his work and joked about the danger, like last week when a hurricane was headed our way, he said, “If it hits Plum, you can call it Hurricane Anthrax, and we can kiss our asses goodbye.” Ha. Ha. Ha.
Judy, like her husband, was a Ph.D., a Midwesterner, un-pretentious, good-natured, spirited, funny, and beautiful. John Corey, like every guy who met her, was in love with her.
Judy and Tom seemed to have taken well to this maritime province in the two years since they’d been here, and they seemed to enjoy power boating and had gotten involved with the Peconic Historical Society. In addition, they were enchanted by the wineries and had become connoisseurs of Long Island wine. In fact, they had befriended some of the local vintners, including Fredric Tobin, who threw lavish soirees at his chateau, one of which I attended as the Gordons’ guest.
As a couple, the Gordons seemed happy, loving, caring, sharing, and all that 1990s stuff, and I really never noticed anything amiss between them. But that’s not to say they were perfect people or a perfect couple.
I searched my memory for something like a fatal flaw, the kind of thing that sometimes gets people murdered. Drugs? Not likely. Infidelity? Possible, but not probable. Money? They didn’t have much to steal. So it came down to the job again.
I thought about that. It would appear on the face of things that the Gordons were selling superbugs and something went wrong, and they were terminated. Along the same lines, I recalled that Tom once confided to me that his biggest fear, aside from catching a disease, was that he and Judy would be kidnapped right off their boat one day, that an Iranian submarine or something would come up and snatch them away, and they’d never be seen or heard from again. This seemed a little far-fetched to me, but I remember thinking that the Gordons must have a lot of stuff in their heads that some people wanted. So maybe what happened was that the murder started out as a snatch job and went wrong. I thought about this. If the murders were related to the job, were the Gordons innocent victims, or were they traitors who sold death for gold? Were they killed by a foreign power or were they killed by someone closer to home?
I mulled this over as best I could in the OTT with the noise, the halftime crap, the beer in my brain, and the acid in my tummy. I had another beer and another Maalox. Gastro-doc never said why I wasn’t supposed to mix.
I tried to think of the unthinkable, of handsome, happy Tom and beautiful, bouncy Judy selling plague to some nut cases, of water reservoirs filled with disease, or maybe aerial crop sprayers over New York or Washington, of millions of sick, dying, and dead….
I couldn’t imagine the Gordons doing that. On the other hand, everyone has a price. I used to wonder how they could afford to rent that house on the water and buy that expensive boat. Now maybe I knew how and also why they needed a high-speed boat and a house with a private dock. It all made sense, and yet my instincts were telling me not to believe the obvious.
I overtipped Ms. NordicTrack and returned to the scene of the crime.
CHAPTER 4
It was after eleven as I drove along the lane that led to the Gordons’ house. The night was lit by a nice three-quarter moon, and a pleasant breeze brought the smell of the sea through the open windows of my new moss green Jeep Grand Cherokee Limited, a $40,000 indulgence that the nearly deceased John Corey thought he owed himself.
I stopped fifty yards from the house, put the vehicle into “park,” and listened to a few more minutes of Giants-Dallas, then I shut off the engine. A voice said, “Your headlights are on.”
“Shut up,” I replied, “just shut up.” I switched off the headlights.
There are many options in life, but one option you should never choose is the “Voice Warning and Advisory Option.”
I opened the door. “Your key is in the ignition. Your emergency brake is not engaged.” It was a female voice, and I swear to God it sounded like my ex-wife. “Thank you, dear.” I took my keys, climbed down, and slammed the door.
The vehicles and crowds on the small street had thinned considerably, and I figured that the bodies had been removed, it being a fact of life that the arrival of the meat wagon usually satisfies most of the spectators and signals the end of Act One. Also, they all wanted to see themselves on the eleven o’clock news.
There was a new addition to the police presence since my earlier visit: a Suffolk County police mobile van was parked in front of the house near the forensic van. This new van was the command post that could accommodate investigators, radios, fax machines, cell phones, video equipment, and the other high-tech doodads that make up the arsenal in the never-ending battle against crime and all that.
I noticed a helicopter overhead, and I could see by the light of the moon that it was from one of the networks. Though I couldn’t hear the reporter’s voice, he or she was probably saying something like, “Tragedy struck this exclusive Long Island community earlier this evening.” Then some stuff about Plum Island and so on.
I made my way through the last of the stragglers, avoiding anyone who looked like the working press. I stepped over the yellow tape, and this immediately attracted a Southold cop. I tinned the guy and got a half-assed salute.
The uniformed crime scene recorder approached me with a clipboard and time sheet, and again I gave him my name, my business, and so forth, as he requested. This is SOP and is done throughout the investigation of the crime, beginning with the first officer at the scene and continuing until the last officer leaves and the scene is returned to the owner of the property. In any case, they had me twice now and the hook was in deeper.
I asked the uniformed officer, “Do you have a guy from the Department of Agriculture logged in?”
He replied without even looking at the sheet, “No.”
“But there is a man from the Department of Agriculture here. Correct?”
“You’ll have to ask Chief Maxwell.”
“I’m asking you why you haven’t logged this guy in.”
“You’ll have to ask Chief Maxwell.”
“I will.” Actually, I already knew the answer. They don’t call these guys spooks for nothing.
I walked around to the backyard and onto the deck. In the places where the Gordons had lain were now two chalk outlines, looking very ghostly in the moonlight. A big sheet of clear plastic covered the splatter behind them where their mortality had exited.
Regarding this,
as I said, I was glad this was an open-air shooting, and there was no lingering smell of death. I hate it when I go back to the scene of an indoor murder and that smell is still there. Why is it that I can’t get that smell out of my mind? Out of my nostrils? Out of the back of my throat? Why is that?
Two uniformed Southold guys sat at the round patio table drinking from steaming Styrofoam cups. I recognized one of them as Officer Johnson, whose kindness in driving me home I had repaid by getting a little rough with him. It’s a tough world, you know, and I’m one of the people who make it that way. Officer Johnson gave me an unpleasant glance.
Down by the dock, I could make out the silhouette of another uniformed man, and I was glad someone had taken my advice to post a guard by the boat.
There was no one else around so I went into the house through the sliding screen door, which opened into a big living room and dining room combo. I’d been here before, of course, and recalled that Judy said most of the furnishings came with the rental, Scandinavian from Taiwan, as she described it.
A few forensic types were still messing around, and I asked one of them, a cute latent fingerprint lady, “Chief Maxwell?”
She jerked her thumb over her shoulder and said, “Kitchen. Don’t touch anything on the way there.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I floated across the Berber carpet and alighted in the kitchen, where a conference seemed to be in progress. Present were Max, representing the sovereign Township of Southold, Elizabeth Penrose, representing the free and independent County of Suffolk, a gentleman in a dark suit who didn’t need a sign that said FBI, and another gentleman, more casually dressed in denim jacket and jeans, a bloodred shirt, and hiking boots, a sort of parody of what a Department of Agriculture bureaucrat might look like if he ever left the office and had to visit a farm.
Everyone was standing, like they were giving the impression of literally thinking on their feet. There was a cardboard box filled with Styrofoam coffee cups, and everyone had a cup in his or her hand. It was interesting and significant, I thought, that this group wasn’t assembled in the mobile command post, but was sort of out of sight in the kitchen.
Max, incidentally, had spiffed himself up for the Feds and/or the press by putting on a tie, a silly one decorated with nautical flags. Elizabeth was still wearing her tan suit, but had removed her jacket, revealing one holstered .38 and two holstered 36 Ds.
A small black and white TV sat on the counter, tuned to one of the networks, the volume low. The lead story was about a presidential visit to some strange place where everyone was short.
Max said to the two guys, “This is Detective John Corey, homicide,” and let it go at that without mentioning that my jurisdiction began and ended about a hundred miles west of here. Max indicated the dark suit and said, “John, this is George Foster, FBI …” He looked at Mr. Bluejeans and said, “… and this is Ted Nash, Department of Agriculture.”
We shook hands all around. I informed Penrose, “Giants scored in the first minute of the third quarter.”
She didn’t reply.
Max motioned toward the box of cups and asked, “Coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
Ms. Penrose, who was closest to the TV, heard something on the news and raised the volume. We all focused on the screen.
A female reporter was standing in front of the Gordon house. We missed her lead-in and caught, “The victims of the double murder have been identified as scientists who worked at the top-secret government animal disease laboratory on Plum Island, a few miles from here.”
An aerial shot now showed Plum Island from about two thousand feet. It was bright daylight, so it must have been stock footage. From the air, the island looked almost exactly like a pork chop, and I guess if you wanted to stretch an irony about swine fever…. Anyway, Plum is about three miles at its longest, and about a mile at its widest. The reporter, in voice-over, was saying, “This is Plum Island as it appeared last summer when this station did a report about persistent rumors that the island is home to biological warfare research.”
Aside from the hackneyed phrases, the lady was right about the rumors. I recalled a cartoon I’d once seen in The Wall Street Journal where a school guidance counselor says to two parents, “Your son is vicious, mean-spirited, dishonest, and likes to spread rumors. I suggest a career in journalism.” Right. And rumors could lead to panic. It occurred to me that this case had to be wrapped up quickly.
The reporter was now back in front of the Gordons’ house, and she informed us, “No one is saying if the Gordons’ murders were related to their work on Plum Island, but police are investigating.”
Back to the studio.
Ms. Penrose turned off the volume and asked Mr. Foster, “Does the FBI want to be publicly connected with this case?”
“Not at this time.” Mr. Foster added, “It makes people think there’s a real problem.”
Mr. Nash said, “The Department of Agriculture has no official interest in this case since there is no connection between the Gordons’ work and their deaths. The department will issue no public statements, except an expression of sorrow over the murders of two well-liked and dedicated employees.”
Amen. I mentioned to Mr. Nash, “By the way, you forgot to sign in.”
He looked at me, a little surprised and a lot annoyed, and replied, “I’ll … thank you for reminding me.”
“Anytime. Every time.”
After a minute of public relations chitchat, Max said to Messrs. Foster and Nash, “Detective Corey knew the deceased.”
Mr. FBI immediately got interested and asked me, “How did you know them?”
It’s not a good idea to start answering questions—it gives people the idea that you’re a cooperative fellow, which I’m not. I didn’t reply.
Max answered for me, “Detective Corey knew the Gordons socially, only about three months. I’ve known John on and off about ten years.”
Foster nodded. Clearly he had more questions and while he was hesitating about asking, Detective Penrose said, “Detective Corey is writing a full report on what he knew of the Gordons which I will share with all concerned agencies.”
That was news to me.
Mr. Nash was leaning against a kitchen counter looking at me. We stared at each other, the two dominant males in the room, if you will, and we decided without a word that we didn’t like each other, and that one of us had to go. I mean, the air was so thick with testosterone that the wallpaper was getting soggy.
I turned my attention to Max and Penrose and asked, “Have we determined that this is more than a homicide? Is that why the federal government is here?”
No one replied.
I continued, “Or are we just assuming that it is more? Did I miss a meeting or something?”
Mr. Ted Nash finally replied coolly, “We are being cautious, Detective. We have no concrete evidence that this homicide is connected to matters of … well, to be blunt, matters of national security.”
I remarked, “I never realized the Department of Agriculture was involved in national security. Do you have, like, undercover cows?”
Mr. Nash gave me a nice fuck-you smile and said, “We have wolves in sheep’s clothing.”
“Touche.” Prick.
Mr. Foster butted in before it got nasty and said, “We’re here as a precautionary measure, Detective. We’d be very remiss if we didn’t check it out. We all hope it was just a murder with no Plum Island connection.”
I regarded George Foster a moment. He was thirtyish, typical clean-cut, bright-eyed FBI type, wearing the FBI dark suit, white shirt, muted tie, black sturdy shoes, and halo.
I shifted my attention to Ted Nash wearing the aforementioned denims; he was closer to my age, tanned, curly salt-and-pepper hair, blue-gray eyes, impressive build, and all in all what the ladies would call a hunk, which is one of the reasons I didn’t like him, I guess. I mean, how many hunks do you need in one room?
I might have been more pleasant to him except that he was thro
wing glances at Elizabeth Penrose, who was catching them and pitching them back. I don’t mean they were leering and drooling; just real quick eye-to-eye flashes and neutral expressions, but you’d have to be blind not to figure out what was going through their dirty minds. Jeez, the whole friggin’ planet was about to get anthrax and die or something, and these two are like dogs in heat, eye-fucking each other when we had important business at hand. Really disgusting.
Max interrupted my thoughts and said to me, “John, we have still not recovered the two bullets fired through their heads, but we can assume they went into the bay, and we’ll be dredging and diving early tomorrow.” He added, “There were no shell casings found.”
I nodded. An automatic pistol would spit out shell casings whereas a revolver would not. If the weapon was an automatic, then the murderer was cool enough to bend down and gather the two shell casings.
So far, we had basically nothing. Two head shots, no bullets, no casings, no noise heard next door.
I regarded Mr. Nash again. He looked like a worried man, and I was happy to see that between thoughts of popping Ms. Penrose, he was thinking about saving the planet. In fact, everyone in the kitchen seemed to be thinking about things, probably germs, and they were probably wondering if they were going to wake up with red blotches or something.
Ted Nash reached into the cardboard box and asked Detective Penrose, “Another coffee, Beth?”
Beth? What the hell …?
She smiled, “No, thank you.”
My stomach had settled down so I went to the refrigerator for a beer. The shelves were nearly empty and I asked, “Max, did you take things out of here?”
“The lab took everything that was not factory sealed.”
“Do you want a beer?” No one answered, so I took a Coors Light, popped the top, and took a swig.
I noticed eight eyes on me, like they were waiting for something to happen. People get weird when they think they’re in an infected environment. I had a crazy urge to clutch my throat, fall on the floor, and go into convulsions. But I wasn’t with my buds in Manhattan North, chicks and dicks who would get a kick out of sick humor, so I passed on the opportunity to add some comic relief to the grimness. I said to Max, “Please continue.”