Amagansett (14 page)

Hollis had seen Chief Milligan angry before, but never like this—puce with rage, spittle flying.

‘He’s just a big old blowhard,’ he said to himself. Mary Calder’s description of Milligan had proved a source of comfort in recent days, somehow consigning the Chief to the ranks of the ridiculous, emasculating him. Confronted with the volcanic presence before him, however, her words had lost their sting.

‘Well!?’ bellowed Milligan.

Hollis groped his way back to reality. An official complaint from the Maidstone Club. Unseemly conduct. Hollis throwing his weight around.

It wasn’t looking good. Just one thread of hope. There was a chance the complaint hadn’t come from Anthony Cordwell. No. Odds were the complaint had come from the club itself, probably without Cordwell’s knowledge.

‘Well!? What in the hell do you have to say for yourself!?’

‘It’s a bit embarrassing, sir,’ he said, buying himself time to think.

‘Embarrassing!? Is that what you call it? I’ve got the President of the club on the phone accusing you of goddamn intimidation.’

‘I was acting in the club’s best interests, sir.’

He had it now, a story that should just about hold up.

‘Stop mincing your words, man.’

‘It’s like this, sir. The night of Lillian Wallace’s funeral I was on duty here in town. There was an incident on Main Street involving two young ladies. One of them had her dress torn.’

‘What?’

‘She was pretty upset.’

‘Just tell me what in the hell happened.’

‘I didn’t witness it, but it seems they were approached by a group of young men who’d been at the Wallaces’ place, you know, the funeral reception. They were a little…upset.’

‘You mean tight.’

‘As drums. Anyway, they invited the girls to a bar, and when they refused there was some kind of scuffle. That’s when the dress got torn and the men ran off.’

Milligan was going off the boil now. It was time to start boring him into submission with details.

‘I went looking for them, saw four men in a car fitting the description, and tailed them. They ended up at the Maidstone Club. Maybe I should have, but I didn’t do anything at the time. I talked the girls into not pressing charges if the dress was paid for. That’s why I went back to the club the next day, looking for this Anthony Cordwell.’

‘Cordwell, huh?’ Milligan clearly knew the name. ‘Still, it didn’t give you the right to storm right on in there.’

‘Cordwell had been dodging me all morning. If I hadn’t leaned on him he’d be up on a charge of assault right now along with his friends. This way everyone’s happy. Everyone except the Maidstone Club it seems.’

‘You didn’t tell them what you were after Cordwell for?’

‘It didn’t seem right, fair. Sure, they were drunk, they messed up, but they’d just seen their friend put in the ground.’

It was good, good enough, especially the last bit—the note of sympathy for a bunch of grief-stricken drunks tearing at a girl’s dress. That was the sort of thing Milligan could relate to.

‘Why didn’t you come to me with this?’

‘It was Sunday, I didn’t want to bother you.’

He was safe now, but it wasn’t over yet. Milligan would have
the last word. He always did. Hollis could see him working up to it as he rounded his desk and settled into his chair.

‘I don’t like you, Hollis. Can’t say I ever have. And it’s not ‘cos you’re a weasely know-it-all little prick.’ He paused for effect. ‘It’s ‘cos I know what you are.’

Hollis felt the blood drain from his cheeks.

Milligan smiled. ‘That’s right. You think I’d have them dump you on me and not check you out? I know people, don’t think I don’t.’ He began playing with a letter-opener, twisting the point into the palm of his hand. ‘Hell of a cover story you New York boys came up with,’ he said, laying the sarcasm on thick. ‘Damn near fell for it, I did.’

Hollis was helpless. Anything he said would be shot down in flames. Milligan mistook his silence for fear.

‘Don’t worry, it stays in this room. Last thing I need is the good people of East Hampton knowing there’s a crooked cop on the force.’

‘Yeah, one’s enough for any town.’

Thankfully, the words died before they reached Hollis’ lips. It would have meant the end. He didn’t care about the job, but he was damned if he was going to jeopardize the investigation, even if it did mean taking abuse from a hypocrite. It was well known that the fortunes of the Milligan household had experienced a marked upturn during Prohibition.

‘Go on,’ said Milligan, ‘clear out.’

Hollis stopped at the door and turned. ‘It’s not true. What you heard about me.’

‘Now how did I know you were going to say that?’ smirked Milligan.

As Hollis crossed the squad room, Bob Hartwell shot him a sheepish glance.

Hollis entered his office and pushed the door shut behind him. He shed his jacket, reached for the mug of cold tea on his desk, but thought better of it. He didn’t want to sit, he didn’t want to stand; he didn’t know what he wanted to do.

The breeze through the open window rattled the blind against the
frame. He wandered over, peering down through the slats at the street below. A few people came and went, entering and leaving the Post Office, which occupied the ground floor of the building. Across the way, a dog cocked its leg against the wheel of a parked car.

Cursed.

It would pursue him for the rest of his life.

The crooked cop.

It had tracked him down, sniffed him out, even here. Why should it ever let up?

It was so ridiculous. If people only knew the truth.

But that wasn’t the way things worked. Once tarred with the brush of scandal there was little to be done to allay their suspicions—not even a full exoneration could do that—some small splinter of doubt always remained lodged in their brains. His parents had been no different. Not that he blamed them; he had rubber-stamped his own guilt when he’d signed up to the lie: a detective second-grade looking for a quieter life on a country force.

Milligan was right. As a cover story, it stank. With the passage of time that much had become evident, like so many other things. It was clear to him now that he should have stood and fought, gone down fighting.

As the memories crowded in on him, he smiled at the absurdity of it all. Making a stand on the hoary issue of police corruption was one thing, but he could at least have chosen one of its grander battlefields on which to lay down his career. For Christ’s sake, there were any number to choose from. But no, he in his wisdom had chosen to impale himself on the blunt dagger of black market gas ration stamps. It hadn’t been easy, but he’d still managed it.

The scam was well established and widespread. Ration stamps filched wholesale from local Price Administration offices were sold on to garages and gas stations for a few paltry cents apiece. The profits were enormous, though, because of the huge scale of the operation. People were involved at all levels, Hollis knew that. Yet he’d still been shocked when a snitch dropped him the name of a precinct detective from the 17th.

The snitch, a pickpocket who worked the Sunday museum crowds, was looking for a break. Well, he got one—a snapped neck in an alleyway at the edge of the Gashouse District.

When Hollis visited the dead man’s girlfriend she went at him with a knife, accusing him of murder. It was a while before he figured she was right. In mentioning the pickpocket’s name to the Captain back at the precinct he had effectively signed the man’s death warrant.

He went to Gaskell with his suspicions, ignoring the Lieutenant’s advice to let the matter drop. A few days later, a batch of stolen ration stamps showed up in Hollis’ locker. When word came through of a couple of lowlifes ready to testify to his involvement in the scam, Hollis knew he was lost.

Whether Gaskell was in on it from the start, he never found out. One thing was clear though, the Lieutenant had never forgiven him for going straight to Beloc at the Homicide Bureau with his theory on the Chadwick case. He wasn’t a team player, said Gaskell, never had been, never would be. The offer of a role on a provincial force—ostensibly to avoid an unseemly scandal—was their way of shutting him up and clearing him out. Turning it down hadn’t even been an option at the time.

Hollis forced his thoughts back to the Wallace investigation, but even that denied him any consolation. Wherever he turned he was confronted with his own eagerness to believe in some sinister plot. What did he really have to go on? The earrings, the raised toilet seat, the nervousness of the maid, the visit paid to Lillian Wallace by her ex-fiancé a month before her death—each and every one of which he had chosen to interpret in its darkest possible light.

He was driven into the chair behind the desk by the weight of the realization: any investigation that existed was entirely of his own invention. He had brought it into the world, breathed life into it through an act of sheer will. He had wanted it to exist, and it had duly obliged.

There was a light knock at the door.

‘Yes.’

It was Hartwell. ‘I swear to God,’ he said, ‘one day…’

He was angry, uncharacteristically so. Hollis stared at him, unable to match the outrage Hartwell felt on his behalf.

‘This is for you. She called while you were with him.’

Hollis took the piece of paper. Verity Brandon. The name meant nothing to him.

‘She said she’s with the Medical Examiner’s office.’

He remembered now—the nameplate on the front desk at the County Morgue, her failure to offer him a glass of water. What did she want?

‘Tom,’ said Hartwell, ‘is something up?’

‘Up?’

‘I don’t know…’

‘Nothing’s up, Bob.’

‘Okay,’ he said, then left the room.

Hollis felt a little bad. It was probably nothing to worry about, but he could still recall Hartwell watching him from afar the day of the funeral, just after his conversation with Penrose.

He reached for the phone and asked the operator to put him through to the morgue in Hauppauge. She answered on the second ring.

‘Suffolk County Medical Examiner’s Office.’

‘Mrs Brandon?’

‘Miss.’

‘It’s Deputy Chief Hollis, from East Hampton.’

‘Ah, yes. Wait a minute, please.’ He could hear her searching through some papers. ‘I have it here somewhere…a strange request…I mean, we get them sometimes, but they’re rare. I just thought you should know.’

‘What kind of request?’

‘Dash it,’ she said.

‘Miss Brandon…’

‘Someone has asked to see the autopsy report on that poor girl who drowned. A member of the public. It’s their right, you know, we can’t stop them.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘I told him he has to wait a month.’

‘Who?’

‘I have his name here somewhere.’

‘Conrad Labarde,’ said Hollis quietly.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Conrad Labarde.’

There was a silence on the other end of the phone. ‘Well, yes,’ she said, ‘I think that
was
his name.’

‘Best to be sure though.’

‘Of course. Like I say, I have it here somewhere.’

Gayle Wallace had swum in the pool, taken a bath, washed and dried her hair, and all but finished her breakfast when Manfred stepped gingerly from the house on to the terrace.

‘Christ, it’s bright.’

‘You look dreadful,’ said Gayle.

‘Thanks.’

‘Worse than I’ve seen you in quite a while.’

Manfred picked up her discarded sunglasses and put them on. ‘Better?’ he asked.

‘Much.’

Manfred dropped into a chair and poured himself a cup of coffee from the jug.

‘It’s cold,’ said Gayle.

‘It’s coffee.’ He took a gulp, grimaced. ‘Justin stayed late.’

‘I know.’

‘We didn’t keep you awake, did we?’

‘I don’t mind. You play well when you’re drunk…even if it is Dinah Shore.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with “Shoo Fly Pie and Apple Pan Dowdy”.’

‘Not if you have your head buried under a pillow.’

Rosa appeared with some fresh toast and hot coffee.

‘Thanks, Rosa,’ said Manfred, ‘you’re a life-saver.’

Rosa smiled, then left.

‘So what did you end up deciding?’ asked Gayle.

‘What do you think?’

‘It’s going ahead.’

‘Father grew pretty adamant after you went to bed.’

‘I’m not against it, Manfred. It’s just that it seems a little…’ She couldn’t find the right word.

‘I know.’

‘I understand how important it is to you. I do.’

‘It’s hardly going to be a riotous affair. It never was. Far from it.’

Over dinner the previous evening, the conversation had turned to a sensitive subject, one they’d all been dodging for the past couple of weeks: that of the house party arranged months before and set to take place the following weekend.

It had never been in question that Manfred would one day make a move into politics—that decision was taken on his behalf while he was still wet from the womb—but no one had anticipated the ease with which he would navigate the course charted for him from birth. At prep school he had excelled himself, surpassing even their father’s expectations. He was captain of the varsity soccer and baseball squads, secretary of the Student Council, chairman of the Student Deacons and editor of the school newspaper, the
Phillipian.
These accomplishments heaped up with little or no apparent effort on Manfred’s part, and their father used to say that in this lay Manfred’s greatest achievement. For people mistrusted overt ambition, it threatened them, obliged them to take a stand for or against you.

There was only one thing more important than winning, and that was appearing not to care about winning. It was a credo that had been instilled in them from an early age, an article of faith vigorously contested by Lillian, silently accepted by Gayle, but dutifully observed by Manfred. And it had served him well, both at Andover and Yale.

It wasn’t until he went to university that Gayle actually witnessed Manfred in action. She was present in the mahoganypaneled hall when he got to his feet as Captain of the Yale Debate
Team to deliver his summation speech in defense of the resolution: An oppressive government is more desirable than no government.

He opened by stating that he was a little mystified by his rival speaker’s arguments in favor of no government, as he had it on good authority that the fellow was actively seeking a position in government on his graduation. Delivered with a sly smile, his tone devoid of any malice, this won him a large laugh and proved to be the final nail in the other man’s coffin. Manfred had already argued a difficult position with a compelling mix of conviction and crowd-pleasing humor.

When he finally stepped away from the lectern, it was Lillian, chauffeured in from Vassar for the night, who was first to her feet, applauding loudly. Shrugging off their mother’s efforts to silence her, she triggered a standing ovation. The motion was duly carried by a large majority.

In the heady aftermath of his victory, it became clear that Manfred had delivered no more or less than had been expected of him. Yes, his peers mobbed him and showered him with compliments, but only as team-mates might congratulate a star batter who can always be relied upon to pull a winning home run out of the bag. There was no mistaking the fact that he was already a figure of some considerable standing among his Conservative Party cronies, admired and respected by the sons of some of the country’s most influential men, a few of whom also happened to be present that evening.

Gayle could still recall her father’s largesse with the Champagne in the bar of the Taft Hotel afterwards, the expression on his face as he surveyed the proceedings. It was a look not so much of paternal pride as of deep satisfaction. He had invested everything in Manfred, and Manfred had more than repaid the confidence placed in him.

Bathed in his reflected glory, Gayle and Lillian had found themselves surrounded by a pack of attentive young men, until ushered to the relative safety of a corner booth by Justin Penrose, Manfred’s closest friend. At midnight, when their parents finally prized them away from the rowdy gathering, Gayle was left in
little doubt that Justin wished to see her again. And her father let it be known that he thoroughly approved.

America’s entry into the war two years later, though a little inconvenient, was barely a setback to their father’s plans. It also meant that Manfred could enter the political arena with the added kudos of a sound military record.

The scene was now set. Gayle wasn’t sure of the exact details, though she knew there was talk of skipping over the State Assembly and making a play straight for membership of the New York State Senate. With elections coming up, it was time for some serious decisions to be made. Hence the weekend house party—an opportunity for some of those backing Manfred’s political career to put their heads together and determine the exact course of his candidature.

In truth, Gayle had known for several days now that the gathering would go ahead regardless of Lillian’s death. It would have been postponed well before if it was ever going to be. No, the discussion over dinner the previous evening had been a mere formality, the decision a foregone conclusion.

The most gratifying aspect of the evening had been Justin’s attitude towards her. Had she imagined the flutter of his fingertips against her waist as he stooped to kiss her cheek on his arrival? Had the kiss itself been less perfunctory than usual? Possibly. In the privacy of her bedroom, she had dismissed any lingering doubts. She knew the signals; she had, after all, been on the receiving end of them before. This was the reason she had been unable to sleep, the events of the evening tugging at her thoughts, even before Manfred and Justin started banging out numbers on the piano.

‘Father thinks we should take Senator Dale fishing,’ said Manfred.

‘Fishing?’

‘Game fishing, for tuna. Next weekend. You know, charter a boat in Montauk, make a day of it.’

‘Business and pleasure,’ said Gayle indifferently.

‘You think it’s a bad idea?’

‘I really wouldn’t know.’

‘Anyway, Richard’s going to look into it.’ He heaped some strawberry jam on to a slice of toast. ‘Where’s Father?’

‘Playing golf.’

‘Who with?’

‘Don’t worry, I don’t think you’re missing out on anything.’ The words came out wrong, the tone more aggressive than she had intended, but Manfred didn’t appear to notice. ‘He said he’d meet you at the club for lunch,’ she added.

‘You’re not coming?’

‘I’m going to see the fishermen, the ones who found Lilly.’

‘That’s right, I’d forgotten. Do you want me to go with you?’

‘It’s okay.’ She paused. ‘I want to take them something, but I can’t think what.’

‘Champagne. Raid the cellar.’

‘Champagne seems a little…celebratory.’

‘We served it after the funeral.’

‘That’s true.’

They sat in silence for a moment, then Manfred reached out, took her hand and squeezed it.

‘Gayle, you haven’t really talked about what happened. About Lilly.’ Gayle didn’t reply. ‘Maybe it’s not my place to say, but you might feel better if you did.’

‘You’re right,’ she said, removing her hand from his. ‘It’s not your place to say.’

She spotted the turning on her third pass, just as she was about to give up and go home. A sandy track, barely wide enough for a vehicle, snaked off through the pines on the south side of Montauk Highway.

There was no sign on the verge, nothing to indicate that someone lived at the end of the narrow trail. She was beginning to doubt that they did when, after a hundred yards or so, the trees petered out, giving way to an expansive view, the top of a barn showing in the distance above the crests of the rolling dunes.

She teased the car forward, steering to avoid the ruts. This
proved to be her undoing. The front wheels of the roadster sank into the soft sand beside the track, losing all purchase. The more she gunned the engine, the faster the wheels spun and the deeper the car settled.

‘Damn.’

She grabbed her handbag and the two bottles of Champagne, and set off on foot. Almost immediately she kicked off her shoes and tucked them under her arm.

She was sweating now, irritable, and it occurred to her that she must look like some slattern searching for a party.

The fisherman didn’t see or hear her approach. He was bent over the front of a battered truck, head in the engine, revving the motor loudly. He was wearing only a pair of tatty cotton trousers, and she could see the muscles in his shoulders bunching beneath the skin as he worked.

She didn’t call out; her shadow alerted him to her presence, startling him.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you. I’m looking for Conrad Labarde.’

He reached into the engine and killed the motor.

‘You just found him.’

‘I’m Lillian Wallace’s sister.’

‘Yes…’

He must have spotted the resemblance. There was oil on his hands, and what she first took to be oil smeared around his right eye and along the side of his chest. She quickly realized that what she was staring at was bruising.

‘Some gear fell on me,’ he said, reading her look.

‘These are for you, you and your friend, by way of thank you.’

He took the bottles of Champagne from her.

‘You look hot,’ he said. ‘Are you thirsty?’

‘A little.’

‘Come with me.’ He wandered off, leaving her little choice but to follow.

The house wasn’t at all what she’d been expecting. What
had
she been expecting? There were pictures and books and fine old pieces of furniture, albeit of a rustic nature. He obviously felt no inclination to make idle chat, and she browsed around while he washed his hands at the sink.

‘Here,’ he said, handing her a glass of water.

She had every intention of leaving as soon as she’d quenched her thirst, but when he indicated a chair at the end of the table she found herself sitting. He took a seat near her.

‘I’m sorry about your sister.’

‘It could have been worse.’

‘Worse than death?’

‘If you hadn’t caught her in your net she might never have been found.’ She paused. ‘Does that sound silly?’

‘No. We all look for small consolations at times like this.’

We. He was sending her a message that he too knew about loss, that he knew what she was going through. But he didn’t. Even if he thought he did, he didn’t. And she resented the complicity he was forcing upon her.

As if sensing this, he changed the subject. He asked about Lillian, remarking that since she had been buried in East Hampton she must have loved the place. Gayle found herself warming to the conversation, eager to talk. There was nothing pushy about his questions; he drew responses from her effortlessly. At a certain moment it occurred to her that she was satisfying a need in him, that his desire to understand the person he had only ever known as a corpse was a necessary part of putting the experience behind him. Against his wishes he had been written into the last chapter of Lillian’s life, and he had a desire to know the details of the story preceding his involvement.

There was something calming about his presence. He was considered in his comments, articulate when he made them, and his attentive gray eyes never left hers, not even for a moment.

She felt a momentary twinge of disappointment when he suggested that she must have things to do. He got to his feet.

‘I’ll get a tow rope,’ he said.

‘How did you know?’

He smiled. ‘Happens all the time.’

As she followed him from the house he turned to her. ‘I want to show you something first.’

He struck out across the dunes towards the ocean. She followed, intrigued, the hot sand scorching the soles of her feet, obliging her to tread lightly and quickly behind him.

Along the beach a scattering of people were huddled beneath their sun shades, sheltered from the midday sun. A dog scampered to and fro at the water’s edge, barking at the gulls.

Gayle hurried to the wash and cooled her feet in the spent waves.

‘That’s where we found her,’ he said, pointing down the beach. ‘About a hundred yards along.’

Gayle stared at the spot, aware that he was watching her intently.

‘I’m not sure I wanted to know that,’ she said.

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did you see her?’ he asked. ‘At the morgue?’

His tone had changed. In fact, his whole appearance had changed. He suddenly seemed very big. And very threatening.

‘I wanted to, but when it came to it, I couldn’t.’

He glanced back down the beach. ‘Maybe with time you’ll be glad you knew,’ he said, more gently.

She doubted it, but said nothing.

The rope was in the barn, coiled and hanging from a wooden peg.

‘You use all this…stuff?’ she asked, awed by the amount of equipment on display.

‘Pretty much.’

‘What’s this for?’

‘It’s a scallop dredge.’

‘And that?’

‘Eel trap.’

As he led her to the truck, he asked, ‘You eat fish?’

‘Yes.’

‘If you want, I’ll drop some by. Maybe a bluefish or two.’

‘That’s very kind, but you really don’t have to.’