Cop Job (27 page)

He also knew that even intuitive leaps had their own logic, a certain symmetry that you felt even before you could describe how all the component parts fit together.

I knew the feeling, which often resembled an attack of vertigo.

“He jumped,” I said, the words escaping before I had a chance to stop them.

And Edith’s great, good friend Gilliam just stared at me.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-O
NE

T
he only one in the room who didn’t immediately grasp the full implication was Detective Fenton, who scanned all our faces and said, “What? What?”

His cousin chose his words carefully.

“Our investigators determined that Mr. Madison’s death was an accident, based on the testimony of Mrs. Madison, who stated that the family’s cat had a habit of walking out on the ledge, and that her husband frequently retrieved the cat. On this occasion, he overreached and fell to his death.”

Jackie shook her head as if to dislodge the rush of thoughts crowding her mind.

“Of course,” she said. “If that was Edith’s statement, then your conclusions were well founded. Obviously there’s no evidence that would contradict her testimony,” she added, looking at me.

“Not as far as I know,” I said. “I’m just thinking hypothetically.”

Gilliam looked equal parts annoyed and relieved.

“So what if he did jump?” said Fenton, catching up with the conversation. “If she can survive getting grief counseling, she can survive a little change in the cause of death.”

“You’re not thinking this through,” said Jackie.

“I’m not?”

“While some may feel Edith should have revealed seeing a psychiatrist, the reason was understandable, and even laudable, and easily excused under the category of personal privacy. The difference that Sam is suggesting is that Edith made a sworn statement that her husband’s fall was an accident. If he committed suicide, she’s filed a false police report that was material in a police investigation, which is a crime. At least a misdemeanor, possibly a felony. It would at the very least end her candidacy.”

“Isn’t it wonderful to have an attorney present to advise us on matters of the law,” said Gilliam.

“I missed it, Josh,” said Fenton. “Don’t go bustin’ on the lady.”

Gilliam looked unhappy with the reprimand, but let it go.

“To get back to our reason for being here,” said Jackie, “I don’t think Edith would be pleased that we revealed her request for our help. We’d appreciate that staying between us.”

“Of course,” said Gilliam, though I wasn’t sure what he actually meant. “And meanwhile, if you do uncover malfeasance within the Southampton Town Police force, with evidence that would stand up in court, I can aid in alerting the proper people.”

“We appreciate that,” said Jackie.

“I don’t care where it goes, how far up the food chain,” he said. “Personal relationships have to be incidental when upholding the law.”

The words had the gloss of a sound bite for the press, but I felt like he meant it. And he wasn’t only talking about Ross and Bennie Gardella.

“We understand,” said Jackie, again using the first person plural to signal me this would be our shared position. Which she did a lot, not always successfully.

We sat through some more family talk between the cousins, with Fenton thanking Gilliam for letting us barge in on him. Gilliam assured him he was glad we did.

“Good discussion,” he said. “Help us be prepared if the shit hits the fan.”

You mean “when,” I thought, but kept my mouth shut to maintain solidarity with Jackie Swaitkowski.

“
I
F YOU
’
RE
right about Edith’s husband, she’s sunk and Veckstrom’s got the job,” she said, when we were back in the Volvo and heading east.

“I had a professor at MIT who said, ‘If you think it’s true, it probably is.’ ”

“What did he teach?”

“Zen Buddhism.”

“You do have a reason why you think her husband jumped,” she said.

“I do, but it’s part of a bigger idea that isn’t fully formed.”

“I knew it. You have a theory you’re not sharing with me.”

“Not a theory, just a guess. Of very recent vintage. Give me a chance to think about it.”

Luckily the day had worn her out and she didn’t have the energy to press me. Instead she let me divert her with an assessment of the year’s baseball season, a subject about which she had neither knowledge nor interest, so it was safe territory for both of us.

I
CONVINCED
Jackie to stick around when we reached Oak Point. Allison, Amanda, Nathan, and Joe Sullivan were out on Amanda’s patio enjoying the north-northeast breeze that often delivered perfect summer evenings to the Little Peconic Bay.

Allison was in her wheelchair looking pale and shrunken, but as we walked up to the patio I saw her smile at something Nathan was saying. I was pleased to see Amanda’s outdoor dry bar had been rolled out onto the paving stones, and even more delighted to see the Penguin ice bucket covered in condensation. Eddie barely stirred from his spot next to Amanda, who he could safely assume would slip him treats off the cheese and cracker tray. At least he wagged his tail at me, acknowledging that the serious food was only delivered next door.

The sun was where it was supposed to be over Robbins Island, getting ready to turn red and ignite a row of clouds on the horizon put there to make a flashy production out of the sunset.

The surface of the Little Peconic Bay was rippling, but the breeze had yet to push up respectable waves. Out of habit, I located a sailboat and tried to judge sea conditions by the angle of heel and the amount of sail the captain was putting into the wind. With a twinge, I decided conditions were likely perfect. Dry air, decent wind, moderate wave action, magic-hour light. I asked myself why I wasn’t out there, and the answer was the same as always. Too much happening on shore. This time that was indisputable, which made the other times seem foolish. I made a mental note. If I get out of this situation intact, I’m getting out on the water.

Jackie poured her requisite tall white wine. Then she brushed her big ball of strawberry blonde hair away from her face before pulling a chair up next to Allison, a not-so-subtle display of the wonders of reconstructive surgery.

“It went okay,” I said. “Do you know a deputy inspector named Josh Gilliam?” I asked Sullivan. “Runs a precinct on the Upper East Side. He’s Bill Fenton’s cousin.”

Sullivan said he’d heard of Gilliam from his time with Ross and Gardella, but never met him.

“Edith Madison’s apartment is in his jurisdiction,” said Jackie. “His detectives handled her husband’s death. Determined it accidental.”

“Was it?” Sullivan asked.

“No reason to think otherwise,” she said. “Unless you’re Sam, who also has no reason to think otherwise.”

“Contrarian suits him,” said Amanda.

“How ’bout that sunset?” I asked.

We lapsed into a frequently repeated appreciation for the rosy sparkle of late afternoon on the Little Peconic Bay. It gave me a chance to down half my tumbler, which did the job of settling the agitation that crackled like background static through my nervous system. A pack of cigarettes would have helped that, too, I thought, for the millionth time.

“Speaking of Edith Madison,” said Amanda, spoiling my diversion strategy, “she’s down in the polls. Not so much because of Veckstrom. Some people are questioning whether she really wants to win.”

“I’m one of those people,” said Jackie. “You can’t blame her. After all the years in the job, her reward is listening to Veckstrom and his party dump all over her performance.”

“And having her personal life dragged through the media,” said Amanda.

“If she quits now, she hands the job to Veckstrom,” said Jackie. “It’s too late for another contender.”

“That’d be a big disappointment to Oksana Quan,” I said.

“The Snow Queen,” said Allison. “That’s what we called her at RISD.”

“So you knew her,” said Amanda.

“A little. I don’t think anyone actually knew her, like, as friends. She just walked around campus looking gorgeous and then disappeared on breaks and weekends. The word was a guy at Brown. That happened. Not everybody liked the freaky, deaky social life at RISD.”

“She said they were all jealous of your talent,” said Amanda.

Allison looked surprised.

“They did? News to me.”

“I bet the guy was prelaw,” I said.

“Might explain it,” said Jackie.

Allison disagreed.

“There were a lot of brainy kids at RISD who ended up there through some romantic notion about the life of the artist,” she said, “or because they got accepted and didn’t know what else to do. You could take courses at Brown, and we’d see some of them drift away. By senior year, the hard core was still there spending all night in the studio and experimenting with their hair. I should have bought a tattoo franchise.”

“So Oksana bailed,” I said.

“I guess. She wasn’t at graduation. I assumed she finished over at Brown, though who knows. We didn’t exactly care what happened to the HPSS types.”

“HPSS?” Jackie asked.

“History, philosophy, and social sciences,” said Allison. “You could actually major in that if you didn’t like getting oil paint all over your clothes.”

“Sounds like prelaw,” said Jackie.

“Closest thing we had,” said Allison.

As they talked I imagined Oksana drifting like a wraith through the crowded, narrow streets of academic Providence, aloof from the burning passions of the confused creatives, yet possessing a passion of her own, finally realized as the fierce defender of another Snow Queen, this one doomed to fade back into the shadow world.

I managed to finish off my tumbler, and a second, by which time all I wanted was to fade back into my cottage next door, where with any luck I would get through to morning with the spirits that haunted my inner consciousness bludgeoned into submission.

P
ERHAPS INSPIRED
by the word bludgeon, I found myself the next morning on the way to Sonny’s boxing gym with my workout clothes and a tankard of dense coffee. Mostly on autopilot, I didn’t fully realize my actual motivation until I was pulling into the parking lot right behind Bennie Gardella. He gave me a blank look as we got out of our cars, but said nothing as I followed him into the gym.

And that was how it stood as we both went through warm-up exercises at opposite ends of the room. I’d always known the value of stretching, which at this point had nearly existential importance. So it was over a half hour before I put on my gloves and started working on the speed bag.

I rarely allowed my ego to infect any of my life’s pursuits, feeling that a wary humility was a safer posture, having seen hubris bring down any number of aspiring boxers, carpenters, and corporate executives. But I had a secret pride in my ability with the speed bag, and even at this stage of waning reflexes, I knew how to keep the thing chattering away without looking like I was much trying.

I often got a little grudging validation for this from the kids who hung around the gym, leading to more than one impromptu boxing lesson for the ones who also knew how to keep their own egos from cluttering up their progress.

So I wasn’t completely surprised to realize Gardella was standing there watching me, though it did disturb my rhythm. So as not to completely flub the performance, I stopped the bag with both gloves.

“Anything I can do for you?” I asked.

“Just watching the circus act,” he said.

He wore a set of gloves himself. They were well broken in and of an expensive type the pros used for sparring. He was shaking out his arms as if getting ready for just that.

“Want to see how that fancy shit works out in the ring?” he asked me.

I said I already knew.

“And I don’t do that anymore. Doctor’s orders.”

“Old age?”

“Concussions,” I said. “Three at least. You’re only allowed so many.”

He didn’t exactly jeer at me, but I could feel waves of menace coming off his face. I let go of the bag and adjusted my stance.

“So not just because you’re a pussy?” he said.

A blanket of weariness settled over me.

“Jesus Christ, Gardella, what’s with the hostility?”

He didn’t hesitate to answer.

“I don’t like you,” he said. “I don’t like amateurs with their noses stuck up the asses of professional cops. People who never had to actually live with the responsibility for containing the lowlifes of the world while the world treats us like we’re even lower. Self-righteous suck-ups like you who hang around cops like a groupie trying to fuck some brainless rock star.”

As with many contact sports, boxing is in great part a head game, and not just as a punching bag. You need to have as much control over your emotions as your body. Muhammad Ali demonstrated that with poetry and precision. Gardella would have to do better than insult to goad me.

“You won’t believe me,” I said, “but I admire what you did back in your undercover days. From what I hear, you did a lot. So maybe that explains the bad attitude. I don’t know, but I’m not risking dementia just to help out with your anger management therapy.”

He stood and processed that for a few moments, though it didn’t seem to quell the animus.

“I know what you’re up to, Acquillo,” he said, pointing at me with his glove. “I’ve been on you every step of the way. You want to drag Ross and the Southampton cops into some trumped-up corruption charge. Some snitches get wasted and everybody’s first thought is dirty cops are in on it. That’s bullshit. Nobody’s going down for this other than the bastards who actually did it. I’m here to make sure that’s what happens.”

One of the most important benefits of keeping your head in these situations is it allows the thinking part of your brain to keep working while the more animal parts are picking out targets.

“Who have you been talking to?” I asked him. “I thought Ross brought you out here to help him look inside his department. And not just their filing system.”

“Is that what he told you?”