Plum Island (44 page)

“How did it pop up?”

When I popped your ex-girlfriend.
Actually, I had a more polite reply and said, “I was just talking to somebody about the case, you know, about Tom and Judy
and their love of wine and how they were so pleased to know you. Anyway, this person happened to mention that she also knew
you and knew Tom and Judy. So, that’s how your name came up.”

He wouldn’t go for the bait and replied, “And that’s why you’re here?”

“Well, no.” I didn’t elaborate. I let it sit. He was still standing, the window at his back. I walked around his desk and
looked out the window. “What a view.”

“The best view on the North Fork, unless you live in a lighthouse.”

“Right.” Mr. Tobin’s view was to the north, across his acres of vineyards. A few farms and orchards within the vineyards created
a sort of patchwork effect which was very nice. In the far distance, the land rose up into the glacial bluffs, and from this
height, I could actually see over them to the Sound. I said, “Do you have binoculars?”

He hesitated, then went to a credenza and fetched me a pair of binoculars.

“Thanks.” I focused on the Sound and commented, “I can see the Connecticut coastline.”

“Yes.”

I craned to the left and focused on the bluff I thought might be Tom and Judy’s. I said to Mr. Tobin, “I just learned that
the Gordons bought an acre of bluff out there. Did you know that?”

“No.”

That’s not what Emma told me, Fredric.
I said, “They could have used some of your business sense. They paid twenty-five Gs for a parcel that couldn’t be developed.”

“They should have known if the development rights had been sold to the county.”

I put down the binoculars and said, “I didn’t say anything about the development rights being sold to the county. I said they
couldn’t develop their parcel. That could be because of zoning, no well water, no electric service, or whatever. Why did you
think the development rights had been sold on their land?”

He replied, “Actually, I may have heard that.”

“Oh. Then you did know they bought a piece of land.”

“I think someone mentioned it to me. I didn’t know where the land was. Only that it came without development rights.”

“Right.” I turned back to the window and trained Tobin’s binoculars on the bluffs again. To the west, the high ground dropped
off where the Mattituck Inlet came through, and I could see the area known as Captain Kidd’s Trees and Captain Kidd Estates.
To the far right, the east, I could see clearly as far as Greenport and could also make out Orient Point and Plum Island.
I said, “This is better than the observation deck in the Empire State Building. Not as high, but—”

“How can I help you, Mr. Corey?”

I ignored his question and said, “You know, you’re on top of the world. I mean, look at all of this. Four hundred acres of
prime real estate, a house on the water, a restaurant, a Porsche, and who knows what else. And you sit here in this five-story
tower—what’s on the fifth floor, by the way?”

“My apartment.”

“Wow. Wow. I mean, do the ladies like that or what?”

He didn’t respond to that and said, “I spoke to my attorney after I saw you yesterday.”

“Did you?”

“And he advised me not to speak to the police without counsel present.”

“That’s your right. I told you that.”

“Further inquiries by my attorney turn up the fact that you are no longer employed by Chief Maxwell as a consultant in this
case, and that, in fact, you were not employed by the township when you spoke to me.”

“Well, now, that’s a debatable point.”

“Debatable or not, you have no official status here any longer.”

“Right. And since I’m not the police any longer, you can speak to me. That works.”

Fredric Tobin ignored this and said, “My attorney promised to cooperate with the town police, until he discovered that Chief
Maxwell doesn’t need or want his or my cooperation. Chief Maxwell is annoyed that you came and questioned me. You have embarrassed
me and him.” Mr. Tobin added, “I am a generous contributor to key politicians here, and I’ve been very generous with time
and money to renovate historic homes, put up historical markers, contribute to the hospital and other worthy charities, including
the Police Benevolent Association. Do I make myself clear?”

“Oh, absolutely. About ten sentences ago. I just came here to see if I could take you to lunch.”

“I have a lunch date, thank you.”

“Okay, maybe some other time.”

He glanced at his watch and announced, “I really have to go.”

“Sure. I’ll go downstairs with you.”

He took a deep breath and nodded.

We left his office and went into the reception area. He said to his receptionist, “Mr. Corey and I have concluded our business,
and it will not be necessary for him to return again.”

Wow, talk about polite. This guy could slip you the greased weenie, and you wouldn’t even feel it for a few days.

Mr. T put his key in the elevator lock, and it arrived in short order. We got in, and on the way down, to break the awkward
silence, I said, “You know that Merlot I bought? Well, it came in handy. This is really stupid, maybe funny, but I don’t think
you’ll find it funny—I had to use the stuff to clean birdshit off my windshield.”

“What?”

The elevator door opened, and we walked out into the common area. I said, “A big gull dive-bombed my wind-shield.” I explained.
He glanced at his watch again. I concluded, “The half I drank was very good. Not too forward.”

He said, “That’s a terrible waste of vintage wine.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

He went through the door that connected to the visitors’ reception area. I walked with him.

Out in the parking field, I said, “By the way, the lady who made you pop into my head—remember?”

“Yes.”

“She said she was a friend of yours. But a lot of people claim to be your friend, like the Gordons, but they’re just acquaintances
who want to bask in your reflected light.”

He didn’t reply. It’s hard to bait a man who’s playing Lord of the Manor. Mr. Tobin was not going to lose his cool.

I said, “Anyway, she said she was your friend. Do you know Emma Whitestone?”

He may have broken his stride a bit, then continued on and stopped at his car. He said, “Yes, we dated about a year ago.”

“And you stayed friends?”

“Why not?”

“All my ex’s want to murder me.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

I chuckled at that one. I mean, it was odd that I still kinda liked this guy, even though I suspected that he’d murdered my
friends. Don’t get me wrong—if he really did it, I’d do my best to see him get the hot squat, or whatever this state decides
to use when they dispatch the first condemned murderer. For now, if he was polite, I’d be polite.

The other thing that was so bizarre is that since the last time we’d spoken, we had developed something in common. I mean,
we had both gone where few men had gone before … well, maybe more than a few. I wanted to kind of slap him on the back and
say, “Hey, Freddie, was it as good for you as it was for me?” or something like that. But gentlemen don’t kiss and tell.

Fredric Tobin was saying, “Mr. Corey, I sense that you think I know more than I’m telling you about the Gordons. I assure
you I don’t. However, if the county or town police wish to take a statement from me, I’ll be happy to oblige. Meanwhile, you’re
welcome here as a customer, and you’re welcome to my home as an invited guest. You are not welcome to my office, and you’re
not welcome to question me any further.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“Good day.”

“Have a good lunch.” He got into his Porsche and off he went.

I looked back at the Tobin tower flying the black Tobin flag. If Mr. Tobin had any physical evidence to hide, it might be
at his waterfront home or perhaps in his apartment on the top floor of that tower. Obviously, a consent search was out of
the question, and no judge was going to issue a search warrant, so it looked like I’d have to issue a midnight search warrant
to myself.

Back in my Jeep and on the road again. I called my answering machine and retrieved two messages. The first was from an unidentified
Snippybitch from the NYPD Absence Control Unit telling me my physical was moved up to next Tuesday and asking me to acknowledge
the message. Whenever the bosses can’t get ahold of you, they ask personnel or payroll section or health services division
to call you about something that you have to reply to. I hate sneakiness.

The next message was from my former partner, Beth Penrose. She said, “Hi, John. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner, but
it’s been crazy here. Anyway, I know you’re not officially involved with the case, but I have a few things I’d like to discuss
with you. Why don’t I come out tomorrow afternoon? Call me or I’ll call you, and we’ll come up with a time and place. Take
care.”

So. The tone was friendly, but not as friendly as when we’d last spoken in person. Not to mention the kiss on the cheek. I
suppose it’s not a good idea to be too gushy on an answering machine. More to the point, whatever heat had developed during
that intense two days would naturally cool off when she returned to her turf and her own world. It happens.

Now she wanted to discuss a few things with me, which meant she wanted to know what, if anything, I’d discovered. To Beth
Penrose, I had become just another witness. Well, maybe I was being cynical. Though maybe I had to move Beth Penrose out of
my mind in order to fit Emma White-stone in. I was never good at balancing multiple relationships. It’s worse than carrying
a dozen homicide cases at the same time, and a lot more dangerous.

Anyway, I needed a gift for Emma, and I spotted an antique shop on Main Road. Perfect. I pulled over and got out. The wonderful
thing about America is that there are more antiques in circulation than were originally made.

I rummaged around inside the musty place and the proprietress, a nice little old lady, asked me if she could help.

“I need a gift for a young lady.”

“A wife? Daughter?”

Someone I don’t know well but had sex with.
“A friend.”

“Ah.” She showed me a few things, but I’m totally clueless about antiques. Then I had a brilliant idea and asked her, “Are
you a member of the Peconic Historical Society?”

“No, but I belong to the Southold Historical Society.”

Good lord, there were certainly enough of these things around. I asked, “Would you know Emma Whitestone?”

“I surely do. A very fine young lady.”

“Exactly. I’m looking for something for her.”

“How nice. What is the occasion?”

Standard postcoital token of affection and thanks.
“She’s helped me do some research in the archives.”

“Oh, she’s very good at that. What were you looking for?”

“Well … this is silly, but ever since I was a kid, I was fascinated by pirates.”

She sort of chuckled. Maybe cackled. She said, “The famous Captain Kidd was a visitor to our shores.”

“Was he?”

“There were many pirates who came through here before the Revolution. They plundered the French and Spanish in the Caribbean,
then came north to spend their ill-gotten gains, or to refit their ships. Some settled in these parts.” She smiled and said,
“With all that gold and jewels, they quickly became leading citizens.” She added, “Many an original fortune around here was
founded on pirate’s plunder.”

I sort of liked the old-fashioned way the woman spoke. I commented, “Many a modern-day fortune has corporate piracy behind
it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that, but I do know that these drug runners today are much like the old pirates.” She added,
“When I was a girl, we had the rum runners. We’re law-abiding people here, but we’re on the sea routes.”

“Not to mention the Atlantic Coastal Flyway.”

“That’s for birds.”

“Right.”

After another minute of chat, I introduced myself as John, and she introduced herself as Mrs. Simmons. I asked her, “Does
the Southold Historical Society have any information on pirates?”

“We do. Though not much. There are some original documents and letters in the archives. And even a reward poster in our little
museum.”

“Would you happen to have an authentic pirate treasure map I could photocopy?”

She smiled.

I asked her, “Do you know Fredric Tobin?”

“Well, doesn’t everyone? Rich as Croesus.”

Who?
I asked, “Does he belong to the Southold Historical Society? Mr. Tobin, not Croesus.”

“No, but Mr. Tobin’s a generous contributor.”

“Does he visit your archives?”

“I understand he did. Though not in the last year or so.”

I nodded. I had to keep reminding myself that this wasn’t Manhattan, that this was a community of about twenty thousand people
and that while it wasn’t literally true that everyone knew everyone else, it was true that everyone knew someone who knew
someone else. For a detective, this was like walking knee-deep in pay dirt.

Anyway, at least one of my searches was over, and I asked Mrs. Simmons, “Could you recommend something for Ms. Whitestone?”

“What is your price range?”

“Nothing is too good for Ms. Whitestone. Fifty dollars.”

“Oh … well …”

“A hundred.” She smiled and produced a porcelain chamber pot with a big jug handle, decorated with painted roses. She said,
“Emma collects these.”

“Chamber pots?”

“Yes. She uses them as planters. She has quite a collection.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. I’ve been holding this for her to see. It’s late Victorian. Made in England.”

“Okay … I’ll take it.”

“It’s actually a bit over a hundred dollars.”

“How big a bit?”

“It’s two hundred.”

“Has it ever been used?”

“I imagine so.”

“Do you take Visa?”

“Of course.”

“Can you wrap it?”

“I’ll put it in a nice gift bag.”

“Can you put a bow on the handle?”

“If you’d like.”