Two Time (9 page)

“Goddammit,” I said, in the direction of Reginas house.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I wasn’t working on my addition like I’d sworn I would. I was driving back over to see Appolonia Eldridge and her lawyer. Earlier I’d reached Joe Sullivan on his cell phone.

“So you really didn’t learn shit,” he said after I relayed what I learned.

“I don’t remember seeing Ivor Fleming in any of the reports.”

“The Feds said they checked out all his customers.”

“You don’t think we should talk to him?”

“You’ll need a good reason to go back at a money guy like Fleming.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do. Get a reason.”

“What?”

“Not sure yet. I’ll let you know.”

“Talk to me.”

“I want to try something out on Mrs. Eldridge. Just let me do it without all the explanations.”

“Don’t fuck me up.”

“Never on purpose.”

He wanted more, but I’d rushed him off the phone. It was like that with Sullivan. Too much information was rarely a good thing. He was better with faits accomplis.

After Sullivan I’d called Gabe Szwit, whom I thought would be a hard sell, but after I gave him my idea he surprised me.

“Let me call Appolonia,” he told me, “and see if we can meet again at her house.”

So I was in the Grand Prix heading over to Riverhead again. Only this time I had Eddie in the backseat where he belonged. It was cooler, and I just couldn’t leave him in the house again. Dogs have to be out in the air. Or the wind, in Eddie’s case, his head stuck out the window, ears swept back, tongue flapping out the corner of his mouth.

“If you catch anything, it counts against dinner,” I told him.

When I got to Appolonia’s I rolled the windows up just enough to discourage him from jumping out of the car.

“Try to keep a low profile,” I told him as I walked away from my inconspicuous
’67
Pontiac Grand Prix.

A pair of kids in hockey gear watched from the street. A mailman hopped from mailbox to mailbox down the perfect, flat black asphalt. Two doors down a woman was trying to adjust her sprinkler without getting wet, unsuccessfully. I listened for other dogs that could set off Eddie, but all I heard was the distant sound of a powerful motorboat starting a run across the Great Peconic Bay.

Belinda answered the door. As friendly and welcoming as always. Appolonia and Szwit were waiting in the living room,
equipped with tea and a pot of coffee for me. I felt like one of the gang.

“Hello, Mr. Acquillo.”

“Thanks for seeing me again.”

Appolonia was dressed in a men’s oxford-cloth shirt and gray slacks. She looked like a starving arctic bird. Gabe was still in a suit, but felt secure enough to leave his briefcase on the floor. Progress.

“I filled Mrs. Eldridge in on your idea as well as I could,” he said. “I thought it had merit.”

“I thought it did, too,” said Appolonia. “But why don’t you go through it again.”

“Okay I don’t think I can learn any more about your husband’s murder than the cops, the Staties, the FBI, Homeland Security, etcetera. But I can’t see how it’ll hurt if I poke around a little. Only thing is, I’m just a guy. An unofficial guy. I can’t, I won’t, go around pretending to be a cop or a PI. That feels stupid, and looks stupid when I’m exposed. I need some official reason to be talking to people.”

“Your police friend Officer Sullivan seems to think you’re official enough.”

“He shouldn’t. I need genuine cred.”

“Cred?” said Appolonia.

“He means credentials. Street patois,” said Gabe, looking at me like, hey man, I know some shit, too.

“Which you can give me,” I said to Appolonia.

“Me?”

“Yeah. You own a business. Might be a business now in name only, but it’s still a legal LLC, with assets and liabilities.”

“The liabilities are trivial. And Jonathan was the only asset.”

“Not really. There’s a client list I bet other guys like Jonathan would love to get their hands on.” I didn’t mention that Alena had already handed it over to me with hardly a
thought. “Took him years to develop, and by definition, every name is a prospect.”

Appolonia blanched a little at the implication of that, but nodded thoughtfully.

“Sam thought he could be assigned the task of assessing the quality of the list—this is the part that appeals to me—as a means of putting a value on the operation as a whole. We might be able to sell the company, Appolonia, not simply liquidate.”

“I have plenty of money, Gabe.”

“I know, but why leave anything on the table? I want you to have all you can out of this terrible tragedy.”

He said it like he really meant it. It struck me that Gabe had more than a professional interest in his client. Which was okay with me. I wanted the best for her, too.

“So, what do we need to do?” she asked.

“Simple,” I said. “Hire me as a consultant. You don’t have to pay me, just confirm I’m working for you if anyone calls. Tell them I’m transitioning Jonathan’s business. That’s the kind of thing consultants do. Transition things.”

“I also like the part where we don’t pay him,” said Gabe, attempting a little joke.

“Okay?” I asked.

Appolonia looked at me in that calm but studied way she had.

“You don’t think you’ll learn anything about Jonathan’s death. But you want to try, is that right? It’s not about financial gain for any of us.”

“Don’t forget they almost killed me, too. And messed up my friend Jackie. If I don’t try I’ll feel like a bum. That’s all.”

“I wouldn’t want you to feel like a bum.”

“Good. So that’s it. Gabe ll handle the paperwork. I’ll let you know what I find out, either way”

“I don’t suppose there’s any harm in it.”

“So it’s settled,” said Gabe, reaching for his briefcase to pull out some forms for me to sign. Johnny-on-the-spot.

“Just one question for you, Sam,” said Appolonia.

“Sure.”

“Why so long? This happened months ago. Why the new interest?”

I didn’t have a good answer for that, but I tried to answer truthfully, the best I could.

“I’ve had some trouble in my life. I don’t need any more. In fact, avoiding trouble has become my life’s vocation. Then this thing happened. I guess I tried to pretend it didn’t matter, but it does.”

“A. knight errant.”

“Oh, no. Don’t make me into a nice person. I’m not. I’m doing this for my own reasons.”

“I could say the same thing about myself.”

“Good, then we’re square.”

“We’re square,” said Appolonia as she rose from her chair and floated out of the room, leaving me with Gabriel Szwit, who watched her with the eager hope I’d seen in the eyes of devoted retrievers. I felt sorry for him. He didn’t know how hopeless it was for him.

Not yet, anyway.

—

I spent the rest of that day cutting bird’s mouths into rafters to finish framing out the roof of the addition. It was warm, but a cloud cover held back the worst of the sun. I drank a lot of water and worked at a steady, deliberate pace. Eddie hunkered down under the grandiflora hydrangea by the breakwater and kept watch. I tried to clear my mind of everything
but dimensions and construction theory, but it was hard to do. Jonathan Eldridge had a way of creeping onto the site and slowing progress.

I was about to go down the ladder to get a beer when Jackie Swaitkowski pulled into the driveway. She was in Bobby’s claptrap Toyota pickup. She got out and waved at me with a manila envelope.

“I got your message about the client list,” she said as I led her to the chairs and beer cooler. “It’s all here. Alena divided it into hostile and non-hostile, an easy task since there’re only three hostiles listed.”

We sat down, and after digging out Heinekens for both of us, I read through the papers. There was a name, address, email and dates of engagement for each client. Only eighteen of them. That surprised me.

“Me, too,” said Jackie, reading my mind. “Pretty exclusive club. Smells like big money, not just investors, but PE types.”

“PE?”

“Private equity. Large individual investors. Guys looking for unconventional opportunities, large positions, start-ups, that stuff. I emailed Alena, who said as much. Jonathan was paid a fee, a percentage of assets invested, to uncover opportunities and vet companies clients might already be looking at. Sounds like fun.”

“You’d hate it.”

“Probably.”

“So, Ivor Fleming’s a hostile. And a woman. Joyce Whithers.”

“Owns a restaurant in Watermill. Alena just said ‘rhymes with rich.’”

“And a guy named Butch Ellington.”

“Jonathan’s brother.”

“Ellington?”

“Real name’s Arthur Eldridge. Changed it just to piss off
his brother, according to Alena. A play on Butch Cassidy and his mother’s maiden name. For reasons unknown.”

“But he was a client.”

“As Alena put it, blood and water and all that.’ They managed his retirement account. She said Butch had plenty of money. Successful artist. But pretty whacked out, which I guess goes with the territory. Nothing like Jonathan.”

“The wonder of genetics.”

“Ivor Fleming’s got a house out here, in Sagaponack. Alena gave me an address and a phone number.”

“Have you tried to reach the Fed who took all the computer files?”

“Warming up to it. Need a good shtick.”

I told her I’d been retained to valuate Jonathan’s business. She could play my lawyer.

“I thought I was your lawyer.”

“My financial consultant lawyer.”

“It’ll take about a half a second for him to tag us as the only survivors of the bomb blast. He won’t like it.”

“Then show him a little tit. That always works.”

“Okay Good idea.”

We drank our beers for a while in silence, watching the sailboats out on the Peconic try to make some headway in the turgid summer air. Then Jackie noticed the gray Audi A4 parked in Reginas driveway.

“Hey somebody move in?”

“I hope not.”

“That’s neighborly.”

“Hate crowds.”

“That looks like Amanda’s car.”

“It is.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s her house now. Actually, it’s her peninsula. And the peninsula next door and all parts in between.”

“Not this part.”

“You knew this could happen.”

“Happen?”

“That house has the best view in the area, except for yours. She can live anywhere she wants now that she’s divorced Roy. Him defrauding her providing adequate grounds, I guess. Not that you need anything like that in New York.”

“How’s that beer?”

“You’re not going to talk about it. You’ll never talk about it.”

“I want to talk about Ivor Fleming.”

“Man, you’re a pigheaded bastard.”

I had Ivor’s file open in my lap.

“So Fleming’s an alchemist,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Scrap-metal baron. Turns iron into gold.”

“Apparently at least from what Alena said. Came from Brooklyn. Has a big processing plant up island. Sells recycled steel, mostly to car manufacturers, here and overseas. That’s all I know till I do some research.”

“Tough business. All rust, heat and sharp edges.”

“My guess is Ivor’s no pussycat.”

“Don’t mention cats around Eddie. Gets him worked up.”

Jackie hung around with me for another beer, then left me to finish up the rest of the rafters. She didn’t press me about Amanda, my new next-door neighbor, for which I was grateful. Like I told Appolonia, I’d been trying hard to avoid trouble in any form, and there was nothing about Amanda Battiston that didn’t feel like trouble.

S
AGAPONACK IS
a sprawling billionaire preserve along the ocean in the Town of Southampton. A lot of stupid big houses were built there in the eighties and nineties, and development was still going strong in the new century. When I was a kid I used to ride through the area on my bike. Then it was mostly farmland with an occasional summer bungalow, but I’d long since given up those associations, as if my childhood had taken place in another part of the universe.

I was driving over to Ivor Fleming’s house with the windows down to mix some air in with the cigarette smoke and smell of Viennese cinnamon from the coffee place on the corner in the Village. I missed having Eddie to run back and forth between the two rear windows searching for ground threats, like summer people walking miniature purebreds, but it was still too hot to leave him in the car. I’d actually snuck out the basement hatch so I wouldn’t have to endure him looking at me with that what-the-fuck look on his face.

Not surprisingly, Ivor’s house was oversized and foolishly conceived in the fashionable dormer-ridden, cedar-shaked, postmodern vernacular of the times. It had a full length porch along the front of the house and a big circular driveway to allow maximum display area for indigenous and foreign luxury cars.

It was Saturday, so I thought the chances were good I’d catch him at the house. I parked behind a shimmering black Mercedes, climbed the porch steps and rang the doorbell.

A Doberman answered the door. Or, at least tried to knock it down from the other side. I looked back over my shoulder to plot an escape route. Then a woman’s voice, speaking urgently in Spanish, quieted the dog. I was glad I’d left Eddie at home. He’d scratch the hell out of the Grand Prix trying to defend my honor. Doberman or not.

“’Ello?” said the little Spanish woman who opened the door.

I held up the letter Gabe had drafted for me.

“Is Mr. Fleming home?”

“He know you coming here?”

I shook the letter.

“I just need to ask him a few questions. He’ll want to see me.”

“He not tell me you’re here.”

I slipped Gabe’s letter through the door opening.

“I’ll wait.”

The door closed and I could hear the woman drag the Doberman across the tile floor. A lot of time went by, so I sat in one of Ivor’s big white caned chairs. Victorian, with a high back. Not too comfortable, but sturdy. Creaked when you shifted around, which I did a lot while waiting for Ivor.

“I already talked to the police,” a man’s voice said through the closed screen door. I stood up.