“Nothing ambitious, an easy fifteen, sixteen miles in the sand with boots on.”
An old Jeep rolls in, and a former friend of mine named John Poulis hops out. Then Mike Caruso, another former friend, shows up on his Honda. At this point “former” describes most of my friends, and both cops stare through us as if we’re made of glass.
The next car into the lot is a shiny silver Datsun Z.
“Pretty sporty for thirty-four grand a year,” I say.
“How do you know how much he makes?” asks Kate.
“Let’s just say that if the admissions director of St. John’s Law School hadn’t been a hoops fan, I might be arriving for work myself right now.
“Officer Lindgren?” I call out, and the stocky brown-haired man stops in his tracks. “Could we talk to you a couple minutes?”
“That’s all I got. I’m late already.”
I do the introductions, and then Kate takes over.
“That anonymous call that came in about the gun,” asks Kate, “did it go directly to you or the main switchboard?”
“Directly to me,” says Lindgren.
“Is that normal? For an anonymous tip to be directed at a specific officer?”
“How should I know what’s normal? What are you getting at?”
“I’m trying to prepare a case for my client, Officer Lindgren. It’s pretty standard stuff. Why are you getting all defensive? What’s the problem here? Am I missing something?”
Watching Kate effortlessly rattle Lindgren’s cage will definitely go on our highlight film for today.
“What I mean is,” she continues, “isn’t it odd that a caller who knows who he’s talking to would be so anxious to conceal his identity?”
Lindgren adjusts his tone from combative to condescending. “Not at all. The caller is doing something frightening-getting involved in a murder case and potentially making dangerous enemies. That’s why every police department in America has an anonymous hotline.”
“But the caller didn’t use the anonymous hotline. He called you directly.”
“Maybe he’d seen me around. Maybe he felt more comfortable calling me. Who the hell knows? Anyway, kids, that’s all I got time for. Some people have to work for a living.”
“So the caller was a man,” says Kate. “You said he.”
“Did I?” says Lindgren, and practically walks through us into the back of the police station.
Five minutes later-when Kate drops me off at my place-a silver Mini Cooper is parked behind what’s left of my XKE. As I hop out of Kate’s car, the driver gets out of the Mini. Now what?
He’s about twenty-five, Indian or maybe Pakistani, and, if it’s the kind of detail that interests you, ridiculously handsome.
“I sincerely apologize for any inconvenience,” says the visitor, who introduces himself as Amin. “I’ve been sent by my employer to deliver an invitation to each of you, and lucky day for me, I’ve found both of you at once.”
“How’d you know who we are?”
“Everyone knows you two, Mr. Dunleavy.”
Amin presents us with two envelopes made out of the paper equivalent of, I don’t know, maybe cashmere. Our names are scrawled across them in dark-green script.
“Can I ask the name of your employer?”
“Of course,” says Amin with a practiced deadpan. “Steven Spielberg.”
Chapter 72. Loco
IF THE BW is going to keep me waiting every time we get together to talk business, I’ve got to do the same to the folks working under me. How else will they know where they stand in the pecking order?
So even though I see Officer Lindgren on the bench behind the East Deck Motel, I circle the block and let the cop cool his heels. That’s what the BW does to me, right?
This makes Lindgren crankier than usual, and when I finally sit beside him in the shade, he doesn’t bother to look up from his Guns amp; Ammo.
“I pegged you more for House and Garden or O.”
“You’re late.”
“Unavoidable,” I say. “What’s got your panties in a twist?”
“Halleyville’s lawyers, for one thing. They cornered me last night at the station. That snotty Ivy League bitch was all over me.”
“About what?”
“Why the call about the gun came directly to me and not through the main switchboard.”
I laugh, but it’s not that funny. “She’s just fishing in the dark.”
“I don’t think so. They’re onto something, and what I’d like to know is what are we going to do about it?”
“Not a thing. You expect me to kill somebody every time you get a heart palpitation? If you were the worrying type you should have stuck to the police manual and stayed away from drug-dealing slime like me. Give me your hand.”
“You a fag or something?” Lindgren says, and snorts out a laugh.
“Not that I’m aware of. Open your hand.”
You shouldn’t be a drug dealer if you don’t believe in the healing power of modern pharmacology, and when Hugo unclenches his fingers, I fill his palm with a dozen lovely white Vicodins.
“These little fellas will chill your ass out.”
“I think we got a real problem,” says Lindgren. “And I thought you’d want to be the first to know. But I’ll keep an open mind.”
And with that, Lindgren lays two Vicodin on his tongue, slips the rest into his shirt pocket, and marches off to fight crime in the Hamptons.
Chapter 73. Tom
I GUESS THIS is what you would call a high point, and actually, it is. At the very least, it’s a much-needed break for Kate and me.
Amin greets us as if we’re old pals and leads us through a succession of huge, airy rooms adorned with Picassos and Pollocks even I can recognize. Then it’s back outside to a flagstone terrace with endless views of Georgica Pond. I’ve thumbed through the mags with mansions shot like centerfolds, but maybe the real stuff never gets photographed, because this is way beyond that.
On the terrace a small cocktail party is in full swing, and the moment we step into it, Steven Spielberg, looking far more accessible without his baseball cap, disentangles himself from a nearby conversation.
“Tom! Kate! So wonderful to finally meet you,” he says as if only the most unlikely of circumstances could have delayed it this long, and waves over waiters bearing champagne and oysters.
“We feel the same way, Steven.” Kate grins so that I’m not really sure about her point of view here.
“To new friends then,” he says, “and, of course, to Dante Halleyville’s successful defense.” His bright, merry eyes light up as we take our first sip of his champagne. When I say “his,” I mean that literally, since it comes from his own Northern California vineyard.
Ten feet away, in front of a three-piece combo, a gorgeous black woman in a floor-length dress sings, “Just in time, I found you just in time,” and the air is full of silvery murmurings. Yet it’s obvious as the whiskers on Spielberg’s chin that Kate and I are the center of attention.
Then Steven-we’re on a first-name basis now-raises one hand as if he’s just remembered his hostly obligations and says, “Come! Let me introduce you.” We follow him from the periphery to the white-hot center, where the evening quickly slides from over the top to Twilight Zone.
“George and Julianne,” says Steven, “I’d like you to meet Kate and Tom.” And now we have no choice but to shoot the breeze with George Clooney and Julianne Moore, both of whom are as electrically on as if they are sitting on the hot seat next to Letterman, Leno, or Jon Stewart. Just as we’re getting slightly comfortable, it’s time to meet Clive Owen and Kate Winslet, Julia Roberts, Matt Damon, and Ashley Judd. The only unrecognizable face we’re introduced to belongs to Alan Shales, whose Oscars are for screenwriting.