“I want to take a couple of days off.”
“Sure. You going out of town?”
“I thought I’d take a look at Annetta’s place in the Hamptons.”
“Going alone?”
“I thought I’d ask my friend Betty,” she said.
“Taking the train?”
“I own three cars, remember?”
“Oh, right. Sure, take the time.”
“You can reach me on my cell,” she said. “It’ll be almost like having me here.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Yeah, sure,” she muttered to herself. “See you soon.”
Eddie left town in a four-year-old Mercedes station wagon with only thirty thousand miles on the odometer. He and Mac drove the Long Island Expressway to the end, then used the GPS to guide them.
“What’s the address?” Mac asked.
“Further Lane, East Hampton.”
“What number?”
“I’ll know it when I see it.”
Mac entered Further Lane into the GPS. “We’re off and running,” he said.
By mid-afternoon they were in East Hampton. They picked up some groceries and drove to Further Lane. “That one,” Eddie said as they drove past.
“You want to wait until dark?” Mac asked.
“Nah, we can park where the car won’t be seen from the street.” Eddie made a left turn and drove into the driveway.
“Very nice,” Mac said. “Is there a security system?”
“What if there is?”
“I might be able to deal with it, if it’s one I know.”
Eddie pulled into a parking spot. “Okay, deal with it.”
Joan and her friend Betty left Joan’s new house in Annetta’s Mercedes-Benz S550 convertible. “Pretty snazzy car,” Betty said.
“If you’re inheriting, why not go for snazzy?”
“I can’t argue with that.”
Joan headed for the LIE.
Mac got them into the house without setting off any alarms, and they unloaded their things and the groceries.
“You cooking?” Mac asked doubtfully.
“Nah, let’s go into the village and get something. There are restaurants still open, off season.”
“As long as you’re buying,” Mac said.
“I’m buying,” Eddie replied. His trust fund was working again, and he had plenty of cash, a credit card, and a checkbook.
They got into the car and drove away. As they turned toward the village, another Mercedes, a convertible, passed them going the other way.
“I guess a Mercedes is pretty good camouflage out here,” Mac said.
“Yep. One thing, Mac.”
“What’s that?”
“We don’t want to get into any scrapes out here. We want to fit in. The cops don’t bother you when you fit in.”
“Does my blazer look okay?”
“Yeah, everything works, except your haircut.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Grow some hair.”
“Right away?”
“As soon as possible.”
Joan pulled into the driveway. “There’s a light on in the kitchen,” she said. “One upstairs, too.”
“The maid, maybe?”
“She doesn’t come until the first of the week.”
“She must have left it on the last time she was here.”
Joan put the car in the garage, and they carried their things inside.
“Wow!” Betty said, looking around. “I’ve always wanted a friend with a house like this.”
“Well, now you’ve got one.”
“Pity you’re not an eligible bachelor.”
“You had one of those, and you divorced him,” Joan said.
Betty looked in the fridge. “There’s eggs, bacon, and orange juice here,” she said.
“I’d better speak to the maid when she comes back,” Joan replied.
Thirty-Seven
Eddie and Mac finished their steaks, had a couple more drinks, then drove back to Further Lane.
“There are more lights on than when we left,” Mac said.
“They’re on a timer,” Eddie replied. “Keeps guys like you away.”
“Let’s go in easy,” Mac said. “These people could have a shotgun or something.”
“Maybe we just give it a pass,” Eddie said. “Go to a hotel.”
“Nah,” Mac said. “You just stay behind me. I’ll handle it.”
“Wait a minute, Mac...”
But Mac was already through the kitchen door. “Just stay behind me.” He drew a pistol from his jacket pocket.
“Where the hell did you get a gun?” Eddie asked.
“From your sock drawer,” Mac replied. “Shhhh.” He walked into the kitchen, looked around, then walked over to the bottom of the stairs. “Somebody’s up there,” he whispered.
“Mac, let’s get out of here!” Eddie whispered.
“Listen, you, down there!” A woman’s voice called out. “I’m armed. You leave the house right now, or I’m going to use it!”
Eddie froze in his tracks, but Mac was slowly climbing the stairs, the pistol held out in front of him. “If you’ve got a gun, you’d better drop it and come down here right now,” Mac yelled. “I’m not kidding!” He kept climbing, and Eddie lost sight of him.
“Freeze!” the woman yelled. “Or I’ll fire!”
“Yeah, sure, lady. You just come down here and be nice to me, and everything will be all right!”
Eddie took a few steps forward, until he could see Mac’s feet. Then there came a roar from above, and Mac flew backward down the stairs, firing his gun at the wall.
Eddie didn’t hesitate. He turned and ran out the back door, got the station wagon started, backed out of his space, and gunned it down the driveway. He checked the rearview mirror, but nobody was following him. The house disappeared behind the trees. He reached Further Lane, turned left, and drove fast. There were no lights on in the houses, and no cars in sight. He slowed to a more legal speed. He didn’t need any tickets tonight. He made his way to the Long Island Expressway, set the cruise control to the speed limit, and concentrated on keeping the car in the correct lane.
He took deep breaths and, gradually, his trembling stopped, and he began to feel normal again.
Joan switched on the lights and looked down the stairs. She could see the bottoms of a pair of shoes. And as she crept down the stairs, her .45 held out in front of her, she saw the rest of him. His chest was a mess, and a couple of steps below him, a chrome, short-barreled pistol lay there, cocked. She edged her way past the man, watching for any signs of movement. His eyes were open, and there was an expression of mild surprise on his face, but he did not move or breathe. She reached the bottom of the stairs, went into the living room, turned on a lamp, picked up a phone, and called 911.
“East Hampton Police, Sergeant Bell speaking,” a woman’s voice said. “What is your emergency?”
“My name is Joan Robertson. I’m at the Charles home on Further Lane. There is an armed man in the house, and he has been shot in the chest. Please send police and an ambulance.”
“We know the house, Ms. Robertson,” the sergeant said. “Do you know if the man is dead?”
“He doesn’t appear to be breathing, and his eyes are open.”
“Someone will be right there.”
“Thank you.” Joan hung up and called another number.
“Hello,” a sleepy voice said.
“It’s Joan. I’m at the East Hampton house, and I just shot a man. I think he’s dead.”
“Hang up, call 911, then call me back. I’m getting dressed.”
“I’ve already called 911. They’re on their way.”
“Are you hurt in any way?”
“No, I’m fine. I’m just scared.”
“Okay, I’m going to try to get a chopper out there. What’s the address?”
She gave it to him.