Plum Island

"This has nothing to do with germs. The victims happened to work on Plum Island, but that's only a coincidence."

"Yeah, right."

I retrieved the stack of computer printouts and walked toward the sliding glass door.

Sally called out, "I don't like how this crime scene is being handled."

I didn't reply.

I walked down to the bay where a nice bench faced the water. I threw the purloined papers on the bench and stared out at the bay.

It was breezy enough to keep the gnats and mosquitoes busy treading air and away from me. Little ripples rode the bay and rocked the Gordons' boat down at the dock. White clouds sailed past the big, bright moon, and the air smelled more of the land than the sea as the light wind shifted around and blew from the north.

Somewhere, somehow, through osmosis, I guess, I'd begun to understand the elemental forces of land and sea around me. I suppose if you add up all the two-week summer vacations out here when I was a kid and the autumn weekends, it's not too surprising that something seeped into my urban brain.

There are times I want to get out or the city, and I think about some place like this. I guess I should come out here in the winter and spend a few months in Uncle Harry's big drafty house and see if I become an alcoholic or a hermit. Hell, if people keep getting bumped off around here, the Southold Town Board will make me a full-time homicide consultant at a hundred bucks a day and all the clams I can eat.

I was uncharacteristically ambivalent about returning to duty. I was ready to try something else, but I wanted it to be my own decision, not the decision of the docs; also, if the quackers said I was through, I couldn't find the two hombres who plugged me. That was serious unfinished business. I have no Italian blood, but my partner, Dominic Fanelli, is a Sicilian, and he taught me the entire history and protocol of revenge. He made me see The Godfather three times. I think I get it. The two Hispanic gents had to stop living. Dominic was working on finding them. I was waiting for him to call one day when he did.

On the subject of my mortality, I was getting a little fatigued, and I sat on the bench. I wasn't quite the superman I used to be before the shooting.

I leaned back and regarded the night awhile. On a small patch of lawn to the left of the Gordons' dock was a tall, white flagpole with a crossbar, called a yardarm, from which ran two ropes or lines called halyards. Note how I have picked up some of the nautical lingo. Anyway, the Gordons had found a whole collection of flags and pennants in a locker in the garage, and they'd sometimes hang signal pennants from the halyards for fun — such as the pennant for "Prepare to be boarded" or "The captain is ashore."

I had noticed earlier that at the top of the mast, the Gordons had run up the Jolly Roger, and I thought it ironic that the last flag they had flown was the skull and crossbones.

I noticed, too, that on each halyard was a signal pennant. I could barely make them out in the dark, but it didn't matter because I was clueless about nautical signals.

Beth Penrose sat down on the left end of the bench. She was wearing her jacket again, which was a disappointment, and her arms were crossed around her as if she were cold. Women are always cold. She didn't say anything, but kicked off her shoes, rubbed her feet in the grass, and wiggled her toes. They also near uncomfortable shoes.

After a few minutes of companionable silence — or maybe frosty stillness — I chipped at the ice and said, "Maybe you're right. It could have been a boat."

"Are you armed?"

"No."

"Good. I'm going to blow your f-ing brains out."

"Now, Beth — "

"Detective Penrose to you, buster."

"Lighten up."

"Why were you so nasty to Ted Nash?"

"Which one is that?"

"You know f-ing well which one is that. What is your problem?"

"It's a guy thing."

"You made a fool out of yourself, everyone thinks you're an arrogant idiot, and a totally useless incompetent. And you've lost my respect."

"Then I suppose sex is out of the question."

"Sex? I don't even want to breathe the same air you do."

"That hurts, Beth."

"Do not call me Beth."

"Ted Nash called you — "

"You know, Corey, I got this case because I slapped on the knee pads and begged the chief of homicide for it. This is my first real murder case. Before this, all I got was crap — hopheads blasting away at each other, mommas and poppas settling domestic disputes with cutlery, crap like that. And not much of it. There's a low homicide rate in this county."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah. You do this all the time, so you're jaded, cynical, and smart-assed about it."

"Well, I wouldn't — "

"If you're here to make me look bad, fuck off." She stood.

I stood, too. "Hold on. I'm here to help."

"Then help."

"Okay. Listen up. First, some advice. Don't talk too much to Foster or your buddy Ted."

"I know that, and cut the 'buddy Ted' crap."

"Look… can I call you Beth?"

"No."

"Look, Detective Penrose, I know you think I'm attracted to you and you probably think I'm coming on to you… and you think this could be awkward…"

She turned her face away and looked out at the bay.

I continued, "… this is really hard to say, but… well… you don't have to worry about that… about me…"

She turned back and looked at me.

I sort of covered my face with my right hand and rubbed my forehead. I continued as best I could. "You see… one of those bullets that hit me… God, how do I say this…? Well, it hit me in a funny place, okay? Now you know. So we can be sort of like… friends, partners… brother and sister… I guess I mean sister and sister…" I glanced at her and saw she was staring out to sea again.

Finally, she spoke. "I thought you said you were hit in the stomach."

"There, too."

"Max said you had a serious lung wound."

"That, too."

"Any brain damage?"

"Maybe."

"And now you want me to believe you've been neutered by yet another bullet."

"It's nothing a guy would lie about."

"If the furnace is out, why is there still fire in your eyes?"

"Just a memory, Beth — Can I call you Beth? A good memory of a time when I could pole-vault over my car."

She put her hand up to her face, and I couldn't tell if she was crying or laughing.

I said, "Please don't tell anyone."

Finally, she got control of herself and replied, "I'll try to keep it out of the papers."

"Thanks." I let a few seconds pass, then asked her, "Do you live around here?"

"No, I live in western Suffolk."

"That's a long trip. Are you driving home, or staying around here?"

"We're all staying at the Soundview Inn out in Greenport."

"Who's 'we' all?"

"Me, George, Ted, some DEA guys, some other people who were here before… guys from the Department of Agriculture. We're all supposed to work day and night, round the clock, seven days a week. Looks good for the press and the public… in case the fudge hits the fan. You know, in case there's some concern about disease…"

"You mean mass panic about a plague."

"Whatever."

"Hey, I have a nice place out here and you're welcome to stay there."

"Thanks anyway."

"It's an impressive Victorian mansion on the water."

"Doesn't matter."

"You'd be more comfortable. I told you, I'm safe. Hell, NYPD personnel says I'm allowed to use the ladies' room at headquarters."

"Cut it out."

"Seriously, Beth, I have a computer printout here — two years' worth of financial stuff. We can work on it tonight."

"Who authorized you to take that?"

"You did. Right?"

She hesitated, then nodded and said, "I want them back in my hands tomorrow morning."

"Okay. I'll pull an all-nighter with this. Help me out."

She seemed to mull that over, then said, "Give me your phone number and address."