I jumped into the boat and landed hard on the deck. I put my arms up, and she jumped, grabbing my hands as she did. Somehow we wound up on the deck, me on my back, Beth Penrose on top of me. We stayed there about a second longer than we had to, then we got to our feet. We smiled awkwardly at one another, the way strangers of the opposite sex do when they find themselves accidentally bumping T amp;A and whatever.
She asked me, "Are you all right?"
"Yeah…" In truth, the wind had been knocked out of my bad lung, and I guessed she could see it.
I got my breath back and went to the rear, the stern, as they say, where the Formula 303 had a bench seat. I indicated the deck near the seat and informed her, "Here's where the chest always sat. It was a big one, about four feet long, three deep, and three high. Maybe thirty cubic feet on the inside, insulated aluminum. Sometimes, when sat on the bench, I'd put my feet up on the chest and slug beers."
"And?"
"And, after work, on designated days, the Gordons leave Plum at the appointed hour and make a high-speed dash out to sea. There, out in the Atlantic, they rendezvous with a ship, maybe a South American freighter, maybe it's a seaplane, or whatever. They take on board about a hundred kilos of Colombian marching powder and dash back toward land. If they're spotted by the DEA or Coast Guard, they look like Mr. and Mrs. Clean out for a spin. Even if they're stopped, they flash the Plum Island ID and do a song and dance. In reality, they could probably outrun anything on the water. It would take an aircraft to chase this thing. More to the point, how many boats are stopped and searched? There are thousands of pleasure boats and commercial fishermen out there. Unless the Coast Guard or Customs or somebody has a serious tip, or someone is acting weird, they don't board and search. Right?"
"Usually. Customs has full authority to do that and sometimes they do." She added, "I'll see if there are any reports with DEA, Coast Guard, or Customs regarding the Spirochete."
"Good." I thought a moment, then said, "Okay, so after the Gordons cop the junk, they make land at some prearranged spot or rendezvous with a small boat, and transfer the ice chest to the local pharmaceutical distributors, who give them another chest in return with a bunch of bucks in it. The distributor then drives into Manhattan, and another duty-free import is completed. Happens every day. The question is, Did the Gordons participate, and if so, is that what got them killed? I hope so. Because the other thing scares me, and I'm not easily scared."
She mulled this over, looking around the speedboat. She said, "It might fit. But it might be wishful thinking."
I didn't reply.
She continued, "If we can determine it was drugs, we can rest easier. Until then, we have to go ahead with the idea that it's plague, because if it is and we're not on top of it, we could all be dead."
CHAPTER 6
It was after two a.m., and I was getting cross-eyed reading the Gordons' computer printouts. I had a pot of coffee going in Uncle Harry's big old kitchen, and I was sitting at the round table by the bay window that faced east to catch the morning sun.
Uncle Harry and Aunt June had the good sense never to have the entire Corey clan as house guests, but now and then they'd have me or my brother, Jim, or my sister, Lynne, stay in the guest room while the rest of the family was in some horrid 1950s tourist cabin.
I remember sitting at this table as a kid with my two cousins, Harry Jr. and Barbara, slopping up Cheerios or Wheaties, antsy to get out and play. Summer was magic. I don't think I had a care in the world.
Now, some decades later, same table, and I had a lot on my mind.
I turned my attention back to the checkbook register. The Gordons' salaries were deposited directly into their account, and their combined income, after being raped by the Feds and New York State, was about ninety thou. Not bad, but not that good for two Ph.D.'s doing brainy work with hazardous substances. Tom would have done better playing minor league baseball, and Judy could have worked in a titty bar in my old precinct and done as well. It's a strange country.
Anyway, it didn't take me long to see that the Gordons were overextended. It's not cheap to live on the East Coast, as they'd undoubtedly discovered. They had payments on two cars, the boat, the house rental, assorted insurances on same, utilities, five credit cards, big-time oil company bills, mostly for the powerboat, and regular living and breathing expenses. Also, there was a hefty $10,000 down payment on the Formula 303, the April before last.
Plus, the Gordons contributed to a number of worthy chanties, making me feel guilty. They also belonged to a book and music club, hit the ATM frequently, sent checks to nieces and nephews, and were members of the Peconic Historical Society. They didn't appear to be in major trouble yet, but they were close to the edge. If they were making a nice side income from the drug trade, they were clever enough to stash the cash and get themselves in over their heads like all red-blooded fiscally fearless Americans. The question, then, was, Where was the loot?
I'm not an auditor, but I've done enough of these financial analyses to spot things that needed checking out. There was only one such thing in the last twenty-five months of the Gordons' checkbook printouts — a biggie, a check for $25,000 made out to a Margaret Wiley. The check had been certified for a fee of $10, and the funds to cover the check had been electronically transferred from the Gordons' money market account. In fact, it represented nearly all their savings. The check was dated March 7 of this year, and there was no notation regarding the purpose of the check. Who, then, was Margaret Wiley? Why did the Gordons give her a certified check for twenty-five large? We would soon find out.
I sipped on my coffee and tapped my pencil on the table in time with the regulator clock on the far wall, and I thought about all of this.
I went to the kitchen cabinet beside the wall phone and found the local telephone directory among the cookbooks. I looked under "W" and located a Margaret Wiley who lived on Lighthouse Road in the hamlet of Southold. I actually knew where that was, it being the road that, as the name suggested, led to a lighthouse: Horton Point Lighthouse, to be exact.
I really wanted to call Margaret, but she might be annoyed at the two a.m. phone call. It could wait until dawn. But patience is not one of my virtues. In fact, to the best of my knowledge, I have no virtues. Also, I had the feeling that the FBI and CIA were not all asleep at this hour and that they were getting ahead of me on this case. Last, but not least, this was no ordinary murder; even as I hesitated to wake Margaret Wiley, a civilization-destroying plague could be spreading over the nation. I hate when that happens.
I called the number. The phone rang and an answering machine picked up. I hung up and dialed again. Finally, the lady of the house was awakened and she said, "Hello?"
"Margaret Wiley, please."
"Speaking. Who is this?" asked the groggy and elderly voice.
"This is Detective Corey, ma'am. Police." I let her imagine the worst for a second or two. That usually wakes them up.
"Police? What's happened?"
"Mrs. Wiley, you've heard on the news about the murders on Nassau Point?"
Oh… yes. How awful — "
"You knew the Gordons?"
She cleared the froggies from her throat and replied, "No… well, I met them once. I sold them a piece of land."
"In March?"
"Yes."
"For $25,000?"
"Yes… but what does that have to do with — "
"Where is the land, ma'am?"
"Oh… it's a nice piece of bluff overlooking the Sound."
"I see. They wanted to build a house?"
"No. They can't build there. I sold the development rights to the county."