The tide was in and the thirty-foot boat was nearly at dock level. I jumped down onto the boat's deck.
"What are you doing? You can't do that."
She was very, good-looking, of course; if she'd been ugly, I'd have been much nicer. She was dressed, as I indicated, rather severely, but the body beneath the tailored clothes was a symphony of curves, a melody of flesh looking to break free. In fact, she looked like she was smuggling balloons. The second thing I noticed was that she wasn't wearing a wedding ring. Filling out the rest of the form: age, early thirties; hair, medium length, coppery color; eyes, blue-green; skin, fair, not much sun for this time of year, light makeup; pouty lips; no visible marks or scars; no earrings; no nail polish; pissed-off expression on her face.
"Are you listening to me?"
She also had a nice voice despite the present tone. I suspected that because of the pretty face, great body, and soft voice, Detective Penrose had trouble being taken seriously, and thus she overcompensated with butchy attire. She probably owned a book titled Dress to Bust Balls.
"Are you listening to me?"
"I'm listening to you. Are you listening to me? I told you to talk to the chief."
"I am in charge here. In matters of homicide, the county police — "
"Okay, we'll go see the chief together. Just a minute."
I took a quick look around the boat, but it was dark now, and I couldn't see much. I tried to find a flashlight. I said to Detective Penrose, "You should post an officer here all night."
"Thank you for sharing your thoughts. Please come out of the boat."
"Do you have a flashlight on you?"
"Out of the boat. Now."
"Okay." I stepped onto the gunwale, and to my surprise she extended her hand, which I took. Her skin was cool. She pulled me up onto the dock and at the same time, quick as a cat, her right hand went under my T-shirt and snatched the revolver from my waistband. Wow.
She stepped back, my piece in her hand. "Stand where you are."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Who are you?"
"Detective John Corey, NYPD, homicide, ma'am."
"What are you doing here?"
"Same as you."
"No, I caught this case. Not you."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Do you have any official status here?"
"Yes, ma'am. I was hired as a consultant."
"Consultant? On a murder case? I've never heard of such a thing."
"Me neither."
"Who hired you?"
"The town."
"Idiotic."
"Right." She seemed undecided about what to do next, so to be helpful I suggested, "Do you want to strip-search me?"
I thought I saw a smile pass over her lips in the moonlight. My heart was aching for her, or it might have been the hole in my lung acting up.
She asked me, "What did you say your name was?"
"John Corey."
She searched her memory. "Oh…you're the guy — "
"That's me. Lucky me."
She seemed to soften, then gave my.38 a twirl and handed it to me, butt first. She turned and walked away.
I followed her along the dock, up the three-leveled deck to the house where the outdoor lights lit up the area around the glass doors and moths circled around the globes.
Max was talking to one of the forensic people. Then he turned to me and Detective Penrose and asked us, "You two met yet?"
Detective Penrose responded, "Why is this man involved in this case?
Chief Maxwell replied, "Because I want him to be involved."
"That's not your decision, Chief."
"And neither is it yours."
They kept bouncing the ball back and forth and my neck was getting tired, so I said, "She's right, Chief. I'm out of here. Get me a ride home." I turned and walked toward the moongate, then with a little practiced dramatics, I turned back to Maxwell and Penrose and said, "By the way, did anyone take the aluminum chest in the stern of the boat?"
Max asked, "What aluminum chest?"
"The Gordons had a big aluminum chest that they used to stow odds and ends, and sometimes they used it for an ice chest to hold beer and bait."
"Where is it?"
"That's what I'm asking you."
"I'll look for it."
"Good idea." I turned and walked through the gate and went out to the front lawn away from the parked police cars. The neighbors had been joined by the morbidly curious as word of the double homicide spread through the small community.
A few cameras popped in my direction, then video lights came on, illuminating me and the front of the house. Video cameras rolled, reporters called out to me. Just like old times. I coughed into my hand in case the disability board was watching, not to mention my ex-wife.
A uniformed cop from the backyard caught up to me, and we got into a marked Southold Township PD, and off we went. He said his name was Bob Johnson, and he asked me, "What do you think, Detective?"
"They were murdered."
"Yeah, no kidding." He hesitated, then inquired, "Hey, do you think it has to do with Plum Island or not?"
"Not."
"Tell you what — I've seen burglaries, and this wasn't burglary. It was supposed to look like a burglary, but it was a search — you know? They were looking for something."
"I didn't look inside."
"Germs." He glanced at me. "Germs. Biological warfare germs. That's what I think. Right?"
I made no reply.
Johnson continued, " That's what happened to the ice chest. I heard you say that."
Again, I made no reply.
"There were vials or something in the chest. Right? I mean, Jesus Christ, there could be enough stuff out there to wipe out Long Island… New York City."
Probably the planet, Bob, depending on which kind of bug it was and how much could be grown from the original stuff.
I leaned toward Officer Johnson and held his arm to get his attention. I said, "Do not breathe one fucking word of this to anyone. Do you understand?"
He nodded.
We drove in silence back to my place.
CHAPTER 3
Everyone needs a hangout, at least guys do. When I'm in the city, I hang out at the National Arts Club and sip sherry with people of culture and refinement. My ex-wife had trouble believing that, too.
When I'm out here, I frequent a place called the Olde Towne Taverne, though I usually avoid places with that many silent "e's." I think the government should allocate one thousand silent "e's" to New England and Long Island, and when they're used up, no one can have any more. Anyway, the Olde Towne Taverne is in downtown (or downetowne) Mattituck, which is about a block long, and really charming. The OTT is okay, the motif is sort of early ship, despite the fact that it's a town tavern and a mile from the water. The wood is very dark and the floor is oak planking, and the thing that I love is the amber glass lanterns that cast this really mellow, mood-altering glow over the whole place.
So there I was in the OTT, and it was getting on to ten p.m., and the Monday night crowd was watching The Game — Dallas vs. New York at the Meadowlands. My mind was hopping between the game, the double murder, my food, and the waitress with the NordicTrack ass.
I was more nattily dressed than earlier, having changed into evening attire of tan Levi's jeans, blue polo by Ralph, genuine Sperry Top-Siders, and Hanes all-cotton briefs. I looked like an ad for something.
I was sitting on a stool at one of those chest-high tables near the bar, and I had a good view of the TV, and I had my favorite meal in front of me — cheeseburger, french fries, stuffed potato skins, nachos, buffalo wings, and a Budweiser; a good balance of brown and yellow things.
Detective Penrose of the county police department sort of snuck up on me from behind, and the next thing I knew she was sitting on the stool facing me, a beer in her hand, and her head blocking the screen. She regarded my dinner, and I saw her eyebrows arch.