I sat in the dark, quiet den and for the first time all day, I was able to think without interruption. My mind had a whole bunch of things on hold, and now I started to put them together.
As I stared out the dark window, those little pings in my head were making white dots on the black screen, and the image was starting to take shape. I was far from seeing the complete picture let alone any of the details, but I could make a good guess about this thing's size, shape, and direction. I needed a few more points of light, a half dozen little pings, and then I would have the answer to why Tom and Judy Gordon were murdered.
CHAPTER 16
Morning sunlight streamed into my second-floor bedroom windows, and I was happy to be alive; happy to discover that the bloody dead pig on the pillow beside me had been a bad dream. I listened for the sounds of birds just to be sure I wasn't the only living creature on earth. A gull squawked somewhere over the bay. Canada geese were honking on my lawn. A dog barked in the distance. So far, so good.
I arose, showered, shaved, and so forth, and made a cup of freeze-dried microwave coffee in the kitchen.
I had spent the night thinking, or, as we say in the biz, engaged in deductive reasoning. I had also made callbacks to Uncle Harry, parents, siblings, and Dom Fanelli, but not to the New York Times or to Max. I told everyone that the person on TV was not me, and that I had not seen the news show or shows in question; I said that I had spent the night watching Monday Night Football in the Olde Towne Taverne — which is what I should have done — and I had witnesses. Everyone bought it. I hoped my commanding officer, the aforementioned Detective Lieutenant Wolfe, would also buy it.
Also, I told Uncle H that Margaret Wiley had the hots for him, but he seemed uninterested. He informed me, "Dickie Johnson and I were born together, grew up together, had lots of women together, and got old together, but he died before me."
How depressing. Anyway, I called Dom Fanelli, but he was out, and I left a message with his wife, Mary, whom I used to get along with until I got married, but Mary and Ex didn't like each other at all. Neither my divorce nor my getting shot had made Mary and me buddies again. It's weird. I mean, with partners' wives. It's a bizarre relationship at best. Anyway, I said to Mary, "Tell Dom that wasn't me on TV. A lot of people made the same mistake."
"Okay."
"If I die, it's the CIA who did it. Tell him."
"Okay."
"There may be people on Plum Island who are also trying to kill me. Tell him that."
"Okay."
"Tell him to talk to Sylvester Maxwell, chief of police out here, if I die."
"Okay."
"How're the kids?"
"Okay."
"Gotta run. My lung is collapsing." I hung up.
Well, at least I was on record, and if my phone was tapped by the Feds, it's good for them to hear me tell people that I think the CIA is trying to kill me.
Of course, I didn't really think that. Ted Nash, personally, would like to kill me, but I doubted if the Agency would approve capping a guy just because he was a sarcastic prick. Point was, though, if this thing had to do with Plum Island in some significant way, then it wouldn't surprise me if a few more bodies did turn up.
Last night, while I made my phone calls, I checked out my piece and ammo with a flashlight and magnifying glass. Everything looked okay. Paranoia's kind of fun if it doesn't eat up too much time and doesn't get you off the track. I mean, if you're having a routine day, you can make believe someone's trying to kill you, or otherwise fuck you up, then you can play little games, like using the remote car ignition, imagining someone's tapped your phone, or tampered with your weapon. Some crazy people make up imaginary friends who tell them to kill people. Other crazy people make up imaginary enemies who are trying to kill them. The latter, I think, is a little less crazy and a lot more useful.
Anyway, I had spent the rest of the night going through the Gordons' financial records again. It was that or Jay Leno.
I had looked closely at May and June of the previous year to see how the Gordons had financed their one-week vacation in England after their business trip. I noticed now that the Visa card in June was slightly higher than usual and so was their Amex. A small bump in a usually smooth road. Also, their phone bill last June was about a hundred dollars higher than usual, indicating perhaps long-distance activity in May. Also, I had to assume they'd taken cash or traveler's checks with them, yet there were no unusual cash withdrawals. This was the first and only indication that there was outside cash available to the Gordons. People with illegal income often buy thousands of dollars in traveler's checks, go out of the country, and blow it out big time. Or maybe the Gordons knew how to do England on twenty dollars a day.
Whatever the case might be, regarding the printouts, they basically had clean sheets, as we say. Whatever they were up to, they hid it well, or it didn't entail large expenses or large deposits. At least not in this account. The Gordons were very bright, I reminded myself. And they were scientists, and as such, they were careful, patient, and meticulous.
It was now eight a.m. Wednesday morning, and I was on my second cup of bad coffee, looking around the refrigerator for something to eat. Lettuce and mustard? No. Butter and carrots? That worked.
I stood at the kitchen window with my carrot and tub of butter, mulling, brooding, noodling, chewing, and so forth. I waited for the phone to ring, for Beth to confirm for five p.m., but the kitchen was quiet except for the clock.
I was dressed more spiffily this morning with tan cotton pants and striped oxford shirt. A blue blazer hung on the back of the kitchen chair. My.38 was on my ankle, and my shield — for what it was worth out here — was inside my jacket. And, optimist that I am, I also had a condom in my wallet. I was ready for battle or romance, or whatever the day would bring.
Carrot in hand, I walked down the sloping lawn to the bay. A light mist hung above the water. I walked out to the end of my uncle's dock, which needed major repair, and I watched where I stepped. I recalled the time the Gordons tied up to the dock — this would have been about mid-June, only a week or so.after I'd met them for the first time, which had been in the bar of Claudio's Restaurant in Greenport.
On the occasion of their docking here at Uncle Harry's, I had been in my customary convalescing position on the back porch, drinking convalescent beer, checking out the bay with the binocs when I spotted them.
Back in Claudio's the week before, they had asked me to describe my house from the water and, sure enough, they'd found it.
I recalled that I had walked down to the dock to greet them, and they talked me into taking a spin with them. We tooled around the series of bays that lie between the North and South Forks of Long Island — Great Peconic Bay and Little Peconic, Noyack Bay and Southold Bay, then out into Gardiners Bay, and then to Orient Point. At one point, Tom opened the throttles on the speedboat, and I thought we were going to go airborne. I mean, that thing was nose up and breaking the sound barrier. Anyway, this was also the time when the Gordons showed me Plum Island. Tom had said, "That's where we work."
Judy had added, "Someday we'll see if we can get you a visitor's pass. It's really interesting."
And so it was.
That was the same day we got caught in the wind and currents in Plum Gut, and I thought I was going to puke my guts into the Gut and wondered if that was how the Gut got its name.
I recalled that we'd spent the whole day on the water and had come back here exhausted, sunburned, dehydrated, and hungry. Tom went for pizzas, and Judy and I slugged beers on the back porch and watched the sun go down.