Often, in a murder investigation, I look for the simplest explanation, and the simplest explanation was simple indeed: it was greed. Freddie had never learned to share and even if he wanted to share, I wondered if the treasure was big enough to cover his debts and save his vineyard. His share would certainly be no more than fifty percent, and the government's share, state and federal, would be about the same. Even if the treasure were worth ten million dollars, Freddie would be lucky to see two and a half million. Not nearly enough for a spendthrift like Lord Tobin. And if there was another partner — a live one, such as Paul Stevens — then certainly the Gordons had to go.
But I still had unanswered questions — assuming the Gordons had uncovered the treasure on Plum Island, did they have it all with them on the day they'd met their end in their own backyard? Was the treasure in that ice chest? And where was the original treasure chest, which had to be reburied and found in a way that might satisfy a nosy archaeologist or Treasury agent?
While I was mulling this over, I wasn't paying attention to the roulette wheel. Roulette is good for people with things on their minds because it's such a mindless game; like the slots, it's pure luck. But with the slots you can time your rate of loss and pass the night in a catatonic, slack-jawed state in front of the one-armed bandits and not lose much more than the grocery money. With roulette, however, at the ten dollar table, with a fast croupier and fast bettors, you could get hurt fast.
I got up from the table, took another cash advance on my credit card, and went to find a friendly poker game. Ah, the things I do for my job.
I did okay at the poker table, and by midnight, I was back to minus two thousand and change. Plus, I was starving. I got a beer and a sandwich from one of the cocktail ladies and played poker until one a.m., still down two large.
I retired to one of the bars and switched to scotch. I watched a rerun of the news on TV, which failed to mention the Gordon murders at all.
I reran the entire case in my mind — from the time Max stepped on my porch to here and now. And while I was at it, I thought about my love life, my job, and all that, which brought me to confront the question of where I was going.
So, there it was, about two in the morning, I was two thousand dollars poorer, I was alone but not lonely, I was slightly lit, I was supposed to be three-quarters physically disabled, and maybe a hundred percent mentally disabled, and I could have easily felt sorry for myself. Instead, I went back to the roulette wheel. I was unlucky at love, so I had to be lucky at gambling.
At three a.m., another thousand dollars down, I went to bed.
* * *
I woke up on Saturday morning with that weird where-am-I? feeling. Sometimes the woman next to me can help out, but there was no woman next to me. Presently, my head cleared and I remembered where I was, and I remembered getting scalped by the Mashantucket Pequots — or, perhaps I should say I was financially challenged by my Native American brothers.
I showered, dressed, packed my toothbrush, and had breakfast in the casino.
Outside, it was another beautiful late summer, almost autumn day. Maybe this was Indian summer. I got in my Jeep and headed south toward New London.
On the northern outskirts of the town, I stopped at a service station and asked directions. Within fifteen minutes, I was on Ridgefield Road, a sort of exurban street of neat New England clapboards set on good-sized pieces of land. The area was semirural; it was difficult for me to figure out if you needed buckos to live here or not. The houses were medium-sized and the cars were medium-priced, so I figured it was a medium neighborhood.
I stopped at number seventeen, a typical white clapboard Cape Cod set about a hundred feet back from the road. The nearest neighbors were some distance away. I got out of my Jeep and walked up the front path and rang the doorbell.
As I waited, I looked around. There was no car in the driveway. Also, there was no sign of kids' stuff around so I concluded that Mr. Stevens was either unmarried, or married no children, or married with grown children, or he'd eaten his children. How's that for deductive reasoning?
I noticed, too, that the place was too neat. I mean, it looked like someone with a sick, fascist, orderly mind lived here.
No one answered my call, so I went to the attached garage and peeked through the side window. No car. I went around to the rear yard, whose lawn stretched about fifty yards to a woods. There was a nice slate patio, grill, lawn furniture, and so forth.
I went to the back door and peeked through the windows into a neat and clean country kitchen.
I seriously contemplated a quick B amp;E job, giving the place a toss and maybe stealing his diploma for fun, but as I gave the house the once-over, I noticed that all the windows had alarm tape on them. Also, under the eaves to my right was a TV surveillance camera doing a one-eighty-degree sweep. This guy was a piece of work.
I went back out front, got into my Jeep, and dialed Stevens' phone. A voice mail came on, giving me several options having to do with his home fax and home e-mail, his beeper number, his post office box mailing address, his office phone, office fax, office e-mail, and finally a chance to leave a voice message after two beeps. I haven't had that many options since I stood in front of a condom vending machine. I pushed three on my phone pad, got Stevens' beeper number, dialed it, punched in my mobile number, and hung up. A minute later, my phone rang and I answered, "New London Water Authority."
"Yes, this is Paul Stevens. You beeped me."
"Yes, sir. Water main break in front of your house on Ridgefield Road. We'd like to put a pump in your basement to make sure it doesn't flood."
"Okay… I'm in my car now… I can be there in twenty minutes."
"That'll be fine." I hung up and waited.
About five minutes later — not twenty — a gray Ford Escort pulled into the driveway, and out of it came Paul Stevens, wearing black slacks and a tan windbreaker.
I got out of my Jeep, and we met on his front lawn. He greeted me warmly by saying, "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Just out for a drive and thought I'd stop by."
"Get the hell off my property."
My goodness. I hadn't expected such a nasty greeting. I said, "I really don't like to be spoken to that way."
"You shit — you busted my balls for half the fucking morning — "
"Hey, fella — "
"Fuck you, Corey. Get the fuck out of here."
Indeed, this was a different Mr. Stevens than the one on Plum Island who had been at least civil, if not friendly. Of course, he'd had to be civil then. Now, the tiger was in his own den and his keepers weren't around. I said, "Now, hold on, Paul — "
"Are you deaf? I said, get the hell out of here. And, by the way, you stupid shit, there's well water here. Now get out."
"Okay. But I have to get my partner." I motioned toward the house. "Beth Penrose. She's behind the house."
"You get in your fucking car. I'll get her." He turned and began walking away, then called back over his shoulder, "I should have you both arrested for trespassing. You're lucky I didn't get out of my car shooting."
I turned and walked back toward my Jeep. I looked over my shoulder in time to see him turn the corner of his garage.
I sprinted across the lawn, across the driveway, and caught up to him as he rounded the far end of the house and turned toward his backyard. He heard me, spun around, and reached into the pit for his gun, but much too late. I caught him on the chin with my fist, and he made one of those umph sounds and did a little backspring with his arms and legs askew. It was almost comical.