“Yeah, Wit, it’s a little too early for drinks at the Yale Club.”
“Do you think?” he asked, followed by a pause. I imagined him checking his Piaget. “I suppose so.” He was unconvinced.
“What is it?”
“A body. Well, more accurately, badly decomposed human female remains.”
“Where?”
“That depends?”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Wit?”
“It means I need a lift.”
“Where are you?”
“The Pierre.”
Now it was my turn to check my watch. “Be in front in twenty minutes.”
The first hour of the trip out to Suffolk County was pretty quiet. I think Wit old boy was nursing a hangover. After witnessing him handle his Wild Turkey or, more factually, watching the Wild Turkey handle him, I understood that this was probably a regular event in Y. W. Fenn’s life. I took the time to enjoy the rarity of a nearly traffic-free Long Island Expressway. I would have enjoyed the sights if there had been any sights to see, but the L.I.E. is not renowned for its scenic beauty.
To the rest of New York, Suffolk County was the netherworld of potato and sod farms sandwiched between the Nassau County line and the civilized outposts of Sag Harbor and East Hampton. Only twenty or thirty miles beyond the city line, it might as well have been a penal colony or another planet for all the notice it got. Some places exist to be visited. Others exist to be passed through. Today, at least, Wit and I were going to stop and look.
“Where is this we’re going again?”
He pulled a piece of Pierre stationery out of his jacket pocket, blinking desperately to focus. “Someplace called Lake Ronkonkoma. What is that, an Indian name?”
“No, Wit, it’s Yiddish! Of course it’s an Indian name.”
“You take Exit 59, Ocean Avenue. Turn left onto Ocean, which turns into Rosevale Avenue. We take that to Smithtown Boulevard, turn right, and it’ll be a mile or two farther on. The lake is on the right, but we’re to look left.”
Such was the extent of our conversation.
The lake itself was rather bigger than I had expected, quite pretty, really. The same could not be said of the trailers and shacks bordering one side of the lake. Though it was a hot, lazy day, there didn’t seem to be much activity on the far shore beaches. Again, the same could not be said of the blond-reeded marsh to our left. There were blue-and-white units, an ambulance, a car from the county coroner’s office, and a crime scene van parked along the guardrail. Two bored-looking cops were stationed on either side of the official vehicles, directing traffic and discouraging the curious. I drove past and pulled into the parking lot of some big old German restaurant.
Wit and I walked back to the marsh. I showed one of the cops my badge and license. He began to hem and haw. Wit shook his head at me.
“Captain Millet said you’d let us pass. My name’s Y. W. Fenn. This is-”
“Go right ahead, guys. The captain’s back there. Watch your step. It’s kinda muddy.”
The cop wasn’t lying. Wit’s loafers stuck in the mud three times before we got to the assembled crowd. This was just the kind of place abandoned cars, bald tires, broken bottles, and bodies got dumped in all the time. There were places like it all along the coast in Brooklyn near Plum Beach, Sheepshead Bay, and Jamaica Bay. The reeds formed a curtain blocking roadside views, and the mud and brackish water kept foot traffic to a minimum.
“Where do you know this Captain Millet from?” I asked Wit as he stopped to retrieve his left shoe.
“I did a story on the Chartoff murders a year or two back. You remember them, don’t-”
“I remember.”
“Well, I met Millet when I was doing that story. When this Brightman assignment came up, I gave all my New York police contacts a call and told them what I might be interested in.”
“So why bring me?”
“As I said, I needed a ride.”
“Don’t be an asshole, Wit. There’s a hundred ways you coulda gotten out here that didn’t include me.”
“Let’s call it a show of good faith on my part.”
I left it at that. Captain Millet stepped out of the crowd to greet Wit. He was a tall man, red-faced, with a nose full of gin blossoms. I guess he and Wit got to be such good friends over drinks. Wit introduced us, adding that I’d once been a cop. Millet liked that.
“Some drug addict from the treatment center on the other side of the lake found her,” the captain explained. “He had half a bag on and was hiding until he sobered up. Tripped right over her. She’s been here a long time. Come on, let’s have a look.”
The cops parted like a blue sea as Millet approached. Only the crime scene guys and the coroner’s man didn’t move.
“How long she been there, Klein?” Millet asked the coroner.
“Hard to say. From what I can see she’s skeletal. A year, two, maybe longer. Some of the clothes are still intact. When we have a look at them, it might help us with a time frame.”
“Thanks.”
A grain of sand blew into my eyes and I reflexively turned away. When I could see again, I noticed silent tears streaming down Wit’s cheeks. He noticed me notice and quickly wiped them away. It didn’t mean I no longer thought of him as a pretentious, condescending drunkard, just a more human one.
“Why don’t you boys go have a drink across the way there. Reggie’s has a lunchtime happy hour that can’t be beat,” Millet proffered with great authority. “It’s right next to the German place.”
As Wit and I began the muddy walk back to the road, something struck me.
“Captain Millet,” I said, “where’s the guy who found her?”
“The junkie? He’s … he’s over there with Detective Daniels. Why?”
“Do you mind if I have a word with him, alone?”
Both Millet and Wit raised suspicious eyebrows at that, but the captain nodded his approval. “Daniels,” he called out, “let this fella have a word with … with him. Whatever the fuck his name is.”
I told Wit to stay put and I plodded over to where Daniels was hand-holding the junkie. Detective Daniels seemed happy to get a few minutes’ break. What I was about to do could land my ass in jail, so I had to put on the best show I could for the curious eyes that might be watching.
“Hey,” I said, offering my right hand to my new best friend, “I’m Moe.”
He took my hand out of confusion. I squeezed it hard and reeled him in with it, throwing my left arm over his shoulder.
“You’re fuckin’ hurtin’ me, man,” he whined.
“Not anything like I’m gonna hurt you if you don’t tell me where the fuck you dumped it, asshole,” I growled, but quietly.
“What the fuck you talkin’ a-”
“I’m not a cop anymore, shithead, so your crying don’t mean shit to me. So where the fuck did you dump her bag?” I squeezed his shoulder a little tighter. “And don’t even fuckin’ lie to me. If you tell me now, there’s a fifty in it for you and I’ll fix it with the cops not to bust your balls about robbing the corpse. If you don’t … I think we understand each other.”
He swallowed hard, looking over to where the cops were. “A fifty?” he asked. “And no shit about-”
“You heard me.” I turned him around so that we faced the cops directly. “The clock’s running.”
He tilted his head. “Over there, by the road near the gas station.”
“Very good.” I stuffed two twenties and a ten in my friend’s pocket. “If the cops ask, tell them I gave you a few bucks to get some food in you. They won’t bug you about it and they’ll think I’m a fucking saint.”