«But you’ve got to find out! They took photographs, they said Steve hit someone!»
«I know. I will… Steve, go on up and take a shower. You smell like an Eighth Avenue bar. And relax. You didn’t do anything wrong.»
Trevayne moved the telephone to the coffee table and sat down.
Westport, Darien. Wilton. New Canaan. Southport.
Nothing.
«Dad, I didn’t dream it up!» Steven Trevayne shouted; he was in his bathrobe.
«I’m sure you didn’t. We’ll keep trying; we’ll call the New York stations.»
Port Chester. Rye. Harrison. White Plains. Mamaroneck.
The picture of his son stretched forward, hands clamped to the hood of an automobile soaked with alcohol, being questioned by untraceable police on a dark road about an unknown man struck down—photographs, accusations. It made no sense; there was an abstract quality of unbelievability. As unbelievable, as unreal as his daughter and her friends and two hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of uncut heroin found in a milk box on the Swansons’ guest-house porch.
Insanity.
Yet it all had happened.
«The girls finally fell asleep,» said Phyllis, walking into the living room. It was nearly four o’clock. «Anything?»
«No,» replied her husband. He turned to his son, who sat in a chair by the large wall window. The boy was staring outside, his fear intermittently replaced with angry bewilderment. «Try to recall, Steve. Was the patrol car some other color than black? Perhaps dark blue or green?»
«Dark. That’s all. I suppose it could have been blue or green. It wasn’t white.»
«Were there any stripes? Any kind of insignia, no matter how vague.»
«No… Yes, I guess so. I just didn’t look. I didn’t think …» The boy brought his hand to his forehead. «I didn’t hit anyone! I swear I didn’t!»
«Of course you didn’t!» Phyllis went to him and bent down, touching her cheek to his. «It’s a terrible mistake, we know that.»
«On top of a terrible joke,» added Trevayne, puzzled.
The telephone on the coffee table rang. Its effect was frightening, a jarring intrusion on private fears. Trevayne swiftly picked it up.
«Hello!… Yes, yes. This is his residence; I’m his father.»
Steven Trevayne leaped out of the chair and walked rapidly to the back of the couch. Phyllis remained by the window, afraid of the immediate moment.
«My God! I’ve been phoning all over Connecticut and New York! The boy’s a minor, the car’s in my name! I should have been called immediately! I’d like an explanation, please.»
For the next several minutes Trevayne listened without comment. When finally he spoke, it was five words.
«Thank you. I’ll expect them.»
He hung up the telephone and turned to his wife and son.
«Andy? Is everything all right?»
«Yes… The Highport Police Station; it’s a small village about fifteen miles north of Cos Cob. Their patrol car was following an automobile down Coast Road, a robbery suspect they were checking out over their radio before an arrest. They lost him and swung west on Briarcliff Avenue, when they saw a man run down by a car that looked like yours, Steve. They radioed for an ambulance, informed the Cos Cob police, and after everything was taken care of, started back for Highport. They spotted you on Junction, swung onto a parallel street, and caught up with you a mile down the road by the intersection… They could have let you go the minute they checked with Cos Cob; the hit-and-run had turned himself in. But they smelled the car and thought they’d give you a scare… They’re sending us the photographs.»
The terrible night was over.
Steven Trevayne lay on his bed looking up at the ceiling; the radio was tuned to one of those endless all-night talk shows where everyone shouted over everyone else. The boy thought the cacophony might help him sleep.
But sleep would not come.
He knew he should have said something; it was stupid not to say anything. But the words wouldn’t come, any more than sleep came now. The relief had been so total, so complete, so needed; he hadn’t dared resurrect a doubt.
His father had first mentioned the words, unknowingly.
Try to recall, Steve. Was the patrol car some other color than black…
Maybe. Maybe a dark blue or green.
But it was a dark color.
That’s what he should have remembered when his father said «Highport».
Highport-on-the-Ocean was the name on the sign on Coast Road. Highport was a small village; tiny, actually. It had two or three great beaches—off by themselves, and privately owned. During hot summer nights he and a few friends—never more than a few—often parked a couple of hundred yards down Coast Road and crept through the private property to reach one of the beaches.
But they had to be careful; they always had to keep an eye out for the Yellowbird.
That’s what they called it. The Yellowbird.
The village of Highport-on-the-Ocean’s single patrol car.
It was bright yellow.
4
Andrew Trevayne boarded the 707 jet at John F. Kennedy Airport for the hour’s flight to Washington.
He unlatched the seat belt once the aircraft completed its ascent and the warning lights were extinguished. It was three-fifteen, and he’d be late for his meeting with Presidential Assistant Robert Webster. He’d had his office at Danforth call Webster at the White House; say he was detained and that if because of the delay Webster wished to change the meeting place, he should leave instructions for him at Dulles Airport. It didn’t matter to Trevayne; he’d accepted the fact that he’d have to stay overnight.
He reached for the vodka martini from the pretty young stewardess and took a long sip. Placing the glass on the small tray in front of him, Trevayne latched the seat halfway back and spread a hastily purchased New York magazine on his lap.
Suddenly he was aware that the passenger next to him was staring at him. He returned the man’s look and immediately realized he knew the face. The man was large, his head enormous, his complexion deeply tanned—more from birth than from the sun. He was, perhaps, in his early fifties, and wore thick horn-rimmed glasses. The man spoke first.
«Mr. Trevayne, isn’t it?» The voice was soft but deep, with a trace of a rasp. It was a gentle voice, however.
«That’s right. I know we’ve met, but forgive me, I don’t remember …»
«De Spadante. Mario de Spadante.»
«Of course,» said Trevayne, his memory instantly activated. Mario de Spadante went back to the New Haven days, the latter part, at any rate, about nine years ago. De Spadante had represented a construction firm involved with some buildings Trevayne and his brother-in-law were financing. Trevayne had rejected the bid—the builders had an insufficient history. But Mario de Spadante had gone a long way since those days a brief nine years ago. That is, if the newspapers were to be believed. He was reputed to be a power in the underworld now. «Mario the Spade» was the name often used—referring to his swarthy complexion and the fact that he had buried a number of enemies. He was never convicted of the latter, however.
«Must be nine, ten years ago, I’d say,» said De Spadante, smiling pleasantly. «You remember? You turned me down on a construction job. And you were absolutely correct, Mr. Trevayne. Our company didn’t have the experience for it. Yes, you were right.»