Halfway back to Northold, Billy’s phone, on the seat beside him, vibrated with an incoming call. He hit the button next to the steering wheel, and Detective Deacon Solomon’s voice filled the car from its speakers.
The wonders of Bluetooth.
As Billy moved to lower the volume, he said, “Deacon? That was fast.”
“Yeah, thing about retirement. It gives you a lot of time with not much to do with it.”
“So I’ve heard. You learn anything?”
“Could say. First, this Jack Landry? Well, found no record of any such person, least one that fits your description, where he lived, any profile . . . all that. Zippo.”
“And your guess?”
“That’s easy. That this Jack Landry is a pseudonym.”
“Oh. Interesting.”
“And as I am sure you can guess, Billy, people who use pseudonyms usually have things to hide. Or maybe people they are hiding from?”
And Billy thought that was even more interesting. A bit of evidence that, if something bad had happened to Landry, involving bullets out at sea, then there may be a very good reason.
And Billy also realized . . . if that was true, then he might indeed be way over his head.
“And this Lisa Cowles?” Solomon continued.
“Yeah?”
The detective laughed. “Guess what? Did a big search there. Someone, you say, from a large Manhattan law firm? Age about what, mid- thirties? And maybe this is not surprising . . . no ‘Lisa Cowles’ who is a Jack Landry’s daughter. Actually, no one who fits your description of her.”
Billy slowed, coming to one of the North Fork’s farm stands. People were already out, buying pumpkins, getting ready for Halloween. Those last bursts of sunny days before the locals settled in for a quiet and frigid winter.
He said, “That makes sense. If Landry isn’t Landry, then his daughter was—”
“Lying is what we call it.”
“Yeah. But why? Why the interest in what happened to this guy, her supposed father. Guess the mystery man could still be her father?”
“Anything’s possible.”
Billy thought for a moment. This was all something worth sharing with Lola Bristow, over whatever bowl of pasta he ordered.
But again, another question: “Deacon, okay—if both names are bogus, is there any way to try to find out who they might really be?”
“Been thinking about just that question. Maybe. First, the check Cowles gave you? Surprised, actually, considering how things are shaking out, that it wasn’t cash.”
“Yeah, me too. But no . . . a check. Cleared.”
“But not a personal check?”
“Um, no. Some company name. She signed at the bottom. A scrawl. Didn’t really bother to examine it. I mean, call me gullible. Thought she really was the daughter.”
“Never know. She may still be. This thing you have gotten yourself involved in—”
“Whoa. Hang on. I didn’t get myself involved in it.”
“Right. Well, you took the damn check, right? So, guess what? You’re involved. And so far, with way more questions than answers. I’m also guessing this may be the beginning of more surprises to come. And by surprises, I mean . . .”
Billy jumped in before Solomon could elaborate.
“Gotcha. So, anything more you can do on your end?”
Billy hoped that the boredom of retirement might spur Deacon to want to keep playing with this stuff.
He didn’t call it a “case.” Not yet.
Though bullet holes in the boat? Sure, looked like it . . .
“Maybe. First if you can find me a picture of the canceled check. And is there any way you can get a picture of this Landry? You said that the boat registration was a dead end. He have a car? Damn hard to use a pseudonym with that, the DMV being what it is these days.”
“Can send the image of the check. And look into the car question.”
“Oh, yeah, Billy—did he rent the place he lived in? Guessing so. Might be some info there. But doubt it. Imagine such things are pretty loose out there. You spoke to Pippo today?”
“Yup . . .” Billy updated Solomon on Pippo’s reluctantly given report, including uncomfortable questions being asked about Billy himself . . .
“As to what might be happening, questions being asked, who and why—he doesn’t know. But—after some pressure—said he’d ask around.”
“Okay. He better be careful. Those type of questions? Usually don’t go down well.”
Billy heard a woman’s voice in the background.
“Oh, that’s Ellen. Dinner’s ready. Her night to cook. Makes one great pot roast. You should come over sometime.”
“I’ll plan on it . . .”
Though Billy couldn’t imagine a universe where that would really happen.
“Oh, and, Billy? Maybe I don’t need to say this . . .”
“Yeah?”
“You be careful, hmm? I don’t know, and you don’t know . . . what we’re dealing with. So—”
“Be, um, careful?”
“Exactly.”
“Will do, Deacon. And hey—will send you the stuff I get together. And thanks.”
“Sure.”
The call ended, Billy entering the small business section of Northold’s Main Street, spotting the small Italian restaurant to his left, with its small private parking lot in the back.
Billy pulled in. Ready for his meeting with the local police chief.
* * *
Lola Bristow was already at the table, white wine in front of her. Out of uniform. Giving him a smile as he entered.
“Sorry, bit late. Had to slow down at every farm stand I passed.”
“Oh, yeah. When the pumpkins come in, seems it gets more like summer around here again. The swarm of tourists return— briefly.”
A young woman, college-age, came over, chewing gum.
Nice touch, thought Billy.
“Something to drink?” she said.
Nice tableside manner.
“Yeah . . . think a vodka martini up, with a twist?”
For a second, he thought the girl might not know what “up” meant. But she nodded as she dutifully wrote down the order and wandered over to the bar area.
The small restaurant, tables adorned with the appropriate red-checked tablecloths, was nearly full.
“Got a question,” he said, looking at Bristow.
“Shoot.”
“You don’t mind, what with being the police chief and all? Eating here, people knowing who you are?”
She laughed. “Not like I’m going to pull them over for speeding, now is it?”
“Guess not. I was also thinking, I mean, going from a tough beat with the NYPD to this?”
“Yeah, took some adjustment. But I like it. The people . . . well, they may have not taken to me right away. For a few reasons.”
Billy could have guessed that.
“But now, I do the job. Help people out. Just like”—another laugh—“that Andy of Mayberry.”
“Except,” Billy said, keeping his voice low, “don’t think anyone got murdered in Mayberry.”
“Murder? Oh, that’s where you think this is heading?”
The waitress came back with the martini. A substantial one, Billy saw. He could do the backstroke in that glass. The bartender knew how to keep his customers happy . . .
The waitress waited, pad at the ready, for a food order.
Bristow said, nodding to the menu, “I’ve looked already—you just got here.”
But that wasn’t a problem for Billy, not in a place like this. “I’m ready to order. Chicken parm? Comes with pasta?”
The waitress nodded. “Spaghetti and a small side salad.”
How nice . . .
“Great.”
Bristow said, “Penne alla vodka.”
Another nod, then the waitress walked away.
Then Lola Bristow returned to the topic at hand: “Murder? Because of the bullet holes?”
Billy nodded, then shared what he had learned—that this Jack Landry wasn’t Jack Landry. And that some serious people from the city had been asking about him.
And now, yes—all of it was looking more like it might very well be a case of murder.
With the sudden and very important question right there in front of them . . .
Why?
* * *
Billy cut into a piece of the chicken parmigiana.
The sauce wasn’t too bad, a tangy homemade marinara, not something from a can or a jar. The cheese was nicely browned on the top. Pasta—not homemade, but one can’t have everything.
And with Bristow’s penne gone, and now that he had ordered a glass of the house red, he decided he needed to put all his confidence in the chief.
“Look, there’s something I didn’t mention. Wasn’t too sure what to do about it.”
“Really. A secret?” Said in a way that indicated she wasn’t surprised at all.
“When I, um, broke into Landry’s place. Looked around. Found a safe.”
“Really? Do tell, just before I slap the cuffs on you.”
First, Billy was more than a little intrigued at the playfulness in her voice; then he began to wonder if Lola Bristow already knew about the hidden safe. Had she already—despite none of this really being in her jurisdiction—gone into the place herself and looked around?
“Right, well—was hidden behind a bookcase. Some interesting titles on that bookshelf, by the way.”
“I bet.”
“And—there was this small safe embedded in the wall.”
She nodded as the waitress put down another glass of wine.
And then Lola, not responding yet, added, “The desserts here aren’t too bad. The cheesecake not quite what you’ll get at Junior’s in Brooklyn—but tasty. Passable tiramisu. Maybe an espresso? Unless you have to hurry away?”
She smiled at him, and again Billy felt a bit confused. What actually was going on here?
Though he had to admit—he was enjoying himself.
“Yeah, so this safe. Hidden safe? I’m guessing it might just have a lot of things in it. Things this Landry guy wanted hidden, secret?”
“Safes are good for that,” Bristow said.
“But well—you see, no way in. Not without the combination.”
At that, she laughed.
“Um, excuse me. But a little bird told me about your past. Before Wake Up, America!, the cable show, the restaurant, all that?”
And Billy knew one thing the chief had certainly done: namely, looked into Billy’s past.
Discovering what he’d hoped would remain buried forever.
His time in prison, back in Chicago. A short stay under another name—William Blanchard—before he reinvented himself. Reinvented his life.
But for now, all he said was a simple “Yeah?”
“And I imagine with that past—interesting one too—you know that there has been no safe invented that can’t be cracked?”
Billy knew that to be true. But so far . . . he hadn’t had the opportunity to pick up that particular ability.
“Well, sure. Simple combination. I know. It can be cracked. But not in my skill set.”
“‘Skill set’? That what you call it?” she said, laughing. “There are also a ton of videos—how-tos—on something called the internet? Surprised everyone isn’t cracking safes all over the place . . .”
Billy didn’t doubt that. But he had little confidence a YouTube video on opening a safe would do the trick.
So then—he had an odd question to ask, especially of someone who was the local police authority . . .
“You maybe know someone who might help me out in that regard?”
She looked away.
Then, North Fork being the North Fork, most of the diners had hit this place early. Now Billy saw only another couple or two left in the dining room. And he knew that, in the back of the house, people were eager for the evening to be over. Clean everything up, head home . . . get some sleep before starting the whole thing all over again tomorrow.
Lola returned her gaze to him. Putting on a faux southern accent, she said, “Why, Mr. Blessing. I do declare, I cannot believe you just asked a law enforcement authority to help you break into someone’s safe.”
And Billy had to laugh at that as well.
“Just like to know what’s inside the safe? Could tell me . . . tell us something since—”
“Since—so far, you don’t have much? Save for the evidence of the bullet holes.”
He nodded. “Save for the bullet holes.”
And then she leaned close, lowering her voice even more.
“Tell you what, Mr. Billy Blessing. Let’s order ourselves a nice dessert. Take our time. And when all done—”
A look around.
“I can drive you to Landry’s. You can show me the safe and— believe it or not—I can probably open it.”
For a moment, Billy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. But he knew this Chief Lola Bristow of the Northold Police was . . . something else.
“Sounds great to me.”
“Good then . . .” And he saw Bristow look around for the waitress. Dessert and espresso to come.
Billy thinking: This evening just took a very interesting turn . . .