Friday, August 17
“Have you seen the Star?” asked Len Schaefer as he opened the taxi door for Lee. He was waiting to pick her up at the station, as per her order of the previous day. She had taken the morning train back to East Hampton, arriving at 11:28, resigned to dealing with the studio inventory as soon as possible.
“When did I have time to get the paper yesterday?” she answered brusquely, a tone unwarranted by Schaefer’s remark.
“No, I s’pose not,” he said. “Here, take mine.” He handed her the paper from the front seat as she took her place in back.
No sooner had the cab crossed the tracks and headed toward Springs than Schaefer heard his passenger muttering and swearing. By the time they pulled into her driveway, Lee was boiling.
“For Christ’s sake, Len, you could have warned me! It’s bad enough the little bitch was killed, but before the accident? Now they’ll be accusing Jackson of murder, not just drunk driving. What a fucking nightmare—as if I don’t have enough to deal with!”
Schaefer tried to calm her down. “Take it easy, Mrs. Pollock. Nobody’s sayin’ your husband killed her.”
“Want to bet?” she retorted angrily. “What do you think everybody is going to assume after they read this? Which everybody has by now.”
She could feel her intestines beginning to react. She threw the paper back into the taxi, slammed the door, opened her purse and shoved the fare into Schaefer’s hand, grabbed her overnight bag, and fled to the house.
Raging internally, she let herself in, dropped her bag, and stormed to the telephone. Her anger was complicated by a sense of dread as doubt entered her mind. Could Jackson actually have done it? Thank God this didn’t come out until after the funeral, she thought. I have to find out what’s going on.
She dialed the town police station. Fred put her through to Chief Steele, who had been expecting her call. Not knowing that she had gone to the city without reading the paper, he was surprised it had taken her so long to react to the Star story.
She demanded a full review of the investigation—understandable under the circumstances, though he was wishing she wasn’t demanding it quite so loudly—and insisted he come to her. She had no car, the taxi was gone, and she had no intention of calling it back. Nor did she want to be seen in town, where she would be the object of public curiosity, pity, and other less charitable sentiments.
Steele understood her situation and agreed to a private interview as soon as he could get away. “How soon?” she demanded, and he promised to be with her in less than an hour.
Dr. Abel had called earlier to let him know that Ted Dragon’s blood was Type O negative, commonly known as the universal donor. He had also mentioned, as they left The Creeks, that Ted’s scratches really did look like they were made by rose thorns, not fingernails. So Steele crossed him off the list and had a call put through to Hector Morales. He found the inspector at his desk in the Twenty-third Precinct.
“I think we should follow up with Petrillo,” said Steele. “We need a blood sample, and a photograph.”
“I’ll see if I can get him to come up here. We can type his blood right here in the station. I’ll tell him. That way his staff at the salon won’t have to know what’s going on. I think he’ll cooperate, otherwise I’ll go down there with the police surgeon and photographer, which would be just a little bit embarrassing for him.”
“Let me know as soon as you can. Meanwhile I have one very irate widow to deal with. She flipped her lid when she read the newspaper article. At least I can tell Mrs. Pollock that her late husband is in the clear, though she won’t like hearing the details of his alibi.”
“Maybe you can skip the part where he was screwing his girlfriend when her roommate was being strangled,” advised Morales. “The fact that his blood doesn’t match what was under Metzger’s nails should be enough to set her mind at rest.”
“Yeah, I guess so, though I wouldn’t put it quite like that. I don’t think her mind will be at rest for a long time, if ever. She’s wound pretty tight.”
Before heading up to Springs, Steele made a detour to the Sea Spray. There was no one at the cottage, so he left a note to let Nita and Fitz know that Petrillo was now the number one suspect. He really didn’t need to be in touch with them at this stage, since he had no results to report—he was procrastinating.
It was another perfect beach day, with a cloudless blue sky and a balmy breeze that mitigated the heat shimmering off the sand. The Fitzgeralds certainly had luck with the weather for their vacation, even if they hadn’t been able to take full advantage of it. Suppressing the urge to borrow a bathing suit from the inn’s supply, strip off his uniform, and go for a dip in the cool ocean, Steele reluctantly walked back across the baking tarmac to the patrol car and turned north.
Lee was waiting for him on the back porch, sitting on her cast-iron bench with an empty coffee cup and a full ashtray. She marched down to meet him as soon as his car came to a stop, and opened the conversation on a hostile note.
“You took your time,” she growled, “what the hell kept you?”
Keep it cordial, Harry, he said to himself. Don’t take it personally, she’s in a state—who wouldn’t be?
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Pollock,” he began, “I had an urgent matter to attend to. I’m hoping it will lead to a break in the case. I’ll explain everything, but first I want to offer my condolences. I know what a shock this has been for you. Please accept my sincere sympathy.”
It was a standard commiseration, but Steele delivered it with conviction and Lee accepted it with tempered thanks.
“I appreciate your kind thoughts, but what I’d appreciate even more is a full account of what happened, and what you’re doing to clear my husband’s name. Please come in.” She led him to the back door, ushered him in, and offered him a seat at the kitchen table.
Lee lit a cigarette, leaned back stiffly in her chair, and gazed steadily at the chief.
“Let’s have it,” she demanded.
He had been framing his report as he drove to the house, wanting to give her as much information as possible without compromising the investigation. First, however, he needed to reassure her.
“From the information we’ve gathered so far, it looks like your husband was not responsible for Edith Metzger’s death.” That wasn’t an all-out exoneration, since there was always a chance he was involved in some way, either as a witness or an accomplice, but it was true, and it had the desired effect.
Lee let out a huge sigh and visibly relaxed. “Thank God,” she murmured. She slumped in the chair, as if an iron rod had been removed from her spine.
“In all other respects,” Steele continued, “the Star gives just as full a report of the accident as I can. But without intending to, the article made it appear as if Mr. Pollock might have killed her before the accident. To be honest, that did seem to be a possibility. But we now have evidence that points in a different direction.”
“What evidence? What direction?”
“I can’t go into detail because the investigation is active. Let me just say that we hope to have some answers very soon.”
Lee was far from satisfied by such generalities. “What’s that supposed to mean? If Jackson didn’t do it, you must have some idea who did by now. It’s been almost a week.” She was getting testy again.
“Please understand my position, Mrs. Pollock. If I seem evasive”—and here she snorted and interjected, “I’ll say”—“it’s only because I have nothing definitive to report. As soon as I do, believe me, I’ll fill you in. Right now I can’t say anything that might compromise the case. It’s complicated enough as it is.”
She sat and smoked in silence for a few moments, considering his situation for the first time. If she appeared to be meddling, it might cast doubt on Jackson’s innocence, though that word was only appropriate in the narrowest sense. He was guilty of many reprehensible things, but apparently not of murder. For the moment, she decided, it was best to leave it at that.
“Listen, Harry,” she said, her tone softer and more reasonable, “I know you’re in a spot. I’m sorry to be so pushy. I’m not forgetting the times you or one of your men saw to it that Jackson got home in one piece. Please bear with me. This past week has been one long bad dream. I want to put it all behind me, you know?”
“Of course you do. So do I. One thing I can tell you is that Fitzgerald and Diaz, the two New York City police officers, have been a godsend. They’re really helping to move the investigation along. As you know, Mr. Pollock’s passengers were out from the city for the weekend, so we’re following up on that end with their assistance.”
“Yes, I read in the paper that they were on the case. It’s funny, their names rang a bell. I’m sure I’ve run into them before, must’ve been in the city, but I can’t remember where or when. Maybe it’ll come back when I’m thinking a bit straighter. Right now I’ve got other things on my mind.”
She got up, opened the back door for Steele, and thanked him as he left.
“It was good of you to come. You’ve taken a great weight off my shoulders. You won’t mind, will you—I mean it won’t cause you any problems—if I tell anyone who insinuates that Jackson killed that girl that you say he didn’t?”
“Well,” he hedged, “I didn’t exactly say that, but you can tell them we have evidence to the contrary.”
“Goddammit, Harry, you sound like a lawyer. Speaking of which, I need to call Gerry Weinstock and remind him to bring the will out with him tomorrow. I’m going to be in charge of Jackson’s estate, and managing it will be a big job.”
“You can handle it, Mrs. Pollock,” he assured her with complete confidence.
After a stop at home for lunch, Steele returned to the station to find a note on his desk. All it said was “Petrillo O+.” Cross off suspect number one, and that takes care of the whole list—Pollock, Kligman, Ossorio, Dragon, and now Petrillo. The investigation had just hit a wall.