THE CAB HAD YET TO ARRIVE.
She thought it would have been there by now, had, in fact, expected it to pull up in front of her place just minutes after she’d hung up the phone. That was how it had always gone in the past. Concerned now that the cab wasn’t going to show at all, she wondered if she should call for another. Finally, though, she told herself to give it one more minute, and when that minute had passed, she told herself to give it one more. She wasn’t supposed to drive her own vehicle, that much she knew, and anyway, she didn’t know where it was they were supposed to meet. He hadn’t told her that, had only said that he needed to talk to her and that he was sending a cab to get her. He was never one for saying much over the phone; eavesdropping on calls was just too easy these days. But this wasn’t a recent thing, he’d always been that way, for as long as she’d known him. She was asleep when he had called, dead to the world, half-naked in her warm bed, there for the duration. Now, minutes later, she was in jeans and a thermal shirt and boat shoes, her oversized green parka wrapped tight around her narrow torso, the fur-lined hood pulled up over her head against the damp and cold. If she had known the cab was going to take this long to arrive, she would have waited upstairs, in her apartment, watching from her front window. But how could she have known that? How could she have known that this would be any different from all the other times she’d been called to meet him like this? Still, she felt a little silly, standing there on her dark front porch, watching her quiet residential street and listening for the sound of tires on wet pavement, drawing her parka tight around herself to hold on to what remained of the deep warmth she had carried down with her from her bed.
She’d heard the sirens earlier tonight, was home from work by then, but hadn’t thought twice about them. She began to wonder now, though, exactly what they had meant. Four patrol cars, racing westward, by the sound of them. That was every cop on duty. Add to that the call from Miller a few hours later—after all this time. And add to that the overdue cab. Even in the summertime, when the streets were congested with tourists, cabs came faster than this. Any one of these things separately was enough to tell her that something was going on in town. Something big—or big enough. All three of them together, though, well, there was just no way that could be anything but bad news for someone.
She was about to head back inside, call for another cab from her third-floor apartment and wait for it there, where it was warm and dry, but just as she was turning toward her door she caught sight of the familiar sweep of headlights crossing her street, knew by this that a car had made the turn from Meeting House Lane onto Lewis Street a block away. She heard then the sound of tires on the pavement, started down the path that led from her front door to the curb even before she actually had seen the cab. But who else could it be at this time of night? She reached the end of the path as the cab pulled to a stop, climbed into the back and pulled the heavy door closed. Though it was warm in the cab, she kept her hood up, settling back in her seat as the cabbie made an illegal U-turn, then returned to the end of Lewis. Once there, he made a left on Meeting House Lane, heading west, toward the village. He was driving just a little bit above the speed limit, but she ignored this, as she had done with the illegal U-turn.
Such things were no longer any of her concern.
The cabbie had been told where to take her by Miller, so there was no need for her to say anything. She sat with her parka wrapped around her and looked out her window. She didn’t glance at the driver once, even though she sensed that every now and then he was looking back at her in the rearview mirror.
Halfway down Meeting House a call came in on the radio.
“Dispatch to Bobby.” Even with the voice distorted by static, muffled as it came through the single small speaker, she could hear a Jamaican accent.
The driver picked up the handset, responded, “Go ahead, Eddie.”
“Got a pick-up in Wainscott. That bar called Helenbach. How soon can you get there?”
“I’m about to drop off the Southampton fare. Better tell them a half hour. The weather’s getting pretty bad.”
“If they can’t wait, I’ll radio back.”
“Okay.”
“Eddie out.”
The driver replaced the handset to the radio mounted under the dashboard. They came to the stoplight at the end of Meeting House. As they waited, she looked to her right, down Main Street. Visibility was less than a block in all directions. About halfway down Main, all she could see was the shimmering black pavement feeding into a blur of soft white.
A severely limited world tonight, but that was fine with her.
“Busy night,” the cabbie said then.
She was still looking down Main, at the end of the world. Hypnotic, almost. “Oh, yeah,” she said flatly.
“They had to stop the eastbound trains in Hampton Bays, and the westbound trains in Bridgehampton. I’ve been running people stuck in Hampton Bays to their cars at the stations in Southampton and Bridgehampton. Had to take one guy to East Hampton. Boy, was he pissed. Crazy night, man. Crazy night.”
She nodded politely, wasn’t going to ask but finally couldn’t help herself, a part of her had to know. “Why’d they stop the trains?”
“The cops found two people murdered at the canal. On the bridge there.”
She nodded at that, thoughtfully. It was clear why Miller wanted to see her. Something to do with this, no doubt, what else could it be? But what she didn’t know was why Miller would now, suddenly, care about something like this. Last she knew he was out, retired, done with all this. Last she knew he had gotten what he needed to finally be able to live with himself.
Another question came to her mind. She waited a moment, wondered if she could live without knowing the answer, told herself she’d find out sooner or later, that much was certain. But, of course, in the end, she asked. Like she could have stopped herself.
“Any idea who the victims are?” she said.
“No.”
She glanced forward then, met the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He was young, maybe Miller’s age, maybe a little older. Younger, then, than she was, by a few years at least. Caucasian, a mop of curly black hair framing, from what she could see of it, a long but handsome face. Steady eyes, remarkably so, piercing even. Pale blue, though maybe that was a trick of the dashboard lights. A practiced stare, though. It had to be. Though he was sitting she estimated his height and weight, just as she had been taught to a long time ago. Five-eleven, one-eighty. Only an inch taller than she, but outweighing her by a good sixty pounds. She had lost too much weight over the winter, had become too slight, significantly weaker. When she was a cop, she had worked out, run, stayed strong. Now she didn’t do much but work at the liquor store and sleep, started her days not with a blend of vitamins designed specifically for runners but with the pill her doctor had prescribed to ease her depression.
She broke from his stare, glanced down at his license mounted under clear plastic on the back of his seat. Falcetti, Robert. It wasn’t a name she’d seen or heard before. Nothing worse than coming face-to-face with someone she had once arrested or helped to process at the station house. Seeing them walk into the store, then ringing them up at the register, wondering if they were staring at her because she was a woman and they were men or because they recognized her, or almost recognized her, had seen her somewhere before but just couldn’t figure out where. Nothing, really, worse than that.
Falcetti was still looking at her in the mirror. Still staring with that stare of his. Her face was framed by the fur-lined hood—faux coyote fur, army surplus. A perfect oval of eyes and nose and mouth, nothing more. She knew how she looked in that hood—coy, almost—was wearing it not for that reason, never wore it for that reason, but just to keep warm and dry. And, too, to feel concealed. Private. She knew, also, that stray strands of her hair—brown, straight, long—had slipped out of the ponytail she had pulled it into before coming downstairs to wait for the cab, were now peeking out from the fur-lining, hanging here and there in front of her face. It used to interest her what men had found attractive about her. The more unkempt she looked, it seemed, the more they stared. A woman on the verge of wildness? Was that what they saw? Was that what she was?
“You look different out of your uniform,” Falcetti observed.
Barton nodded, said nothing to that.
“I guess everyone does, though, huh?” Falcetti added.
“Yeah.”
“You’re . . . Katherine, right?”
“Kay.”
He thought for a moment more, still watching her, then: “Barton, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Bobby.”
She glanced at him once more, nodded briefly. No reason to be rude. But she said nothing. No reason, either, to say anything. Something about the way he looked, though, the way he looked at her, unnerved her. His stare. So . . . practiced. But there was always the chance that she was being oversensitive. She was like that these days, wary of men, all men. Contemptuous, even. But how could she not be? Her current interactions with men, fortunately, were limited to her customers at the liquor store. Regulars, for the most part, many of whom came in not for the prices or the convenience of the Job’s Lane location but, obviously, for her. The store’s owner had hired her because he liked the idea of an ex-cop behind the counter, hadn’t anticipated a bump in sales, though, looking back, he realized he probably should have. Men are, after all, men. But Barton didn’t care about that, wanted nothing to do with any of it. Love, lust, the whole damned mess—these were simply things she had no interest in anymore. No room for that. Besides, she was tired. So tired. Her pills, mercifully, kept her numb to the parts of herself that had once demanded there be a man beside her, that had driven her to need all that and to risk—and, finally, lose—everything for which she had worked so hard.
“So what the hell’s at the beach at this time of night?” Falcetti said. “And on a night like this?”
Barton continued to look out the window to her right, down what she could see of Main Street. “I’m meeting a friend,” she said. Her love affair with Roffman, when it was finally revealed, had been headline news in the local papers, remained so for months. She had stayed on the force for as long as she could, quit finally when it became clear to her—when it was made clear to her, once and for all—that she would not advance. Ever. She doubted that there was anyone in town, this cabbie included, who didn’t know of her years-long affair with her married boss. Hadn’t heard at least something about that. Her saying what she had just said, she hoped, would stop Falcetti from asking any more questions. A late-night meeting in an out-of-the-way place—how could that be anything other than this Barton woman—this home wrecker—up to her old tricks?
Let him think what he wants to think, as long as he leaves me in peace.
The light turned green then. Falcetti made another left, onto South Main Street. The ocean was less than a mile away. As they headed south and approached the water, the fog deepened, became quickly a shifting curtain that surrounded them closely on all sides. Barton looked forward, through the windshield, careful to avoid the rearview mirror. There was nothing to see, though, except the glare of the cab’s bright headlights reflecting back, unable to penetrate the harsh, solid white that was now all there was ahead of them.
A right onto Gin Lane, then onto Dune Road. Barton could hear the ocean now, even over the hiss of the tires cutting across the wet pavement below, even with the cab’s windows closed tight. Rough seas crashing into the beach, heavy waves sounding like the long rumble of approaching thunder. The cab turned into the large parking lot at Cooper’s Beach, a public beach area where Cooper’s Neck Lane met Dune Road. The lot was empty and unlit, which was, of course, why Miller had chosen it as their meeting place. Anyone that may have followed either of them here would easily be seen if they entered the long lot or, if they tried to hide their intention by continuing past it, be clearly visible on Dune Road for the time it would take them to cover the length of the lot. Also, with the noisy ocean to their backs, Barton knew that she and Miller could talk without fear of being eavesdropped upon by some high-tech device. Anyone who desired to get close enough to filter out any covering background noise would be unable to do so without making themselves seen.
This was the world in which Miller lived—or used to live. The world, Barton thought, he had given up in favor of the life of a landlord, a life of leisure.
So what, then, were they doing here?
The cab crossed the lot, pulled to a stop at the foot of a steep dune. Falcetti shifted into park, looked back at Barton once again in the rearview mirror.
“Is this good?” he said.
She nodded. “How much do I owe you?”
“It’s covered.”
“I should give you something.”
“No, it’s all taken care of. Orders. Don’t take a dime from her.”
Barton nodded again. “Tell Eddie thanks.”
“I will. I should wait, though, till your friend gets here.”
“That’s okay.”
“I can’t let you just stand out here all alone.”
“It’s okay, really. My friend might be a while. Besides, you have a fare waiting.”
She opened the door, slid across the backseat and got out, then swung the door closed and took a step back. Falcetti was looking at her through the driver’s door window. He nodded once, then drove off. The cab crossed the parking lot, disappearing into the fog less than halfway across. All she could see now were its lights, growing duller as it got farther away. She saw it turn right onto Dune Road, after that fading from sight completely. Barton was alone now. She put her hands in the pockets of her oversized parka, drew it tight around her. When she exhaled, she could see her breath, watched it as it quickly rose upward and dissipated into nothingness. The ocean was louder now that she was out of the cab, now that there was nothing at all to hear but the sound of it. A hundred feet behind her, and angry, brutal even, made so by the recent late-winter rain.
A few minutes after the cab drove away, another vehicle appeared. This one was heading straight down Cooper’s Neck Lane, its headlights visible as two blurs in the distance. The lights stopped at the end of Cooper’s Neck, then crossed Dune Road and entered the parking lot. Out of the fog, halfway across the lot, emerged Miller’s pickup. Mid-sized, beat-to-shit. It didn’t approach Barton but instead headed for a spot a good hundred feet from where she was standing at the foot of the dune. Of course, there was no doubt in Barton’s mind that he had seen her. Miller quickly killed the motor and the lights but didn’t get out right away. Barton knew he was watching for any indication that a car had followed him. She looked toward Cooper’s Neck Lane, couldn’t see it at all through the ground fog, couldn’t even see the entrance to the lot. She knew, though, that she would have seen headlights, just as she had seen Miller’s, which was why he had chosen that approach, she was certain, in the first place. She stared but saw nothing except a wall of white, no sense of any world at all beyond it.
Eventually she heard Miller’s truck door close, turned and spotted him crossing the distance between them. Tall like his father had been, as solidly built as ever, wearing that same old hand-me-down military field jacket he always wore. But there was something different about him now. Dramatically different. He was bearded, hadn’t been when she last saw him. A thick beard, full. His dark hair, too, was longer than she had ever seen it. The change was nothing less than jarring. He reached her finally, stood with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, only a few feet between them now. They faced each other but didn’t make a move to embrace, never really did that in all the time they’d known each other, as close as they were.
“Thanks for meeting me, Kay,” he said. His tone was serious, solemn. He had to speak up to be heard over the sound of the waves but didn’t dare speak too loudly. A razor’s edge. To her, Miller didn’t only sound grim, he looked it, but maybe that was an effect of the beard and the unruly hair.
“Long time, no see, Tommy.”
“How’ve you been?”
“Good. You look different with a beard.”
“Yeah?”
“It makes you look older. Less of a boy.”
“That’s good, right?”
Barton shrugged, smiled. It was, despite the changes in his appearance, the circumstances of their meeting, good to see him. “How’s the new place?”
“Falling apart.”
“You get used to the trains yet?”
“Can barely hear them. How’s the liquor store?”
“Busy. All this rain, everyone drinks.”
“You look good.” He was lying, she could hear it.
“You look stoned,” she said flatly.
Miller smiled. He looked away, checking for signs of a car in the fog. He was concerned about them being seen, this much was clear to Barton. She wasn’t ready, though, to know why.
She glanced down at his leg. “How’s your knee?”
“Hurts in the rain. All that money and time so it would stop hurting in the cold, and now it hurts in the rain.” He looked back at her.
“How are you right now?”
“I feel good.”
“Yeah, I bet. You shouldn’t be driving like this, Tommy. Especially in weather like this.”
“I’m okay.”
Barton waited a moment, watching his face closely, looking for the man she had always known, always trusted. He was sixteen when they had met, she twenty-three. He was the son of the then-chief of police, had once been the worst kind of juvenile delinquent, was trying to straighten himself out. He was already shattered by then. Barton was a recent hire, brought in as the first of the “new blood.” Chief Miller was just starting to clean house, trying to quiet rumors of corruption—corruption that had caught the attention of the FBI, among others. Three months later Chief Miller was dead. In the months that followed, the actual depths of his department’s corruption—“vast,” the newspapers kept calling it—began to be known.
Still, Chief Miller had invited Barton to his house for dinner when she had first arrived, had, along with his wife, opened his home to her, treated her, so far from her own family, like a daughter. She and Miller had stood together at his funeral, then stood together again, two years later, at Miller’s mother’s graveside. Till recently, she and Tommy had been a significant part of each other’s lives, always there, always checking in on each other. Whenever possible, Barton had done what she could to help Miller out with his investigations, even had gone as far several times as to get him copies of police files—statements, police reports, coroner’s reports—when he had needed them.
She looked at him now, was at last ready for the one question that mattered to be answered.
“Why are we back here, Tommy?” she said. “What’s going on?”
He took one more look around, quick but thorough, then looked at her and said, “I had a little meeting with Roffman.”
“When?”
“Just a little while ago. He sent Spadaro to pick me up.”
“What did he want?”
“Two bodies were found at the canal tonight.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
“How?”
“The cabbie mentioned it.”
Miller thought about that, then continued. “The victims were two males in their early twenties. They were hanged from the bridge. Their hands had been hacked off.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
“What do you mean by hanged exactly?”
“Just that. Hanged, by their necks. Like an execution.”
“Did you see them?”
“No. I mean, not hanging. The cops had them down by the time I got there.”
“You went to the canal?”
“Spadaro took me there. Walked me right in. That’s where the chief was.”
Confused, Barton shook her head. “Wait. Roffman had you meet him at the scene?”
“Jesus,” she muttered.
“I know.”
She waited a moment. “Who were they? The victims?”
“One is named Michaels. He has one arrest for auto theft. The other is Romano. No record. Both are from up around Albany.”
“I don’t understand what any of this has to do with you.”
“Roffman found one of my business cards in the wallet belonging to the car thief.”
“Michaels.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you know him?”
“No.”
“So how’d your card get there?”
“That’s what the chief wanted to know. It’s an old card. Four years old, actually. I didn’t give out a lot of them back then. Basically only to clients—people I had worked for already—and a few friends. Any one of them could have given it to Michaels, I suppose.”
“And you saw the card?”
“Yeah. Roffman had it in a Baggie.”
“He showed it to you?”
“Yeah. According to him, it was the only business card Michaels had in his wallet. He found it significant that the only business card some kid would have in his wallet is one of mine.”
“But that’s the thing, though, you know.”
“What?”
“ ‘According to Roffman.’ I mean, I don’t have to tell you how unusual it is for him to come out to a crime scene. And to have you brought there. This is just so strange.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Who was the detective in charge?”
“Mancini was there, but it looked to me like Roffman had taken charge.”
“I’m not sure I like this, Tommy.”
“You think Roffman could have planted my business card in Michaels’s wallet?”
“Why, though?”
Barton shrugged. “Pick a reason.”
“But how would he get one of my old cards?”
“From one of your clients. Or one of your friends, even. The same way, supposedly, this Michaels guy was supposed to have gotten it.”
“But I don’t do this anymore, Roffman knows that. What would he gain by trying to trick me into getting involved in this?”
“Maybe it’s more than trying to get you involved. Maybe he’s trying to set you up.”
“Why now, though? Why this?”
“I don’t know, Tommy. One thing is for sure, though. Roffman wouldn’t be doing whatever the hell it is he’s doing if he didn’t stand to gain something from it. It’s not like you were going to read in the paper that some dead guy had your business card in his wallet and then put yourself in the middle of this. He wanted you to know, went out of his way to tell you.”
Miller thought about that, said nothing.
“What else did he say, Tommy?”
“He offered me amnesty. In case I needed to, as he put it, cross the line. For the next day I more or less have free rein.”
Barton had suddenly heard enough, felt a rush of powerful emotions: fear and deep concern for Miller, but also anger and resentment toward Roffman, for what he was doing now, for what he had done in the past, had done to her. She hadn’t experienced feelings like this in a long, long time, not since the day her doctor had taken one look at her and handed her a prescription for her blessed Lexapro.
She took in a breath, calmed herself, then let the breath out.
“Roffman’s desperate,” she warned. “Something has him scared.”
“It’s a little hard to imagine someone like Roffman scared.”
“I don’t know, Tommy, if you ask me, I think men in power are the ones out of all of us who are the most afraid. It’s an awful big thing to lose, you know. Power. Everybody wants it, and when you have it, everyone around you is looking for ways to take it away from you, to grab it for themselves.”
Miller looked at her for a moment, saying nothing. She wondered if he was thinking of his father. Roffman had been brought in all those years ago to turn things around, put an end to all the corruption, make things right again. How long, Barton wondered, till he had made his first back-room deal? How long had he held out? What was it that had finally turned him around? She gave Miller credit, always had, for not becoming like his father, but more than that, for standing up against the man who had been appointed to replace his father, only to become exactly what Miller’s father had been. Most men didn’t have the sense to avoid the traps fate put in front of them, didn’t have what it took to beat the odds. Miller had done that, at a terrible cost to him, yes, but really what in this life came cheap?
Miller glanced once more in the direction of the road. He couldn’t see it, could barely see halfway across the lot. Barton sensed that the nervousness he had come with had increased. More than before, more than ever, the last thing he wanted, for her sake, was for someone to see them together.
Always concerned about the right thing. Noble to a fault. But she could hardly blame him. It wasn’t like she didn’t run to extremes as well, so she could live with herself and the things she had done. Once she had been a cop, sworn to keep order. Now she sold booze, the cause—the legal cause, at least—of most disorderly conduct. Once she had been a woman in love with a man. Now she couldn’t remember the last time she had touched or been touched, couldn’t for the life of her imagine the next time she would.
“Listen, I know I haven’t been . . . available that much lately,” Miller said. “And then suddenly I show up out of nowhere, asking for help.”
“My phone works both ways, Tommy. I haven’t called you either.”
“I think of it, all the time. You know? I just don’t ever seem to get around to it. Something holds me back, the next thing I know it’s too late to call, that kind of thing.”
“I think it’s easier to . . . suffer in private, you know. No one watching, no one listening.” She shrugged. “At least it is for me. Anyway, I’m part of your old life, Tommy, and you’re part of mine. We haven’t found a way yet to include each other in our lives the way they are now, that’s all. I’m not too worried, though. I figured we’d figure it out sooner or later, when the time was right for the both of us.”
Miller nodded. “I’d like that, Kay.” He looked toward the road again, turning his head fast this time, as if he had heard something he didn’t like. He stood perfectly still. Barton did as well, couldn’t help it. She felt, though, only calmness. The freedom that comes from not caring, having nothing left to lose. After a moment of them standing still it became clear that there was nothing there for them to worry about.
“We shouldn’t push our luck,” Miller said. “We should get you back.” He was still looking in the direction of the road, though. She knew then that there was a part of him still, a part deep down inside him, that was unable to let go of his fear of doing wrong. Maybe he would never be able to let go of that.
“Listen, Tommy, the thing you need to know about Roffman is that he’s made his share of deals with the devil over the years.”
Miller looked at her. He waited, saying nothing.
“You’re not the only one with a promise that shouldn’t be kept.”
Miller studied her for a moment. He was trying to work this out, she could see that. He had it, she could see that, too, knew just what it was she was saying to him. Still, he needed her to say it aloud, needed to hear it. The painkiller, no doubt.
“Think about it, Tommy. About where the bodies were found, on display like that, the fact that they had been put on display to begin with. The hands cut off, hanged from a bridge at the canal, for everyone to see. Who else could that be but that friend of yours?”
“He’s not my friend, Kay.”
“I know. I was being ironic. When you first went into business for yourself, you took people on. A lot of people. And head-on, too. You were fearless. A little too fearless, if you ask me, but that’s a zealot, right? That’s what a zealot does. Of all the people you went after, though, there’s one person you left alone. One person you never went anywhere near. It’s the one person I would have expected you to go after. When you finally told me why, I understood. You were being you, you couldn’t help it, even if it was a stupid promise to make. But don’t think for a moment that certain people in town didn’t notice that this one man went ignored by you. And don’t think they didn’t form their own conclusions as to the reason why.”
Miller shrugged. “People will think what they want to think. There’s not much I can do about that.”
“As long as you know you’re right,” Barton offered. “Right?”
“Yeah.”
“I love you, Tommy, I really do, you know that, but all this honor stuff, it doesn’t get you anywhere. You don’t get points for doing the right thing. If anything, it’s just the opposite.”
“I know, Kay.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m not really sure what it is Roffman expects me to do. A four-year-old business card in the wallet of someone I’ve never met isn’t really much to go on. To be honest, I’m more concerned about what Roffman is up to than anything else. I don’t really care one way or another about who committed these murders and why.”
“Who are you, and what have you done with Tommy Miller?” Barton joked.
Miller smiled, but it didn’t last very long. Too much was on his mind. Barton could see on his face the strain of all this information, all the questions, see in his eyes—wild eyes, thanks to the painkillers—that he was trying with everything he had to make some sense of all this.
“I meant it when I said I wanted nothing to do with this anymore, Kay. Life isn’t so bad right now. I could live with things the way they are, for a long time. Minus the rain, but you can’t have everything, can you?”
“So go away for a couple of days. Let this blow over.”
“I don’t think I can do that.”
“Then let me come with you. Whatever you’re going to do, you shouldn’t be behind the wheel the way you are right now.”
“Your buddy Spadaro asked me to let him know what Roffman wanted. He thinks maybe we can help each other out somehow. If I need any help, I can get it from him.”
Barton nodded. “Okay.”
“I need you to tell me something, though.”
“What?”
“I need you to tell me if I can trust him.”
“Ricky dislikes the chief as much as you do. Maybe even more. He’s stuck working for the guy, even though it was made clear to him that he’d never advance either.”
“But he does work for him. The whole thing between them tonight, that could have just been . . . theater.”
“I doubt it. Ricky’s not the type to hide his feelings very well.”
“Even if it means keeping his job?”
“When it ended between Roffman and me and everyone turned against me, Ricky was pretty vocal about the way I was being treated. It got him in a lot of trouble, but he couldn’t help himself. They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Let me tell you, that’s nothing compared to a chief of police scorned.”
“So you think I can trust Spadaro.”
“I think Ricky doesn’t need to make things worse for himself by doing favors for you. But, yeah, you can trust him. You’re two of a kind, if you ask me.”
Miller nodded. Barton watched him for a moment.
“Don’t underestimate Roffman,” she said finally. “He’s a man with a lot to lose.”
“I won’t.”
“Talk to Ricky, tell him everything you told me.”
“I’ll need his number.”
“Okay.”
Miller reached into the pocket of his field jacket, removed his cell phone. “I’ll call Eddie first, have him send the cab back for you.”
“It’s on its way to Wainscott right now.”
“How do you know?”
“The call came in over the radio while he was taking me here.”
“Eddie probably has more than one driver on tonight. Especially with the trains shut down.”
“Tommy, enough,” Barton said. “Just take me home yourself, okay?”
“It’s for your own protection, Kay.”
“I don’t really care.”
“I do.”
“Then take me as far as the hospital. I can walk from there.”
“We have to be careful, Kay.”
“We’re not doing anything wrong, Tommy. I’m done living like a guilty person. I’ve been done with that for a while now.”
A wave came in, crashing into pieces just beyond the dune behind them. It was louder than any wave they had heard so far.
“C’mon, Tommy,” she said, “let’s just get the hell out of here, okay?”
The warmth flowing from the heater vents and collecting around them in the cab of his pickup caused Miller to sink even deeper into his numbness. Barton had refused to let him drive, so he was sitting in the passenger seat. In all the years he owned his truck, he’d never sat there before, not once. It was just a little strange, no steering wheel in front of him, no pedals at his feet, but not driving allowed him the freedom to look out the window as they headed back toward the village. Not that there was much to see, of course. When he wasn’t looking at the fog around them, or at the twelve-foot hedges lining Gin Lane just beyond the passenger door window, Miller was glancing at the mirror mounted outside his door, looking in it for any sign of headlights peeking through the white curtain behind them.
He was suddenly very tired. Maybe Barton had been right about his not really being in any condition to drive. He was a big guy, though, and his body had been getting gradually used to the effects of the pills, so this stupor wouldn’t last for too much longer. He would have felt better during these days of rain had he added a fourth pill to his daily routine, but he knew that that was how people got into trouble with this shit—their bodies became tolerant, the pain wasn’t so easily taken away anymore, so, they told themselves, just one more pill, just for today, just to get through. Life was just too good, Miller thought, to wake up one morning suddenly addicted, to find that his mind and body weren’t his own anymore.
At the hospital parking lot—empty this time of night, the emergency room entrance on the other side of the building—Barton parked. No big goodbyes, nothing really at all anyway left for either to say. She climbed out, looked at Miller for a moment, then closed the door. He watched her as she crossed the parking lot, then he moved across the seat and got in behind the wheel. She exited the lot and turned left, starting down Lewis Street. Her place was less than a block away, the street was a well-lit residential street, she’d be fine. Still, Miller waited for the time he figured it would take her to get to her door, then steered across the parking lot and turned left onto Lewis, heading toward her place. He’d come this far, so there wasn’t really any point in bothering to pretend anymore. And anyway, no one had followed them. Despite the fog, he would have seen their headlights.
Miller slowed as he passed her place, saw a light go on in the third-floor apartment, glimpsed Barton, still in that parka of hers, as she crossed in front of her living-room window. She was fine, locked in, safe. He hadn’t been inside her place in a long time. Even before they had fallen out of touch he hadn’t been there more than a few times. So much of their friendship then had to be in secret. Back in those days she was a cop and he was a private investigator, so it wouldn’t be good for her if they were to be seen together all that much. But it hadn’t been just that, it had also been because of Roffman and the secret, so-called, that she had shared with him. Miller back then wasn’t supposed to know but did, of course he did, and Roffman couldn’t know that Miller actually knew—a ridiculously complicated time, to say the least. Miller was glad that it was over. It was a dangerous, foolish thing for Barton to have done to begin with—enter into an affair with Roffman—but who was Miller to criticize. He’d done worse than love the wrong person. Much worse.
Miller remembered the last time he had been inside Barton’s apartment, remembered the wall in her living room dedicated to her achievements as a cop: her diploma from the academy, where she had graduated first in her class; the certificate she had received upon passing the sergeant’s exam; a similar certificate she had received for acing the detective’s exam. Not any of these achievements had come to anything in the end. Miller wondered if that wall was as it had been when he was last in her place, or if it had been stripped bare, everything that had been hung upon it packed away in a cardboard box in some closet.
He returned to his place, didn’t turn on any lights as he went into the bathroom. There he filled the sink with warm water, splashed his face with it. When he was done he leaned over the sink, water dripping from his beard, and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He wished then that it wasn’t Monday night, that the restaurant below was open. If it were he could sit at the bar, relax, numb himself even further by adding a little booze to the painkillers in his blood. A night of forgetting—everything he knew, everything he’d just been told, every question that each detail brought to his mind. He supposed he was lucky that downstairs was in fact closed. He had no choice now but to face what was before him, whatever it was, and try to see where it would take him, if he could, what it all really meant. He had right now no idea at all what he should do next, aside from informing Spadaro, as he had promised. He always kept his promises, no matter what. But beyond that, nothing, no path to follow, no lead to pursue. As far as he knew, he was home for the night. In his current condition, and the weather being what it was, that notion at first appealed to him, greatly. But then he realized that staying home would mean he’d be left with nothing to do but to wait and wonder, and these were the last things he wanted to be doing.
Barton had given Miller Spadaro’s home phone number, which he had stored in his cell phone. He would, of course, need to place the call from the pay phone at the train station, using his calling card. If all this went to shit—there were many ways it could, always were—the cops didn’t need to find a record of a call from Miller to Spadaro. Miller dried his face and hands, looked at himself once more in the mirror, then grabbed his field jacket and was putting it on, about to step back outside, when his landline rang.
He checked his watch. It was fifteen minutes to midnight. Stepping to his phone, he glanced down at the caller ID. The number displayed wasn’t one he recognized. Above it were the words NY Wireless. A cell phone, then. And a Long Island area code. After a moment, Miller finally picked up the phone. There wasn’t any point now in his refusing to answer. The caller would only keep on trying, or, worse, come pounding on his door. One such visit in a night was enough.
On the other end of the line, a male voice, unfamiliar. “Miller?”
A pause, then: “Yeah.”
“It’s Mancini.”
Miller’s first instinct was to hang up, but he didn’t. Mancini speaks for me, Roffman had said. And anyway, Miller needed something, a lead, anything, somewhere to go, something to do other than wait. He was hungry for it, a feeling he hadn’t known in a long time, a feeling he had thought he’d never have to know again.
“What’s going on?” Miller said.
“I need to talk to you. In person.”
“Right now.”
Miller took in a breath, let it out. What choice did he have? “Where?”
“I’m coming over.”
“No.” He was shaking his head. “I’d rather we met somewhere else.”
“I don’t care. I’m around the corner, and this can’t wait. I’ll be right there.”
Miller looked around his dark apartment, thought of Mancini standing in it. Just the thought of it felt like an invasion. Being out in that world again was one thing, letting it into his place was another.
“Meet me at the restaurant below,” Miller said.
“I prefer privacy.”
“The restaurant’s closed tonight, no one’s there. I have a key. The back door will be open.”
“Be there when I arrive,” Mancini said. There was an edge to his voice. A strain. Miller didn’t know Mancini all that well, but he knew a man under pressure when he heard one.
“What’s going on?” Miller said.
The call threatened to drop, Miller heard only a stutter of half-words.
“I didn’t get that,” Miller said. “You’re breaking up.”
The signal strength returned, and Miller heard Mancini clearly now.
“It seems we’ve got ourselves another dead body,” he said.
Miller wanted to ask who, the word was on the tip of his tongue, but he could tell the line was already dead. Either the signal was lost or Mancini had hung up.
Miller kept the phone to his ear for a moment, just in case, then finally returned it to its cradle. It took another moment for him to start toward the door.
In the restaurant below he waited by the large storefront window, could see from where he stood both Elm Street and Railroad Plaza. He kept the lights off, but just like his place above, the lights of the train station were more than enough to get around in. Only a minute after he had let himself into the empty restaurant, Mancini’s unmarked sedan appeared on Railroad Plaza, turning onto it from North Main. Miller watched the sedan pass the long railroad platform, at the end of which Railroad Plaza, crossing Elm, became Powell Avenue. The sedan continued along Powell, passing the restaurant and disappearing from Miller’s sight. He stepped away from the window but not by much. He had left the door to the kitchen ajar, waited till he heard its hinges squeak, then heard footsteps in the kitchen. Soon enough Mancini stepped through the swinging doors, spotted Miller standing at the far end of the long dining room, headed toward him.
He was wearing his dark wool overcoat, dark pants, and dress shoes. The shoes were, Miller noticed, remarkably clean, but that was Mancini. Always well groomed, always well dressed. Still, clean shoes on a night like this, no small accomplishment. Mancini was looking around as he walked toward Miller, making certain, Miller assumed, that they were alone. Built like a fire hydrant, his footsteps landed heavy on the plank floor. He wasn’t as tall as Miller but easily the same weight. About halfway down the room Mancini came to a stop. He glanced now at the tables placed close together throughout the room—a European sensibility, this proximity—and at the long bar that ran along one wall. After that he looked up at the ceiling of old, stamped tin, the building’s original ceiling. He wasn’t making certain that they were alone now, was instead checking the place out, like a prospective buyer. Maybe he was simply hoping to determine the value of the place and thereby get an idea of Miller’s value. It was safe to assume, by the way Mancini dressed, by what Miller knew of him, that such a thing mattered to the man. Southampton was, after all, a town of haves and have-nots. The treatment one got often depended on just how much or how little one had.
“You own this?” Mancini said. He was still studying the ceiling.
“The building, yeah,” Miller answered.
“But not the business.”
“No.”
Mancini nodded. Miller waited, saying nothing.
“It’s always been amazing to me how nine out of ten restaurants out here don’t make it past their first winter,” Mancini said. “This place seems to do okay, though, huh? Oberti certainly seems to be doing okay, driving his fancy car, running around with that young girlfriend of his.”
“It’s busy most nights, and Oberti pays his rent on time,” Miller said. “That’s about all I know.”
“I’ve always wanted a restaurant of my own. I’ve always thought of starting one up after I retire. It’s such a risk, though. A guy could lose his shirt.”
Miller had had enough of this small talk. “Who’s dead?” he demanded.
Mancini was looking at Miller now, was still only halfway down the long room. It was as if he didn’t want to go anywhere near the front window.
“A guy named Adamson,” he said. “Did you know him?”
“Never heard of him.”
“A few months ago he bought Tide Runner’s, that place on the canal.”
“He was your witness, wasn’t he?”
“What makes you say that?”
Miller shrugged. “Roffman said there was a witness. It adds up.”
“But you didn’t know him, right?”
“Right.”
Mancini nodded, thought about that, took another quick look around, then said, “Where’d you go tonight? After you left the canal.”
“I went home.”
“I tried to call you a few times but there was no answer.”
“I wasn’t picking up.”
“So you’ve been home since talking to Roffman at the canal.”
“Yeah.”
“I drove by a few times, too. Figured you might not be picking up. Didn’t see your pickup out back, but it’s there now.”
“I loaned it to a friend of mine. He just brought it back.”
Mancini nodded again, thoughtfully. “Well, that explains that, then, doesn’t it?”
“Look, if I was a suspect, Detective, you wouldn’t be here alone, would you? You would have showed up with another detective or a uniformed cop, that’s procedure. Then you would have invited me down to the station and asked me these questions with a video recorder aimed at my face. So why don’t you save us both some time and tell me what you’re really here for? It’s been a long night, it’s late. I’d like to get some sleep.”
“You do look a little beat.” Mancini studied Miller, then said, “I’m here because I thought maybe you could help me figure something out.”
“What?”
“There are some things that don’t make sense. Lots of things.”
“Like?”
“Like Adamson was found beside his truck, in the parking lot of his restaurant, not all that long, actually, after he was questioned by Roffman.”
“Roffman interviewed him himself?”
“That’s right. It seems that after he talked to Roffman, Adamson called his girlfriend, told her that he was on his way home. When he didn’t show up after a half hour, she got worried and went to look for him, found him dead in the mud. That’s got to suck, huh?”
“How was Adamson killed?”
“Strangled.”
“With what?”
“Bare hands, it seems. I know that Adamson’s parking lot isn’t paved, and that at least a few vehicles were in and out of it at some point tonight. The rain, though, has washed away most of the tracks.”
“What about inside the restaurant? Footprints, debris?”
“Roffman is going to have crime scene techs check it out. Not sure if they’re going to find anything, though. Not sure even if they do find anything that anyone is going to know about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Roffman interviewed Adamson alone.”
“Where were you?”
“I was sent back to the station. By Roffman. To double-check the information we got from the DMV. Not exactly the best use of the head detective, wouldn’t you say?”
“You think Roffman is up to something.”
“Just like you do.”
“What makes you think I think that?”
“You ran to Barton tonight because you missed her all of the sudden? It’s pretty obvious that’s where you went. It’s a pretty safe bet. I’ll tell you, she’s the one I’d run to first if I thought Roffman was up to something. Who would know him better, right? Who might have a dirty secret or two, maybe even be dying to share those secrets with someone, be the cause of Roffman falling flat on his face.”
Miller said nothing. Mancini took one step toward him.
“You’re a smart guy, Tommy, we all know this. Roffman has always been scared by how smart you are. More than scared, though, it threatens him. Me, I don’t give a shit who’s smarter than who, all I care about is the fact that three hours after two men are brutally murdered, the only witness we have was himself murdered. That’s fast work, if you ask me. Too fast.”
“What do you mean, too fast?”
“It could be that the killers were someplace where they were able to keep an eye on the whole scene, saw Roffman going in to talk to Adamson, waited for him leave and then made their move. Or it could be something else. Something worse.”
“Like they were tipped off by someone.”
“Like they were tipped off by someone in the department, yeah.”
“Why someone in the department?”
“It’s doubtful the killers could have seen Adamson from the bridge, but even if they had, the distance was too great for him to have been able to identify them as anything other than two figures running away from him. So why would they risk hanging around and watching? And why risk killing him? Killing him right there, across the canal from a crime scene?”
Miller could think of only one thing, the obvious thing. “To cover their tracks,” he said.
“And push their luck by leaving all new tracks? The bridge was brilliant—solid wooden ties and gravel means on a rainy night they’d leave no footprints. But the parking lot outside the restaurant is dirt and crushed seashells. That means nothing but footprints. It just seems to me like an unnecessary risk. The only thing that would have made it necessary was if Adamson had somehow actually seen something and told Roffman. But how would the killers know that? And so soon after Roffman questioned him.”
“Unless it was Roffman who told them.”
“Exactly.”
“But why?”
“That’s what I’d like to find out.”
Miller waited a moment, thought about all this, then said, “The first part of your theory, that the killers were waiting somewhere nearby, watching the whole scene—” He didn’t complete his thought. He didn’t have to. Mancini was watching him closely.
“We all know who owns the Water’s Edge,” Mancini said finally.
Miller muttered the name: “Castello.” Even saying it aloud felt a little like betrayal. Foolish, he knew, but the need to keep his word was steeped in him.
“This time of year you can easily see the canal from its upper windows,” Mancini said.
Miller thought then of what Barton had said, about Roffman keeping a promise he, too, really shouldn’t be keeping.
“You think Roffman is involved with Castello?”
“I think he’s busy covering up for somebody, yeah,” Mancini said. “And Castello’s from where? South America somewhere? They play by their own kind of rules down there, don’t they? They have their own particular forms of punishment.” After a pause, he added, “They aren’t like us.”
Us? Who exactly was Mancini talking about? Miller wondered.
“The dead guys at the canal had worked for Castello,” Miller said. “That’s what you’re thinking, right?”
“That they worked for Castello and betrayed him somehow, yeah.”
“But to display their bodies so close to a place he owns, that a lot of people know he owns, that’s kind of bold, don’t you think?”
“South American types are hotheads, aren’t they? Besides, if you had the chief of police in your pocket, wouldn’t you feel a little bold? Hell, from what I hear, having a chief for a father had made you plenty bold yourself once upon a time.”
Not bold, just stupid, arrogant, violent. A troubled kid out of control. But I’ve long since made up for that. More than made up for it, more than repaid that debt.
“So what are you going to do about all this?” Miller said.
“I’d like to find out what’s going on inside the Water’s Edge.”
“Get a warrant.”
“Can’t, you know that. Besides, it’s best that Roffman doesn’t know what I’m thinking.”
“Wish I could help you, Detective,” Miller said flatly. He knew where this was going, why Mancini was really here.
“You can, though. You’re not a cop. You don’t have a PI license to protect anymore. You could . . . let yourself in, have a look around.”
“Can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“It doesn’t matter which. I’m not going to do it.”
“I thought you’d want to help. After what Roffman did to your friend. After the stuff he uncovered about your father, the posthumous beating that poor man took.”
“What was said wasn’t untrue. Anyway, I don’t fix other people’s problems anymore.”
“Not even Barton’s?”
Miller said nothing.
“What about your own problems, then, Tommy?”
“My only problem right now is you. Let me make this clear: I’m not breaking into the Water’s Edge. Not for you, not for anyone. There’s nothing you can say that will change my mind.”
“Even if it means exposing Roffman.”
“You’re the cop, not me. You catch the criminals.”
“And if in the meantime Roffman somehow connects you to all this?”
“Is he trying to?”
“I don’t have a fucking clue. All I know is he searched the wallets, he was the one who found your business card. What did he say when he talked to you?”
Miller thought about Roffman’s proposal. Amnesty, free rein, the sharing of information.
“Not much,” he said.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” Mancini studied Miller, then reached into the pocket of his overcoat, pulled out a business card, placed it on the nearby bar. The bar was made of oak, had a dark marble top and brass trim. Older than Miller, older than Mancini, even—older than all of them.
“If you change your mind, give me a call.” Mancini took one more look around. “Smart investment,” he said. “You set yourself up nice here. Most people your age would have opted for flash, you know. Sold their parents’ home for two million bucks and blown it all on cars and a lifestyle.” He nodded, then looked at Miller once more. “Smart guy.”
He turned and walked back toward the kitchen, stepping finally through the swinging doors. Miller waited till he heard the back door close before he left his spot by the front window and went back into the kitchen. Something told him not to go out that way, something in his gut, so he locked the door and returned to the front of the restaurant, let himself out through the main entrance, locking it behind him. He stepped to the corner of Elm Street and Powell Avenue, looked down Powell. The fog wasn’t as thick here as it had been at the ocean’s edge. He could see the taillights of Mancini’s unmarked sedan just as it reached the end of the street a long block away. The sedan turned right, then disappeared from sight. Miller was then, as far as he could tell, alone in his little corner of town.
He waited a moment, thinking. It took everything he had. Finally he crossed the street to the train station, used his calling card and dialed Spadaro’s number from the pay phone on the platform. Spadaro’s phone didn’t ring, went instead straight into his voice mail. Miller didn’t understand why Spadaro’s phone would be shut off—no ring and being sent straight to voice mail, that’s what that meant, right? Miller hung up without leaving a message. Something, again, something deep in his gut, told him to do that.
He returned to his apartment, and once inside he found that he didn’t know exactly what to do with himself. His dilemma, though, didn’t last too long. Less than a minute after stepping through the door his landline rang.
The number on the caller ID was a local number, one that Miller recognized. The pay phone on the corner of Cameron and Main Streets, in the heart of the village. He had called from pretty much every phone in town, at one point or another, remembered their numbers, or enough of their numbers to be recognize them and recall their location when he saw them. He answered his phone right away.
“It’s me,” Barton said. “I’m calling from a pay phone.”
“Yeah, I know. What’s going on?”
“I called Ricky, to let him know you’d be calling. He wanted me to give you a message.”
“What?”
“Michaels had a girlfriend.”
“How’d he find out?”
“He didn’t want to say. He was leaving, wanted me to give you an address.”
“Where was he going?”
“He didn’t want to say that, either. He thinks you should go to this address and have a look around. It’ll be a few hours at least before the cops get this information, he said, so you have a window. He’s afraid that evidence might disappear once the cops go through the place, thinks you should get there before that happens.”
“I don’t know, Kay—”
“You have to promise me something, Tommy.”
“What?”
“I’m not going to give you the address unless you promise to let me come with you.”
“I’m not even sure I’m going anywhere—”
“Just promise.”
“Listen, I’m a little uncomfortable with a cop telling me to break into the home of the girlfriend of a murder victim. First Roffman wants me on the case, offers me amnesty, then Mancini tries to get me to do something only an idiot would do, and now Spadaro.”
“What do you mean, Mancini wants you to do something only an idiot would do?”
“He just gave a big pitch. Thinks Roffman is up to something, wants to find out what. Maybe he’s on the level, or maybe he just wants to be the next chief. I don’t know and I don’t care.”
“When did this happen?”
“Just now, after I saw you. He met me downstairs.”
“Yeah.”
“I almost don’t want to tell you now.”
“What do you mean?”
“You won’t be able to sit still once you find out who the girlfriend is, Tommy. And until we know what’s going on, you probably should sit still. It looks to me like all the big boys want the playground tonight.”
“Back up, Kay. What do you mean, once I find out who the girlfriend is?”
“If Roffman knew about this, I’m sure he would have told you. Same with Mancini. If they were trying to get you to act, this would certainly do it. You’re going to find out sooner or later, though, so I guess I should tell you now. Better me than any of those clowns. But you have to promise to let me come with you.”
“Kay, what’s going on?”
“Just promise me, Tommy.”
“Yeah, all right, I promise, whatever. What the hell is going on?”
The line went quiet for a moment. Miller looked toward his front windows. His unlit apartment was chilly. He waited for what felt to him like a long time.
“Jesus, Kay, what?”
“Michaels’s girlfriend was Abby.”
Miller’s next word was little more than a desperate whisper. “What?” “Your Abby, Tommy. According to Spadaro she was going out with the Michaels guy. She was his girlfriend. And Spadaro thinks she might be missing.”
Miller closed his eyes, then opened them again. Nothing in his living room had changed, and yet suddenly everything looked so different, so foreign.
“What’s the address, Kay?”
“It’s not as easy as all that, Tommy.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ll explain when I see you. I’ll be at your place in two minutes. Okay?”
Miller nodded, though of course she couldn’t see him.
“Tommy?”
“Yeah. I’ll be here,” he said.
“I’m leaving now.”
She hung up. Miller returned the receiver to the cradle. After a moment he looked at his watch. It was midnight, and the blue flame in his chest was gone now.