Hard Stop

EIGHT

I THINK I UNDERSTAND why certain people feel powerful when they point a gun at somebody. People who otherwise feel powerless and afraid. Having been on the receiving end of that a few times, I can attest to its effectiveness, at least for impressing an opponent—or victim. Though personally, I don’t think flashing a gun around is anything to be particularly proud of.

So I’ve made a practice of staying as far away from guns as possible. Which is why I brought Marve Judson’s .45 over to Joe Sullivan, who I knew would be at his desk at the Hampton Bays HQ just after the crack of dawn.

Before I could give him the gun I had to get past Janet Orlovsky, the station’s first line of defense. I’d have shot her if she hadn’t been sitting behind a bulletproof sliding window.

Officer Orlovsky had never thought much of me, even before I’d given her a reason. As more reasons piled up, her attitude dug in.

“Can I help you?” she asked, wanting to do nothing of the kind.

“Is Joe here?”

“State your business.”

“Christ, Janet, do we have to do this every time?”

“Your name?”

“It’s still Sam Acquillo.”

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

“Sullivan doesn’t make appointments.”

“Then you can’t see him. Not without an appointment.”

“Don’t try that on me. I read the same book.”

“I can give you the number of our public information officer. If you call him and leave a message, he’ll call you back if he can help you.”

She started to write his number on a small note pad.

“I’ve got his cell phone number,” I said.

She looked up.

“Who?”

“Sullivan’s. And his home phone. And the phone at the desk he’s sitting at right now. I can call him and say you won’t let me in.”

I held up my own cell phone.

“You can’t use cell phones in here,” she said, using her pen to point at a bulletin board on the other side of the room. It was straining under the weight of public notices, wanted posters, charity appeals and desperate cries for help. And maybe a sign that said no cell phones in the reception area.

“Why the hell not?”

She just looked at me, hoping I’d start down that road. The one ending with her whistling for the boys in the back to come out with night sticks.

I smiled.

“I guess it interferes with secret police frequencies.”

She just kept looking.

“Thanks for your help,” I said and went outside and called Sullivan on his cell phone.

“Hey Sam, where are you?”

“On the lawn outside HQ. You gotta get me past Cerberus.”

“I thought Orlovsky was at the desk.”

“Just come out and get me, will you?”

I tried to look cool and laid-back while I waited for him to come out. The sky was wearing its regular morning mist. The September air in the Hamptons was a lot better than the August air, though not quite what you got in October. As that thought crossed my mind a huge flock of Canada geese crossed noisily overhead, getting a head start on the run south. Elongated shadows cast by the rising sun rippled across the fresh-cut grass. I thought of Eddie’s usual response, eyes fixed on the sky as he ran random circles hoping to magically coax one of the foolish birds to swoop closer to earth, to come within the arc of an energetic leap.

“Nice day,” said Sullivan, striding toward me. “What’s up?”

“I’ve got something for you,” I said. “And now that I think of it, it’s better to give it to you out here.”

He glowered his wary cop glower.

“What are you talking about?”

I put my hands on my head.

“Right hand jacket pocket,” I said.

He moved closer and patted my side, then drew out the gun.

“Orlovsky probably saved my life. If I’d pulled this inside half the squad room would still be shooting.”

“What’s with you and the automatics?” he asked.

“Same source, more or less,” I said, lowering my arms. “Corporate security. Honest Boy’s boss, to be exact.”

I handed him the clip before he had a chance to check for it. He slapped it in and out of the gun, racked the slide and ran through all the other stuff guys did with guns when they knew what to do with them.

“You’re going to explain this to me,” he said, not a request. “Over here.”

I followed him to a beat-up, greyed-out picnic table used more for smoke breaks than picnics.

He listened carefully as I told him about Marve Judson’s visit. He didn’t know whether to be angry or relieved that I hadn’t called him like I’d done with Honest Boy Ackerman. More likely the latter. Inconvenience aside, he’d had enough legal ambiguity.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked.

A question I never get used to asking myself.

“What do you think?”

“Me?” he said. “How would I know?”

“You’re a detective. Give me a theory,” I said.

He looked up at another flock of geese as he tried to focus his mind. “Everybody’s lying,” he said, finally.

“How come?”

“Because everybody always lies. I go out on a case, I know that mostly what I’m going to hear is a bunch of lies. Even from people who don’t need to lie, who’ve got nothing to gain by it. It’s like a reflex. Low-life crud or corporate big shot, it’s no different. People aren’t wired to tell the truth.”

“That’s a cheery thought.”

“You know that. What am I telling you for?”

He was right. I knew that. Deception was natural human behavior. Deception and self-deception. Mostly just little omissions or mini fact spins. People were compelled to distort the reality delivered by their senses through the selfish lens of the mind.

“But there’s deception, and then there’s deception. With a capital D.”

“I hear you. With this you got a capital D. This is just what I’m thinking.”

“I got to find that girl.”

“You do.”

“If you could hold on to Marve’s gun while I figure out what to do with him, I’d appreciate it.”

Sullivan shook his head.

“I can’t do that again. Holding these guns proves I’m aware of the commission of crimes that I failed to report. Not good. Ross would have my ass. Especially with you involved.”

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll figure something out.”

“Don’t throw it in the bay.”

“I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

Still armed and dangerous, I left Sullivan and headed back up toward North Sea. A mottled grey cloud cover had set in, cooling both the air and my mood. Quixotic pursuits always felt a little more rational under sunny skies.

Vedders Pond was buried deep in North Sea scrub oak, not far from the coastline. I was often surprised by the number of neighborhoods you could cram into a relatively small area and still feel like you were more or less in the country. Even with all the rapacious development, there were occasional stretches of winding North Sea roads bordered only by scraggly local flora and “no trespassing” signs.

Though I once ran these coastal trails, it took me a while to find my way by car. Despite the gloom of the day, the homes lining the little pond looked sharp and freshly landscaped. A big improvement on the past, at least aesthetically.

I was sorry I’d left Eddie at home. He would have enjoyed snarfling around the reedy bogs and shallow creeks that fed the pond, rousting amphibians and complacent water fowl.

Robert Dobson’s rental was across the water, so I slowed to get a good look at that side of the house. It was a nominal contemporary with lots of glass filling in the gable ends. There was a large raised deck that sat above the pond. Underneath was a collection of kayaks, canoes and windsurfing gear. Also a tiny unattended Bobcat backhoe in mid-engagement with a stone retaining wall.

When I got to the other side I saw a Nissan Pathfinder and a rusty dirt bike in the driveway. Real estate agents would describe the front yard as a natural garden, which meant a bunch of weeds and rocks with a scattering of figurines. A brilliantly painted Madonna, nestled inside a half shell, watched over the territory with a cool beneficence.

I walked up to the front door and rang the bell. Twice. Nothing.

I walked around to a side door next to the garage on the basement level. I knocked, but no answer. From there I went up a staircase to the rear deck and peered through the sliding glass doors. I saw a large, unkempt living room open to a kitchen and dining area farther inside the house. There was a huge white brick fireplace that was likely useful in the cold months when all the heat would rise into the cathedral ceiling. Overlooking the living room was a balcony with an open loft, and two doors probably leading to enclosed bedrooms.

I knocked on the glass doors. No movement or sounds coming from inside.

I circumnavigated the house looking for other entrances. Along the way, just out of curiosity, I tried a few windows. All locked. I looked around the neighborhood for busy-bodies. Nothing obvious, but I was within view of at least two other houses. I stopped checking windows.

I went back to the side door next to the garage and casually examined the lock. I knew the brand, inside and out. I knew how to jimmy it without a lot of effort.

The logistics solved, I took a moment to ponder the legalities.

Illegalities, to be technical.

While pondering I went back to the Grand Prix and dug around the trunk for the necessary tools. Sometimes it’s easier to focus on specific tasks than general implications.

I found what I needed in my tool kit—a thin, flat piece of steel with a notch cut out of the side. I’d shaped it myself when I was a teenager handling beer procurement for my friend Billy Weeds, whose job was to steal cars in which to drink the beer. It was a symbiotic relationship.

I pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and worked the lock. Then I thought about the gun in my pocket: B&E, bad. Armed B&E, fatal.

“Aw, shit.”

I went back to the car and pondered some more. If I got caught in the house, they’d surely search the car.

I looked around the property and saw the obvious way out. In a few seconds I’d secured the gun and was back at the door, giving my skeleton key that last gentle twist. Click.

Inside was a foyer with a staircase that led to the first floor. I took the staircase up to a living room with a big wall of windows. I stepped as quietly as I could, listening for signs of life. Evidence of group living was everywhere: the smell of cooking, dust and lousy hygiene. Dirty dishes on the coffee tables, full ashtrays. Fresh newspapers. A houseful of young slobs. Never my way. Even when living on the brink of annihilation I kept my place reasonably shipshape. My mother’s doing.

I searched the kitchen cabinets and counters for paper evidence. I saw a stack of mail. I wrote down the names Robert Dobson, Elaine Brooks, Sybil Shandy and Zelda Fitzgerald. The last on a mailing label stuck to a New Yorker. Likely somebody’s joke.

No Iku Kinjo.

There were two bedrooms upstairs and a pull-out couch in the loft space. One bedroom betrayed the presence of male and female. As did the common bathroom. The other was empty, but there was a pile of sheets and towels on the floor and some miscellaneous pieces of clothing strewn about. Men’s and women’s. After browsing through the dresser drawers and closets and looking under the beds, I left. I wasn’t about to search beyond that.

I went back downstairs to the basement level and tried the door inside the little foyer. It was locked, but so flimsily it didn’t deserve the honor of the skeleton key. I used the key that unlocked my roof rack.

I walked into another common area, like a small lounge you’d see in a suite of dorm rooms, with a sliding glass door that took you under the deck and out to the pond. It was a lot cleaner and better organized than upstairs. The neatniks’ refuge. A galley kitchen was at the far end of the room next to a bathroom with a big walk-in shower. There were two other doors, both closed.

The first was the kind of room I fantasized my daughter would like, though I knew how terribly misinformed that fantasy was. The bedspread was drum tight over the single bed, every furniture surface brightly polished and uncluttered. The closet door was open. Inside, a row of skirts, shirts and summer dresses marched left to right in close formation. Pumps, flats, sandals and Nikes were stuffed in a pocketed contraption hung over the back of the door.

I hated to disturb the folded clothes in the dresser, but I’d come this far. I found nothing that identified the renter, and no evidence of a roommate, male or female.

One room left.

The room was also fresh and orderly, almost indistinguishable from the one next door except for the dead girl lying on the single bed clutching the handle of a large carving knife with two hands, the blade buried to the hilt, having passed upward behind her chin through her palate and into her brain.

There was a lot of blood, but otherwise the corpse looked as tidy as the room, formally composed, like a carving on top of a medieval sepulcher.

All of which I absorbed a few minutes after walking into the room. Though I was drawn by more important observations. The jet black hair, the rich, reddish brown complexion, the apparent epicanthus.

The beautiful face of Iku Kinjo.

There was never any question about what I had to do next.

I unlocked the front door on my way outside where I flipped open my cell phone and called Sullivan. I disposed of my beloved skeleton key and rubber gloves the same way I’d taken care of the gun. As the phone rang I forced myself to recall everything I’d done in the last half hour.

“Sam Acquillo,” said Sullivan, the master of caller ID.

“I need you to get here first,” I said.

“Where?” he said the word slowly, already getting the import.

I gave him the address.

“I know Vedders. What are you doing there?”

“Time is important at a murder scene, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, again stretching out the word.

“So let’s talk when you get here. Bring everything and everybody you got. You’re going to need it.”

“Shit, Sam. What the fuck.”

“Like I said, try to get here ahead of the crowd. I like Will Ervin, but I don’t want to explain myself to a beat cop.”

“I’m already moving,” said Sullivan. “I’ll call you from the car.”

Time managed to slow enough for me to get a grip on my brain. It wasn’t the specific situation I had to worry about. It was all the specific situations that had come before. These things have a tendency to pile up. When the pile gets big enough you attract the interest of law enforcement. It’s understandable. All they’re doing is working the odds. I’d been able to beat those odds so far, but I knew statistical probability as well as the next engineer with a minor in physics from MIT.

When Sullivan called I described the scene as well as I could.

“And what are you doing there?” he asked again, his tone rhetorical.

“Looking for Robert Dobson. It’s his rental. He told me to stop by anytime. I wanted to ask him a few more questions, so I took him up on his offer. When I got here I knocked on the door and thought I heard someone call to come in. The door was unlocked, so I did. I walked around the place calling for whoever I thought had called to me. I thought I heard a sound coming from the lower level, so I went down there and discovered the body.”

“You need to get that hearing checked out. Along with your brain. Hearing voices is an indicator.”

“Good advice. I’ve had a history of that sort of thing. Can we talk about the important stuff now?” I asked.

“More important than keeping your ass out of jail?”

“Actually, yeah. Somebody’s daughter is dead. This is now your thing, too. We have a situation.”

“I hate that word. Situation.”

I sat on the ground and lit a cigarette, one of the three I’d brought along for the day. It seemed an appropriate use of rations. My nervous system had been geared up for lurking around Bobby’s rental, but not for finding a dead body. Least of all Iku Kinjo.

God forgive me, my reflex thought was of my own daughter, about Iku’s age, and in my mind far more vulnerable than the hard-driving management consultant. I willed those thoughts back into their special chamber and forced a more immediate issue to the fore.

George Donovan.

I knew I had to tell him, and the sooner the better. Preferably right at that instant before the world was flooded with cops, voyeurs and reporters. I really didn’t want to do it. Not on a cell phone. Even if I could reach him on the first shot, which was unlikely.

Do I leave a message?

I gave myself time to finish the cigarette, then I dialed his number.

“Hello there,” he said, to my surprise and regret. “Kind of an awkward time. Can I call you right back?”

“No. We need to talk now. With nobody around.”

“I see. Hold on a second.”

I could hear the sound of his hand muffling the phone and some indistinct conversation. A minute later he was back.

“You’re sounding serious,” he said.

“I’ve got news,” I said. “The worst news.”

“Oh, God.”

I didn’t know how he’d want to hear it, so I just told it straight.

“She’s been murdered. I found her myself a few minutes ago. In Southampton, just a mile or two from my house. The cops are on the way.”

He made a sound that might have been the word “why.” So I tried to answer.

“I don’t know why, or by who. She was stabbed. Pretty recently. I found her in the house rented by Robert Dobson.”

“The boyfriend,” said Donovan.

“Maybe her boyfriend. I’m not so sure. Listen, George,” I said before he could answer, “I’m sorry. I really am. It’s a terrible thing.”

Now it was more obvious that he was crying. I just sat there and listened to those unnatural, animal sounds.

“I better go,” he finally forced out. “I’ve got a half dozen people waiting outside my door. Call me tonight when you know more. We have to talk.”

Then he hung up.

I heard the first sirens coming in quickly from the south. I lit the second cigarette and leaned up against a tree. As I sat there the cloud cover gave way. The sun lit up the oak trees above my head and splattered puddles of light on the ground, casting a hard glare on the hoods of the flashing police cruisers as they swarmed into the little pond-side neighborhood, its reclusive anonymity a forgotten thing.