Head Wounds

SEVENTEEN

THE NEXT MORNING Burton called me on his cell phone. It was early enough to catch me en route to the outdoor shower with a big mug of cinnamon hazelnut in my shower-safe New York Yankees mug. Eddie had been asleep on the braided rug, but the phone startled him into action. Which amounted to a stiff, yawning stagger into the kitchen. He looked at the coffee like he’d consider giving it a shot.

“Forget it, you’d be up all day.”

Then I picked up the phone.

“Yeah.”

“What an eloquent salutation,” said Burton.

“Social niceties don’t start around here until after nine.”

“Niceties being a relative concept.”

“I guess you got the message.”

“Yes. Very interesting. I’m on the Long Island Expressway and expect to be at the house in less than an hour. What say we meet there? Isabella will arrange for breakfast.”

“Fine with me. Just tell her to keep the vitriol out of my eggs.”

“Certainly. Niceties are standard at the Lewis residence.”

The weather looked eager to repeat the performance of the day before. Most of the morning mist had burned off and the bay was etched with wavelets that were barely ripples. The breeze was decidedly south-southwest, mild and kindly. The maples along the back of the property were freshly regaled in light-green baby leaves, and the lawn—a refined blend of native grasses and invasive flora—expressed an exuberance that it seemed uncivil to restrain with anything as pitiless as a lawn mower. At least not this early in the season.

Eddie followed me out on the lawn, where he stopped and shook himself out. Then he trotted on, crossing the end of Oak Point Road and disappearing into the wetlands where he usually went in the mornings for purposes unknown. It might have been a way to vary his diet, or maybe it was just a dog’s version of the morning paper. Catching up on events of the night before.

I saw something move out of the corner of my eye and turned to see Amanda waving from her side door. I held up my mug and motioned her to join me, which she did, resplendent in a terry-cloth bathrobe, a headband holding back her unbrushed hair.

“Burton called from the highway,” I said, handing her a filled mug and leading her to the Adirondacks at the edge of the breakwater. “He wants us to come see him when he gets here, in about an hour.”

The rising sun warmed our necks and threw our shadows down over the breakwater and across the pebble beach. Even with the light air there were two or three sailboats plying the shallows off the south shore of the North Fork. Serious sailors impatient for a change of season, happy just to be out there feeling the glare of the sun off the water and sniffing at the nascent south-southwesterly. Hodges might have been one of them, having endured the battering winter firmly tied to the dock aboard his old Gulf Star. He’d been known to take an occasional winter sail, feeling his way past the unmarked shoals just to demonstrate to himself that it was smarter to stay hunkered down in the teak-lined warmth of the cabin and wait for spring like everybody else.

Amanda cupped her coffee with two hands, her long slender fingers, with freshly polished nails, linking gracefully as if in prayer.

“I have to apologize again,” she said.

“Oh, hell.”

“I know you hate apologies.”

“They’re a waste of breath,” I told her.

“I feel like I can’t continue with you unless I can have recurring and ongoing forgiveness.”

“You do. Glad that’s settled.”

“It’s not only what I’ve done. It’s how I’ve been.”

“You got reasons to be a little edgy.”

“You think I’m edgy?” I laughed.

“Don’t try that trap on me, Miss Anselma. I used to be married. Learned all the tricks.”

“Edgy would be nice. I was thinking I’ve been hysterical and neurotic.”

“Yeah. With an edge.”

“And paranoid. I’m definitely getting paranoid.”

“What, just because somebody burns down your house and your development project’s sounding like a Superfund site?”

“Not funny.”

“No, the funny part is the anonymous tipster whose information was convincing enough to get the DEC to get a TRO out of a sympathetic judge. PDQ.”

“So you’re saying I should be paranoid?”

“No. Paranoia’s delusional. You should be suspicious.”

“Big downgrade from paranoia.”

“Burton will ask you how much you knew, if anything, about those cellars,” I said. “Don’t get offended. He has to ask.”

“What do you think? About how much I knew?”

“You didn’t know anything. Otherwise, you’d have checked them out well before the phase-one inspection. To do otherwise would be both foolish and immoral.”

“Qualities I could tack on to edgy and paranoid.”

“Don’t forget,” I said, “I didn’t know they were there, either. And we’ve been over that place pretty thoroughly.”

“Thank you. I’d forgotten that.”

“But if it’ll help, I’ll cop to it. What’s a little environmental racket on top of a murder charge?”

“That’s so sweet.”

“My first nicety of the day.”

I’d seen the original drawings of the WB facility, but never a cellar elevation. They had the same identification box in the lower-left corner as the ones Ned showed us. I didn’t remember the exact date they were drawn, but it was sometime in the early twentieth century. I’d never forget such a thing, even with my degraded frontal lobes. If nothing else, I’d remember they were built with stone and not the prevailing brick of the complex. Stone wasn’t used much on sandy Long Island, and certainly not for large industrial construction. As far as I knew, all the WB buildings were built on thick, raised slabs, better to stand up to heavy equipment and avoid water infiltration. They were, after all, adjacent to a lagoon.

“Have you accepted my apology yet?” she asked. “I’ve lost the thread.”

“I accept whatever it is you want me to accept. Unconditionally, and in perpetuity, so we don’t have to keep going through this.”

“Does that preclude occasional pleas for reassurance?”

“Yup. You’re all set, for life. Imagine the time saving.”

With bold concepts like this, you wonder why my relationships with women were often less than entirely successful.

For the sake of efficiency I convinced her to take her shower with me in the outdoor stall, which turned out to be a fun idea for everybody. It meant that we were an hour later than I’d promised Burton, but he assured us Isabella didn’t mind watching her homemade Belgian waffles and cheese omelets cooling on the serving trolley. Our guilt was soothed by the fact that Burton and Hayden had already downed two platefuls, along with a bowl of fresh fruit and half a carafe of café noir.

They were sitting on a slate patio beneath a pergola laden with emerging clematis and wisteria. Hayden was in a white-and-blue-striped tennis outfit last worn by Jay Gatsby and Burton was in a state of exhaustion. Since he could never talk specifically about his work, the only polite thing to say was, “So, workin’ hard?”

“Indeed,” he said, telling us he’d been up all night preparing a bankruptcy filing that was big enough to affect global financial markets when it was announced later that day. “You won’t be surprised to know there are weighty tax implications surrounding the implosion of a large corporation— rather like a pack of jackals feeding on a staggering herbivore. Get it while you can.”

“I feel that way about the waffles,” I told him.

Amanda and I did our best to catch up with the breakfast routine while Burton and Hayden picked their teeth and debated the merits, or even the technical feasibility, of a fixed tax code versus our current system of intricate variability. A system Burton admitted was beautifully designed to enrich those capable of navigating and optimizing ambiguities and approximations. People like Burton himself.

“Or you could take my approach,” I said. “Maintain a tax status well south of the poverty line.”

“Ingenious,” said Hayden.

“Only if his friends keep feeding him breakfast,” said Amanda.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to speak with you straight away, Amanda,” said Burton. “I think I have the gist, but let’s hear the details. I hope you don’t mind if Hayden sits in. He’s quite the legal scholar.”

“I knew nothing about underground cellars or anything like that until those two guys from the DEC pulled out their maps,” said Amanda.

“I told her to say that so you didn’t have to ask,” I said.

“This is what they’re accusing you of?” he asked.

“Not directly. By implication.”

We told him everything we could think of about the DEC guys as well as Amanda’s successful phase-one environmental study.

“You were wise to conclude that meeting,” said Burton. “These sorts of administrative actions have very few built-in protections.”

“Kafka lives on,” said Hayden.

“I’m telling the truth,” said Amanda. “I swear to God.”

“We’ll draw up a letter to the commissioner expressing your eagerness to cooperate fully in the field investigation,” said Burton. “Not as good for the soul as swearing to God, but more legally persuasive.”

“Anything,” she said.

“At least it undermines any claim that you resisted their investigation,” said Hayden. “Should they charge you with anything.”

“Kafka would do the same thing,” I said.

“We shouldn’t delay further,” said Burton. “Hayden, if you would, bring Amanda to the office and write something up for her. Isabella can notarize it. She loves to get out the stamp,” he said to me.

“Really.”

“Anything you need to tell me?” Burton asked, once Hayden and Amanda were beyond earshot.

“There’s something fucked up going on.”

“Put that in layman’s terms.”

“I don’t know exactly,” I said.

“Is Amanda telling the truth?” he asked.

“Define truth.”

“So you’re not sure.”

“I’m not sure of anything,” I admitted.

“But you have theories.”

“None that make any sense.”

“The DEC doesn’t pursue these things without cause. Deterrence depends on credibility.”

“I want a closer look at that drawing.”

“Right now Amanda needs to cooperate as fully as possible,” said Burton.

“Can I borrow your cell phone?” I asked.

“Certainly. Phone service comes with breakfast.”

I fished Dan’s number out of my wallet. He didn’t answer at the motel so I called his cell.

“Mr. Acquillo, nice to hear from you.”

“I’m calling to tell you we’re eager to cooperate as fully as possible.”

“Good decision.”

“We just wanted to make that intention official.”

“We’ll be faxing a letter to the commissioner’s office to that effect,” said Burton.

“We’ll be faxing a letter to the commissioner’s office to that effect,” I told Dan.

“That is official.”

“We just don’t want any misunderstanding about Amanda’s willingness to give the DEC total access and cooperation.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Dan. “Tell your lawyer I said hello.”

I cupped the phone.

“He said to say hello.”

“So when can we get on the site?” Dan asked.

“As soon as you want if you have a pair of bolt cutters.”

“We’ll call if we need anything. I’ve got all the drawings.”

“More than we do, obviously. Do you mind if I get another look at that cellar elevation?” I asked him.

“Long as I’m there when you do it.”

“Fair enough. I think I know where to find you.”

“You betcha,” said Dan.

I signaled to Burton that I was ready to end the call and he nodded his okay.

“How was that for full cooperation?” I asked him.

“And you with so little experience.”

After that we caught up on my own legal matters. I told him of my visit with Jeff Milhouser, leaving out any mention of Amanda. I didn’t want to be talking about her when she got back with Hayden. She could smell a sudden change in conversation a mile away. I also told him about Rosaline Arnold and my sentimental trip to Southampton High.

“What do you expect that to achieve?” he asked me.

“I don’t know. But it was worth it just to see Rosaline again.”

I was about to tell him more, but seeing Amanda and Hayden walking down the path, I took my own advice and asked him about the NBA playoffs instead.

“Yes, that’s a yearly contest the New York Knicks seem committed to boycott.”

“Despite the gentle encouragement of their fan base.”

“We do our part. We’re talking about the Knicks,” he said to Hayden as he drew near.

“I’m only there for moral support,” said Hayden. “Unless the Sixers are in town. Then we get to watch a game with a little meat on it.”

“Hayden’s from Philadelphia,” said Burton, “where every sport is a variation on the theme of thuggery.”

“Home of Smokin’ Joe Frazier and the Italian Stallion,” said Hayden.

“One of whom was an actual person,” I said.

“Sam used to be an actual thug himself,” said Amanda as she settled back into her chair.

“Me and Smokin’ Joe prefer fighter.”

“Retired fighter sounds even better,” she said.

“I think for Sam ‘recovering’ is closer to it,” said Burton.

“Not me, Burt. I’m done with it for good. Doctor’s advice.”

“Smart doctor.”

“Big doctor.”

I managed to steer the talk back into professional sports and away from further commentary on my personal circumstances, legal or pugilistic. When it looked like Burton was starting to nod off, we made a graceful exit. As we walked through the house, I looked back through a window to see Hayden combing his hand through Burton’s hair. Since I’d known him, Burton had resisted getting into a steady commitment. We never talked about it, but I guessed the reasons were economic as well as romantic. He never seemed to suffer for it, though I always wondered if that was just his well-bred self-discipline.

Watching the roll of Amanda’s hips as she walked ahead of me—almost gliding through a series of opulent rooms—I thought, fear and anger aren’t the only things that make you stupid. Something else, also buried deep in the medulla oblongata, the part Markham would call the lizard brain, was even more likely to interfere with judgment and overthrow the rule of common sense. Something neither Burton nor I, despite our arrogant faith in the intellect, would ever be able to control.

——

When we got back to the cottage there was a unmarked patrol car in my driveway. The driver was sitting out in one of the Adirondacks throwing tennis balls into the bay so Eddie would have an excuse to leap like Rin Tin Tin off the breakwater. Amanda wanted to get back to salvaging her demolished house, so I got to take the other chair.

“He ever get tired of this?” Sullivan asked, giving the tennis ball another throw.

“Only when you stop being impressed.”

“I had a long talk with Ross Semple about your case.”

“What’s his mood?”

“Optimistic. But I convinced him to let me back in. You told me he would. You were right.”

“Great.”

“Took a while, so I only just started doing anything.”

“Like cozying up to the suspect’s dog?”

“Like having a little chat with Patrick Getty.”

Eddie ran up to the chairs, dropped the tennis ball and shook out his fur, spraying us with sand and salty bay water.

“Nice,” said Sullivan.

“All part of the experience.”

Sullivan threw the ball into the bay again and Eddie looked at him like, what did you do that for?

“Go get it,” I told him. “Go on.”

Now on a practical mission, he trotted across the lawn to the beach access, skipping the heroics off the breakwater. “Ever wonder what goes on in their brains?” Sullivan asked.

“Not that one. You don’t want to know.”

“Did you know your boy Patrick has a record?”

“No.”

“A few B and E’s early on, worked his way up to larceny. Did five years. Mostly clean after that, though there was one assault charge the accuser later dropped.”

“Too bad. Be good to know who won the fight.”

“Ervin’s been keeping an eye on him as best he can. Can’t exactly afford surveillance.”

“What about his posse?”

“Need to look at their IDs, but I’m guessing the same deal. Have that feel about them.”

“What did you and Patrick chat about?”

“I told him I wanted to get to know each other a little. Got the usual bullshit about a paid-off debt to society, not looking for trouble, yadda yadda. He said you were the one I should keep my eye on. You and your crazy bitches.”

“He’s safe from me. The bitches will have to speak for themselves.”

“Not your kind,” he said to Eddie as he approached with the tennis ball in his mouth.

“So what does this tell us?” I asked him. “Patrick’s an ex-con. Should have figured that out ourselves.”

“Jail time is the difference between big talkers and the genuine product,” said Sullivan. “Much more serious cats. I want them out of my town.”

“Do you think Robbie knew they were cons?” I asked him.

“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

“All I do is wonder, Joe,” I told him.

I left him in the Adirondacks and went back to the cottage to grab a couple of beers. Besides needing the drink I needed a few minutes alone with my brain, hoping something useful would shake loose and drop out on the lawn. But all I got was more confusing mental clutter. So I decided to concentrate on the beer instead. Something simple I could understand.

“Veckstrom doesn’t want to be my mentor anymore,” said Sullivan when I got back to the breakwater.

“I didn’t know he was.”

“He told me when I first got promoted where to put my files and how to get calling cards printed with my name and the official Southampton Police emblem.”

“Really knows the ropes.”

“He’s actually younger than me, but he’s got a college degree. In criminology, plus two years of law school.”

“That explains the tie.”

“Don’t ask me why he decided to be a cop. Ross thinks he’s smart. I think he’s smart.”

“I think he’s a dickhead.”

“So I hear.”

He hung around long enough to down another beer and give me some inside information on the case without seeming to do so. I appreciated the effort, though there wasn’t much new or alarming. Except the ADA’s prediction that the grand jury would hand up an indictment within the next three weeks.

“If you were planning to share one of those alternatives you were talking about, I wouldn’t wait too much longer,” said Sullivan.

“Say Joe,” I said, struck with a sudden thought, “do you remember when Jeff Milhouser got in trouble for some scam on the Town?”

He was standing. He looked down at me, took off his black baseball hat and scratched the top of his head with the same hand.

“Vaguely,” he said. “It wasn’t anything that concerned me as a beat cop. Too downtown.”

“I’d like to get some of the details.”

“Ross would know. He’s always kept it cozy with the Town board. Why the interest?”

“No particular reason. Probably a waste of time.”

He put his cap back on and nodded.

“Probably is,” he said, and left me there with Eddie and my deepening sense of anxious disorientation. It was a familiar sensation, one I’d often felt on the job when an analysis of a wayward system would start producing strange data, tangles of nonsensical conclusions, incongruities intertwined with further incongruity. I’d actually become nauseated as I tried to force an explanation out of the jumble, knowing it was a doomed strategy, that the failure wasn’t in the analysis, but in the validity of the data itself. The underlying assumptions looked so reliable, yet were somehow hopelessly corrupt.

I remembered a young Swiss process engineer named Edouard Baton weeping into his computer keyboard after the two of us had spent twenty-eight straight hours fruitlessly trying to restart his company’s hydrogen plant.

“How can it be that we always get the wrong answer?” he sobbed.

“There’s nothing wrong with our answers,” I told him as the truth, and the solution, dawned on me. “The problem’s in the question.”