Inherit the Dead

7 BRYAN GRULEY

The next morning it was gray. Perry had had his fill of the gray, his fill of the Hamptons. He just wanted to get back to the city. Then he spotted the car in his rearview mirror. The same car. Again. Like the gray.

“Enough,” he said. He sped down the road, then swerved onto the shoulder, his car crunching to a gravel halt. As the car neared, he saw it wasn’t the Toyota but a Mercedes. It slowed, the driver perhaps considering a U-turn that would have been a giveaway, though at this point, Perry wasn’t sure of what. He waited. He had stopped on a stretch with some distance between cross streets so the Mercedes wouldn’t be able to duck away easily.

He caught a quick glimpse of a woman at the wheel, a brunette in aviator shades, and her license plate. He grabbed his notebook off of the passenger seat and jotted the number down. Ten bucks says it’s Upper East Side, he thought. Only Upper East Side brunettes wore sunglasses in this weather. He checked his rearview once more before pulling back onto the road.

Waiting in a windowless conference room at East Hampton Police Headquarters, Perry smelled something cooking. He realized he was hungry. He’d bought a bagel from a deli near the motel but hadn’t been able to eat it. He’d swiped off half the cream cheese before taking a bite and had gotten some on his pants. He glanced down now at the white streak between his zipper and right pocket. Jesus, he thought, anywhere but there. A cop seeing it might think he’d had a hooker in his passenger seat. Of course, he’d made it worse by trying to wipe it away. Why did they have to slather on so much cream cheese anyway? Was there a surplus they had to bring down? He’d thrown the bagel away after two bites.

At first, Perry thought the room looked like any other cop-shop meeting room. But he saw no coffee cup rings on the long oaken table. He scanned the beige carpeting. It could have been cleaned the day before. It took him back two years to the Southampton PD, something he wanted to forget. Then there were the framed photos lining the wall facing him, all of various East Hampton chiefs squinting against sun in grip-and-grins with celebrities: Donald Trump, Wendi Murdoch, Dennis Franz. Perry thought of Franz in his NYPD Blue heyday. What would he do to find Angelina Loki? Round up a suspect or two, slap the truth out of them between commercials for beer and tampons?

A door to Perry’s left swung open, and an officer entered in full uniform: hat perched on head, navy tie knotted and clasped, pistol on hip, handcuffs dangling from belt. Perry couldn’t help but think of Barney Fife. A brass nameplate over the officer’s right breast read GAWAIN. Perry stood, offering his hand and a tentative smile.

“This isn’t a round table,” he said.

Gawain had heard the joke, such as it was. “Guh-VAN,” he said, giving Perry’s hand a perfunctory shake.

“Pardon?”

“It’s not GAH-wayne.”

“Sorry,” Perry said “You’re not from around here.”

“Neither are you.”

“No. The city. Though I spent a few years in Detroit after college. Does that count?”

“Not bad hockey there.”

Perry heard HAW-key. “You’re from Mass, right?”

“Hingham.”

“BPD?”

“Statie.”

“That how you knew Henry?”

“Henry?”

“Watson. NYPD.”

Perry was hoping Gawain would sit, but he stood there, Fife-like, with his hands still on his hips and his hat still on his head. His cheeks sagged a little on a thin face decorated with a salt-and-pepper goatee.

“We worked on a case once.”

“Ugly?”

Perry had read about it in old Boston Globe clips. The New York cops were hounding a drug dealer who’d survived the Mexico wars and left a bloody mess in Harlem before skating up to Boston on his way to Canada. When the Boston cops rousted him from a crack house in Dorchester, he’d shot an old lady while stealing her car. The cops ran him down on the interstate. The Mexican took a fatal bullet to the head, then four more that disintegrated the left side of his face. After the Mexican embassy got involved, the shooter — a state cop — was relegated to desk duty and soon found work elsewhere. Elsewhere being East Hampton.

“Depends on your perspective,” Gawain said.

“I suppose.”

“You were a cop, weren’t you, Pete?”

“Perry. Yep.”

“Henry said.” Gawain removed his hat, revealing a feathery widow’s peak. He set the hat on the table. “Sometimes you’re just doing what they told you to do, and next thing you know, they forgot they told you to do it. You know?”

“Sure do.”

“You interested in some breakfast?”

“That sounds very good.”

“Got some chowder here.”

“For breakfast?”

Gawain managed a smile. “You’d eat this chowder for your last meal. We get it from Jeanne’s down the street. She’s from Yarmouth. Back in a minute.”

Butter shimmered golden on the surface of the scallop chowder. Such good things come in foam cups, Perry thought. He wanted another bag of oyster crackers, but he and Detective Gawain were into Angel Loki now, and he didn’t want to interrupt.

He’d told Gawain about his assignment, about Julia Drusilla, about the family millions, about his trip to Montauk, about Angel’s cloying so-called friend Lilith, about Angel supposedly taking off with her alleged boyfriend, one Randy Hyde of East Hampton. Perry had slid the snapshot of Angel across the table to Gawain, who’d given the photo a long look before sliding it back.

“Pretty,” Gawain said.

“Lots of pretties around here, though, eh?”

“That’s correct. Has she been officially declared missing?”

“Not yet.”

“And she dumped Hyde?”

Perry nodded. “We think so.”

“It wouldn’t bother us if he was dumped for good.”

“He’s a problem?”

“A tick.”

Gawain recited as he dug the last sweet bits of scallop out of his cup. “Hyde, Randall Carter. Date of birth: seven/fifteen/eighty-three. Six feet two, one hundred ninety-five pounds. Eyes blue, hair blond. Drunk and disorderly. Assault and battery. Driving on the beach. Bike too loud. Car too loud. Telling cops to eat shit. You know.”

“But the ladies love him.”

Gawain pushed his cup aside and dabbed at his mouth with a restaurant napkin. “You seem surprised,” he said.

“No. But you really think a girl from her side of the tracks would go for a grease monkey?”

“Why wouldn’t a guy with big muscles and a big bike and a big attitude make some smart rich kid think she could change him for the better? Isn’t that the way of the world? Besides, you ever watch those reality shows? Greasers are all the rage now.”

“I don’t watch TV.”

“And, oh, rumor has it — though I have not personally confirmed this — that Mr. Hyde has quite a torque wrench between his legs.”

“Ah.”

“Not that that or money or good looks are of any importance to women.” He stared into the table for a moment, then looked up at Perry, as if appealing to him. “They really just want men of good character, right?”

“Right.” Perry glanced at Gawain’s ring finger. It was bare. “Did Randy Hyde by chance ever go around with some of the, shall we say, older ladies who summer out here?” Perry pretty much knew the answer but hoped to get it confirmed.

“Let me put it this way,” Gawain said. “We have yet to find sufficient evidence to charge him with prostitution.”

“Got it. And he’s never been busted for sexual assault?”

“Nope,” Gawain said. “I mean, Randy Hyde is a total loser, and I wouldn’t want him near any daughter of mine, but he doesn’t strike me as the kind who goes for that sort of thing.”

“What about his business? That in decent shape?”

“It wasn’t — it isn’t his. A guy named Gil Stone owns it. I have to say I’ve heard old Hyde’s actually pretty good at keeping a car running, which can be lucrative around here. Not a lot of Jiffy Lubes out this way.”

Perry had to wonder again if Hyde knew about the pot of money awaiting Angel. Or if he had ever encountered Julia Drusilla. She seemed like the kind of older woman who might be inclined to sample his goods. He stifled a shudder and said, “Anything else?”

“I wish,” Gawain said. He stood, picked up his hat. “The truth is, we can’t do a lot until this Angel girl is declared missing.”

“Right.” Perry stood. “Thanks for the soup.”

“Chowder,” Gawain said. “Look, I’d like — we’d like to be helpful. Henry’s a good cop. And we can do without Mr. Hyde, even if the women can’t.”

“Ah — reminds me,” Perry said. He snatched his notebook from a pocket, tore a page out, and handed it to Gawain. “Brunette followed me from Montauk. Didn’t get much of a look at her. But can you run the plate?”

“Can do,” Gawain said. “We’ll get back to you.”

The lonely water flew past Perry on both sides of the one-lane as he pushed toward the city. He told himself his trip to Long Island hadn’t been a waste of time. He added up what he thought he knew: Julia Drusilla wasn’t telling the whole truth. Someone in the Hamptons didn’t like Angel. Randy Hyde was and had a big dick. And Angelina Loki might never be found. Might be dead.

He saw the hazard lights blinking from half a mile. A car sat on the right shoulder. He could make out a figure leaning against the passenger side. No way, Perry thought. He grinned and tapped the brakes.

The brunette glanced at him as he pulled up behind her Mercedes. Then she turned away. She was smoking a cigarette, still behind the aviator shades. Steam swirled up from the hood behind her. Perry killed the ignition and pocketed the keys. No telling what might happen next.

“Need a hand, ma’am?”

She kept her stare fixed on the water, silent. Perry stopped walking eight feet away. “Or are you just waiting for me to pass so you can resume following me?”

“Who the hell are you?” she asked, without looking at him.

“Come on. You know who I am.”

She turned toward him and, with her cigarette hand, lowered her shades briefly. Perry saw her brittle blue eyes. Then they were behind the shades again. She turned back to the water. “A tow truck’s on its way,” she said. “Move along. I’m fine.”

“How are you, Lilith?”

“Ms. Bates to you.”

“Really? After all that… dancing?” Perry stepped closer. Her perfume floated off of her shoulder-length hair.

She turned slowly. “How dare you.”

“You were following me. I want to know why.”

She reached into a vest pocket and snapped out a cell phone. “I’m calling the police.”

“Fine. Just be sure to say it guh-VAN, not GAH-wayne. Hopefully he’s run your plate by now, so he knows exactly who you are, Ms. Bates.”

She whipped off her sunglass and took a step toward him. “What the hell do you want?”

“Why would you follow me?

She shook her head, seemingly incredulous, and came another two hard steps closer. “I was on your tail because you drive like an old lady.”

“Come now, Lilith. You can do better than that. You really should take your car in for a checkup before you tail someone. Hey — maybe Randy Hyde can take a look, huh? Is that who’s coming to save you? Got ol’ Randy’s number on your phone there?”

That stopped her. She took off her sunglasses, then dropped her cigarette on the shoulder and crushed it beneath the toe of one of her rubber-toed duck shoes.

“You’ve been to see Randy?” she asked. “Did he… mention me?”

Bingo, Perry thought. “In fact, he did.”

“What… what did he say?”

“That he knew you. Biblically speaking.”

Lilith took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Perry saw her eyes drift past him. A black SUV, big as a city bus, windows tinted charcoal, rolled past. Perry was looking at it, thinking, How many cars can possibly be following me, when he felt something slam into his chest. It was the heel of Lilith Bates’s right hand. “Whoa,” he said, falling back a step as she kept coming. He ducked a roundhouse, sidestepped right, grabbed her by a bicep, and twisted the arm around behind her. She flung a leg back and got him on the knee. “Jesus, stop.”

“I’m not just an artist. I take tae kwon do.”

He pulled her closer and bent her arm a little farther, hoping he wouldn’t actually hurt her. “Your teacher sucks,” he said.

“Let me go.”

“No more dancing?” he asked.

She was screaming now. Perry looked down the road to see if whoever was in the SUV might be watching. It was gone. “I’ll let you go when — Ouch!”

She’d stamped her heel on his right foot. He loosed his grip enough that she wriggled free. She spun around to face him and took what Perry could only assume was a tae kwon do stance. She slipped her phone out again. “Now I’m calling,” she said.

“Call away,” he said. “But look, you were following me, and you know it. But you seem pretty harmless—”

“Fuck you.”

“Okay, okay, you’re not harmless. But really—”

“Fuck you.”

“We might be able to help each other.”

“Forget it, we’re not—”

“Listen, damn it. Randy Hyde. I want the truth.”

She backed away. She was breathing hard. Perry smelled perfume and sweat. He liked it.

“I’ll ask again: You and Randy Hyde?”

Lilith straightened, pulled some hair out of her eyes. She considered a moment, then said, “Randall and I… ”

Randall, huh, Perry thought.

“We met. On occasion. It was nothing serious.”

“And you weren’t jealous of his relationship with Angel?”

“Are you serious? A man like that. I would never—”

“But you did.”

“It was just… fucking, Mr. Christo. Can you understand that? Or have you forgotten what that is?”

“Careful who you bed down with, Lilith.”

“I hope you’ll be a gentleman and keep this to yourself. A woman in my position—” Lilith glanced at the water. “Randall took off a week or so ago.”

“With Angel?”

She shrugged. “Could be. He loved her, after all.”

Christo thought he heard more than a tinge of jealousy in her voice. “I hear Randall loved a lot of women,” he said. “Including you.”

“I really wouldn’t know about that.”

“Tell me about Randall. Where he goes, who he sees?”

She chuckled to herself. “Randy never went anywhere but Sammy’s Bar, his garage, and the bedroom of whoever would let him in.”

Yellow flashers were blinking down the road. “There’s your truck,” Perry said. “I’ll wait.”

He left Lilith with the tow truck after she’d sworn up and down that she had no idea where Angel was, that she’d only been tailing him to find out if Randy Hyde had blown her cover. She was embarrassed and worried about her precious reputation. Maybe she’ll be helpful down the line, he thought. And she really was a looker. He had to admit that he kind of liked the way she said “fucking.” Maybe the trip had been more productive than he’d thought.

Veering off 27 toward the LIE, Perry saw a state cop pull someone over and found himself thinking again of Gawain. Barney Fife had shot the face off of a bad guy. Perry felt certain then that Gawain had his own ex-wife. But it was about the only thing Perry felt certain about after a confusing morning. That and the delicious chowder. He chose, for now, to believe Lilith Bates, and her reason for tailing him. But what about that Toyota? That wasn’t so easily explained.

A restless sleep, your body still aching from the cramped confines of sleeping in the car in that damn motel parking lot. But you stayed on his trail to the local precinct, then saw that crazy woman having a fight with him on the side of the road before the long ride back to the city tailing his beat-up Datsun through Nassau and Queens and finally the Manhattan streets, driving around until he found a parking space that was good for a few hours, the PI too cheap to put his junk heap in a lot. Then you followed him to his lousy brownstone and waited, sitting in the rental until he came out and then it starts all over again — following, watching, waiting. But you do it because it’s what you have been dreaming of and waiting for. It’s your future and it’s so close you can almost touch it, almost taste it.