Plum Island

CHAPTER 20

The white Porsche which belonged to the proprietor was in the parking field. I parked, got out of my Jeep, and made my way to the winery.

The ground floor of the central tower connected various wings, and I entered the tower through the visitors' reception area. The staircase and elevator each had signs reading "Employees Only." In fact, the elevator that Mr. Tobin had gotten off when I first met him had a key entry, so I took the stairs, which I prefer in any case. The staircase was actually a steel and concrete fire exit built within the cedar-shingled tower, and at each floor was a steel door, and there was a sign on each door: "Second Floor, Accounting, Personnel, Billing"; "Third Floor, Sales, Marketing, Shipping"; and so forth.

On the fourth floor the sign said "Executive Offices." I continued up to the fifth floor where there was another steel door, this one unmarked. I pulled on the handle, but it was locked. I noticed a surveillance camera and an intercom.

I went back down to the fourth floor where the executive offices door opened into a reception area. There was a circular reception counter in the center, but no one was at the counter. From the reception area, four open doors led to offices that I could see were sort of pie-shaped, an obvious function of the circular floor plan. Each office had a nice big window in the tower. A fifth door was closed.

I couldn't see anyone at any of the desks in the open offices, and as it was now 1:30, I assumed everyone was at lunch.

I stepped into the reception area and looked around. The furniture looked like real leather, purple, of course, and on the walls were reproductions of de Kooning and Pollock — or the staff's children and grandchildren had been allowed to hang their dribbles. A video surveillance camera was trained on me, and I waved.

The closed door opened and an efficient-looking woman of about thirty appeared. She asked me, "May I help you?"

"Please tell Mr. Tobin that Mr. Corey is here to see him."

"Do you have an appointment, sir?"

"I have a standing appointment."

"Mr. Tobin is about to go to lunch. In fact, he's running late."

"Then I'll drive him. Please tell him I'm here." I hate to flash the tin in a guy's office unless I'm there to help him or to put the cuffs on him. It's the in-between stuff where the guy sometimes gets pissed off if you scare the staff with the tin and bully your way in. I said to the young lady, "Tell him it's important."

She turned back to the closed door, knocked, went in, and shut it behind her. I waited a full minute, which is really patient for me, then I went in. Mr. Tobin and the young lady were both standing at his desk in conversation. He was rubbing his short-cropped beard, looking somewhat Mephistophelian. He was wearing a burgundy blazer, black slacks, and a pink oxford shirt. He turned to me, but did not return my big friendly grin.

I said, "I'm sorry to barge in this way, Mr. Tobin, but I'm kind of pressed for time, and I knew you wouldn't mind."

He dismissed the young lady and remained standing. The man was a real gentleman, and he didn't even show any anger. He said, "This is an unexpected pleasure."

I love that expression. I replied, "For me, too. I mean, I didn't think I was going to see you until your party, then all of a sudden, your name pops up."

'How did it pop up?"

When I popped your ex-girlfriend. Actually, I had a more polite reply and said, "I was just talking to somebody about the case, you know, about Tom and Judy and their love of wine and how they were so pleased to know you. Anyway, this person happened to mention that she also knew you and knew Tom and Judy. So,.that's how your name came up."

He wouldn't go for the bait and replied, "And that's why you're here?"

"Well, no." I didn't elaborate. I let it sit. He was still standing, the window at his back. I walked around his desk and looked out the window. "What a view."

"The best view on the North Fork, unless you live in a lighthouse."

"Right." Mr. Tobin's view was to the north, across his acres of vineyards. A few farms and orchards within the vineyards created a sort of patchwork effect which was very nice. In the far distance, the land rose up into the glacial bluffs, and from this height, I could actually see over them to the Sound. I said, "Do you have binoculars?"

He hesitated, then went to a credenza and fetched me a pair of binoculars.

"Thanks." I focused on the Sound and commented, "I can see the Connecticut coastline."

"Yes."

I craned to the left and focused on the bluff I thought might be Tom and Judy's. I said to Mr. Tobin, "I just learned that the Gordons bought an acre of bluff out there. Did you know that?"

"No."

That's not what Emma told me, Fredric. I said, "They could have used some of your business sense. They paid twenty-five Gs for a parcel that couldn't be developed."

"They should have known if the development rights had been sold to the county."

I put down the binoculars and said, "I didn't say anything about the development rights being sold to the county. I said they couldn't develop their parcel. That could be because of zoning, no well water, no electric service, or whatever. Why did you think the development rights had been sold on their land?"

He replied, "Actually, I may have heard that."

"Oh. Then you did know they bought a piece of.land."

"I think someone mentioned it to me. I didn't know where the land was. Only that it came without development rights."

"Right." I turned back to the window and trained Tobin's binoculars on the bluffs again. To the west, the high ground dropped off where the Mattituck Inlet came through, and I could see the area known as Captain Kidd's Trees and Captain Kidd Estates. To the far right, the east, I could see clearly as far as Greenport and could also make out Orient Point and Plum Island. I said, "This is better than the observation deck in the Empire State Building. Not as high, but — "

"How can I help you, Mr. Corey?"

I ignored his question and said, "You know, you're on top of the world. I mean, look at all of this. Four hundred acres of prime real estate, a house on the water, a restaurant, a Porsche, and who knows what else. And you sit here in this five-story tower — what's on the fifth floor, by the way?"

"My apartment."

"Wow. Wow. I mean, do the ladies like that or what?"

He didn't respond to that and said, "I spoke to my attorney after I saw you yesterday."

"Did you?"

"And he advised me not to speak to the police without counsel present."

"That's your right. I told you that."

"Further inquiries by my attorney turn up the fact that you are no longer employed by Chief Maxwell as a consultant in this case, and that, in fact, you were not employed by the township when you spoke to me."

"Well, now, that's a debatable point."

"Debatable or not, you have no official status here any longer."

"Right. And since I'm not the police any longer, you can speak to me. That works."

Fredric Tobin ignored this and said, "My attorney promised to cooperate with the town police, until he discovered that Chief Maxwell doesn't need or want his or my cooperation. Chief Maxwell is annoyed that you came and questioned me. You have embarrassed me and him." Mr. Tobin added, "I am a generous contributor to key politicians here, and I've been very generous with time and money to renovate historic homes, put up historical markers, contribute to the hospital and other worthy charities, including the Police Benevolent Association. Do I make myself clear?"

"Oh, absolutely. About ten sentences ago. I just came here to see if I could take you to lunch."

"I have a lunch date, thank you."

"Okay, maybe some other time."

He glanced at his watch and announced, "I really have to go."

"Sure. I'll go downstairs with you."

He took a deep breath and nodded.

We left his office and went into the reception area. He said to his receptionist, "Mr. Corey and I have concluded our business, and it will not be necessary for him to return again."

Wow, talk about polite. This guy could slip you the greased weenie, and you wouldn't even feel it for a few days.

Mr. T put his key in the elevator lock, and it arrived in short order. We got in, and on the way down, to break the awkward silence, I said, "You know that Merlot I bought? Well, it came in handy. This is really stupid, maybe funny, but I don't think you'll find it funny — I had to use the stuff to clean birdshit off my windshield."

"What?"

The elevator door opened, and we walked out into the common area. I said, "A big gull dive-bombed my windshield." I explained. He glanced at his watch again. I concluded, "The half I drank was very good. Not too forward."

He said, "That's a terrible waste of vintage wine."

"I knew you'd say that."

He went through the door that connected to the visitors' reception area. I walked with him.

Out in the parking field, I said, "By the way, the lady who made you pop into my head — remember?"

"Yes."

"She said she was a friend of yours. But a lot of people claim to be your friend, like the Gordons, but they're just acquaintances who want to bask in your reflected light."

He didn't reply. It's hard to bait a man who's playing Lord of the Manor. Mr. Tobin was not going to lose his cool.

I said, "Anyway, she said she was your friend. Do you know Emma Whitestone?"

He may have broken his stride a bit, then continued on and stopped at his car. He said, "Yes, we dated about a year ago."

"And you stayed friends?"

"Why not?"

"All my ex's want to murder me."

"I can't imagine why."

I chuckled at that one. I mean, it was odd that I still kinda liked this guy, even though I suspected that he'd murdered my friends. Don't get me wrong — if he really did it, I'd do my best to see him get the hot squat, or whatever this state decides to use when they dispatch the first condemned murderer. For now, if he was polite, I'd be polite.

The other thing that was so bizarre is that since the last time we'd spoken, we had developed something in common. I mean, we had both gone where few men had gone before… well, maybe more than a few. I wanted to kind of slap him on the back and say, "Hey, Freddie, was it as good for you as it was for me?" or something like that. But gentlemen don't kiss and tell.

Fredric Tobin was saying, "Mr. Corey, I sense that you think I know more than I'm telling you about the Gordons. I assure you I don't. However, if the county or town police wish to take a statement from me, I'll be happy to oblige. Meanwhile, you're welcome here as a customer, and you're welcome to my home as an invited guest. You are not welcome to my office, and you're not welcome to question me any further."

"Sounds reasonable."

"Good day."

"Have a good lunch."

He got into his Porsche and off he went.

I looked back at the Tobin tower flying the black Tobin flag. If Mr. Tobin had any physical evidence to hide, it might be at his waterfront home or perhaps in his apartment on the top floor of that tower. Obviously, a consent search was out of the question, and no judge was going to issue a search warrant, so it looked like I'd have to issue a midnight search warrant to myself.

Back in my Jeep and on the road again. I called my answering machine and retrieved two messages. The first was from an unidentified Snippybitch from the NYPD Absence Control Unit telling me my physical was moved up to next Tuesday and asking me to acknowledge the message. Whenever the bosses can't get ahold of you, they ask personnel or payroll section or health services division to call you about something that you have to reply to. I hate sneakiness.

The next message was from my former partner, Beth Penrose. She said, "Hi, John. Sorry I didn't get back to you sooner, but it's been crazy here. Anyway, I know you're not officially involved with the case, but I have a few things I'd like to discuss with you. Why don't I come out tomorrow afternoon? Call me or I'll call you, and we'll come up with a time and place. Take care."

So. The tone was friendly, but not as friendly as when we'd last spoken in person. Not to mention the kiss on the cheek. I suppose it's not a good idea to be too gushy on an answering machine. More to the point, whatever heat had developed during that intense two days would naturally cool off when she returned to her turf and her own world. It happens.

Now she wanted to discuss a few things with me, which meant she wanted to know what, if anything, I'd discovered. To Beth Penrose, I had become just another witness. Well, maybe I was being cynical. Though maybe I had to move Beth Penrose out of my mind in order to fit Emma Whitestone in. I was never good at balancing multiple relationships. It's worse than carrying a dozen homicide cases at the same time, and a lot more dangerous.

Anyway, I needed a gift for Emma, and I spotted an antique shop on Main Road. Perfect. I pulled over and got out. The wonderful thing about America is that there are more antiques in circulation than were originally made.

I rummaged around inside the musty place and the proprietress, a nice little old lady, asked me if she could help.

"I need a gift for a young lady."

"A wife? Daughter?"

Someone I don't know well but had sex with. "A friend."

"Ah." She showed me a few things, but I'm totally clueless about antiques. Then I had a brilliant idea and asked her, "Are you a member of the Peconic Historical Society?"

"No, but I belong to the Southold Historical Society."

Good lord, there were certainly enough of these things around. I asked, "Would you know Emma Whitestone?"

"I surely do. A very fine young lady."

"Exactly. I'm looking for something for her."

"How nice. What is the occasion?"

Standard postcoital token of affection and thanks. "She's helped me do some research in the archives."

"Oh, she's very good at that. What were you looking for?"

"Well… this is silly, but ever since I was a kid, I was fascinated by pirates."

She sort of chuckled. Maybe cackled. She said, "The famous Captain Kidd was a visitor to our shores."

"Was he?"

"There were many pirates who came through here before the Revolution. They plundered the French and Spanish in the Caribbean, then came north to spend their ill-gotten gains, or to refit their ships. Some settled in these parts." She smiled and said, "With all that gold and jewels, they quickly became leading citizens." She added, "Many an original fortune around here was founded on pirate's plunder."

I sort of liked the old-fashioned way the woman spoke. I commented, "Many a modern-day fortune has corporate piracy behind it."

"Well, I wouldn't know about that, but I do know that these drug runners today are much like the old pirates." She added, "When I was a girl, we had the rum runners. We're law-abiding people here, but we're on the sea routes."

"Not to mention the Atlantic Coastal Flyway."

"That's for birds."

"Right."

After another minute of chat, I introduced myself as John, and she introduced herself as Mrs. Simmons. I asked her, "Does the Southold Historical Society have any information on pirates?"

We do. Though not much. There are some original documents and letters in the archives. And even a reward poster in our little museum."

"Would you happen to have an authentic pirate treasure map I could photocopy?"

She smiled.

I asked her, "Do you know Fredric Tobin?"

"Well, doesn't everyone? Rich as Croesus."

Who? I asked, "Does he belong to the Southold Historical Society? Mr. Tobin, not Croesus."

"No, but Mr. Tobin's a generous contributor."

"Does he visit your archives?"

"I understand he did. Though not in the last year or so."

I nodded. I had to keep reminding myself that this wasn't Manhattan, that this was a community of about twenty thousand people and that while it wasn't literally true that everyone knew everyone else, it was true that everyone knew someone who knew someone else. For a detective, this was like walking knee-deep in pay dirt.

Anyway, at least one of my searches was over, and I asked Mrs. Simmons, "Could you recommend something for Ms. Whitestone?"

"What is your price range?"

"Nothing is too good for Ms. Whitestone. Fifty dollars."

"Oh… well…"

"A hundred."

She smiled and produced a porcelain chamber pot with a big jug handle, decorated with painted roses. She said, "Emma collects these."

"Chamber pots?"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. She uses them as planters. She has quite a collection."

"Of course. I've been holding this for her to see. It's late Victorian. Made in England."

"Okay… I'll take it."

"It's actually a bit over a hundred dollars."

"How big a bit?"

"It's two hundred."

"Has it ever been used?"

"I imagine so."

"Do you take Visa?"

"Of course."

"Can you wrap it?"

"I'll put it in a nice gift bag."

"Can you put a bow on the handle?"

"If you'd like."

Transaction complete, I left the antique store with the glorified bedpan in a nice pink and green gift bag.

Okay, off I went to the Cutchogue Free Library, founded in 1984 and still paying the same wages. The library was at the edge of the village green, a big clapboard building with a steeple that looked as if it had once been a church.

I parked and went inside. There was a tough-looking old bird at the front desk who peered at me over a pair of half specs. I smiled and breezed past her.

There was a big banner hung at the entrance to the stacks which read: "Find Buried Treasure — Read Books." Excellent advice.

I found the card catalogue, which, thank God, wasn't computerized, and within ten minutes I was sitting in a reading alcove with a reference book in front of me, titled The Book of Buried Treasure.

I read about a John Shelby of Thackham, England, who in 1672 was thrown from his horse into a thicket where he found an iron pot containing more than five hundred gold coins. According to the treasure trove laws of England, all hidden or lost property belonged to the Crown. However, Shelby refused to give the gold to the king's officers, and he was arrested, tried for treason, and beheaded. This was probably a favorite story of the IRS.

I read about the treasure trove laws of the United States government and of the various states. Basically, all the laws say, "Finders keepers, losers weepers."

There was, however, something called the Act for the Preservation of American Antiquities, and it was pretty clear that anything found on federal land came under the jurisdiction of the secretary of either Agriculture, Defense, or the Interior, depending on the land in question. Furthermore, you needed a permit to dig on federal land and whatever you found belonged to Uncle Sam. What a great deal that was.

If, however, you found money, valuables, or any sort of treasure on your own land, it was pretty much yours, as long as you could prove that the original owner was dead, and/or the heirs were unknown, and that the property wasn't stolen. And even if it was stolen, you could claim it if the rightful owners were known to be dead or unknowable, or enemies of the country at the time the money, goods, or treasure was obtained. The example given was pirate treasure, plunder, bounty, and all that good stuff. So far, so good.

And to make a nice situation even nicer, the IRS, in some unbelievable lapse of greed, required that you pay tax only on the portion you sold or otherwise turned into cash each year, as long as you weren't a professional treasure hunter. So, if you were a biologist, for instance, and you owned a piece of land, and you found buried treasure on it by accident, or as a result of your archaeological hobby, and it was worth, say, ten or twenty million, then you didn't pay a dime in taxes until you sold some of it. What a sweet deal. It almost made me want to go into treasure hunting as a hobby. On second thought, that's what I was doing.

The book also said that if the treasure has historical value or is associated with popular culture — and here, lo and behold, the book gave the specific example of Captain Kidd's lost treasure — then the value of the treasure would be greatly enhanced, and so forth.

I read for a while longer, learning about the treasure trove laws and reading some interesting examples and case histories. One particular case caught my eye — in the 1950s, a man was going through some old papers in the Admiralty Section of the Public Records Office in London. He found a faded letter written in 1750 by a famous pirate named Charles Wilson, addressed to Wilson's brother. The letter had originally been found on a pirate ship that was captured by the British navy. The letter read, "My brother, there are three creeks lying one hundred paces or more north of the second inlet above Chincoteague Island, Virginia, which is the southward end of the peninsula. At the head of the third creek to the northward is a bluff facing the Atlantic Ocean with three cedar trees growing on it, each about one and a half yards apart. Between the trees I have buried ten iron-bound chests, bars of silver, gold, diamonds, and jewels to the sum of 200,000 pounds sterling. Go to the woody knoll secretly and remove the treasure."

Obviously, Charles Wilson's brother never got the letter since it was captured by the British navy. So, who found the treasure? The British navy? Or maybe it was the man who found the letter in the Public Records Office two hundred years later. The author of The Book of Buried Treasure didn't finish the story.

Point was, there is a place called the Admiralty Section of the Public Records Office in London, and God knew what you could find there if you had time, patience, a magnifying glass, a knowledge of old English, and a little greed, optimism, and sense of adventure. I was sure that now I understood the Gordons' lost week in London last year.

I had to assume the Gordons had read what I was reading now and knew the treasure trove laws. Beyond that, common sense would tell them that anything they found on Plum Island belonged to the government — no fifty-fifty split or anything — and that anything they claimed to have found on their rented property belonged to the owner, not the tenants. You didn't need a law degree to figure out any of that.

It had probably crossed Tom's and Judy's minds that an easy solution to the problems of ownership was to simply keep their mouths shut if they found anything on Plum Island. But maybe somewhere along the line, they realized that their best course of action — the most profitable in the long run — was simply to change the location of the discovery, announce the find, bask in the publicity, pay taxes only on what they sold each year, and go down in history as the handsome young Ph.D's who found Captain Kidd's lost treasure and became filthy rich. This was what any bright and logical person would do. It was what I would have done.

But there were a few problems. The first was that they had to get anything they found on Plum Island off Plum Island. The second problem was to rebury the treasure in such a way that its rediscovery not only seemed plausible, but would withstand scientific scrutiny. The answer to that was the eroded bluffs.

It all made sense to me. It made sense to them, too, but somewhere along the line, Tom and Judy did or said something that got them killed.

Fredric Tobin had lied to me about a few facts, and about his relationship with the Gordons, which seemed to be open to different interpretations. Plus, Tobin was either broke or on his way. To a homicide detective, this was like a flashing red light and an alarm bell.

Not only had Tobin befriended the Gordons, but he'd seduced — or at least charmed — Emma Whitestone, historian and archivist. It all seemed to fit. It was probably Tobin who'd somehow tumbled on to the possibility that there was buried treasure on Plum Island. And it was probably Tobin who paid for the Gordons' week in England to research this and maybe try to pinpoint the location.

Fredric Tobin was my prime suspect, but I wasn't discounting Paul Stevens or anyone else on Plum Island. For all I knew, this was a larger conspiracy than I first thought, and it could involve Stevens, Zollner, and others on the island, plus Tobin, plus… well, Emma Whitestone.