The Beach House

Chapter 17

MY FATHER'S FUNERAL was held forty-eight hours later at St. Cecilia's. Close to a thousand year-rounders squeezed into the squat stone chapel or stood just outside it for the Monday service. No one was more surprised by the size and intensity of the outpouring than I. My father was reserved and modest, the opposite of a hail-fellow-well-met. Because of that, I always assumed he'd been unappreciated. That wasn't the case.

Monsignor Scanlon recounted how, at sixteen years of age, John Samuel Sanders Mullen left Ireland and traveled alone to New York City, where he found a spot with relatives in an already crowded Hell's Kitchen tenement. Macklin and my grandmother couldn't make it across for another three years, and by then my father had dropped out of school and apprenticed himself to a carpenter. Even after his parents arrived, he was the family's only means of support for several years – "a sixteen-year-old boy working eighty-hour weeks. Can you imagine?" asked the monsignor.

Five summers later Sam and his new wife, Katherine Patricia Dempsey, were looking for a Sunday's respite from the asphalt furnace. So they rode the Long Island Rail Road as far as it would take them. Stepping off, they found a little fishing village that reminded my father of the one he'd left behind in County Claire. "Two weeks later," said the monsignor, "Sam, full of a young man's love and ambition, pulled up roots for the second time in eight years and moved out to Montauk for good."

I often wondered why my father showed so little zeal for the Hamptons gold rush. Now I saw that by the time he arrived at the end of Long Island, he was far more concerned with appreciating what he had than lusting for more.

"Since the Mullens arrived in this town," continued Thomas Scanlon, "I've had many happy occasions to visit them in the house on Ditch Plains Road that Sam built. Sam Mullen had all a man could ask for – a lovely home, an even lovelier wife, an honest business, and in young Jack and Peter a pair of handsome sons who were already two of the brightest lights in our village. Peter was the town's most gifted athlete, and Jack was showing the academic promise that would eventually take him to Columbia Law.

"But then," the monsignor said, "catastrophe blindsided the Mullens. First came the much too early death of Katherine Patricia from cancer. Last week the still unsatisfactorily explained death of Peter Mullen, a blow that unquestionably contributed to Sam's death Friday night.

"To see the hand of God in any of this is obviously beyond our limited knowledge. I only offer what I know to be true. That this life, however short, and it's almost always too short, is precious beyond measure."

Mack, Dana, and I sat in the front row. Behind the three of us, the room shared a cathartic sob – but Mack and I were dry-eyed that morning at least. To us, this wasn't divine mystery, it was murder. Whoever had killed Peter was also partly responsible for my father's heart attack, or at least his broken heart.

As the monsignor continued over his parishioners' tears, I felt the grip of my grandfather's hand on my knee. I looked into his ravaged face and bottomless Irish eyes.

"There's a couple of mysteries of this precious life," he whispered, "that you and I are going to get to the bottom of, whether God in heaven chooses to throw in with us or not."

I put my own bony Mullen hand on his and squeezed back hard enough for both of us to know that a pact had been made.

Somehow, someway, we were going to avenge Peter and my father.

Chapter 18

IF YOU THOUGHT IT WAS A NEAT TRICK squeezing a thousand full-bodied mourners into a church built for two hundred, imagine the human gridlock when the same crowd arrived on our doorstep at 18 Ditch Plains Road.

Shagwong ran the bar and Seaside Market did the food, and for six hours the entire population of Montauk wended its way through our half a dozen small rooms. I believe that every single person who ever had any contact with my father or brother in the past twenty years walked into our living room, took my hand, and looked into my eyes.

Teachers and coaches going back to kindergarten showed up and described Peter's unlimited potential at this sport or that subject. As did the merchants who had kept my father in hardware and bacon sandwiches. The politicians, of course, were out in full force. So were the firemen and cops; even Volpi and Belnap showed their faces.

Despite how badly things had panned out for the Mullens in Montauk, it was impossible not to feel enormous affection for its unpretentious residents. People give a shit about their neighbors out here.

Nevertheless, after a couple of hours, all the faces ran together. I guess that's what funerals are for – turning grief into a blur. In that way, they're diverting.

Dana finally left about seven. She's not much of a drinker, so I understood. And I appreciated that she knew I had to be there and drink with my old friends and relatives.

All my friends were there. After the bulk of the guests left, we gathered in the kitchen. Fenton, Marci, Molly, Hank, and Sammy – the same crowd that had been there for me that night at the Memory.

We had all been working on Peter's case, the situation, or whatever the hell you wanted to call it. Fenton had been lobbying hard with the Suffolk County medical examiner, an old girlfriend of his, that Peter's death not be treated like a routine drowning. I had talked to contacts at the Daily News and Newsday about possible stories, or at least coming out there to talk to somebody about what really happened that night.

"People are talking," Sammy reported about his A-list clientele. "They're starting to feel some heat at the Beach House, too. The Neubauers already canceled a party for the weekend of the fourth. Out of respect, no doubt."

We all applauded ourselves. Big deal, right, we'd gotten them to cancel a goddamned party.

Not all the news was good. Three nights before, Hank had walked into Nichols Cafe, where he'd been head chef since it reopened, and was fired on the spot.

"No reason or explanation," said Hank. "The manager handed me my last check and said good luck. For two days I was going nuts. Then a waitress spelled it out for me. Nichols is owned by Jimmy Taravalla, a venture capitalist worth a couple hundred million. Taravalla is tight with Neubauer. He's a frequent guest at parties. According to my friend, Neubauer called Jimmy, Jimmy called Antoinette Alois, the manager, and that was that. Hasta la vista. Put down the chalupa. Go directly to the back of the unemployment line."

"It gets scarier," Molly said. "I've been doing some asking around about the party, right. Then, the other night, somebody was following me. It was a black BMW. Tonight I saw the same car parked outside my house."

"That's so weird," Marci spoke up. "The same cretin was following me. It's creepy."

"Hang on to your privates, boys and girls," said Sammy. "The empire is starting to strike back."

It was after midnight before the last mourner gave me a last damp hug. Then it was just me and Mack in the brightly lit kitchen. I poured two whiskeys.

"To Jack and Peter," I said.

"To you and me," said Macklin. "We're all that's left."

Chapter 19

I AWOKE WITH A HANGOVER the morning after my father's funeral and wake. About eleven, I decided to go see Dana, partly to apologize for not paying enough attention to her the day before, but mostly I needed someone to talk to. I knew that her parents were still out of town; otherwise, I don't think I could have gone to the house.

What can you say about the "summer cottage" that the Neubauers had already turned down $40 million for? Is it real, or is it Manderly? I could never drive onto the property without thinking about how much Dana loved the house and the twelve acres it sits on. What's not to love? A grand Georgian-style house surrounded by apple orchards? Two glorious pools – a reflection pool for the mind, a lap pool for the body? A formal rose garden? The English-style garden? A circular drive in front of the house that looked as though it were built for vintage cars, and vintage cars only?

I rode Peter's motorcycle up close to the garage, cut the engine, and parked in an unobtrusive spot. Even though I had an open invitation to the house, I suddenly felt weird just being there. I tried to shake off the feeling, but it wouldn't shake.

I heard a splash in one of the pools.

I could see the "north pool," as the family called it, the lap pool, and suddenly I stopped walking. My stomach clutched.

Dana was climbing out of the pool and she had on a kickass suit that I'd told her was my personal favorite. Beads of water glistened on her skin and the black Lycra of the string bikini.

She tiptoed across the ornate, hand-painted tiles of the deck to one of several cream-and-royal-blue-striped chaise longues. She smiled as she drank in the warmth of the sun.

I couldn't believe my eyes. Propped comfortably on the chaise was none other than Frank Volpi. The sickening thing was that Frank looked none the worse for the wear and tear of his very demanding detective's job. He was as relaxed and tanned and toned as Dana was.

Dana was still smiling as she went and sat next to him on the longue. She laid her water-chilled hands on his stomach, and he playfully grabbed her wrists. He pulled her on top of him, and she covered his mouth with hers. As they kissed, all I could see was the back of her blond head and his hands untying the strings of her suit.

I wanted to look away, to get the hell out of there, but before I could actually move, the kiss ended.

Then Dana looked over Volpi's shoulder, and I was pretty sure she saw me before I skulked off to the Beemer and headed back where I belonged.

Chapter 20

I DROVE AROUND FOR A WHILE – fast, too fast for the winding, crowded side roads of eastern Long Island. I was feeling really bad now, not for myself – well, hell, yeah, for myself.

By the time I got home, it was past four. The house was still a disaster from the day before. I figured I'd better clean up before Mack had to do it.

A note was stuck in the screen door. My heart sank. I grabbed the envelope and opened it.

The stationery was rose-colored and I could smell perfume all over it.

The note said – IL8400. The Memory.

That was enough. I'd gotten messages like it before. Dana wanted me to meet her at the Memory Motel. She was waiting there now. The letters and numbers were the license plate of her Mercedes SUV The note, the perfume – it was pure Dana.

I shouldn't have gone over to the Memory but – what can I say? – I went. Maybe deep down, I'm a hopeless sap. Or maybe I'm too romantic for my own good.

Dana was there. What was worse, she knew that I would go. She was so sure of herself. Well, maybe I could change that.

I pulled open the passenger-side door and leaned inside. The Mercedes still smelled new. It also smelled of her perfume.

"Sit down, Jack. We need to talk," she said in the softest voice. A slender, manicured hand patted the seat.

"I'm fine where I am," I said. "I'm good."

"It's not what it looked like, Jack."

I shook my head. "Sure it is, Dana. While I was riding around the past couple of hours, it all came together. I saw you and Volpi talking at my house yesterday. Then you left around seven or so. Amazingly, so did Volpi. You'll have to fill me in on the rest."

Dana somehow managed to look angry at me. "He came to our house this morning, Jack. Not last night. Said it was about the investigation, but he brought his bathing suit. That's Frank."

"So you invited him to have a swim? One thing led to another?"

Dana shook her head. "Jack, you can't believe that I'm interested in Frank Volpi."

"Dana," I said, "why were you making out with him? It's a fair question."

"Hey, Jack, let me tell you something that I learned from my father – life isn't fair. That's why he always wins. It's how the game is played. And Jack, it is a game."

"Dana -"

She waved me off, and it struck me that I had never really seen that side of her. "Let me finish. I know my timing is dreadful, but I've been thinking about this for weeks. I guess it's why I didn't come and pick you up on Friday night. Jack, I need space. I really need time to be by myself… I'm going to Europe for a couple of months. I've never done that before. The European thing."

"Oh, yeah, me neither," I said. "Run away from my problems."

"Jack, don't make this any harder than it already is. It is hard for me." Then tears started to run down her cheeks. I couldn't believe that all this was happening. It almost seemed too bad to be true.

"So, Dana," I finally said, "is Volpi going to Europe with you?"

I didn't wait for an answer. I slammed her car door and walked away. I guess we had just broken up.

Chapter 21

I COULDN'T SLEEP THAT NIGHT because I couldn't stop the bad thoughts and images crashing through my head. I finally got up and cleaned the mess from my father's funeral. About five in the morning I went back to bed.

On Sunday I made the hour-and-a-half trip to the BMW dealership in Huntington. I figured Peter got financing directly from the dealer, and I hoped that if I showed up with the bike and told them what had happened, they might offer fair market value.

The only salesman in the place was a burly, ponytailed guy in his mid-thirties, and I watched him expertly direct a retired couple to a full-dress silver Tourer.

"Bags!" said the salesman, introducing himself once he'd loaded up his prospects with brochures. "Although I don't know what I can possibly do for you since you already got the prettiest, baddest, and best engineered form of automotive transportation in the world parked right out front. Believe it or not, I delivered the same sucker to a handsome kid from Montauk not six weeks ago – same midnight blue paint, same custom black Corbin seat."

I explained that it wasn't a coincidence, and Bags extended an arm and squeezed my shoulder. "That's awful. Listen, man, you'll get a lot more for it by putting an ad in the New York Times and selling it yourself."

"All I'm looking to do is pay off the loan," I told him.

Bags's eyes grew wide, and they were large to begin with.

"What loan? You don't owe a dime on that sweetheart."

At his cluttered desk, he pulled out the paperwork from the sale. "Here we go. Peter wrote me a check for nineteen hundred dollars for the ten percent deposit," he said, showing me a copy. "He paid the rest in cash."

Although Bags may have felt that he was delivering good news, he could tell that I didn't see it that way. "Listen, if a dude walks in with the money, I'll sell him a motorcycle. I'd even sell one to a Republican if I was having a bad month," he guffawed.

The check was written on a bank six exits up the Long Island Expressway in Ronkonkoma. I knew where it was. When we were kids my father's truck broke down just outside it, and we spent half the night in a service station there. We loved the name so much, it became family lore.

Ten minutes later I was back in Ronkonkoma for the second time in my life, sitting at the desk of the Bank of New York branch manager, Darcy Hammerman. She'd been expecting to hear from me.

"Peter named you as the sole beneficiary, so the balance is yours. I might as well cut you a check now, unless you want to open an account here in Ronkonkoma. I didn't think so."

She opened a photo-album-sized checkbook and, in her careful banker's hand, filled one out. She stamped for deposit only on the back.

Then she carefully ripped the check out of her book and slid it over to me. It was for $187,646.

I read the six numbers in disbelief. My eyes started to blink. I hadn't felt that bad since, well… the day before. What in hell had Peter done?

Chapter 22

I NEEDED A FRIEND TO TALK TO, and I knew where to find one. I even had an appointment.

Sammy Giamalva was nine when he matter-of-factly told my brother that he was gay. By the time he was eleven, he knew he wanted to cut hair. Probably because of that precocious self-knowledge, Sammy, despite being one of the smartest kids at East Hampton High, was never much of a student.

At fifteen, he dropped out altogether and started working at Kevin Maple's. He spent his first six months sweeping up hair. Then he got promoted to shampooing. Six months later Xavier quit in the middle of an appointment, and Kevin gave Sammy a shot at his own chair. The rest, as they say, is Hamptons hairdressing history.

But Kevin milked him dry, booking him for ten or eleven heads a day, and after a while Sammy's gratitude was replaced by resentment. Three months ago he quit and opened Sammy's Soul Kitchen in his house in Sag Harbor.

Sammy had been cutting Peter's hair for free on Sundays and, in a weak moment at the funeral, offered to grandfather me on the same sweet deal. I made an appointment on the spot, and after driving back from Ronkonkoma, I pulled into his driveway.

Sammy greeted me with a big hug, then led me to an Aeron chair facing a huge gilt mirror.

"So what did you have in mind?" Sammy asked after my rinse.

"At these rates, I'll leave it up to you. Express yourself."

Sammy set to work, falling into an easy four-beat rhythm of snip and move, pause and touch. My hair fell in clumps on the black and white tiles. I let him work in silence for several minutes before I dropped the question whose answer I'd been dreading the whole ride back.

"Was Peter a drug dealer?" I was studying Sammy in the mirror.

He didn't even look up from my coif-in-progress.

"Hell, no. He bought them."

"Well, how the hell could he end up with a new Beemer and one hundred eighty-seven thousand dollars? Can you explain that?"

Sammy stopped cutting. "Jack, just let it go. Nothing good will come from this."

"My brother was murdered. I can't let it go. I thought you wanted to help."

Sammy gently massaged the back of my neck. "All right, Jack. Here's the truth. Peter was the hardest-working boy in show business." He cleared his throat, then spoke softly. He sounded like a father belatedly telling his kid where babies come from. "One way or another, every last one of us out here earns their keep servicing the rich. That's how it is, Jack. Well, Peter serviced them a little more literally than the rest of us."

I was starting to feel a little sick. And scared. I almost got up and left in the middle of the haircut. I loved my brother. But I wondered if I'd ever really known him.

"He got paid for sex? Is this what you're telling me?"

Sammy shrugged. "It wasn't like he had an hourly rate, Jack. But he was doing some of the richest women in the very expensive free world and doing them rather well. I thought you knew. I thought that Peter told you everything. I guess he didn't mention that one of his ladies was your potential mother-in-law, Campion Neubauer. I think another might have been Dana. But, Jack, that was before you two started going out."

Chapter 23

AFTER I LEFT SAMMY'S, I stopped at a bar called Wolfies. It's located in the same beautiful wooded part of East Hampton where Jackson Pollock used to paint and drink and drive into trees.

I ordered a black coffee and a beer and sat at the bar, thinking about my day and what to do next. I finally plucked a wrinkled scrap of paper out of my wallet and called the number on the back.

The crisp voice at the other end belonged to Dr. Jane Davis. I hadn't seen or spoken to her in ten years. But in high school we had become pretty good friends, when to everyone's amazement, this shy National Merit Scholar hooked up with my fisherman pal, Fenton Gidley.

Jane, the class valedictorian, won a full scholarship to SUNY Binghamton, then went on to Harvard Medical School. Through Fenton, I'd learned that she spent the next couple of years doing a residency in Los Angeles and running a trauma unit at an inner-city St. Louis hospital before burning out. She was now the chief pathologist for Long Island Hospital and chief medical examiner of Suffolk County.

Jane had another hour in the lab, but said she could meet after and gave me directions to her house in Riverhead. "If you get there first, could you take Iris for a little walk?" she asked. "The keys are under the second-to-last flowerpot. And don't worry, she's a sweetheart."

I made a point of getting there early, and Iris, a sleek, pale-eyed weimaraner, was beside herself with gratitude. She may have been the size of a Doberman, but Iris was a lover, not a fighter. When I opened the door, she jumped and yelped and skated round the wooden floor on slippery nails.

For the next fifteen minutes she yanked me around the tiny subdivision, peeing on its invisible canine boundaries. That pretty much bonded us for life, and we were sitting contentedly shoulder to shoulder on the front porch when Jane's blue Volvo pulled in.

Inside her kitchen, Jane poured dry cereal for Iris, coffee for me, and a glass of tawny port for herself. In the past decade, her beanpole gawkiness had turned into athletic grace, but she had the same force field of intelligence.

"There's been a little dip in Long Island 's output of suspicious deaths lately," said Jane. "So I've had a lot of time to spend with Peter." She pulled at Iris's translucent ears and looked at me intently.

"So what did you find?" I asked her.

"For one thing," said Jane, "Peter didn't drown."

Chapter 24

JANE REACHED into a battered leather knapsack and dropped a folder labeled "Mullen, Peter 5/29" on the table. Then she pulled out a clear plastic sleeve of color slides and held one of them up to the kitchen light.

"Take a look at these," she said, squinting. "They're photographs of cells I scraped off the inside of Peter's lungs. See the shape and the color at the edge?" The pictures showed a cluster of small circular cells about the size of a dime and tinted pink.

Jane removed a second set of slides. "These are from the lung tissue of a man who got pulled out of Long Island Sound five days before Peter. The cells were nearly twice as large and much darker. That's because the drowning victim struggles to breathe and inhales water into the lungs. Cells like Peter's are what we find in bodies dumped into the ocean after they've stopped breathing."

"How did he die, then?"

"Just what it looks like," she said, carefully tucking the slides back in their sleeves. "He was beaten to death."

She reopened the fat manila folder and grabbed a stack of black-and-white prints. "I know you saw Peter that night on the beach, but the cold water holds down the swelling and limits the discoloration. In these, I have to warn you, he looks a lot worse."

Jane handed me the pictures. Peter's shattered, misshapen face was unrecognizable. It was all I could do not to look away. On the beach his beauty was largely intact. In the photos, his skin was an awful gray. The bruises made him look like a human punching bag.

Jane dug deeper into her pile and fished out the X rays. They documented the assault in terms of fractured bones. There were dozens. With the tip of her pen, she singled out a clean break at the top of Peter's spine.

"This is what killed him," she said.

I shook my head in disbelief. The anger that had been building for the past two weeks was getting impossible to control.

"So what do you have to do to prove someone was murdered, pull a bullet out of their head?" I asked in disgust.

"It's a good question, Jack. I sent my initial report to the East Hampton Police Department and the district attorney's office two weeks ago and I haven't heard a thing."

I cursed out Frank Volpi all the way back from Jane's. He had the reports on Peter and he hadn't done a goddamned thing. He was still talking about a drowning, a suicide. How the hell could they cover up something like that? Who was I up against?

When I got home late that night, Mack was snoring on the living-room couch. I slipped off my grandfather's glasses and shoes, spread a light blanket over him, and tucked him in for the night. I couldn't bear to wake him and tell him what I'd found.

Then it hit me. I went into the kitchen and called Burt Kearns, the reporter from the East Hampton Star who'd slipped me his number at my father's funeral. Ten minutes later Kearns stood at the door with a tape recorder and two reporter's notepads.

"Christ," I said, "you're faster than Chinese food."

Chapter 25

KEARNS MUST HAVE WORKED right through the night. When I went to the front porch to get the Star, I saw that the shit had really hit the fan. Finally. It was all over the front page. A thirty-six-point, four-column headline with the same question I'd been asking: how did peter mullen die?

Beneath it was everything I had unloaded on Kearns in the kitchen the night before: from the absurdity of Peter's, or anyone's, choosing to go swimming that night to the overwhelming and so far ignored evidence of a vicious beating. The story also broadly hinted at the possibility of an affair between Peter and Campion Neubauer.

Running throughout the extensive story was a guilty-sounding chorus of "no comment," "did not return repeated phone calls," and "refused to respond" from Detective Volpi and the startled representatives of Campion and Barry, and Mayflower Enterprises. The power couple was still on the road working to smooth over the Boontaag toy company takeover, and apparently Peter's death didn't justify a simple change in their itinerary.

The aggressive reporting was supported by a righteous editorial calling for an inquiry into Peter's death. "The failure of the East Hampton P.D. to question Barry and Campion Neubauer about a death which took place on their property while the victim was working at their party is ludicrous." It concluded, "This is a disturbing reminder of the often glaring inequities in our criminal justice system."

I read the story through once, then I went and got Mack and read it to him. "It's a start," he snorted.

For the next week the story roiled the East End like a summer storm. You couldn't walk into a restaurant or shop without hearing charged suspicions being aired. Of course, Fenton, Marci, Molly, Hank, Sammy, and I were doing our share to keep Peter's story on people's minds. What had started as a quest for me was turning into an obsession.

The news coverage didn't stop with our local weekly. New York magazine sent a reporter and a photographer, and two New York TV stations ran nearly identical segments with a trench-coated reporter treading the moonlit beach where Peter's body washed ashore.

One evening I received a call from Dominick Dunne, the reporter-novelist whose daughter had been murdered years ago and who had emerged as a crusty talking head during the O.J. marathon. "My editors at Vanity Fair art begging me to do this story," he told me, "but I hate the Hamptons in the summer."

"I do, too, but you should do the story anyway. My brother was murdered."

"You're probably right. I'm sorry if I was flip. In the meantime, I just wanted to tell you not to let the bastards get away with it." He reminded me of Mack.

At Nelson, Goodwin and Mickel, I threw myself into the Mudman case. The injustice of his scheduled execution and the cover-up of Peter's murder had become connected in my mind. I prepared a two-hundred-page response to the judge's reaction to our latest request for DNA testing in Texas. The senior associate glowed and said it was the best work he'd ever seen from summer help.

No wonder. It was why I had wanted to be a lawyer in the first place.

Chapter 26

FENTON GIDLEY WAS BAITING LINES on the deck of his boat when the Fixer pulled up alongside in a twenty-foot Boston Whaler. He cut the engine and called to the burly, sandy-haired fisherman who happened to be Jack Mullen's best friend.

"Hey, Fenton. How they biting?" the Fixer asked in a snotty, wise-guy voice.

Gidley looked up and saw this big guy with a scar on his cheek. He didn't have time for idle chitchat. "Do I know you, buddy?"

The Fixer pulled out a 9mm Glock and pointed it at Gidley. "I think you're going to wish that we had never met. Now, I want you to stand up real slow. Hey, he follows instructions. Good, I like that in a punk loser. Now jump in the fucking water, Gidley. Jump – or I'll shoot you right between the eyes. It would make my morning."

Fenton jumped off his boat, went under briefly, then bobbed to the surface. He was wearing shorts, a faded Hawaiian shirt, and work boots. He needed to get the boots off.

"Leave the boots on," the Fixer said. He leaned over the edge of the Whaler and stared down at Gidley. Then he smiled.

"You're going to die out here today. More precisely, you're going to drown. Want to know why?"

Gidley was obviously smarter than he looked. He was paying close attention, searching for some way out. But there was no way out.

"Peter Mullen's murder?" he said. He was already having trouble staying afloat. The water was choppy and cold, and the boots were a bitch.

"Peter Mullen wasn't murdered…" the Fixer said. "He drowned. Just like you're going to drown. I'm going to stay right here until you go under for the last time. That way, you don't have to die alone."

And that's what the Fixer did. He kept the gun on Gidley and watched him with only mild interest. He drank a Lipton iced tea out of the bottle. His eyes were cold and flat, like a shark's.

Gidley was a strong kid, and he really loved life. He didn't go down the first time until almost half an hour after he jumped into the water.

The second time was only a few minutes later. When he fought his way back to the surface, he was coughing up sea-water and foam, choking on it.

"Peter Mullen drowned," the Fixer called to him. "You understand that now? You getting a feeling for drowning?"

Fenton finally started to cry, but he wasn't going to beg this bastard for his life. It wasn't much satisfaction, but it was something.

Fenton went down again and immediately took a big gulp of salt water. His chest felt as if it was going to explode this time. He pulled off his boots – what the hell – and let them go to the bottom. Then Fenton came up for the last time. He wanted to kill the fucker, but it looked as though things were going the opposite way.

Fenton couldn't believe what he saw when he struggled to the surface this time. The Whaler was pulling away.

"You owe me one, Fenton," the bastard shouted over the engine noise. "You owe me your stupid life."

Fenton got the rest of the message, too – Peter Mullen had drowned. That was the way it had to be.

Fenton floated on his back for a while, until he was strong enough to swim to his boat.

Chapter 27

THE FIXER was having a busy and productive day.

Looking downright mellow in baggy shorts, oversize T-shirt, and St. Louis Cardinals cap pulled down to his Ray-Bans, he lazily pedaled his rented bicycle down Ditch Plains Road. As he passed number eighteen, he gave it a long, hard look, then released his grip on the handlebars and rolled serenely by.

"Look, Ma, no hands," he said to the cloudless afternoon sky.

A couple of yards later, he swerved into the packed lot of the East Deck Motel and stood his bike in the motley row lined up at the break in the dunes.

Then, with a tube of lotion and the latest Grisham in hand, a big yellow beach towel slung over his shoulder, he backtracked toward the house on Ditch Plains, affecting the exaggerated shuffle of a recreating yuppie. Now came the tricky part.

Two doors down from the Mullen place, he cut across the lot where a big new house was going up and headed toward Ditch Plains Beach. But then, as if realizing he'd forgotten something, he turned toward the Mullens' rear door.

He pulled a flexible ribbon of steel out of his deep-pocketed shorts and probed the lock. When the first two attempts failed to produce the telltale click, he realized the goddamned door wasn't even locked.

That's a sign, he thought as he let himself inside. Don't be too creative. For the next half an hour he followed his own advice, scouring the drawers, the cabinets, and the bookshelves. But the obvious places didn't yield what he was looking for. Ditto for the clammy crawl space and the tiny attic.

He was starting to sweat. The fucking house wasn't air-conditioned. He checked behind every picture on the wall and peered into the sleeves of old Beatles and Kingston Trio LPs. Then he went through the closets, which were jam-packed with Mullen memorabilia.

Where the hell did you hide it, Peter?

This is important, you miserable little fuck. People could die – including your Mouseketeer pals. Even your hotshot brother.

So where the hell is it, you little dead fuck?

After another thirty minutes he was in such a foul humor, he was sorry to see Mack's old Datsun pull into the driveway. After all, if the old geezer had stumbled on him midsearch, he would have had no choice but to kill him.

Maybe he ought to do him anyway. Let the town spill a few more tears for those poor afflicted Mullen boys. No, spontaneous mayhem was for amateurs. He'd already caused enough trouble for one day.

He waited by the deck until he heard the garage door squeaking upward, then slipped out the back and hustled toward the beach.

Goddamn you, Peter. Where the hell did you hide the salami, pal?

Chapter 28

ON WEDNESDAY MORNING in New York, I was tucked inside my tiny office by eight o'clock. Everything that could possibly have gone wrong seemed to have. The phone rang. Even before I picked up, I muttered, "Uh-oh."

It was Fenton, calling from the island.

"Hey, man, good to hear your voice," I said.

"Yeah, well, hold that thought," he said. Then he told me what had happened the day before alongside his boat. By the time he was finished, I wanted to rush back to Montauk, but what the hell good would it do?

"You have any idea who he was?"

"I'd bet anything he's one of the bastards who killed Peter."

After I finished telling Fenton to cool it, and to be careful, I sat at my desk and felt like the powerless person I was. Sammy was right. The empire was striking back. And my friends were feeling the brunt.

The bright spot in my day happened between 9:35 and 9:37. Pauline Grabowski, the private investigator, peeked into my office and held up a bag from Krispy Kreme.

"I bought two glazed and I'm only eating one," she said, and smiled.

"You sure?" I smiled back.

"Positive. You okay? Gonna save the Mudman out in Texas today?"

"I hope so. Thanks for the thought. And the sugar hit."

"De nada, young Jack. It's only a doughnut."

My best friend had almost drowned, and I was eating a doughnut and flirting. It wasn't right. But what are you going to do?

Midmorning I got a call from William Montrose's executive assistant, Laura Richardson. Montrose, the most senior partner and chairman of the management committee, wanted me upstairs. I reminded myself that if I was about to be fired, the ax wouldn't be wielded by the mighty Montrose but by some anonymous hit man in HR.

Even so, it didn't take the metallic taste out of my mouth.

Chapter 29

THE ELEVATOR OPENED on the forty-third floor, and I crossed the threshold into corporate paradise. The beautiful Laura Richardson was waiting. A tall, regal African American woman whose lustrous skin outshone the mahogany-covered walls, she beamed as she led me down a long corridor to Monty's corner office. The whole floor was enveloped in an otherworldly quiet and calm.

"Don't worry, I've never gotten used to it myself," said Montrose about the panoramic view from his thirty-foot wall of glass. He and fellow partner Simon Lafayette sat on matching black-leather couches. Behind them stretched Manhattan from the UN Plaza to the Williamsburg Bridge. The iridescent tip of the Chrysler Building burned right at the center. It reminded me of Pauline Grabowski and her amazing tattoo – among other things.

"You know Simon," said Montrose, nodding in his direction. He didn't ask me to sit.

On one wall were photographs of his wife and five children. The black-and-white pictures conveyed the gravitas of official royal portraits. That he had procreated was so abundantly a statement in itself.

"I was just telling Simon what terrific work you've been doing on the Innocence Quest. Top-drawer all the way. Everyone seems to think you're very special, Jack, not only someone who will be offered a job here but partner material."

Now his smile vanished and the silver-blue eyes narrowed. "Jack, I lost my own brother a few years ago, so I have a little idea of what you're going through now. But I also need to tell you something you obviously didn't know, or you wouldn't have acted as you have been lately. Barry and Campion Neubauer and their company, Mayflower Enterprises, are very important clients of this firm.

"Jack, you're right on the cusp of something special here," said Montrose, gesturing out toward the metropolis. "Jeopardizing it won't bring your brother or father back. I've been there, Jack. Think it through. It's all very logical, and I'm sure you understand. Now I know you're busy, so I appreciate your taking the time to have this little chat."

I stood there immobile, but as I struggled to come up with exactly the right response, Monty turned his attention to Simon. I found myself staring at the back of his head.

Our meeting was over. I'd been dismissed. A few seconds later the lovely Laura walked me back to the elevator.

Chapter 30

AS I WAITED FOR THE ELEVATOR, I hated myself about as much as a twenty-eight-year-old can. Which is a lot. Finally it arrived, but when the doors reopened on my floor, I couldn't move.

I stared down the long corridor that led to my office and imagined the twenty-year death march, which if I was lucky and a big enough scumbag would lead back up to forty-three. No one walked by, or they might have called security. Or maybe the company nurse.

I let the elevator doors close without getting out. They reopened on the marble lobby.

With enormous relief, I continued outside onto sunny, sooty Lexington Avenue. For the next two hours I walked the crowded midtown streets, grateful for a place in the anonymous flow. I thought about Peter, my father, and the warning that Fenton had gotten. Then it was Dana and Volpi, the Beach House – the evil empire obviously extended to the offices of Nelson, Goodwin and Mickel. I'm not too strong on conspiracy theories, but there was no denying the connection between a lot of recent events.

My walk took me east to a small park overlooking the East River. Technically, I guess, it was the same river that bisected Montrose's view, the one he dangled in front of me like a family heirloom. I liked it better down here. I leaned against a high black railing and wondered what I should do. The Chrysler Building in Montrose's office had reminded me of Pauline. Since I was just about the only one left in the city without a cell phone, I dropped a quarter at a noisy corner pay phone and asked if she'd meet me for lunch.

"There's a cute little plaza with a waterfall on Fiftieth Street between Second and Third," she said. "Pick up whatever you want to eat and meet me there. What do you want, Jack?"

"I'll tell you over lunch."

I headed there immediately. That meant I got to see Pauline nimbly weaving through the packed sidewalk, her head down and her dark brown ponytail brushing her classic blue suit. Despite everything that had happened that morning, I couldn't help smiling. She didn't so much walk as glide through the crowd.

We found an empty bench against the wall, and Pauline unwrapped a chicken sandwich on twelve-grain. It was a big sandwich for such a slender woman. She knew it, too.

"Aren't you going to eat? Is that how you keep so trim – starvation?"

"I'm not all that hungry," I said. I recounted my visit to the top of the world as she listened and ate. Her eyes expressed sympathy, then outrage, and when I told her about Monty's amazing view of her tattoo, a little mirth.

The city is full of women who with imagination and style can make a little beauty go a long way. Pauline did her best to downplay hers. But with the light on her face, there was no concealing it, and it took me by surprise.

She already knew about Neubauer's relationship to the firm and had done a little inquiring of her own. "Personally, I don't like Barry Neubauer. He can charm birds out of trees, but he gives me the creeps. Mayflower has an account with the most expensive escort service in the city," said Pauline. "It's not all that unusual for certain corporations. The service is like a co-op, Jack. You need letters of recommendation, there are interviews, and you have to maintain a balance of fifty thousand. That's all common knowledge.

"The next part isn't," she said. "Two years ago one of their A-list escorts drowned when she supposedly fell off a yacht during a moonlight sail with Neubauer and his friends. The body was never found, and Nelson, Goodwin and Mickel handled the matter with such panache, it never made the papers."

I stared at the cement and winced. "What's the going rate for a dead escort these days?" I asked.

"Five hundred thousand dollars. About the same as a one-bedroom. The girl was nineteen." I looked into her eyes as she finished off her sandwich and wiped away the crumbs.

"Pauline, why are you telling me this?"

"I want you to know what you're getting into, Jack. Do you understand?"

That's when it hit me, and I couldn't help what I did. "Pauline, help me on Peter's case," I blurted out. "Work on the good side for a change."

"It doesn't sound like a good career move," said Pauline. "I'll think it over." Then she got up and left. I watched her walk all the way to Third, and then she disappeared into the thick midtown stream of pedestrians.

Chapter 31

"WHAT I'M LOOKING FOR," insisted Rob Coon with contagious excitement, "is not another lovely, formal English garden but a full-on maze where you go in one end and get lost for a few days before finding your way out."

Marci Burt and her potential gold mine of a landscaping client, sitting in one of the sunny front booths of Estia, sipped their lattes and let the deliciousness of the concept sink in.

Coon, the thirty-year-old scion of the country's first family in parking garages, explained the source of his inspiration. "I rented The Avengers the other night. Except for Uma, it blew. But the maze rocked."

"It would be a fabulous project," said Marci, and flashing dollar signs notwithstanding, she meant it. "Ideally, you would design it in such a way that you could keep changing the course so no one would get bored."

Coon beamed. "Very cool," he said.

The two fell into an enthusiastic discussion about the hardiest strains of evergreen, landscape libraries, possible models. They were talking about the need for a research junket to Scotland when Coon stopped mid-sentence.

Detective Frank Volpi and two other men in dark suits had entered the popular Amagansett restaurant. Coon's eyes followed them to their back booth.

"You know them?" asked Marci.

"The tall guy with a beard is Irving Bushkin. A lot of people consider him the best criminal attorney in America. If I ever kill my wife, he's the first person I'll call. I believe the guy to his left is the Suffolk County district attorney, Tim Maguire."

Coon didn't recognize Volpi, but Marci did and realized the meeting might have something to do with Peter's death. "Bob," said Marci, "this is the most exciting assignment I've ever been considered for. But I need thirty seconds to make a phone call."

That's when she called me at the office and I called Kearns at the Star. Less than five minutes later there was a screech of rubber out front and Kearns stood, mike in hand, in front of Volpi's table.

"What brought you to town?" Kearns asked Irving Bushkin, and although there was no response, he continued, undeterred. "Who's your client? Does your visit have anything to do with the investigation into Peter Mullen's death?"

Small and round, with fat, freckled hands, Kearns doesn't look like much, but he has balls. According to Marci, he peppered them with questions until Volpi threatened to arrest him for harassment. Even then he pulled out a camera and snapped a quick picture of the famous visitor and his pals.

But that wasn't even the best part. After Kearns left, Megan, the waitress who'd taken their order, came out and informed them that there'd been a mix-up. "I'm afraid we're all out of the pasta special," she said.

"It's ten past noon," protested Volpi, but the waitress just shrugged.

There was considerably more grumbling before the three changed their order to cheeseburgers and a turkey club. The new orders were barely in when Megan returned with more bad news. "We're all out of that, too," she said. "As a matter of fact, we're plumb out of everything."

At that point, Volpi, Irving Bushkin, and District Attorney Tim Maguire stormed out of the restaurant. Half an hour later Marci got a handshake deal to build what promised to be the only bona-fide English garden maze in the Hamptons. At least for a week.

Chapter 32

FOR MUDMAN'S SAKE, and I suppose because I wasn't quite ready to ditch my whole legal career yet, I returned to Nelson, Goodwin and Mickel and spent all Friday working on the latest appeal. In the morning I re-reviewed his court records and was outraged by the minimal effort of his court-appointed attorney.

I had lunch with Pauline, who told me she was still thinking about my offer to work for the good guys. I don't know what else we talked about, but suddenly it was three o'clock and we hustled back to the office. Separately.

For the remainder of the afternoon, I drafted a response to the judge in Texas. If I may say so myself, it was persuasive. It was after eleven that night when I e-mailed a copy to Exley.

Even though I felt okay about my day, the moment I got back on Peter's bike and pulled down the visor of his blue Arai helmet, I began rewinding my life like a depressing old video. Soul-searching wasn't a real good idea right then. I couldn't come up with too many selfless or generous acts in my life.

Of course, I had no trouble coming up with bad stuff. The most damning incident that came to mind had occurred seven years before. It was at Middlebury, when I was a twenty-one-year-old senior. Peter was thirteen at the time. It was winter break and he had come up to spend a long weekend with his big brother. One night we borrowed my roommate's car to get some Chinese food. On the way back to the dorm, a local cop pulled us over for a broken taillight. He was being a bastard, and he decided to search the car.

It occurs to me now that on that particular night, the cop was playing the part of the townie and we were the little rich shits. That's why he didn't stop until he was holding up a skinny marijuana cigarette between his fingers. I explained that the car belonged to my roommate and that we had no idea there was pot in it. But he ignored me and drove Peter and me to the station to book us for possession.

When we got there Peter said that the joint belonged to him. I did nothing to refute it. Peter called it a no-brainer. I was planning to go to law school. He had no intention of even going to college. I was an adult. He was a minor, so they couldn't do anything to him.

But, of course, that's what made what I didn't do so much worse. What a goddamned role model I was for my kid brother.

I remembered the exact moment when the cop turned to me and asked if it was true that the pot belonged to Peter, and I just shrugged.

Remembering the incident again on Peter's bike was a bad idea. It felt as if a white-hot current were running through me. It was all I could do to stay on the Long Island Expressway. A week after the arrest in Vermont, the case got thrown out for an improper search. I never told him how wrong I'd been. Whatever Peter had done to get himself murdered, maybe I'd helped put my brother on the slippery slope.

Chapter 33

IT WASN'T QUITE TEN on Saturday morning when I awoke to the pleasant sound of a woman's laughter. Macklin was laying on the blarney charm with a trowel. Judging by the way the lovely laugh kept interrupting his tales, a trowel was barely big enough.

As I walked down the stairs, I wondered who young and pretty enough to inspire Macklin's A game might actually be visiting us on a Saturday morning.

When I eased myself into the kitchen, Pauline Grabowski smiled up at me from the table. She looked as comfortable as if she'd been coming over for chats with Macklin her whole life.

"We have a visitor," said Mack, "who admits to being a friend of yours. And she's so lovely, I'm not even holding that against her."

"I didn't think you went for women with tattoos."

"Me, either," said Mack, dumbfounded. "For eighty-six years I've been living a lie."

The way Pauline chuckled, I could tell she was already taken with Mack.

"Please don't encourage him," I said. "It's worse than feeding the animals at the zoo."

"Good morning, Jack," she said, interrupting our routine. "You don't look so great."

"Thanks. I had a rough night at the shop. But even if I don't look it, I'm at least as happy to see you as Mack is."

"Well, have some coffee. It's out of this world. We've got work to do."

I filled a huge mug and took it outside to the back porch, where Pauline sat beside me on the top wooden step. After my long night, her unexpected presence felt almost angelic, and she looked so starkly beautiful in her Crunch T-shirt, cutoffs, and red Converse sneakers, I had to remind myself not to gawk.

"Here's to working for the good guys. Hope it isn't a huge mistake on my part."

Pauline pulled out two pieces of paper with a long list on each. "This is everyone who attended the Memorial Day weekend Beach House party," she said about the slightly longer one. "And this is everyone who worked there.

A third of the way down the second list was "Peter Mullen – valet" and our phone number. "How'd you manage to get these?" I asked her. "I've been trying, and striking out. There's a lot of paranoia right now."

"I've got a friend who's a very talented and unscrupulous hacker. All he needed was the party planner's e-mail address and the name of her web site."

There was an awkward pause. Despite my best efforts not to, I was gawking at Pauline.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I guess I'm a little surprised you decided to do this," I said.

"Me, too. So let's not look a gift investigator in the mouth."

Chapter 34

"LET'S START WITH THE HELP," Pauline suggested. "The ones you haven't already spoken to, anyway."

The first phone call to bear fruit was to one of Peter's fellow car parkers, Christian Sorenson, whose fed-up girlfriend picked up after a dozen rings. "According to Christian, he's at the Clam Bar washing dishes," she said, sulking over the phone. "That means he's probably somewhere else."

The Clam Bar is a pretentiously unpretentious little shack right on 27, halfway between Montauk and Amagansett. The service is minimal and the decor nonexistent, but something about the vibe and the old classic reggae tapes they play has turned it into an institution. In August you can wait an hour to spend forty dollars for lunch.

Pauline and I were lucky to find seats at the counter, and we ordered a couple of bowls of chowder. It almost felt like a date.

I spotted Sorenson bent over the sink, and he eventually came out of the kitchen in a sodden apron and latex gloves.

"I don't think you want to shake my hand," he said.

I introduced Pauline, and she explained that we were trying to find out a little more about what happened to Peter that night at the party. Christian was glad to help. "I was working the party all night. I was a little surprised the police never called."

"That's part of the reason we're here," I told him. "They're treating the whole thing like an accident-suicide."

"No way," said Christian, "but maybe the cops are afraid someone heavy is involved with whatever happened to Rabbit."

"Well, if the police had called," asked Pauline, "what would you have told them?"

Sorenson folded his muscular arms and told his story. This was where it got interesting.

"First of all, Peter got there late as usual, so the rest of us were kind of ticked at him. But, as usual, he worked his ass off, so we weren't. Then, just before he disappeared, I saw Billy Collins, who was a waiter that night, slip him a note."

"How do you know it was a note?" asked Pauline.

"Because I saw him open it and read it."

"Ever ask Billy Collins about it?" she asked.

"I've been meaning to, but I haven't run into him."

"You know where we could find him?"

"The last I heard he was an assistant pro at Maidstone. He's supposed to be a stud golfer, trying to play the mini-tour or something, and basically I think they just let him practice."

"Sounds like a pretty good deal," I said.

"Not half as sweet as this," he said, holding up ten rubber fingers.

"Thanks a lot, Christian," said Pauline, "and by the way, your girl sends her love."

"Really?"

Chapter 35

"I'M IMPRESSED," I said as Pauline and I made our way outside to her car.

"It's what I do, Jack. And sometimes even pros get lucky. There were eight guys parking cars that night. We just happened to find the one who saw something. So where's Maid-stone? Am I dressed for the joint?"

I'd lived out there my whole life, but until that afternoon I'd never set foot on the hallowed grounds of the Maidstone Country Club. Then again, I wasn't alone. The Maidstone, built on the Atlantic and laid out like an old British links course, isn't exactly a community outreach program.

As snooty as Maidstone can be, it's an easy party to crash. No rent-a-cop out front. Not even a gate. A couple of visitors in a twenty-year-old Volkswagen can putter right up to the huge stone clubhouse, park their own car, and start walking toward the driving range. And if you carry yourself as though you've got a God-given right to be there, no one will say boo.

I don't know if you've ever been to a country club like Maidstone, but there's this feeling of medicated calm, as if the whole place, from the well-seeded sod to the cloudless sky, has taken a Vicodin, then washed it down with a martini. I could get used to it.

Billy Collins was easy to spot. He was the one hitting one perfect five-iron shot after another. He was also the only golfer on the range.

"Hey, Jack. Can you believe this place?" he said, still gripping the club and pointing at the idyllic landscape with his elbows before sending another ball sailing out over it.

"This is one of the best tracks on Long Island, but so many of the members are ancient, or have other vacation houses, that the course is empty half the time."

"So how's your game?" I asked.

"Shite," said Collins, striping another perfect iron.

Pauline purposely stepped a little closer to Collins so he had to stop hitting balls. "We want to talk to you because Christian Sorenson said he saw you hand Peter a note. It was just before he disappeared that night at the Neubauers'." I liked the way Pauline talked to people. She didn't try to act tough, or falsely flirtatious. She didn't act at all.

"There was definitely something weird about it," said Collins, putting down his club.

"What do you mean?"

"The note was pink and perfumed, but it was given to me by a guy who was hanging with another guy."

"You know them?"

"Nope. Based on their physiques, I thought they might have been Neubauer's personal trainers. But they didn't have the perfect posture, the bouncy energy. And they weren't working the room, trying to hustle up a couple of zillionaire clients. Plus, they were old. Maybe forty."

"Why didn't you call the police?" Pauline asked.

"The day Peter's body was found, I called Frank Volpi three times. But he never returned my calls."

Chapter 36

DUSK SOFTENED THE SKY as we pulled out of Maidstone and drove down Further Lane, one of the town's toniest addresses. It's the kind of street where a $5 million house stands out for its modesty. Only West End Road, with Georgica Pond and estates like Quelle Barn and Grey Gardens, rivals it.

"Outside Detroit," said Pauline, "in Birmingham and Auburn Hills, there are some posh enclaves where the auto execs and Pistons and Red Wings live, but it's nothing compared with this. When I was a kid, we used to go out to Birmingham to look at the Christmas lights."

"Nobody has any idea how over the top and ridiculous it gets out here. These people buy ten-million-dollar houses and then tear them down."

One mansion blended into the next, and as tasteful as the homes were, there was something odd about the neighborhood. It looked colorized, a very upscale suburbia, with Ferraris instead of station wagons, and every messy trace of children airbrushed out.

"Strange times we live in," I said. "Everyone believes they're just a couple of breaks from being rich. I think it's something they put in the water."

"I buy Lotto tickets every week," said Pauline. "And I drink bottled water."

The conversation drifted back to Peter's murder and the investigation.

"Actually, I called all of my friends off the case," I told her.

"Why did you do that, Jack?"

I told Pauline what had happened to Fenton on his boat, how Hank had gotten fired, and that Marci and Molly had been followed.

Pauline merely nodded. "Remember what I told you about the big leagues, young Jack."

"I'm twenty-eight, Pauline."

"Uh-huh," she said, nodding. Then she reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a small revolver. "Ever shoot anybody? Ever get shot at?"

"Did you?" I asked her.

"I already told you. I'm from Detroit."

I watched Pauline's merry eyes concentrating on the road and her hair whipping around in the breeze, and I realized the only honest thing for me to do was to shut up and smile. Because sitting next to Pauline was making me happy. Simple as that.

"Stay for dinner," I said, "and I'll introduce you to Sam's Pizza. On a good day, it's right up there with John's and Lombardi's."

"High praise, but I have to get back. Maybe another time."

"Artichokes and bacon, the yin and yang of pizza toppings?"

"You're persistent."

"Actually, when it comes to women, I tend to discourage pretty easily."

"Maybe it's time you get over that."

Chapter 37

MY BIKE – I guess it's mine now – was still parked in front of the house. After Pauline dropped me off, I stood beside it and watched the orange taillights of her car recede toward Manhattan.

It felt too early to hunker down for the night. And I was a little hurt that Pauline had turned down my invitation for dinner. I liked her, and I thought she liked me. Of course, I'd thought that Dana was rather fond of me, too. So with no particular place to go, and no one to go there with, I threw a leg over the Beemer and pointed it west.

Just beyond town, I turned onto Old Montauk Highway, a well-traveled road full of roller-coaster humps and dips, which had offered Peter and me our first taste of genital titillation. We'd dubbed it "the Weenie Road " because if you're going fast enough as you crest the hills, that's where you feel it.

That night I thought of both Peter and Pauline when I twisted back the throttle and caught some air. Long live the Weenie Road, I thought.

Too soon, I was back on 27, ripping past condo time-shares and trendy restaurants. Every time I got on the bike I was getting a little better at it, learning how to lean into turns, mastering the rhythm of clutch lever and throttle. Maybe a little of Peter was rubbing off.

When I swerved off 27 onto Bluff Road, it occurred to me that I was probably following the same route that Peter had on his last night. It didn't feel like a coincidence.

The Neubauer estate was less than a quarter mile up the road. When I saw the open gates, I braked unconsciously and swerved between them. A hundred yards later I cut the engine and the lights. Then I coasted down the gentle grade toward the beach.

I stashed the bike in the thick brush of the last dune, took off my sneakers, and sat on the cool sand just out of reach of the tide.

Everything about the scene echoed the night they brought me to look at Peter's body. The moonlight had the same powerful wattage. The surf was about as high and as loud.

As I pondered the scene, the tide slithered up the beach and grabbed my heel. I recoiled in shock. No one who wasn't covered in white fur would go swimming in the middle of the night in that.

Next thing I knew, I was stripping off my clothes, bellowing like a madman, and running headlong toward the surf.

No one would go in the water without a really good reason – would they?

Could Peter have done it? Then seemed like as good a time as any to find out.

The water was frightening, bone-aching cold, and it was a full month warmer than when Peter had supposedly drowned. In three steps, my feet and lower legs hurt. But I kept running through the slop of the first wave. I dove under the collapsing crest of the next.

In a kind of shock I swam furiously from the shore, counting out thirty strokes. When I stopped, I was well past the breakers. The safety of the beach looked a mile away.

For what felt like minutes but was probably less than thirty seconds, I bobbed in the moonlit swells. I took deep, slow breaths, and my body adjusted somewhat to the cold.

Peter wouldn't have done this. Hell, no. Peter hated to be cold… besides, Peter loved Peter.

I could control my breathing, but I couldn't control my brain. I was up to my neck in the big black ocean, getting scared.

I began to swim back toward the beach as desperately as I'd left it. Halfway there, numbed by the merciless cold, I let myself slip too far forward on a curling breaker.

Suddenly the ocean fell away and I was tumbling in black space. I felt a beat of terror-filled nothingness. I kept reaching out. Then the waves swept me back again. I was lost in a black swirl. I felt as if I were being buried alive. I couldn't breathe. Over and over again the waves pounded me like falling concrete from a collapsing building. They beat me against the shell-covered floor.

Somehow I remembered that you have to stop fighting back. I grabbed my nose and concentrated on holding my breath. Seconds later, I resurfaced, wildly gulping air.

I wasn't prepared for the second wave. It was smaller, but it was the one that really nailed me. I took a lungful of water clown with me. If I hadn't thought about all the shit Mack would have had to listen to about my killing myself, too, I might have given up. The waves seemed to have taken on a life of their own. They felt like half a dozen battering rams. I hung on, one second at a time, until the ocean finally spat me out and I crawled onto the beach.

Even though Jane Davis had told me my brother didn't drown, I had to prove it to myself.

I guess I had. Peter hadn't gone swimming that night. My brother had been murdered.