The Last Refuge

SEVEN

I’D FALLEN ASLEEP in the Adirondack chair, so it took me a while to figure out where I was, much less realize there was somebody using a flashlight to poke around Regina’s house. Eddie was standing next to the chair, growling.

I put Eddie in the house, closed the basement door and retrieved the Harmon Killebrew bat from next to the side door. Then I opened the trunk of the Grand Prix and took out my big Mag light, a club in itself. I tucked the white collar of my shirt down into the RISDE sweatshirt and strolled over toward Regina’s.

The tumbler of Absolut was clogging my brain and weighing on my limbs. I shook my head to clear it out. I stopped for a second to make sure I had my balance. Good enough. I got a firm grip on the bat and walked as quietly as I could toward the house. The lights were out in the neighborhood, but there was plenty of moonlight. My breath formed little clouds in the damp cold. The miniature waves of the Little Peconic were the only sound. Even the insects had all gone to bed. The light inside Regina’s house flashed across a double window. The drapes were drawn, but I paused for a moment behind a big hydrangea in case I’d been seen. Nothing. I went on.

Like most of the houses on Oak Point, Regina’s was a single-story, asbestos-shingled bungalow. There were two ways out, the side and the back. The back of the house faced the driveway, so the choice was a toss up. I looked around for a car and saw something parked between a few of Regina’s overgrown arborvitae, about five feet off the driveway. I got a little closer. Pickup truck. No black BMWs.

I took a chance and approached the pickup. It was empty. I stuffed the bat through my belt, took out the flashlight, leaned up against the front fender of the truck and waited.

The wee hours of an October night on eastern Long Island are dank and quiet. I wondered if standing out there alone made any sense, armed with just a three-quarter baseball bat and a Mag light. I decided it made no sense at all. I thought about calling someone to come over and stand there with me. But I didn’t know anyone well enough to bother at this time of night, except Joe Sullivan, and I didn’t want to do that. He might not mind, but then I’d have to go all the way back to the house, wake him up, listen to his bullshit and nurture his dignity. It seemed like too much work. Better to just risk my life. Simpler that way.

I heard an occasional car out on Noyack Road. I watched a small plane flying overhead, probably headed for the airport in East Hampton. Probably some over-achiever from the city, all tired out from playing hardball with the big boys. Getting ready to curl up in his twenty-thousand-square-foot hideaway by the sea.

A cat had a brief encounter with something in the woods a few doors down from Regina’s. The sound prickled the hairs on the back of my neck. The light inside Regina’s was in the kitchen. I saw a shadow pass in front of the window. Went nicely with the sound of the cat fight. I calmed myself and secured my footing.

The back door opened and a man, medium height and build, stepped out on the back stoop. He wore a short coat, cap and boots and was carrying a large shopping bag. I couldn’t see much else in the low light.

I stepped away from the truck, a few feet from the driver’s side door. I hoped I was completely hidden in shadow.

The guy stopped at the truck door and dug his left hand in his pocket for his keys. I walked up behind him, grabbed his right hand by the wrist, yanked it up behind his back and shoved him into the truck’s left front fender. As I shoved him I twisted him around so his left hand was pinned against the truck body. His breath popped out in a surprised little whoof.

“One wiggle, and I’ll break your arm,” I said into his ear.

“Fuck you, you fucking ass wipe cock-sucking mother fucker,” he said, whipping his head around. A tangled bunch of red hair popped out from under his cap.

“Jimmy Maddox, where did you get that mouth?”

“Let go and I’ll show you.”

I let him go and dropped back a few steps, pulling the bat out of my belt.

“You’re a dickhead, mister. You really are. You scared the shit out of me.”

“What’s with the sneaking around?”

“I’m not sneaking.”

“Oh, really. Flashlight in the middle of the night.”

“I’m just here pickin’ up some stuff.” He looked over at the Harmon Killebrew bat. “Whattaya gonna do, club me?”

“Not yet.”

“I’m not doing anything wrong.”

I gestured with the stick.

“What’s in the bag?”

He just looked at me.

“Who the fuck are you, anyway? Who made you such a big fucking deal?”

“Step away from the bag.”

Even in the low light, I could see him bunch his shoulders and lean forward, ready to launch. Indecision formed around him like a cloud.

“Don’t do anything dumb, Jimmy. I’m really not in the mood.”

“It’s just some shit from the house. She’s not usin’ it.”

“Why the late hour?”

“I was at my girlfriend’s in the Village. I just stopped on the way back. I don’t have to ask your fucking permission.”

“Well, actually, you do. I’m like the official guardian of Regina’s stuff.”

“You’re more like an official pain in my ass.”

I tapped him with the bat to move him out of the way. He moved a half-step, enough to let me pick up the bag. It was a doubled-up grocery store bag with handles. It was heavy.

“What do you got in here, Regina’s barbells?”

“Fuck you.”

“You should work on the invective, Jimmy. It’s tiresome.”

As I talked I went through the bag. There were two folded towels on top. Underneath was a collection of kitchen utensils—knives, ladles, big spoons—and a pair of cast iron frying pans, which explained all the weight.

“What’s for dinner?”

He stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned up against the truck. He’d decided he was finished talking. But I hadn’t.

“You know, I’ll give you all this stuff, and more, if you just ask. You don’t have to sneak around.”

“I wasn’t sneaking.”

“What’s this? A sentimental journey?”

“Just stuff I need. I didn’t know you could hand it over.”

“You just had to ask.”

“Well, I don’t know about that kind of shit.”

I curled the top of the bag over and stuffed it under my arm.

“It’s all yours, Jimmy, but I’m not gonna give it to you now.”

“Why the fuck not?”

I used the bat to point to my cottage.

“Say, Jimmy, come over to my place and have a drink with me.”

I walked away and left him standing there by his truck. I could hear him snorting and shuffling his feet around in the grass.

“I want my stuff,” he called after me.

I kept walking.

“You’ll get it. Come on and get a pop. Do you good.”

I walked the rest of the way without looking back. The night hadn’t changed much in the last half-hour, but I was a lot more tired out. There’s only so much adrenaline your body can soak up over a normal twenty-four-hour period. I was starting to feel fuzzy with exhaustion. I unlocked the door and was about to push it in when Jimmy came up behind me.

“That’s all you got? Soda pop?”

“Not soda pop. A pop. A drink. I got anything you want. Beer?”

I parked the Harmon Killebrew bat next to the side door and let the scruffy jerk into my house. Eddie greeted him like a long lost friend. Big deal watchdog.

I got Jimmy a beer and showed him out to the porch. I sat him down, then went back to the bedroom to stow the bag. I tossed it on the floor of my closet and dumped my laundry on top. Guys don’t like to touch other guys’ dirty socks. I went back out to the porch, partly refilling the tumbler on the way, like I needed it.

“I didn’t know you could see the water from this place,” Jimmy said when I came out on the porch.

“Sure. The sacred Peconic.”

“I thought it was the Little Peconic.”

“Yeah. That’s right. The little one.”

“I don’t know about religious stuff.”

“How’s the beer.”

“It’s all right.” He took a sip. “Why’re you driving that old Pontiac? Can’t afford a new car?”

“Came with the house.”

“Can’t see driving some old piece of shit like that.”

“That’s ’cause you never drove one. Try it once,” I snapped my fingers, “you never go back.”

“Yeah, bullshit.”

It was clear over the Peconic, and colorless under the brilliant moon. Night was locked in solid. I started to fantasize about pillows and blankets. Jimmy looked all settled in with his beer.

“You’re not gonna give me my shit, are you?”

“Not now. Later. I promise.”

“You’re some kind of strange fucker.”

“Glad you noticed, Jimmy. It usually takes people longer to figure that out.”

He was content to drink his beer and pet Eddie’s head. Every asshole in the world seemed to be a dog lover. I wondered what that said about me.

“Jimmy, do you remember your Aunt Regina’s husband?”

He looked at me blankly.

“What’re you trying to do now?”

“Nothing. I’m just curious about her husband. I’m having trouble remembering him.”

“I can never tell whether you’re bullshitting me or not.” He finished his beer and set it down on the table with more force than necessary. “She didn’t have no husband. Now, tell me you didn’t know that.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“What do you know, anyway?”

“Less than I should, I guess. When I was growing up my parents always acted like there was a Mr. Broadhurst.”

“Jesus. You don’t know shit.”

“So, okay, you got me again. Enlighten me.”

“Why should I tell you anything?”

“Aw Christ, Jimmy, give it a break. I gave you a beer. And I’m gonna give you all kinds of stuff from Regina’s house.” I took a sip of the Absolut. “Eventually.”

Jimmy thought about it for a few moments. Anger and defiance are tough habits to break.

“My mom told me she called herself Mrs. Broadhurst because she didn’t want guys hittin’ on her, if you can believe that. A million years ago she had a guy, but it wasn’t her husband. Carl something.”

“Carl? You sure?”

“Yeah. fuckin’ Carl. I never seen him, but my mother’d talk about him.”

“Carl Bollard?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Carl Bollard. Owned that piece of shit factory over there, was what my mom told me. She was wicked pissed about the whole thing, my mom. I don’t know why. fuckin’ women always pissed about everything. You can’t ever figure out why. She was a lot younger than Aunt Regina, even though she died a lot sooner.”

His voice fell away at the end of the sentence. He picked up his empty beer to cover the moment.

“’Nother one?”

“Sure.”

I got it for him. I sat at the table and slid over his beer.

“Carl Junior or Carl Senior?” I asked him.

“Shit, I don’t know. Carl Bollard’s all I know. He didn’t have a wife, just a bunch of girlfriends all over. If he’d been married my mom would’ve disowned Regina, if you can do that to your sister. My mom was into religion. fuckin’ Presbyterian, you’d think she was Catholic the way she went on.”

It did the kid a lot of good to see me surprised, so I saw no harm in digging in deeper.

“Jimmy, you told me Regina didn’t own her house, that it went back to some fucker after she died. Were you talking about Carl Bollard?”

“Yeah, of course. That’s why my mom was so rip shit.”

“Let me get this straight. Are you telling me that wiry old broad was Carl Bollard’s kept woman?”

“That’s not the way my mom would’ve put it. Religious or not.”

I laughed. That ornery, flinty old harpy was Carl Bollard’s honeybee. His mistress—wanton and alluring. And in return, a house of her own? Maybe. Complete with the dubious gift of the Acquillos to look after her, put up with her crap, pull her busted body out of the bathtub and plant her in the ground. For the first time I truly missed my mother. I finally had some news worth telling her.

Jimmy was laughing, too.

“Aunt Regina fuckin’ some old guy for a free house.”

We just sat there and laughed for a long time. It felt good.

When we were done laughing, Maddox left and I fell back on the bed and crawled under the covers, still dressed, tapped out and supine before life’s hallowed irregularities.

The next day I drove over to Sagaponack to look at the ocean. Normally, staring at the Little Peconic helped me think. I needed something bigger this morning to stare at. Something with a horizon that curved off into infinity.

The Atlantic Ocean was looking big and moody, and unconcerned with my fears and compulsions. There was an offshore breeze, so the waves were neatly formed and evenly spaced. The surf was taller than normal, probably from a storm out at sea. I looked for surfers, but saw none. The beach was empty in all directions except for seagulls, sandpipers and dead horseshoe crabs. The sky was big and the wind hard. We were almost past hurricane season, but this time of year almost anything could piss off the Atlantic. It was vast and dangerous and unknowable. I got out of the car and went and sat on the beach to watch the early-hour sun warm the color of the sand and turn the salt water an inky blue.

Billy Weeds and I once went bodysurfing right after a big storm. The day was dry and washed clean by the Canadian air that often swept down to push tropical storms out to sea before they could crash into Long Island. The full weight of the storm missed us, but its energy had thrust up gigantic waves that broke over sandbars a quarter-mile off the coast. It took us a half-hour to fight through the messy chop close to shore to reach the real action.

We eventually met mountainous swells coated in foam that broke in twenty feet of water, creating impossibly enormous waves that we rode for an hour, heedless and awestruck, oblivious to the risk. We were young, strong and stupid, and I will always remember Billy laughing hysterically at the craziness of it all, and the angry power of the ocean that was too involved with its own majesty to bother drowning us like it should have. When we decided we’d had enough, we tried to swim to shore, but we couldn’t get past the undertow. We kept getting knocked back into the surf. It took another hour to get all the way in, and only because we’d ridden the current all the way to the Shinnecock inlet where the undertow let go.

After that, I knew it was possible to die. The lesson didn’t stick as well with Billy Weeds.

I was only a few blocks away from Burton’s house, so I could honestly say I was in the neighborhood. I pulled up to the gate and pushed the call button on the intercom. Isabella was her regular welcoming self.

“He’s working in his study.”

“Can you tell him I’m here?”

“If you want.”

“Yeah, why not? Since I’m out here at the gate.”

“Okay. Up to you.”

The giant blue hydrangea that lined the long driveway had turned brown from the frost. A crew of landscapers were cleaning things up, trimming bushes and raking out the white-pebble road surface. They admired the Grand Prix as I passed by, I could tell.

Burton met me at the door.

“Sam, excellent timing. Saved me from my work.”

“So Isabella said.”

“Let’s go sit.”

He led me down a long corridor, through a sitting room and out to a screened-in porch. A porch like mine only ten times bigger and furnished to look like the British Raj. Lots of teak lounge chairs with built-in cup holders and magazine racks, woven footstools and grass mat carpets.

There was always some place new at Burton’s house to sit. I wondered how he kept track.

It was only about ten-thirty in the morning, too early even for Burton and me. So he called Isabella on his cell phone and asked for someone to bring us alcohol-free mimosas.

“Provide the illusion.”

While waiting we quickly covered the baseball situation, which meant a general agreement over the appalling inferiority of every team that’s ever competed with the Yankees, including those guys who also played somewhere on Long Island. Apparently they were both in the World Series.

“Their stadium is in Queens, I think,” said Burton. “I really don’t know.”

“The boys lost last night. So it’s two one.”

“Piffle.”

We also reviewed prospects for the NBA season, in which Burton took a far greater interest. He had a box at the Garden, away from the celebrities to avoid TV exposure. I used to join him every once in a while.

“We should do that again,” he said. “I’ve refurbished the box.”

I looked around the screened-in porch.

“Teak?”

“Something more appropriate to the setting.”

Isabella showed up leading another woman holding a tray with the drinks, a basket of croissants and some fresh fruit. She hung around to convey her general disapproval of me until Burton managed to shoo her away.

“So, Sam. I have some information. Not a lot.”

“Me, too. A fair amount.”

“I received a message from an attorney named Hunter Johnson. Inquiring about you.”

“Checking my story.”

“I let it be known we were closely associated and left it at that. An assistant handled the communication.”

“I dropped your name so hard it busted the floor.”

“Hope it helped.”

“It did. I appreciate it.”

“Tell me what you’ve learned and I’ll see if I can fill in the holes.”

So I went through everything I’d learned since he’d sailed over to the cottage. About Carl Bollard Junior and his girlfriend Regina. Julia Anselma’s Bay Side house and tricked-out iron. Jimmy Maddox and his midnight raid. Jackie Swaitkowski’s confessional. Harbor Trust and the Battistons. Even my encounter with the trained bear, which I’d left out of our last conversation.

“I’m not happy about that,” said Burton.

“No permanent damage. Nothing that shows, anyway.”

I told him about my meeting with Ross Semple and conversation with Joe Sullivan. And finally about the trip to New York to see Hunter Johnson in his opulent offices.

“Place is really plush, Burt. You should check it out.”

“I’m sure. Real-estate practice,” he said, by way of explanation.

“So what do you think of all this?”

“You’ve been busy,” he said. “I haven’t much to add, except something on the trust.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know the beneficiary?” I asked.

“Carl Bollard, of course.”

“Of course. Who’s got to be pretty old at this point.”

“Would be, but he’s dead.”

“Dead.”

“Died some time ago. 1977 to be exact. Alcoholism. Had a room at the Institute of Living in Hartford. Was there for one last try at sobriety.”

“So that’s it for the trust. What happened to the assets? Who owns them now?”

“That’s a very interesting question, Sam. We have no idea, and as far as my associates can tell, neither does anyone else. As it is, everything we have comes from a retired loan officer who reviewed the trust as part of a WB capitalization program. This was back in the early fifties. Luckily, he still had his notes. You’re going to find that most people involved in this are either long dead or past the point of clear recollection.”

“What about Bollard’s will? His heirs?”

“No heirs we know of. The trust was established by his father, Carl Senior, the year his mother died, leaving Carl Junior the sole heir. Within the trust were all the assets of Bay Side Holdings, which included WB Manufacturing, the real estate it sat on, plus contiguous properties around Oak Point and Jacob’s Neck, corporate equity—basically the cash in the business—and a substantial investment account with a portfolio of bonds and securities. Carl Junior, who was an only child by the way, was the beneficiary, along with his father, until his father’s death, which happened in 1950. Carl Junior also worked at WB in a succession of jobs typical of a young scion being groomed for succession. The trust at first glance looked like a typical tax vehicle used for estate management and the fluid transfer of corporate authority from one generation to the next. But it was clear to me, having some experience with these things, that it was also meant to keep young Carl in control while the father lived, and out of trouble once he died.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the trust was revocable during the old man’s life, then unmodifiable for five years after that. Carl Junior got the benefit of the income, but he couldn’t touch the business itself until 1955, when he was forty-six years old.”

“Arnold Lombard said he was a wasteabout.”

“That would follow. His father made the calculation that after five years on his own his son should be ready to accept responsibility. If not, then to hell with it. This is a very common practice in family situations.”

“So you’re saying that since, what, 1977, all that stuff’s just been sitting there, nobody owning it but a piece of paper? That’s nuts.”

“Yes, nuts and illegal, and entirely out of the question.”

“Okay. Keep explaining.”

“The trust was formed in 1948 in conjunction with the wills written for both Carls. Also very common. These I have. Carl Senior’s we already know. Carl Junior’s says when he dies, the assets of the trust flow to his heirs and assigns, as designated in the trust. It doesn’t say anything about what would happen if he had no heirs or assigns beyond his father, who would get everything back if he died young. In which case Carl Senior could nullify the trust and move on with his life, all of which is purely academic at this point since that didn’t happen.”

“But Carl Junior had no heirs.”

“I said heirs, not assigns.”

“I presume an assign is just that. Somebody you say is an heir.”

“Exactly. That’s what we don’t know, because we don’t have the trust document itself. Wills have to be registered on the death of the signer. Not trusts. Once Carl Junior was free of the restrictions, he could modify the trust any way he wanted. It became his trust, just like it was his father’s before him.”

“We got to have a chat with Mr. Hornsby.”

“We do indeed.”

I stood up and walked over to the screen to look at the outside. The lawn stretched away for a few hundred yards, terminating at a tall privet hedge. The ocean was one estate away. Burton’s great-grandfather determined it was better to have twenty acres of developed real estate and landscaping between you and a big storm surge than a flimsy dune, and he was proved right in ’38 when the next-door neighbor washed out to sea with his whole family and fourteen friends who’d driven out from the city to watch the spectacle.

“You got a theory here, Burt?” I asked him as I finished off my second emasculated mimosa. Burton was still in his chair, pensive and removed. I sat back down next to him.

“I do. But it’s full of holes.”

“Me, too.”

“You know what might be happening here.”

“I do. It’s just hard to believe.”

“One of my law professors had a maxim. Just because you think it’s true, doesn’t mean it isn’t.”

“Must have shaved with Occam’s razor.”

“Sharpest blade in the drawer.”

We went back to the NBA after that, which was a big relief to me. I knew and Burton knew that the best thing to do at this point was to hand it all over to him, so he could hand it all over to the people officially responsible for this stuff. He knew and I knew I didn’t want that. I had my teeth in it now and I didn’t want to let go till I had it worked out. I just didn’t. Can’t explain it.

“I hate to owe people, you know that. But I’m glad for the help,” I told him before I got up to leave.

“Piffle,” he said, and took me on the long walk to my car.

I headed back to the cottage with both windows open to help fuel my brain. The cool, soggy October air was uncomfortable, but extra oxygen helped me focus. It was a practice I learned young. Get in a car, open all the windows and drive fast enough to fill the passenger compartment with a private hurricane. I could think better when other things overwhelmed my senses. Sometimes I’d drive home from work like this, even in the dead of winter, and when I reached my driveway I’d keep driving and use up an hour or two buffeting my brain into submission.

Abby never asked where I’d been. She was never concerned when I failed to show up, or when I worked through evenings and weekends. Her indifference to my presence was one of the things I most appreciated. It gave me the freedom to distract myself with aimless open-air driving, or raging, drunken road trips across Greater New York with my sparring partners from the gym, or obsessive attempts at mastering some arcane scientific principle, or months of near catatonia, in which I’d descend into my own customized well of despair. Through it all Abby tended the house, maintained the proper social connections, shopped and calmly raised our daughter.

I skated across the years of my marriage like an ice sled—moving at blurred speed, barely touching the surface. The weeks were filled with boiling tension and anxiety, the weekends lost on fatuous conversations and alcohol. Through it all I never once felt like my wife knew who she was married to. As she surrounded us with a gaggle of nitwit acquaintances, I was condemned to an ugly loneliness of the mind.

I stopped at the cottage to check on Eddie. He was sleeping on the landing at the top of the side-door steps. He wagged his tail without bothering to get up.

“Calm down there, boy, you’re gonna hurt something.”

I made a pot of coffee, gathered up my Regina file and spread it out on the porch table. The air was cool, but the coffee kept my fingers warm as I leafed through the papers.

I was looking at all the words and notes, the real-estate documents and other stuff I’d collected, but it wasn’t registering. I wasn’t really reading, just scanning with my eyes. What I wanted to know wasn’t there, so it felt pointless to look. But I looked anyway, out of habit, an engineer’s obsession with data gathering.

Eddie made himself comfortable on the bed. I tried to talk it out with him, but he wanted to sleep. All I got was an occasional raised head and a wagging tail. No analysis or conclusions.

At the bottom of the file were the old photographs I swiped out of the display case at the old WB. One was an eight-by-ten-inch black and white print. The setting was ambiguous, maybe a conference room at the plant, or a meeting room at a local restaurant or hotel. There were about ten men standing shoulder to shoulder. The shot was a little overexposed, and sepia tinted with age, but you could easily make out everyone’s face. I was intrigued by the conformity of their clothes and haircuts, the homogeneity of their skin, the sureness in their eyes.

On the floor was a banner, mounted on rigid backing so it could stand supported at their feet. It read “WB Bomb Squad.” Then underneath, in much smaller type, “Management Defense Team.”

The word management caused me to flip it over and look at the back. Neatly penned along the bottom were the names and titles of all the men in the photo. Beginning with Carl Bollard Junior, President and CEO. To his left was Milton Hornsby, Exec. V.P., Chief Financial Officer. All the way at the other end was Robert Sobol, Q.C. Director. A red stamp from the photo processor showed the date to be 1970.

I looked at the back of the bowling photo, but it was unmarked except for the processor’s stamp with the date, 1972.

“Attorney Swaitkowski’s office.”

“You must be Judy.”

“The same.”

“Is Jackie around?”

“She is. You want to talk to her?”

“I do.”

“Okay, so give me your number, I’ll have her call you back.”

“Interesting.”

“It’s how she likes to do it. She’s got her quirks, but she’s cute, don’t you think?”

“Cuter than me.”

“Send me your pictcha. I’ll decide for myself.”

I gave her my name and number, then hung up and waited for Jackie to call me back, which she did, about ten minutes later.

“He won’t talk to me,” she said as she came on the line.

“Who?”

“Milton Hornsby. I called him a few times, sent over a registered letter, even went and rang his bell. Nothing.”

“But he was there?”

“He was there, he just told me to go away. I think it was something like, go away or I’ll have you prosecuted for harassment, or something like that. So I thought, what am I doing here? I was going to call you, but you didn’t give me a number.”

“What are you doing right now?”

“Talking to you.”

“Want to take a ride?”

“Where we going?”

“I’m going to Hornsby’s house. I can’t wait anymore. I think it’d be better if you were there. For his sake and mine.”

“You going to tell me why? No,” she answered for me.

“He might have fired you, but he’ll want you there when I talk to him, which I’m doing even if I have to yell through the door.”

“I was actually heading to the courthouse. Can it wait an hour?”

“I’m going now.”

“You could use a little more give.”

“I’m sorry, you’re right. I’ll be at Hornsby’s house in about forty-five minutes. Hope to see you there.”

“Man.”

Eddie heard the jingle of keys and ran to the door. I felt like a heel leaving him, but I needed my concentration and Jackie Swaitkowski was distraction enough. I closed the basement door so he couldn’t use the hatch. I needed to know someone in this world was safe, at least for a few hours.

Forty-five minutes was more than I needed to get to Sag Harbor, but it gave Jackie a little leeway. I took my time heading north on Noyack Road and chose the long way to town, following Long Beach as it curved gracefully around the east side of Noyack Bay.

The signs of late afternoon were already in the sky. A cluster of thick clouds along the western horizon were lit from below in a soft gold that reminded me of Maxfield Parrish. The water was roughed up by a steady westerly breeze, the air cold and wet coming off the bay, contrasting with the deep color saturation from the lowering sun. Time was running out on the season.

Construction was underway on the Sag Harbor bridge, so I had to wait in a line of cars before I could cross. That ate up more time than I allotted, so when I finally got to Hornsby’s Jackie was already there. She was standing next to her Toyota pickup, talking on a cell phone. She wore a loose, deconstructed silk jacket, white cotton sweater, a knit wool skirt that stopped well above her knees and heels that extended her legs by a few hundred miles. Her thick blond hair, brushed into large waves, was pulled back from her face with a flowered headband. She wore lipstick that matched her sunglasses, the kind you only find in places like Venice, California. She looked like a million bucks.

She clicked the cell phone closed as I approached, and said, “Don’t start.”

“What.”

“Whatever you were going to say.”

“About what?”

She put a hand on her hip and did a little bump.

“You know, the girly clothes.”

“I know better. I got sensitivity training.”

She snorted.

“There’s money well spent.”

“Is he here?”

“Haven’t checked. I honestly just got here. Can you give me something to work with?”

“Hornsby has something I need to see. I can’t ask for it, because he won’t talk to me. Which makes me want to see it even more.”

“What?”

“Hornsby’s the trustee of a trust that owns Bay Side Holdings. That makes the beneficiary the developer. Your ex-client. I need to talk to him. Or them.”

“I’m not big on trusts, or estates, but I don’t see a connection between rental property and a dead woman.”

“That’s exactly the point.”

“What is?”

“She’s dead.”

I walked away from her to avoid more questions. I hoped she’d follow.

Hornsby’s car was still in the driveway. Jackie joined me as I walked up the path and rang the bell.

“Did he answer the door last time?” I asked her.

“He yelled at me to go away. From the inside.”

I rang it again and called his name. Nothing.

“Let’s check the back.”

“Huh?”

“Last I saw him he was working in his backyard,” I told her as I led her through the arborvitae.

I yelled his name again as I walked around clusters of crowded shrubbery, through pachysandra and over balls of flowering mums. Jackie followed as best she could in her spiked heels.

“If I’d known we were on safari—”

We stood on the small patch of grass at the center of the garden and looked around. She gripped my right bicep with both hands to keep from sinking into the moist soil.

“Must have flown the coop,” she said.

“Or he’s hiding inside.”

I noticed there was a little footpath partially obscured by the draping branches of a big Norway maple, now mostly denuded of it’s bright yellow-orange leaves. I remembered Hornsby heading that way with his wheelbarrow after he told me to get lost.

“Let’s look back there before I start yelling,” I said.

“If the cops show, you get your own counsel.”

The lot was much deeper than it looked, obscured by the dense foliage. The path threaded around bunches of overgrown forsythia, holly and bamboo. Mingled with the pungent odor of rotting leaves was the shoreline smell of Sag Harbor Bay, only a hundred feet away. Low tide.

The path opened into a clearing. Milton Hornsby was lying in the center on another patch of grass. He was on his back with his legs stuck straight out. He was wearing the same clothes I’d seen him in before, but his face was less recognizable under all the blood. A Smith & Wesson .38 revolver, not unlike Sullivan’s, was in his right hand. The top of his head was mostly gone. It looked like he must have done it lying down, through the mouth. Neater that way. Attached to his chest with a big safety pin was a blood splattered five-by-seven-inch index card.

“Don’t touch him,” said Jackie, through a clenched fist held to her mouth. “What’s the note say?”

“Go to hell.”

“Pardon me?”

“The note. That’s what it says. ‘Go to hell.’”

“Famous last words.”

“Or shipping instructions.”

“I called to say we were on our way. You and me together. I got his answering machine. Oh, man.”

The blood was bright red. Fresh.

“You have your cell phone?” I asked her, but she was already dialing. “Wait,” I said.

She looked at me wide-eyed.

“I can’t wait,” she yelled. “I have to call right now.”

“I want to look in the house.”

“No.”

“It’s probably in there.”

“No can do. That’s an illegal act. Disbarment just for starters.”

She started dialing.

“You’re his lawyer.”

“He fired me. Wouldn’t do it anyway. I like you, Sam, but not that much.”

“Goddammit.”

“I can do it later if you give me a chance. Legally. I’ll get permission to examine. To make sure everything’s secure. Right now, we got much bigger fish to fry. Jesus, I can’t believe this.”

I looked down at Hornsby. And his note.

“Same to you, you miserable, old …”

“Hey, hey, hey,” said Jackie, interrupting me and taking my arm again, “don’t knock the dead. Crazy bad luck. Come on, walk me back to the house. I’m gonna get sick.”

As we walked I listened to her call the police.

“Sag Harbor have their own cops?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“What about the Town?”

“Depends on the case.”

When we reached the area behind the house, I checked the back door. Jackie shoved herself between me and the door handle.

“I swear to God, Sam,” she yelled, pushing on my chest.

“Take it easy. I’m not going in.”

She was breathing hard, looking frantic and furious. Seemed like the ideal time to ask for another favor.

“Could you call the Town cops? Have them relay a message to Officer Joe Sullivan. Tell him what happened—that I’m here with you.”

“What the hell for?”

“He’ll want to know.”

“Friend of yours?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“God knows you could use a few.”

Ten minutes later the street was full of cops stringing yellow tape and paramedics and investigators snapping on plastic gloves. Blue and white lights flashed from the rooftops of emergency vehicles, causing a strobe effect that made everyone’s movements look stiff and artificial. The distorted blare of cranked up two-way radios and small clumps of startled and curious neighbors completed the familiar scene.

Jackie and I sat on the tailgate of her pickup truck while a young lady cop took our statements. Jackie went first so she could essentially frame my story for me. Everything she said was true, and plausible, without saying anything we wouldn’t want on the record. It was an impressive performance.

We were almost finished when Sullivan pulled up in his cruiser.

“Hi, Joe,” said the lady cop.

“Hi, Liz. Just dropping by. I know this guy,” he pointed at me.

“Hi, Joe,” I said. “This is Attorney Jackie Swaitkowski.”

“Already got a lawyer?”

Jackie almost leaped off the tailgate in her haste to clarify.

“No, no, no. We came together on another matter. Officer Grady has all the information.”

Liz Grady jotted down a few more items then handed her casebook to Sullivan. He read it carefully while we sat there and waited. When he was done he tapped the palm of his hand with the book.

“So, Sam, you think it was suicide?”

“Doesn’t look like anything else to me, but I’m no expert.”

“I mean, you might have a reason to know it’s suicide.”

“Not for sure, but it’s a pretty safe bet.”

“Good. Thanks.”

He put his hand on my shoulder.

“Hey, Sam, did I tell you I got that thing you were asking about?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I do. It’s in my cruiser. Wanna take a look? Don’t go anywhere,” he said to Jackie. “We’ll be right back.”

Jackie looked at me as if to say, which turnip truck do you think I just fell out of. Officer Grady went off to handle more official business.

“What the fuck,” said Sullivan when we got to his car.

“It’s bad,” I said.

“So it’s not a suicide.”

“It’s definitely a suicide. That’s what’s bad.”

“We should investigate.”

“Absolutely.”

“So you’re not sure.”

“I’m sure, but you want confirmation from the medical examiner.”

“So what’s so bad?”

“Hornsby’d rather kill himself than talk to me.”

Sullivan spun half around on his heel.

“Jesus Christ, what are you saying?”

“You said you’d give me a couple weeks. It’s only been a couple days.”

“That was before the dead body.”

I had trouble arguing with that.

“I called you right away.”

He jerked his head at Jackie Swaitkowski.

“What’s with the mouthpiece?” he asked.

“She used to work for Hornsby. I thought if she was with me he might open up. That’s all.”

“I got to know what’s going on.”

“Okay, forget the two weeks. A couple more days is all I need.”

“To do what?”

“I don’t know. I’m working on it.”

“What’s ‘it’?” he almost shouted at me.

“Two more days.”

Sullivan nervously tucked in his shirt and ran both hands through his hair. Trying to get at least something in his life in proper order.

“I’m out of my fuckin’ mind.”

Jackie was a little frosty when we got back to her.

“He didn’t want to talk in front of Liz.”

“Right.”

She was mad at me, but she looked impossibly great sitting there on the tailgate of her beat up old truck. In the midst of all the tensed-up cops and radio noise and otherworldly flashing lights, I had a clear vision of Jackie Swaitkowski, perennially in a state of man trouble. Dead husbands, bad boyfriends, married guys, an endless trail of disappointments, betrayals and thwarted expectations. The good guys will be inadequate, the bad boys destructive, the right ones taken. It won’t be her fault. She’ll just always be too good-looking, or not good-looking enough, too smart, too lazy or too strange.

“Listen, Joe. It seems to me you ought to take a look in that house before anything’s disturbed. Especially since the back door is unlocked.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Jackie.

“If you’re concerned about it, Hornsby’s lawyer here can go with you. Tag along.”

“I don’t need that,” said Sullivan.

“No, I think you do. I think you want to ask her to come with you. And while you’re checking around, Jackie can make sure all his files and office stuff are where they ought to be. In case there’s a question later on.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” said Jackie again.

“You need to do it pretty soon.”

Jackie stuck her nose right up to my face. So close I could see she was turning red. She still looked good.

“Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?”

“Then you can tell me,” Sullivan said to Jackie.

“I could tell you, but then you couldn’t do it,” I said to Jackie. “You know what I need.”

The two of them just stood there and looked at me for a painfully long time. Painful for me, anyway. I could feel all the muscles in my neck and back tighten up and that familiar sensation of a knife being thrust into my right eye. Just like being back at work. The ravages of wanting.

“Please,” I said to both of them.

They still didn’t budge.

“Well, shit,” said Sullivan, finally, “if you’re gonna use the magic word,” and walked off toward the house.

Jackie started to follow him, shaking her head.

“Be careful,” I said.

She turned around and walked backwards as she spoke.

“You should get out of here. We’ll meet later.”

“I’ll call in a few hours.”

She walked a few more steps, then turned around again, pointing her finger at me.

“You’re gonna owe me for the rest of your life.”

I knew she’d do it, though I felt bad about messing with her principles. When I was her age I always let principle overpower common sense. It’s what you do when you’re young and dumb. Before all the consequences of bitter experience pile up. And you become like Milton Hornsby, unable to outpace the hurts, sins and miscalculations you’ve let loose on the world, until they literally hound you to death—calling, writing, leaving messages on your answering machine.

There was some sort of big celebration going on at the Polish church, so the parking lot at the Senior Center was almost full. It was about 4:00 p.m. I wondered what kind of hours Barbara Filmore kept.

The million-year-old woman was at her post at the front desk.

“Welcome.”

“Thank you. Is Barbara Filmore here?”

“The director?”

“That’s the one.”

“No she’s not.”

“Not the director?”

“Not here.”

She tapped the counter above her desk a few times to cement the point.

“Who fills in for her on when she’s gone?”

“She fills in for herself. She’s just not here now.”

I let the logic of that one just float on by.

“Barbara has a friend, a guy named Bob Sobol. You see him around much?”

“Oh sure. He comes and takes her to lunch. He’s sweet on her.”

“Does Bob hang around the place much, talk to everybody?”

She motioned me to come closer.

“Likes the cards,” she whispered. “Handles ’em real slick.”

“How ’bout you? You play with him?”

She got coy.

“I just might. Been to the casinos. Know my way around a poker game.”

“I’ll remember that.”

She waved that off, but liked it.

“How long’s Barbara been seeing Bob?”

“You’re a nosy newt.”

“Just curious. How long do you think?”

“I don’t know. A long time. Two or three years, maybe more.”

Time had lost continuity for her. Too much had gone by unexamined.

“Been here playing cards ever since.”

“Every once in a while, that’s right. Helps out with activities. Have I told you about the Oktoberfest? Lots of beer.”

“Maybe I’ll check it out.”

“Lots of beer.”

“You remember Regina Broadhurst?”

“Oh sure. She’s a great old gal.”

“You know she passed away.”

She looked confused for a moment.

“I suppose I did.”

“She ever play cards with Bob?”

She looked back toward the main room of the Center where they served food and held activities. Looking for the answer.

“Oh, sure. Everybody plays with Bob. He’s a kidder.”

“You like him, too.”

“Oh sure. Everybody loves a kidder. Of course, everybody’s so nice here. There’re always nice to me, all the people.”

“That makes you a great old gal yourself.”

She stared up at me for a moment, working her jaw side to side like a cow with her cud.

“Bullshit’ll work on almost anybody, mister.”

We parted happy.

I still had a little time left in the day and was too keyed up to go back to the cottage. I thought about heading directly to the Pequot, but I wanted to keep my head clear for Jackie later on. I thought of one more stop I could make.

The Village municipal offices on Main Street were set to close in ten minutes. I ran down the stairs and got to the double glass doors just as the Records Department battleaxe was about to shut down. Keys were poised before the lock. I tapped my wrist where a watch would have been if I wore one, then pointed at the hours painted on the glass door.

“I’m really sorry,” I said to her as she opened the door a crack, “I just need one little thing. Take you two seconds.”

She opened the door the rest of the way and trudged back to her post behind the counter.

“Computer’s logged off for the night,” she said to me, to kick things off.

“Here’s what I need,” I said as I dashed off the address on a slip of scratch paper and slid it across the counter. “This file. Specifically the purchase history. Before the ’57 rezoning.”

“That’s in the dated stacks.”

“That’s right, that’s why I’m here. Just bring me the whole file. I’ll dig out what I need.”

She probably wanted to put up more of a fight, but it was late, she was tired and I’m sure I had a determined look about me. She capitulated with token resistance.

“No time to make copies.”

“I just need to take a look.”

As she walked away she said, “At four-thirty the door’s locked.”

As it turned out it took her a lot longer than that to locate the file. When she got back to the counter her battering-ram hairdo had come a little loose and dust smudges were all over her dress. I was making a lot of friends today.

“Here.” She dropped the file in front of me. “I already put the purchase history on top. Pull out what you need, I can make copies tomorrow.”

She’d chosen a new tack. Grace in defeat.

I read the top pages while she dusted herself off. I wrote a few notes on the scratch paper that was out on the counter, but I didn’t need to. I’d remember the details. I was done in a few minutes. I shut the folder and slid it back across the counter.

“Thanks for taking the trouble. No need for copies.”

“I hope it was important,” she said, somewhat heartfelt.

“Life and death,” I said.

“Aren’t they all.”

After leaving the Records Department I drove out to Dune Road so I could watch the magic-hour light warm up the sand and blacken the sea. The air was already a lot cooler for this time of the evening and the leaves were falling in a steady cascade, littering the world with red, orange, yellow and brown.

I was at the stop sign at the bottom of Halsey Neck and was about to turn right on Dune when the trained bear drove by in his black BMW.

He was talking on a cell phone. I turned left instead to follow, but let him get well ahead of me before following in earnest. He was moving fast, but I could easily keep the shiny black mass in view. He was heading down Meadow Lane toward the south part of the Village. A pickup truck pulled out ahead of me and got between us. That provided some cover so I could snug up the gap.

I lit a cigarette and wondered how inconspicuous I could be in a ’67 Pontiac Grand Prix.

The bear drove parallel to the ocean until he entered the southernmost reaches of the estate district. The pickup had the good manners to follow the same route all the way to Gin Lane before pulling into a driveway. I slipped back until a vintage Mercedes convertible took the pickup’s place. We turned left and caravanned up South Main Street, and into the center of the Village.

I lost the Mercedes at Job’s Lane, but kept a bead on the BMW till it turned off Main Street into the big Village parking area behind the storefronts. I passed by the entrance and sped around to another one off Nugent Street. There was a real chance I’d lose him in the big lot, but I didn’t want to rush in blind. I drove in slowly, scanning for the black seven-series sedan.

It was already parked and the bear was climbing out. He still had the cell phone stuck in his ear. He wore the same black leather duster and motorcycle boots I’d recently seen up close.

He leaned on the open driver’s side door while he talked on the phone. I parked a few rows over and shut off the engine. As he talked he looked steadily at the back side of the shops and offices that fronted on Main Street. I got out of the Grand Prix to get a better view. I moved a little closer and stood behind a tall Range Rover. The bear was still looking up at the back of the buildings. My eyes left him when I tried to follow his line of sight. When I looked back, he was out of the BMW, holding the cell phone with one hand and waving with the other.

I came around the Range Rover to clear my view of the buildings and searched for movement. That’s when I saw Amanda Battiston standing with Bob Sobol on a rear balcony off the second story of the Southampton branch of Harbor Trust, waving back at the bear, holding a cell phone of her own up to her ear.