Plum Island

by Nelson DeMille

  Whatever the case might be, regarding the printouts, they basically had clean sheets, as we say. Whatever they were up to, they hid it well, or it didn’t entail large expenses or large deposits. At least not in this account. The Gordons were very bright, I reminded myself. And they were scientists, and as such, they were careful, patient, and meticulous.

  It was now eight A.M. Wednesday morning, and I was on my second cup of bad coffee, looking around the refrigerator for something to eat. Lettuce and mustard? No. Butter and carrots? That worked.

  I stood at the kitchen window with my carrot and tub of butter, mulling, brooding, noodling, chewing, and so forth. I waited for the phone to ring, for Beth to confirm for five P.M., but the kitchen was quiet except for the clock.

  I was dressed more spiffily this morning with tan cotton pants and striped oxford shirt. A blue blazer hung on the back of the kitchen chair. My .38 was on my ankle, and my shield—for what it was worth out here—was inside my jacket. And, optimist that I am, I also had a condom in my wallet. I was ready for battle or romance, or whatever the day would bring.

  Carrot in hand, I walked down the sloping lawn to the bay. A light mist hung above the water. I walked out to the end of my uncle’s dock, which needed major repair, and I watched where I stepped. I recalled the time the Gordons tied up to the dock— this would have been about mid-June, only a week or so after I’d met them for the first time, which had been in the bar of Claudio’s Restaurant in Greenport.

  On the occasion of their docking here at Uncle Harry’s, I had been in my customary convalescing position on the back porch, drinking convalescent beer, checking out the bay with the binocs when I spotted them.

  Back in Claudio’s the week before, they had asked me to describe my house from the water and, sure enough, they’d found it.

  I recalled that I had walked down to the dock to greet them, and they talked me into taking a spin with them. We tooled around the series of bays that lie between the North and South Forks of Long Island—Great Peconic Bay and Little Peconic, Noyack Bay and Southold Bay, then out into Gardiners Bay, and then to Orient Point. At one point, Tom opened the throttles on the speedboat, and I thought we were going to go airborne. I mean, that thing was nose up and breaking the sound barrier. Anyway, this was also the time when the Gordons showed me Plum Island. Tom had said, “That’s where we work.”

  Judy had added, “Someday we’ll see if we can get you a visitor’s pass. It’s really interesting.”

  And so it was.

  That was the same day we got caught in the wind and currents in Plum Gut, and I thought I was going to puke my guts into the Gut and wondered if that was how the Gut got its name.

  I recalled that we’d spent the whole day on the water and had come back here exhausted, sunburned, dehydrated, and hungry. Tom went for pizzas, and Judy and I slugged beers on the back porch and watched the sun go down.

  I don’t think I’m a particularly likable fellow, but the Gordons went out of their way to befriend me, and I never understood why. I didn’t need or want the company, at first. But Tom was smart and funny, and Judy was beautiful. And bright.

  Sometimes things don’t make sense while they’re happening, but after a period of time or after an incident or whatever, then the significance of what was done or said is clear. Right?

  The Gordons may have known they were in danger, or could be in danger. They’d already made the acquaintance of Chief Maxwell, and they wanted some person or persons to know they were tight with the Chief. Next, they spent a good deal of time with yours truly, and again, I think this may have been a way of showing someone that Tom and Judy hung out with the fuzz. Maybe Max or I would get a letter delivered if anything happened to the Gordons, but I wasn’t holding my breath.

  Also, on the subject of things that made sense in retrospect, on that particular night in June, before Tom had returned with the pizza, Judy, who’d poured three beers into an empty stomach, had asked me, regarding Uncle’s house, “What’s a place like this worth?”

  “I guess about four hundred thousand, maybe more. Why?”

  “Just wondering. Is your uncle selling it?”

  “He offered it to me for below market, but I’d need a two-hundred-year mortgage.”

  And there the discussion ended, but when people ask you how much a house or a boat or car is worth, then ask you if it’s for sale, they’re either nosy or in the market. The Gordons weren’t nosy. Now, of course, I think that the Gordons expected to become rich very quickly. But if the source of these newfound riches was an illegal transaction, the Gordons could hardly flash the money around and start buying four-hundred-thousand-dollar homes on the water. Therefore, the expected bucks were either legit, or would have the appearance of legit. Vaccine? Maybe.

  And then something went wrong, and those bright brains got splattered across the cedar deck, like somebody dropped a five-pound package of ground beef near the barbeque grill.

  I remembered later that night in June remarking to Tom that I thought we had been in some danger out in the Gut. Tom had switched from beer to wine and his mind was mellow. He had a philosophical streak for a techno-guy, and he’d said to me, “A boat in the harbor is a safe boat. But that’s not what boats are for.”

  Indeed not, metaphorically speaking. It occurred to me that people who play with Ebola virus and other deadly substances must, by nature, be risk-takers. They had won for so long at the game of biohazard that they’d begun to think they were charmed. They decided to branch out into another dangerous game, but one that was more lucrative. They were, however, out of their element, like the scuba diver who goes mountain climbing, or vice versa; lots of guts and lung power, but not a clue about how it’s done.

  Well, back to Wednesday morning in September, about nine A.M. now. Tom and Judy Gordon, who stood right here on Uncle Harry’s dock with me, are now dead, and the ball is in my court, to switch metaphors.

  I turned and walked back toward the house, invigorated by the morning air and my carrot, motivated by my good memories of two nice people, my mind clear, the disappointments and worries of yesterday put in their proper perspective. I was rested and eager to do battle. To kick ass.

  I had yet another seemingly unconnected dot that needed to be placed on the sonar screen: Mr. Fredric Tobin, vintner.

  But first, thinking someone may have called whilst I was reflecting by the bay, I checked my answering machine, but there were no messages. “Bitch.” Now, now, John.

  More annoyed than hurt, I left the house. I was wearing Mr. Ralph Lauren’s blazer, Mr. Tommy Hilfiger’s oxford shirt, Mr. Eddie Bauer’s pants, Mr. Perry Ellis’ boxer shorts, Mr. Karl Lagerfeld’s after-shave, and Messrs. Smith and Wesson’s revolver.

  I started the car with the remote and climbed in.

  “Bonjour, Jeep.”

  I drove up to Main Road and turned east into the rising sun. Main Road is mostly rural, but becomes the main streets of many of the hamlets. Between the downtowns are barns and farmhouses, nurseries, lots of farm stands, a few good and simple restaurants, a bunch of antique stores, and some really charming New England–style clapboard churches.

  One thing that has changed since I was a wee lad, however, is that Main Road now boasts about two dozen wineries. Regardless of where the vineyards are, most of the wineries have set up headquarters on Main Road to rope in the touristos. There are wine tours and free wine tastings, followed by a mandatory visit to the gift shop where the day-tripper feels obligated to buy the local grape nectar along with wine country calendars, cookbooks, corkscrews, coasters, and whatnot.

  Most of these winery buildings are actually converted farmhouses and barns, but some are big new complexes that combine the actual wine-making facilities with the wine and gift shop, a restaurant, wine garden, and so forth. Main Road is not exactly the Rue de Soleil, and the North Fork is not the Cote du Rhone, but the overall ambience is pleasant, sort of a cross between Cape Cod and the Napa Valley.

  The wines
themselves aren’t bad, I’m told. Some are quite good, I’m told. Some have won national and international competitions, I’m told. As for moi, I’ll have a Bud.

  In the hamlet called Peconic, I pulled into a big gravel parking field marked by a wooden sign that read “Fredric Tobin Vineyards.” The sign was black lacquer, and the letters were carved into the wood and painted gold. Some weird streaks of various-colored paint crisscrossed the black lacquer, and I would have thought this was vandalism, except I’d seen the same streaks on the Tobin wine labels in the liquor stores and also on the wine labels while sitting on the back deck of Tom and Judy’s house. Regarding the paint streaks on Mr. Tobin’s sign, I concluded that this was art. It’s getting harder to tell the difference between art and vandalism.

  I exited my expensive sport utility vehicle and noticed a dozen others like my own. This was where they bred, perhaps. Or were these the vehicles-of-choice for urban and suburban cowboys whose definition of off-road meant a parking lot? But I digress.

  I walked toward the Tobin complex. The smell of crushed and fermenting grapes was overwhelming, and a million bees flew around; about half of them liked my Lagerfeld.

  How shall I describe the Tobin winery? Well, if a French chateau were built of American cedar shingle, it would look like this place. Clearly Mr. Tobin had spent a small fortune on his dream.

  I’d been here before and knew the place. Even before I entered, I knew that the complex consisted of the visitors’ reception area, to the left of which was the big gift and wine shop.

  To the right was the actual wine-making wing, a sprawling two-story building filled with copper vats, crushers, and all that stuff. I once took a guided tour and listened to the blabber. Never in the course of human events has so much bullshit been concocted about something as small as a grape. I mean, a plum is bigger. Right? People make plum wine. Right? What’s with this grape crap?

  Anyway, rising above all of this is a broad central tower, sort of like a castle keep, about fifty feet high, from which flies a big flag. I don’t mean Old Glory. I mean a black flag with the Tobin logo on it. Someone likes to see his name around.

  All of this shingle is stained white, so from a distance it kind of looks like it could be one of those limestone chateaux you see in the travel brochures. Freddie put a big bucko into this thing, making me wonder exactly how much money there was in grape squeezing.

  To continue the word picture of Chateau Tobin: farther to the left was a small restaurant that women and reviewers invariably described as cute. I called it prissy and stuffy. But no matter, it wasn’t on my list of places to go if the Olde Towne Taverne was closed by the Board of Health.

  The restaurant had a covered terrace where people who dressed with Eddie, Tommy, Ralph, Liz, Carole, and Perry could sit and bullshit about the wine, which, by the way, is really grape juice with alcohol.

  Anyway, attached to and behind the cute restaurant is a bigger catering hall, a nice place to have a wedding, christening, or bar mitzvah, according to the brochure that was signed by Fredric Tobin, proprietor.

  I’d been to the hall for one of Mr. Tobin’s wine-tasting soirees, back in July. The occasion was to celebrate some new releases, by which I guess he meant wine that was ready to sell and guzzle. I had been a guest of the Gordons, as I may have mentioned, and there were about two hundred people present, the cream of North Fork society—bankers, lawyers, doctors, judges, politicians, a few attendees from Manhattan who had summer places here, successful merchants and realtors, and so forth. Mixed in with the local crème were a smattering of artists, sculptors, and writers who, for various and sundry reasons, didn’t do the Hampton scene across the bay. Probably many of them weren’t financially successful enough to afford the Hamptons, though, of course, they’d tell you they were more artistically honest than their Hampton colleagues. Barf. Also, Max had been invited, but couldn’t attend. According to Tom and Judy, they were the only Plum Island people there. Tom said, “Hosts and hostesses avoid Plum Island people like the plague.” We both got a good chuckle out of that. Gosh, I missed Tom. And Judy, too. She was bright.

  I recalled that on this occasion of tasting the juice of the grape, Tom introduced me to our host, Fredric Tobin, a single gentleman who at first glance appeared to be a man who wore comfortable shoes, if you get my meaning. Mr. Tobin was dressed in a foppish purple suit, a white silk shirt, and a tie that sported vines and grape clusters. Gag me with a spoon.

  Mr. Tobin was polite, but a bit cool toward moi, which always annoys me when I’m in La-Di-Da gatherings. I mean, a homicide detective sort of crosses social lines, and the average host or hostess enjoys a detective or two around to spin a yarn. Everyone loves murder. But Fredric sort of blew me off before I could tell him my theory about wine.

  I had mentioned to Tom and Judy that Monsieur didn’t even have the courtesy to make a pass at me. Tom and Judy informed me that Freddie (as no one dared call him to his face) was in fact an enthusiastic heterosexual. Some people, according to Judy, mistook Fredric’s charm and refined manners as a sign that he was gay or bi. That has never happened to me.

  I discovered from the Gordons that the suave and debo-nair Mr. Tobin had studied viniculture in France and held some grape juice degrees and all that.

  Tom had pointed out to me a young lady who was Mr. Tobin’s current live-in. She was an absolute knockout— about twenty-five, tall, blonde, blue eyes, and built like she came out of a Jell-O mold. Oh, Freddie, you lucky dog. How could I have misjudged you?

  So, that was my sole encounter with the Lord of the Bees. I could see why Tom and Judy had sought this fellow out— for one thing, the Gordons loved wine and Tobin made some of the best. But beyond that, there was a whole social matrix to the wine biz, such as that party, and private dinner parties, and outdoor concerts at the vineyards, extravagant picnics on the beach, and so forth. The Gordons seemed to buy into this whole thing, which surprised me, and though they weren’t fawning over Fredric Tobin or sucking up to him, they certainly had little in common with him socially, financially, professionally, or otherwise. Point is, I found it a little out of character for Tom and Judy to be involved with a guy like Fredric. Regarding that name, there’s a case of getting rid of an “e” while everyone else around here was trying to tack “e’s” onto things. To be succinct, Fredric the Grape seemed like a pompous ass, and I liked the idea of popping his balloons a little. Also, he had a beard, and perhaps a white sports car.

  I was now in the gift shop, poking around, trying to find something nice for my lost love, something like a corkscrew whose handle said, “I got screwed on the North Fork.” Lacking that, I found a nice hand-painted ceramic tile showing an osprey perching on a pole. This is a very strange-looking bird, but I liked the tile because it had no wine motif.

  As the cashier wrapped it, I asked her, “Is Mr. Tobin in?” The attractive young lady glanced at me and replied, “I’m not sure.”

  “I thought I saw his car. White sports car. Right?”

  “He may be around. That will be ten-ninety-seven with tax.”

  I paid ten-ninety-seven with tax and collected my change and package.

  “Have you done the wine tour?” she asked me.

  “No, but I saw beer made once.” I took my shield case out of my jacket and held it up to her. “Police department, miss. What I’d like you to do is press whatever button on your phone there that will connect you with Mr. Tobin’s office and have him come here chop, chop. Okay?”

  She nodded and did as she was told. She said into the phone, “Marilyn, there’s a policeman here who wants to see Mr. Tobin.”

  “Chop, chop.”

  “Without delay,” she translated. “Okay … yes, I’ll tell him.” She hung up and said to me, “He’ll be right down.”

  “Where’s up?”

  She pointed to a closed door in the far wall and said, “That leads to the tower suites—the business offices.”

  “Right. Thanks.” I went to the door an
d opened it, finding myself in a large, round wood-paneled common area, sort of a lobby, that was the base of the tower. One door led to the fermenting vats, and one back to the reception area from which I’d entered. A glass-paneled door led outside to the rear of the winery. There was also a staircase leading up, and to the right of that, an elevator.

  The elevator door opened, and Mr. Tobin strode out, barely giving me a glance in his haste to get to the gift shop. I noted that the expression on his face was one of concern. I said, “Mr. Tobin?”

  He turned toward me. “Yes?”

  “Detective Courtney.” I sometimes mispronounce my own name.

  “Oh…. Yes, what can I do for you?”

  “I just need some of your time, sir.”

  “What is this about?”

  “I’m a homicide detective.”

  “Oh … the Gordons.”

  “Yes, sir.” He apparently didn’t remember my face, which is the same one I had in July when I met him. True, my name had changed slightly, but anyway, I wasn’t going to prompt him. Regarding my status, jurisdiction, and all that technical crap, I simply had not heard Max’s message on my machine. I said to the proprietor, “I understand you were a friend of the victims.”

  “Well … we were social acquaintances.”

  “I see.” Regarding Fredric Tobin, he was dressed, I’m chagrined to say, somewhat like I was dressed: a bunch of designer labels and docksiders. He had no grape tie, but sported a silly lilac-colored puff in the breast pocket of his blue blazer.