Plum Island

by Nelson DeMille

  She went on, “We found the deed to the Wiley land, by the way. All in order. Also, we can’t find any evidence of a safe deposit box. Or other bank accounts. We found two life insurance policies in the amount of $250,000, one on each of them naming the other as beneficiary with secondary beneficiaries of parents and siblings. Same with their government life insurance. There is also a will, very simple, again naming each other, parents and siblings and so forth.”

  I nodded. “Good detail work.”

  “Right. Okay … nothing interesting on the walls … family photos, reproduction art, diplomas.”

  “How about an attorney?”

  “On the wall?”

  “No, Beth—an attorney … who is their attorney?”

  She smiled at me and said, “You don’t like it when people are smart-ass with you, do you? But you—”

  “Please continue. Attorney.”

  She shrugged and said, “Yes, we found the name of an attorney in Bloomington, Indiana, so we’ll contact him.” She added, “I spoke to both sets of parents on the phone…. This is the part of the job I don’t like.”

  “Me neither.”

  “I talked them out of coming here. I explained that as soon as the medical examiner finished, we’d send the remains to whatever funeral home they wanted. I’ll let Max tell them we may need to keep a lot of personal stuff until we, hopefully, wrap it up, go to trial, and all that.” She added, “It’s all so rough, you know, when you have a murder … death is bad enough. Murder is … well, hard on everyone.”

  “I know.”

  She pulled another sheet of paper toward her and said, “I made inquiries about the Spirochete with the DEA, Coast Guard, and even Customs. Interesting that they all knew this boat—they pay attention to these Formulas. Anyway, as far as everyone was concerned, the Gordons were clean. The Spirochete was never spotted in the open Atlantic as far as anyone recalls, and there was never any suspicion that the boat was engaged in smuggling, drug running, or any other illegal activity.”

  I nodded. “Okay.” Not quite true, but not worth mentioning right now.

  Beth continued, “For your information, the Formula 303 SR–1 has a draft of thirty-three inches, which will get it into reasonably shallow water. It carries eighty-eight gallons of fuel and has twin 454-cubic-inch MerCruiser engines putting out 350 horsepower. It can reach speeds of seventy-five miles per hour. Cost, new, is about ninety-five thousand dollars, but this was a used one and the Gordons bought it for seventy-five thousand.” She looked up from the report and said, “This is a top-of-the-line craft, much more than the Gordons could afford to buy and maintain, and more than they needed to commute—sort of like buying a Ferrari for a station car.”

  I said, “You’ve been busy.”

  “Yes, I have. What did you think I was doing?”

  I ignored the question and said, “I think we can rule out drug running and all that. As for the Gordons buying a performance boat, it may be that they didn’t need the performance on a daily basis, but they wanted the capability, just in case.”

  “In case of what?”

  “In case they were chased.”

  “Who would chase them? And why?”

  “I don’t know.” I took a cinnamon donut and bit into it. “Good. Did you make this?”

  “Yes. I also made the crème-filled donuts, the eclairs, and the jelly donuts.”

  “I’m impressed, but the bag says Nicole’s Bakery.”

  “You’re some detective.”

  “Yes, ma’am. What else do you have?”

  She moved some papers around and said, “I got the DA to subpoena the Gordons’ phone records for the last two years.”

  I sat up. “Yes?”

  “Well, as you’d expect, a lot of calls back home— parents, friends, relatives, and so forth—Indiana for Tom, Illinois for Judy. Lots of calls to Plum Island, service people, restaurants, and on and on. A few calls to the Peconic Historical Society, calls to Margaret Wiley, two to the Maxwell residence, one to Paul Stevens at his Connecticut home, and ten calls to you over the last twelve weeks.”

  “That would be about right.”

  “It is right. Also, about two or three calls a month to Tobin Vintners in Peconic as well as Fredric Tobin in Southold and Fredric Tobin in Peconic.”

  I said, “The gentleman has a house on the water in Southold and keeps an apartment at the winery, which is in Peconic.”

  She looked at me. “How do you know all that?”

  “Because Emma—the president of the Peconic Historical Society, who just left—is a close friend of Mr. Tobin. Also, I was invited to a party at His Lordship’s waterfront home tomorrow night. I think you should be there.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a good opportunity to chat with some locals. Max will probably be there.”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  “You should get the details from Max. I don’t actually have a formal invite.”

  “Okay.”

  “Phone calls.”

  She looked down at her sheets of computer printouts and said, “In May of last year, there were four phone calls from London, England, charged to their phone credit card … one each to Indiana and Illinois, one to the general number on Plum Island, and a forty-two-minute call to Fredric Tobin in Southold.”

  “Interesting.”

  “What’s with Mr. Fredric Tobin?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Tell me the part you’re sure of.”

  “I think you were giving a report, and I don’t want to interrupt.”

  “No, it’s your turn, John.”

  “I’m not playing that game, Beth. You finish, just as if you’re briefing a roomful of bosses. Then I’ll tell you what I’ve discovered.”

  She thought a moment, clearly not wanting to be bamboozled by John Corey. She asked me, “Do you have anything?”

  “I do. I truly do. Proceed.”

  “Okay … where was I?”

  “Phone records.”

  “Yes. There are twenty-five months’ worth here, which is about a thousand calls, and I’m having them computer-analyzed. I did turn up an interesting fact—when the Gordons got here in August two years ago, they first rented a house in Orient, near the ferry, then moved to the Nassau Point house only four months later.”

  I asked, “Was the Orient house on the water?”

  “No.”

  “There’s the answer. Within four months of coming here, they decided they needed a house on the water and a dock and a boat. Why?”

  “That,” said Beth, “is what we’re trying to figure out.”

  “Right.” I’d already figured it out. It had to do with the Gordons somehow discovering that something on Plum Island needed to be found and dug up. So, way back in the autumn of two years ago, the first part of the plot—getting a house on the water, then a boat—was already in place. I said to Beth, “Proceed.”

  “All right … Plum Island. They’re being cute there, and I had to get rough with them.”

  “Good for you.”

  “I had the entire contents of the Gordons’ office transported by ferry to Orient Point, then loaded on a police truck, and transported to the Suffolk County lab.”

  “The taxpayers of the county will be happy to hear that.”

  “Also, I had their office fingerprinted and vacuumed and had a padlock put on it.”

  “My goodness. You’re thorough.”

  “This is a double homicide, John. How do you handle a double homicide in the city?”

  “We call the Department of Sanitation. Please proceed.”

  She took a deep breath. She said, “Okay … I also obtained the directory of everyone who works on Plum Island, and we have five detectives assigned to do interviews.”

  I nodded. “Good. I want to interview Donna Alba myself.”

  “I’m sure you do. If you find her, let us know.”

  “Gone?”

  “Vacation.” Beth added, “That
’s what I mean about them being cute.”

  “Right. They’re still covering up. They can’t help it. It’s in their bureaucratic bones.” I said, “Where are your buddies, Nash and Foster?”

  “They’re not my buddies, and I don’t know. Around, but not visible. They left the Soundview.”

  “I know. Okay, next.”

  “I got a court order to take into evidence all the government weapons on Plum Island, including the .45 automatics, a few revolvers, and a dozen M-16s, and two World War Two carbines.”

  “My goodness. Were they going to invade us?”

  She shrugged. “It’s a lot of Army stuff, left over, I guess. Anyway, they howled about giving up the armory. I’m having each weapon test-fired by ballistics, and we’ll have a report on each one in case we ever find a slug.”

  “Good thinking.” I asked, “When will you re-arm Plum Island?”

  “Probably Monday or Tuesday.”

  I said, “I saw some Marine Corps activity at the ferry. I guess after you disarmed poor Mr. Stevens’ security force, they felt they needed protection.”

  “Not my problem.”

  I said, “By the way, I’m sure they didn’t give you the whole arsenal.”

  “If they didn’t, I’ll get an arrest warrant for Stevens.”

  No judge was going to issue that warrant, but it didn’t matter so I said, “Please proceed.”

  “Okay, more Plum Island. I paid a surprise call on Dr. Chen, who lives in Stony Brook. I got the distinct impression she had been coached before we met her in the lab, because she could not extemporize when I spoke to her in her house.” Beth added, “I got Dr. Chen to say that yes, maybe, perhaps, possibly, the Gordons stole a dangerous virus or bacterium.”

  I nodded. This was very good police work, top-notch procedural. Some of it was relevant, some of it was not. As far as I knew, there were only three people who would use the words “pirate treasure” in regard to this case—me, Emma, and the murderer.

  Beth said, “I re-interviewed Kenneth Gibbs, also at his house. He lives in Yaphank, not far from my office. He’s a bit of a snot, but aside from that, I don’t think he knows any more than he’s told us.” She added, “Paul Stevens is another story….”

  “Indeed he is. Did you speak to him?”

  “I tried to … he’s been giving me the slip.” She added, “I think he knows something, John. As security chief of Plum Island, there’s not too much that gets past that guy.”

  “Probably not.”

  She looked at me and asked, “Do you think he’s a suspect?”

  “He makes me suspicious, so he’s a suspect.”

  She thought a moment, then said, “This is not very scientific, but he looks like a killer.”

  “He sure does. I have a whole class called ‘People Who Look and Act Like Killers.’ ”

  She didn’t know if I was pulling her leg or not, which, actually, I wasn’t. She said, “Anyway, I’m trying to run a background check on him, but the people who would have the most information—the FBI—are dragging their feet.”

  “Actually, they’ve already done what you’re asking them to do, but they’re not going to share any of it with you.”

  She nodded and said unexpectedly, “Fucked-up case.”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling you.” I asked her, “Where does Stevens live?”

  “Connecticut. New London. There’s a government ferry from New London to Plum.”

  “Give me his address and phone number.”

  She found it in her notes and started to write it out, but I said, “I have a photographic memory. Just tell me.”

  She looked at me, again with an expression of slight dis-belief. Why doesn’t anyone take me seriously? In any case, she told me Paul Stevens’ address and phone number, which I tucked away in a crevice of my brain. I stood and said, “Let’s take a walk.”

  CHAPTER 26

  We went out back and walked down to the water. She said, “This is very nice.”

  “I’m beginning to appreciate it.” I picked up a flat stone and skimmed it across the water. It made three skims before it sank.

  Beth found a nice skimmer, cocked her arm, and let loose, throwing her whole body into the motion. The stone did four hits before it sank.

  I said, “Hey, nice arm.”

  “I pitch. Homicide softball team.” She took another stone and threw it at the piling at the end of the pier. It missed the piling by inches and she tried again.

  I watched her chucking stones at the piling. What had turned me on, still turned me on. It was her looks, for sure— but also her aloofness. I love it when they’re aloof. I think. Anyway, I was fairly sure that finding Emma in the house had embarrassed her and annoyed her. More important, she was surprised at how she felt, and maybe what she felt was competition. I said, “I missed your company. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

  She glanced at me between throws and said, “Then you’re absolutely going to love me, because this will probably be the last time you’ll ever see me.”

  “Don’t forget the party tomorrow.”

  She ignored that and said, “If I suspected one person out of all the people we spoke to, it would be Paul Stevens.”

  “Why?”

  She aimed a stone at the piling again and this time hit it. She said to me, “I called him at Plum Island yesterday, and they said he was out. I pressed and they said he was home sick. I called his home, but no one answered.” She added, “Another disappearing Plum Islander.”

  We walked along the stony shore.

  I, too, was not satisfied with Mr. Stevens’ last performance. He was a possible murder suspect. As I said, I could very well be wrong about Fredric Tobin, or it could be that Tobin was in cahoots with Stevens, or it could be neither. I had thought that when I had the motive, I’d have the murderer. But the motive had turned out to be money, and when the motive is money, the suspects are everybody and anybody.

  We walked east along the shore, past my neighbors’ houses. The tide was coming in and the water lapped over the stones. Beth had her hands tucked in the side pockets of her jacket, and she walked with her head down as if in deep thought. Every now and then, she’d kick at a stone or sea-shell. She saw a small starfish stranded on the beach, bent down, picked it up, and threw it back into the bay.

  We walked in silence for a while longer, then she said, “Regarding Dr. Zollner, we had a pleasant chat on the phone.”

  “Why don’t you call him in?”

  “I would, but he’s in Washington. He was summoned to give a statement to the FBI, the Department of Agriculture, and others. Then, he’s on a traveling schedule—South America, England, a lot of other places that need his expertise.” She said, “They’re keeping him out of my reach.”

  “Get a subpoena.”

  She didn’t reply.

  I asked, “Are you getting interference from Washington?”

  She replied, “Not me, personally. But people I work for are…. You know how it is when your calls are not returned, things you ask for take too long, meetings you want are put off.”

  “I worked a case like that once.” I advised her, “Politicians and bureaucrats will run you around until they figure out if you can help them or hurt them.”

  She asked me, “What are they really afraid of, and what are they covering up?”

  “Politicians are afraid of anything they don’t understand, and they don’t understand anything. Just keep working the case.”

  She nodded.

  I said, “You’ve done a very good job.”

  “Thanks.” We turned around and began walking back to my house.

  Beth, I reflected, seemed to enjoy the paperwork, the details, the little building blocks that made up the case. There were detectives who believed that you could solve a case by working with the known elements of forensics, ballistics, and so forth. Sometimes, that was true. In this case, however, the answers started coming out of left field, and you had to be
there to catch them.

  Beth said, “The lab has done a complete job on the Gordons’ two vehicles and their boat. All fingerprints were theirs, except mine, yours, and Max’s on the boat. Also, on the deck of the boat, they found something strange.”

  “Yes?”

  “Two things. First, soil, which we know about. But also they found small, very small, slivers of wood that were decayed, rotted. Not driftwood. There was no salt in the wood. This was buried wood, still showing some soil.” She looked at me. “Any ideas?”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “Okay.”

  Beth continued, “I contacted the county sheriff, a fellow named Will Parker, regarding pistol permits he’s issued in Southold Township.”

  “Good.”

  “I also checked with the county pistol license section, and I have a computer printout that shows that there are 1,224 pistol permits issued by the sheriff and by the county to residents of Southold Township.”

  “So, out of the twenty-some thousand residents of this township, we have about twelve hundred registered pistol license holders. That’s a big number, a lot of people to call on, but not an impossible task.”

  “Well,” Beth informed me, “the irony is that when the subject was plague, no task was impossible. But we’re no longer pledging the whole police budget to solve this case.”

  “The Gordons are important to me. Their murder is important to me.”

  “I know that. And to me. I’m just explaining reality.”

  “Why don’t I call your boss so I can explain reality to him?”

  “Let it go, John. I’ll take care of it.”

  “All right.” In truth, while the county PD was turning down the flame on this one, the Feds were secretly working very hard looking for the wrong type of perp. But that wasn’t my problem. I asked, “Is Mr. Tobin on the pistol license list?”

  “Actually, yes. I scanned the list and pulled a few names I knew. Tobin was one.”

  “Who else?”

  “Well, Max.” She added, “He has an off-duty .45.”