Plum Island

by Nelson DeMille

  “There’s your perp,” I said, half jokingly. I asked her, “What does Tobin pack?”

  She glanced at me and said, “Two pieces—a 9mm Browning and a Colt .45 automatic.”

  “My goodness. Is he afraid of grape rustlers?”

  “I suppose he carries cash or something. You don’t need a lot of reasons to get a pistol permit in this township if you’re tight with the sheriff and the chief.”

  “Interesting.” Concealed weapons were closely regulated in New York State, but there were places where it was a wee bit easier to get a permit. Anyway, having two pistols didn’t make F. Tobin a killer, but it was suggestive of certain personality types. Freddie, I thought, fit into the mild-mannered type who, as Emma suggested, was not physically or verbally violent, but who would put a bullet through your head if he felt in the least bit threatened by you.

  As we approached my piece of the shoreline, Beth stopped and turned toward the water. She stood there, looking at the bay—a classical pose, I thought, like some oil painting titled, Woman Gazes at the Sea. I wondered if Beth Penrose was a spontaneous skinny-dipper, and decided she was definitely not the type.

  Beth asked me, “Why does Fredric Tobin interest you?”

  “I told you … well, it turns out he was closer to the Gordons than even I realized.”

  “So what?”

  “I don’t know. Please continue.”

  She glanced at me again, then turned from the bay and continued walking. She said, “Okay. Next, we searched the wetlands to the north of the Gordons’ house, and found a place where a boat may have been dragged into the bul-rushes.”

  “Really? Good work.”

  “Thank you.” She said, “It’s quite possible someone came that way in a shallow draft craft. High tide Monday was at 7:02 P.M., so at about 5:30, it was near high, and there was almost two feet of water in the wetlands beside the Gordon house. You could pole a shallow-draft boat in through the reeds, and no one would see you on the boat.”

  “Very good. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Because you’re spending time thinking of wiseass remarks.”

  “I actually don’t think about them.”

  She continued, “I’m not saying for certain that a boat was in those reeds, though it appears there was. There are recently broken bulrushes.” She added, “The muck shows no signs of compression, but we’ve had eight tides since the murder, and that may have erased any marks in the mud.”

  I nodded. “Boy, this is not like a Manhattan homicide. I mean, bulrushes, wetlands, muck, tides, big deep bays with bullets at the bottom. This is like Sergeant Preston of the Yukon.”

  “You see what I mean? You’re a total wiseass.”

  “Sorry—”

  “Okay, I spoke to Max on the phone, and he’s very annoyed at you for putting Fredric Tobin through the wringer.”

  “Fuck Max.”

  She said, “I have smoothed things over for you with Max.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  She asked me, “Did you learn anything from Fredric Tobin?”

  “Did I ever. Leaf spread. Maceration of the skins with the juice in the barrels. What else … ?”

  “Should I interview him?”

  I thought a moment, then replied, “Yes, you should.”

  “Are you going to give me any clues about why I should interview him?”

  “I will. But not right now. You should, however, forget drugs, bugs, vaccines, and anything to do with the Gordons’ work.”

  She stayed silent for a really long time as we walked. Finally, she asked, “Are you certain?”

  “I kid you not.” Get it?

  “Then what is the motive? Tell me.”

  “I think I’m getting your goat a little.” Get it?

  She looked at me, sort of funny, then asked, “Romance? Sex? Jealousy?”

  “Nope.”

  “The Wiley land?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  She seemed deep in thought.

  We were back at my uncle’s property now, and we stopped near the dock. We sort of faced one another, both of us with our hands in our jacket pockets. I was trying to figure out how I felt about this woman in light of Emma, and Beth was trying to figure out who killed the Gordons. It occurred to me that maybe after the case was solved, then we’d all have to resolve how we felt, and who we felt it for.

  Beth said, “Pick a rock and give it your best shot.”

  “Is this a contest?”

  “Of course.”

  “What’s the prize?”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’re not going to win.”

  “Well, aren’t we a little overconfident?” I found a really great skimmer—round, flat on the bottom, and concave on the top—a perfect airfoil. I wound up like it was the final pitch of a three-and-two count and let loose. The rock hit, skipped, hit, skipped, hit, skipped, hit, skipped, and sank. Wow. “Four,” I said, just in case she wasn’t counting.

  She’d already found her skimmer—round, a little bigger than mine, and concave on both sides. That’s another theory. She took off her jacket and handed it to me. She hefted the stone in her hand like she was considering braining me with it, then, probably psyched up at the mental image of my head bobbing out there on the water, she let loose.

  The stone hit and skipped four times and would have sunk, but it caught a small ripple wave and went airborne one more time before disappearing.

  Beth wiped her hands and took her jacket from me.

  “Very good,” I said.

  “You lose,” she said. She put her jacket back on and said, “Tell me what you know.”

  “You’re such a great detective, I’ll just give you the clues, and you can figure it out. Okay, listen up—the rented house on the water with the speedboat, the acre of Wiley land, the Peconic Historical Society, the history of Plum Island and surrounding islands, the lost week in England … what else … the numbers 44106818 … what else?”

  “Paul Stevens?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Fredric Tobin?”

  “Possibly.”

  “How does he fit? Suspect? Witness?”

  “Well, Mr. Tobin and his winery may be dead broke. Or so I heard. So he may be a desperate man. And desperate men do desperate things.”

  Beth replied, “I’ll check out his financials. Meanwhile, thanks for the great clues.”

  I replied, “It’s all there, kid. Look for a common denominator, a thread that runs through those clues.”

  She didn’t like this game and said, “I have to go. I’ll tell Max you solved the case, and he should give you a call.” She started back across the lawn toward the house. I followed.

  Back in the kitchen, she began gathering her papers.

  “By the way,” I asked, “what do those two signal flags mean?”

  She continued packing her briefcase and said, “The flags are the letters B and V. In the phonetic alphabet, they are Bravo Victor.” She looked at me.

  I asked, “How about the other meaning? The word meaning?”

  “The Bravo flag also means dangerous cargo. The Victor flag means require assistance.”

  “So, the two flags could mean dangerous cargo, require assistance.”

  She replied, “Yes, which would make sense if the Gordons were carrying dangerous micro-organisms. Or even illegal drugs. This could have been a signal to their partner. But you say this has nothing to do with bugs or drugs.”

  “That’s what I say.”

  She informed me, “According to a guy in my office who’s a sailor, a lot of people on land run up pennants as nothing more than a decoration or a joke. You couldn’t do that on the water, but on the land, no one takes it seriously.”

  “True enough. That’s what the Gordons often did.” But this time … dangerous cargo, need assistance…. I said, “Go with the assumption it was a signal to someone.” I added, “It’s a terrific signal. No telephone record, no cell phone, just an old-f
ashioned flag signal. Probably pre-arranged. The Gordons are saying, ‘We got the goods on board, come help us unload this stuff.”’

  “What stuff?”

  “Ah. That is the question.”

  She looked at me and said, “If you have information or evidence that you’re holding back—and I suppose you do— then you may have a legal problem, Detective.”

  “Now, now. No threats.”

  “John, I’m investigating a double murder. They were your friends, and this is not a game—”

  “Hold on. I don’t need a lecture. I was sitting on my back porch minding my own business when Max comes calling with his hat in his hand. By the same time the next evening, I’m standing in an empty parking lot at the ferry after a day in biocontainment with my thumb up my nose. And now—”

  “You hold on. I’ve treated you very well—”

  “Oh, come on. You took a two-day walk on me—”

  “I was working. What were you doing?”

  And so on. After about two minutes of this, I said, “Truce. This is not productive.”

  She got herself under control and said, “I’m sorry.”

  “You should be.” I added, “I’m also sorry.”

  And so we made up, without kissing.

  She said, “I’m not pressing you for what you know, but you did indicate that after I told you about what I knew, you’d do the same.”

  “I will. But not this morning.”

  “Why not?”

  “Speak to Max first. It would be much better if you just briefed him from your notes and not from my theories.”

  She thought about that and nodded, “Okay. When can I hear your theories?”

  “I just need a little more time. Meanwhile, think about those clues I gave you and see if you come up with what I came up with.”

  She didn’t reply.

  I added, “What I will promise you is that if I get it all together, I’ll hand it to you on a silver platter.”

  “That’s very generous of you. What would you like in return?”

  “Nothing. You need the career boost. I’m at the top of my career.”

  “You’re actually in trouble and solving this case won’t get you out of it—it’ll get you further into it.”

  “Whatever.”

  She looked at her watch and said, “I have to meet Max.”

  “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  We walked outside, and she got into her car. She said, “I’ll see you tomorrow night at the Tobin party, if not sooner.”

  “Right. You can be Max’s date.” I smiled. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  She drove around the circle, but instead of heading down the driveway, she came tearing around again to the front door, jammed on her brakes, and said, almost breathlessly, “John! You said the Gordons were digging for buried treasure. Like an important archaeological find—on Plum Island—government land—they had to steal it from Plum Island and bury it on their own land—the Wiley property. Right?”

  I smiled and gave her a thumbs-up, then turned and went inside.

  The phone was ringing, and I answered it. It was Beth. She asked, “What did they dig up?”

  “The phone is not secure.”

  “John, when can I meet you? Where?”

  She sounded excited, as well she should.

  I said, “I’ll get in touch with you.”

  “Promise.”

  “Sure. Meanwhile, you’d be well advised to keep that to yourself.”

  “I understand.”

  “Bye—”

  “John.”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks.”

  I hung up. “You’re welcome.”

  I went out the back kitchen door and walked out to the end of the dock. I’ve found that this is a good place to think.

  A morning mist hung over the water, and I saw a small skiff making its way through the gray vapor. A cabin cruiser was going to cross its path, and the man in the skiff picked something up, then I heard a loud horn, a foghorn, and I recalled seeing these aerosol cans that emitted a foghorn sound, a sort of poor man’s version of an electric foghorn or a brass bell. It was a common enough sound on the water, so much so that you’d never notice it, probably not even if you heard it on a clear sunny day because I recalled the big boats also used it to signal for a tender to pick up the crew after they moored in the deep water. And if you heard it close by, you might not hear the sound of two gunshots in quick succession. A poor man’s silencer. Very clever, actually.

  It was, indeed, all coming together now, even the tiny details. I was satisfied that I had the motive for murder— Captain Kidd’s treasure. But I couldn’t quite connect Tobin, Stevens, or anybody else to the murders. In fact, in my more paranoid moments, I thought that Max and Emma could also be in on it.

  Given the milieu out here, it really could be a wide-ranging conspiracy. But who actually pulled the trigger? I tried to picture Max, Emma, Tobin, and Stevens, and maybe even Zollner, all on the back deck of the Gordons’ house…. Or maybe someone else, someone I hadn’t even met or thought about. You have to be very careful and damned sure before you start calling someone a murderer.

  What I also needed to do—not because I gave a damn about it, but everyone else would—was to find the treasure. Little Johnny goes treasure hunting. But he must outwit some evil pirates and get the treasure and turn it over to the government. Now there’s a depressing thought.

  I wondered if a few million in gold and jewels would make me happy. Saint-seducing gold. Before I got too deep into that one, I thought about all the people who’d died because of that gold—presumably the men whose ship it was on when Kidd attacked them, then some of Kidd’s own men, then Kidd himself when they hanged him at the execution dock, then who knew how many men and women died or were ruined over the last three centuries looking for Captain Kidd’s fabled treasure. Then, finally, Tom and Judy Gordon. I had an uneasy premonition that the chain of death wasn’t going to stop there.

  CHAPTER 27

  At about noon, I stopped by Whitestone Florist and delivered the chamber pot. I hadn’t had breakfast so I asked Emma to lunch, but she said she was busy. Fridays in flowerland were busy days—parties, dinners, and so forth. Plus, there were three funerals, which by their nature are unscheduled events. And, she had a standing order from Tobin Vineyards for flowers every weekend for their restaurant and lobby. And, of course, there was Fredric’s big soiree the next evening. I said, “Does he pay his bills?”

  “No. That’s why I get it up front with him. Cash or credit card. No checks. And I cut off his house charge.”

  She said it in a way that suggested she’d like to cut off more than that. I asked, “Can I bring you a sandwich?”

  “No, thanks. I really have to get back to work.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  I left and took a walk on Main Street. Somehow the nature of our short relationship had changed. She was definitely a little cool. Women have a way of frosting you, and if you try to thaw them, they just turn the temperature lower. It’s a game that takes two to play, and the deck is already stacked, so I always choose not to play.

  I bought a sandwich and a beer in a deli, got in my Jeep, and drove to Tom and Judy’s acre on the bluff. I sat on the rock and had my lunch. Captain Kidd’s Ledge. Incredible. And I had no doubt that the numbers 44106818, which were known history, would be made to fit the eroded spot on the face of this bluff where the treasure was going to be found— forty-four paces or forty-four degrees, ten paces or ten degrees, or whatever. You could play with numbers and their meaning and work backwards toward a spot of your own choosing. “Nice going, you two. I wish the hell you’d confided in me. You wouldn’t be dead.”

  A bird chirped somewhere, as if in reply.

  I stood on the rock and with my binocs, I looked south, scanning the farms and vineyards until I spotted the Tower of Tobin the Terrible, rising above the flat glacial plain, the tallest thing out there: Lord Freddi
e’s penis substitute. I said aloud, “You little shit.”

  I decided I wanted to get away—away from my telephone, my house, Beth, Max, Emma, the FBI, the CIA, my bosses, and even my buds in the city. As I looked across the Sound at Connecticut, I had the idea to go to Foxwoods Resort Casino.

  I went down the bluff, got into my Jeep, and drove to the Orient ferry. It was a calm crossing, a nice day on the Sound, and in one hour and twenty minutes, my Jeep and I were in New London, Connecticut.

  I drove to Foxwoods, this sprawling gambling casino and hotel in the middle of nowhere—actually on the land of the Mashantucket Pequot tribe—a sort of Fuck-You-White-Man-We’re-Getting-Even kind of place. I checked in, bought some toiletries, went to my room, unpacked my toothbrush, then went down to the cavernous casino to meet my fate.

  I was very lucky with blackjack, broke even on the slots, lost a little at craps, and got taken a wee bit at the roulette wheel. By eight P.M., I was down only about two thousand dollars. What fun I was having.

  I tried to put myself in Freddie Tobin’s light shoes—babe on my arm, down about ten Gs a weekend, winery pumping out the juice, but not quick enough. Everything that is my world is about to come crashing down. Still, I’m holding on and even becoming more reckless with my gambling and spending because I’m about to hit the jackpot. Not this jackpot at Foxwoods; the jackpot that has been buried for three hundred years, and I know where it is, and it’s tantalizingly close—I can probably see where it’s buried as I go past Plum Island on my boat. But I can’t grasp this treasure without the help of Tom and Judy Gordon, whom I’ve taken into my confidence and recruited to be my partners. And I, Fred-ric Tobin, have picked well. Of all the Plum Island scientists, staff, and workers I’ve ever met, Tom and Judy are the ones I want to recruit—they’re young, they’re bright, they’re stable, they have a little flair, and most of all, they’ve shown a taste for the good life.

  I assumed that Tobin recruited the Gordons not long after they’d come here, as evidenced by the fact that within four months the Gordons had moved from their inland house near the ferry to their present house on the water. That had been Tobin’s suggestion, and so had the boat.

  Obviously, Fredric Tobin had been actively on the prowl for his Plum Island connection and had probably rejected a number of candidates. For all I knew, he’d once had another Plum Island partner, and something had gone wrong, and that person or persons were now dead. I’d have to check and see if any Plum Island employees had met an untimely death two or three years ago.