by Chris Knopf
Amanda asked him why he was so sure. He looked at her indulgently.
“Some of us just know things,” he said. “I know about you, for example,” he said to me. “Very persistent, I think is the term.”
“We prefer pigheaded,” said Amanda.
“It might have served you in the past, but not this time. Keep looking and you won’t like what you find. In fact, you will achieve precisely the opposite result of what you hoped for.”
When I was at the company, I liked nearly everyone but the people in charge of what I did. Not so much because they told me what to do, but for those times when they told me what I couldn’t.
“You need to talk to Jackie Swaitkowski,” I said. “I work for her.”
“Of course you do,” said Reynolds. “This wine really isn’t half bad,” he said, taking a sip, looking at it, then downing the glass. “So I think we understand each other.”
Rarely had a statement brandished less truth.
“I hear you,” I said, a noncommittal trick I’d learned from my ex-wife, who had a lot of expensive psychotherapy to back her up.
Hodges must have sensed it was time to come back over to our table.
“How’re you folks doing tonight?” he asked Galecki.
“We’re achieving peace and understanding,” he said.
“We could use a little more of that around here,” said Hodges, running his eyes around the bar and grill.
“I can handle that for you,” said Galecki, with another, more subtle roll of the shoulders.
Others have tried, I thought, knowing the measure of a roomful of commercial fishermen.
“Well,” said Reynolds, “we should let you get back to your evening out.”
“But you just got here,” said Amanda.
“I can be back whenever you want,” he said to her.
Hodges was leaning on the back of my chair. I could feel him stiffen.
“Consider yourself invited,” he told Reynolds. “Maybe next time you can have something to eat.”
“I’m sure that would be quite an experience.”
He wiped his face carefully with a napkin, refolded it, and put it on the table. Then he stood up, simultaneously with Galecki, as if they had it choreographed.
He said good evening, nodding at each of us, then they left. Hodges waited until they were out the door to say, “You’re going to tell me what the fuck that was about.”
“As soon as I figure it out myself,” I said, taking a sip, then downing the rest of my vodka.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jackie’s office was the whole floor over a Japanese restaurant in Water Mill, a hamlet just to the east of Southampton Village. Her apartment was connected to the office, making it a seamless warren protected by an elaborate security system. I’d installed the system, so I knew how to get around the touch pad, though I always pushed the doorbell at the bottom of the outside stairway, mindful that a crucial part of Jackie’s defenses was a military-grade Glock 10 mm semiautomatic pistol, always within easy reach.
I doubted she’d ever shoot me, though it was Saturday morning, which meant a Friday night out with her boyfriend, and bleary eyes had made greater mistakes.
“Do you know what time it is?” she strained to ask through the intercom.
“The crack of nine A.M. I have coffee. Enough for three.”
She buzzed me in.
A giant was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. Her boyfriend, Harry Goodlander, was tall enough to crouch through doorways, with a wingspan rivaling Wilt Chamberlain’s. Luckily, we’d always been good friends, despite Jackie telling him at the outset of their relationship that I came as part of the package. We shook hands and he led me into the office.
Harry was in boxers and T-shirt and Jackie had on her flannel pajamas, the ones with cartoon dogs scratching themselves in dilapidated rooms under bare light bulbs.
I told them I was feeling overdressed.
“You’re welcome to go,” said Jackie. “Just leave the coffee.”
She made places for us to sit by clearing stacks of papers off a pair of opposing love seats that provided the fiction of a client meeting area. Harry sprawled out and Jackie sat cross-legged like a Buddha.
I told them about my chat with Art Reynolds at the Pequot. Partway through, Jackie came up with a pad and pen and took down notes.
“I’m not happy about this,” she said.
“Tell me why,” I said. “Then it’s my turn.”
She chewed the butt end of the pen.
“Everybody knows things we don’t know and they don’t want to tell us.”
“Art says it’s for our own good.”
“Do you believe him?” she asked.
“No. But maybe it’s for Burton’s good.”
“I don’t believe that either. I’m his lawyer. If anyone should be privy to all the information, good or bad, relating to this case it should be me. I don’t like swinging-dick Manhattan lawyers claiming they have everyone’s best interests in mind. Usually that means it’s his own self-interest that’s at stake. What do you think?”
“That’s what I think,” I said. “Reynolds pulled out the old carrot and stick approach. Protecting Burton is the carrot, Galecki the stick.”
She told me that Burton’s legal status was reasonably sound, on the face of it. No one at the Edelsteins’ house saw him walking away at the time of Darby’s death, but no one could claim otherwise. Neither had anyone seen him scuffle with Darby, or even heard them exchange heated words. Though Burton and the Edelsteins had an agreeable relationship, they weren’t that close, Burton’s support of their favorite charity peripheral at best. It was their hope that the evening would draw him in closer. None of which would compel them to lie in his favor. If anything, Darby was their boy, crucially important to the organization, and thus of greater value to them. And greater still to Mercado, naturally.
“Which would make it easy if it weren’t for one thing,” said Jackie.
“The Southampton police,” I said. “Ross isn’t buying any of it, and if he’s been hosting Judy Paolini from the FBI’s Manhattan field office, he’s not the only one.”
Jackie squinted her eyes at me, as she does when she wants me to complete a thought.
“The last thing we’re going to do is back off,” I said.
She nodded, and Harry Goodlander said, “There’s a surprise.”
BEFORE WE had a chance to feel too noble, the Suffolk County district attorney charged Burton Lewis with voluntary manslaughter in the death of Elton Darby.
There are rituals attendant to an arrest that Ross was willing to forgo as a courtesy to Burton and the rest of us, but Burton wouldn’t hear of it. So Jackie and I were at Burton’s house when Mike Cermanski showed up with a patrolman. Burton put his hands behind his back and Cermanski cuffed him, helped him get in the patrol car, and they drove off with Jackie and me following behind.
Jackie was crying, from a combination of frustration and grief.
“This is so fucking ridiculous,” she said.
“Burt won’t stand for preferential treatment,” I said, a half-truth. I’d never seen him wait for a table or hesitate to fly out to the Hamptons in a helicopter, rattling the plates of the beleaguered neighbors of East Hampton Airport. On the other hand, he founded his pro-bono practice to compensate as much as possible for his clients’ structural disadvantages, and his standing with them was pure.
At the Southampton Village station, he was gracious and calm, bantering with the young sergeant given the task of shooting mug shots and taking fingerprints. When they were finished, we walked upstairs to the courtroom where the judge was processing a long line of drunk drivers and other traffic offenders. We waited our turn, and Jackie stood with him while the ADA read the charges, and the judge set a million-dollar bail, which Burton posted electronically with a push of a button on his smartphone.
Egalitarianism only goes so far.
“I’m going to want that back,
” he told the lady at the pay window, giving her a broad smile.
“Just stick around, sir, and I’m sure they’ll be good for it.”
He sat in the back of Jackie’s Volvo station wagon when we drove him home.
“Well, that was exhilarating,” he said, opening the window to get a blast of fresh air.
He’d forced Isabella to stay in New York to avoid histrionics, so it was just the three of us banging around his kitchen, into which you could fit my entire cottage, where we put together a light meal to eat at the counter.
Jackie tried to get him to review the facts of the case one more time, but he made her stop.
“I’ve already said everything I can say. Let’s just get on with it.”
“I just have a few questions, Burt,” I said. “Then I promise to shut up.”
He stirred a bowl of fruit and yogurt longer than necessary, then said, “Of course.”
“How much do you know about Worldwide Loventeers?”
He shook his head.
“Precious little. Which is what I’ve been donating to them, to answer your next question. I like to keep my philanthropy focused on a few organizations I know really well. Joshua and Rosie are reputable people, somewhat silly as they are, and it doesn’t hurt to be courteous with the neighbors.”
“What about Art Reynolds?” Jackie asked.
“Never met him. His firm is heavy into corporate tax, so theoretically a competitor, though we operate at a slightly higher level.”
“He said he cleaned up messes,” I said.
“It’s what we all do,” he said. “There’s nothing messier than the law.”
I let him eat for a few moments, then asked, “Had you met with Elton Darby before that night?”
He took even longer to answer this time.
“I did, Sam. We had dinner on a few occasions. I’m not by nature an overly social person, so it gets boring, especially in the city.”
I would have guessed lonely as well, but didn’t say it.
“So not just a matter of getting hit up for a big donation,” said Jackie, softly.
He nodded.
“Not just, though that was always a subtext. Too bad you never met Darby. A very engaging fellow. Tightly wired, but a real smart ass. I’m a bit of a sucker for people like that.”
Jackie looked over at me and I acted like I didn’t know what she meant.
“But that was it,” said Jackie. “Just dinner.”
He dropped his spoon in the yogurt bowl and took it over to the sink.
“That was it,” he said. “Just dinner.”
We intended to leave him alone at that point, but when we went out to her Volvo, we were met by a half-dozen cars pulling into the circle in front of Burton’s house, followed by a white van showing the call letters of a New York City TV station. Seconds later they had us surrounded, sticking mics and cameras in our faces.
Jackie stood there refusing to say anything other than no comment while I moved to the side and called Joe Sullivan. I explained to him the situation.
“Any reason why you couldn’t hang out here and look after Burton?” I asked him.
“None I can think of. We’re allowed to do off-duty security work. Ross will be okay with it, especially since I’m persona non grata around the HQ. That’s Latin, right?”
“Illud est verum. Now would be a good time to get over here. We gotta go and we’re not leaving Burton alone with these predatory birds.”
“Give me a few minutes.”
I went over to where Jackie was holding off the legions and told her we needed a bit of time for Sullivan to get there. She nodded and turned to the reporters.
“Get out of my face and back in your cars,” she told them. “Then out to the street. This is private property and if you aren’t gone in two minutes the Southampton police will be climbing up your ass and a civil action will be headed toward your owners faster than you can say ‘Fuck that Pulitzer.’”
They complied.
“I guess Art Reynolds got his bad publicity after all,” I said, watching the caravan exit down the long driveway.
“All it takes is a criminal charge. Public record. Some intern, or junior schlep, at the local paper was probably monitoring court proceedings. She should get a job, or a raise, or a gold star.”
“Things are different now.”
“They are indeed.”
I WAITED until Sullivan got there lugging big canvas bags full of portable security gear and ordnance. It wasn’t the first time I’d recruited him for security detail, most recently at Amanda’s house, so I knew the drill. I had to clear everything with Burton, of course, but he seemed relieved, and grateful for Sullivan’s company if not his unflinchingly protective embrace.
I worked my way through the pack of media at the end of the drive with no fatalities and drove the five minutes from Burton’s house over to the Edelsteins’ on Gin Lane. When I got there, the gate was closed, and no one answered when I hit the call button. I could see their cars in the driveway, so I hit the button again, with no result. Then I pressed it again for about ten minutes until Joshua’s angry voice came through the intercom.
“Who the hell is there?” he yelled.
“Sam Acquillo.”
It was quiet for a moment, then Rosie came on.
“Go away, Sam. Joshua doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“I want to talk to him.”
More silence, then Joshua said, “My attorney has instructed me to remain silent on all matters relating to the Darby incident.”
“You mean when he incidentally ended up expiring in the middle of your shrubbery?”
Rosie came back on.
“Go away, Sam, or I’m calling the police.”
Joshua was next. I wondered if they were crouched down next to each other or speaking from different rooms in their colossal coastal mansion.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” he said. “I really am on lawyer’s orders. I had a rough morning. You don’t know. They grilled me for hours. I thought it was just a friendly conversation, and the next thing I know, it’s like Marathon Man. I’m not used to this shit.”
I rested my head on the pillar that held the iron gate, the intercom a few feet away. I’d built the gate in my shop and installed it myself. I felt around the cedar shakes that covered the pillar, checking my work. I put my shoulder against it and pushed, testing the lumber I’d pounded into the ground as structural support. No give.
“You sold him out, didn’t you,” I said.
Another long pause, long enough that I thought they’d finally figured out how to mute the intercom. But then he came back.
“I told the truth, Sam. Unless this country’s gone totally authoritarian, the truth still matters. I know we said we hadn’t heard Darby and Burton arguing, but we did. You couldn’t miss it. Shouting and banging around. And then this big crash. It took a bit for Rosie and me to figure out where all this was coming from. Rosie decided to run outside, so I went upstairs and found the broken window. I looked out and saw Burton and Violeta standing over the body. The poor girl was beside herself. Rosie got there moments later and was horrified. Burton was cool as a cucumber. I don’t care what I said before, that’s what happened. I’ll swear to it in front of God and any court in the land.”
While he spoke, I could hear Rosie yelling something in the background, solving the puzzle of their individual locations. I was trying hard to hear Joshua, so I didn’t make out what she was saying, until she took her turn at the intercom.
“Listen, mister,” she said. “We’ve all had enough drama for the day. I for one am planning a quiet evening on the deck over the ocean and you should too. Tomorrow cooler heads will prevail and we’ll move on from this.”
I set my shoulder against the gate pillar again and put some effort into it. I was about to give up when I heard a crack and was gratified to feel it a little unsteady to the touch.
“Sam? Are you there?” Rosie asked over the intercom. “Sam
? Sam?”
I let her keep calling as I walked away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
My efforts to contact Johnnie Mercado were getting me nowhere. A Google search turned up a pair of Johnnie Mercados in New York, one on the Upper West Side at about the right age, but no phone number or e-mail address. I could probably find him through the Edelsteins or Loventeers, but those weren’t good options at the moment.
The only thing left was to drive back into the city. Not my usual thing, as I’d told Reynolds.
I checked in with Joe Sullivan, who was entrenched at Burton’s house, along with Isabella, who seemed to be accepting the intrusion as a necessary thing. How they’d get along over time was anybody’s guess.
Jackie agreed that tracking down Mercado was a good idea, especially given our truncated conversation at the funeral. So I took off in the Jeep, leaving Eddie in command of Oak Point and Amanda thankfully back attending to her construction projects.
I’d lived long enough to see the Upper West Side go from scruffy to gentrified to out-of-reach for ordinary people, if there were any of those left in New York City. The GPS on my phone told me where to go, where to park, and if I wanted, have lunch with specified cuisine and pricing options. I guess if I’d wanted a pair of local bearers to carry me to Mercado’s apartment, that could have been arranged.
It was hot in the city, which meant it was a special sort of oppressive, odiferous heat. I wore a baseball cap and a pair of shorts with a hammer holster built in, though I left the hammer at home.
Mercado’s name wasn’t on the buzzer outside the apartment building, but Darby’s was. I pushed the button, but got no response, so I sat down on the stoop and waited, grateful to be in the shade.
Eventually one of the building’s tenants showed up—a young woman wearing a pair of denim overalls and a wide-brimmed straw hat. She made it easy by asking if I was waiting for somebody.
“Johnnie Mercado,” I said. “Was living with Elton Darby in 3C.”
“Poor Elton,” she said. “Terrible thing.”
“You knew him?”
“Just from the laundry room. Talkie guy. Fun, but a little jacked-up all the time. I wondered if it was coke. And actually pretty flirty, in a boy way, but only when Johnnie wasn’t around. I guess he might have been a switch-hitter. I know a few.”
