Death in Rough Water

by Francine Mathews

  At eight o’clock Saturday morning, Baldwin was sitting hand­cuffed in the station’s conference area. Felix Harper was beside him, fastidious as a cat. Merry had been unable to brief Matt Bailey prior to the session. He hadn’t picked up his calls the previous night and he arrived late to the interrogation, eyes bleary and a coffee cup gripped in one hand. He placed himself directly opposite Tom, with a tape recorder between.

  “Where were you the night of Adelia Duarte’s death?” Bailey began.

  “I’ve told you. At Paul Harris’s party at the Yacht Club. Surely you can verify that. Perhaps then you’ll explain why the Nantucket police have decided to arrest the Baldwin family for every crime committed this summer.”

  “I’ve spoken to Mr. Harris, and I’ve spoken to a number of his other guests. Apparently there was a period of time during which you stepped out of the club to examine a boat, Mr. Baldwin?”

  “I looked at a yacht that was for sale, yes,” he said impatiently. “If you recall, I recently lost a vessel in that f iasco at the Town Pier.”

  Merry, sitting next to Bailey, touched him lightly on the arm. He looked at her and gave way.

  “Was that boat insured, Mr. Baldwin?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  “And the insurer’s name?”

  “Water Rights. A Boston f irm.”

  “I’m familiar with Water Rights. Interestingly enough, they also in­sured several commercial f ishing boats that sank off the Massachusetts coast during the course of last year. Boats skippered by several of the men who crewed for Del Duarte’s father, Joe. As you know, Joe, like Del, is recently deceased.”

  “What of it?”

  “Does this pertain to the matter for which Mr. Baldwin was arrested?” Felix Harper said.

  “It does.”

  “Because if it does not, I will advise my client not to answer your questions.”

  “Fine.” Merry turned her chair slightly in Tom’s direction. “Are you familiar with the corporations SeaCon and MariTrans, Mr. Baldwin?”

  “Can’t say that I am.” His eyes f licked away from hers, and he rolled his shoulders, as though to ease the ache of his handcuffed wrists.

  Merry deliberately gave him an instant to chew on her question. “You haven’t heard of them,” she said, lifting a publicity folder from a f ile, “even though, according to this quarterly earnings statement to which I’m referring dated May thirteenth, they were recently liquidated by their parent company—Oceanside Resorts? A company that lists Tom Baldwin as a member of its board of trustees?”

  Baldwin studied her face an instant, and his own grew cold. If he could have, Merry thought, Tom would have punched her.

  “The trusteeship is a recent appointment,” he said. “I can’t be ex­pected to know everything Oceanside has done.”

  “That’s a very curious statement, Mr. Baldwin.” Merry ignored Matt Bailey’s restive movement beside her. “A Jenny Dundee is listed as the chief executive off icer of Oceanside. Am I right in believing that Dundee is your wife’s maiden name?”

  A hesitation. “It is.”

  “How does this information bear upon the matter for which Mr. Baldwin was arrested?” Felix Harper broke in. “I must ask you to conf ine your questioning to the matter at hand.”

  “I’m with Felix,” Matt Bailey said.

  “And so the business of your wife’s company is something you’ve ignored,” Merry continued, her eyes never leaving the developer’s face, “since its incorporation, which I see here was back in”—she paused, mak­ing a show of studying the earnings statement—“1997.”

  “Where did you get that thing?” he said suddenly, leaning painfully across the table, as though to snatch the quarterly report with his teeth.

  “This information is a matter of public record, Mr. Baldwin.”

  “Merry,” Matt Bailey said, almost seething, “could we hold the stuff about Baldwin’s business and get on to the murder, please?”

  “Certainly, Matt,” she said graciously. “I was merely establishing background. And a motive for incriminating Jenny Baldwin.”

  “I did not incriminate my wife,” Tom said.

  Matt looked at her, then at Baldwin, and opened his mouth. Merry preempted him.

  “Would you excuse us a moment, Tom?” she said, smiling sweetly. “Look after him, would you, Seitz?”

  Matt followed her into her off ice. She closed the door.

  “Here’s the point,” Merry said. “Baldwin’s been hiding assets in a series of spurious corporations, most of them subsidiaries of a company incorporated under his wife’s maiden name. SeaCon and MariTrans owned commercial trawlers that were deliberately sunk for their insurance value—three that I know of, but probably dozens insured by different companies around New England. The money was absorbed by Oceanside Resorts, Jenny’s company, of which Tom’s a trustee. Just yesterday at a selectmen’s meeting, he was pumping a bid by Oceanside to rebuild the Town Pier with a commercial condo complex. It sounded like they bought it hook, line, and sinker. Tom denied any personal connection to the company in pushing for the con­tract, which we know is a lie.”

  “I still don’t see what this has to do with Del Duarte,” Matt said stubbornly. “You’re derailing my line of questioning.”

  “Matt, try very hard to concentrate on what I’m about to say. From what I hear, the Baldwin marriage is on the rocks. A divorce proceeding would put Jenny on the defensive and make her cling to any money she could. It would also throw unwelcome light on Baldwin’s corporate investments. But if Jenny goes to jail for murdering Del, Tom will get control of her assets.”

  “So he murdered Del and framed his wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “He just screwed up on the f ibers?”

  “I guess so. A lot of people don’t realize they leave a fabric trail everywhere they go.”

  Matt mulled this over. “Why Del?”

  Merry f lipped open her f ile and handed him the Registry of Vital Records fax. “He’s Sara Duarte’s father.”

  Matt Bailey whistled under his breath. “And did Del want him to divorce Jenny?”

  “I don’t know,” Merry said. “I’ve no idea how she really felt about Tom Baldwin. I never even knew they were involved. She worked with him for f ive years, but when she left to have Sara, she stayed away for quite a while. If it was marriage she wanted, she took her time.”

  Merry paused, remembering Del’s tight-lipped reaction when Tom tried to feed Sara at her father’s funeral. “It looked to me like Del wanted to be left alone to raise her daughter as she chose. Tom may not have trusted her to do that. He may have been afraid she’d tell Jenny about Sara, and Jenny would f ile for divorce, and he’d lose his house of cards. So he tried to get rid of one problem—Jenny—by framing her for the murder of his other problem—Del.”

  “I think we should ask him,” Bailey said.

  “I’ve got one more area of questioning, Bailey.”

  He looked at her, and to her surprise, she saw a grudging respect in his eyes. “Go ahead,” he said. “Just explain it to me later, will you?”

  When they returned to the table, Tom Baldwin was staring intently at its surface, his expression impossible to read.

  “Did you kill Mitch Davis, Tom, or was that your brother-in-law Jerry?” Merry said as she slid into her seat.

  “What in the hell—”

  “Detective Folger, I really must protest,” said Felix Harper. “Mr. Bald­win has not been charged with the murder of Mitch Davis.”

  “Mitch Davis’s death is related to the murder for which Tom Baldwin is charged.”

  “I would like my protest noted in the record.”

  “The Town Pier, Tom,” Merry said. “The bomb. Oceanside received a shipment of the plastic explosive used to blow up a boat you owned. The marine supe
rintendent was shot point-blank in the back of the head. Execution-style. Almost like a Maf ia hit, I thought when I read the cor­oner’s report.” She waited for Tom Baldwin to react. He didn’t.

  “Poor Mitch. He was slated to lose, whatever he did. You had Jerry Dundee work on him for a year, telling him that if he didn’t back the Oceanside Resorts plan for developing the pier—a plan that would bring you ridiculous amounts of prof it, and that you’d f inance from insurance fraud—you’d revive the scandal that ended his Coast Guard career. He had two young children. He couldn’t afford to lose his job.”

  “This rambling is really inexcusable,” Felix Harper said.

  “Not to mention complete bullshit,” Baldwin said between his teeth.

  “I imagine Mitch hesitated for a long time,” Merry continued. “Weighed the pros and cons. He’d worked so hard to give the pier a facelift; he’d outmaneuvered the selectmen, taken criticism from ignorant taxpayers, been the target of a lot of envy. He’d successfully rebuilt his life after a crippling mistake. And Jerry Dundee was asking him to throw his work under the bus.” She leaned into Baldwin’s face, forcing him to meet her eyes, to hang on every word.

  “But better his work than his kids. You wore him down, didn’t you? Mitch Davis set the bomb that torched the pier. He’d been with the Coast Guard. He understood explosives. And after Jerry got him the Plastech and saw that the job was done, he made sure Mitch would never talk about it. In all the smoke and confusion and chaos, nobody would hear a gunshot. And nobody would see who pulled the trigger.”

  “You’ve gone completely mad,” Baldwin said. “You’ve made a single family the center of a fantastic conspiracy.”

  “That’s not what Jerry Dundee says.”

  There was a moment’s breathless silence. Tom Baldwin drew a shaky breath. “Jerry? You’ve—talked to Jerry?”

  “I haven’t. The NYPD has. We put out a national warrant for Dun­dee’s arrest yesterday afternoon, and they picked him up last night. Told him you were in custody. He didn’t hold out very long. Did you know he’s an alleged hit man for the Castiglione crime family, Tom? Execution-style shootings are his specialty. New York was pretty glad to talk to him. They’ve been looking for a reason to put him away. I think you just gave them one.”

  Something in Tom Baldwin’s face shattered. “Jerry talked? That son of a—”

  Felix Harper placed a restraining hand on his client’s arm. “I wouldn’t say anything right now if I were you, Tom,” he said. “None of this touches on the matter for which you were arrested.” He looked at Matt Bailey, and Bailey looked at Merry.

  An enormous weight lifted from her chest. Tom knew it was all over. Whether he confessed or not, the trail of evidence was there. Jerry Dundee’s testimony would drown him deeper. However good a lawyer Felix might be, his client was trapped.

  Bailey cleared his throat and looked down at his notes, trying to regain his focus. He’d last asked about a boat that Baldwin said he’d considered buying—while in all probability he was on Milk Street, killing Del and framing Jenny.

  “The evening of Del Duarte’s death, approximately how long would you estimate you looked at the Yacht Club boat that was for sale?”

  “I walked around it a few times. I glanced into the main cabin long enough to see it had an icebox instead of a refrigerator, and that was enough. I don’t need an outmoded secondhand piece of junk.”

  “Guests at the party put your absence at roughly half an hour.”

  Tom shrugged. “Who’s a judge of time at a party? They don’t know how long I was gone. I couldn’t tell you how long I was gone.”

  “Long enough to get to Milk Street, murder Del, wipe your f inger­prints from the harpoon, and leave clean glasses by a bottle of your wife’s favorite scotch,” Merry said, her anger rising.

  “You needn’t respond to that, Tom,” Felix said soothingly. He looked increasingly less comfortable in his role, however.

  “I had no reason on earth to murder Del Duarte.”

  “How would you characterize your relationship with Miss Duarte?” Bailey asked.

  “Characterize? I don’t know. She was an employee for years. A good kid. I was very fond of her. Felt bad as hell about the trouble she was in when she left. But she wouldn’t take any help from me.”

  “Just a hundred thousand dollars when she got back?” Merry broke in.

  “What?” Tom Baldwin looked perplexed.

  “A hundred thousand dollars, Tom. In her bank account. It corre­sponds to some certif icates of deposit that were cashed in last week at the Pacif ic National Bank. Certif icates in the name of Tom and Jenny Baldwin.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “And you’re saying Del was just an employee?”

  For the f irst time that morning, Tom looked genuinely bewildered.

  Merry pulled out the facsimile of Sara’s birth certif icate. “Mr. Harper,” she said to the lawyer, “I’d like you to note that this is a copy of Sara Duarte’s birth certif icate. Please note the name of the father.”

  Felix settled his glasses on his nose and studied the fax. All expression dropped from his pale face, and his eyes slowly rose to meet Merry’s. He understood.

  “What is that?” Tom said.

  “A copy of the form you stole from Del’s f iling cabinet. The one that shows you fathered her child.”

  “I fathered her child? I did? That’s not possible,” Tom Baldwin said. A look of panic came over his face. “I can’t have children.”

  There was a moment’s silence around the table.

  “Are you certain?” Merry said.

  “I don’t have any, do I?”

  “That could be your wife’s diff iculty, not yours.”

  “My doctor wouldn’t agree.”

  “What exactly is the nature of your—problem, Mr. Baldwin?”

  He looked intensely uncomfortable. “I had mumps. Low sperm count.”

  “That wouldn’t preclude fathering a child. It simply makes it highly unlikely.”

  He considered this, picked up the certif icate, stared at his name typed on its face. “Little Sara,” he whispered. “Mine. She never told me. Oh, my God.” Tears pooled in his eyes. Unable to blot them with his hands cuffed, Tom was forced to let them trickle down his cheeks. It was a curiously humbling sight, coming as it did after so much bluster and anger. Merry glanced at Matt Bailey, and at Seitz, who shrugged in mute shock. They had watched Tom Baldwin bluff his way through an hour’s worth of questions, with varying degrees of transpar­ency, but his emotion now seemed absolutely genuine.

  “Are you saying, Mr. Baldwin, that you had no idea Sara Duarte was your daughter?” Merry said.

  Tom shook his head. Felix Harper reached over with a pristine white hand­kerchief and dabbed at his client’s eyes.

  “You didn’t take the birth certif icate from Del’s f iling cabinet the night of her death?”

  “I told you,” he said, his voice high-pitched and dry, “I didn’t kill her. I’ll confess to everything else—Felix, don’t try to stop me, it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll confess to the insurance fraud, the mess at the Town Pier, the plans for Oceanside. It’s all true. I spent years laying the groundwork for it. But I never killed Del—I loved her. And I had no idea that beautiful little girl was mine. If I had, I’d have thrown up everything for her.”

  Despite the awkwardness of his cuffed wrists, Tom dropped his head to the conference table’s cool surface, his face turned away from them, eyes staring at the wall. “Sara,” he said. “Little Sara.”

  Chapter 28

  Merry left the station feeling more confused than when she had arrived. If Tom Baldwin was guilty of Del’s death, his denial made no sense in the face of all that he had admitted. He was willing to claim responsibility for the Town Pier arson, not to mention insuran
ce fraud and Mitch Davis. So why balk at confessing to Del’s murder—unless he was truly innocent of it? And if Tom didn’t kill Del, who framed Jenny Baldwin?

  She stood blinking in the sunlight. A sum­mer intern was busy in the station lot, washing a patrol car. It was then she saw Joshua Field.

  He was standing with his bike on the public path that ran along Fairgrounds Road, looking like any other kid on a summer’s Saturday morning. He wore no helmet and his hair was tousled as though he’d just rolled out of bed. His entire air was casual, but behind his narrow tortoiseshell glasses, Merry could feel him scrutinizing her. He’d been watching the station.

  She walked over to him. “Hi, Josh.”

  He ducked his head in greeting, one hand on his bike’s saddle and the other on the handlebars. He seemed at a loss for words.

  “Waiting for your uncle?”

  He shrugged and looked down the street, as though searching for a friend, or afraid of being seen by one.

  “He’s not being released, I’m afraid,” Merry said. “He’ll be escorted to Barnstable by plane later today, under the sheriff’s protection. He’ll be held there and arraigned on Monday.”

  “He didn’t kill her,” Josh said

  “How do you know?”

  “He wouldn’t, that’s all.” Josh’s f ingers tapped the bike saddle nervously.

  “Tell me about the night Del Duarte died,” Merry said.

  “I’ve been wanting to. I just didn’t know if I should, or who was in worse trouble. Do you think Uncle Tom’ll be convicted?”

  “Could be.”

  “That’s not right,” Josh said. “She wasn’t home.”

  “Del wasn’t home? The night she died?”