by Клео Коул
“Go on.”
“They quote David as saying, ‘I could never dine in Bom’s eateries. The MSG flows like water and I’m severely allergic. It’s a shame really. In my opinion, no self-respecting restauranteur would allow MSG to be placed anywhere near his cuisine…’”
“Ouch,” I said. “I know David can be catty. But that’s a terrible swipe to take in print. Maybe he was running off at the mouth with the reporter. Do you think he realized he would be quoted?”
“Yes, dear, I do. I think he was lobbying even then to win the restaurant war that ensued. And Bom was no better. Here’s what he told the reporter: ‘David’s very successful, it’s true. But what else can you expect from a twenty-four/seven self-promoter? Is he more style than substance? Some do call him the Prince of Hype, and if the shoe fits…’”
“Ugly stuff,” I murmured. “For ‘good neighbors.’”
“I’m sure both Bom and Marjorie would have read this article since they’re in it. So both would have known about David’s MSG allergy.”
“But neither were at David’s July Fourth party,” I pointed out. “Marjorie was loitering outside it. And Bom wasn’t invited.”
“Your point?”
“David had complained of a migraine at his own party, remember? That’s the reason he went up to his bedroom before the fireworks started.”
“That’s right,” said Madame. “And he was perplexed by it. He said he was certain that he hadn’t ingested any of the foods that give him that reaction.”
“But someone could have slipped MSG in his food or drink then, too. The plan could have been to get him to move away from the party, to go up to his bedroom so the shooter could target him there.”
“But who would have done that?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s all so elaborate, Clare. Why would this person have created such a production? I hate to say it, but there are probably much easier ways to kill David Mintzer.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of…”
“Clare! Clare Cosi!” Jacques Papas’s perpetually irritated voice called outside the closed break room door. “Where is that woman?”
The lilting Irish voice of Colleen O’Brien answered. “I think she’s in the break room, Mr. Papas. Joy said she’s making a private call.”
Before I could even rise from the couch, the door flew open with such force it banged against the back wall. “Why is this door closed?!”
I calmly regarded the swarthy manager. “I’m making a phone call, Jacques.”
“To whom?” He barreled into the room, his fleshy face reddening.
“It’s private.”
He spied the photos on the coffee table. “And what is all this?”
“I’ll have to call you back,” I told Madame.
“One more thing, Clare. I’ve been asking around about Graydon Faas, just as you requested, and you really shouldn’t worry. The Faas family out here co-owns Taber-Faas pharmaceuticals. They’re multimillionaires, dear.”
“Okay, gotta go,” I said and closed the phone.
Frankly, I didn’t care if the Faases were multibillionaires. The fact that Graydon’s family was rich told me nothing about the character of the boy himself, nor did it explain why he was working in the lowly job of waiter for the summer in an East Hampton eatery. But I didn’t have time to discuss all that with Madame. Not with Cuppa J’s crazy manager breathing down my neck.
By now, Papas was pawing through Jim Rand’s photos. I calmly got to my feet. “Jacques, what I’m doing is none of your business.”
He didn’t seem to care. He continued rudely looking through the pictures. “These photos…they’re from David’s party.”
“They’re my business,” I said, finally grabbing them back.
Jacques’s beady black eyes narrowed on me. “What sort of business?”
“If you must know, I’m conducting a little, uh…investigation.”
“An investigation!” Papas cried. He appeared appalled at first and then upset. “An investigation into…into what exactly? What do you mean?”
“I’m looking into some suspicious things that are happening around David, that’s what I mean. I’m his friend and I don’t intend to see anyone injure him.”
“I don’t understand you,” Papas sputtered. “You’re just a glorified barista. Who do you think you are?”
“Dial it down, Jacques. There’s no need to become insulting. And, if you don’t mind, I’m on break—”
Papas tapped his watch. “Your break was over five minutes ago, Ms. Cosi. And do you know what I think?”
“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“I think you have an attitude problem, just like that Lopez girl. And I intend to inform David Mintzer of that fact. Now get yourself in gear. The dinner shift is arriving, and there’s much to be done!”
Nineteen
Saturday night was always the busiest night of the week at Cuppa J. The under-forty crowd packed the place, pumping up with caffeine to party until the wee hours. Papas had yet to hire a replacement for Prin, and I was stuck waiting tables again as well as managing the coffee bar.
When my next break came around, about eight o’clock, I didn’t dare risk another scene like the one I’d had earlier with Papas. I walked through the kitchen and out the back door, got into my car in the parking lot and locked the doors. Only then did I place my cell phone call.
“O’Rourke here.”
“Hello Detective, it’s Clare Cosi again.”
The unhappy exhale was hard to miss. “Yes, Ms. Cosi? What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, detective, but I have some more information for you. Did you know that Marjorie Bright is a crack shot? She’s a champion skeet shooter.”
“No. I didn’t know. And now I do.”
“You see why I’m telling you, don’t you? She has the skill to fire a rifle and hit a target. I’ve also got photographic evidence that she was not just passing through David’s property. She was loitering there during the party, skulking around for some reason, staying out of sight. Don’t you think those two things make her a likely suspect?”
“Did she have a motive for murdering Treat Mazzelli?”
“No. For attempting to murder David Mintzer.”
“Ma’am, Mr. Mintzer was not the man murdered the night of July Fourth, as you well know since you discovered the body. Now, I thank you for your information, but we have some very strong leads on our investigation and they do not involve Ms. Bright at this time.”
“It’s Jim Rand, isn’t it? Do you have him in custody?”
There was a pause and another weary sigh. “Ms. Cosi, we did question Mr. Rand, but his alibi checks out. The man couldn’t have shot Treat Mazzelli on the night of July Fourth. So he’s not in custody, nor is he a suspect at this time.”
“What alibi did Rand give you?”
“That’s all I can tell you, ma’am.”
“Wait, but—”
“Ms. Cosi, I will take your information about Ms. Bright under advisement, but I have to ask you to stop investigating this crime on your own. And if you break any laws doing so, I’ll see that you’re prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Do you understand me?”
“I understand.” I gritted my teeth in frustration. “Goodnight, detective.”
“No hard feelings, now, Ms. Cosi. Goodnight.”
I hung up, suddenly feeling both angry and stupid. Here I was trying to stop a murderer. And I’d just been accused of being an outlaw!
“Joy, can I talk to you a minute?” I asked after returning from the parking lot.
My daughter had been talking with Graydon Faas and Colleen O’Brien by the dessert prep area. I waved her over to the back door.
“I’m off at eleven,” I told her, “but I know you’re here until closing.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So I thought I’d be going straight back to David’s, but I have some business to take
care of first.”
“At eleven at night? What sort of business?”
“It’s no big deal, honey. I just want you to stay available by cell phone. Don’t power it down. Let me know what you’re going to do, where you’re going to be. Okay?”
“Graydon and I are just going out for a little while. We’re both going to surf in the morning, so I won’t be in too late. If my plans change, I’ll tell you.”
“You have your birth control?” I whispered.
Joy rolled her eyes. “Yes, Mom. If I need it, I have it! Please don’t worry so much!”
A few hours later, at fifteen minutes to midnight, I was sitting behind the wheel of my Honda in the parking lot of Monroe’s Marina.
The phone call to O’Rourke hadn’t just frustrated me. It had made me angry. And, okay, maybe that anger had impaired my judgment just a little bit. I’m sure Matt would have said as much. But at this very moment, I wasn’t emotional. I was calm, cool, and trying to think as logically as I possibly could.
Detective O’Rourke believed Rand had given a solid alibi the night of Treat’s murder. But I trusted O’Rourke to catch the killer about as much as I trusted Rand, which is to say not at all. Consequently, I couldn’t get Jim Rand’s invitation out of my head.
“Midnight tonight…Come out with me…. After you see with your own eyes that I’m telling you the truth, you can cross me off your suspect list, and I’ll give you any photo you like.”
“Or you’ll push me overboard,” I muttered, remembering my earlier response to his invitation.
I got out of the car and slammed the door. With more than a few nerves fraying, I walked down one of the marina’s many long docks, and right up to Rabbit Run. The yacht was still in its slip, completely dark. There was no sign of Jim Rand anywhere. In fact, there was no sign of anyone on board.
“Damn you, Rand,” I muttered.
It was obvious he had been pulling my leg about the invitation. I am such a fool. He was playing me.
“Excuse me, ma’am, may I help you?”
I turned to find a young man walking towards me along the dock. He had short brown hair, a baby face with a very serious expression, and he wore a navy blue Windbreaker with the words MONROE’S MARINA SECURITY emblazoned on the front. The Windbreaker was unzipped and I noticed a picture ID clipped to the pocket of his shirt. I read the name beneath the picture.
“T. Gurt.”
“That’s my name, ma’am. What are you doing out here?”
“Oh, I was supposed to meet someone. But he’s clearly standing me up.”
“Sorry about that. Can I help you call a taxi?”
“No, no, I have my car in the lot. I was just leaving.”
“All right, ma’am. Goodnight,” he said, and started to head back down the dock.
“Wait,” I called.
The young man turned back. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Do you have an Aunt Alberta by any chance?”
The young man nodded. “Yes, ma’am, Alberta Gurt.”
“I know her. She’s a very nice woman. So you must be Thomas?”
“That’s right.”
“She said you had a security job here in Hampton Bays.”
“I do, during the day.” He checked his watch. “And at midnight, I have another job to go to. Sorry to cut you short, ma’am, but I’m due to change the shift.”
“I understand. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
As Thomas Gurt headed back to the marina office, I recalled what Alberta had said about Thomas having trouble in his youth, but then straightening out after enlisting in the army. With all those “ma’ams” it wasn’t hard to believe he’d been a GI.
I hadn’t forgotten my suspicions of Alberta. She had motive to murder David, and Thomas was obviously comfortable with firearms. Still…the baby faced kid seemed so earnest.
“Murderers come in all temperaments, Clare. All shapes, all sizes.”
Mike Quinn’s words came back to me then. And I knew I shouldn’t let a momentary good impression persuade me one way or the other. In the end, I wasn’t ruling out anyone as a suspect. Which led me back to the reason I’d come here in the first place.
As I strode back down the dock and into the parking lot, I checked my watch. It was exactly midnight now. If Jim Rand had played me, I figured he’d also played the authorities—cooked up some bogus alibi to send the cops in another direction. But I wasn’t going to give up on Rand as easily as O’Rourke apparently had.
I decided to question the frogman myself. If he was telling the truth, I wanted to hear it with my own ears, find it believable with my own brain. But if he was protecting the person who hired him, I would find out who that person was.
I decided to drive over to Rand’s house in Bridgehampton, and if he wasn’t home, I would simply wait in my car until he showed. But one thing I am not going to do, I told myself as I yanked open my car door, I am not going to blow an opportunity to nail him.
“Giving up so soon?”
I turned to find Jim Rand standing no more than two feet away, his arms folded casually, his cocky confidence evident in his posture and expression. He’d cleaned up for our meeting. He’d shaved, exchanged his diver’s shirt for a seafoam green button-down. His blue jeans looked new.
For a second, I didn’t think I would find my voice. The man had approached me from behind, like a silent shadow in the dark marina parking lot. Somehow I managed to keep it together long enough to say—
“Yeah. You were a SEAL, all right.”
“I didn’t scare you, did I?”
“Were you trying to?”
“No. But a little payback is probably in order. You were trying to scare me, weren’t you?”
“When?”
“When do you think, Clare? When you sent the Suffolk County police to my house.”
I swallowed uneasily, didn’t expect to be put on the defensive. “I had to, Mr. Rand. You must have known that I would.”
“That’s why I’m very surprised to see you here. I’d already convinced myself you’d been playing me.”
“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
He smiled. “Guess we think alike, you and I.”
“So are you going to take me out?”
He waved for me to follow him. We approached the rows of docks. But we didn’t go down the one I’d just left. Instead, he gestured to a lit boat on the far side of the marina.
“That’s not Rabbit Run,” I noted as we walked up to the slip.
“I never rent the same boat two nights in a row.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “Throws off the scent.”
We boarded tonight’s rental, Rabbit Is Rich, and headed out. This yacht was about thirty-five feet, too, but unlike Rabbit Run, the helm on this vessel was open to the air. It was a nice night, warm and clear, and the smell of the ocean was strong as we motored slowly out of the marina then picked up speed on the open water.
“It’s a nice night.” I had to speak loudly, over the sound of the rushing wind. But I knew it was important to start the conversation. Any conversation. As Quinn once put it, “The best way to get a suspect to talk, is to get him to talk.”
Unfortunately, Rand had no reply to my riveting weather report. So I tried another subject.
“You know, Rabbit Run and Rabbit is Rich…those are both titles of novels.”
“Yeah, I know,” Rand said. “Updike.”
“Have you read John Updike’s Rabbit novels?”
“Do I strike you as the kind of guy who reads suburban angst novels?”
“Uh…”
“Don’t strain yourself. I read nonfiction. Geopolitical history mostly.”
“So who’s the Updike fan?”
“Byron Baxter Monroe, he owns the marina, he’s also a former college professor. He named all his rentals after favorite Updike novels and short stories.”
“You know him pretty well?”
“The guy’s bi-polar and mildly depressed, which he remedies via what he calls ‘self-medication,’ usually alcohol. The man likes to belly up to the bar and pontificate about the vacuity of the conventional upper-middle class suburban existence in general and Updike in particular. Why do I know this? Because as long as he’s buying, I’ll listen.”
“So you ‘self-medicate’ too? With alcohol?”
“I down the occasional beer. But risk is my kick. I’m an adrenaline junkie. Like you.”
“Like me?”
“Don’t you remember what you told me this morning? You get your nerve from eight to ten cups of coffee a day. Caffeine’s your drug, isn’t it?”
I bristled. “It’s a legal one.”
“And what I found you doing today in my rental house. That was legal, was it?”
Shit.
“You know, Clare, I could have told the police about what you did.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because…” He smiled. “I knew if they arrested you, then you wouldn’t be able to keep our date.”
Date. My god. Was he being sarcastic? Or playing me again?
I watched him drive the boat for a few minutes. We were paralleling the shore now. I could see faint lights from the Hamptons’ mansions on our left, which meant we were heading away from Manhattan, toward the tip of Long Island. If we kept going much longer, we’d be away from all land. We’d be out to sea.
“We’re traveling east, right?” I asked, trying to keep the nervousness out of my voice.
“Northeast.” He tapped the compass, just one gauge on the fairly dizzying array in front of us. There was sonar, global positioning, and a host of other technology I could only guess had something to do with communications and weather.
“Northeast,” I repeated. “And your fuel tank is full. That’s about all I can recognize on this dashboard, besides the steering wheel.”
Jim smirked. “Dead reckoning is more your style, right? Or, judging from what you’ve involved yourself in, maybe just the dead part?”
I didn’t know whether the man was making a bad joke or a threat, but I took it as the latter. “Don’t menace me, Rand. Ten people know I’m with you right now.”
