by Walter Marks
Susannah led the detective out to the deck, then went to the kitchen. When she returned he was surveying the white-capped ocean and the curving stretch of beach. He turned and looked at the exterior of the house, then at the deck itself. He seemed to be scrutinizing each detail—the statue of Krishna, the swim-raft, the wrought-iron table, the deck chairs—his eyes recording everything like a video surveillance camera.
Damn, Susannah thought. Where is police indifference when you need it? I’m sure glad I moved the empty hammock frame to the garage. He certainly would’ve noticed.
“Where was your husband fishing?”
“Down there,” Susannah responded, pointing at the beach to her right.
“Let’s take a look.”
They descended the stairs and Susannah suggested they walk along the water’s edge, where the receding tide left hard packed sand for better footing.
“Did you leave all your husband’s stuff just as you found it?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
When they got to where Burt had been fishing, the detective saw the evidence that Susannah had carefully planted. There was the beach towel, with a rock on top of it so it wouldn’t blow away. The Fiberglas rod was set into an aluminum tube inserted in the sand. She’d worn dishwashing gloves to make sure her fingerprints weren’t on anything.
“Did your husband do a lot of fishing?”
“Pretty much. It was his hobby — his way of relaxing.”
Jericho put on a pair of plastic gloves himself, knelt down, and examined the glasses in the baseball hat.
“Oliver Peoples. Prescription?”
“No.”
He picked up the polo shirt Susannah had placed over Burt’s tackle box. He opened the lid and saw the cell phone with a missed call from Home sitting on a tray with his lures. He stood up and looked around.
“No shoes?”
“No.”
“Isn’t the sand kinda hot?”
“Not in September. July and early August, when it’s like in the eighties, nineties. But not now.”
Susannah was feeling edgy. Why is this guy asking so many questions?
“Was he wearing a watch?”
She shook her head no. “It’s a Patek-Phillipe, not waterproof. Burt would never take it to the beach.”
Jericho nodded.
“Tell me something, detective,” she said with a quiver in her voice, “You think — what do you think happened? I mean, it sure looks like he went swimming, doesn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions, Mrs. Cascadden,” he said. “Let’s go back to the house. We can take your husband’s stuff with us. Just let me get some pictures.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and took several shots of the scene. Then he photographed each item of evidence close up.
“All done,” he said. “I’ll take that plastic bag now.”
She handed him the bag and he put Burt’s stuff into it, except the fishing gear, which he carried in his other hand.
As they walked back to the house, Jericho explained that physical evidence can be misleading. “There well may be a simple explanation to all this,” he said. “The thing for you to do now is call all his friends and associates. What business is your husband in?”
“Real estate. He’s a developer.”
“Out here?’
“No. In the city.”
“Call everyone,” Jericho said, ”especially locally, and ask if they’ve seen or heard from him.”
“They’ll get worried.”
“Can’t be helped. And don’t make up something like he’s late for cocktails. Tell them he’s missing.”
“Oh, gosh.”
“That’s the best way,” he said. “It’ll be dark in an hour. If you prefer, you can hold off till then, and maybe he’ll show. It’s up to you. I’d call now.”
“Then, then you think something happened to him?”
“I didn’t say that.”
The detective stopped on the deck and looked out at the sea. The sun had begun to set and the bright blue sky was fading slowly to mauve. “Beautiful view you’ve got here.”
“Yes. We love it.”
“Did your husband have any cash or credit cards with him when he was fishing?”
“I doubt it.”
“Where would he keep his cash and wallet?”
“His pants and jacket, I guess.”
“Mind if we take a look?”
“Sure.”
As Susannah led him to the bedroom, he explained he wanted to rule out robbery in case there turned out to be evidence of foul play.
When he entered the bedroom, Jericho was aware that it was the husband’s room. There was no indication that a woman slept there. Separate bedrooms, he thought. Possible marital problems?
He spotted Burt’s watch on the nightstand. Patek Phillipe.
Susannah picked up Burt’s pants, which were neatly folded on a chair. She reached into a pocket, and took out his gold money clip. It contained a twenty, two fives, and a single. She showed the money to the detective.
The detective nodded. “Have you noticed anything missing from the house — cash, jewelry, art, anything of value?”
“No.”
“Where are his credit cards?”
“They’d be in his billfold,” she answered, “In his jacket pocket. But I’m sure they’re there. Why would he take credit cards when he went fishing?”
“People are unpredictable.“
She went to the closet where Burt had hung his poplin jacket, and reached into the inside pocket. She felt something and was about to draw it out when she realized it wasn’t a leather wallet, it was paper, some kind of — envelope. It was bulging — it had to be the bank envelope containing the $60,000 for Mort. For a few seconds she froze; if the detective saw it he would ask questions. He was asking too many already. She moved her body to make sure he couldn’t see the jacket.
“Can’t find it?” he queried.
She took a deep breath and felt around in the other side pocket until she felt his billfold. She pulled it out and handed it to the detective. He opened it.
“American Express, Visa, Mobil, MasterCard,” he said. “Anything missing?”
“Not that I know of.”
He gave the wallet back to Susannah.
“Well, I’ve gotta get going,” he said. “Make those calls, and if you can’t determine your husband’s whereabouts by, let’s say, nine tonight, phone the East Hampton station and they’ll page me. I’ll set our missing person protocol in motion tomorrow morning at first light. That’s an all-out search.”
“God, I hope that won’t be necessary.”
“Well, we’ll do what we have to do.”
Susannah nodded bravely.
They walked to the door. “Thank you so much, Detective Jericho.”
He smiled and his expression took on an unexpected warmth. “No problem,” he said gently.
He opened the door, then turned back to her, Columbo style.
“Oh. I’m curious about something,” he said. “There seemed to be some sort of track in the sand, leading from your house to the water’s edge. As if something had been dragged down to the ocean.”
“Huh? I can’t imagine ...”
Oh my God, she thought. It’s all over. I didn’t think of that. Her mind raced, searching frantically for an explanation.
“Oh. Oh, yes,” she said. “I guess that was from my swim raft. I dragged it down there this afternoon.”
“That’s the raft I saw out on your deck?”
“Yes.”
“So you went swimming?”
“Well, rafting. I like to ride it on the incoming waves like a surfer. But when I got out a ways, I felt this strong current dragging me out to sea — the rip tide, grabbing hold of me, and I panicked. I started paddling frantically. Then I remembered you’re supposed to float parallel to the shore until you’re out of the rip. I did that and then I made it back to the beach. It
was so scary. That’s why I’m so worried about Burt.”
“Try not to worry, Mrs. Cascadden,” Jericho said. “These things usually have a way of sorting themselves out.”
He smiled again and left. Susannah closed the door, leaned against it, and sighed in relief.
She went into the living room, sat down and put her face in her hands. Susannah had been raised in a non-religious home, and she believed in God without defining exactly what that meant. She hadn’t read the Bible, but she knew one of its precepts was indisputable — “Thou shalt not kill.”
God forgive me, she thought. I’ve killed a man. It was kill or be killed. Still...I’ve killed a man!
Driving back to the precinct house, Jericho reviewed the facts in the case. The one question mark was the track in the sand. Mrs. Cascadden had explained it satisfactorily, but she was a bit too detailed in her account. From his experience Jericho knew that when people give too much information, it often means they’re lying. Often, but not always. In this case, her response was certainly credible and there was no reason to think she wasn’t telling the truth.
His mind made a jump cut to Mrs. Cascadden’s lovely face—her prom queen looks. Then he visualized her dancer’s body, as she taught the kids. Today she’d greeted him wearing sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt, but he could see hints of the woman beneath. He started fantasizing that her husband had indeed drowned, leaving his beautiful wife alone and devastated—alone so he could ride to her rescue in his white, blue, and red Ford Crown Victoria patrol car, offering her comfort, understanding, and love.
Oh, brother, he said to himself. Obviously I’ve been womanless way too long. Probably Mr. Cascadden will show up at suppertime, saying he went for a long walk, without his sunglasses and baseball cap because—because he wanted to get a suntan on the bags under his eyes. Who the hell knows?
Come on, man. Start acting like a gold-shield detective, not some horny rookie who can’t keep his mind on his work.
As Jericho pulled onto the Montauk Highway, he reminded himself of what he’d told Mrs. Cascadden: These things usually have a way of sorting themselves out.
CHAPTER 13
At 9 p.m. Susannah called the police station and told them her husband still hadn’t shown up. They promised to inform Detective Jericho.
Then she spent a very strange night. She had killed a man, yet when she tried to assess her emotional state she drew a blank; all she felt was a vague sense of relief, and an awareness that she must keep her wits about her, concentrate on the task at hand.
When Susannah made the phone calls Detective Jericho had suggested, she realized how few friends she and Burt had. When they were in New York, she attended a number of social events with her husband—art openings, charity fund-raisers, an occasional dinner party—but they never seemed to make any real connections with other couples. And after she moved out to Montauk in April, she was mainly involved with decorating the house and teaching dance classes. Burt had arranged her life in such a way that she was quite isolated. Aside from Gretchen Silverman-Lewis, her only social activity was her weekly trip into the city for a class at the Broadway Dance Center, and lunch with her former New York roommates, Blanche and Maurezio.
So she had very few phone calls to make. She alerted Burt’s lawyer, who was clearly alarmed and said he’d phone Burt’s business associates. She rang Gretchen who offered to come over, but Susannah said she was fine, at least for the moment.
She made a few perfunctory calls to the Getty station, the IGA market, and the East Hampton Commuter Airline office. Then she phoned Maurezio and Blanche in the city, to further establish she was really worried about Burt’s disappearance.
One area of concern was the money in Burt’s jacket pocket. Susannah couldn’t leave it there, because if there was a police investigation they might discover it. Detective Jericho was clearly a cop who overlooked nothing and he’d definitely view $60,000 in cash with suspicion.
There can be no loose ends, she thought. Also, who knows what’s going to happen in my life? The cash might come in handy down the line.
She took the envelope with the money and went to Burt’s office. She opened his bottom desk drawer and put the envelope in the back, behind some files. There, if the police found it, she’d claim it belonged to her husband and she knew nothing about it.
The other issue was Burt’s automatic pistol, which he kept in his nightstand. She opened the drawer and looked at the gun. The weapon might raise questions in Detective Jericho’s mind, but on the other hand Burt had a pistol permit (“Some people don’t like me,” he used to say). Susannah decided to leave the gun where it was.
There was so much to think about, so many decisions to make, bases to cover—one misstep could be disastrous. She’d already messed up with the track in the sand.
I wish to hell Detective Jericho wasn’t on this case, she thought. He’s too damn good.
Susannah was awakened at dawn by the stut-stut-stut-stut of a helicopter’s rotor blades beating in the sky above her. She went out on the deck and saw the Coast Guard chopper flying low over the beach, heading toward the marshy inlet north of the house. Out in the ocean she could see an orange and black outboard patrol boat slowly cruising near the shoreline.
She heard a car engine and turned to see a police Jeep kicking up sand as it traversed the dunes. Then it rode out onto the beach and began a slow reconnoiter of the area.
She went back inside the house, threw some water on her face, and heated a cup of coffee in the microwave.
The phone rang and it was Detective Jericho.
“Any word from your husband?”
“No.”
“Then you’ll need to fill out a missing person report. Can you come down to the precinct house this morning?”
“Okay. Montauk?”
“East Hampton. 159 Pantigo Road.”
“Detective,” Susannah said. “I’m getting really scared.” For once she was telling the truth.
“I understand, Mrs. Cascadden,” Jericho said. “This must be a very difficult time for you. Rest assured I’ll do everything in my power to help you.”
“Thank you,” she said. But she wasn’t sure if his help would save her or destroy her.
The East Hampton precinct house is a modest one-story red brick building set behind the town hall and next to the courthouse. It is surrounded by a group of Eighteenth Century wood frame houses that were moved there by the East Hampton Village Preservation Society to create a sense of what the town once looked like. The entrance to the police station is landscaped on either side with oval shaped privet hedges; it looks more like a real estate office than a police station.
Inside, the walls are painted matte atrium-white, unlike the color scheme at Jericho’s former station house in East Harlem, which featured several layers of barf green and turd brown. There is no smell of urine or disinfectant, and the lighting is mostly incandescent, not fluorescent. There are no cries of “Muthafuckah!” and “I’nt do nothin’, a’ight!”
Jericho was in his office, speaking on the phone to Coast Guard Lieutenant Tommy Gibbons, a pal he knew from the East Hampton Bulldog Gym, where he occasionally worked out.
“The patrol boat’s out trollin’ for floaters,” the Coast Guard officer said. “But so far all they’ve seen is flotsam, jetsam, and used condoms. Air-Sea chopper’s been doin’ orbits, five miles in both directions from the house. We’ll keep on patrolin’, but if we find anything, chances are it’s a Loved One.”
“Okay. Thanks, Tommy.”
“Unless of course, the dude just took off.”
“Doubt it,” Jericho said. “We’ve got cars and men out looking for him, and we’re checking the marinas. But he was wearing only swimming briefs, no shirt or shoes. He apparently had no money or credit cards with him. So how far can he get?”
“Right. Well, I’ll ring you if there’s any news. Take care.”
“Thanks, Tom.”
Jericho hung up, knowing L
ieutenant Gibbons was correct. What they’d probably be looking for now was a dead body. Two summers before, a few months after he joined the force, a woman had drowned off Sagg Main Beach and her body had washed up three days later, a mile from where she’d gone swimming. She was horribly disfigured—having been slammed by waves against rocks, nibbled at by crabs and fish—and bloated by the natural decomposition process of being submerged so long.
Jericho grimaced when he recalled going to the beach with Detective Dominick Manos that day. The sight of the corpse had caused Jericho to become dizzy, and he’d almost blacked out before he managed to turn away and pull himself together. Without anyone noticing, Jericho knew it was a mild version of the flashbacks he used to get back in East Harlem. Still, he felt it wasn’t serious, especially since it hadn’t happened again in over a year.
His intercom buzzed and the desk clerk said there was a Mrs. Cascadden to see him.
Susannah entered wearing a man’s button-down white shirt over jeans. She wore no lipstick, her hair was mussed and she had on owlish sunglasses. She looked as if she hadn’t slept all night. Wow. Jericho thought. Even when she’s a mess, she looks terrific.
Susannah took a quick look around Jericho’s cramped, cluttered office. One wall was lined with blue statute books, and a computer dominated the cluttered desk. She saw a silver frame that looked like it contained a photograph, but it was facing away from her. The office had one window, with a view of a red-leafed maple tree.
“I wanted to ask you,” she said as she sat down, “how come this is being handled from East Hampton?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I would’ve thought the Montauk Police— ”
“Montauk is a precinct of East Hampton township. A missing person case requires a detective, and they don’t have any detectives out there.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I’m sure glad you’re— ”
“You’ll have to fill this out,” he said, handing her a form. “Here’s a pen. Press hard, there’s carbons.”
Susannah took off her sunglasses and began writing on the legal size report, backed by a carbon and a green sheet. The Suffolk County Missing/Unidentified Person Report was an exercise in minutia. It asked for military time and date of report, date last seen, character of case (disabled, involuntary, disaster victim, custodial interference, endangered) and so on.
