by Walter Marks
Cascadden was murdered. Possible but not probable at this point in the investigation. No suspects except maybe his wife, which doesn't seem likely. Motive? There may have been problems in the marriage, so his wife could have a motive, but so far nothing points to that. Better: Cascadden’s business dealings undoubtedly resulted in making many enemies, people who’d be angry at him. That should be explored...
Jericho’s phone rang. The desk sergeant said there was a Mr. Conforti to see him.
“Who?”
“Conforti. Says he’s the football coach out at the high school.”
“Oh, yeah. All right, send him in.”
Coach Conforti appeared a few moments later. He had a canceled check in his hand.
“Hiya, Detective Jericho. Here it is, like I promised. Five hundred bucks made out to Doctor’s Without Borders.”
“That’s good, Coach. How’s the season going?”
“We lost our opener to Christ the King.”
“Guess they have friends in high places.”
The coach missed the joke completely. “But I’m sure we’re gonna whup Southampton.”
“Don’t forget to set your tight end as a slot receiver and hit him over the middle.” Jericho said. “It’s the easiest first down in football and it’s the most overlooked.”
The coach looked impressed, as if Jericho were Vince Lombardi.
“Now, you’ll have to excuse me,” Jericho said. “I’ve got a ton of work.”
“Okay. Listen, do you know Officer Karlin?”
Teddy Karlin, Jericho thought. There are a lot of numbskulls on the force, but Karlin is definitely in the highest percentile.”
“Yes, I know him.”
“Is he around?”
“He has the day shift,” Jericho said. ”So he’d be out on patrol.”
“Too bad. I wanted to thank him in person.”
“For what?”
“Somebody stole a Jeep Wrangler,” the coach said. “It belonged to one of my players—Randy Cohen. Karlin found it. It was abandoned in the town lot. Y’know, off Edgemere Avenue?”
“Where was it stolen?”
“Montauk. North Beach. Randy and his pal were spear-fishing in the afternoon. When they came out of the water, the car was gone, along with their clothes, wallets, and money. Figure somebody was walkin’ on the beach, saw the car and their stuff and just took off with it.”
“When did this happen?”
“A few days ago. I don’t remember the exact date. Anyway, when you see Karlin, tell him Coach Conforti said thanks. He used to play for me.”
“What position?”
“He was the holder for the place kicker—till he busted a finger.”
“Sounds like Karlin. I’ll tell him.”
“Okay. See ya, detective.”
Jericho went to the Case File Room. He rummaged through the Auto Theft files and found R. Cohen. The theft was reported at 4:05 p.m. on September 17, the same day Burt Cascadden drowned.
Karlin, you schmuck, he thought. Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this? Didn’t it occur to you it might be connected to Burt Cascadden’s disappearance? This could validate the theory that Cascadden faked his own death. But hold on. If he faked his death, he’d have planned carefully — had his own car and clothing waiting for him. He couldn’t count on someone else’s Jeep and clothes being parked on the beach.
But knowing Karlin, he might’ve written down the wrong date.
He copied Randy Cohen’s phone number from the report, and called him. The young man confirmed that his Jeep was stolen on the date specified.
Jericho returned to writing out his notes. He typed in the data on the stolen Jeep, and at the end he wrote:
Logically it doesn’t seem like the Jeep is related to Cascadden’s disappearance. But... on the same beach, and on the same afternoon?
CHAPTER 22
Susannah spent the rest of the day devising her plan. Her first goal was to get the negatives and any other prints Jessie had. She was hoping he kept all the damning evidence in his home, so she faced the critical problem of how to get into his apartment. She hoped nobody would be there. She doubted he lived with a woman, because no female could abide those shitty underpants, and besides, he didn’t seem the type. Maybe a roommate. Hopefully not.
The next step would be to leave Jessie’s belongings on the beach that night, to suggest he’d stripped to go swimming and drowned. But Susannah noticed a few blood spatters on Jessie’s brown overalls. Blood on his clothing might suggest foul play, so she decided to pour Shout on the blood stains, dump the pants in her washing machine, then put them in the dryer while she went to retrieve the negatives.
The other issue was Jessie’s car, a 1999 teal Hyundai Elantra, which he’d parked outside her home. Another accidental drowning on her own beach would look suspicious, so she decided to drive the Hyundai the five miles to the beach at Montauk Point, plant Jessie’s clothing and personal effects on the beach, and then walk back to her house along the shore — only a two-mile stretch.
Susannah drove her BMW SUV along the dark road. West Lake Drive had no streetlamps and she flicked on her high beams to illuminate the road.
Up ahead she saw a lighted sign for Sportsman’s Dock Marina. When she got closer, she could read the letters below it: Grogan’s Cabins — 1 BR Efficiencies — Cable TV. No Vacancy.
She parked her car behind some trees near the marina’s entrance. Her apparel was the same color as her car; black pants, shirt, and sneakers, black bandanna covering her blond hair. She carried a dance bag containing a Mag-Lite flashlight with new batteries.
She slipped on a pair of latex gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints.
The night was quiet except for the relentless shrill of cicadas. Susannah was breathing hard, her stomach doing flip-flops. If somebody catches me, I have no excuse for why I’m prowling around here. And if I don’t get those prints and negatives, the police will find them and I’ll be finished.
From the marina entrance, she saw a red neon sign reading “Liar’s Saloon.” The bass thump echoed from the bar’s jukebox, and she could hear men’s raucous laughter.
The parking area was deserted. She moved toward the cabins. Units 1 and 2 had lights on inside. She went around behind them and saw two more units. Both of them were dark. She turned on her flashlight, which lit up Unit 3.
I’d better knock, she thought. Maybe someone’s in there sleeping. If there is, I’ll just have to split.
She rapped tentatively on the door. No response. She knocked a little harder. Still nothing. On the key ring were two latch keys. She hesitated, fear gripping her.
Well, no guts, no glory.
The first key she tried didn’t fit, but the second one did. She eased the door open and shone her flashlight around the darkened room. Nobody. She slipped inside and closed the door.
“Hello?” she whispered. She had no idea what she would say if someone answered. No one did.
She looked around the cabin, but it was hopeless trying to explore a dark unfamiliar space by flashlight.
She looked back at the door. Next to it was a window, partly covered by a Venetian blind. She had to take a chance. She lowered the blinds and flipped a wall switch. A ceramic table lamp and tilted torchiere popped on.
The living room was a lot neater than she’d expected; she figured the guy had to live in a shit hole. But except for some dirty clothes lying around, there was a sense of order. The furniture was worn but decent — lanai-style bamboo couch and chairs. At one end of the room was a Pullman kitchen with a Formica table; on the table was a Dell laptop. The sink contained a half-full coffee mug; the drainer held clean Melmac dishes.
The bathroom door was open; across from it was a door that was locked. Susannah tried the second key on Jessie’s ring and the door swung open. It was a bedroom with a single window. The shade was drawn so Susannah turned on the light.
The walls were covered with framed photographs, black-and-w
hite shots of naked and half-naked women, all lying on the beach. Oh, my God, thought Susannah. So this is what that creep was up to. It looks like the shots were taken from above. He had a pilot’s license, so he must’ve taken them from a plane, with a telephoto lens.
She looked at the pictures one by one. The women were an odd collection of shapes and sizes, and there were no rear views. Obviously the pig wasn’t concerned about beauty; all he wanted was breasts, thighs, bellies, and vaginas.
Susannah saw no photos of herself. On the dresser she noticed a cardboard Pendaflex file box. It contained hanging file folders, all neatly labeled with dates. Each held prints of nude women, and negatives stored in glassine envelopes.
At the back of the file box she found his latest folder. It had a contact sheet that was identical to the one Jessie had shown her earlier that day, but the negatives were not in the file.
It was obvious these pictures weren’t taken from a plane. She surmised Jessie must’ve hidden near her house to get them. She pulled out the whole file folder and stuck it in her dance bag.
To be on the safe side, Susannah looked in the bureau drawers, in the wastebasket, and even under the bed. There were no more prints.
She went into the bathroom and turned on the light. The entire room glowed red from a bulb that seemed to be floating in air. The place was set up with equipment for developing and printing. She turned off the light and tried another switch. A fluorescent light flickered on.
She spotted a strip of negatives dangling from a clip on the shower rod. She held it up to the light and saw the incriminating shots. Elated, she rolled up the negatives and put them in her bag.
There was a banging on the cabin door.
“Hey, Jessie,” someone yelled.
Susannah froze. It was a man’s voice, slurred with alcohol. “Quit jerkin’ off in there and open the fuck up.” He pounded on the door again.
Then another male voice: “He’s probably workin’ in the darkroom. Let’s go.”
“Jess,” the first guy yelled. “C’mon have a beer with us. We’re goin’ to the Liar’s.”
“Forget it, Norm.”
“I bet he’s in there spankin’ the monkey,” Norm said, lowering his voice. “Let’s go in and catch him in the act. It’ll be fuckin’ hilarious.”
Susannah heard the doorknob rattling. She tried to figure out where to hide.
“Damn. The door’s locked.”
“Norm,” the other man said with annoyance. “Let him be.”
The bedroom, Susannah thought. Under the bed.
She started to make her way to the bedroom. Then she heard Norm’s voice. “I can open it with a credit card,” he said. “Watch this.”
Panic gripped Susannah. She retreated to the bathroom, slid behind the open door, and flattened herself against the wall.
“Screw it, Norm. Let’s go. If he wants to join us later, he will.”
“...Okay. Okay. You’re a goddamn killjoy, ya know that?”
The voices trailed off as the men walked away. Susannah’s heart was pounding. She sat down on the toilet seat, hyperventilating. It took her a while to calm down. Finally she wiped her sweating brow on her sleeve and stood up. She had to keep going.
In the darkroom’s trash can she found another copy of the contact sheet with the photos of her. The images were washed out, underexposed in printing. She shoved the sheet into her bag, then combed the whole darkroom. There were no other prints or negatives anywhere.
On the floor was a bright yellow shopping bag with art deco lettering: East Hampton Camera Shop. It contained only a receipt for something called stop bath.
She searched the living room and kitchen. Satisfied she’d gotten everything, Susannah turned off the lights and restored the blinds to their former position. She opened the front door and peeped out. Nobody.
Susannah shut the door behind her and ripped the latex gloves off her sweating hands.
For a brief moment her tension subsided, but then the anxiety returned. There was so much more to be done.
CHAPTER 23
That night Jericho was at home on his computer, researching Burt Cascadden. He hoped to find out who his enemies were — people who might possibly want him dead.
A Google search brought up a number of news articles on Cascadden, mostly in “The Real Deal”, a New York City Real Estate magazine. The Bridgeview project in Brooklyn was often covered. Early articles were positive, but the most recent press was completely negative. Burt was never interviewed. Instead, his attorney, H. Quinn Healey Esq. was always his spokesman.
Healy? He must be the family lawyer Susannah mentioned in her voicemail.
Jericho decided to check Healey out on Martindale-Hubbell, an online site that gives peer ratings for all attorneys. The detective had used it occasionally in NYC, when he believed a suspect’s lawyer was shady or underhanded. The site would reveal if an attorney had any ethical problems in his past.
He typed in Martindale-Hubbell.com and the page came up. He entered “H. Quinn Healey” pressed Search, and the screen displayed his name and rating: Substandard — 2.0 out of 5. He hit “more information” and saw a list of “Lawyers publicly censured by the Tennessee Supreme Court, as reported by the Tennessee Board of Professional Responsibility.” He clicked on the hyperlink and found a page that read:
Herrold QUINN HEALEY of Memphis was publicly censured on April 7, 2002 for violating DR 1-102; DR 5-103, DR 7-102; and DR 9-102. Healey was found guilty by the hearing panel of overdrawing his client’s estate account and co-mingling personal and operating funds within. He also knowingly delayed payment of a settlement involving a client’s personal injury case for several years, and misappropriated those funds for his own use.
Mitigating factors were Healey’s unsullied reputation up to this point, his standing in the community, and his acknowledgment of guilt.
The Board determined a public censure was appropriate and no objection was filed by Healey.
Counselor H. Quinn Healey is clearly a slime ball, Jericho considered. Does Susannah Cascadden know that? If she does, why is she going to him for help? If she doesn’t, he could be trouble for her. If her husband is deceased, there’d surely be a will. Though Burt was in financial trouble, there’d certainly be assets Susannah would be entitled to. Maybe I should warn her. Or should I stay out of it?
Regardless, Healey is someone I need to investigate further
CHAPTER 24
Back at her house, Susannah put on her gloves again and pulled Jessie’s overalls out of the dryer. She noticed they looked too neat and clean, like they hadn’t been worn. For a touch of realism, she wrinkled the overalls, brought them out to Jessie’s Hyundai and rubbed them with dirt from the floor mats.
In the front seat were two cans of Bud Lite. In the back seat, Susannah saw three Ring Dings—one half-eaten—and a dirty towel.
She went back to house and returned with the rest of Jessie’s clothing, plus his keys and her flashlight. Then she drove off into the night.
Montauk Point Lighthouse is up on a high hill. Its 2.5 million candlepower beacon revolves every five seconds and can be seen even in the brightest sunlight for nineteen nautical miles. On a clear night it reaches even further.
Below the lighthouse there are three distinct coastal formations. To the south is Turtle Cove, a sandy beach that is popular with bathers and surfers. The area directly under the lighthouse is a slope, terraced with huge piled-up boulders, a man-made buttress against the pounding of the surf. To the north is a flat beach covered with rocks, pebbles, and shells, which curves around past False Point and turns sandy as it reaches the Cascadden beach house. The north beach is unsuitable for swimming, but surfcasters and spear-gun-toting scuba divers love to fish its rocky waters for striped bass.
As Susannah drove Jessie’s Hyundai up the hill, she could see the sweeping beam of the lighthouse beacon piercing the night sky. Her headlights illuminated a sign: Montauk State Park — Surf Fishing Capital o
f the world.
She crested the hill and saw an arrow indicating the Public Parking Lot. Opposite was another sign: Beach Service Road — Maintenance Vehicles Only. She swung the Hyundai onto the service road and followed its heat-cracked, bumpy macadam down the hill to Turtle Cove.
Susannah looked up and saw the moon. It was intermittently obscured by passing clouds, but there was enough light to see. Exiting the car, she trudged across the sand, carrying Jessie’s clothing and the soiled towel. She put Jessie’s things far back from the waterline, so they wouldn’t get swept away if the tide came in.
She returned to the Hyundai and set Jessie’s shoes and socks on the ground next to the car. She left his wallet and the Ring Dings in the backseat. Seeing the two cans of beer, she considered half-emptying one and putting it on the front seat, to suggest Jessie had been drinking before he went swimming.
No, she thought. If the body washes up and it’s autopsied, the medical examiner won’t find alcohol in his system and he’ll become suspicious.
Then it hit her: If his body washes up, it won’t look like he drowned. His lungs will not be filled with seawater. Oh, no.
Wait, it doesn’t matter — even if the police suspect he was murdered, there’ll be no connection to me. I got all the prints and negatives — I hope!
God, what if I make a mistake? I can’t think of everything. And if that detective is assigned to the case...
Susannah nervously walked back up the service road. When she reached the main road, she followed it past the lighthouse and over to the snack bar and souvenir shop. She’d been there before, so she knew her way down to the north beach. She found the sandy path, but as she descended she stopped, startled by an eerie squeaking sound. She looked around and saw a children’s play area, with a swing noisily swaying back and forth in the breeze. A cloud passed in front of the moon, and it was suddenly pitch black.
In the total darkness, she began trembling. She felt like a helpless little girl, trapped in a lightless room, where bad things, terrible things could happen to her. Her breathing turned ragged.
