by Walter Marks
Breathe. Breathe. Take deep breaths.
Slowly the panic subsided.
She reluctantly turned on her Mag-Lite and made her way down to the beach.
When she reached the beach, the cloud had passed and the moon lit her way again. But the sky was clouding over. She would have to rely on her flashlight.
The beach was so covered with rocks, stones, and shells that it was difficult to walk on. But in front of the dunes, along the thick, brambly brush, was a sandy trail, created by the 4x4’s, dune buggies, and hikers that traversed the beach all summer. That would be her way home.
Susannah looked at her watch. It was 10:25 p.m. Her place was a couple of miles away; she could probably get there in under an hour.
She began her trek. For about forty minutes she made steady progress, despite the pesky insects, the horseshoe crabs, and the thorny plants that grew in the underbrush.
Then she reached a dark section of beach and heard the crashing of waves. She realized she’d made a critical mistake: the tide! It was coming in fast, and water was swirling around the natural rock barrier that kept people away from her own private beach.
Going back to the lighthouse would take forty minutes, and then she’d have to walk five miles along the highway to get to her house. That was not an option. Not only was she getting tired, but if she was spotted walking on that dark road in the dead of night, how could she explain it?
The thick undergrowth on the dunes precluded walking around the rocks. She considered jumping into the ocean and attempting to swim, but she knew she’d be pulled out to sea by the current. And she didn’t want to wait the tide out, because it could be as much as six hours before it receded enough. Six hours on that bug-infested, crab-ridden beach? No way. She had to try to make it through on foot.
Susannah stepped cautiously into the churning water. She felt the slippery rocks under her sneakers. She began taking small steps, feeling around for solid footing as she went. She trained the flashlight on the water to pick up any large rocks that might impede her. Her ankle twisted when she slipped on some slick stones, but she was able to shift her weight and avoid a sprain.
A surging wave leaped out of the night and knocked her legs out from under her. She fell backward into the swirling water. Her flashlight flew out of her hands and disappeared, leaving Susannah in darkness. In the grip of the rip current, she was being pulled relentlessly toward the open sea. It was as if the deep had decided to claim her, as punishment for her evil deeds.
Then, with a sudden change of heart, the ocean receded and released her. Susannah struggled onto her hands and knees and tried to orient herself. In the distance she could see the lighthouse beam sweeping through the sky. She turned in the opposite direction, and after a few moments she could make out a twinkling light off in the distance; it had to be her house. Thank God she’d left the deck light on.
She felt a slicing pain in the palm of her left hand and knew she’d cut it on the sharp edge of a rock. It was clear — the safest way to move forward now was by crawling. Only a low center of gravity could keep her from losing her balance. She reached in her pocket and pulled out her latex gloves. They might make her grip more slippery but hopefully they’d prevent her hands from getting further lacerated.
Keeping her eyes on the beacon of her deck light, she moved forward once more, crawling, dragging herself along, battling the rocks and the waves. Her hand stung, her belly still ached from Jessie’s punch, and her strength was failing. Still she persevered.
At last she felt a smooth surface under her hands and knees. It was soft wet sand, devoid of rocks and pebbles. She rose to her feet. Her house was now visible on the dunes only a few hundred yards away.
Susannah stood up and walked to the house. As she climbed the deck steps she saw the statue of the flute-playing Krishna. For a startling moment she thought she heard him playing his flute. But it was just the wind.
Susannah took a hot shower and put a Band-Aid on her hand. Dressed in a bathrobe, she went out to the living room bar and poured herself a large snifter of Grand Armagnac.
She sat down on the couch in front of the fireplace. On the coffee table she noticed the Monopoly game Burt had sent her after their first date.
She thought of the night she’d invited Blanche and Maurezio out to the beach house. After dinner, Burt insisted they all play Monopoly, and he played like a cutthroat, win-at-all-costs asshole. It brought back all her memories of his smugness, his arrogance, his megalomania.
She picked up Jessie’s negatives and contact sheets and examined the twenty-four shots of her killing her husband.
She sipped her cognac, thinking about what would happen if the police got their hands on these pictures. She would Go To Jail, Go Directly to jail, and never Pass Go — never have a moment in her life of joy or fulfillment.
Susannah placed the photos and negatives in the fireplace, doused them with brandy, and lit them. She sat back and watched them burn. They gave off a warm, comforting glow.
Incriminating evidence flambé, she thought, with a touch of levity.
But the light-hearted moment was brief. It was replaced by a mantra that from now on she could never quite repress: I’ve taken the lives of two human beings. I’ve taken the lives of two human beings.
CHAPTER 25
In the morning Susannah decided to have breakfast at the Amagansett Farmer’s Market. It was one of her favorite places; she often went there to have coffee and muffins, sitting at a picnic table under a canopy of oak and maple trees. After the trauma of last night, she thought it best to do a normal activity, hoping to normalize her life. It was no easy task.
She had the Sunday Times with her and decided to do the crossword puzzle. When she opened the magazine section, she saw an ad for a mattress company. It said: “Call 1-800 M-A-T-T-R-E-S. Leave off the last S for Savings.”
She turned the page in annoyance, thinking — I’m sick of all these alphabet phone numbers; 1-800 CAR-SALE, 1-800 MORTGAGE ...
Then it hit her: Letters stand for numbers. A-BE-DEGHI?
She took out a pen and scribbled in the margin of the magazine. Let’s see, A(1) — B(2) E(5) — D(4) E(5) G(7) H(8) I(9) 1-25-45789. That could definitely be the number of Burt’s Singapore bank account!
She pulled out her iPhone and looked up UBAF bank. It listed a contact phone number and she tapped it into her keyboard. The call was answered by a recording in various languages, finally telling her to press “four” for English. Another recording announced that the bank was closed and would re-open at nine in the morning.
Of course, time difference, she thought.
“Press ‘two’, the voice intoned, ”to be connected to a twenty-four hour service line.”
A woman with a polished English accent answered.
“Good evening,” Susannah said. “I’d like to check my account balance. Account number 1-25-45789.”
“Name?”
“Cascadden.” She spelled it out.
“Just a moment while I pull up that account. ...Yes, I have it. Your PIN number, please.”
“Um, I don’t have that at the moment. I’m Mr. Cascadden’s wife.”
“I’m sorry, Madam. Without a PIN number I can’t give out any information.”
“My husband is deceased.”
“Oh, I am sorry. But without a PIN number, we’ll have to see a death certificate and probated will.”
“Photocopies?”
“No. We require the originals. In these types of cases, we ask that the surviving party bring the documents and appear at our office in person. As you can imagine, we take great care in protecting privacy, and guarding against fraud.”
“Of course,” Susannah said, concealing her frustration. “I’ll get back to you on that. Thank you.”
As she hung up, she heard a child’s voice shouting.
“Susannah, Susannah.”
She looked up and saw Katie, her five-year-old dance pupil, dashing toward her.
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sp; “Hiya, Katie-did,” Susannah said, waving.
She held out her arms and the child fairly flew into them. Then Katie turned her head and called out, “Daddy.”
Jericho approached the table, carrying a white paper bag.
“This is my dance teacher, Daddy.”
“Detective Jericho,” Susannah exclaimed. “I didn’t realize... “
“Katie uses her stepfather’s last name,” Jericho explained.
“Oh.”
“Honey, get off Mrs. Cascadden’s lap,” Jericho said to Katie. “Sorry. She gets a little overexuberant sometimes.”
“No, no,” Susannah said smiling. “I prefer to call it high energy.”
“Can we sit with her?” Katie begged her father. “Please.”
“No, honey. I’m sure Mrs. Cascadden would like to read the paper.”
“There aren’t any free tables,” the child said.
Jericho looked around and saw she was right. “Let’s go, Katie. We can have our cookies in the car.”
“Don’t be silly,” Susannah said. “Please join me.” Katie immediately slid off Susannah’s lap and sat in the chair next to her. Jericho shrugged and sat down. Susannah smiled. Terrific, she thought. Here I am having breakfast with the detective who could nail me for homicide. “Please join me!” What was I thinking? Obviously I wasn’t.
Jericho handed Katie an oatmeal raisin cookie and a Coke. He took out a container of caffe latte and some biscotti for himself.
There was an awkward silence.
“I, uh, I’ve talked to your wife a few times,” Susannah said. “She’s very nice.”
“They’re divorced,” Katie jumped in. “I live with my mom and Irwin. Daddy visitates me every weekend.”
Jericho reached over and stroked his daughter’s curly brown hair. “Yep,” he said with a grin “I moved out here from New York so I could ‘visitate’ her. Katie’s the light of my life.”
Susannah saw the love in the detective’s eyes as he looked at his daughter. There was a tenderness about him that was so unlike the tough cop she’d been dealing with.
“Y’know, Katie could become a dancer some day, if she wants to,” Susannah said. “She’s very strong and has excellent kinetic rhythm.”
“Could I get on “Dancing with the Stars?”
“It’s possible.”
Jericho hugged his daughter. “What star would you pick for your partner?,”
“Maybe I could be the star!” said Katie.
Susannah laughed. Jericho was glowing. Here he was, with his daughter and another woman, and it felt comfortable and wonderful almost like a family.
His cell phone rang.
Susannah flinched. It was chirping Für Elise just like Burt’s Blackberry. She hoped the detective didn’t notice her reaction.
“Yes, Chief.” Jericho frowned. “Where?”
He listened for a while. “Okay, but why can’t Randall take it? All right, all right,” he said. “Turtle Cove. Got it.”
“Oh my God, Turtle Cove,” Susannah thought. “They’ve found the Hyundai!”
“Okay,” Jericho said. “I just have to drop my daughter off at home. I’ll get there soon as I can.”
He turned to Katie. “C’mon, Sweetie. Daddy’s gotta go to work.”
“But we’re supposed to rent ‘Toy Story 3’ and watch it at your house.”
“I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
Katie got up and took her father’s hand. “Bye-bye, Susannah.”
“Bye, Katie. See you next week.”
“Thanks for letting us sit with you,” Jericho said. “I’m sure we’ll talk soon.”
“Sorry you have to work.”
He nodded sadly. “A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.”
Hmm — a cop quoting Gilbert & Sullivan? Susannah thought as she watched them leave hand in hand. But soon Daddy will resume his role as Detective Jericho, inspecting the abandoned Hyundai and Virgil’s clothing on Turtle Cove beach, looking for clues.
I hope to God I’ve thought of everything.
When Susannah got home she found a message on her machine from Gretchen’s husband, Arnold Lewis. He said he’d be happy to represent Susannah and help with any legal matters that might arise. Susannah called the lawyer back, thanked him, and told him about Quinn Healey’s reluctance to show her Burt’s will.
“Have you looked for a copy around the house?” Arnold asked.
She said she’d searched Burt’s desk and computer hard drive in the city, and his office and laptop at the beach house and had no luck.
“I’ll just write Healey a letter,” Arnold said. “He knows he has to produce the will posthaste or face a court order.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to call?”
“No.”
“Oh, okay. I just thought — ”
“Lawyers prefer letters because they’re evidentiary.”
“Do you want Healey’s contact info?”
“I’ll find it online.”
Susannah had only known Arnold socially and found him to be genial and funny. Now, in his role as an attorney he was cold and humorless.
Arnold asked for her home and e-mail addresses and promised to send her a copy of Burt’s will soon as it arrived.
“Listen,” Susannah said, “I expect to pay you for this work.”
“You’ll get a bill.”
Well, that was kind of abrupt, she thought.
After a moment she spoke. “Um...um...that’ll be fine.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
“Say hi to Gretchen.”
“Right.”
He hung up. She shook her head. Well, at least he’s no Quinn Healey.
CHAPTER 26
Jericho was finishing up his investigation on Turtle Cove beach. He had interviewed the maintenance worker who’d found the abandoned Hyundai. The workman had been sent to the beach because some asshole had removed a sign saying “Piping Plover Nesting Area — Do Not Disturb.” It was replaced with a sign reading: “Piping Plover Tastes Like Chicken.”
Jericho inventoried the physical evidence. The missing man’s wallet identified him as Jessie Russell, residing at Grogan’s Cabins, Montauk.
The similarity to Burt Cascadden’s disappearance was startling. There must be a connection, he thought. Does Jessie Russell have anything to do with Cascadden? Is Russell alive or dead? If he’s dead, could this be the work of a serial killer? Jesus, as far as I know, there’s never been a serial killer out here.
On the scene was Teddy Karlin, Jericho’s least favorite patrolman. Karlin was dying to dust for prints, but Jericho feared he’d smudge everything, so he did it himself.
“Hey, Jericho,” Karlin said, holding up a half-eaten cream-filled devil’s food cake. “Found a bunch of these on the back seat. He musta had a thing for Ring Dings.”
“I wouldn’t be talking about him in the past tense just yet,” Jericho said.
“But it sure looks like he took off his clothes, went for a dip, and drowned.”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” Jericho said patiently. “Stick those Ring Dings in the bag with the other stuff. The half-eaten one might give us bite marks later, for identification.”
“Wait a minute,” Jericho went on. “Hand me the evidence bag.” Karlin complied and Jericho reached into it and pulled out a sock. He smelled it gingerly and made a face. “There’s enough organic material in athlete’s foot to give us a shit-load of DNA if we need it. Gimme a zip baggie.” Jericho placed both socks in the baggie, sealed it, and put it back with the other evidence.
Jericho photographed the scene, then ordered Karlin to call for a tow truck. “Oh, and tell them to bring a CrimeScope. When they come, have ‘em take the Hundai to the station house, then meet me at Russell’s place. And bring the CrimeScope.”
“No problem.”
“That means there’ll be a problem,” Jericho thought wryly.
“Grogan’s Cabins over on West Lake, right?”
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“Right. I’ll go over there now — see if he’s showed up, or if there’s any clue as to his whereabouts.”
“Mrs. Grogan’ll let you in the cabin. Tell her you’re a friend of mine.”
“Okay.”
“From the picture on his pilot’s license,” Karlin said, ”I’d figure the missing guy’s a Mexican — or maybe some kind of Hispanic.”
Jericho ignored the Archie Bunker-ism. “With a name like Russell?”
“He coulda changed it. You know these illegals.”
“Let me ask you something, Teddy,” Jericho said. Karlin was an idiot, but he was a Bonacker, the name given to natives of the area, so he had a good knowledge of local happenings. “Two disappearances that appear to be drownings within a few days does that seem odd to you?”
“Nah,” Karlin replied. “Especially this time of year when the rip is so strong. The weather’s nice and people tend to ignore the no-swimmin’ flags. I remember when I was a rookie, two kids, one from the high school and a surfer from Mineola got sucked away in the space of a couple days. Later we found the kid floatin’ off Georgica Beach, and a week after that, part of a ribcage washed up. Chief Manos said there coulda been three floaters, because the ribcage had entirely different DMA.”
“D-N-A.”
“Yeah. We never did find the other bodies. Sharks coulda got ‘em.”
CHAPTER 27
Mrs. Grogan willingly handed Jericho the missing man’s room key. “Is that Indian in trouble?” she asked.
“He’s a Native-American?”
“Yeah. Shinnecock. And he drinks like an Indian too.”
“Well, he seems to have gone missing,” Jericho said. “What can you tell me about him?”
Mrs. Grogan had nothing good to say about Jessie Russell, except that he paid his rent on time. She said Jessie had a job flying airplanes, and that his hobby was photography.
“He’s always boasting about how he develops his own pictures, like he was some kind of genius.”
