by Walter Marks
She led him to Burt’s bathroom. Jericho snapped on a pair of latex gloves. Susannah swallowed hard.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Cascadden?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You look a little upset.”
“This isn’t easy.”
“Of course.” Jericho picked up Burt’s hairbrush, a Jean-Pierre Prestige model. It had numerous black hairs straggling from its boar bristles. There were follicles galore.
“Dyed hair, correct?”
“Yes.”
Jericho opened the medicine cabinet and saw a bottle of Just For Men Shampoo-In Hair Color — Natural Jet Black.
He took out an evidence bag and dumped the hair dye and the hairbrush into it.
“This’ll do fine,” he said as he sealed the bag.
They returned to the living room in silence.
“Thanks, Mrs. Cascadden.”
“I just hope you find out something. This — this not knowing is really getting to me.”
“I should tell you,” Jericho said. “This DNA could match somebody else. There’s been another possible drowning.”
“Oh, Gosh... I don’t know what to hope for.”
“I understand. But it’s always better to know.”
“How long before we find out anything?” she asked.
“About a week if I can pull strings. I’ll do my best. When I hear, you’ll hear.”
He smiled compassionately at her. She smiled back. For a moment Susannah felt a warm connection between them. Then Jericho looked away. The moment passed.
After Jericho left, Susannah’s mind stayed on the detective. For the first time she’d picked up a genuine sense of concern from him. And it felt good.
But he was the last person she could turn to for reassurance.
CHAPTER 31
In the morning Jericho went to the Chief’s office. He needed permission to go “up-island,” the local phrase meaning west of Riverhead.
He’d brought two bags with him. One contained Jessie’s socks and Kleenex. In the other was Burt Cascadden’s hair, hair dye, and hairbrush.
The Chief okayed his trip to the Hauppauge crime lab, and Jericho updated him on the Cascadden and Russell investigations.
“So,” the Chief said, “If the Indian was scared to swim in the ocean, there’s a good chance he was murdered.”
“Yes.”
“Motive?”
“My first thought was the nude pictures — somebody could’ve been pissed off about them, a husband, a boyfriend, maybe the woman herself.
”Maybe Jessie was blackmailing someone.”
“But nude pictures are no big deal these days. Who would pay to keep the pictures from being seen?”
“Maybe the blackmailer threatened to have them published,” Dominick said. “Like, if the woman was a celebrity, or the wife of a celebrity. Remember Hustler magazine’s nudie shots of Jackie Kennedy?”
“That was back in the Seventies, old-timer. Today? Hell, you can go on the Internet and see naked pictures of almost anybody famous. Who’d go so far as to kill to keep the pictures out of the media?”
“I dunno. Maybe an old-timer like me.”
Jericho smiled. “That does suggest another possibility,” he said. “Maybe Russell did sell nude pictures to a magazine and an angry husband found out and killed Jessie. No blackmail, just revenge.”
Manos nodded. “So — you’ve got some possible motives, but nothing concrete.”
“Not yet.”
The Chief didn’t hide his annoyance. “Any progress on the Cascadden thing?” he asked.
“So far it’s an accidental drowning.”
The Chief looked thoughtful. “Lemme ask you something,” he said. “You think Cascadden could’ve been murdered?”
“It’s possible.”
“You think the wife could’ve done it?”
“The wife?” Jericho said, his voice rising.
“Yes.”
The idea upset him. “Yes, she could be a suspect,” he said, hiding his feelings. “But so far it doesn’t seem likely.”
Manos looked at him quizzically. “The husband had big bucks. There’s her motive.”
“Chief,” he said, “he was in deep financial trouble, heading to bankruptcy.”
“But the wife might not’ve known that,” he said.
The detective didn’t respond.
“Jericho,” the Chief said, “I’m getting a funny vibe from you. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” he responded calmly. “I just mean, at this point there’s no evidence of homicide. Maybe if the bones turn out to be Cascadden’s, there could be some forensic indication of murder. But they probably won’t show anything. There’s only two spinal sections, and the seawater’s cleaned ‘em up pretty good.”
“So you’ve got nothing going in either case.”
“Nothing concrete. But maybe these DNA comparisons will...”
“Jericho,” Manos interrupted, frowning. “You’re the hotshot Manhattan homicide dick. Why do you think I gave you the shield?”
Jericho was silent.
“I don’t want a repeat of what happened with the Ted Ammon murder. You remember that, back in 2001?”
Manos was referring to East Hampton’s one recent high profile homicide case. Ammon was a multi-millionaire, who was bludgeoned to death in his Middle Lane mansion.
“Yes,” Jericho said. ”It got tons of media coverage in the city. As I remember, Ammon’s estranged wife got her slime-ball boyfriend to whack him, so she’d inherit his fortune. What was her name? — Generosa.”
“Yeah. Funny name for a greedy bitch,” said Manos. “The D.A. assigned the case to the Suffolk County police, saying we weren’t capable of handling a big murder investigation. I don’t want that reputation on my watch.”
“I understand.”
“Detective,” Manos said, “I would very much like you to clear up the death of that Indian. And soon.”
Jericho didn't even flinch this time when Manos used the very politically incorrect term.“I’m on it.”
“And resolve the Cascadden case.”
Jericho nodded. He picked up the evidence bags and went out to his car; a used, black Toyota Camry. It was about an hour’s drive to Hauppauge.
As he drove, Jericho remembered the Chief’s question — “You think the wife could’ve done it?” He chastised himself for the way he reacted.
I’m losing my objectivity, he thought, and that’s the worst thing a detective can do. Still, I haven’t seen anything to suggest homicide in the disappearance of Burton Cascadden. Except, possibly, that track in the sand in front of the beach house — which Susannah had no trouble explaining.
CHAPTER 32
As Jericho approached Southampton on Route 27, he remembered the angry words of Jessie’s sister: “He can rot in hell.” Jericho needed to find a suspect, perhaps someone who hated Jessie Russell. His sister Margaret was certainly worth talking to. So he decided a stop on his way to delivering the DNA evidence was in order.
He pulled off the highway at Tuckahoe Road and headed for the Shinnecock reservation.
Next to the entrance was the Shinnecock Indian Trading Post and Smoke Shop, with the requisite totem pole in front, feathered headdresses hung from the roof rafters, plus loads of cornball Indian souvenirs available for heap big wampum.
The Shinnecock are a state-recognized tribe, but they’re not, with some exceptions, recognized by the federal government. This enables them to sell low-tax cigarettes, but it also prevents them from receiving federal funds for health and education, or getting assistance from the Bureau of Indian Affairs to clean up their contaminated water supply and investigate their soaring cancer rates. And without federal support, they can’t establish a gambling casino like Foxwoods, the gravy train of the Mashantuket Pequots in Connecticut.
Lately though, NY State had begun to see casino gambling as a badly needed source of revenue, but between politics, red tape, lob
bying from Atlantic City, and competition from other powerful gaming corporations, it would likely be a long time before anyone pulled a slot machine lever for the benefit of the Shinnecocks.
Jericho flashed his badge and ID to the uniformed guard at the entrance to the reservation. Big mistake.
“Sorry, detective. Can’t let you in. You got no jurisdiction here.”
“I’m investigating a possible homicide,” Jericho said. “Southampton PD will okay it. Just call.”
“This ain’t their jurisdiction, either. This is state land. We’re under the State Police. You’ll need written authorization from them.”
“Look, I just want to talk to Margaret Russell. I’ll go in as a private citizen.”
“No way.”
“Her brother Jessie is dead and I’m trying to — ”
“Jessie Russell is dead?”
“Did you know him?”
“Sure. Is that the homicide you’re lookin’ into?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I hope whoever snuffed him cut off his balls first and shoved ‘em up his ass.”
“His sister Margaret seems to share your opinion of him.”
“If you want a list of people who want Jessie dead, it’ll include every person on the rez.”
“Why? What did he do?”
“Raped a fifteen-year-old girl — Carrie Hall. Sweetest thing you ever saw. One afternoon she was home alone, doin’ her lessons while her mother was at work. Jessie — he was here visitin’ his mom — sneaked in and did the girl, then told her he’d kill her if she talked. Took the poor kid a year before she worked up the courage to say what happened. Mrs. Hall refused to press charges; she didn’t want to put her daughter through any more grief. So Jessie got off. But her whole family swore they’d get him.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Maybe five years.”
“You think someone’d kill him after all this time?”
“They been arguin’ about it for years in the Tribal Council. Some people sayin’ an eye for an eye, others sayin’ no — ‘cause we’re livin’ in a country of laws. Like that’s done a lotta friggin’ good for our people. But anyone in Carrie’s family, especially her three brothers, mighta got fed up and decided to smoke the prick.”
“Guess I’ll have to get an okay from the State Police. What are the names of the brothers?”
The guard shook his head. “You can talk to them, or anybody else,” he said, “but you won’t get nowhere. On the rez we all cover for each other. It’s the Red Wall of Silence.”
Jericho got back into his car and drove away frustrated. He knew it wouldn’t matter if he got the State Police, every cop in Suffolk County, and even the FBI in on the investigation. If a member of the Shinnecock tribe had killed Jessie Russell, the case would likely never be cleared.
He swung his car onto the Montauk Highway and headed west to the crime lab.
CHAPTER 33
The morning e-mail ratcheted up the pressure on Susannah. “YOU DID A BAD THING. CONFESS. CONFESS, OR I’LL MAKE YOU PAY!”
CONFESS? Why does the sender want me to confess? I’LL MAKE YOU PAY. Pay what? Pay money? Pay... with my life?
The mantra of guilt began playing in her mind again: I’ve taken the lives of two human beings.
The fax phone rang. Susannah walked into Burt’s office and saw papers filling the tray of the fax machine.
The top sheet was from Arnold Lewis, and a copy of Burt’s will followed. The language was surprisingly simple and straightforward: upon Burt’s demise, his entire estate should be given to his wife, Susannah Dahlgren Cascadden.
The next paragraph stated: “If the above-named beneficiary (my wife) dies before me, declines the inheritance, or is ineligible for it (together referred to as predeceased), I direct that my entire estate be given to my friend and attorney H. Quinn Healey, Esq., of 21 East 44 Street, NY NY 10017.”
Susannah got it immediately: If I were convicted of murdering my husband, clearly I’d no longer have a legal claim on his estate — I’d be “ineligible for it.” I’d go to prison, and the estate — the three or four million from the sale of the beach house, plus Burt’s offshore money, if Healey knows about it — would go to the attorney.
Who would profit if I confessed? Of course — it’s Quinn! No wonder he was reluctant to show me the will. So Healey is the most logical anonymous e-mailer. But how does he know I “did a bad thing”? Could he possibly know I killed Burt? Maybe he’s just guessing. Maybe he’s bluffing. Could he somehow have gotten a copy of Jessie’s photographs? Could Jessie have sent him the pictures? No, that makes no sense. Still, everything points to Healey. Whether he’s guessing, bluffing, or has hard evidence against me, he’s the one with the motive.
Suddenly Susannah was seized with anger and an intense desire to fight back.
She picked up the phone and made an appointment to see Healey that afternoon.
Before she left for the city, she dressed to the nines and wore some of her most expensive jewelry.
“Nice to see you, Susannah,” Healey said as she entered his office. “Hope you didn’t hit traffic on the way in.”
“I took the plane.”
“Oh. Oh yes. That’s the only way to fly.”
She watched him smile the way men do when they try to act cool but instead say something stupid.
“Please sit down,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here. We’ve got some things to go over.”
On his desk she noticed a framed photograph of a matronly woman and two teenage boys, posing in front of a tan Mercedes-Benz.
Healey saw Susannah looking at the photograph.
“That’s my pride and joy,” he said. “1972 300 SEL 4.5.”
“Terrific.” She sat down in a wooden spindle armchair with a Dartmouth seal on the back crown.
“First of all,” Susannah said, “I want you to know I’ve retained my own attorney, I think, under the circumstances...”
Healey interrupted her. “I think that’s a very wise decision. I had a close emotional tie to your husband, so you may justifiably feel I can’t be objective with you. Comfort is critical in the attorney-client relationship, and if you feel comfortable with your lawyer, then I’m comfortable with that.”
Susannah nodded.
“But there are many details to be settled,” Healey went on, “and it’ll be better if you and I sit down and work them out together. I’m sure you don’t want your lawyer billing you for all the hours it’ll take. Susannah — I promise you’ll never get a bill from me, no matter how long things drag on. And believe me, they tend to drag on.”
“Thank you.”
“All right,” he said. “Now, let me tell you where things stand. I filed for Chapter 11, and all Burt’s assets are now in receivership. The townhouse is foreclosed. ”
“But they can’t touch the beach house, right?” Susannah asked.
“Correct. As I said, that’s yours,” he said. “But you know, it’ll take a while if Burt — ”
He broke off.
“If his body isn’t found,” she said.
He nodded somberly, like a funeral director. “I know you’re concerned about how you’re going to manage,” he said, “but I want you to know something. I say this in all sincerity — you can count on me.”
“That’s very nice.”
“No. I mean it, Susannah. I’d like to be a friend to you, and help you through these trying times.” He smiled.
“There are a few things I’d like to discuss,” Susannah said firmly. “Friend to friend.”
“Tell me.”
“First of all, I know about Tennessee.”
“What?”
“About your censure for unethical conduct.”
The glib lawyer was speechless.
“It would be a shame if all your clients heard about that,” she said. “They won’t, of course, unless I find myself being interviewed by the police or the press. Then I’ll find a way to get that in
formation out.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Self-defense.”
“I don’t understand.”
Susannah went on. “That’s not all. Anonymous e-mail isn’t anonymous if it’s involved in a crime. The police will investigate and find out who the sender is. They’ll find out it was you.”
Healey looked puzzled. “E-mail?”
“’Confess.’ That’s harassment. ‘Confess or I’ll make you pay.’ That’s extortion. I’d love to see you try to collect the money from Burt’s estate, with harassment and extortion charges hanging over you, and your previous censure for ripping off an estate in Tennessee. Plus one thing’s for sure — your law career will be finished.”
Healey threw up his hands in confusion. “I’m sorry. I don’t get it.”
“What I’m saying is,” Susannah said, “if I go down, you go down.”
“Susannah,” he said, “have you done something wrong? Are you in trouble? Do you need my help?”
He’s good, thought Susannah.
Healey spoke softly. “I know this is a difficult time for you.”
He got up, went to where she was sitting, and put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.
“My dear Susannah,” he said. “I understand how hard it is coming to grips with bereavement. In my lifetime I’ve lost many who are dear to me. And now we share a mutual burden — the death of a man we both loved. I can see how disoriented you’ve become, how confused, how frightened. But this will pass, darling. Just give it time. Trust me on that.”
His hand was gently massaging her neck. She pulled away from him in revulsion, and stood up.
“I hope I’ve made my point,” she said.
“Of course you have.”
She turned to leave.
“Wait,” he said. He scribbled something on a business card and handed it to her.
“This is my private number. I want you to call if you feel like talking. And I’d like to suggest we get together for dinner next week. I think it’ll be good for both of us. Sort of therapy.”
