Death Hampton

by Walter Marks

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “That’s classified. But the guy was a known peeping tom, and was probably spying on you.”

  “Ugh, how creepy.”

  “So — you have no knowledge of this Jessie Russell?”

  “No.

  “Susannah,” Jericho said. “Jessie Russell is not a very nice man. In addition to being a voyeur, he’s also a rapist. And we’re not entirely sure he’s dead. There’s always a chance he could come after you.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Just be to on the safe side”, Jericho said calmly, “you should probably lock all your doors and windows. Do you have an alarm system?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’d get one right away. AHS Home Security is good.”

  “OK.”

  “And be on the lookout for any sign of him.”

  “I will.” Careful, she thought, I’m not supposed to know what he looks like.

  “What does he look like?,” she asked. “Do you have a description?”

  Jericho reached into the file on his desk and pulled out Jessie Russell’s pilot’s license, encased in a clear plastic envelope.

  “He’s Native American,” Jericho said, handing it to Susannah. “Mid-thirties, long black hair, dark complexion.”

  Susannah looked at Jessie’s menacing face. She gasped as the horrifying memory of his brutal sexual attack flashed in her mind.

  “You okay?” Jericho asked.

  “Yes...yes,” she said “It’s just...the idea of what he’s done to women.”

  “I understand.”

  “He really looks scary.”

  “Look, he may not even be alive,” Jericho said. “But you need to be on guard.”

  “Believe me, I will be.”

  “Call me if you need me.”

  “I will.”

  “And remember about the alarm system.”

  She smiled at him. “Thanks for worrying about me.”

  Susannah stood up. They shook hands awkwardly, and she left.

  As Susannah drove home, she thought: Jesus, Jessie Russell can’t be alive. His skull was bashed in, and he never moved, even when I dragged him into the ocean.

  But...what if, by some quirk, he managed to survive? Then I’m in real danger. What if he has another set of photographs stashed somewhere? What if he sends them to the police? What if he comes back for revenge — to rape me, kill me?

  And what about Jericho? Maybe he knows more than he’s telling me. He’s a good detective — did he believe me?

  Last night was magical, she thought. I’m really falling for Detective Jericho. This man, this wonderful man who saved my life. But I mustn’t forget — he can just as easily destroy it.

  She sighed heavily.

  CHAPTER 43

  That night, as she got ready for bed, Susannah put Jericho’s number on speed dial on her landline.

  He might be getting too close for comfort, she thought. But I can still count on him to protect me if I need him.

  She entered his number in Location 1, replacing Burt’s office number.

  She couldn’t sleep. All the doors and windows were locked, but still she didn’t feel safe. She’d called AHS and they said they come tomorrow to install a home security system.

  Her mind was racing. What if Jessie Russell is lurking outside? What if Jericho is wrong about Quinn Healey? What if Healey’s hired another assassin, or he’s planning to kill me himself? As Jericho said — people are unpredictable.

  Since nobody in Montauk worried much about break-ins, the locks on the Cascadden beach house were the basic household variety, easily broken or jimmied.

  Susannah remembered Burt’s gun. She turned on her bedside lamp, got up, and went to Burt’s bedroom. She took out the automatic pistol and hefted it in her hand. It was fairly light. Embossed on the barrel was: HECKLER & KOCH GMBH — OBERNDORF — Mod HK 4 Made in Germany.

  Jesus, she thought, I’ve never fired a gun in my life. I hate these things.

  She went back to her bedroom and examined the weapon. She noticed the thumb safety. Next to it was a white dot. Gingerly she pushed the lever forward. Now she could see a red dot. That would be Safety Off. She swiveled it back to On.

  Now, where are the bullets? she wondered. They’ve gotta be in the handle.

  After some fiddling, she found a lever that released the magazine. She turned it over and emptied the cartridges into her palm. There were seven .38 caliber bullets. Then she reinserted them. With a downward pressure, each one locked into place.

  Once the magazine was back in the gun, she got up and went over to her full-length mirror. She was wearing floppy powder blue pajamas. Taking a two-handed stance, she crouched and aimed it at herself.

  You look like a damn idiot, she told herself. You have no idea what you’re doing. Girl, this weapon has no protective value unless you know how to fire it.

  She put on a robe, went downstairs, and unlocked the sliding door to the deck. It was 2 a.m. The beach was deserted.

  The black sky was dotted with stars, and grains of wind-blown sand stung her face. She could hear the surf crashing and the plaintive cry of gulls.

  Susannah raised the pistol in both hands and pointed it at the sliver of moon that hung over the horizon. She pulled the trigger.

  Nothing.

  “Oh, shit,” she said out loud. She’d forgotten to turn off the safety. This was obviously not her thing.

  She flicked the lever forward, aimed the pistol again, and fired.

  The gun jumped wildly in her hand, but she hung onto it.

  With satisfaction she returned the safety to On and walked back into the house.

  There were six bullets left — enough to fix anybody who tried to mess with her.

  She placed the gun in her nightstand drawer, nestled among the panties, bras, and nightgowns. She left the drawer open.

  Jericho couldn’t sleep either.

  He kept thinking about Susannah, about how much she mattered to him. He remembered when he saw her at the Farmer’s Market while he was with Katie; the three of them almost like a family. But it was more than that. Susannah was great looking, smart, sexy, and loving. And she made him feel like a whole person — not just a cop with an empty life, trying to be a father to the daughter he’d lost because he’d been an irresponsible jerk.

  But...I’m still a cop, he reminded himself. And there’s that unanswered question: was there any connection between Susannah and Jessie Russell?

  CHAPTER 44

  Taking a break from his morning patrol, Officer Teddy Karlin stopped at Mr. John’s Steak & Pancake house in Montauk.

  As he sat having coffee and a Krispy Kreme, his mind was on Detective Jericho.

  Yeah, he thought, I’m learning a lot from Jericho. If I play it cool, hang with him, be like, his assistant, he could be my ticket to getting a gold shield. Of course, I have to learn to think like a detective. Use my imagination. Come up with stuff, theories.

  All right, let’s take the Jessie Russell case. What theory could I come up with? How about — the lady’s husband, what’s his name? Cascadden. Maybe Cascadden finds out the Indian is porking his wife, so he kills him in a jealous rage. Then Cascadden fakes his own death and disappears. Nah, that sucks. Cascadden died before the Indian. Shit! All right. How about the Cascadden case? Haven’t heard much about that investigation. Just that the guy drowned. But what if it wasn’t an accident. Maybe his wife killed him. Shot him, stabbed him, poisoned him, bashed in his head — whatever, and dumped him in the ocean. Then she makes it look like a swimming accident. Motive? Obvious: her husband’s a multimillionaire so she’d inherit big bucks. Hmm, not bad. Maybe I oughta investigate.

  “Hey, Jericho. It’s lucky you came in this morning,” Sergeant Trevor Montrose said in the evidence room. “State cops are gonna pick the stuff up later today.”

  Montrose, one of the few black men in the EHTPD, spoke with the lilting accent of his native Barbados.

 
; “Best be puttin’ on the hand-condoms, mon” he said, giving Jericho latex gloves.

  Jericho snapped them on. “What you got?”

  Montrose went to a stack of three-by-four-foot cubbyholes behind him and pulled out an A&P carton containing Jessie Russell’s keys, cash, wallet, shoes and socks, T-shirt, towel, and Ring-Dings. Jericho carefully scrutinized each item.

  ”What you lookin’ for?” Montrose asked.

  “Something that’ll tell me something.”

  “That numb-nuts Karlin finally brought in the hitman’s paintin’ stuff. You want to see it?”

  “No. What else you got?”

  The evidence clerk picked up a clipboard with a manifest on it.

  “Only thing left is the coveralls,” he said, using the West Indian term. “Hold on — that’s two coveralls. He-Man brand.”

  “Right,” Jericho said. “One’s from the beach, the other’s from Russell’s cabin.”

  “They right behind you,” Montrose said. “Hangin’ on the rod, next to that humongous brassiere.”

  Jericho turned and saw the two pairs of overalls, one blue, one brown, each on a separate hanger

  “I happened to notice,” Montrose said, “the blue one might have blood stains on the bib.”

  “Very observant, Trev. Yeah, the State Police’ll run a lab report on it.”

  When Jericho picked up the two hangers, he noticed something odd about the brown overalls. He pulled them off the hanger and laid them out on the counter.

  “Hey, Trev,” he said. “Something’s hinky here.”

  “Whatchu mean, mon?”

  “Russell supposedly drove his car to the beach while wearing them. But look at the crotch and waist. There should be creases there, from the guy sitting down.”

  “You right.”

  “They’re wrinkled up,“ Jericho said, “but not in a natural way. And look at this dirt on the knees and the fly. It looks like somebody rubbed it in. There’s no reason for overalls to get dirty that way.”

  “So somebody must’ve washed ‘em.”

  “Looks like it,” Jericho said. “We were meant to think Russell was wearing them before he went swimming and drowned.”

  “Ah, but the clean jeans tell a different story,” Trevor said. “We could be lookin’ at homicide.”

  “Very likely,” Jericho said. “My guess is Russell was killed earlier, causing bloodstains on his overalls. The killer washed them out before he planted them at the beach.”

  “But what about the blood stains on the blue overalls?”

  “I dunno,” Jericho said. “They could be unrelated. Maybe Russell cut himself.”

  “So, should I give the State Police the blue ones, too?”

  “Umm. Let me think.”

  This pretty much rules out the Shinnecocks as Jessie Russell’s murderers. They wouldn’t have killed him, thrown his corpse in their car, driven the thirty miles back to the reservation to wash the overalls, then come all the way back to the beach and dump the body. They could’ve used the Montauk Laundromat, but I doubt it. They’d want to lie low if they’d just killed a man. More likely whoever did this was a local resident.

  The idea hit Jericho so hard he felt his face twitch.

  Susannah! Oh, Jesus. Is that possible?

  His mind started racing. He recalled Susannah touching her nose when she said she didn’t know Jessie Russell.

  But why would Susannah have killed Russell? The answer came swiftly. Rape. That makes sense — Jessie tried to rape her and she killed him in the struggle. Self defense.

  But then she would’ve had to do this whole cover up, drive Jessie’s car down to the beach, stage the drowning...

  My God, he thought. I know Susannah. Is she really capable of all that?

  She’s a strong woman. Maybe she did what she had to do — But…why the cover-up if she killed in self-defense?

  Jericho spoke calmly to Montrose. “Yeah, give the State cops both overalls,” he said. “I’ll fax them a report this afternoon, explaining everything to them.”

  I’ll have to stall the State Police, he told himself. The two overalls will confuse them. I’ll be vague about which is which. Eventually their detectives may notice the brown ones have been washed. Or maybe they won’t. Meanwhile, I’m buying time. I hope I’m wrong, but Susannah’s a suspect and I want to investigate her myself, so I can help her if it turns out badly. But that’ll have to wait till I’m back on active duty. For now, I’ll point the State Police in the direction of the Shinnecock tribe.

  When Susannah got up in the morning, there was a message on her answering machine: “Hi, this is Maggie from AHS Home Security. Turns out our East Hampton installation man has come down with Lyme Disease and can’t work for a while. We keep telling our guys the grass around here is loaded with deer ticks, but sometimes they just don’t listen. Anyway, the thing is, we’ll have to bring a tech over from our Riverhead office, and he can’t do the job on your house till tomorrow. 9 A.M. If that’s okay with you, no need to call. Otherwise you can ring me at 516-307-8300. ‘Bye now.”

  Susannah moaned in frustration.

  The phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Darlin’,” her mother said in an anxious voice, “I’m settin’ here readin’ the Times-Picayune and there’s an article about you gettin’ attacked by a hired killer.”

  Susannah couldn’t believe it had already made the national wire services.

  “Oh, um,” Susannah stammered, “Yes. It was a mistake. Seems he was after somebody else.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine, Mama. Doin’ jes’ just fine,” Susannah replied, unconsciously reverting to a Southern accent. “I’m very lucky. A policeman rescued me in the nick o’ time.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Didn’t want you to worry. You’ve got enough on your mind. How’s Daddy doin’?”

  “Pretty poor, I’m afraid. He’s in a coma mostly. Wakes up once in a while, but even then he’s out of it.”

  “Oh, Mama. That’s terrible.”

  “Listen, honey,” her mother said. “I hate to bother you, but the check didn’t come this month, and — ”

  “Gosh, I’m sorry, I’ll take care of it right away.”

  “Guess you’ve had a lot on your mind.”

  “Yes, but that’s no excuse.”

  “How’s Burt?”

  “Huh?”

  “I said how’s Burt?”

  This was definitely not the time to tell her.

  “He...he’s away on business. A long trip.”

  “Where?”

  “Um, Singapore. Some multinational somethin’ or other.”

  “Well, tell him I said hey.”

  “I will, Mama.”

  “Listen, honey, if you feel like comin’ down for a visit, I wouldn’t mind a little company.

  “Wish I could. But my teaching schedule’s kinda tight right now. Maybe in a week or so.

  “Okay. You won’t forget about the check?”

  “No, I won’t,” Susannah said. “Promise.”

  “Thank you, darlin’,” said Ethel. “I love you.”

  “Love you too, Mama.”

  Susannah thought about how to get her mom the money. Her bank balance was only around $2,000 and Ethel was expecting $7,000. It would be best to take the cash from the $60,000 she’d stashed in Burt’s desk, and send a postal money order. It was better than putting the money in her account and writing a check — she didn’t want bank records of a large cash deposit.

  She had gone downstairs to Burt’s office when the front doorbell rang.

  She approached the door and called out.

  “Who is it?”

  “East Hampton Town Police.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Just to ask a few questions, M’am.”

  She was about to open the door, when her stomach flip-flopped with fear.

  What if it’s not a co
p? What if it’s a trick — someone out to get me?

  She moved over to the bay window, where she could peek out and see whoever was standing at the door. He did look like a policeman. He had the blue uniform and the silver shield. Gun? Did he have a gun? No, she didn’t see one. But she did see a nightstick hanging from a holder on his belt. What if he was a fake cop? He could use the nightstick on her. He could kill her.

  “M’am?” the man called out.

  She went back to the front door and yelled through it.

  “Slip your ID under the door.”

  After a brief delay, she saw an ID card sliding beneath the door. She picked it up. It read Patrolman Theodore S. Karlin. EHTPD. His dim-bulb face in the photo made him look like a convict.

  Cautiously she opened the door. Squinting into the bright sunlight she looked at the cop. He was grinning. She handed him back his ID card.

  “Mind if I come in?”

  “Yes.”

  Karlin started to move towards her. She stopped in with her hand.

  “Yes, I do mind,” she said. “What do you want?”

  “Mrs. Cascadden,” he said. “I’m here investigating your husband’s death.”

  “I thought Detective Jericho was handling that.”

  “He’s tied up, so I’m doin’ some legwork for him.”

  Oh, that’s right, she thought. No-contact status.

  “Maybe you remember me,” Karlin said. “I was here on the hitman case, assisting Detective Jericho.”

  Susanna nodded noncommittally.

  “So,” the cop went on, “where were you when your husband drowned?”

  “Here.”

  “On the beach or in the house?”

  “The house. In my statement I — ”

  “Is there anyone who could collaborate that?”

  Did he say “collaborate”? she asked herself.

  “No,” she answered.

  “Mrs. Cascadden,” Karlin said. “Do you know of any reason someone might want to kill your husband?”

  She shrugged.

  He pressed on. “Of course, there’s one person who I know would benefit from his death. That person would be — you.”

  God, she thought. They must suspect something. Do they have some new evidence? Did Jericho send this guy?