by Chris Knopf
He nodded as he dug around the bottom of the yogurt container.
“I love the ones with all the little pieces of fruit,” he said. “It’s like finding buried treasure.”
“He was declared dead at the scene, so I assume they took him straight to the forensic morgue in Riverhead.”
“That’s right. But I hear about it from the paramedics. They like to impress me with gruesome stuff I don’t actually see, so I can’t prove them big talkers.”
“Not sure they could exaggerate this one. Pretty gruesome.”
“I take your word for it, Counselor. How you feeling yourself? Sometimes the bad stuff take some time to show itself. That neck okay?”
Markham Fairchild was the biggest person I’d ever seen. He was almost as tall as Harry, but twice as wide everywhere else. Not fat, just enormous. I loved to watch his hands—which should have been too big to do anything other than wrench boulders out of the ground—handle delicate medical instruments or sweetly brush the hair out of a patient’s face.
“I’m fine, Doc. Thanks for asking. I’m also interested in a woman named Edna Jackery. She was a hit-and-run, about a year ago. The newspaper said they brought her here.”
Markham gathered three empty yogurt containers and flung them one by one with startling accuracy into a trash can easily ten feet away. He peeled back the foil on number four.
“One of the blessed, that one. Gave it up in less than an hour. Could still be on the fancy equipment in someplace to dis day, breakin’ the State of New York’s bank and her family’s heart.”
“So no hope.”
Markham tapped the side of his head.
“Once the brain give up, there ain’t a whole lot can happen. Modern medicine can keep the rest runnin’, but that’s just a technical trick.”
I didn’t know how to ask the next question delicately, so I just asked.
“What kind of shape was she in, otherwise? I mean, the rest of her body. Was she all ripped up?”
Markham must have found some interesting treasure, because he spent the next few moments intently digging around the bottom of the yogurt container.
“I got so much stuff to t’ink about and paperwork to do, I never have time to t’ink about anything else, you know? But that don’t mean I totally forgo my natural curiosity. So, Counselor, that curiosity is asking me, what is all dis about?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I once sewed a man’s penis back on that was three-quarters severed by a flying saw blade. That was complicated.”
“Yeah, but did it still work?”
“The saw? No. But according to my lucky carpenter, all systems are go.”
“We found her nipple,” I said.
“Mrs. Jackery’s?”
“It was in Sergey Pontecello’s pocket. So that’s why I’m here.”
Markham took a break from devouring the yogurt to sit back in the canteen chair, which didn’t seem capable of supporting him, and give me a look both sour and perplexed.
“That lady was all head trauma. A couple small cuts and contusions from the impact, but the cause of death was a header into the pavement. I’ve seen dis a lot. Car hits person, person ends up on hood, driver panics and hits brakes, person, who could be fine if they only just stop the car, goes flying like a missile into the road headfirst, and the rest is up to the funeral director.”
“So as far as you know, all nipples were where they should’ve been.”
He nodded.
“For sure, presumin’ they real. Got a lot of nipping and tucking coming through these days. Including nipple nipping, if you can believe it. What is it with the ladies to go messing around with their natural selves?”
“The ladies have a lot of pressure on them, I guess,” I told him. “We’re still figuring out how to deal with it.”
He shook his head sadly.
“Dr. Fairchild,” I said, “one other thing. Joe Sullivan will probably be calling you with some of the same questions. It would be oh so convenient if you didn’t sort of mention that I’d gotten here first.”
He went back to digging around in the yogurt container. I sat and watched in silence, suddenly feeling stupid and small, not a hard thing around the good doctor. Before I suffocated in the dead air, I thanked him, apologized, and bolted from my chair. I was almost to the door when he called out to me.
“Of course, Mrs. Jackery stop off at the same place as Mr. Pontecello.”
I stopped.
“Huh?”
“All hit-and-run mandatory autopsy. Murder investigation. All done by the M.E. in Riverhead. And I thank him for it. Autopsy’s not my cup of tea.”
I knew that, but I thanked him anyway.
“And Counselor,” he said. “Only one withholding from the police per customer. Next time, don’t ask.”
I thanked him again and headed out the door before I could further embarrass myself. I’d have to be more careful if I was going to approach Suffolk County Forensics, or the medial examiner, who worked in the same lab. I’d gotten to know them on some of Burton’s nastier cases. They were brilliant, exacting, and as paranoid as hell, living in mortal fear of missing a crucial detail that would blow up a case. You can guess how they felt about defense attorneys, the people often decrying slipshod procedures and incompetence. I could see myself dropping in on the lab and casually asking if they’d misplaced any nipples lately.
I sensed my mood starting to teeter, which was ridiculous. One little bump in the road and it’s misery. But before darkness fell I had another thought. I checked my watch, hoping it wasn’t too late, and drove out to County Road, where I thought I’d find a place called Sydney’s Snack and Scuba Shack.
The building sat alone in the middle of a field. It was a converted house, or more accurate, converted shack. Somebody, perhaps Sydney himself, had hand painted the sign, which was about three feet high and ran the width of the second floor. The style of lettering was late 1960s Haight-Ashbury, and the choice of colors startling in their incompatibility, which might have been Sydney’s intent. A different sort of artistry expressed itself on the front door, which was covered with a three-quarter-size poster of a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader wearing scuba gear.
Inside, an avalanche of aquatic equipment cascaded down from the walls and spread out across the floor. More clung from the rafters and aggregated around freestanding displays whose original purpose was long forgotten. Flippers, goggles, tanks, regulators, weight belts, baggy trunks, snorkels, surfboards, kayaks, paddles, wet suits, underwater radios and cameras, dry bags, knives, and life preservers for small, medium, and oversize dogs. In a far corner was an island of relief, a small counter with a half dozen chrome-and-black leather stools, behind which was a single shelf with a blender, an espresso machine, and other subtle evidence of food preparation.
Zen serenity in the midst of material profusion. Couldn’t be the work of the same person. I said as much to the wiry, balding, ponytailed guy in a tropical shirt unloading a box of Day-Glo buoyancy compensators. I assumed it was Sydney.
“Brandon Wayne,” he said when I introduced myself.
“Oh. So who’s Sydney?”
“My girlfriend. Ex. Twenty years, now.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I booted her. Probably for no good reason. Not a bad girl. Though explaining the name of the place all the time has probably improved my memory of her.”
“So which was her idea, the water gear or the snacks?”
“Neither. She wanted a hair salon, one just for men. Make ’em all look like Duran Duran. Couldn’t abide that. I got into food after rehab. Don’t let the empty stools fool you. Come in around December and the joint’s full of Joes off the construction sites drinking joe.”
He held one of the buoyancy vests up to my chest, frowning appraisingly.
“Supposed to be a safety thing. Makes you look like beach ball.”
“Gee, thanks.”
He caught himself.
“Not the shape. The color. I don’t think divers are going to dig it. Would undermine their dignity.” He dropped the vest back into the box. “So what’re you looking for? Not exactly the season, unless you’re heading south.”
“Information,” I said.
“No more training classes till the spring. I could sign you up now.”
He climbed over the box and headed for the mound at the back of the room that served as a counter. I picked my way around the stuff on the floor while I tried to explain what I meant.
“Not diving information. I was wondering about Edna Jackery.”
He stopped cold and turned around. “You family?”
“I’m an attorney.” I handed him my card. “I was looking into another matter when something related to Edna came up. That’s when I learned she’d been killed in a hit-and-run.”
“Great person, lousy bookkeeper. I still don’t get why you’re interested.”
The truth is a funny thing. It’s usually the most reliable fallback, but plenty of times it can do more harm than good. Other times, it’s just too damn complicated to be a serviceable strategy.
“I’m doing research on hit-and-runs. Especially those involving women, who seem to be disproportionately affected. It’s too late to help Edna, but maybe my report will save someone else’s life. That’s enough for me,” I concluded earnestly, suggesting that not helping me was tantamount to involuntary manslaughter.
He crossed his arms and nodded. “I told the cops everything I know. I liked the hell out of Edna, but she was the sloppiest person I ever knew.” I forced myself to keep my eyes on his and not gaze around his shop. “A natural-born fuckup, and blissfully unconcerned about it, though like I said, a doll to be around. What can I say, I’m a sucker for the type.”
“Me, too. The newspaper said she was working late and had to walk home because her car wouldn’t start.”
He shook his head, looking down at the floor.
“I wished she’d just called me. I’d have driven her home. She didn’t want to bother her dopey kid, who was probably responsible for screwing up the car in the first place. It’s dark along this part of County Road. No streetlights, and the glare from the traffic can be disorienting, even if you aren’t a knucklehead like Edna. Forgive me, Lord, may she rest in peace.”
“Some knucklehead ran her over and didn’t bother to stop or call an ambulance.”
“Yeah. Motherfucker. If I catch him before the cops …” He made the gesture of a quick slip of a knife across his throat. It looked fairly authentic, so I probably looked surprised.
“Naval training. SEALs,” he said.
My surprise deepened.
“Where do you think I learned to dive?” he said. “Worked off a sub for four years. No big deal. Just a job like any other. What else you want to know?”
I shook off a vision of the fiftysomething Brandon Wayne climbing a cliff in a wet suit, in the dark, with a knife in his mouth, stabbing and garroting an unsuspecting sentry, packing plastic explosives under the gun emplacement …
“Did she know anyone named Pontecello or Wolsonowicz?” I asked.
He thought about it.
“I didn’t know her well enough to know her friends. Those names are a little familiar, though. Maybe they came in the shop. Men or women?”
I ticked off the members of the happy family, throwing in the dead artist for extra measure.
He nodded.
“That’s what rang a bell, probably. I knew Tony’s work. I’m an artist myself,” he added, pointing either toward the inspiration of heaven or his psychedelic sign.
“That’s yours?” I asked, almost breathlessly. “Really something. Honestly.”
“Couldn’t paint like that now. Had to move on. I’m into miniatures. Like crazy miniature. Use steel microfibers and ultra-low-viscosity dyes. Kills the eyes, even with a big magnifying glass, but it’s so cool.”
“Did Tony ever come in here? Or any of his other family?”
He thought some more, then shook his head.
“I’d know it if he was here. Not sure about the family. I could check the archives, but knowing Edna, they’ll be a mess.”
I described Sergey Pontecello, but that also drew a blank. It didn’t surprise me. Sergey would have been a serious fish out of water in there, if you can use that analogy in the most watery place in town.
“What do these people have to do with Edna’s death?” he asked.
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
He studied me in a way he hadn’t before.
“You know the best part about getting off the junk?” he asked.
“The money savings?”
“The clarity. You realize your brain still functions almost as good as it used to, despite all the abuse. It’s an amazing instrument.”
“And yours is working pretty well right now. I can see that.”
“It is. You know what’s even more amazing? The way the junk can teach you to see things a brain that was always clean and sober would never notice.”
“Like a defense attorney who’s pretending to be doing a study when, in fact, she’s running a murder investigation?” I said lightly.
He grinned at me.
“Yeah. Like that.”
“Running an investigation is too grand a thing to say. I’m nosing into the murder of Sergey Pontecello to the annoyance of the real investigators, the police, because he was a client of mine, and I feel an overwhelming sense of responsibility for the guy even though I had absolutely nothing to do with his death. As far as I can tell. Though I’m not entirely sure.”
“I sort of feel that way about Edna.”
“There’s a connection between her and Sergey Pontecello that’s already been established, but I can’t tell you what it is without compromising the official investigation and permanently alienating the cops, which would end my criminal practice, which I don’t need but gives me a way to repay all the favors I owe to people like Burton Lewis and Sam Acquillo, and assuage at least some of this vague, societal guilt I inherited from my bleeding-heart mother despite all the counterefforts of my sanctimonious, self-entitled old man.”
The part of my brain responsible for putting the brakes on that other part of my brain finally woke up and pulled the lever. My mouth clamped shut, but the momentum of the unspoken thoughts caused me to lurch forward and almost lose my balance. Brandon waited for things to stabilize.
“Golly,” he said.
“Sorry,” I said, opening my pocketbook and rummaging around as if I were actually looking for something and not covering up my embarrassment. When I came across a stack of business cards held by a rubber band it felt like divine intervention.
“Here,” I said, holding out a card. “If you come across any of the names I mentioned in connection to Edna”—I put the card down on the counter and wrote the names on the back—“please call me. That’s my cell number. You should also call the police”—I wrote down Joe Sullivan’s name and number—“this guy specifically. Just do me a huge favor and don’t tell him I was here. Unless he asks specifically, then tell him. Better I take the hit than you get charged with hindering an investigation.”
Brandon took the card and looked at the names, then slipped it into his shirt pocket.
“Okay, Ms. Swaitkowski, whatever,” he said. Though I had a feeling he’d call me if anything came up. It was that lingering sense of guilt. I could smell it on him.
I stuck out my hand and gave him the assertive, masculine shake I usually reserved for assistant district attorneys and single men I wanted to discourage. He returned the favor by nearly crushing my knuckles. Former Navy SEAL, I reminded myself.
“You never asked me about Slim,” he said, still holding my hand in the vise.
I used my other hand to extract it before responding.
“Who’s Slim?”
“Slim Jackery. The husband.”
“Why did I think she was a single mom?” I asked.
This was a gigantic relief for me. There’s nothing you can say that’s okay to a kid who’s lost a mother. Not that the husband would be a walk in the park, but at least he wouldn’t be wearing fresh, new skin and the unsettling ignorance of adolescence.
Brandon told me Slim had an automatic sprinkler business, but he couldn’t remember the name. He’d met him only once, when Slim came in to buy foul-weather gear for his crew, hoping to exploit Edna’s employee discount.
“There isn’t any such thing, but I gave it to him anyway,” said Brandon. “Thirty percent, so Edna’d have something to brag about around the house.”
“Did she?” I asked.
“Never heard a word. That’s how I normally think of my good deeds: doing the unnecessary for the ungrateful.”
I took his hand back in both of mine and squeezed as hard as I could.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I said.
He used his free hand to rub the naked crown of his head and smooth back the long, thin remains of hair at the back.
“I told her she had to come in that night to close out the month because I only had a few hours the next day to get to the bank before taking off for the Keys. What’s your excuse?”
“I thought Sergey was a silly little man. Before I had a chance to take his predicament seriously, he was dead,” I said.
“So at least we understand each other,” said Brandon Wayne, who should have been Sydney, but nothing’s ever what it was supposed to be once you get a close-enough look.
10
I made arrangements to pick up Harry at seven. I liked the old-fashioned gender protocols about who picks up whom and who picks up the check. But not all the time. This was never a problem for Harry, another big point in his favor. And I wanted to show off my new car, which was just like his car.
The directions he gave me to his place ended with “When you see what looks like an old gas station, you’re there.”
