The Kills

by Linda Fairstein

  Both propellers were geared up now, and it was impossible to hear over the din. He settled in with his newspaper and I continued making lists of things to do.

  The small aircraft lifted up from the runway. Within minutes, we had flown into the enormous billow of cloud cover that had settled over the New York area. I pulled my seat belt tighter around my waist as the plane bucked in the rough currents. I tried to concentrate on organizing my evening calls, but the severe weather made any work effort impossible.

  I stuck my pen in my pocket and stared out the window at the inner lining of the storm cloud. There were only five passengers on the flight, and all looked as gloomy as the skies around us. I watched as the woman in front of Justin's seat fumbled for the airsickness bag, hoping that she would not need to use it in the close confines of the still cabin.

  The pilot broke in with a short message. "Sorry about the bumps in the road, ladies and gents. We've got that hurricane blowing in behind us, so we'll rock and roll like this all the way to the Vineyard. Be another thirty-five minutes till touchdown. Thanks for flying with us tonight."

  I closed my eyes and tried to think about something pleasant. My lover was in Washington, altogether too pleased with the freedom of our new arrangement, my precious home was about to be battered by sixty-mile-an-hour winds, and the tangle of investigations on my professional plate seemed hopeless. I opened my eyes and stared off into the wild gray yonder.

  I was as relieved as the woman clutching the paper bag against her chest when the pilot descended out of the clouds and I could see the lights on the landing strip glistening in the evening mist. We taxied to a stop and I trotted from the bottom of the steps into the shelter of the airport terminal. I walked to the parking lot, where my caretaker had left my car earlier in the week when he'd gone off-island. Soon I was heading up-island on the slick roadway that curved through the pastures and meadows of Chilmark.

  It was close to nine o'clock. I was looking for something to eat, but there weren't many choices. I drove in the direction of Dutcher Dock, but both the Galley and the Homeport were dark.

  I made a U-turn in front of the old red-roofed coast guard station, now the Chilmark Police Headquarters, going to the far end of the main road toward the gas station. Larsen's Fish Market had closed hours ago, so my last hope was the Bite, a two-hundred-square-foot gray-shingled kitchen from which the Quinn sisters put forth the best chowder and fried clams on the face of the earth.

  There were two pickup trucks parked in front-drivers eating in their cabs-and I squeezed my little red convertible in between them. I ducked under the roof of the small porch to get out of the rain, and Karen spotted me when I picked my head up.

  "Alex? That you? Haven't got a clam or oyster left. Wiped out."

  "Just a cup of soup." My stomach was still settling down. "To go."

  Her dialect was more Boston Southie than islander. "Better close your house up tight. Gonna be a wicked bad storm."

  "That's what I came up to do."

  She handed me a brown bag much larger than a pint container of soup. "Take some with you for tomorrow. Extra chowder, some chicken wings, and my mother's brownies. You'll be glad you've got this goody bag if nobody opens up during the hurricane."

  I thanked her and got back into the car and headed for the hilltop high above the water that surrounded my lovely old farmhouse on all sides, grateful for the placement the Mayhew farmers had given their home almost two centuries earlier, as the waves picked up steam on the shores below. I had expanded and rebuilt the sturdy structure, but it still retained the charm and character that came from its original bones.

  My heart beat more rapidly as I made the turn off State Road. I thought of my friend Isabella Lascar, who had died on the very same path just a few years ago.

  I was distracted by the movement of a large dark body in the bushes ahead of my car, just out of range of the high beams. My foot slammed on the brakes and the buck leaped directly in front of me, then up and over the ancient stone wall that ringed my property.

  Seconds later, the doe and two small deer followed him, trailing off through the woods on my neighbor's land.

  I drove on to my house and parked the car. Usually, my caretaker came ahead and lighted the entrance and living area for me, cutting flowers in summer to place around the rooms and stocking the refrigerator with basics. This time, because he had already left the island, I was faced with a dark, cold shell that seemed strangely unwelcoming.

  I unlocked the side door and walked quickly into the kitchen and small parlor beyond, flipping on every light switch. I rested the bag of food on the countertop, opened the cabinet to grab a glass, and filled it with ice. In the living room, I pressed the CD player button for random select. By the time I poured some Dewar's, Simon and Garfunkel reminded me that I was fakin' it, and as I was well aware, not really makin' it. I clicked the remote, content to wind up on the bridge over troubled water.

  Mike Chapman's home number was on my speed dial. I settled onto the sofa with my drink and waited for him to answer.

  "Hello."

  "Val? It's Alex. Is this a bad time?"

  "No, no. It's fine. How've you been?"

  "Good, thanks. Just came up to the country to prepare for the storm." I didn't know whether to mention that Mike had told me she hadn't felt well lately. Before I could decide what to ask, he had taken the phone from her hand.

  "Etymology, blondie. Whaddaya know about it?"

  I was too disinterested to answer fast enough.

  "Me? I thought it was bugs. I'm fat on bugs-figured I would have cleaned up on you tonight. Who knew it was about words? O.K., you know, the initials? Know what they stand for?"

  "Count me out, Mike. Look-"

  "From the Boston Morning Post, 1839. Some cellist from Ottawa won fourteen grand on this. An editor who couldn't spell right used it back then to mean 'oll korrect.' Get it? 'All correct' gets muffed into O.K. "

  "Riveting. I called to tell you the latest snag in the case."

  "Can't you give it a rest, kid? Don't go snapping at me. I got my jammies on, about to have my nightcap-"

  "Fine. Call me in the morning. The next dead body can be on your conscience."

  Mike's tone changed and he snapped into business mode. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. What's up?"

  "Funny stuff with Tiffany Gatts and her lawyer," I said.

  "How funny? Laugh out loud?"

  "Not exactly. She's willing to squeal on Kevin, but says if she does, her life's in danger. Someone's going to kill her mama, too."

  "Better be bringing a cannon for that job."

  "Helena Lisi's just a front," I said.

  "For what?"

  "For the brains behind the operation, I have to think. Somebody else is paying the legal bills, but doesn't want to be connected to the courtroom. You've got to find out who that is. Yesterday."

  "You don't think Lisi will tell you, if you ask nice?"

  "I can hear her start to whine before I even pose the question. I could try to subpoena her to the grand jury, on the theory that there's a criminal conspiracy, but she'll move to quash and we'll be arguing that one till doomsday."

  "Lawyer-client privilege?"

  "Even the Supremes let us get into some disclosures about fees in certain circumstances, but I'm counting on you to beat the clock. Maybe you start with Mrs. Gatts. See what she knows."

  "So there's a new lawyer?"

  "Shadow counsel. A stupid artifice that could undermine the whole case, and certainly toss a conviction, if we get anywhere close to one. If we nail Kevin-or someone else for Queenie's murder-this schmuck just becomes part of a fraud that greased the wheels for Tiffany to slide right into our laps, without any real representation."

  "Got it."

  "Thanks, Mike. We'll talk in the morning."

  "Deal," he said, as I started to sign off. "Coop? You okay up there? You're not alone, are you?"

  "We're fine," I said, misleading him with the plural pronoun.
"Promise. Speak to you tomorrow."

  I hung up and hit the number of Jake's cell phone. "Hey," I said as he came on the line. "Can't believe I got you on one ring."

  I stretched out on the sofa and cradled the phone against my shoulder.

  "Where are you?" he asked.

  "Home. The Vineyard." Jake knew it was the one place in the world where I was most content. The tension sloughed off my shoulders within half an hour of my arrival here, even in the worst of circumstances. "And you?"

  "Didn't Laura give you the message? I'm trying to get up there, too."

  "I haven't even checked the machine. I-I just needed to hear your voice."

  "I'm at Reagan National. Nothing's flying out at the moment. The wind has increased and the first bit of the storm is about to hit."

  The Vineyard weather was anywhere from twelve to eighteen hours behind D.C.'s, depending on the speed the system picked up along the way. I could expect Hurricane Gretchen to reach our shores by tomorrow afternoon.

  "Go back to the hotel. The airport here has probably shut down already."

  "That's not a problem. I was planning to fly to Logan and get down in the morning if I had to. Till I had a brainstorm."

  "What's that?" I smiled, pulling a throw over my legs and stirring the ice cubes in the glass with my finger.

  "I'm about a concourse away from the row of rental booths. I figure I'll get a car, turn the music up loud, drive up to Woods Hole-even if it takes the better part of the night-and be there in time for the first ferry. Nothing cozier than a great storm. We can stay the whole weekend and-"

  I sat bolt upright and swung my legs to the floor, tangling myself in the mohair blanket. I shrieked into the receiver, "You can't do that, Jake. Please don't do that."

  Didn't he remember what had happened to Adam Nyman, my fiancé, on the night before we were supposed to be married? Driving to the Vineyard from Manhattan, he'd been killed when his car had been sideswiped on the turnpike and had crashed down onto a riverbed below.

  Jake clearly didn't connect the urgency in my voice to that tragedy. "Darling, either Mike's right about the fact that you're entirely too controlling," he joked, "or you're stowed away up there with some other foul-weather aficionado who doesn't want me in the neighborhood. C'mon, babe, the all-night drive'll make me feel like I'm in college again."

  The static on his phone was masking the panic that had seized me.

  "No, no, no, no, no," I kept repeating, until I could break into his response. "Don't you understand, Jake? It's-it's about Adam. It's too painful to bear. Ten hours of highway driving, half of it bound to be in a blinding storm?"

  "It's not raining yet, Alex. The roads are-"

  "You're missing the point. I'm begging you not to do this, Jake. I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to you on your way here. Wait till the front passes and fly up if you want, for the weekend. Just swear to me you won't try to drive it."

  His tone chilled. "There's probably a good reason you don't want me up there with you. I'm sure you'll tell me when you're ready."

  I tried again to make him see it from my perspective, but he was still clipped when we said our good nights.

  I picked up my glass and wandered into the bedroom. I felt more alone than I had in a very long time. I turned the steam unit on in the shower and set the temperature at ninety-nine degrees, letting it warm up while I undressed.

  The phone rang but I ignored it. There was no point in arguing with Jake, so I opted to let the machine record the message while I listened.

  "You there, Coop? You outside baying at the moon?"

  "Just screening, Mike," I said, grabbing the receiver from its dock. "You forget to tell me to have pleasant dreams?"

  "Val's a whiz with the computer. Got me onto the website for Lisi and Lisi, the husband-and-wife law firm, so I'd have a head start in the morning."

  "I didn't mean to get you riled up on Val's time, Mike. Tomorrow is fine."

  "Forget Helena. What do you know about Jimmy Lisi?"

  "Former Legal Aid. Pretty decent guy."

  "Interesting bio, Coop. Born on the other side. Very proud of his roots."

  "Why not?" I could see the steam misting on the glass door of the shower, and I ached to get inside and relax.

  "Generalissimo Lisi, Jimmy's pop. Know anything about him?"

  "Tell me."

  "Jimmy was born in Rome. His old man rose through the ranks, wound up as head goombah in the Italian Secret Service. Puts him right near the kitchen where they cooked up some potent pasta e fagiòli for Farouk the night he croaked back in sixty-five."

  "I like it," I said, putting down the scotch and picking up a pen and pad.

  "So I did the same kind of check for the other lawyers in the case. Unfortunately, the law firms that those guys are with don't do the same kind of family sagas on-line, like the Lisis. Just have their fancy degrees and the alma maters listed."

  "C'mon, Mike. I can tell you found something else that tweaked you."

  "So Jimmy Lisi gets to college-Yale, by the way-and ends up in the same frat as a guy whose old man was also a spook in Rome, for the Brits, at the very same time Lisi's dad was doing spy work."

  "I see where this is going. Forget about Josh Braydon and his shadow counsel role. We need to find out who's pulling the strings behind Helena Lisi."

  "Maybe," Mike said, "the man Tiffany Gatts is afraid of is actually Peter Robelon."

  33

  The view from my bedroom's French doors out over the lawn that sloped down to the pond was a muted palette of grays and greens, moistened by a steady rainfall. Trees and tall grasses seemed colored by a dull assortment of Crayolas, and the pale sky hung heavily overhead. Only the whitecaps in the distance suggested that this calm before the storm would kick up and show its stuff within a few hours.

  I drove to the Chilmark Store for coffee and the Times, and to reassure myself that there were plenty of people I knew who wouldn't be all that far away if Hurricane Gretchen packed her anticipated wallop.

  "I'm running low on candles and flashlight batteries," Primo said. The owner was restocking his shelves with storm supplies. "Better take plenty while you're here, Alex. I'm closing early."

  I picked up a fistful of C batteries, extra matches, boxes of candles, and rolls of masking tape and took them to the checkout counter. "Can you put this on my tab?"

  "Sure. Need a hand with anything out your way?" Primo asked.

  "I'm all set, thanks. This should do it. Would you save me a newspaper in the morning?"

  "If they get to the island, Alex. Steamship Authority's gonna stop the ferries if the swells get real big."

  "Of course," I said, embarrassed about forgetting how these self-sufficient islanders were cut off from all normal services whenever Mother Nature got angry.

  I was back in the house at eight-thirty, and tried to find Jake, to apologize. Voice mail answered at his home, his cell phone, and the office. Maybe he was mimicking my habit of screening calls, or maybe he was paying me back for last night. Could he have really thought I was keeping him away because I was settled in here with someone else?

  "Hey, it's me. Horatio Hornblower," I told his recorded message. Jake loved to make fun of my bright yellow foul-weather gear, and here I was pulling the rubberized hood back up over my head to go out and haul the deck furniture into the barn. "Call me when you get a chance, okay? I'm trying to hunker down for the storm. Miss you."

  I went through the old summer kitchen, refitted as an office, and out the side entrance that led to the sheep barn, built more than a century ago. I pulled open the door and surveyed the space. The Gravely and mower took up a third of it, while the workbench and Adam's antique tool collection stretched along two complete walls. I shuffled around some of the gardening equipment to make room for everything that needed to come inside.

  I spent the next two hours ferrying recliners, chairs, and tables from the rear decks around the building into the barn. I had been her
e for too many storms to risk chancing the results of Hurricane Gretchen's fury-chairs lifted and blown hundreds of yards away, and tables hurled against the side of the house, shattering windows and spreading glass all over the interior floors.

  At eleven o'clock, I paused to make a cup of hot chocolate and sit at the kitchen table to dry out and listen to the radio. The marine forecast issued alerts for gale-force winds, and news bulletins tracked the eye of the storm as it buffeted the Connecticut coastline. Flooding and downed electrical lines had already caused five deaths in the New York area.

  I put my slicker on again and circled the property for a last check. The wind was picking up, and I walked down to the edge of the wildflower field to recover the bird feeders. The last cosmos that stood amid the elephant grass were losing their heads to the elements, and the rain swept away small flecks of white and fuchsia petals.

  My caretaker's cottage, beyond the rise at the foot of the hill, looked snug and tight. It was two small rooms, an old Menemsha fisherman's shack that once stood on the dock and had been moved up here in the sixties, before Adam and I bought the place. Now charmingly redecorated, it was home to an islander who maintained the property for me in exchange for a year-round residence.

  Back inside, I hung up the rain jacket on a hook, stepped out of my boots, and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. I tried again to find Jake, with no better luck, and decided against leaving more messages.

  A fresh cord of dry firewood was stacked in the bin beside the rear door, and another neat pile was in the fireplace, ready to be lighted. I knelt on the granite hearth and placed a match against the thin pine starters beneath the sturdy logs, watching the flames take and spread. I was ready to give up rock and roll in favor of some Beethoven piano concerti, music that I hoped would soothe and calm me.

  Now the wind howled at the top of the chimney, drawing up the smoke and carrying it away. I stood and looked outside, watching the tall evergreens bend and sway with the pounding gusts that swept the hilltop.