“I think it’s easier to . . . suffer in private, you know. No one watching, no one listening.” She shrugged. “At least it is for me. Anyway, I’m part of your old life, Tommy, and you’re part of mine. We haven’t found a way yet to include each other in our lives the way they are now, that’s all. I’m not too worried, though. I figured we’d figure it out sooner or later, when the time was right for the both of us.”
Miller nodded. “I’d like that, Kay.” He looked toward the road again, turning his head fast this time, as if he had heard something he didn’t like. He stood perfectly still. Barton did as well, couldn’t help it. She felt, though, only calmness. The freedom that comes from not caring, having nothing left to lose. After a moment of them standing still it became clear that there was nothing there for them to worry about.
“We shouldn’t push our luck,” Miller said. “We should get you back.” He was still looking in the direction of the road, though. She knew then that there was a part of him still, a part deep down inside him, that was unable to let go of his fear of doing wrong. Maybe he would never be able to let go of that.
“Listen, Tommy, the thing you need to know about Roffman is that he’s made his share of deals with the devil over the years.”
Miller looked at her. He waited, saying nothing.
“You’re not the only one with a promise that shouldn’t be kept.”
Miller studied her for a moment. He was trying to work this out, she could see that. He had it, she could see that, too, knew just what it was she was saying to him. Still, he needed her to say it aloud, needed to hear it. The painkiller, no doubt.
“Think about it, Tommy. About where the bodies were found, on display like that, the fact that they had been put on display to begin with. The hands cut off, hanged from a bridge at the canal, for everyone to see. Who else could that be but that friend of yours?”
“He’s not my friend, Kay.”
“I know. I was being ironic. When you first went into business for yourself, you took people on. A lot of people. And head-on, too. You were fearless. A little too fearless, if you ask me, but that’s a zealot, right? That’s what a zealot does. Of all the people you went after, though, there’s one person you left alone. One person you never went anywhere near. It’s the one person I would have expected you to go after. When you finally told me why, I understood. You were being you, you couldn’t help it, even if it was a stupid promise to make. But don’t think for a moment that certain people in town didn’t notice that this one man went ignored by you. And don’t think they didn’t form their own conclusions as to the reason why.”
Miller shrugged. “People will think what they want to think. There’s not much I can do about that.”
“As long as you know you’re right,” Barton offered. “Right?”
“Yeah.”
“I love you, Tommy, I really do, you know that, but all this honor stuff, it doesn’t get you anywhere. You don’t get points for doing the right thing. If anything, it’s just the opposite.”
“I know, Kay.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m not really sure what it is Roffman expects me to do. A four-year-old business card in the wallet of someone I’ve never met isn’t really much to go on. To be honest, I’m more concerned about what Roffman is up to than anything else. I don’t really care one way or another about who committed these murders and why.”
“Who are you, and what have you done with Tommy Miller?” Barton joked.
Miller smiled, but it didn’t last very long. Too much was on his mind. Barton could see on his face the strain of all this information, all the questions, see in his eyes—wild eyes, thanks to the painkillers—that he was trying with everything he had to make some sense of all this.
“I meant it when I said I wanted nothing to do with this anymore, Kay. Life isn’t so bad right now. I could live with things the way they are, for a long time. Minus the rain, but you can’t have everything, can you?”
“So go away for a couple of days. Let this blow over.”
“I don’t think I can do that.”
“Then let me come with you. Whatever you’re going to do, you shouldn’t be behind the wheel the way you are right now.”
“Your buddy Spadaro asked me to let him know what Roffman wanted. He thinks maybe we can help each other out somehow. If I need any help, I can get it from him.”
Barton nodded. “Okay.”
“I need you to tell me something, though.”
“What?”
“I need you to tell me if I can trust him.”
“Ricky dislikes the chief as much as you do. Maybe even more. He’s stuck working for the guy, even though it was made clear to him that he’d never advance either.”
“But he does work for him. The whole thing between them tonight, that could have just been . . . theater.”
“I doubt it. Ricky’s not the type to hide his feelings very well.”
“Even if it means keeping his job?”
“When it ended between Roffman and me and everyone turned against me, Ricky was pretty vocal about the way I was being treated. It got him in a lot of trouble, but he couldn’t help himself. They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Let me tell you, that’s nothing compared to a chief of police scorned.”
“So you think I can trust Spadaro.”
“I think Ricky doesn’t need to make things worse for himself by doing favors for you. But, yeah, you can trust him. You’re two of a kind, if you ask me.”
Miller nodded. Barton watched him for a moment.
“Don’t underestimate Roffman,” she said finally. “He’s a man with a lot to lose.”
“I won’t.”
“Talk to Ricky, tell him everything you told me.”
“I’ll need his number.”
“Okay.”
Miller reached into the pocket of his field jacket, removed his cell phone. “I’ll call Eddie first, have him send the cab back for you.”
“It’s on its way to Wainscott right now.”
“How do you know?”
“The call came in over the radio while he was taking me here.”
“Eddie probably has more than one driver on tonight. Especially with the trains shut down.”
“Tommy, enough,” Barton said. “Just take me home yourself, okay?”
“It’s for your own protection, Kay.”
“I don’t really care.”
“I do.”
“Then take me as far as the hospital. I can walk from there.”
“We have to be careful, Kay.”
“We’re not doing anything wrong, Tommy. I’m done living like a guilty person. I’ve been done with that for a while now.”
A wave came in, crashing into pieces just beyond the dune behind them. It was louder than any wave they had heard so far.
“C’mon, Tommy,” she said, “let’s just get the hell out of here, okay?”
The warmth flowing from the heater vents and collecting around them in the cab of his pickup caused Miller to sink even deeper into his numbness. Barton had refused to let him drive, so he was sitting in the passenger seat. In all the years he owned his truck, he’d never sat there before, not once. It was just a little strange, no steering wheel in front of him, no pedals at his feet, but not driving allowed him the freedom to look out the window as they headed back toward the village. Not that there was much to see, of course. When he wasn’t looking at the fog around them, or at the twelve-foot hedges lining Gin Lane just beyond the passenger door window, Miller was glancing at the mirror mounted outside his door, looking in it for any sign of headlights peeking through the white curtain behind them.
He was suddenly very tired. Maybe Barton had been right about his not really being in any condition to drive. He was a big guy, though, and his body had been getting gradually used to the effects of the pills, so this stupor wouldn’t last for too much longer. He would have felt better during these days of rain had
he added a fourth pill to his daily routine, but he knew that that was how people got into trouble with this shit—their bodies became tolerant, the pain wasn’t so easily taken away anymore, so, they told themselves, just one more pill, just for today, just to get through. Life was just too good, Miller thought, to wake up one morning suddenly addicted, to find that his mind and body weren’t his own anymore.
At the hospital parking lot—empty this time of night, the emergency room entrance on the other side of the building—Barton parked. No big goodbyes, nothing really at all anyway left for either to say. She climbed out, looked at Miller for a moment, then closed the door. He watched her as she crossed the parking lot, then he moved across the seat and got in behind the wheel. She exited the lot and turned left, starting down Lewis Street. Her place was less than a block away, the street was a well-lit residential street, she’d be fine. Still, Miller waited for the time he figured it would take her to get to her door, then steered across the parking lot and turned left onto Lewis, heading toward her place. He’d come this far, so there wasn’t really any point in bothering to pretend anymore. And anyway, no one had followed them. Despite the fog, he would have seen their headlights.
Miller slowed as he passed her place, saw a light go on in the third-floor apartment, glimpsed Barton, still in that parka of hers, as she crossed in front of her living-room window. She was fine, locked in, safe. He hadn’t been inside her place in a long time. Even before they had fallen out of touch he hadn’t been there more than a few times. So much of their friendship then had to be in secret. Back in those days she was a cop and he was a private investigator, so it wouldn’t be good for her if they were to be seen together all that much. But it hadn’t been just that, it had also been because of Roffman and the secret, so-called, that she had shared with him. Miller back then wasn’t supposed to know but did, of course he did, and Roffman couldn’t know that Miller actually knew—a ridiculously complicated time, to say the least. Miller was glad that it was over. It was a dangerous, foolish thing for Barton to have done to begin with—enter into an affair with Roffman—but who was Miller to criticize. He’d done worse than love the wrong person. Much worse.
Miller remembered the last time he had been inside Barton’s apartment, remembered the wall in her living room dedicated to her achievements as a cop: her diploma from the academy, where she had graduated first in her class; the certificate she had received upon passing the sergeant’s exam; a similar certificate she had received for acing the detective’s exam. Not any of these achievements had come to anything in the end. Miller wondered if that wall was as it had been when he was last in her place, or if it had been stripped bare, everything that had been hung upon it packed away in a cardboard box in some closet.
He returned to his place, didn’t turn on any lights as he went into the bathroom. There he filled the sink with warm water, splashed his face with it. When he was done he leaned over the sink, water dripping from his beard, and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He wished then that it wasn’t Monday night, that the restaurant below was open. If it were he could sit at the bar, relax, numb himself even further by adding a little booze to the painkillers in his blood. A night of forgetting—everything he knew, everything he’d just been told, every question that each detail brought to his mind. He supposed he was lucky that downstairs was in fact closed. He had no choice now but to face what was before him, whatever it was, and try to see where it would take him, if he could, what it all really meant. He had right now no idea at all what he should do next, aside from informing Spadaro, as he had promised. He always kept his promises, no matter what. But beyond that, nothing, no path to follow, no lead to pursue. As far as he knew, he was home for the night. In his current condition, and the weather being what it was, that notion at first appealed to him, greatly. But then he realized that staying home would mean he’d be left with nothing to do but to wait and wonder, and these were the last things he wanted to be doing.
Barton had given Miller Spadaro’s home phone number, which he had stored in his cell phone. He would, of course, need to place the call from the pay phone at the train station, using his calling card. If all this went to shit—there were many ways it could, always were—the cops didn’t need to find a record of a call from Miller to Spadaro. Miller dried his face and hands, looked at himself once more in the mirror, then grabbed his field jacket and was putting it on, about to step back outside, when his landline rang.
He checked his watch. It was fifteen minutes to midnight. Stepping to his phone, he glanced down at the caller ID. The number displayed wasn’t one he recognized. Above it were the words NY Wireless. A cell phone, then. And a Long Island area code. After a moment, Miller finally picked up the phone. There wasn’t any point now in his refusing to answer. The caller would only keep on trying, or, worse, come pounding on his door. One such visit in a night was enough.
On the other end of the line, a male voice, unfamiliar. “Miller?”
A pause, then: “Yeah.”
“It’s Mancini.”
Miller’s first instinct was to hang up, but he didn’t. Mancini speaks for me, Roffman had said. And anyway, Miller needed something, a lead, anything, somewhere to go, something to do other than wait. He was hungry for it, a feeling he hadn’t known in a long time, a feeling he had thought he’d never have to know again.
“What’s going on?” Miller said.
“I need to talk to you. In person.”
“When?”
“Right now.”
Miller took in a breath, let it out. What choice did he have? “Where?”
“I’m coming over.”
“No.” He was shaking his head. “I’d rather we met somewhere else.”
“I don’t care. I’m around the corner, and this can’t wait. I’ll be right there.”
Miller looked around his dark apartment, thought of Mancini standing in it. Just the thought of it felt like an invasion. Being out in that world again was one thing, letting it into his place was another.
“Meet me at the restaurant below,” Miller said.
“I prefer privacy.”
“The restaurant’s closed tonight, no one’s there. I have a key. The back door will be open.”
“Be there when I arrive,” Mancini said. There was an edge to his voice. A strain. Miller didn’t know Mancini all that well, but he knew a man under pressure when he heard one.
“What’s going on?” Miller said.
The call threatened to drop, Miller heard only a stutter of half-words.
“I didn’t get that,” Miller said. “You’re breaking up.”
The signal strength returned, and Miller heard Mancini clearly now.
“It seems we’ve got ourselves another dead body,” he said.
Miller wanted to ask who, the word was on the tip of his tongue, but he could tell the line was already dead. Either the signal was lost or Mancini had hung up.
Miller kept the phone to his ear for a moment, just in case, then finally returned it to its cradle. It took another moment for him to start toward the door.
In the restaurant below he waited by the large storefront window, could see from where he stood both Elm Street and Railroad Plaza. He kept the lights off, but just like his place above, the lights of the train station were more than enough to get around in. Only a minute after he had let himself into the empty restaurant, Mancini’s unmarked sedan appeared on Railroad Plaza, turning onto it from North Main. Miller watched the sedan pass the long railroad platform, at the end of which Railroad Plaza, crossing Elm, became Powell Avenue. The sedan continued along Powell, passing the restaurant and disappearing from Miller’s sight. He stepped away from the window but not by much. He had left the door to the kitchen ajar, waited till he heard its hinges squeak, then heard footsteps in the kitchen. Soon enough Mancini stepped through the swinging doors, spotted Miller standing at the far end of the long dining room, headed toward him.
He was wearing his dark wool overc
oat, dark pants, and dress shoes. The shoes were, Miller noticed, remarkably clean, but that was Mancini. Always well groomed, always well dressed. Still, clean shoes on a night like this, no small accomplishment. Mancini was looking around as he walked toward Miller, making certain, Miller assumed, that they were alone. Built like a fire hydrant, his footsteps landed heavy on the plank floor. He wasn’t as tall as Miller but easily the same weight. About halfway down the room Mancini came to a stop. He glanced now at the tables placed close together throughout the room—a European sensibility, this proximity—and at the long bar that ran along one wall. After that he looked up at the ceiling of old, stamped tin, the building’s original ceiling. He wasn’t making certain that they were alone now, was instead checking the place out, like a prospective buyer. Maybe he was simply hoping to determine the value of the place and thereby get an idea of Miller’s value. It was safe to assume, by the way Mancini dressed, by what Miller knew of him, that such a thing mattered to the man. Southampton was, after all, a town of haves and have-nots. The treatment one got often depended on just how much or how little one had.
“You own this?” Mancini said. He was still studying the ceiling.
“The building, yeah,” Miller answered.
“But not the business.”
“No.”
Mancini nodded. Miller waited, saying nothing.
“It’s always been amazing to me how nine out of ten restaurants out here don’t make it past their first winter,” Mancini said. “This place seems to do okay, though, huh? Oberti certainly seems to be doing okay, driving his fancy car, running around with that young girlfriend of his.”
“It’s busy most nights, and Oberti pays his rent on time,” Miller said. “That’s about all I know.”
“I’ve always wanted a restaurant of my own. I’ve always thought of starting one up after I retire. It’s such a risk, though. A guy could lose his shirt.”
Miller had had enough of this small talk. “Who’s dead?” he demanded.
Mancini was looking at Miller now, was still only halfway down the long room. It was as if he didn’t want to go anywhere near the front window.
The Water's Edge Page 10
