Authors: Chris Knopf
The family itself was a dysfunctional mess, but again, so what? Whose isn’t? Fuzzy was a jerk. Wendy a recluse. Eunice a bossy prig,
but this was the Hamptons—we crank out so many self-appointed, überbroads like her you could probably trade them on the commodities exchange.
Then there was a little matter of the pickup assassin. What was that—a random psycho or conclusive evidence that Sergey’s killer thought I knew a lot more than I did? Enough to make it worth killing me, too.
What was sorely missing was the thing my favorite judge insisted the prosecutors provide. A motive. The Big Why. There was always a reason for a murder, even if it didn’t make sense to normal people or the killer himself, once he had a chance to sit down and really think about what he’d done. Usually it was more than “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Most of the cases I handled for Burton Lewis were so open-and-shut it was embarrassing for all of us to go through the necessary formalities. Either the accused was an obviously evil or hopelessly stupid social misfit, or the cops and D.A. had been running a tissue-thin case that a third-rate pre-law college student could have blown to smithereens. There was almost never a lot of gray area in criminal justice, despite the impression given by the entertainment industry.
“I don’t know enough,” I said to the birds flying overhead. They didn’t comment.
The clerk from the Surrogate’s Court was young enough to be my son, if I’d had a son when I was twelve years old. His chin was smudged with fine hair and his clothes were made of the wrinkle-free synthetic once favored by the immigrant engineers who worked for my father. His head was all brown curls, cut rather than combed into place. He had a tiny diamond earring in each ear and looked happy with himself, as if finding the bank on his own was an accomplishment worthy of acclaim.
Sullivan was also wrinkle-free, the result of precise and thorough ironing. You could cut your hand on the seam in his khaki pants. Ostensibly a plainclothesman, he was supposed to blend in with the general populace, which he would have done on a military base on Okinawa, but not in the Hamptons. His olive drab shirt had two pockets with flaps, one of which had a slit to let out the top of his mechanical pencil. The lenses in his sunglasses were thick and utterly black, contrasting starkly with his pale skin and platinum-blond hair, cut close to the scalp. His sport coat was a loose blue silk, selected for the way it disguised the shoulder holster and provided quick, unobstructed access to the Smith & Wesson .45. Though I had to say, it looked pretty spiffy. I told him so.
He scowled. “I’ll tell the wife. Her fault.”
“The wife? Does that make you the husband?”
“The spiff. Who’s this?” He pointed at the clerk.
“Brad Sullivan,” said the kid, sticking out his hand.
“No, it’s not,” said Sullivan, ignoring the hand.
“Huh?”
“Sullivan. That’s my name.”
“What,” I said, “only one Sullivan allowed per acre? Give the guy a break. Shake his hand and let’s get this thing done.”
Sullivan grunted but did as I asked.
The Harbor Trust in Bridgehampton was the bank’s biggest building on the East End, even though their regional headquarters was in Southampton. It was new and built with stone, marble, towering colonnades, five-foot-high crown moldings, and once-skyrocketing mortgage revenue. I’d watched them build it over two years ago, a display of extravagance that would have embarrassed the Vatican. The original headquarters was a square block of granite, solid enough for me and the rest of the bank’s loyal customers, which could have saved them a lot of money if they’d bothered to ask us.
Elvin Graveley met us in the lobby.
“Elvin,” I said, “how’d you draw this duty?”
“Curiosity. Autumn said she felt like she’d been renditioned to Warsaw.”
I heard Sullivan let out a little puff of disdain, but he stayed quiet.
Elvin led us past a long row of tellers across from a field of elegant desks with computer screens and well-dressed people who spoke subaudible words into their phones. True to custom, the safe-deposit boxes were in the vault at the back of the bank. This was my favorite part—seeing the colossal and exquisitely beautiful round door. I don’t know if I caught this from my engineer father, but I always loved the splendor of shiny machined steel. I could never be a bank robber if it meant drilling such a thing full of holes and blowing it up. I’d have to get really good at hearing the tumblers drop into place, listening with perfect concentration for the traitorous little clicks.
Elvin showed his ID to the gnarly old woman guarding the wooden gate that led into the staging area in front of the vault. Even though they’d been working together in the same office for more than twenty years, she gave it a good look, then waved to me. I gave her my license, which she looked eager to reject, running her eyes up and down my entire body.
“I had some surgery done on my face since that photo was taken,” I said. “Medical, not cosmetic,” I added, after seeing disapproval light up her face. I’m not sure she bought it, but I got my license back. Brad skated through, probably on the strength of his resemblance to a worthless grandson, and Joe simply stuck his detective’s badge in her face. She averted her eyes and rushed him through.
While the three of us waited, Elvin secured the key to the safe-deposit box. Then we all went into the vault. Another bank employee was there with a few boxes on a table and a pad of paper on which she was taking notes.
“We’ll wait until the vault is cleared,” said Joe.
“That’s not necessary,” said Elvin, trying to be helpful.
“Yes, it is,” said Joe, with that flat, dead tone cops use that usually scares the pee out of regular civilians.
“Of course,” said Elvin, walking quickly over to the woman and whispering in her ear. She booked out of there with barely a sidelong glance.
Elvin gave us a strained smile and led us to the box. He asked Brad about the protocols.
“Uh, I guess you open it and I, like, write down a list of all the stuff that’s in there.” He held up a clipboard to help us grasp the concept.
“You guess?” Joe said.
“I mean, yeah,” said Brad. “That’s how it works.”
“You want to think about it some more?” asked Joe.
Brad found the courage of his convictions.
“No, sir. That is absolutely the way it works.”
Sullivan nodded and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a wad of surgical gloves and handed them out.
After we were fully gloved, he nodded at Elvin, who gave him a little bow, then stuck in the key, turned it, and slid out the box. We gathered around a chest-high table and watched him open it up.
A bald, naked doll with jaundiced skin stared up at us with a crooked, maniacal leer.
“Whoa, holy crap. Fucking freak me out,” said Brad.
Sullivan instantly stuck him in the chest with a stubby, rigid index finger.
“None of that stuff, hear?” he said.
Brad recovered his composure.
“Noted,” he said.
“Write it down,” said Sullivan.
“Yes, sir.”
Elvin lifted out the doll. Under it was a bundle of yellowed newspaper clippings. While Brad made a log, I asked Sullivan if I could take a peek. He nodded. Afraid to damage the brittle scraps, I barely lifted
the corners to look. From what I could tell, they were all recipes. I reported that to my colleagues.
“Write that down,” said Sullivan to Brad.
Under the recipes was a box containing a gold class ring covered in Latin and a cameo, very old, picturing a stern, homely woman. Also a rhinestone necklace, the kind you could find by the bushel at any Sunday afternoon flea market.
Under that was an envelope labeled
QUITCLAIM DEED
, just as Sergey had said. After Brad logged it onto his clipboard, I asked Joe Sullivan if I could take a look. He said sure.
It was a legitimate document, with all the formal legal language, blocky typewriter type, and oversize papers. I took in the first few paragraphs and scanned to the end. It was plenty official and not overly burdened with legal jargon. In fact, it was all pretty clear.
It was written about twenty years ago and said that Eunice Hamilton Wolsonowicz had released all rights and claims to the Hamilton property in the Sagaponack section of the Town of Southampton, conveying such to Elizabeth Hamilton Pontecello.
Folded inside was another document, this one a promissory note, stating that the house and contents, the specifics to be determined, were posted as collateral against a loan to be paid as funds were requested, up to a limit of $4,685,000. It was dated a year ago.
So Betty had essentially set up her sister as a credit line with the house as collateral. I already knew where this led, but still, it was oddly depressing to see the details so irredeemably documented.
I handed both documents to Joe, who looked at them before handing them over to Brad.
“Is that it?” Joe asked.
Elvin dug around and pulled out a set of ceramic salt- and pepper shakers. The salt was in a naked breast and the pepper an erect penis. “We’ve seen stranger,” he said, and as if to prove the point, pulled out the last item, a pint-size Ziploc bag containing a pair of severed ears.
Brad said, “Oh, Christ,” then slapped his hand over his mouth.
I took the bag out of Elvin’s hand and tossed it to Sullivan, who caught it in midair.
“Write it down,” said Sullivan. Brad handed him the clipboard and headed for the exit. Couldn’t blame him.
“Send them along to Riverhead,” I said to Sullivan. “Next time, we’re going for the whole head,” I added, grinning at Elvin, who’d already decided the consequences of unfettered curiosity weren’t all they were cracked up to be.
The leaden weariness brought on from the last few days pinned my limbs to the bed. I decided I needed the whole morning to gather my strength. To call up reinforcements, renew my vitality.
Or maybe just loaf around in bed playing Dead Girl. This was a game of mine growing up. On mornings when waking up all the way seemed too high a mountain to climb, I’d pretend I was dead. This was more difficult than you’d think. I had to lie there, perfectly still, holding my breath and trying to will my skin into a gray, cadaverous pallor. My mother never once fell for it, though she’d say things like, “Oh, dear. Jacqueline is dead. What a pity, such a nice little girl. Sigh. I suppose we’ll just have to buy another one.”
The problem with playing Dead Girl when you’re my age and living alone is there’s no one to fool but yourself.
After I’d tried to simulate the total lifelessness of a murder victim my joints began to rebel, making it so uncomfortable I gave up the fight and slid off the bed onto the floor. This position seemed more authentic, so I lay there for a while, imagining a circle of horrified witnesses, muttering that they’d never seen such a beautiful dead body.
This worked for another half hour, until I was forced to admit I was wide-awake and bored with the idea of lying flat on my back. Still, it
was a good hour before I managed to clean myself up and choose between the yellow jeans and green hiking boots or dark green jeans and white running shoes, compromising with all green from top to bottom.
I’d decided that morning to visit Winthrop’s, which likely incited the performance by Dead Girl. It was a short trip to the funeral home, one of two in town. The other was started by a Greek guy who was also in the pizza-shop business. Though his name was Andre Pappanasta, he named the place Livingston and Hawthorne, understanding that Long Islanders preferred to think that starchy, impeccable Anglo-Saxons, like the ones they saw on
Upstairs, Downstairs
, would be handling their loved ones’ remains. Winthrop’s was the real deal, having been in the business forever, a selling point reinforced by the facilities themselves, housed in a lovingly restored colonial inn on Montauk Highway.
I pushed a button on a table in the lobby labeled
FOR ATTENTION
, which I got seconds later. He was a well-dressed man in his late forties, tall and clean-featured, with wire-frame glasses and rapidly evaporating black hair made blacker by an oily dressing pasting the defeated remains into a slick skullcap.
He stood before me with hands clasped tightly to his chest.
“Mrs. Anderson, I presume,” he said.
“Sorry, no. Jackie Swaitkowski. I’m an attorney here in Southampton. I was hoping to meet with your management.”
The man smiled.
“My management is my wife, so you must mean the person in charge of Winthrop’s Funeral Home, which would be me.”
He put out his hand. I took it, fearing something cold, limp, and creepy, but suffered hard, dry, and assertive instead.
“Alden Winthrop,” he said.
“I’m looking into the death of one of my clients. I was hoping I could ask you a question or two.”
He smiled another well-practiced smile.
“I’m happy to speak with you, only I can’t imagine how I could help.”
Winthrop still looked eager to please but now slightly uncertain.
“Can we just sit down for a second?” I said, rubbing my leg as if nursing an ancient injury. That did it.
“Oh, of course, come this way.”
I felt like I was back in Sandy Kalandro’s office. Winthrop’s space was every bit as comfortable, though distinguished by its greater vintage, predominantly mid-eighteenth-century, with some arts and crafts mixed in. And devotedly cared for. The leather couches were a dark and supple cordovan, and the finish on the elegant veneered desk and credenza so deeply luxurious I had to sit on my hands to resist stroking the grain. On the walls were black-and-white photographs taken in the old days of Southampton Village, when the streets were mud, people dressed in black, and cattle grazed in the empty fields next to the treacherous ocean. When I was getting over my dead husband, I went to a shrink who had an office like this.
Winthrop nimbly slid around the desk and sat down. I dropped into one of the two visitor’s chairs facing the desk and immediately felt the urge to talk about my childhood.
“So,” said Winthrop.