The Beach House Page 12

  To belabor the point, I'd ask if those forty-eight days qualified him for Nelson, Goodwin and Mickel's pension plan (no), if he got to keep his bonus miles (also no), and if he had ever delivered an expert opinion other than the ones he was paid for (of course not).

  Nadia Alper chose not to pursue this hard line of questioning. Maybe she assumed that Lillian would have cut her off. Perhaps she thought that the sooner we got our own expert on the stand, the better. Whatever the reasons, the gym swelled with righteous indignation when she called Dr. Jane Davis to the stand.

  At last we were going to listen to testimony that hadn't been bought, and Montauk would hear from one of its own. This was why we had come to this inquest — to hear the truth for a change.

  Even Nadia Alper looked in better spirits as she asked, "Dr. Davis, please tell us your role in this investigation."

  "I am the pathologist for Huntington Hospital and chief medical examiner for Suffolk County," Jane said.

  "So, unlike Dr. Jacobson, you actually examined Peter Mullen's body, is that correct?"

  "Yes."

  "How many hours did you devote to his examination?"

  "Over sixty."

  "Is that more than usual?"

  "I grew up in Montauk and I know the Mullen family, so I was particularly thorough," said Jane.

  "What evidence did you consider?" asked Alper.

  "In addition to an extensive physical examination of the corpse, I took multiple X rays, and sampled and compared lung tissue."

  "And according to your report, which I have in my hand, you concluded that Mr. Mullen did not drown at all but was beaten to death. To quote from your report, 'Peter Mullen's death was the result of multiple blows to the neck and head with fists, feet, or other blunt instruments. X rays show two completely severed vertebrae, and the level of saturation of the lung tissue indicates the victim had stopped breathing well before he reached the water.' "

  "Those were my findings," said Davis, who seemed nervous and now drew a deep breath. "But upon further consideration and soul-searching, and the benefit of Dr. Jacobson's extensive experience, I've concluded that those initial findings were incorrect, that the evidence does point toward drowning. I realize now that my judgment was compromised by my closeness to the family of the deceased."

  As Jane Davis delivered this last bit of devastating testimony, her voice was paper thin and she seemed to shrivel up on the stand. She left Alper standing there twisting in the wind. She was speechless. I couldn't believe what I'd just heard, either. Neither could the crowd in the gym. Heads were swiveling everywhere.

  "How much did they pay you, darling?" asked a woman whose son had been in Peter's class.

  "I hope it was more than they paid Dr. Jacobson," shouted Bob Shaw, who owns the deli on Main. "He didn't have to sell out his friends."

  "Leave her alone," Macklin finally spoke from his seat. "They got to her. They threatened her. Hell, can't you see that?"

  Lillian pounded his gavel and yelled for quiet, and when that had no effect, he announced a one-hour recess.

  In the near riot, Jane Davis had already left the stand. I ran after Jane, but her car was tearing out of the rear lot.

  Chapter 59

  MACK AND I STAGGERED out of the gym for the recess. At the side parking lot we took refuge on a small bench. I felt as if I'd just taken another beating, only this was worse than the others.

  "You've probably learned more in the last two hours than in two years at your Ivy League law school," said Mack. "Unless they're offering tutorials on witness tampering, bribery, and physical intimidation. Maybe they should."

  Mack looked out at the lovely August morning and spat between his shapeless black brogans. In a lot of ways this was an idyllic scene. A nice, well-maintained little school, green playing fields up the wazoo. It was the kind of spot TV stations like to send camera crews to on election mornings. Capture the picturesque machinery of democracy at work. Film the local people filing into their small-town gymnasium in their heavy work boots, stepping behind the curtain to cast their votes.

  When you come to the same gym on a morning like this, you realize something is going on that isn't pretty, isn't idyllic, and certainly isn't democratic. It's the Big Lie, the White Noise, the Matrix.

  Marci spotted us on the bench and came over for a smoke. "Those New York City folks don't take any prisoners, do they?" she said, holding out her pack. I shook my head. "Sure? It's a great day for a life-shortening habit," said Marci.

  When I was a student looking out at this same parking lot, it was usually empty except for a modest row of cars belonging to the teachers. As I looked now, a Mercedes sedan slowly circled the blacktop. Long and silver with blacked-out windows, it finally stopped twenty yards from us.

  Burly, dark-suited men hopped out of the front. They hustled to open the rear doors.

  In a flash of long white legs and blond hair, Dana stepped out. She was tugging on her dark dress, and I have to admit, she looked as good as ever. Around the other side of the car came her father. He looked great, too. All-powerful and all-knowing. He took her hand, and with the bodyguards deployed front and back, the two walked toward the gym.

  "Why, it's your old girlfriend," said Mack. "I must have pegged her wrong, because here she is to show her support for you and your brother."

  Chapter 60

  MARCI STUBBED OUT HER CIGARETTE, and we followed the Neubauers and their bodyguards back into the gym. Judge Lillian was attempting to call the room to order. He banged his gavel several times, and the Montauketeers cut off their bitter discussions and trudged back to their metal chairs.

  They were just settling in when Montrose called Dana Neubauer to the stand. My stomach sank.

  "God in heaven," mumbled Mack. "What could she have to say?"

  Dana walked solemnly to the stand. As I said, she looked particularly stunning that morning. In retrospect, I realize she also looked substantial, serious, and totally credible.

  "Did you know the deceased, Peter Mullen?" Montrose asked.

  "Yes, I knew Peter very well," she said.

  "For how long?"

  "I've been coming here every summer for twenty-one years. I met Peter and the rest of his family early on."

  "I'm sorry to have to ask this, Dana, but were you ever intimately involved with Peter Mullen?"

  Dana nodded.

  "Yes."

  There was some murmuring, but, overall, the room was still reeling from all the other testimony. I knew about Dana and Peter by then, but I hated to hear it in open court.

  "How long did the relationship last?" he asked.

  "About six months," said Dana, shifting uncomfortably in her witness chair.

  Montrose sighed, as if this was as hard for him as it was for Dana. "Were you involved at the time of his death?"

  Oh, Jesus, I was thinking, this just keeps getting worse.

  "We had just broken up," said Dana, looking in my direction. I knew it was a lie. At least, I thought it was. But when I tried to catch her eye, she looked back at Montrose.

  "How recently?" he asked. "I know this is hard for you."

  "That night," said Dana in a stage whisper, "the night of the party."

  "What a wonderful girl you got there, Jack," said Mack without bothering to look over at me.

  Dana flashed me another fearful look and started to cry softly. I stared back in awe. Who was this woman on the stand? Was any of this true?

  "Peter took it really badly," she resumed. "He started acting crazy. He broke a lamp in the house, knocked over a chair, and stormed out. He called an hour later and told me I was making a big mistake, that the two of us had to be together. I knew he was upset, but I never thought that he'd do anything rash. If you knew Peter, you wouldn't have believed it, either. He acted like nothing ever really got to him. Obviously, I was wrong. I'm so sorry about what happened."

  Then Dana put her head down and sobbed into her hands.

  "Brava!" Gidley called f
rom a few rows behind. "Bravissima!" Then he jumped up and began clapping wildly for Dana's breathtaking performance.

  Chapter 61

  A GOOD FRIEND OF MINE once spent a summer interning at a New York TV news station. The anchorman liked him and over a beer offered the secret to on-air success. "The whole thing in this business," said the anchor, "is sincerity. Once you learn how to fake that, the rest is easy."

  Barry Neubauer followed Dana to the stand. Neubauer's specialty wasn't feigning empathy but projecting CEO-ness. Every detail of his presentation, from the cut of his charcoal suit to the tilt of his jaw to his full head of gray hair, reinforced the message that here was a man who was your superior.

  "Mr. Neubauer," Nadia Alper began, "according to a bartender who was setting up at your place the afternoon before the party, you and Mrs. Neubauer engaged in a lengthy and nasty argument. Could you tell us what the argument was about?"

  "I do recall a spat," said Neubauer with a shrug, "but I don't remember it as being particularly serious. In fact, I have no clear recollection of what it was about. Probably just pre-party anxiety. I suspect that bartender hasn't been married for twenty-seven years."

  "Would it jog your memory, Mr. Neubauer, if I told you that the same bartender heard you say the name Peter Mullen several times in the course of the argument, often with an expletive attached?"

  Neubauer frowned as he strained to recall the incident.

  "No, I'm sorry, it wouldn't. I can't imagine any circumstances in which his name would come up in an argument between Campion and myself. Peter Mullen has been a friend of the family for as long as I can remember. We consider his death, whatever the exact circumstances, extremely tragic. I've extended my condolences to the Mullen family. I visited his older brother, Jack, at the law firm where he worked and spoke to him at length."

  As a witness, Neubauer had what might be described as perfect pitch. His erect posture, steady gaze, deep voice, and slow, thoughtful delivery all combined to create an impression of absolute credibility. To judge his responses as anything less than the truth seemed cynical and conspiratorial.

  Alper persisted. To her credit, she didn't seem afraid of him. "Could you recall your activities on the day Mr. Mullen died?"

  "I screened some dailies in the morning and played eighteen holes rather badly at Maidstone in the afternoon. Then Campion and I got ourselves ready for the party."

  "Could you tell us what you were doing at about ten-thirty that night, the time that Mr. Mullen died?"

  "I was in an upstairs den on the phone," said Neubauer, without hesitation. "This I remember very well."

  Nadia Alper tilted her head in surprise. So did Mack and I.

  "Is there a reason, Mr. Neubauer, why you remember a phone call so vividly yet have no recollection about a fight with your wife?"

  Nothing seemed to shake Barry Neubauer. "For one thing, it was a very long call, a little more than an hour. I even remember feeling very guilty about being away from our guests for so long."

  "He's just a goddamned caring human being," said Macklin under his breath.

  "Do you have any proof of the call?"

  "Yes, I've brought a copy of the phone bill. It shows a seventy-four-minute call from three past ten to eleven-seventeen P.M." Neubauer passed the record to Alper.

  "Could you tell us who you were talking to, Mr. Neubauer?" asked Alper.

  When Neubauer hesitated slightly, Montrose barked, "Objection."

  Both attorneys looked toward Lillian.

  "Overruled," said the judge. "Please answer the question."

  "Robert Crassweller Junior," said Neubauer. The slightest trace of a smile crossed his lips. "The attorney general of the United States," he said.

  This final answer drained whatever energy and tension remained in the courtroom. Some spectators got up and left, as if this was an Islander game and the fat lady had just sung. Barry Neubauer's eyes casually roamed the audience. When he found me, he offered up a lazy smile. Amateur hour is over, boys.

  After a few more questions, Nadia Alper excused Neubauer. Then both lawyers informed the court that they had presented their list of witnesses.

  Judge Lillian made a show of adjusting his robes before somberly addressing the court.

  "Normally," said Lillian, "I would withhold my decision until the morning. In this case, however, I can't think of anything that requires further reflection. It is the finding of this inquiry court that on May twenty-ninth, Peter Mullen drowned by accident or suicide. This inquest is now completed, and this court adjourned."

  Chapter 62

  THE COURT ADJOURNED at about 4:40. When I got to the Shagwong, it was five on the nose. I took a seat at the end of the bar and asked Mike to pour out six shots of Jameson.

  Without raising an eyebrow, he grabbed two handfuls of glasses and, with practiced precision, lined them up and filled them to the rims.

  "They're on me," he said.

  "I would have asked for seven, then," I told him. I smiled for the first time that day.

  Mike put down a seventh and filled it also.

  "I was joking."

  "Me, too."

  As Mike laid out my full course of Irish medicine, I saw again that smug little smile Montrose flashed me on his way out of the courtroom. It showed more disgust than joy. Why, he seemed to be asking, was I the only one in the room who couldn't understand that justice is neither a mystery nor a crapshoot, but a major purchase? Spend your money thoughtfully and secretly, you walk free. That was the way it was in America these days. Who knows? Maybe it had always been that way.

  Over the next hour and a half to two hours, I steadily worked from left to right. I tossed back shots for each bought witness in the parade of perjurers. I lifted a glass to Tricia Powell, no doubt the Mayflower Employee of the Month, and another for the good Dr. Jacobson, the coroner magician from Los Angeles. Or as Mack described him, "a whore with a résumé."

  My old honey Dana rated two shots of Jameson. The first for coming all the way back from Europe just because she missed me. The second for her Oscar-worthy performance that afternoon.

  Hardly acknowledging anyone around me, I sipped and stewed until my level of numbness nudged ahead of my rage. I think that happened somewhere around my second Dana shot, my fourth in forty minutes.

  Although I'm probably not the most reliable witness, I recall that Fenton and Hank came up and each threw an arm around me but, sensing I wasn't up for a group hug, soon left me to my self-medicating. They were just trying to do the right thing.

  When I put in my order I'd counted on a toast for Jane Davis, but by the time her turn came, I was more worried about her than angry. On the way back from the bathroom, I stopped at the pay phone and left a slightly incoherent message on her machine.

  "It's not your fault, Jane," I shouted over the din, "it's mine. I never should have gotten you into this mess."

  That was when I saw none other than Frank Volpi. He was standing in back, waiting for me to get off the phone. "Congratulations, asshole," he said. Then he grinned and walked away before I could get off a shot.

  Back at the bar, I toasted Frank. He'd been there for us from the start, and his performance had been flawless. "Volpi," I said, and drank.

  Numero six was for Barry Neubauer himself. The river of whiskey had opened up my poetic side, and I came up with a couplet for the occasion. Barry Neubauer, scumbag of the hour.

  That was meant to be my last, but thanks to Mike, I had one glistening silver bullet left. I was afraid I was going to have to drink to something vague and amorphous like the System. Then I thought of Attorney General Robert Crassweller Jr. Even I had to hand it to Montrose for the way he set up the big punch line with his phony objection. What panache. He had played Nadia Alper like a Stradivarius. What class! What a winner!

  After the last toast, the vertical and horizontal on my picture started to wander. In fact, the whole room was spinning. I treated the problem with a couple of beers. Hair of the dog.
Then I made a few attempts to leave Mike a forty-dollar tip. He kept stuffing it back in my shirt pocket until I finally stumbled out the door.

  Two blocks later I stopped at a pay phone and called Jane again. That awful look on her face wouldn't go away. I was planning to leave a slightly more intelligible version of my first message when she answered.

  "It's okay, Jane," I said.

  "No, it's not okay. Jesus, Jack. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. They came to my house."

  "It wouldn't have made an iota of difference."

  "So what!" She sounded hysterical.

  Four weekenders walked by and got into a Saab convertible. "Jane, you've got to swear to me you won't do anything stupid."

  "Don't worry. But there's something I have to tell you. I didn't before, because I didn't see the point. When I did all those tests on Peter, I also did blood tests. Jack, your brother was HIV-positive."

  Chapter 63

  THE TWO-MILE WALK and the ocean air did me a world of good. By the time I passed the parking lot for Ditch Plains Beach and cut across my damp lawn, I was close to sober again.

  It's something I'll always be grateful for. Sitting on the porch and leaning back against the front door in one of my old tattered sweaters was Pauline.

  It was about 10:30. The street and lawn were enveloped in a light ocean mist. It's a weird analogy, and I have no idea why I thought of it, but seeing Pauline blocking my path to the door brought to mind Gary Cooper waiting patiently in the street in High Noon. Something about her stillness and her "here I am, what are you going to do about it?" smile.

  "You're a sight for sore eyes, Pauline."

  "You, too, Jack. I watched from the back of the gym today. Then I drove all the way back to the city. Then I drove all the way back out here. Crazy, huh? Don't try to deny it."

  "Did you do something awful that made Macklin kick you out of the house?"