The Beach House Page 18

  One of the many happy side effects of perspective and clear thinking is that it helps you sleep. I stretched out on the cedar planks, and in seconds I was out.

  I was jarred from sleep by footsteps at the end of the deck.

  It was too late to run. I sat up and stared blindly into the dark. Maybe the FBI. Some deep, scary voice about to order me to roll over on my stomach and put my hands behind my back.

  We had made it clear, I hoped, that we weren't going to harm any hostages. There was no need to shoot me on sight. I almost said out loud, "No need to shoot."

  I smelled Pauline's light perfume before I saw her. "Coming back here was insane," I said when she stepped out of the darkness.

  But I didn't say it with much conviction. I figured she'd been thinking the same thing I had, that it might be our last night together for a long time.

  "So, I'm insane," she said.

  "Well, you've come to the right place."

  Pauline lay down and leaned into me, and for a few minutes I forgot about everything except how right she was for me. The thought filled me with anguish.

  "I didn't mean it, Paulie girl. I'm really glad you came back from New York."

  "I know, Jack. So give the girl a kiss."

  Chapter 96

  AN HOUR OR SO LATER, Pauline and I were still out on the deck beneath the canopy of a thousand glittering stars.

  "Did you get the blood work back from Jane?" she asked softly. For a second I was somewhere so far away that I didn't know what she meant.

  "Not till tomorrow. Early, I hope. How about you? How'd it go out there in the big, bad world?"

  "I did good," said Pauline with her loveliest cat-that-swallowed-the-canary grin. "Real good, Jack. You're going to be happy."

  "How many could you track down?"

  "Twelve," she said, "out of twelve."

  "And how many signed?"

  "All of them. Every single one, Jack. They hate that son of a bitch Neubauer as much as we do."

  "Looks like I hired the right investigator," I said, and kissed her again.

  "You have an eye for talent. Oh, by the way, Jack, you're famous. "

  "Good famous? Or bad famous?"

  "Depends on the channel, and the commentator. The guy on Hardball says you and Mack should be dragged into the town square and hanged."

  "It would make powerful television."

  "Ten minutes later Geraldo compared you to heroes in the American Revolution."

  "I always felt Geraldo never got the respect he deserves."

  "Since when?"

  "Since tonight."

  "And this weatherwoman on Fox, I think she wants to have your baby."

  "Someone should tell her I'm taken."

  "Good answer, Jack. You're learning."

  "It's true. If there's any baby-making involving me, it's going to be done with a non-weatherwoman with the musical name of Pauline Grabowski."

  There was a sweet pause.

  "Pauline?"

  "What's that, lawyer boy?"

  "I love you."

  "I love you, too. That's why I'm here," she whispered. "It's probably why we're all here, Jack."

  "I love you more than I ever thought I could love anybody. I worship you, actually. You surprise me, in good ways, just about every day we're together. I love your spirit, your compassion, that sweet, funny laugh of yours. I never get tired of being with you. I miss you terribly when you're away." I stopped and looked into her eyes. Pauline stared back, didn't blink. "Will you marry me?" I whispered.

  This time the silence was frightening. I was afraid to move.

  I finally propped myself up on one elbow and leaned over her. Her face seemed to be broken into a million shimmering pieces. She looked more beautiful than I had ever seen her.

  When she nodded through her tears, the riddle of my life was solved.

  Chapter 97

  TWENTY-NINE-YEAR-OLD Coast Guard Lt. Christopher Ames sat tall behind the tapered windscreen of his jet-powered Blackhawk 7000 helicopter and felt as if the night were his own private video game. He was on duty, searching for the missing millionaires, but his heart wasn't in it. He didn't much like any of the millionaires he'd met. All three of them.

  Eighteen miles northeast of Montauk was Block Island. Ames had spent the day flying back and forth over every square inch. Zilch. He wasn't really surprised.

  Now he was racing back to Long Island, hotdogging it slightly, but nothing to get court-martialed for. He took a glance at the speed indicator: 280. Hell, it felt twice that. He was flying less than fifty feet above the cement-hard whitecaps.

  At the Montauk lighthouse, Ames juked left and followed the steep, jagged coastline. In the moonlight, it seemed to be crumbling into the surf.

  He figured he'd ride the cliffs for a few miles before tacking inland to MacArthur Airport. That's when he spotted the dark, low-slung mansion in the dunes.

  He'd been scoping out multimillion-dollar vacation homes all day, but this one was over the top, even by the lofty standards of waterfront real estate in these parts. Sleek and serpentine, it went on forever along the cliffs.

  Still, on the first big weekend of the summer, there wasn't a single light on. Strange, and a goddamned waste. Somebody ought to be using this spread.

  He pulled hard on the stick, and the big bird seemed to screech to a stop in midair. It made him think of a cartoon character who realizes a beat too late that he's just run off the side of a cliff. Then, for the umpteenth time that day, Lt. Ames banked toward the mansion.

  In close, he could see that the place wasn't quite finished. He spun around the grassless site like a stock car circling a quarter-mile track. His turbine engine hacked up a dirt cyclone that would settle over everything in its path — from the front porch to the big yellow steamroller at the end of the driveway.

  He was about to swerve back and head for the airport when he noticed the mountain bike leaning up against one of the few trees.

  He hit it with his 8,000-watt spotlight, and saw a lock hanging open from a back tire.

  What have we here?

  More slowly now, he circled the place again. He hovered at roof height and beamed his lights along the row of blacked-out windows.

  That's when he saw the couple literally under his nose on the deck. Both of them buck naked.

  Ames was about to reach for the two-way radio when the woman stood up and turned to face the lights. She was beautiful, and not in a pouting-model sort of way.

  For about ten seconds she stood with her hands on her hips and stared up as if she were trying to tell him something important with her eyes. Then she raised both hands above her shoulders and flipped him the bird with each one.

  Ames started to laugh, and for the first time all day remembered why he liked America.

  I must have something better to do, he thought, than bust a couple of trespassers for making love in one of the most beautiful spots in North America. He put the handset back on its cradle, then swung the big bird back toward MacArthur Airport.

  He was still smiling about the pretty girl who had flipped him the double bird.

  Chapter 98

  PAULINE AND I WERE LOST in our own little world, holding hands and watching the surf, when Fenton burst through the French doors to the deck.

  "Jack, Volpi's gone!"

  "I thought you were doing ten-minute checks? The doors were double-locked?"

  "I was, Jack. I swear. He can't be gone more than a few minutes."

  Fortunately, Pauline and I were dressed by now. We followed Fenton out onto the beach. We looked up and down the shoreline. Nothing. No Volpi.

  "He would have headed west, toward the Blakely place. It's the only way that makes any sense," I said.

  The three of us sprinted toward the garage and Pauline's car. With Pauline driving, we raced down the long dirt driveway, then turned left toward town.

  "It can't end like this," I said.

  Pauline, who was already going faster than
I would have, put the pedal to the floor. It was a little before two in the morning, and the road was empty. After half a mile she took a hard left toward Franklin Cove.

  "Pull over here," I told Pauline. "The shoreline is just over that dune. Either we've beaten him here, or we're fucked."

  We jumped out and clambered hand over hand to the top of the dune. My heart was pounding as we topped the crest.

  We were too late. Volpi was already a hundred yards past us, chugging through the sand toward a cluster of big houses at the bend.

  We took off after him anyway, and quickly began closing the gap. But Volpi, who had just noticed us, was running for his life, and we weren't going to catch him before he got to the first house.

  As I struggled through the sand, a gun went off behind me. Fenton and I turned to see Pauline with her Smith & Wesson held out in front of her. Then she fired again at Volpi.

  The second shot must have barely missed him.

  He stopped in his tracks and raised his hands. "Don't shoot!"

  We kept running. Fenton got there first. He lowered his shoulder and 240 pounds into Volpi's chest, sending him sprawling onto his back. In a second we were on him, all the anger and frustration of the past year pouring into our punches.

  "That's enough," said Pauline. "Stop it."

  But Fenton wasn't through. He grabbed a fistful of sand and shoved it into Volpi's mouth. Volpi gasped for breath, spat, and sputtered out a few words.

  Now I grabbed a handful and pushed it in.

  "What happened to Peter?" I shouted in his face. "You were there, right, Frank? What happened?"

  He was still spitting out sand and gasping. "No . . . no," he managed.

  "Frank, I just want to hear the truth. It doesn't matter what you tell us out here! Nobody will know but us."

  Volpi shook his head, and Fenton pushed another handful of sand into his mouth. More gasping and spitting and choking followed. I was almost feeling sorry for him.

  This time we gave him a minute to breathe and focus.

  Gidley couldn't leave him alone, though. "Now you know how I felt when I got a visit from your friend. He tried to drown me. I couldn't breathe! I was spitting up salt water. How's the sand taste, Frank? Want some more?"

  Volpi held both hands in front of his face. He was still choking, trying to clear his mouth.

  "Yeah, Neubauer had his goons kill your brother. I still don't know why. I wasn't there, Jack. How could you think that? Christ, I liked Peter."

  Jesus, it felt good to hear that — to finally get the truth out. Just to hear it.

  "That's all I wanted, Frank. The truth. Stop blubbering, you piece of shit."

  But Volpi wasn't finished. "You still don't have anything on him. Neubauer's too smart for you, Jack."

  I hit Volpi with a short right hand, definitely the best punch of my life, and he went face first into the sand. "I owed you that, you bastard."

  Fenton put his hand on the back of Volpi's head and ground his face in the sand. "Me, too."

  At least I knew the truth. That was something. We dragged Volpi's sorry ass to Pauline's car and took him back to the house.

  Chapter 99

  A FEW HOURS LATER, after Pauline, Molly, and I made eggs and coffee for the group, we all filed back into the courtroom. I wasn't feeling too chipper, but then the adrenaline kicked in and I was okay.

  After Macklin smacked his gavel and called the room to order, Montrose rose and launched into another of his pompous speeches, something he must have been working on all night.

  I objected, and Mack called the two of us to the bench.

  "You know better than this," he said to Montrose. "You should be testifying to the facts, not philosophizing, or whatever the hell it is that you're doing. You, either, Jack. But because of the other restrictions put on you, Mr. Montrose, and in the interest of fairness and getting at the truth, you go right ahead and make your speeches. Just keep 'em short, for God's sake. I'm not getting any younger."

  I shook my head and returned to my seat. Montrose took center stage again.

  "Our would-be prosecutor delights in recklessly tainting the reputation of my client," said Bill Montrose, glancing my way. I had the sense that he was just warming to the task. "Till now, we haven't retaliated by drawing attention to the sad details of his late brother's life. It seemed inappropriate and, I had hoped, unnecessary.

  "Now," said Montrose as if he'd spent the night wrestling with his oversize conscience, "we have no choice. If, in fact, Peter Mullen's death wasn't an accident, which is doubtful, there are people far more likely to have done him harm than Barry Neubauer.

  "When Peter Mullen died at the end of last May," said Montrose, clearing his throat, "the world did not lose its next Mother Teresa. It lost a high-school dropout who, at the age of thirteen, had already been arrested for drug possession. You should also know that despite having never held a regular job in his life, Peter Mullen had almost two hundred thousand dollars in his bank account at the time of his death. Two months earlier he paid for a nineteen-thousand-dollar motorcycle with an envelope of thousand-dollar bills."

  How did they know that? Had someone been following me?

  "Unlike our prosecutor, I am not irresponsible enough to stand up here and claim that Peter Mullen was a drug dealer. I don't have enough evidence to say that. But based on his background, bank account, and lifestyle, and no other way to explain his wealth, it does beg the question, doesn't it? And if Peter Mullen made his living selling drugs, he would have attracted violent rivals. That's the way the drug world works, even in the Hamptons."

  Hearing these phony charges dragged out yet again pushed me out of my seat.

  "No one," I said, "claims my brother is a candidate for sainthood. But he wasn't a drug dealer. Everyone in this room knows it. Not only that, they know exactly how two hundred thousand dollars found its way to his bank account. Because it was their money!"

  "Your Honor," protested Montrose, "the prosecutor has no right to this kind of grandstanding. Even if he is your grandson."

  Macklin sat there and nodded.

  "If the prosecutor has something to share with the court," he said, "he should cut the crap and do so. He should also be advised that any further unprofessional behavior will not be tolerated in this courtroom. This is supposed to be a fair trial, and damn it, that's what it's going to be."

  Chapter 100

  AFTER MONTHS OF MY OBSESSING about this trial, studying for it, investigating and gathering evidence, the moment of truth was here. I'd wanted justice for Peter, and maybe I could get it — if I was good enough, if I could keep my temper and indignation in check, if I could actually beat Bill Montrose just this one time. Fair and square.

  "I have some crucial evidence to present to the court," I said. "But first, I want to clear up something regarding my brother Peter's drug arrest. It happened in Vermont eight years ago. I was a twenty-one-year-old college senior, and Peter, who was thirteen, was visiting me.

  "One night, a local policeman pulled us over for a broken taillight. He came up with an excuse to search the car and found a joint under the driver's seat. That's what happened.

  "Knowing that I had just applied to law school, though I wouldn't actually go to Columbia for a few more years, Peter insisted that the joint was his. It wasn't. It was mine. I'm telling you this to set the record straight and to illustrate that while Peter was no saint, he was as good a brother as anyone could hope to have. Nothing I am about to show you changes that.

  "Now, if you can adjust the lights," I continued, "the People have a couple of exhibits we would like to share."

  Marci scrambled up a small stepladder and refocused a pair of 1,500-watt spots until they flooded a twelve-foot section of the sidewall. Close to the center of the lit area, I taped a large, colorful illustration.

  It showed a rosy-cheeked toddler, snug and warm in a reindeer-festooned sweater. The child was surrounded by cuddly stuffed animals.

  "This is the co
ver of last year's Christmas catalog for Bjorn Boontaag, which is now owned by Barry Neubauer. I will read what the catalog copy says: 'Boontaag is the most profitable manufacturer of toys and furniture in the world. The three stuffed lionesses on the cover are the incredibly popular Sneha, Saydaa, and Mehta, sold by the tens of thousands to parents all over the world. Inside this catalog are two hundred pages of children's toys, clothing, and furniture.'

  "The People will offer this picture as Exhibit B," I said.

  Then I looked around the room like a guerrilla fighter in the eerily serene seconds before firing off his first missile.

  "The People will now offer Exhibit C."

  Chapter 101

  "EXHIBIT C, I HAVE TO WARN YOU, is not nearly as wholesome as the Boontaag Christmas catalog," I said. "In fact, if you're watching with your children now, you should have them leave the room."

  I walked slowly back to my table and picked up the portfolio-size envelope. As I did so, I peered at Barry Neubauer, holding his glance until I could see the first shadow of panic in his narrowing eyes.

  "The images I'm about to put on this wall aren't warm and fuzzy. They're hot and cruel and in razor-sharp focus. If they celebrate anything, it's definitely not children or family."

  "Objection!" shouted Montrose. "I vehemently object to this!"

  "Let the evidence speak for itself," said Macklin. "Go on, Jack."

  My heart was banging as violently as if I were fighting for my life, but I spoke with preternatural calm. "Your Honor," I said, "the People call Ms. Pauline Grabowski."

  Pauline briskly walked to the witness chair. I could tell that she was eager to play her part, even if it meant implicating herself.

  "Ms. Grabowski," I began, "how are you employed?"

  "Up until recently, I was a private investigator employed at Mr. Montrose's law firm."

  "How long were you employed there?"