The Beach House Page 6

  Jane had another hour in the lab, but said she could meet after and gave me directions to her house in Riverhead. "If you get there first, could you take Iris for a little walk?" she asked. "The keys are under the second-to-last flowerpot. And don't worry, she's a sweet-heart."

  I made a point of getting there early, and Iris, a sleek, pale-eyed weimaraner, was beside herself with gratitude. She may have been the size of a Doberman, but Iris was a lover, not a fighter. When I opened the door, she jumped and yelped and skated round the wooden floor on slippery nails.

  For the next fifteen minutes she yanked me around the tiny subdivision, peeing on its invisible canine boundaries. That pretty much bonded us for life, and we were sitting contentedly shoulder to shoulder on the front porch when Jane's blue Volvo pulled in.

  Inside her kitchen, Jane poured dry cereal for Iris, coffee for me, and a glass of tawny port for herself. In the past decade, her beanpole gawkiness had turned into athletic grace, but she had the same force field of intelligence.

  "There's been a little dip in Long Island's output of suspicious deaths lately," said Jane. "So I've had a lot of time to spend with Peter." She pulled at Iris's translucent ears and looked at me intently.

  "So what did you find?" I asked her.

  "For one thing," said Jane, "Peter didn't drown."

  Chapter 24

  JANE REACHED into a battered leather knapsack and dropped a folder labeled "Mullen, Peter 5/29" on the table. Then she pulled out a clear plastic sleeve of color slides and held one of them up to the kitchen light.

  "Take a look at these," she said, squinting. "They're photographs of cells I scraped off the inside of Peter's lungs. See the shape and the color at the edge?" The pictures showed a cluster of small circular cells about the size of a dime and tinted pink.

  Jane removed a second set of slides. "These are from the lung tissue of a man who got pulled out of Long Island Sound five days before Peter. The cells were nearly twice as large and much darker. That's because the drowning victim struggles to breathe and inhales water into the lungs. Cells like Peter's are what we find in bodies dumped into the ocean after they've stopped breathing."

  "How did he die, then?"

  "Just what it looks like," she said, carefully tucking the slides back in their sleeves. "He was beaten to death."

  She reopened the fat manila folder and grabbed a stack of black-and-white prints. "I know you saw Peter that night on the beach, but the cold water holds down the swelling and limits the discoloration. In these, I have to warn you, he looks a lot worse."

  Jane handed me the pictures. Peter's shattered, misshapen face was unrecognizable. It was all I could do not to look away. On the beach his beauty was largely intact. In the photos, his skin was an awful gray. The bruises made him look like a human punching bag.

  Jane dug deeper into her pile and fished out the X rays. They documented the assault in terms of fractured bones. There were dozens. With the tip of her pen, she singled out a clean break at the top of Peter's spine.

  "This is what killed him," she said.

  I shook my head in disbelief. The anger that had been building for the past two weeks was getting impossible to control.

  "So what do you have to do to prove someone was murdered, pull a bullet out of their head?" I asked in disgust.

  "It's a good question, Jack. I sent my initial report to the East Hampton Police Department and the district attorney's office two weeks ago and I haven't heard a thing."

  I cursed out Frank Volpi all the way back from Jane's. He had the reports on Peter and he hadn't done a goddamned thing. He was still talking about a drowning, a suicide. How the hell could they cover up something like that? Who was I up against?

  When I got home late that night, Mack was snoring on the living-room couch. I slipped off my grandfather's glasses and shoes, spread a light blanket over him, and tucked him in for the night. I couldn't bear to wake him and tell him what I'd found.

  Then it hit me. I went into the kitchen and called Burt Kearns, the reporter from the East Hampton Star who'd slipped me his number at my father's funeral. Ten minutes later Kearns stood at the door with a tape recorder and two reporter's notepads.

  "Christ," I said, "you're faster than Chinese food."

  Chapter 25

  KEARNS MUST HAVE WORKED right through the night. When I went to the front porch to get the Star, I saw that the shit had really hit the fan. Finally. It was all over the front page. A thirty-six-point, four-column headline with the same question I'd been asking: HOW DID PETER MULLEN DIE?

  Beneath it was everything I had unloaded on Kearns in the kitchen the night before: from the absurdity of Peter's, or anyone's, choosing to go swimming that night to the overwhelming and so far ignored evidence of a vicious beating. The story also broadly hinted at the possibility of an affair between Peter and Campion Neubauer.

  Running throughout the extensive story was a guilty-sounding chorus of "no comment," "did not return repeated phone calls," and "refused to respond" from Detective Volpi and the startled representatives of Campion and Barry, and Mayflower Enterprises. The power couple was still on the road working to smooth over the Boontaag toy company takeover, and apparently Peter's death didn't justify a simple change in their itinerary.

  The aggressive reporting was supported by a righteous editorial calling for an inquiry into Peter's death. "The failure of the East Hampton P.D. to question Barry and Campion Neubauer about a death which took place on their property while the victim was working at their party is ludicrous." It concluded, "This is a disturbing reminder of the often glaring inequities in our criminal justice system."

  I read the story through once, then I went and got Mack and read it to him. "It's a start," he snorted.

  For the next week the story roiled the East End like a summer storm. You couldn't walk into a restaurant or shop without hearing charged suspicions being aired. Of course, Fenton, Marci, Molly, Hank, Sammy, and I were doing our share to keep Peter's story on people's minds. What had started as a quest for me was turning into an obsession.

  The news coverage didn't stop with our local weekly. New York magazine sent a reporter and a photographer, and two New York TV stations ran nearly identical segments with a trench-coated reporter treading the moonlit beach where Peter's body washed ashore.

  One evening I received a call from Dominick Dunne, the reporter-novelist whose daughter had been murdered years ago and who had emerged as a crusty talking head during the O.J. marathon. "My editors at Vanity Fair are begging me to do this story," he told me, "but I hate the Hamptons in the summer."

  "I do, too, but you should do the story anyway. My brother was murdered."

  "You're probably right. I'm sorry if I was flip. In the meantime, I just wanted to tell you not to let the bastards get away with it." He reminded me of Mack.

  At Nelson, Goodwin and Mickel, I threw myself into the Mudman case. The injustice of his scheduled execution and the cover-up of Peter's murder had become connected in my mind. I prepared a two-hundred-page response to the judge's reaction to our latest request for DNA testing in Texas. The senior associate glowed and said it was the best work he'd ever seen from summer help.

  No wonder. It was why I had wanted to be a lawyer in the first place.

  Chapter 26

  FENTON GIDLEY WAS BAITING LINES on the deck of his boat when the Fixer pulled up alongside in a twenty-foot Boston Whaler. He cut the engine and called to the burly, sandy-haired fisherman who happened to be Jack Mullen's best friend.

  "Hey, Fenton. How they biting?" the Fixer asked in a snotty, wise-guy voice.

  Gidley looked up and saw this big guy with a scar on his cheek. He didn't have time for idle chitchat. "Do I know you, buddy?"

  The Fixer pulled out a 9mm Glock and pointed it at Gidley. "I think you're going to wish that we had never met. Now, I want you to stand up real slow. Hey, he follows instructions. Good, I like that in a punk loser. Now jump in the fucking water, Gidley. Jump — or
I'll shoot you right between the eyes. It would make my morning."

  Fenton jumped off his boat, went under briefly, then bobbed to the surface. He was wearing shorts, a faded Hawaiian shirt, and work boots. He needed to get the boots off.

  "Leave the boots on," the Fixer said. He leaned over the edge of the Whaler and stared down at Gidley. Then he smiled.

  "You're going to die out here today. More precisely, you're going to drown. Want to know why?"

  Gidley was obviously smarter than he looked. He was paying close attention, searching for some way out. But there was no way out.

  "Peter Mullen's murder?" he said. He was already having trouble staying afloat. The water was choppy and cold, and the boots were a bitch.

  "Peter Mullen wasn't murdered . . . ," the Fixer said. "He drowned. Just like you're going to drown. I'm going to stay right here until you go under for the last time. That way, you don't have to die alone."

  And that's what the Fixer did. He kept the gun on Gidley and watched him with only mild interest. He drank a Lipton iced tea out of the bottle. His eyes were cold and flat, like a shark's.

  Gidley was a strong kid, and he really loved life. He didn't go down the first time until almost half an hour after he jumped into the water.

  The second time was only a few minutes later. When he fought his way back to the surface, he was coughing up seawater and foam, choking on it.

  "Peter Mullen drowned," the Fixer called to him. "You understand that now? You getting a feeling for drowning?"

  Fenton finally started to cry, but he wasn't going to beg this bastard for his life. It wasn't much satisfaction, but it was something.

  Fenton went down again and immediately took a big gulp of salt water. His chest felt as if it was going to explode this time. He pulled off his boots — what the hell — and let them go to the bottom. Then Fenton came up for the last time. He wanted to kill the fucker, but it looked as though things were going the opposite way.

  Fenton couldn't believe what he saw when he struggled to the surface this time. The Whaler was pulling away.

  "You owe me one, Fenton," the bastard shouted over the engine noise. "You owe me your stupid life."

  Fenton got the rest of the message, too — Peter Mullen had drowned. That was the way it had to be.

  Fenton floated on his back for a while, until he was strong enough to swim to his boat.

  Chapter 27

  THE FIXER was having a busy and productive day.

  Looking downright mellow in baggy shorts, oversize T-shirt, and St. Louis Cardinals cap pulled down to his Ray-Bans, he lazily pedaled his rented bicycle down Ditch Plains Road. As he passed number eighteen, he gave it a long, hard look, then released his grip on the handlebars and rolled serenely by.

  "Look, Ma, no hands," he said to the cloudless afternoon sky.

  A couple of yards later, he swerved into the packed lot of the East Deck Motel and stood his bike in the motley row lined up at the break in the dunes.

  Then, with a tube of lotion and the latest Grisham in hand, a big yellow beach towel slung over his shoulder, he backtracked toward the house on Ditch Plains, affecting the exaggerated shuffle of a recreating yuppie. Now came the tricky part.

  Two doors down from the Mullen place, he cut across the lot where a big new house was going up and headed toward Ditch Plains Beach. But then, as if realizing he'd forgotten something, he turned toward the Mullens' rear door.

  He pulled a flexible ribbon of steel out of his deep-pocketed shorts and probed the lock. When the first two attempts failed to produce the telltale click, he realized the goddamned door wasn't even locked.

  That's a sign, he thought as he let himself inside. Don't be too creative. For the next half an hour he followed his own advice, scouring the drawers, the cabinets, and the bookshelves. But the obvious places didn't yield what he was looking for. Ditto for the clammy crawl space and the tiny attic.

  He was starting to sweat. The fucking house wasn't air-conditioned. He checked behind every picture on the wall and peered into the sleeves of old Beatles and Kingston Trio LPs. Then he went through the closets, which were jam-packed with Mullen memorabilia.

  Where the hell did you hide it, Peter?

  This is important, you miserable little fuck. People could die — including your Mouseketeer pals. Even your hotshot brother.

  So where the hell is it, you little dead fuck?

  After another thirty minutes he was in such a foul humor, he was sorry to see Mack's old Datsun pull into the driveway. After all, if the old geezer had stumbled on him midsearch, he would have had no choice but to kill him.

  Maybe he ought to do him anyway. Let the town spill a few more tears for those poor afflicted Mullen boys.

  No, spontaneous mayhem was for amateurs. He'd already caused enough trouble for one day.

  He waited by the deck until he heard the garage door squeaking upward, then slipped out the back and hustled toward the beach.

  Goddamn you, Peter. Where the hell did you hide the salami, pal?

  Chapter 28

  ON WEDNESDAY MORNING in New York, I was tucked inside my tiny office by eight o'clock. Everything that could possibly have gone wrong seemed to have. The phone rang. Even before I picked up, I muttered, "Uhoh."

  It was Fenton, calling from the island.

  "Hey, man, good to hear your voice," I said.

  "Yeah, well, hold that thought," he said. Then he told me what had happened the day before alongside his boat. By the time he was finished, I wanted to rush back to Montauk, but what the hell good would it do?

  "You have any idea who he was?"

  "I'd bet anything he's one of the bastards who killed Peter."

  After I finished telling Fenton to cool it, and to be careful, I sat at my desk and felt like the powerless person I was. Sammy was right. The empire was striking back. And my friends were feeling the brunt.

  The bright spot in my day happened between 9:35 and 9:37. Pauline Grabowski, the private investigator, peeked into my office and held up a bag from Krispy Kreme.

  "I bought two glazed and I'm only eating one," she said, and smiled.

  "You sure?" I smiled back.

  "Positive. You okay? Gonna save the Mudman out in Texas today?"

  "I hope so. Thanks for the thought. And the sugar hit."

  "De nada, young Jack. It's only a doughnut."

  My best friend had almost drowned, and I was eating a doughnut and flirting. It wasn't right. But what are you going to do?

  Midmorning I got a call from William Montrose's executive assistant, Laura Richardson. Montrose, the most senior partner and chairman of the management committee, wanted me upstairs. I reminded myself that if I was about to be fired, the ax wouldn't be wielded by the mighty Montrose but by some anonymous hit man in HR.

  Even so, it didn't take the metallic taste out of my mouth.

  Chapter 29

  THE ELEVATOR OPENED on the forty-third floor, and I crossed the threshold into corporate paradise. The beautiful Laura Richardson was waiting. A tall, regal African American woman whose lustrous skin outshone the mahogany-covered walls, she beamed as she led me down a long corridor to Monty's corner office. The whole floor was enveloped in an otherworldly quiet and calm.

  "Don't worry, I've never gotten used to it myself," said Montrose about the panoramic view from his thirty-foot wall of glass. He and fellow partner Simon Lafayette sat on matching black-leather couches. Behind them stretched Manhattan from the UN Plaza to the Williamsburg Bridge. The iridescent tip of the Chrysler Building burned right at the center. It reminded me of Pauline Grabowski and her amazing tattoo — among other things.

  "You know Simon," said Montrose, nodding in his direction. He didn't ask me to sit.

  On one wall were photographs of his wife and five children. The black-and-white pictures conveyed the gravitas of official royal portraits. That he had procreated was so abundantly a statement in itself.

  "I was just telling Simon what terrific wo
rk you've been doing on the Innocence Quest. Top-drawer all the way. Everyone seems to think you're very special, Jack, not only someone who will be offered a job here but partner material."

  Now his smile vanished and the silver-blue eyes narrowed. "Jack, I lost my own brother a few years ago, so I have a little idea of what you're going through now. But I also need to tell you something you obviously didn't know, or you wouldn't have acted as you have been lately. Barry and Campion Neubauer and their company, Mayflower Enterprises, are very important clients of this firm.

  "Jack, you're right on the cusp of something special here," said Montrose, gesturing out toward the metropolis. "Jeopardizing it won't bring your brother or father back. I've been there, Jack. Think it through. It's all very logical, and I'm sure you understand. Now I know you're busy, so I appreciate your taking the time to have this little chat."

  I stood there immobile, but as I struggled to come up with exactly the right response, Monty turned his attention to Simon. I found myself staring at the back of his head.

  Our meeting was over. I'd been dismissed. A few seconds later the lovely Laura walked me back to the elevator.

  Chapter 30

  AS I WAITED FOR THE ELEVATOR, I hated myself about as much as a twenty-eight-year-old can. Which is a lot. Finally it arrived, but when the doors reopened on my floor, I couldn't move.

  I stared down the long corridor that led to my office and imagined the twenty-year death march, which if I was lucky and a big enough scumbag would lead back up to forty-three. No one walked by, or they might have called security. Or maybe the company nurse.

  I let the elevator doors close without getting out. They reopened on the marble lobby.

  With enormous relief, I continued outside onto sunny, sooty Lexington Avenue. For the next two hours I walked the crowded midtown streets, grateful for a place in the anonymous flow. I thought about Peter, my father, and the warning that Fenton had gotten. Then it was Dana and Volpi, the Beach House — the evil empire obviously extended to the offices of Nelson, Goodwin and Mickel. I'm not too strong on conspiracy theories, but there was no denying the connection between a lot of recent events.