Mark Mills - Amagansett

Cursed.

It would pursue him for the rest of his life.

The crooked cop.

It had tracked him down, sniffed him out, even here. Why should it ever let up?

It was so ridiculous. If people only knew the truth.

But that wasn’t the way things worked. Once tarred with the brush of scandal there was little to be done to allay their suspicions—not even a full exoneration could do that—some small splinter of doubt always remained lodged in their brains. His parents had been no different. Not that he blamed them; he had rubber-stamped his own guilt when he’d signed up to the lie: a detective second-grade looking for a quieter life on a country force.

Milligan was right. As a cover story, it stank. With the passage of time that much had become evident, like so many other things. It was clear to him now that he should have stood and fought, gone down fighting.

As the memories crowded in on him, he smiled at the absurdity of it all. Making a stand on the hoary issue of police corruption was one thing, but he could at least have chosen one of its grander battlefields on which to lay down his career. For Christ’s sake, there were any number to choose from. But no, he in his wisdom had chosen to impale himself on the blunt dagger of black market gas ration stamps. It hadn’t been easy, but he’d still managed it.

The scam was well established and widespread. Ration stamps filched wholesale from local Price Administration offices were sold on to garages and gas stations for a few paltry cents apiece. The profits were enormous, though, because of the huge scale of the operation. People were involved at all levels, Hollis knew that. Yet he’d still been shocked when a snitch dropped him the name of a precinct detective from the 17th.

The snitch, a pickpocket who worked the Sunday museum crowds, was looking for a break. Well, he got one—a snapped neck in an alleyway at the edge of the Gashouse District.

When Hollis visited the dead man’s girlfriend she went at him with a knife, accusing him of murder. It was a while before he figured she was right. In mentioning the pickpocket’s name to the Captain back at the precinct he had effectively signed the man’s death warrant.

He went to Gaskell with his suspicions, ignoring the Lieutenant’s advice to let the matter drop. A few days later, a batch of stolen ration stamps showed up in Hollis’ locker. When word came through of a couple of lowlifes ready to testify to his involvement in the scam, Hollis knew he was lost.

Whether Gaskell was in on it from the start, he never found out. One thing was clear though, the Lieutenant had never forgiven him for going straight to Beloc at the Homicide Bureau with his theory on the Chadwick case. He wasn’t a team player, said Gaskell, never had been, never would be. The offer of a role on a provincial force—ostensibly to avoid an unseemly scandal—was their way of shutting him up and clearing him out. Turning it down hadn’t even been an option at the time.

Hollis forced his thoughts back to the Wallace investigation, but even that denied him any consolation. Wherever he turned he was confronted with his own eagerness to believe in some sinister plot. What did he really have to go on? The earrings, the raised toilet seat, the nervousness of the maid, the visit paid to Lillian Wallace by her ex-fiancé a month before her death—each and every one of which he had chosen to interpret in its darkest possible light.

He was driven into the chair behind the desk by the weight of the realization: any investigation that existed was entirely of his own invention. He had brought it into the world, breathed life into it through an act of sheer will. He had wanted it to exist, and it had duly obliged.

There was a light knock at the door.

‘Yes.’

It was Hartwell. ‘I swear to God,’ he said, ‘one day…’

He was angry, uncharacteristically so. Hollis stared at him, unable to match the outrage Hartwell felt on his behalf.

‘This is for you. She called while you were with him.’

Hollis took the piece of paper. Verity Brandon. The name meant nothing to him.

‘She said she’s with the Medical Examiner’s office.’

He remembered now—the nameplate on the front desk at the County Morgue, her failure to offer him a glass of water. What did she want?

‘Tom,’ said Hartwell, ‘is something up?’

‘Up?’

‘I don’t know…’

‘Nothing’s up, Bob.’

‘Okay,’ he said, then left the room.

Hollis felt a little bad. It was probably nothing to worry about, but he could still recall Hartwell watching him from afar the day of the funeral, just after his conversation with Penrose.

He reached for the phone and asked the operator to put him through to the morgue in Hauppauge. She answered on the second ring.

‘Suffolk County Medical Examiner’s Office.’

‘Mrs Brandon?’

‘Miss.’

‘It’s Deputy Chief Hollis, from East Hampton.’

‘Ah, yes. Wait a minute, please.’ He could hear her searching through some papers. ‘I have it here somewhere…a strange request…I mean, we get them sometimes, but they’re rare. I just thought you should know.’

‘What kind of request?’

‘Dash it,’ she said.

‘Miss Brandon…’

‘Someone has asked to see the autopsy report on that poor girl who drowned. A member of the public. It’s their right, you know, we can’t stop them.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘I told him he has to wait a month.’

‘Who?’

‘I have his name here somewhere.’

‘Conrad Labarde,’ said Hollis quietly.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Conrad Labarde.’

There was a silence on the other end of the phone. ‘Well, yes,’ she said, ‘I think that was his name.’

‘Best to be sure though.’

‘Of course. Like I say, I have it here somewhere.’

Seventeen

Gayle Wallace had swum in the pool, taken a bath, washed and dried her hair, and all but finished her breakfast when Manfred stepped gingerly from the house on to the terrace.

‘Christ, it’s bright.’

‘You look dreadful,’ said Gayle.

‘Thanks.’

‘Worse than I’ve seen you in quite a while.’

Manfred picked up her discarded sunglasses and put them on. ‘Better?’ he asked.

‘Much.’

Manfred dropped into a chair and poured himself a cup of coffee from the jug.

‘It’s cold,’ said Gayle.

‘It’s coffee.’ He took a gulp, grimaced. ‘Justin stayed late.’

‘I know.’

‘We didn’t keep you awake, did we?’

‘I don’t mind. You play well when you’re drunk…even if it is Dinah Shore.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with “Shoo Fly Pie and Apple Pan Dowdy”.’

‘Not if you have your head buried under a pillow.’

Rosa appeared with some fresh toast and hot coffee.

‘Thanks, Rosa,’ said Manfred, ‘you’re a life-saver.’

Rosa smiled, then left.

‘So what did you end up deciding?’ asked Gayle.

‘What do you think?’

‘It’s going ahead.’

‘Father grew pretty adamant after you went to bed.’

‘I’m not against it, Manfred. It’s just that it seems a little…’ She couldn’t find the right word.

‘I know.’

‘I understand how important it is to you. I do.’

‘It’s hardly going to be a riotous affair. It never was. Far from it.’

Over dinner the previous evening, the conversation had turned to a sensitive subject, one they’d all been dodging for the past couple of weeks: that of the house party arranged months before and set to take place the following weekend.

It had never been in question that Manfred would one day make a move into politics—that decision was taken on his behalf while he was still wet from the womb—but no one had anticipated the ease with which he would navigate the course charted for him from birth. At prep school he had excelled himself, surpassing even their father’s expectations. He was captain of the varsity soccer and baseball squads, secretary of the Student Council, chairman of the Student Deacons and editor of the school newspaper, the Phillipian. These accomplishments heaped up with little or no apparent effort on Manfred’s part, and their father used to say that in this lay Manfred’s greatest achievement. For people mistrusted overt ambition, it threatened them, obliged them to take a stand for or against you.

There was only one thing more important than winning, and that was appearing not to care about winning. It was a credo that had been instilled in them from an early age, an article of faith vigorously contested by Lillian, silently accepted by Gayle, but dutifully observed by Manfred. And it had served him well, both at Andover and Yale.

It wasn’t until he went to university that Gayle actually witnessed Manfred in action. She was present in the mahoganypaneled hall when he got to his feet as Captain of the Yale Debate Team to deliver his summation speech in defense of the resolution: An oppressive government is more desirable than no government.

He opened by stating that he was a little mystified by his rival speaker’s arguments in favor of no government, as he had it on good authority that the fellow was actively seeking a position in government on his graduation. Delivered with a sly smile, his tone devoid of any malice, this won him a large laugh and proved to be the final nail in the other man’s coffin. Manfred had already argued a difficult position with a compelling mix of conviction and crowd-pleasing humor.

When he finally stepped away from the lectern, it was Lillian, chauffeured in from Vassar for the night, who was first to her feet, applauding loudly. Shrugging off their mother’s efforts to silence her, she triggered a standing ovation. The motion was duly carried by a large majority.

In the heady aftermath of his victory, it became clear that Manfred had delivered no more or less than had been expected of him. Yes, his peers mobbed him and showered him with compliments, but only as team-mates might congratulate a star batter who can always be relied upon to pull a winning home run out of the bag. There was no mistaking the fact that he was already a figure of some considerable standing among his Conservative Party cronies, admired and respected by the sons of some of the country’s most influential men, a few of whom also happened to be present that evening.

Gayle could still recall her father’s largesse with the Champagne in the bar of the Taft Hotel afterwards, the expression on his face as he surveyed the proceedings. It was a look not so much of paternal pride as of deep satisfaction. He had invested everything in Manfred, and Manfred had more than repaid the confidence placed in him.

Bathed in his reflected glory, Gayle and Lillian had found themselves surrounded by a pack of attentive young men, until ushered to the relative safety of a corner booth by Justin Penrose, Manfred’s closest friend. At midnight, when their parents finally prized them away from the rowdy gathering, Gayle was left in little doubt that Justin wished to see her again. And her father let it be known that he thoroughly approved.

America’s entry into the war two years later, though a little inconvenient, was barely a setback to their father’s plans. It also meant that Manfred could enter the political arena with the added kudos of a sound military record.

The scene was now set. Gayle wasn’t sure of the exact details, though she knew there was talk of skipping over the State Assembly and making a play straight for membership of the New York State Senate. With elections coming up, it was time for some serious decisions to be made. Hence the weekend house party—an opportunity for some of those backing Manfred’s political career to put their heads together and determine the exact course of his candidature.

In truth, Gayle had known for several days now that the gathering would go ahead regardless of Lillian’s death. It would have been postponed well before if it was ever going to be. No, the discussion over dinner the previous evening had been a mere formality, the decision a foregone conclusion.

The most gratifying aspect of the evening had been Justin’s attitude towards her. Had she imagined the flutter of his fingertips against her waist as he stooped to kiss her cheek on his arrival? Had the kiss itself been less perfunctory than usual? Possibly. In the privacy of her bedroom, she had dismissed any lingering doubts. She knew the signals; she had, after all, been on the receiving end of them before. This was the reason she had been unable to sleep, the events of the evening tugging at her thoughts, even before Manfred and Justin started banging out numbers on the piano.

‘Father thinks we should take Senator Dale fishing,’ said Manfred.

‘Fishing?’

‘Game fishing, for tuna. Next weekend. You know, charter a boat in Montauk, make a day of it.’

‘Business and pleasure,’ said Gayle indifferently.

‘You think it’s a bad idea?’

‘I really wouldn’t know.’

‘Anyway, Richard’s going to look into it.’ He heaped some strawberry jam on to a slice of toast. ‘Where’s Father?’

‘Playing golf.’

‘Who with?’

‘Don’t worry, I don’t think you’re missing out on anything.’ The words came out wrong, the tone more aggressive than she had intended, but Manfred didn’t appear to notice. ‘He said he’d meet you at the club for lunch,’ she added.

‘You’re not coming?’

‘I’m going to see the fishermen, the ones who found Lilly.’

‘That’s right, I’d forgotten. Do you want me to go with you?’

‘It’s okay.’ She paused. ‘I want to take them something, but I can’t think what.’

‘Champagne. Raid the cellar.’

‘Champagne seems a little…celebratory.’

‘We served it after the funeral.’

‘That’s true.’

They sat in silence for a moment, then Manfred reached out, took her hand and squeezed it.

‘Gayle, you haven’t really talked about what happened. About Lilly.’ Gayle didn’t reply. ‘Maybe it’s not my place to say, but you might feel better if you did.’

‘You’re right,’ she said, removing her hand from his. ‘It’s not your place to say.’

She spotted the turning on her third pass, just as she was about to give up and go home. A sandy track, barely wide enough for a vehicle, snaked off through the pines on the south side of Montauk Highway.

There was no sign on the verge, nothing to indicate that someone lived at the end of the narrow trail. She was beginning to doubt that they did when, after a hundred yards or so, the trees petered out, giving way to an expansive view, the top of a barn showing in the distance above the crests of the rolling dunes.

She teased the car forward, steering to avoid the ruts. This proved to be her undoing. The front wheels of the roadster sank into the soft sand beside the track, losing all purchase. The more she gunned the engine, the faster the wheels spun and the deeper the car settled.

‘Damn.’

She grabbed her handbag and the two bottles of Champagne, and set off on foot. Almost immediately she kicked off her shoes and tucked them under her arm.