partly rubber, or some kind of synthetic material that was tough and waterproof. Perfect for rafts.”
He read the rest of the e-mail, skipping ahead since I’d scooped part of the report.
“‘From its peak in about 1896, the WB landhold was reduced through normal attrition, and as an important capitalization tool for the core manufacturing business, leaving the last important segment—the peninsula adjacent to Oak Point—with its access to the Little Peconic and, subsequently, to Greenport and on to the sea. In order to preserve free use of the two inlets on either side, they retained all the shore property. Plus a few large tracts across Noyack Road, which were sold off in the 1960s.
“‘WB was strictly manufacturing, working to specs from brand marketers, or in the case of the war effort, government contractors. Postwar they continued with the same mix of products, but sales apparently declined steadily until 1976 when they closed down the shop permanently. Since private companies have minimal reporting requirements, this information has been derived from various secondary sources, including Dunn and Bradstreet, and should not be regarded as definitive, but rather directional.’ We’re going deeper into some other databases that take a little longer, but I thought this might give you a start.”
“So Bay Side Holdings is all that’s left of WB.”
“Bay Side Holdings is WB, since there’s nothing related to the corporate entity
“So who owns Bay Side Holdings?”
“That’s the interesting part,” said Burton, handing me the e-mail printout, “we have no idea.”
“Really.”
“Not that we won’t find out, but it won’t be automatic.”
“For you guys?” I had a mental image of Burton’s big building down there on the Street.
“For anybody. It’s in a trust.”
“Really.”
“For which there’s no public record. Bay Side is a privately held C corp, chartered under the laws of New York State, all of whose assets are held by the eponymously named Bay Side Trust.”
“And we’re not allowed to know who owns what?”
“By ‘we,’ if you mean the general public, yes and no. The creators of a trust have no obligation to publish the names of the beneficiaries as a matter of course, but they can be compelled to do so under certain civil actions. Beneficiaries have to be named in the trust document itself, which in certain circumstances will end up in the public record. But there’s no legal requirement to do so just because. Ninety-nine percent of the time, these are all tightly controlled, personal things that have little effect on anyone beyond the principals, unless there’s a contested estate, or a tax dispute, or a legal claim. That’s the next place we’re going to look.”
Eddie had heard enough and decided to trot off to the beach to check for encroaching sea life. I found myself looking over at WB as if the dense tree cover was about to open up and disclose another stunning revelation. You think you know a place.
“So who’s got the trust document?”
“I’m guessing Milton Hornsby.”
“I’m back to him.”
“I’m afraid so. But don’t be discouraged. We’ll find everything out, eventually.”
He took a sip of his drink.
“One more thing. Regina Broadhurst. No assets we can find, unless you consider Social Security. There’s so little on her, she almost doesn’t exist. Hasn’t filed a tax return to the IRS, or to New York State, since 1976. The last year she received a W-2. There are two points of interest here, in my mind.”
“She worked.”
“That’s point one. She did indeed. As a floor supervisor. Essentially a foreman, watching over manufacturing, assembly or materials handling.”
“In a factory.”
“Yup.” He gestured again with the Harmon Killebrew bat.
“WB?”
“Yup.”
“How ’bout that. Walked to work.”
“Nineteen hundred seventy-six was the year they closed down. Never got another job. At least, nothing she shared with the IRS.”
“I’m trying to remember her husband. What he did.”
“You’ll be trying a long time.”
“Meaning?”
“Regina got her Social Security number in 1938, when she was 16. Under the name Regina May Broadhurst. Just to be sure, the researcher found her in the Suffolk County birth records. Born at Southampton Hospital, June 5, 1922. Regina May Broadhurst.”
“There was no Mr. Broadhurst.”
“We’ll keep looking. You never know.”
“You’ve already done too much.”
“So get me another drink.”
We moved on to other topics while we drank and gazed out at the waning sunset and the steel blue water, now uniformly roughed up by the freshening winds. His boat looked great, now a backlit shape rocking comfortably at anchor and casting a shadow across the water, a formless reflection of the dark blue hull and towering mast.
The sun was just starting to light up the oaks and scrub pines of North Sea. I’d started running before dawn, and had already covered about ten miles. I’m not very fast, but I can run a long way when I’m in the mood. I’d been up to Long Beach and back, toured the sea fowl refuge on Jessup’s Neck and stopped at a deli for coffee. The day was cold and overcast, a sample of the coming November. On the way back I ran along the bay coast up to the WB peninsula. I cut back inland and ran along the sand road that ran parallel to WB’s cyclone fence. At one of the sharp turns in the road, I ran straight for it and leaped. I stuck about halfway up and climbed the rest of the way. I pulled a pair of wire cutters I’d brought along out of the back pocket of my shorts and snipped the barbed wire. Then, very carefully, slipped over the top and dropped into the WB grounds.
The landscape had completely reverted to weedy grass and first growth—pin oak, cedar and sumac. But the asphalt driveway looked almost new. Evidence of teenagers was piled next to rusted machinery that lined the driveway. I trotted up to the main entrance and tried the door. Locked. I circled the building looking for unboarded windows. I found a busted-out basement window half obscured by broken bricks and cinder block. I cleared a space and shimmied through into an icy black depth. I had a miniature Mag light, but it barely cut through the darkness. I felt my way along while my eyes adjusted enough to see glimmers of light above me. I searched, and finally found, a staircase up to the ground floor. The door opened.
I was in a corridor. The walls were a faded pale green and the woodwork clear pine stained to simulate mahogany. Behind the doors, some of which were paneled with translucent glass, were office groupings—a block of four with secretaries in the middle. Little departments. At one time they’d been identified by removable placards that slid into chrome holders mounted to the wall. Most had been removed.
I moved methodically from office to office, opening desk drawers and file cabinets. There was almost nothing there. A few empty hanging folders. Cracked and stained coffee mugs. Empty steno pads and a rusty hole- punch.
I found what looked like a common area. There were two linoleum-topped folding tables with a few chairs, and an area for vending machines. There was a bulletin board with some yellowed safety posters and a few regulatory notices. On the other wall was a glass trophy case, long smashed into particles and stripped of its trophies. Still stuck to the disintegrating cork-board were three curled and yellowing eight-by-ten-inch black and white photographs of bowling teams and softball players. I popped them off and stuck them in the rear waistband of my shorts.
I worked my way through the rest of the offices and out to a shop floor. Attached to the ceiling were long I- beam rails that supported sliding chain hoists used to transport raw materials and assembled parts. Huge incandescent lights were caged overhead at the end of galvanized conduit. In the center were a half dozen benches,
