This sent him into a prolonged deliberation, but he was clearly interested. He looked at the glass in my hand.
“That’s vodka. You want rye on the rocks?” she asked, loudly.
He nodded, as if convinced by a superior argument.
Once we were all set with our drinks I explained to Arnold how I needed Rosaline’s help looking up some things on the Internet.
“She’s the one to ask. Spends a lot of time on that thing,” he said, then he had another thought. “Maybe you could explain something to me.” Rosaline looked like she knew what was coming. “I know you can look up anything you want on the computer, but how did all that information get in there in the first place? Who put it in there?”
It took him a while to get out the whole question. But not long enough for me to come up with an answer.
“It’s kind of complicated.”
Rosaline was enjoying this.
“Mr. Acquillo supervised hundreds of engineers, Daddy. What could he possibly know about computers?”
“You haven’t told him about shared databases and search engines?”
“He doesn’t know, Daddy. Nobody does. It’s a modern mystery.”
“Phoof,” said Arnold, a sentiment I shared.
“I do have something for you, however,” I told him. “I asked you about Bay Side Holdings and you thought they were a captive. Turns out they were. Part of WB, the old manufacturing plant out there between Oak Point and Jacob’s Neck. Bay Side was WB’s real estate arm.”
“I suspected as much.”
Rosaline looked proud of him.
“I told you he knew his stuff.”
“How well did you know Carl Bollard and Willard Wakeman?” I asked.
He worked on his drink while he pondered.
“I never met Wakeman, he died many years ago. But I knew Carl Bollard well. And his idiot son.”
“Daddy.”
“Not my cup of tea, Carl Junior. A wasteabout. Most people in town were glad to see the place close down, except for the ones working there. Not the right image people thought Southampton should have, even though it was up there in North Sea. There was a deep harbor there long ago. You could bring a large vessel all the way down from Greenport, which had ships coming in from all over the world.”
“What’s that got to do with Carl Junior?” asked Rosaline, gently keeping him on track.
“He shut it down. Everyone thought it was his fault. Though, in truth, a little outfit like that wasn’t going to make it out here. That sort of plant belongs in New Jersey, for God’s sake, not a resort area like this.”
“You still didn’t like him.”
“My father came to this country with nothing. He had to work like a dog, and so did we. This was the way it was. And this boy is handed everything, and what does he do? He drinks it all away.”
He punctuated every sentence with a knuckle pointed at my chest. You’d think he took lessons from Regina.
“He drives expensive cars and lives in nightclubs. Dishonors his father. All he cares about are the fancy people at the Meadows. As if they would ever accept a boy like that.”
There it was again. The ultimate betrayal. Consorting with City People.
“Carl Senior must have been disappointed.”
“Broke his heart. Every day I thank God for a daughter like Rosaline.”
Her face looked skeptical, but she was clearly pleased.
“Only because I feed him rye on the rocks.”
“So if your agency was retained to manage the Bay Side rentals, in effect you were hired by Carl Senior. He didn’t tell you?”
“Carl Bollard died a few years after the war. His company lasted another twenty years or so. I don’t know what happened to his son. I never met the people who retained the firm. It’s hard for you to understand, but this happened over a very long period of time.”
I’d probably worn him out. That and the rye on the rocks. We both noticed it, and Rosaline gracefully picked up the conversation so Arnold could rest. I spent another hour with them before Rosaline said she had to fix dinner.
“You’re welcome to stay.”
“Nah. I’ve already taken too much of your time.”
“Time we have in abundance. You spoke about a project.”
“I just got a lot from your dad. Maybe enough for now.”
“Really.”
“Though if you learn anything more about Carl Bollard, Junior, I’m interested.”
Her eyes scanned my face.
“You ask a lot for someone who doesn’t give up much in return.”
“I’d tell you more if I knew myself.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’d tell you more if I knew what was true and what wasn’t.”
“Better.”
She kissed me again as she escorted me out the door. It wasn’t as serious a kiss as the last time, but more confident. Arnold called for her again and she slipped quietly back into the house, a place where time both advanced and stood still, a paradox that was understood and embraced by the occupants.
The next day I had to do something I didn’t want to do, so I hoped the ride over to Hampton Bays would help me feel better about doing it. It didn’t.
The Town police HQ was just north of Sunrise Highway in an area reminding me of the pine barrens that started in earnest a few miles to the west. I’d called Sullivan on his cell phone and he asked me to come there since he was deskbound for the day doing paperwork. I asked for him when the lady desk sergeant slid open the security glass.
“He said you’d be here,” she said, buzzing me in. “Wait over there.”
I stood in an outer office that had a general purpose feel about it, with safety posters and duty rosters covering the walls and casual debris strewn around the desktops. A bulletin board displayed a crowded gallery of federal fugitives, artist’s sketches and missing children. Also a notice from the Labor Department that gave explicit instructions on how to rat out management for hiring violations. It was partially obscured by a note about one of the cops’ kids selling giftwrap to raise money for the school band.
Sullivan was in full uniform, armed and ready.
“You can’t wear civvies to fill out forms?” I asked him.
“Professional discipline. Improves performance.”
He took me into the main office area, which was predictably filled with glass-walled cubicles and serious- looking men and women staring at computer screens and talking on the phone. The air was close and composed of gases found only in cheerless administrative offices. Just like the division I ran in White Plains, only more overtly concerned with criminal behavior.
“The chief wanted to say hello when you came in. I’ll see if he’s there.”
“Semple? How come?”
“He helped me wire in the Broadhurst thing. Just wants to meet the Good Samaritan.”
Sullivan led me to the back of the building where Ross Semple had his office. He wasn’t there, but his assistant told us to wait. Sullivan got us both coffee to drink while we waited. Mine was French Vanilla served in a decorative paper cup. Not exactly Dirty Harry. I noticed a full ashtray on Semple’s desk, so I asked Sullivan if I could smoke.
“Your lungs.”
While I smoked and drank coffee, I admired the studied lack of adornment Semple had achieved in his office. Only family photos in a single plastic cube on his desk. In one of the photos the chief wore a shirt featuring
