“Doesn’t it make you wonder,” I asked, “why an ex-con like Getty isn’t getting looked at? Why am I a better pick than a known felon? Prosecution just going the easy route? More fun to bag an ex-corporate man, better story for papers? Come on, you’re the learned one. No theories?”
“Getty’s prints weren’t all over that stapler.”
“That’s because it didn’t belong to him. It belonged to me. I can show you where I used it to install insulation. Forensics can match the staples. Shoot a few into a barrel of water.”
“Your prints and nobody else’s,” he almost growled at me.
“On the handle? I heard about clear prints on the chrome. What about the orange handle? If you’d spent more time getting your hands dirty you’d know which end of a hammer stapler you swing.”
A breath of doubt tried to gain purchase on his expression, but he held tough.
“The physical evidence is as good as it gets,” he said. “Don’t start putting your hopes there. Never works.”
“I don’t have hopes,” I said. “Gave them up a while ago.”
“Smart decision.”
I stood up and put enough money on the bar to cover both our coffees.
“You’re right. They get in the way. A hope is like an assumption, a theoretical construct. A paradigm. You get too loyal to any of those things and your IQ falls about fifty points,” I said before leaving him there and getting back into the Grand Prix.
I was glad to be close to home. I wanted to pick up Eddie so I could run a few things by him in the car on the way over to Jackie Swaitkowski’s. That always helped me work through my assumptions. Even my theories. And despite what I’d said to Veckstrom, maybe a hope or two.
——
I was irritated to find Jackie with another client. I was forced to pace around the sidewalk and occupy myself looking at artwork and tchotchkes in the shop windows that lined Montauk Highway. Worse for Eddie was succumbing to a leash, but I had to keep a grip on him in case he ran into a Lhasa apso out to prove something.
I tried to interest him in a flock of collectible hunting decoys but only insulted his intelligence. We were both happy to hear Jackie call to us from her second-story window.
“Some people actually make appointments,” she said as we walked up her staircase.
“I’ve tried that. Not as sure as just showing up.”
“You think it’s made all better by bringing the dog?”
“No, but he does.”
I was gratified to see her new office space filling up on schedule. I had to shovel a stack of papers off the couch so Eddie and I would both have room to sit.
“Before you get too comfortable, tell me why you’re here,” she said, dropping into one of the opposing chairs.
“I’m supposed to be communicative and here I am communicating and what do I get?”
“Oh, please.”
“I just had a cup of coffee with Lionel Veckstrom.”
She sat up a little in her chair.
“You didn’t tell him anything did you? Or provoke him?”
“He did all the telling and provoking. I just bought the coffee.”
“So what did he tell you?” she asked.
“Something I should have asked about a long time ago, and didn’t. Like a dope.”
“So tell me.”
“You need to take a trip with me.”
“That’s what he told you?”
“I always love your company, Jackie, but this time I really need it or they won’t let me leave the Island.”
“That’s a cinch. Where’re we going?”
“I’ll tell you on the way. How’s tomorrow?”
She leaned forward so quickly she almost propelled herself out of her chair.
“Oh, no. Not this time. You have to talk to me. Or no trip.”
This is the problem with being communicative. People actually expect you to tell them things.
“We need to go visit another one of your clients. One who didn’t do as well as I’m hoping to in court.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Roy Battiston. Hungerford Correctional Facility. All the more reason to have you there, assuming he still likes you.”
She ran her fingers up into her disorderly ball of hair and shook her head.
“If he does, that’s good, though I don’t like him. I do like you, Sam, God knows why, but I’m not even going to discuss this with you until you tell me what you’re thinking.”
So I told her what I’d learned about Jeff Milhouser’s unsuccessful gambit with the Town funds, though I spared her the means I used to get the information. I’d maybe save that for the ride when we were moving too fast for her to jump out of the car.
“That’s fascinating, Sam, but I still don’t know what the hell it has to do with your case.”
“East End Savings and Loan. The bank where Milhouser tried the fiddle. Something Amanda told me a long time ago.”
“They were bought up by Harbor Trust,” said Jackie. “Moved into their building there on Main Street.”
“See? Everybody knows this but me.”
“Roy was the manager?”
“Not at that point, but he was there, working his way up. Opening accounts, building relationships, loaning money.”
Jackie fell back and pulled up her legs like she was riding the chair sidesaddle.
“What makes you think Roy will talk to us? Assuming I even agree to do this.”
“He’ll talk if we want him to.”
She knew what I meant. Roy was in prison for defrauding Amanda. But he could be in there for a lot worse. Jackie and I were the only two people in the world who knew that. Worse for Roy, we could also prove it.
“I can get a message to him,” said Jackie, halfheartedly.
“No, no. Surprise visit. Can’t have him forewarned. For that matter, same goes for Veckstrom and Ross, or Edith Madison. None of them can know.”
“That’ll be a neat trick.”
“You got to meet me part way on this, Jackie. It’s got to be done like this. You can do it.”
“I still have to get the prison people to cooperate.” I scoffed.
“You’ve done harder things than that.” She looked at me quietly for a few moments, then shook her head.
“If I’d known what it would be like having you as the guy who saved my life, I’d have jumped right in front of that explosion.”
Eddie stood up and stretched when he saw me make moves toward leaving. He put his head in her lap so she could say goodbye. I just patted her shoulder.
“Bring a sweater. It can still be cool in Upstate New York.”
“Unbelievable.”
——
There was enough time left in the day to make one more stop. I peeled off Montauk Highway and took Cobb and Wickapogue Roads southwest toward the estate section of Southampton. The weather was still lousy, casting a drab shadowless light on the giant naked frames of a half dozen mansions going up on what used to be a small farm specializing in flowering bushes. If it weren’t for the staggering size of the houses, it would look like any other suburban development. That and what you couldn’t see from the road, that they were all paid for with cash, just a slice off last year’s bonus. A field filled with the ripening blooms of Wall Street, seeded by a relentless wind out of the west.
Burton’s place was even bigger, but it was harder to tell, snuggled inside the sweeping boughs of ancient
