afford one. I did, however, approve of his widow’s walk. I’d definitely have one of those if I could. My cottage on the bay was only a single story. Maybe I could build a separate tower, or a tree house in the Norway maples that lined the back of the property. Achieve a loftier perspective.
Absorbed as I was in the view of the ocean, I didn’t immediately notice the police cruiser working its way toward Joshua’s house through the bordering neighborhood. My attention was caught by the big white number painted on the car’s black roof. Then I realized it was a Southampton Town cop, which surprised me. Southampton Village, a subdivision of the Town, had its own police force.
The cruiser rolled into Joshua’s muddy front yard and parked among the fleet of pickups and vans belonging to Frank’s crew and subcontractors. Frank was there himself, supervising the final stages of construction of what was the biggest house he’d ever built. Not many of the local builders got a shot at the really big jobs, so Frank saw it as an important demonstration. He walked over to the cruiser and leaned against the driver’s side door. He talked for a few minutes, then looked up at me, shading his eyes against the glare off the ocean.
Two men got out of the car and looked toward where Frank was pointing. I waved when I realized one of them was Ross Semple. I didn’t recognize the other cop. Ross waved for me to come down.
I unsnapped the compressor hose off the back of my pneumatic nailer so I could bring it with me. Tools like that had a tendency to grow little legs on a big job like this, full of guys from Up Island you may or may not see again. I’d owned it for a while and liked the way it fit my hand.
Ross rarely looked you in the eye when he talked to you, and even when he did it was hard to tell because his glasses were so thick. He had a cigarette going, as he always did, stuck between the fingers of his right hand. He put it in his mouth when we shook hands.
“Sam.”
“Ross. You’re up early.”
“With the roosters, baby. Every day.”
Even at ground level I still didn’t recognize his escort, a uniformed patrolman. He stood back a few paces with his hand resting easily on the holster holding his service weapon. I didn’t introduce myself. He didn’t seem to mind.
“Sullivan told me you were working this job,” said Ross.
I looked around for Frank, but he’d left before I got down there. A pair of electricians running outdoor cable down a shallow trench for a post light stole curious glances. A cop car on a job site wasn’t all that common a sight.
“Sorry I missed him,” I said, looking over at the uniformed cop.
“I let him beg off,” said Ross. “He didn’t want his name on the collar. If that’s what this is.”
Ross flicked the half-burned cigarette into the mud. He felt all around his shirt and pants for the next one, eventually digging a crumpled pack out of the last possible pocket. It wasn’t a very graceful move. Nothing Ross did was very graceful.
“Collar?”
“Arrest.”
“I know what a collar is. Who’s getting collared?”
“Nobody, if you just follow me back to the station.”
I understood now why Frank hadn’t hung around. Ross wanted to speak to me in private. The uniformed escort stood still as a centurion. Ross leaned back against the fender of the cruiser and crossed his arms. Then uncrossed them. Then crossed them again. He looked out toward the ocean, squinting his eyes.
“Gonna be a nice day,” he said. “’Bout goddamn time.”
I pulled out one of my own cigarettes, which Ross lit for me after another prolonged search for his lighter. I’d been trying to hold off until after lunch, but all the smoke coming from the Chief had undermined my resolve.
“Am I allowed to ask why?” I asked.
Ross squeezed together his lips and shook his head.
“Nope. That’d make it harder for me. Better it’s like, ‘Sam, old buddy, I’d really like to have a chat with you some time.’ And you say, ‘Why sure, Ross, why don’t I come on over to the station right away?’”
I nodded toward my Pontiac.
“Can I drive my own car?”
“Sure. We’ll follow you. Bring whatever you want off the job. Don’t know how long it’ll take.”
I unbuckled my tool belt and stuffed it with a Phillips head screwdriver, a pair of pliers and a nail set that had found their way into my back pockets.
“Sullivan told me that big old car’s a lot faster than it looks,” said Ross.
“Not as fast as your cruiser,” I told him. “Maybe off the line, but not the same top end.”
“So you won’t be tempted to play Smokey and the Bandit.”
As if there was any place to run to. Technically the South Fork was an island, with only two bridges crossing the Shinnecock Canal. Your only other getaway was the ferry to Shelter Island. Not an ideal escape strategy.
“No reason for any of that, Ross. I’m just coming in for a chat.”
The uniformed cop walked me over to the Grand Prix and watched me stow the tool belt and power nailer in the yawning trunk. He maintained an even distance, outside my reach, but close enough to get his gun out and fully engaged. I’d learned about that procedure years ago, the last time I’d been politely asked to come in for a chat with law enforcement.
It took about half an hour to drive over to the station. It would have been less, but with a patrol car filling my rearview the whole way I felt compelled to stay under the speed limit. Stupid, really. What were they going to do? Pull me over and give me a ticket?
Janet Orlovsky was at the front desk behind a big pane of bulletproof Plexiglas. Before buzzing us in, she studied us carefully, in case people were impersonating the Chief of Police and one of his patrolmen. She glowered at me, which didn’t mean anything. She always did. She assumed I’d done something she wouldn’t like and she just hadn’t discovered yet what it was. My old man used to take the same approach.
The cops and administrative people sitting at desks or standing around file cabinets watched our little parade weave its way to the back of the squad room, where Ross had his office. Somewhere along the way the uniform dropped out.
Ross closed the door behind us and took off his nylon wind-breaker. I sat in one of the two chairs in front of his desk.
“Frank must be getting close to wrapping that place up,” said Ross, getting comfortable in his chair, pushing back into the overloaded credenza.
“Getting there.”
“We radioed Sullivan on the way in. Still busy over at the crime scene.”
“Looks great in his civvies,” I said.
“Yeah, sort of like General MacArthur.”
“What kind of crime scene we talking about?” I asked him.
He leaned forward again and rolled the chair up tight to the desk.
“Did I forget to ask if you wanted coffee?”
“Coffee’d be great.”
He left for a while and came back with two heavy china mugs with the seal of the Town of Southampton stamped on the side. The coffee was good—tasted like the hazelnut/ French vanilla blend you got from the corner place in the Village. I was tempted to ask for a croissant, or a cheese Danish.
“So you haven’t heard,” said Ross, back behind his desk again.
“Something going on? I don’t usually listen to the morning news. Gives me a headache.”
“Somebody told me you go jogging after work.”
“Sometimes. Less recently. I’ve been getting plenty of exercise on the job. Nice of you to take an interest, though, Ross.”
“Lady in your neighborhood said you might’ve been out running last night. Late.”
“Funny time to jog.”
“That’s what I thought.”
He sat back in that abrupt, maladroit way he had and drew heavily on his cigarette. I lit one of my own to keep him company. The windows behind his desk were raised so the sill was just above his head. All you could see
