Hard Stop

braided rug and Amanda was face down on the daybed, still dressed and snoring. Likely a performance piece meant to undermine my tendency to idolize.

I poured my nightcap ration and sat at the pine table to watch her snore. Seeing that I’d abrogated my rightful place, Eddie jumped up on the daybed and lay next to her, settling himself down with a puff of breath through his long snout.

I went back to Adam Smith, thinking I ought to write a book like this of my own. Call it The Wealth of Undeserved Blessings.

TWELVE

JOE SULLIVAN WAS WAITING for me on the front walk that led up to Bobby Dobson’s group rental on Vedders Pond. It was only seven-thirty in the morning, but the day was already heavy with humidity. Unusual for September, but the weather had been nothing but unusual lately, so we were used to it. Sullivan wore olive drab safari shorts and heavy hiking boots, a black shirt with a half dozen pockets, a black Yankees cap and sunglasses. And a black leather shoulder harness securing his regulation Smith & Wesson .38.

The perfect plainclothes disguise. Who’d ever guess he was a cop?

He had a headset around his neck with a cord leading to a little black box hitched to his belt.

I had the coffee. A Viennese cinnamon for me and a double latte for him. So much for working-class sensibilities.

“You’re recording this?” I asked him.

“Digital, baby. Cheaper than a steno.”

“I’ve got one of those. Amazing things. Tell me when to keep my voice down.”

“You’re here as a witness. Totally legit. I cleared it with Ross.”

I followed him to the front door where he told the recorder we were cutting the yellow tape and entering the building. Just inside was the living room, now cleared of newspapers and magazines and covered in multicolored fingerprint powder. Also strewn about were little yellow cones with black numbers.

“Riverhead’s been busy,” I said.

That was where the Suffolk County forensics lab was headquartered. According to Sullivan, they were twitchy with paranoia after blowing a famous case, bringing on a huge lawsuit and a savaging on 60 Minutes. Ross was one of the few officials who stood up for them in the press, earning the DA’s fury and the lab’s permanent devotion.

“Is this suicide thing their idea?” I asked.

Sullivan scoffed and flicked off the recorder.

“Veckstrom. The paper said it was ‘an anonymous police official,’ but who else would say the killing looked like a classic jingo thing.”

“Jigai. Ritual suicide practiced by Japanese women.”

“Practiced, huh? Not many chances to get it right.”

Sullivan picked out a comfy spot on the sofa and peeled the plastic lid off his latte. He pulled his case book out of his pocket and flipped through the pages while he listened to me talk.

“The problem is, jigai involves slitting the throat, severing the jugular and bleeding out,” I said. “This knife was shoved straight up into her skull. Even Veckstrom should know that details matter in these things.”

“That’s what Ross told me, the only other guy in Southampton who knows about this shit. Though the press leak might’ve been his idea in the first place. Not bad if the perp thinks we’re barking down the wrong trail.”

“So you think it’s a wrong trail.”

Sullivan looked up from his case book.

“Riverhead thinks it’s the wrong trail. The knife was jammed up through the soft tissue of her palate, then into her brain. Very accurate. Or very lucky. Especially given the girl’s blood alcohol level, which was a point above sloshed. There were also defensive marks on her throat, so the fatal thrust wasn’t the first try.”

“I didn’t see that,” I said.

“You wouldn’t with all the blood.”

“None of which was on the bed. That I did see.”

“That’s because the body was moved there from somewhere else,” said Sullivan. “They thought somewhere in the house, because it happened shortly after death. And they were right. There’s a blood trail from the patio under the deck to the bedroom. Good cleanup job, but God Himself can’t escape luminol.”

“Or Herself.”

Sullivan scowled at me and flipped off the recorder.

“I can never tell if you’re serious.”

“Assume I’m not, as a rule of thumb.”

He talked some more about the crime scene, sharing some of the assumptions and conclusions Riverhead had come to based on forensic science, a subject I never tired of. Though my curiosity always led back to the more complex and less easily divined part of the equation, the people.

“So what was Bobby Dobson’s opinion of all this?”

He studied me unhappily.

“That would be confidential information concerning an official homicide investigation.” He flipped off the recorder. “Do I need to tell you how happy my wife would be if I blew my pension?”

“Very?”

“Sharing forensic reports is one thing. Revealing confidential statements from potential suspects another.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” I said.

His face fell a little.

“Not saying that.” He went back to his book. “I’m recalling from my notes, but I think I got the main points.” He cleared his throat. “Dobson stated that the victim had been staying full time at the share since about mid- August. He claimed to know nothing about her motivation for leaving her employment other than what he called burnout, though he wanted it clear that this was his opinion and nothing about this was ever expressed to him by the victim or anybody else. Dobson was the only renter who was in the City during the week. He said the others had summer gigs out here. Carl Brooks and Sybil Shandy at Roger’s, and the other Brooks, Elaine, at the Varick Gallery.”

“What about Zelda? Zelda Fitzgerald?”

He looked through his book.

“Nothing on Fitzgerald. He did say others would come and go during the summer, though he couldn’t remember all their names. I got a note to go back at that if we need to.”

“Okay.”

Sullivan leaned back on the sofa, dropping his boots on the coffee table and taking a sip from his latte.

“Damn, that’s great shit,” he said. “Almost makes you stop hating yuppies.”

“Speaking of which.”

“Right. Dobson said the victim would spend the week basically hiding out in her room. He’d see her on weekends and try to get her to go out and get a little fresh air. Have a little fun. Sometimes successfully.”

“So they were dating.”

Sullivan shook his head at me.

“Couldn’t quite get that one nailed down. He said they were sort of seeing each other. But the way forensics tells the tale, if they were getting it on, it wasn’t here.”

“So you got some good prints?” I asked.

Sullivan took another sip of his latte before flipping ahead in his case book.

“We have prints from the victim, Iku Kinjo, of course,” he read. “And Robert Dobson, the principle leaseholder, which we got off a soda can during the interrogation. Also Carl Brooks and Sybil Shandy—IAFIS had the prints off a lewd-ness charge. We got a copy of their file. Nice mug shots. Then we have Unknowns A, B and C.”

He looked at the recorder to make sure it wasn’t running.