“In other words, you think Brightman did the girl?”
“Yop.”
“Why?”
He touched his nose. “Because this says so.”
One myth every cop, myself included, buys into is that he can smell a rat. What civilians get wrong is that crap about reasonable doubt. Reasonable doubt is for juries, not cops. Cops don’t doubt. Cops make up their minds early. Whenever you hear that nonsense about the cops having no suspects, it’s pure bullshit. Cops always have suspects. It’s getting the evidence to fit that’s the hard part.
“It is a lovely nose, Larry, to be sure,” I complimented. “I didn’t notice Brightman’s picture on the wall. Is it up?”
“Give him some time. Come on, finish your drink and let’s go.”
So many people shook Larry’s hand or slapped his back or grabbed his forearm on the way out, you’d think he was a walking rabbit’s foot. He was definitely working his way up the food chain, and his fellow brass knew it.
We walked around the corner to his car in silence, neither one of us willing to put the jinx on his rising star by talking about it. He popped the trunk and handed me a cardboard box of photocopied documents.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. I owe you, Moe, and we both know it. Just mark this against my account, okay? And listen,” he said gravely, taking hold of my arm, “don’t come back to me on this case. What you got in your arms is all the help you’re gonna get from me this time around.”
“Not an issue,” I said. “Thanks again.”
I didn’t wait for him to drive away. I just turned and headed back to my car. On the way, I looked over my shoulder in the direction of the World Trade Center, but rows of Wall Street office buildings obscured the view. It was strange how on a clear day like today had been, you could see those two ugly shoe boxes from all five boroughs and Jersey, but not from just a few blocks away. Although they’d been up for only a little more than ten years, I couldn’t remember the skyline without them.
Chapter Six
Wit actually did me a favor by calling. I was in the Brooklyn store about to take on the task of checking the police files Larry Mac had grudgingly handed over against the Spivack file. It would probably have been a tremendous waste of time, and I’d already gathered a list of people I wanted to speak with. Though I’d been at it for only a few days, the truth was I hadn’t gotten anywhere. The only thing I knew about Moira Heaton today that I hadn’t known twenty-four hours before was that she’d slept with her boss. While that didn’t make her a harlot, it didn’t exactly inspire me either. I had to get a better idea of who she was. Once I got a sense of her, I might get a handle on how to look for her.
“Yeah, Wit, it’s a little too early for drinks at the Yale Club.”
“Do you think?” he asked, followed by a pause. I imagined him checking his Piaget. “I suppose so.” He was unconvinced.
“What is it?”
“A body. Well, more accurately, badly decomposed human female remains.”
“Where?”
“That depends?”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Wit?”
“It means I need a lift.”
“Where are you?”
“The Pierre.”
Now it was my turn to check my watch. “Be in front in twenty minutes.”
The first hour of the trip out to Suffolk County was pretty quiet. I think Wit old boy was nursing a hangover. After witnessing him handle his Wild Turkey or, more factually, watching the Wild Turkey handle him, I understood that this was probably a regular event in Y. W. Fenn’s life. I took the time to enjoy the rarity of a nearly traffic-free Long Island Expressway. I would have enjoyed the sights if there had been any sights to see, but the L.I.E. is not renowned for its scenic beauty.
To the rest of New York, Suffolk County was the netherworld of potato and sod farms sandwiched between the Nassau County line and the civilized outposts of Sag Harbor and East Hampton. Only twenty or thirty miles beyond the city line, it might as well have been a penal colony or another planet for all the notice it got. Some places exist to be visited. Others exist to be passed through. Today, at least, Wit and I were going to stop and look.
“Where is this we’re going again?”
He pulled a piece of Pierre stationery out of his jacket pocket, blinking desperately to focus. “Someplace called Lake Ronkonkoma. What is that, an Indian name?”
“No, Wit, it’s Yiddish! Of course it’s an Indian name.”
“You take Exit 59, Ocean Avenue. Turn left onto Ocean, which turns into Rosevale Avenue. We take that to Smithtown Boulevard, turn right, and it’ll be a mile or two farther on. The lake is on the right, but we’re to look left.”
Such was the extent of our conversation.
The lake itself was rather bigger than I had expected, quite pretty, really. The same could not be said of the trailers and shacks bordering one side of the lake. Though it was a hot, lazy day, there didn’t seem to be much activity on the far shore beaches. Again, the same could not be said of the blond-reeded marsh to our left. There were blue-and-white units, an ambulance, a car from the county coroner’s office, and a crime scene van parked along the guardrail. Two bored-looking cops were stationed on either side of the official vehicles, directing traffic and discouraging the curious. I drove past and pulled into the parking lot of some big old German restaurant.
Wit and I walked back to the marsh. I showed one of the cops my badge and license. He began to hem and haw. Wit shook his head at me.
“Captain Millet said you’d let us pass. My name’s Y. W. Fenn. This is-”
“Go right ahead, guys. The captain’s back there. Watch your step. It’s kinda muddy.”
The cop wasn’t lying. Wit’s loafers stuck in the mud three times before we got to the assembled crowd. This was just the kind of place abandoned cars, bald tires, broken bottles, and bodies got dumped in all the time. There were places like it all along the coast in Brooklyn near Plum Beach, Sheepshead Bay, and Jamaica Bay. The reeds formed a curtain blocking roadside views, and the mud and brackish water kept foot traffic to a minimum.
“Where do you know this Captain Millet from?” I asked Wit as he stopped to retrieve his left shoe.
“I did a story on the Chartoff murders a year or two back. You remember them, don’t-”
“I remember.”
“Well, I met Millet when I was doing that story. When this Brightman assignment came up, I gave all my New York police contacts a call and told them what I might be interested in.”
“So why bring me?”
“As I said, I needed a ride.”
“Don’t be an asshole, Wit. There’s a hundred ways you coulda gotten out here that didn’t include me.”
“Let’s call it a show of good faith on my part.”
I left it at that. Captain Millet stepped out of the crowd to greet Wit. He was a tall man, red-faced, with a nose full of gin blossoms. I guess he and Wit got to be such good friends over drinks. Wit introduced us, adding that I’d once been a cop. Millet liked that.
“Some drug addict from the treatment center on the other side of the lake found her,” the captain explained. “He had half a bag on and was hiding until he sobered up. Tripped right over her. She’s been here a long time. Come on, let’s have a look.”
The cops parted like a blue sea as Millet approached. Only the crime scene guys and the coroner’s man didn’t move.
“How long she been there, Klein?” Millet asked the coroner.
