I nodded. “
“I’m Sergeant Roy O’Rourke, here to investigate last night’s shooting death. You were the one who found the shell casings? That’s what the old lady inside the house said.”
The voice was surprisingly high, almost reedy for such a big, wide man. Sergeant O’Rourke regarded me through fading gray eyes that matched the thinning hair on his head. His complexion, too, seemed faded and gray —astonishingly tan-resistant despite sun and surf.
“Yes, I found them,” I stammered, certain my lips were turning blue.
“Here you go, ma’am.”
A young policeman—barely older than my daughter—had retrieved my robe. I accepted it with a nod of thanks, slipping the thick terrycloth over my wet body. O’Rourke waited impassively. Behind him, another man crossed the beach. He was not in uniform, either, wearing a gray suit and blue striped tie almost identical to O’Rourke’s.
“This is my partner, Detective Melchior. He’s going to interview any witnesses, put together a timeline while I examine the physical evidence.”
“The local police bagged the shells last night—” I began.
“I know, Ms. Cosi,” said O’Rourke, cutting me off. “I’d like to see the spot where you found them.”
“Of course.”
We crossed the flat sands and entered the dunes, where I told Sergeant O’Rourke about the tracks I’d discovered and how I could not locate them again last night in the storm, after the local police had arrived.
“Don’t worry, if there are tracks, we’ll find them.”
I’m sure Roy O’Rourke meant to sound competent and reassuring, but to me he sounded tired and dulled by routine. I wondered where he’d gained his world-weary manner. Thinking of Quinn, I took a guess.
“Were you, by any chance, an officer in the NYPD, Sergeant O’Rourke?”
The man’s head dipped slightly. “Twenty years,” he replied. “I worked homicides in South Brooklyn, Washington Heights, the Bronx. Gang and drug violence, mostly.”
“Those are tough areas.”
“I’ve solved more than a few murders, ma’am, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m just wondering…aren’t the cases out here different? Different than the crimes in the city, I mean?”
“Every case has its own rhythm, but the work’s the same. Find the weapon and you’ll find the killer.”
I blinked. “It’s that simple?”
O’Rourke sighed. “Finding the weapon isn’t so simple, Ms. Cosi, believe me. But when you find it, the DA’s office usually has what it needs for a conviction. You follow, don’t you?”
“Yes, Sergeant. I follow.”
I halted just then. We had come to the spot. There was no longer any crime-scene rope around the scrub grass. The storm had blown it down, which wasn’t surprising.
“I found the shells right here,” I told the Sergeant, pointing to the spot. With a gesture, O’Rourke’s men fanned out, no doubt to seek out more clues.
“No sign of tracks here,” the man noted, looking around the dune.
“They weren’t here,” I corrected. “They were twenty yards down. But I’m sure the storm and the tide washed them away.”
“Maybe. Let’s see what the others find,” he replied. Ten minutes later, Detective Melchior sidled up to his partner. He was a foot taller and a decade younger than O’Rourke. Thin to the point of consumption, Melchior possessed a prominent cleft chin which jutted from a head seemingly too large for his scarecrow frame.
“Good line of fire from these dunes,” the detective observed, pointing to David’s bathroom window, clearly visible almost forty yards away.
O’Rourke squinted against the glare. “You said you saw tracks, Mrs. Cosi? Big shoe prints or little ones? Or were they bare feet?”
“Well, actually, Sergeant,” I replied. “I believe they were made by
“Webbed feet?” O’Rourke repeated, a bit taken aback.
I nodded.
“What do you mean?” he said. “Like a
I instantly regretted my choice of words. “Like scuba diving gear,” I corrected. “You know, the webbed flipper fins divers’ use?”
O’Rourke exchanged an unreadable glance with his partner.
“Maybe I should draw you an example,” I quickly suggested. “You know, in the sand?”
“Good idea,” said O’Rourke.
I set to work, crouching down and using my finger to recreate the tracks I’d found. Soon all the officers gathered around to watch. I was lost in concentration, searching my mind in an effort to recall the image. Were there three toes, or four? How big were they exactly? And how far apart? I made a few marks in the sand, erased them and started again. Halfway through the exercise, I looked up to find the policemen clearly suppressing laughter.
“Looks like we’ve found our culprit,” Sergeant O’Rourke quipped, folding big arms over his barrel chest. “The Creature from the Black Lagoon.”
Everyone laughed. Even the polite young policeman who’d brought me my robe couldn’t suppress a chuckle. I rose to my full (albeit rather puny) height.
“A decent clue is no laughing matter,” I snapped.
“No it isn’t, ma’am,” Detective Melchior said, obviously stepping in quickly to sooth my ruffled duck feathers. “So why don’t you take me back to the house. You can help me put together a list of everyone Mr. Mazzelli worked with and who you saw him conversing with last night. Let’s see if we can’t narrow down some clues the old- fashioned way and find out who may have had a beef with the victim.”
“But that’s just it,” I said, hands on hips. “Treat Mazzelli wasn’t the intended victim. I believe that the shooter was after David Mintzer.”
O’Rourke and Melchior exchanged glances again. This time I didn’t get the impression they were amused.
“Ma’am, if you know something, it’s important that you tell us,” O’Rourke replied.
“I agree.”
We entered the kitchen a few minutes later. David was awake and completely pulled together. Clearly he’d had a good sleep. His color looked good, a deep tan against white teeth. And, as usual, he was dressed impeccably: tailored ivory slacks, a pale olive shirt, and Italian leather sandals. With a smile, David shook Sergeant O’Rourke’s hand.
“Some coffee? It’s a very special blend, truly delightful. Please help yourselves,” David gestured. Behind him, Alberta Gurt had set up the large table with a pot of Summer Porch, mugs, and a basket of warm croissants next to a replenished bowl of strawberries. Madame hovered nearby. I could see her peeking around the corner, pretending not to eavesdrop.
Without preamble, Sergeant O’Rourke bluntly declared, “Mr. Mintzer, Ms. Cosi tells us that you were the real target of last night’s killer. She believes Mr. Mazzelli’s murder was a case of mistaken identity.” O’Rourke shifted his pale gray eyes in my direction. “Would you care to elaborate, Ma’am?”
“It makes perfect sense,” I began, covering the exact same ground I had done with Madame an hour earlier. “David left the party before the fireworks display and went to his bedroom with a migraine. Anyone would have expected him to be using his own bathroom—not Treat. Both men are about the same height. Both men have short black hair, and both were wearing the same khaki pants and short-sleeved, untucked shirts of nearly the same pinkish color.”
“So are you accusing someone who attended the party? Or perhaps one of Mr. Mintzer’s business associates?” Detective Melchior prompted.
“Oh my god,” David said on an outraged exhale.
“Hold off, Mr. Mintzer,” said O’Rourke. “We want to hear everything Ms. Cosi has to say.”
“Thank you,” I said, relieved the initial flippancy I’d experienced over the flippers had changed into serious consideration. “Remember the tracks I found among the dunes?”
