Murder Most Frothy

then picked up speed on the open water.

“It’s a nice night.” I had to speak loudly, over the sound of the rushing wind. But I knew it was important to start the conversation. Any conversation. As Quinn once put it, “The best way to get a suspect to talk, is to get him to talk.”

Unfortunately, Rand had no reply to my riveting weather report. So I tried another subject.

“You know, Rabbit Run and Rabbit is Rich…those are both titles of novels.”

“Yeah, I know,” Rand said. “Updike.”

“Have you read John Updike’s Rabbit novels?”

“Do I strike you as the kind of guy who reads suburban angst novels?”

“Uh…”

“Don’t strain yourself. I read nonfiction. Geopolitical history mostly.”

“So who’s the Updike fan?”

“Byron Baxter Monroe, he owns the marina, he’s also a former college professor. He named all his rentals after favorite Updike novels and short stories.”

“You know him pretty well?”

“The guy’s bi-polar and mildly depressed, which he remedies via what he calls ‘self-medication,’ usually alcohol. The man likes to belly up to the bar and pontificate about the vacuity of the conventional upper-middle class suburban existence in general and Updike in particular. Why do I know this? Because as long as he’s buying, I’ll listen.”

“So you ‘self-medicate’ too? With alcohol?”

“I down the occasional beer. But risk is my kick. I’m an adrenaline junkie. Like you.”

“Like me?”

“Don’t you remember what you told me this morning? You get your nerve from eight to ten cups of coffee a day. Caffeine’s your drug, isn’t it?”

I bristled. “It’s a legal one.”

“And what I found you doing today in my rental house. That was legal, was it?”

Shit.

“You know, Clare, I could have told the police about what you did.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because…” He smiled. “I knew if they arrested you, then you wouldn’t be able to keep our date.”

Date. My god. Was he being sarcastic? Or playing me again?

I watched him drive the boat for a few minutes. We were paralleling the shore now. I could see faint lights from the Hamptons’ mansions on our left, which meant we were heading away from Manhattan, toward the tip of Long Island. If we kept going much longer, we’d be away from all land. We’d be out to sea.

“We’re traveling east, right?” I asked, trying to keep the nervousness out of my voice.

“Northeast.” He tapped the compass, just one gauge on the fairly dizzying array in front of us. There was sonar, global positioning, and a host of other technology I could only guess had something to do with communications and weather.

“Northeast,” I repeated. “And your fuel tank is full. That’s about all I can recognize on this dashboard, besides the steering wheel.”

Jim smirked. “Dead reckoning is more your style, right? Or, judging from what you’ve involved yourself in, maybe just the dead part?”

I didn’t know whether the man was making a bad joke or a threat, but I took it as the latter. “Don’t menace me, Rand. Ten people know I’m with you right now.”

Jim said nothing. He continued to drive for a few minutes and then he cut the engine. We slowed on the water; I could feel the waves lapping the boat, the vessel gently bobbing.

Is this it? I half wondered whether he was going to throw me overboard now.

“I’m not trying to menace you,” he said softly. Then the ex-SEAL stared straight ahead, into the dark water, as if thinking something over. He rubbed his clean-shaven chin. There was a faint scent of citrus and soap about him. Now that his stubble was gone, I could see his jawline was magnificent. Sharp angles chiseled from marble. Twenty years ago, I would have been itching to sketch it.

He abruptly turned to face me, caught me staring.

“You ready to watch me work?” he asked.

“Does it involve firearms?”

“No guns, Clare. Just shooting.”

Rand suited up in the cabin below, exchanging his blue jeans and button-down for a black wet suit. His camera was an impressive piece of equipment, waterproof with an incredible zoom lens. It pained me to realize it, but his body was an even more impressive piece of equipment. The wet suit was skintight, revealing every lean muscle.

It’s official. The man’s a Greek statue.

“Here. This is for you,” he said, handing me yesterday’s newspaper. It was a popular paper, widely read on this part of Long Island.

“What’s this?”

“Page one. Read the photo credit.”

The front page was dominated by a spectacular shot of fireworks taking place above Bay Bar in Southampton. Everything that was wonderful about a Hamptons Fourth was in the shot. Beautiful yachts docked next to a popular watering hole. Attractive couples embracing, gazing up at the explosions of color high above them. The photo credit read Jim Rand.

“This is some shot. How did you get it?”

“From the water. I was in the water, that is. But the real question you should be asking me, detective, was when did I get it. See the date on the paper.”

“I see. You shot this July Fourth. They published it on the fifth.”

“You can see I was in Southampton at the time of the fireworks over Bay Bar. Right? You following?”

I nodded, understanding what he was showing me. “It’s your alibi. The police know the time of death for Treat Mazzelli. You were nowhere near David Mintzer’s mansion at that time.”

“That’s right, Clare. Like I told you. All of my shots at Mintzer’s were before sunset. That’s why I gave you all of the photos I took. Do you believe me now? Or do you want to see the complete set of digital shots I took in Southampton? There are only about a hundred or so that put me there from the beginning of the display to the end.”

“Mr. Rand, please understand, someone is trying to hurt my friend.”

“I hear you. But I’m not your man…” He smiled, one eyebrow arching. “At least, not when it comes to your criminal investigation.”

The flirtation was hard to miss. My reaction was visceral. I ignored it. “Did the police ask you if you saw anything suspicious that night, while you were on David’s beach?”

“Yes, of course. And, no, I’m sorry to tell you that I didn’t. Look…we’ll talk when I get back, okay? I just didn’t want to leave the boat here and find you’d lost your nerve with me, motored away, and left me to fend for myself in the Atlantic.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “You know I had that same scenario down for me. I was half convinced you were about to throw me overboard.”

“Trust is a beautiful thing, isn’t it?”

Dammit, Rand, don’t make me like you.

The ex-SEAL moved to gather the rest of his gear, an oxygen tank, and goggles. He strapped on an impressive-looking dive watch. Then he picked up a pair of binoculars, handed them to me, and pointed.

I scanned the shoreline. There were a few mansions lit up. One was having a big party on the beach. “I guess that party’s your destination?”

“You guessed right.”

I watched him jump off the stern. A chill went through me as he disappeared into the dark waves. The moonlight cast a silver hue to the ocean surface, but Jim Rand had disappeared completely beneath the black