Beach Road

Lisa, you’re just helping his real murderer get away with it.”

“No, that’s what you’re doing,” says Lisa, pushing past us and getting into her car. If we hadn’t jumped back, she probably would have run us over as she tore out of the lot.

“So be it,” I say.

“Very good.” Kate nods. “You’re a fast learner.”

Chapter 57. Tom

DIGGING FOR DIRT on your old pals in a town like Montauk is a lot easier said than done though.

Walco’s father slams the door in our face. Rochie’s brother grabs a shotgun and gives us thirty seconds to get off his property. And Feifer’s mom, a sweet woman who volunteers three days a week at the Montauk Public Library, unleashes a stream of curses foul and vicious enough to earn the approval of Dante’s most hardened fellow inmates over at Riverhead.

We get the same obscene kiss-off from Feifer, Walco, and Rochie’s old friends and coworkers. Even ex- girlfriends, whose hearts had been stomped on by the victims, become ferociously protective of their memory at the sight of us.

Dante thinks being represented by locals is helping him, but right now it’s a hindrance, because to townies our decision has made the whole thing personal. Just acknowledging Kate or me on the street is viewed as giving aid and comfort to the enemy.

Being treated like a pariah is harder on me than it is on Kate. She hasn’t lived here for years, and working at Walmark, Reid and Blundell has thickened her skin.

But the lack of progress frays her nerves, and after a week and little to show for our efforts, my cramped dormer office has lost its charm. Same goes for the absurdly loud creaking stairs leading to the chiropractor next door. I, on the other hand, kind of like having Kate around. It gives me confidence. Makes the whole thing feel real.

Another visitor to the chiropractor and Kate yells out, “This is like working in a theme-park haunted house.”

“I’ll get you coffee,” I say.

It’s a half-hour round trip to the nearest deli whose owners are unlikely to poison us, so I’ve brought my antique Mr. Coffee from home. But even the time-honored combination of caffeine and desperation doesn’t seem to be working anymore.

“We need to find an outsider,” Kate finally says. “Somebody who grew up here but never fit in.”

“You mean, other than the two of us?”

“Somebody has to be willing to talk to us, Tom. C’mon, think. Who’s our Deep Throat?”

I think about her question for a bit. “How about Sean?” I finally say.

“He was a friend of all three of those guys. Plus he’s a lifeguard, for God’s sake. I was thinking of a little more of an outcast.”

“He’s not a social pariah, Kate. But he’s got the guts to go against the flow. People talk to Sean. He could have heard something.”

“You think you’d have better luck talking to him alone?”

I shake my head. “Actually, I think you’d have a better chance, me being his uncle and everything. Plus, he probably has a crush on you.”

Kate screws up her face. “What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know. Why wouldn’t he?”

Chapter 58. Kate

L.I. SOUNDS, WHERE Tom’s nephew Sean has been working since the lifeguard chairs came down, is one of the few stores still open in East Hampton, and it’s not clear why to me.

At nine that night, there are exactly two people in the brightly lit, narrow space. Sean is up front by the register, as his one potential customer browses the aisles. Sean’s a good-looking kid with long blond hair. Actually, he looks more like Tom than Jeff.

I glance around the store. Sounds will always have a special place in my heart. Until they built the mall in Bridgehampton, it was the only record store for thirty miles. With posters of Hendrix, Dylan, and Lennon up on the walls and a staff of zealots preaching about the eternal difference between Good and Awful music, it felt as serious as stepping into a church.

Sean smiles in welcome as I step into the light. He puts on a spacey CD I don’t recognize.

The other customer, a tall, skinny guy with wire-rimmed glasses, glances at me then looks away. Nothing changes. He’s pushing fifty but has the self-conscious slouch of an eighteen-year-old. The guy is working the back of the alphabet, so I start on the other end and move happily from AC/DC to the Clash to Fleetwood Mac.

When he leaves, I take a reissue of Rumors up to the register.

“Classic,” says Sean.

“You approve? I was sure you’d think it was too girly and lame.”

“What are you talking about, Kate? I was playing it an hour ago. Me and the cross-eyed cat couldn’t get enough of it.”

“Also, the title seemed kind of appropriate,” I say.

“You lost me.”

“You know, have you heard any?”

Sean seems a little disappointed, but I’m not sure if it’s the subject matter or my attempt at humor.

“Is that really why you’re here?”

“It is, Sean.”

“You mean information about Feifer, Walco, and Rochie?” asks Sean.

“Or anything that might help explain why someone would want to kill them.”

“Even if I did-I’m not sure I’d tell you.”

“Because people told you not to.”

Sean looks at me as if I just insulted him in the worst possible way. “I could care less about that bullshit. But these dudes were my pals, and they’re not here to defend themselves.”

“We’re just trying to figure out who killed them, Sean. If you’re a friend, I’d think you want to know too.”

“Spare me the lecture, Kate,” says Sean. But then he flashes one of those gracious Dunleavy smiles. “So you going to buy this CD, or you loitering?”

“I’m buying.”

I take my CD out to a dark bench a couple doors down and claw at the cellophane as I take in the elegant street and cool, fragrant air. East Hampton is one of the prettiest towns you’ll ever see. It’s the people who can be ugly sometimes.

Beside the bench is a mailbox. Looking closely, I see I’m not the only Sounds customer to make this their first stop. The blue surface is covered with hundreds of tiny little peeled-off CD titles, and now Rumors is part of the graffiti montage.

Rumors is even better than I remembered, and when I get to Mack’s place, I sit in the car in the driveway until I’ve heard the whole thing.

When I finally go inside, Mack is snoring on the living room couch, and my beeping cell doesn’t faze him at all.

It’s Sean, and he’s whispering. “I have heard something, Kate, and from people I trust-which is that in the last few weeks, Feif, Walco, and Rochie were all hitting the pipe. This summer, crack was all the rage out here, particularly on Beach Road. Supposedly, all three of them got into it. Once you hit the pipe, you can go from zero to a hundred in a weekend. That’s what I know. So how’d you like the