Plum Island (10 page)

“Why not?”

“Because we’re just speculating. Let them run with the plague theory. If that’s the right theory, better keep it covered.”

“Okay, but that’s no reason not to confide in Max and the others.”

“Trust me.”

“No. Convince me.”

“I’m not convinced myself. We have two strong possibilities here—bugs for money or drugs for money. Let’s see if Max, Foster,
and Nash come to any conclusions of their own, and if they share their thoughts with us.”

“Okay … I’ll play this one your way.”

I motioned toward the boat. “What do you think that goes for?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure … the Formula’s a pricey item … you figure three thousand a running foot, so this one, new, would
be about $100,000.”

“And the rent on this house? About two thousand?”

“I guess about that, plus utilities.” She added, “We’ll find all this out.”

“And what’s with this commuting by boat? It’s almost two hours one way from here, and a small fortune in fuel. Right?”

“Right.”

“It takes maybe thirty minutes to drive from here to the government ferry on Orient Point. How long is the ferry ride? Maybe
twenty minutes, compliments of Uncle Sam. Total about one hour door-to-door, as opposed to nearly two hours by speedboat.
Yet, the Gordons took their own boat from here to Plum, and I know there were days when they couldn’t take their boat back
because the weather had turned bad during the day. They’d have to take the ferry back to Orient and hitch a ride home with
someone. This never made sense to me, but I admit I never thought much about it. I should have. Now maybe it makes sense.”

I jumped into the boat and landed hard on the deck. I put my arms up, and she jumped, grabbing my hands as she did. Somehow
we wound up on the deck, me on my back, Beth Penrose on top of me. We stayed there about a second longer than we had to, then
we got to our feet. We smiled awkwardly at one another, the way strangers of the opposite sex do when they find themselves
accidentally bumping T&A and whatever.

She asked me, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah….” In truth, the wind had been knocked out of my bad lung, and I guessed she could see it.

I got my breath back and went to the rear, the stern, as they say, where the Formula 303 had a bench seat. I indicated the
deck near the seat and informed her, “Here’s where the chest always sat. It was a big one, about four feet long, three deep,
and three high. Maybe thirty cubic feet on the inside, insulated aluminum. Sometimes, when I sat on the bench, I’d put my
feet up on the chest and slug beers.”

“And?”

“And, after work, on designated days, the Gordons leave Plum at the appointed hour and make a high-speed dash out to sea.
There, out in the Atlantic, they rendezvous with a ship, maybe a South American freighter, maybe it’s a sea-plane, or whatever.
They take on board about a hundred kilos of Colombian marching powder and dash back toward land. If they’re spotted by the
DEA or Coast Guard, they look like Mr. and Mrs. Clean out for a spin. Even if they’re stopped, they flash the Plum Island
ID and do a song and dance. In reality, they could probably outrun anything on the water. It would take an aircraft to chase
this thing. More to the point, how many boats are stopped and searched? There are thousands of pleasure boats and commercial
fishermen out there. Unless the Coast Guard or Customs or somebody has a serious tip, or someone is acting weird, they don’t
board and search. Right?”

“Usually. Customs has full authority to do that and sometimes they do.” She added, “I’ll see if there are any reports with
DEA, Coast Guard, or Customs regarding the
Spiro-chete.
”

“Good.” I thought a moment, then said, “Okay, so after the Gordons cop the junk, they make land at some prearranged spot or
rendezvous with a small boat, and transfer the ice chest to the local pharmaceutical distributors, who give them another chest
in return with a bunch of bucks in it. The distributor then drives into Manhattan, and another duty-free import is completed.
Happens every day. The question is, Did the Gordons participate, and if so, is that what got them killed? I hope so. Because
the other thing scares me, and I’m not easily scared.”

She mulled this over, looking around the speedboat. She said, “It
might
fit. But it might be wishful thinking.”

I didn’t reply.

She continued, “If we can determine it was drugs, we can rest easier. Until then, we have to go ahead with the idea that it’s
plague, because if it is and we’re not on top of it, we could all be dead.”

I
t was after two
A.M.
, and I was getting cross-eyed reading the Gordons’ computer printouts. I had a pot of coffee going in Uncle Harry’s big old
kitchen, and I was sitting at the round table by the bay window that faced east to catch the morning sun.

Uncle Harry and Aunt June had the good sense never to have the entire Corey clan as house guests, but now and then they’d
have me or my brother, Jim, or my sister, Lynne, stay in the guest room while the rest of the family was in some horrid 1950s
tourist cabin.

I remember sitting at this table as a kid with my two cousins, Harry Jr. and Barbara, slopping up Cheerios or Wheaties, antsy
to get out and play. Summer was magic. I don’t think I had a care in the world.

Now, some decades later, same table, and I had a lot on my mind.

I turned my attention back to the checkbook register. The Gordons’ salaries were deposited directly into their account, and
their combined income, after being raped by the Feds and New York State, was about ninety thou. Not bad, but not that good
for two Ph.D.’s doing brainy work with hazardous substances. Tom would have done better playing minor league baseball, and
Judy could have worked in a titty bar in my old precinct and done as well. It’s a strange country.

Anyway, it didn’t take me long to see that the Gordons were overextended. It’s not cheap to live on the East Coast, as they’d
undoubtedly discovered. They had payments on two cars, the boat, the house rental, assorted insurances on same, utilities,
five credit cards, big-time oil company bills, mostly for the powerboat, and regular living and breathing expenses. Also,
there was a hefty $10,000 down payment on the Formula 303, the April before last.

Plus, the Gordons contributed to a number of worthy charities, making me feel guilty. They also belonged to a book and music
club, hit the ATM frequently, sent checks to nieces and nephews, and were members of the Peconic Historical Society. They
didn’t appear to be in major trouble yet, but they were close to the edge. If they were making a nice side income from the
drug trade, they were clever enough to stash the cash and get themselves in over their heads like all red-blooded fiscally
fearless Americans. The question, then, was, Where was the loot?

I’m not an auditor, but I’ve done enough of these financial analyses to spot things that needed checking out. There was only
one such thing in the last twenty-five months of the Gordons’ checkbook printouts—a biggie, a check for $25,000 made out to
a Margaret Wiley. The check had been certified for a fee of $10, and the funds to cover the check had been electronically
transferred from the Gordons’ money market account. In fact, it represented nearly all their savings. The check was dated
March 7 of this year, and there was no notation regarding the purpose of the check. Who, then, was Margaret Wiley? Why did
the Gordons give her a certified check for twenty-five large? We would soon find out.

I sipped on my coffee and tapped my pencil on the table in time with the regulator clock on the far wall, and I thought about
all of this.

I went to the kitchen cabinet beside the wall phone and found the local telephone directory among the cookbooks. I looked
under “W” and located a Margaret Wiley who lived on Lighthouse Road in the hamlet of Southold. I actually knew where that
was, it being the road that, as the name suggested, led to a lighthouse: Horton Point Lighthouse, to be exact.

I really wanted to call Margaret, but she might be annoyed at the two
A.M.
phone call. It could wait until dawn. But patience is not one of my virtues. In fact, to the best of my knowledge, I have
no virtues. Also, I had the feeling that the FBI and CIA were not all asleep at this hour and that they were getting ahead
of me on this case. Last, but not least, this was no ordinary murder; even as I hesitated to wake Margaret Wiley, a civilization-destroying
plague could be spreading over the nation. I hate when that happens.

I called the number. The phone rang and an answering machine picked up. I hung up and dialed again. Finally, the lady of the
house was awakened and she said, “Hello?”

“Margaret Wiley, please.”

“Speaking. Who is this?” asked the groggy and elderly voice.

“This is Detective Corey, ma’am. Police.” I let her imagine the worst for a second or two. That usually wakes them up.

“
Police?
What’s happened?”

“Mrs. Wiley, you’ve heard on the news about the murders on Nassau Point?”

“Oh … yes. How awful—”

“You knew the Gordons?”

She cleared the froggies from her throat and replied, “No … well, I met them once. I sold them a piece of land.”

“In March?”

“Yes.”

“For $25,000?”

“Yes … but what does that have to do with—”

“Where is the land, ma’am?”

“Oh … it’s a nice piece of bluff overlooking the Sound.”

“I see. They wanted to build a house?”

“No. They can’t build there. I sold the development rights to the county.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning … it’s a conservation plan. You sell the right to develop the land, but you still own the land. It has to stay undeveloped.
Except for agriculture.”

“I see. So the Gordons couldn’t build a house on this bluff?”

“Lord, no. If the land could be developed, it would be worth over $100,000. I was paid by the county not to develop it. It’s
a restrictive covenant that runs with the land. It’s a good plan.”

“But you can sell the land?”

“Yes, and I did. For $25,000.” She added, “The Gordons knew it couldn’t be developed.”

“Could they buy back the development rights from the county?”

“No. I sold the rights in perpetuity. That’s the purpose of the plan.”

“Okay….” I thought I understood now what the Gordons had done—they’d bought a nice piece of Sound-view land that, because
it couldn’t be built on, sold for less than market price. But they could plant on it, and I realized that Tom’s fascination
with local viniculture had led him to the ultimate hobby—Gordon Vineyards. Apparently, then, there was no connection between
this purchase and their murders. I said, “I’m sorry I woke you, Mrs. Wiley. Thank you for your help.”

“Not at all. I hope you find who did this.”

“I’m sure we will.” I hung up, turned from the phone, then went back and dialed again. She answered and I said, “I’m sorry,
one more question. Is that land suitable for grapes?”

“Goodness, no. It’s right on the Sound, much too exposed, and much too small. It’s only a one-acre parcel that drops fifty
feet to the beach. It’s quite beautiful, but nothing much will grow there except scrub.”

“I see … did they mention to you why they wanted it?”

“Yes … they said they wanted their own hill overlooking the water. A place to sit and watch the sea. They were a lovely couple.
It’s so awful.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” I hung up.

So. They wanted a place to sit and watch the sea. For twenty-five thousand bucks they could have paid the parking fee at Orient
Beach State Park five thousand times and watched all the sea they wanted every day for the next eight years and still have
money left over for hot dogs and beer. Did not compute.

I mulled a little. Mull, mull. Well, maybe it did compute. They were a romantic couple.
But twenty-five Gs?
That was almost all they had. And if they were transferred by the government, how would they unload an acre of land that
had no use for building or agriculture? Who else would be crazy enough to pay $25,000 for encumbered property?

So. Maybe it had to do with maritime drug running. That would make sense. I’d have to take a look at that land. I wondered
if anyone had yet found the deed to the property among the Gordons’ papers. I wondered, too, if the Gordons had a safe deposit
box and what was in it. It’s tough when you have questions at two
A.M.
, and you’re flying high on caffeine and no one wants to talk to you.

I poured another cup of coffee. The windows above the sink were open, and I could hear the night things singing their September
songs, the last of the locusts and tree frogs, an owl hooting nearby, and some night bird warbling in the foggy mist that
rolled in from the Great Peconic Bay.

The autumn here is tempered by the big bodies of water that hold their summer heat until November. Terrific for grapes. Good
boating until about Thanksgiving. There was the occasional hurricane in August, September, or October, and the odd nor’easter
in the winter. But basically the climate was benign, the coves and inlets numerous, the fogs and mists frequent: an ideal
place for smugglers, pirates, rum runners, and more recently, drug runners.