Riptide (19 page)

From a pew nearby, Detectives McManus and Jackson watched.

T
he service had been brief and, as Jackson pointed out, there was barely a wet eye in the house.

The sole exception was Marisol, the young and beautiful housekeeper, who was sobbing so hard she needed to lean on her aunt’s arm for support on her way out.

Her boyfriend, Roberto Torres, was nowhere to be seen.

The detectives stood as Christina Cardiff approached, walking with her son, and it was a curious thing, but of the two you would swear Marisol was the one who had been widowed, she was that broken up about it.

McManus nudged his partner.

Jackson dipped his chin to show that he had noticed it, too.

Christina walked past, arm in arm with her son. She had that same quality to her she’d had when they first saw her getting off the plane at JFK, like an oversized doll neglected by its little-girl owner, in need of a hot bath, a good meal, and some comfortable clothes. Her skin retained the pallor that was common to addicts, but she wasn’t shaking today.

Frank McManus wondered whether she was back on the sauce.

Of the two, her son appeared to be taking it harder.

“Tough times,” Ben Jackson murmured, watching the kid steer his mother up the center aisle.

Frank McManus nodded.

Tyler Cardiff appeared to be a nice enough kid, about the same age as Frank’s daughter, who had called early this morning to thank him for the birthday gift.

“Daddy, it’s great. I love it, and I needed it. I used to have one just like it and it got worn-out and I was hoping I’d get another one because I loved it so much and my friend Stacey, do you remember Stacey? Well, she had the same one even though she didn’t get it down here in Florida, she got it at her grandparents’ house when she went to visit last spring in New Jersey…”

Frank hit the
MUTE
button and ran an electric razor over his face. He tried to concentrate as his daughter went on about this and that, her friends and school and things that mattered in her life. He zoned out, checking his watch, knowing he had to leave soon for Jason Cardiff’s memorial service.

Looking at the Cardiff kid now, his face the color of a sheet of loose-leaf paper, McManus remembered how he’d felt looking down at his old man stretched out flat and still inside a casket. His father was quiet, for once, with nothing more to say. Ever. His lips had been sewn shut. Despite the fact that Frank had been thirty-three years old when his father died, with kids of his own and a job that gave him more than a passing acquaintance with death, Frank McManus had spent that night sobbing like a baby.

Tyler Cardiff was struggling to hold it together now, muscles jumping along the lines of his jaw so that his thin face twisted up in knots. He was taking it like a
man, though, throwing his thin shoulders back as he led his mother by the arm.

“Sucks,” Ben Jackson muttered, as they passed.

Christina Cardiff’s day was about to suck worse. She was about to be informed her lover had been with her husband the night of his death. A fact which, and this was the fun part of McManus’s job, she might have known all along. They were about to find out. “Mrs. Cardiff?” McManus stepped quickly out of the pew, blocking her path.

Christina Cardiff stared straight ahead.

“May we have a word with you?”

They had formed a little traffic jam in the aisle, but the few mourners filing past gave them wide berth. Including Old Man Cardiff and his wife, who dipped his patrician chin at McManus and kept right on going.

McManus wasn’t fooled. He’d already received two messages on his BlackBerry this morning from the assistant DA, wanting status updates for Cardiff.

The old man didn’t stop now to offer any assistance to their daughter-in-law, McManus noticed.

Young Tyler shifted his arm from his mother’s elbow to her shoulders in a protective move. He swung around to face the detectives squarely. “Can we help you?”

You could tell he knew on some level who they were and why they were there, same as everyone else who hurried past. “Mrs. Cardiff,” McManus said in his most respectful voice, “we’d like a moment of your time.”

The dim light of the church made it impossible to see her eyes behind those shades, but there was no mistaking the dismissive wave of her hand. “I’m busy now.”

The kid scowled.

There is a strong family resemblance, Frank thought.

Ben Jackson nodded. “We understand, ma’am, but there is some information we’d like to share with you.”

Such as the fact they wanted to judge her reaction to the news that Lover Boy had been partying at her house the night her husband bought the farm. Heads, Christina Cardiff sent him there. Tails, she had no idea she was bedding down with someone who posed a danger to her and her son.

Christina Cardiff’s response was to give a little wave, motioning to them to move out of her way.

McManus and Jackson exchanged glances.

Frank tried again. “Mrs. Cardiff, we do have some new information about your husband’s death which you need to know.” He looked at the kid. “We want to share that with you now, in private.”

Young Tyler hesitated. “Mom?”

Showing the kid, thank God, had inherited some brains from somewhere. Apparently not from his mother.

She tightened her grip on her son’s arm and shook her head, pointing those dark shades at McManus for the first time. “Not now,” she said firmly. “Leave a message on my cell.”

And with that, she swept past.

Jackson gave Frank his Are-You-Getting-This? look.

Frank gave a quick nod that yes, he was.

They turned to go and got waylaid by Pamela Cardiff Lofting, who had hung back and witnessed the whole thing.

“Detectives, I’m glad you came.” Her eyes were puffy, sans makeup. “Because this”—her voice dropped to a hiss—“is an outrage.”

Her hand, when Frank shook it, was like a block of
ice with jewels stuck to it. He and his partner offered condolences.

Her puffy eyes focused on Frank with the same laser-beam intensity you’d get from her old man. “What sort of progress have you made?”

By progress, of course, she wanted to know whether they were close to slinging anyone’s sorry ass in jail in connection with her brother’s death. “We’re exploring all avenues,” McManus replied, using the company line.

“We’re checking out all the information you provided us with, ma’am,” Jackson added.

“Good.” Pamela Cardiff Lofting gave a sad shake of her head. “Because this”—her lips tightened with fury around the words—needs a quick resolution.” Her eyes flashed with anger.

Gil Stanton, the Cardiff family attorney, had been standing a respectful distance away. He moved in now, placing a fatherly hand on Pamela’s linen-clad shoulder. “I trust these gentlemen are doing all they can. I know the DA is providing them all the resources they need.”

Stanton flashed them a tight little professional smile that pretty much implied he and the DA were BFFs.

Detectives McManus and Jackson watched impassively.

“My parents, my entire family,” Pamela said, pushing the words out in a voice that was choked with tears, “are just so devastated by this, this, this…” She paused, searching for the right words. “Disaster,” she said at last. “Most of them were too upset even to attend this memorial today.”

“I see,” Frank said. Based on the Cardiff family reputation, they were too busy double-checking the findings
of the team of forensic accountants they had no doubt put on the trail of their son’s estate.

Because Jason Cardiff’s untimely and wrongful death had resulted in one very large honking transfer of dough from the Cardiff family trust into the hands of Christina Banaczjek Cardiff.

Based on her swollen, makeupless eyes, Pamela Cardiff Lofting must have been up half the night thinking about that very thing. “This is an outrage,” she repeated. “Pure and simple.”

Gil Stanton gave Pamela’s shoulder another fatherly pat.

“Stay calm, my dear,” the lawyer murmured, “and let these men do their job.”

His words seemed to have the intended effect on Pamela Cardiff Lofting, whose very DNA was programmed to respect the great American work ethic.

She tightened her grip on her black pashmina shawl and sniffed. “You’ll call as soon as you have news, won’t you?”

Detectives Jackson and McManus nodded.

As next of kin to the decedent, Christina Cardiff was the point person to inform about any developments. And if the assistant DA in his infinite wisdom wanted to keep a line open to Old Man Cardiff, that was his prerogative. Frank McManus, for his part, was not going to spoil anyone’s brunch by telling the dead guy’s sister he had been sleeping with one of the maids, thereby pissing off the maid’s bad-ass boyfriend.

It was enough to make you lose your appetite for the egg strata.

Not to mention it was raining cats and dogs. Frank wished he had thought to bring an umbrella.

The wind had picked up quite a bit, tossing the tree branches around like toys. The weather service had been forecasting this for days, as some tropical storm off the Southern coast had picked up speed and begun rotating north toward Long Island. Two swimmers had drowned off Rockaway Beach in Queens, according to 1010 WINS. That was nothing new. Swimmers were always drowning off Rockaway.

“An umbrella would come in handy right now.” A feminine voice, pleasant and familiar, echoed McManus’s thoughts.

Biz Brooks stood, looking very put together in a trim suit that showed off her legs to good advantage. She flashed a smile. “I’ve been standing here, waiting for a break in the rain, but it could take days.”

“Yeah.” Frank smiled back. He couldn’t think of anything to say.

“We’ve got an umbrella in the car,” Jackson offered. “Wait here. I’ll get it.” Before McManus had time to protest, his partner dashed out into the rain.

Leaving Frank to wonder just how much worrying Ben Jackson and his wife did about whether McManus would spend his twilight years in their guest bedroom.

The church was empty now.

Frank scraped his feet, jangled his change, and searched for something to say.

“They’ve been forecasting this for days. A tropical storm, I think.” Biz Brooks smiled again and, for the second time in as many days, the word “fetching” leapt to Frank’s mind.

Frank cleared his throat. “Tropical depression.” Wrong word, he thought. Never say the word “depression” to a beautiful woman.

“An umbrella is just the thing,” Biz remarked.

She looked like she could drip-dry no problem. “Yup,” said Frank.

The old church was silent.

“So, um, how are things going?” Biz Brooks turned those hazel eyes on Frank. She caught herself. “I mean, I guess you can’t say much about your job, in your line of work.”

“Not too much.” Frank’s natural shyness engulfed him. “Other times,” he began, “we can.”

“That’s fascinating,” Biz Brooks said.

She actually batted her eyes at him, which made him stand up a little taller. Note to self, he thought, switch to light beer.

Biz tucked a strand of hair behind one delicate ear.

The motion tugged at something in Frank’s gut.

“I just think your job is fascinating,” she said. “I mean, you help people and solve crimes and figure things out when bad things happen.”

She smiled again, and Frank wondered if her hazel eyes changed color depending on her mood. “It’s my job,” he said, but not before his voice croaked. Jesus Christ, her dead husband had been some big-time writer, and here he was sounding like a tongue-tied idiot. “I think what you do is great,” he blurted.

Biz Brooks frowned. “And what, exactly, do I do?”

Frank felt sweat beading on his forehead. “Your garden. Flowers. They make the world a better place.”

Oh, crap, what was next? Peace and love and reducing her carbon footprint?

Biz Brooks watched him, probably trying to decide if he was sane.

“Thanks,” she said at last. “I enjoy it. I don’t have
too much time for it these days. I’ve been donating most of my time and resources to a project based at Shinnecock,” she explained, referring to the US Coast Guard facility in Hampton Bays. “I’m helping fund a new program developed by the state university system dedicated to improving the water quality and marine life in and around the local bays and the Long Island Sound.”

McManus braced himself for a spiel on global warming, and how powerboats and the vast agro-military-industrial complex was ruining the earth and the legacy we leave for our children, but it didn’t come.

“I grew up spending summers out here,” she said simply. “Fishing with my dad off Montauk. I love it.”

“Yeah,” Frank McManus added. “Me too.” He was certain a rainbow was blooming above the church rafters.

Biz Brooks smiled at him, and Frank smiled back.

The parking lot behind the Presbyterian Church was deserted when they walked her out to her car. It was a sleek top-of-the-line BMW, not some sputtering hybrid, or worse, a Volvo.

“Thanks again,” she called to Ben Jackson, who had thrust the umbrella into Frank’s hands before racing head down through the rain to the Crown Vic.

Which left Frank McManus holding the umbrella over Biz while she slid behind the wheel. “Drive safe,” he said, patting the door.

Biz Brooks had yet to start her engine. “It was nice chatting with you.”

Frank McManus smiled. Or rather, kept smiling. He realized he’d been smiling for five minutes at least, long
enough to make his face hurt. “Nice chatting with you, too.”

Biz sat.

The rain fell in sheets around them.

It was against policy to ask someone out during an investigation. Not to mention he was a humble civil servant, and she was a wealthy widow living in a prime piece of Hamptons real estate.

Biz Brooks had been fingering her keys. She stopped now and dug something out of her purse. “Here,” she blurted, cheeks flaming as she pushed a business card at him and fired up the BMW. “Keep it, you know, if you’re ever in the neighborhood and want to give a call.”

Frank McManus was not the sort of cop to go against department policy, nor was there any way to explain this without sounding like a complete dweeb. So he simply shoved her card into his pocket without saying a word.