Riptide (9 page)

What this translated to in the day-to-day conduct of Jason Cardiff’s life was an unquestioning acceptance that money was his ultimate servant, there to spin the wheels that revolved, always, with him in the center.

Money was the number one tool in Jason Cardiff’s Life Toolbox, the first one he reached for to solve any problem.

It was the Cardiff way.

So it did not require any stretch of the imagination to use money to solve Jason Cardiff’s single problem early that summer: how to end his marriage.

The idea came to him one afternoon as he mounted the cleaning girl from behind on the cellar steps.

She was nice in a spicy, dirty, Latin way, with smooth dark skin and a good attitude, he’d seen that from the start. Cheeky.

“I don’t know this word,” Marisol giggled, pronouncing it “sheeky.” She waited until she heard him zipping his fly before turning over and hoisting herself into a sitting position on the steps.

Jason wiped his hands on his golf shorts and took a seat beside her to catch his breath on the bare wooden steps. He made a mental note to tell Christina they needed carpeting. Not some custom imported wool she’d spend weeks on, arguing with some fag decorator, just something plush that could be wiped up.

Marisol was careful to arrange her skirt underneath her, no doubt to avoid getting a splinter in those soft, juicy thighs.

Jason looked into his wallet, peeled a bill off, and tossed it onto the step between them.

Marisol was bent over, straightening her thigh-highs, which had slipped a bit.

Sexy. Jason felt himself getting hard again.

She picked up the bill and tucked it inside her bra. She smiled. “So, what does ‘sheeky’ mean?”

Jason smiled back. “It means,” he said, reaching one hand up under the folds of her skirt and helping himself to a generous handful of flesh, “you have a nice ass.”

Marisol leaned back against the steps, giggling now. “So much to learn.”

In the shadows he could see a thin film of sweat on her face. It was a warm day.

There were footsteps in the kitchen above, passing within inches of the cellar door.

“Ees only my aunt,” Marisol said, giggling harder now.

Jason nodded. It was just after eleven. Christina never got up this early. And even if she did…“Hey,” he said, working his hand up Marisol’s thigh, “want to do something for me?”

“
Sí
,” Marisol whispered, hiking her skirt up again.

Jason stayed where he was. “I want you to watch things.”

Marisol gave him a questioning glance.

“My wife,” Jason explained. “I need to know who comes here when I’m not around.”

Marisol’s eyes narrowed, losing the playful look.

She’d be good in business, Jason thought. “I mean it,” he said. “I need to know if men come here.”

Marisol nodded. “I understand.”

And it was clear by the look on her face she did understand. “I’ll make it worth your while,” Jason said, digging his wallet out once more. This time he handed the bills directly to her.

Marisol’s eyes flickered when she saw how much, stowing the bills with the rest. “Okay,” she said, nodding vigorously. “No problem.”

T
he First Presbyterian Church of Amagansett looked the same as Christina remembered it from a wedding ten years ago. Manicured grounds and a tidy blue sign proclaiming in gold letters that the church had been established in 1860. Her spirits rose when she pulled in to park and found a spot between a brand-new Lexus and a Rolls Royce.

AA, Hamptons style.

Inside was another story. The meeting was in the basement of an outbuilding, all fluorescent lights and dropped ceilings. The place smelled like a high-school gym.

Christina shivered, wishing she had worn something warmer than a sleeveless gold-mesh tank top. She turned to leave, and practically toppled over an old lady in a snowy white cardigan and blue gingham sundress. Like Aunt Bea from
Mayberry R.F.D.

“I’m Lois. Welcome to the Amagansett group of AA,” she said, grabbing Christina’s hand.

Christina backed away. “I’m sorry. I think I’m in the wrong place.”

Old Lady Lois had a grip like Bruce Lee. “Nobody gets here by accident, my dear.” She yanked Christina
up to the front of the room, to the first row of metal chairs, which were set up facing a Formica table with microphones. “Come and meet the girls.”

Christina didn’t want to meet the girls, who materialized clutching styrofoam cups.

“Coffee’s done,” one of them announced.

“Hey, Stan,” another called. “You hear that? The coffee’s done.”

One of the biggest men Christina had ever seen appeared with an armload of books. “Hallelujah!” he roared. “The coffee’s done.”

This was greeted with a round of raucous laughter from the crowd that by now had almost filled the room. There was a general stampede for the coffee urn.

Lois steered Christina by the elbow. “Girls, we have a newcomer, and her name is…” Lois fixed Christina with a gaze from eyes that were blue like her dress but piercing like lasers.

There was no time to lie. “Christina,” she mumbled.

“Christina,” several of the women repeated in unison, trying it out.

Like the Moonies. Christina glanced back at the door.

Someone pressed a meeting list into her hands.

At least three of them asked if she wanted coffee.

Old Lady Lois never let go of her elbow.

Big Stan came over. “Congratulations.” He clapped her on the shoulder as though she had just won a 10k race.

Christina couldn’t stop shaking. She longed to run out to her car and grab a hoodie. Or better still, leave.

But there was no chance of that. Stan took one of the seats at the Formica table and banged his gavel so loud it made Christina jump.

Lois pushed her down into a metal chair in the first row and lowered herself into the seat next to it.

A man she didn’t know raced over and pressed a cup of black coffee into Christina’s hands. “Welcome, Christina,” he whispered, smiling. “You’re in the right place.”

Stunned, Christina took the cup.

How come everyone knew her name? And what was it with these people and coffee?

She couldn’t stop shaking.

Next to her, Lois smiled and patted Christina’s leg. “You’re okay,” she whispered. “Just ride it out.”

Christina didn’t know what the old lady was talking about, so she kept her eyes straight ahead, to where Stan banged his gavel again. “Welcome to the Amagansett open meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous,” he hollered, smiling directly at Christina. “If you don’t want to drink today, you’re in the right place.”

The meeting had begun.

“First of all, I want you to know my brother was afraid of the water. He almost drowned once when we were young. He never would have gone into his pool for a swim at night.” Pamela Cardiff Lofting, a miniature feminized version of her old man, placed one dainty hand on Frank McManus’s desk for emphasis. “Never.”

There were so many jewels mounted in platinum on that hand it would take a detective’s salary for an entire year to pay for them, McManus thought. “What are you implying, ma’am? That your brother’s death was not an accident?”

“I’m not implying anything,” she said hastily. “I just want you to be aware of certain things.”

McManus nodded. It was not unusual in the case of a violent, wrongful death for families to go to war. The depressing truth was you could almost count on a divorce within a year, two at most, following any sudden tragic death.

Instinct told him lines were already drawn between the patrician Cardiffs and their nouveau riche daughter-in-law Christina, who as of this time yesterday stood to inherit quite a chunk of the family’s cash.

All it took was one look at the smooth planes of Pamela Cardiff Lofting’s face, harmonious in that way of the überrich, to see which side of the line she straddled.

“Detective McManus, I am here today on behalf of the entire Cardiff family because I want you to be aware of certain things. First, my brother was planning to file for divorce.” She took in a deep breath. “And second, I saw something this morning that I find shocking.” She grabbed another Kleenex from the box on McManus’s desk and swiped at her nose, which was beet red compared with the rest of her tanned face. “Absolutely shocking.”

Except Jason Cardiff’s sister didn’t look shocked, Frank McManus thought. She looked pissed.

“I went over to Jonah’s Path this morning to help his wife, Christina,” and here Pamela Cardiff Lofting interrupted herself and looked at McManus. “You know Christina?”

McManus nodded to indicate he did know Christina. This was going to be worth skipping lunch for.

“Well, I went over there this morning and used my key to go in. My brother, my poor brother”—Pamela Cardiff Lofting dissolved into tears here—“made sure
I had a key even after they got the locks changed.” She swiped her nose again and looked up.

McManus caught a flash of something on her face. Shock, anger, and grief mixed with something else he couldn’t identify right away.

“She didn’t know this, but Jason always made sure I had a key to his house so I could always get in.”

His house. Not “their house,” even after sixteen years of marriage. Yup, something there. A kind of smugness. “So, you had access to the Cardiff residence on Jonah’s Path?” McManus said, to keep things moving.

Pamela Cardiff Lofting nodded, shaking the precisely trimmed ends of her bob. “I let myself in this morning, and Christina was there, with a man.” She shook her head in disbelief, glancing around to see whether anyone else was listening.

The only person within range was Detective Pete Cardillo, who was intent on peeling back a layer of cellophane from the top of an Indian entrée he had just removed from the microwave, a task McManus knew would require all of Cardillo’s dubious powers of concentration and furthermore would presently fill the office with the stench of curry.

As if on cue, Cardillo uttered a four-letter word and began waving his hand through the air like he did every day at this time.

Pamela Cardiff Lofting, apparently reassured that Cardillo was not eavesdropping, leaned in closer. “She’d obviously spent the night with this man”—Pamela’s voice trailed off again—“right after my poor brother…” Jason Cardiff’s sister dissolved into tears once more. “He didn’t deserve that, he never should have married her. She married up when she married my brother.”

McManus glanced surreptitiously at his watch.

“A lot of people might have things to say about my poor brother, Jason, but he was a good person,” Pamela Cardiff Lofting said through her tears. “In his own way,” she added after a tiny hesitation. “He was good to his staff. He was helping support one of the maids, who has a son with special needs. He told me so himself.” She closed her eyes and swiped at them again. “Not that that wife of his would appreciate it. But he was a good person, and he didn’t deserve what he got.”

Pamela Cardiff Lofting’s eyes blazed. “When I walked into that house this morning, and I saw that man half-naked.” She frowned, squeezing her eyes shut like she really was in pain. “Disgraceful.”

She was pissed.

McManus cleared his throat. “Any idea who this guy is?”

Pamela Cardiff Lofting’s eyes sprang open once more. “Oh, yes,” she said firmly. “It was the painter who worked on their pool house. That’s unbelievable, don’t you think?”

McManus decided to treat that like a rhetorical question. “Do you know his name?”

She nodded. “Dan Cunningham.”

“Road trip.”

A short while later, Detective Ben Jackson stood in front of McManus’s desk and drained what was left of his Subway soda. “Let me guess? Back to Jonah’s Path?”

Detective Frank McManus nodded, eyeing the chocolate chip cookie his partner was finishing. “Let’s hit a drive-through on the way.”

Jackson tsk-tsked. “You shoulda come to Subway when I asked.”

McManus’s stomach was rumbling like the percussion section of a high-school band. “I had a visitor.”

Jackson’s eyebrow rose.

“Jason Cardiff’s sister.”

“And? How are things with the in-laws?”

“Like the Hatfields and the McCoys. Let’s just say the good widow Cardiff is bouncing back pretty quick, based on what the sister-in-law saw this morning.

Jackson dropped his jaw in mock horror. “You don’t say.”

“Sad but true.” McManus suppressed a shudder. His own marriage had ended shortly after just such an incident.

Jackson grinned. “You’re killing me, dawg.”

They riffed like this all day long. It helped them parse a situation. Separate fact from fiction. See where the bullshit lay.

Because the basic fact of every cop’s life was that everybody lied to you, all the time.

They saved the biggest, most whopping lies of all for members of the homicide squad.

They needed to. A lot was at stake. New York had been flirting with the death penalty since 1890, when it became the first state to use the electric chair. The Empire State had no death penalty currently, but McManus had toured the maximum-security Clinton State Prison for men at Dannemora.

Given a choice between life in Dannemora and a needle in his arm, Frank McManus would opt for the needle.

Jackson was already heading for the car.

McManus fell into step behind him. “Jonah’s Path, here we come.”

“‘Last night, I dreamt I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive…’”

McManus smiled. See, that was the thing. Just when you thought everybody under forty was a waste of time, along came a guy like Ben Jackson, who had not only read the classics but knew most of the lyrics to Black Sabbath’s “Paranoid.”

It was forty-four miles from Yaphank to East Hampton. They made decent time. Frank’s breath caught in his throat the way it always did when they emerged from the tree-lined portion of Dunemere onto the rolling open plain that was home to the Maidstone Club. The ground here pressed right up against sky, edged by a wilderness of dunes and ocean, a reminder even on an overcast day like this one that it was still God’s country.

They followed Dunemere for a short distance before making the right onto Jonah’s Path. The lane was short and narrow, with privet hedges that were eighteen feet tall on both sides. It was like barreling down a green tunnel that dead-ended at the ocean.

The Cardiff gate looked the worse for wear since yesterday.

Señora Rosa’s accent sounded thicker on the intercom than it had in person. “Meessus Cardiff ees no here now.”

A happy smile lit Ben Jackson’s face. “That’s okay, ma’am. We’re here to speak with you.”

The voice on the other end grew fainter. “Bye, bye.”

The intercom went dead.

McManus chuckled.

Jackson buzzed again.

No reply.

Jackson buzzed again.

No reply.

Jackson held the buzzer down for a long time.

“¿Sí?”
Señora Rosa’s voice held a note of exasperation now.

Jackson let his voice run cold. “Suffolk County Police Department, ma’am.” He flashed his badge at the electronic eye. “We need to speak with you about Jason Cardiff.”

“You come back.” The intercom clicked off abruptly once more, which pissed Ben Jackson off.

McManus laughed hard enough to blow the dregs of his Big Gulp into his nose. Whatever Jason Cardiff’s character flaws had been, underpaying his staff had not been one of them.

Jackson threw the Crown Vic into park, got out and leaned on the buzzer a good long time. He drew up to his full height, which was substantial. “You need to open the gate, ma’am,” he said, scowling into the electronic eye. “Right now.”

There was no reply, but the gate swung open at a tilted angle.

Jackson drove through. “This’ll be good.”

The landscapers kept their heads down except for one, who stopped work and walked over when they parked and got out.

McManus had a hunch who it was before even before he opened his mouth.

Roberto Torres of Costa Rica, lately of Shirley, a hardscrabble town on eastern Long Island, had powerful ropy arms and wary brown eyes that flickered
at something over Frank’s shoulder while he gave his statement.

McManus caught movement at the windows out of the corner of his eye.

They checked IDs and headed inside, where the reception from the housekeepers was just as lukewarm.

“So sad,” Señora Rosa said, more than once, “so very sad.”

McManus didn’t doubt the sincerity of the woman’s sentiment. She had calmed down a lot since the day before. A dry uniform helped, as did the fact that the man of the house was no longer floating facedown in the swimming pool. But she was pretty broken up about it, you could tell by the way she kept glancing through the French doors to the pool.

“Please sit,” she said with a sweeping gesture that took in most of the sprawling room that looked straight from the pages of a spread in
Architectural Digest.

They waved off her offer of drinks and seated themselves at two of the twelve chairs around an enormous glass-topped dining-room table.

The table was spotless like the rest of the room. The place had been put to rights since yesterday, swept clean since McManus and Jackson had first visited approximately twenty-seven hours ago.