The Perfect Summer (Hubbard's Point) (8 page)

She was very cool right now, staring at Joe. In spite of the air-conditioning, a trickle of sweat ran down between his shoulder blades. He found himself wondering whether she could be “the girl.”

The police had found a folder full of bank statements and account ledgers on Sean's boat. Joe had analyzed them, realized that they represented many of the people Sean had stolen from. What confused him was the way Sean had written “the girl” over and over—Joe had examined many criminals' doodles, and he could generally make sense of the emotions inside at the time of the drawings.

He had seen the way a check forger had written “Paris,” and the way a murderer had doodled “Mary Ann,” and the way a smuggler had written “South Beach” with a certain lightness, with the criminal's dreams present in the word. Not “the girl.” Joe had noticed the thick black letters, the heavily scored border: as if the real girl, whoever she might be, had been weighing on Sean's mind.

“Did Sean ever talk to you about his work, about the bank?”

“Naturally,” she said. “We're colleagues.”

“Did he ever hint at what he was doing about the embezzlement?”

“Of course not,” she said. “I had no idea . . . I find it hard to believe now. His clients loved him. And he talked about them as if he cared. He cared about everyone.”

Joe nodded. That wasn't inconsistent with other white-collar criminals; they were so invested in lying to everyone, they also lied to themselves.

“Can you tell me who he seemed closest to? Here at the bank?”

“Frank Allingham. And I've seen him having drinks with the bank's attorney, Ralph Benjamin.”

“What about Mark Boland? Did they ever get past their feud?”

“No. In fact, Mark was the one who told me to file that criminal report. I thought he should do it himself—at first I'd hoped he could handle it in-house . . .”

“But of course that would be against regulations,” Joe said slowly. “Once you'd blown the whistle, Mark was required by law to call the FBI.”

“What would we do without banking regulations?” Fiona asked, shaking her head. “Sean might not have gotten hurt.”

“Excuse me?”

“Banged his head, I mean,” she said. “Whatever happened on that boat.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he went so crazy after he was passed over for Mark's job. If only he could have had more time, to pull himself together. He must have gotten wind of the investigation, gotten scared. I think he'd started drinking a little—maybe even doing some drugs.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Sean likes to party,” Fiona said. “Surely I'm not the first one to tell you this.”

“No,” Joe said. “You're not. I'm getting the feeling he was pretty wild. Was there anyone in particular you can think of that he called ‘the girl'?”

Fiona frowned and seemed at a loss.

Just then Mark Boland stuck his head into the office. He looked uptight and harried, but he threw Joe a wide smile. “How's it going, Agent Holmes?” he asked, shaking his hand. “Is there anything I can add to whatever Fiona's helping you with?”

“He was just asking who Sean called ‘the girl'.”

“He calls his daughters ‘the girls,' I think. Sometimes he includes Bay in that. As in ‘The girls and Billy are waiting for me at home,' ” Boland said. “Do you have a wife, Mr. Holmes?”

“No, I don't.”

“Well, my wife might kill me for saying it, but there's no time limit on calling your wife a girl. Maybe Sean meant Bay. On the other hand, with Sean it could just as easily mean a whole different thing.”

“I'm getting the picture,” Joe said.

“Well, I'll leave Fiona to answer the rest of your questions. I have a conference call with the IRS and our lawyer right now. Excuse me.”

Joe thanked him, then turned back to Fiona Mills. She had given him plenty of her time, and it was time for him to get going. “Is there anything else you'd like to add?” he asked.

Fiona shrugged. “Sometimes I think Sean was just completely bowled over by all the money he oversaw.”

Joe watched as she clasped her hands, touched the edge of her desk thoughtfully. “Sean's from a working-class family. We're not very close, but we did—take a few business trips together. We'd talk on the way, or having drinks at the hotel. I take it that they never had much money—Oh, they were comfortable in a middle-class way. But real money—that came much later, after Sean became a banker. He felt left out of so many things growing up.”

“Like what?”

“Well, like the country club. He caddied for the members. And the yacht club; he worked as a deckhand for people like my father and uncles, who owned their own yachts. I think I represent something to him, that he's wanted all his life: to belong.”

“Belong to what?” Joe asked. Didn't he belong to a great family—Bay, the kids?

“You know, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “You're just being obtuse. I mean belong to ‘the club.' To be in instead of out. To have doors open for you. Some of us grew up taking that for granted. Sean didn't.”

“I see, Ms. Mills. Thank you very much for your time.” As he stood to leave, he noticed a glass case filled with trophies—for horse shows, regattas, tennis matches. “Are those yours?”

“Yes,” she said. “My father rather values athleticism.”

“The competitive spirit is alive and well here at Shoreline Bank,” he said, noticing an empty spot on a middle shelf, with dust around the shiny circle of a round base. “What was there?”

“Odd you should ask,” she said, her eyes clouding over. “I'm missing a silver bowl. Nothing terribly important—something I won for a jumping event several years ago.”

Joe nodded, thanking Fiona for her time. Passing from her office through the bank, he was aware of all the bank personnel discretely watching him.

Everyone except Mark Boland. He was on the phone, back to the door, jabbing the air with his finger. Seemed like a pretty competitive guy himself, Joe thought, walking to his car.

AFTER WATCHING JOE HOLMES DRIVE AWAY, TARA GAVE BAY
half an hour alone, while she and Annie picked a huge bouquet. Then they waded across the creek and cut through the backyard. The news vultures called from the driveway, and Annie's shoulders went up to her ears. When they were safely inside, Tara instructed her goddaughter to arrange the tangled flowers in a tall vase, and she climbed the stairs and found Bay curled up on her bed.

“It's too nice a day out for you to be in here,” Tara said. “In spite of all the idiots parked in front of your house.”

Bay's face stayed in the pillow.

Tara sat down on the edge of the bed, put her hand on Bay's shoulder. It felt far too thin, almost frail, as if this ordeal was literally taking everything out of her.

“Bay? I saw Joe Holmes over here.”

No words, just quiet crying.

“Bay?”

“It's awful, Tara,” Bay said finally. “It's so much worse than we thought. Sean really did it—embezzled money, planned it all out, used his clients. Stole money, parked money—it's bad.”

“He's sure?”

“Yes. He has lots of evidence. He showed me a lot of it. Including our
accounts . . .”

“Bay, no—he didn't take money from you . . .”

Bay nodded, starting to sob. She clutched the pillowcase, and Tara could see that it was already soaking wet with tears. She felt such overwhelming fury at Sean she could barely keep her voice steady.

“How bad is it?”

“I don't know yet, Tara,” Bay said. “I can't even think. It's all just hitting me: He's a criminal. My husband! What kind of an idiot was I to not know? What'll I tell the kids? Every day there's something new and horrible. They're all just hanging on, praying that their father's okay.”

“I know. The whole time Annie was over, she couldn't take her eyes off your house. As though he was going to show up any second.”

“Waiting for him to come home—when he's probably going to jail!”

“No wonder he's hiding somewhere.”

Bay rolled onto her back, looked up at Tara with swollen, red eyes. “What are we going to do?” she asked.

“You're going to stay strong,” Tara said firmly. “We'll get through this together.”

“Thanks for being here,” Bay said. “I don't know what the kids or I would do without you.”

Tara just shook her head—such a thing wasn't even worth saying. Bay had enfolded Tara into her family, into the warmth of her life, just as if she was a sister. The depth of her love was without bounds, and she couldn't bear to hear Bay thank her.

“Just know how wonderful you are,” Tara said, leaning over to hug Bay, to look straight into her eyes. “And how wrong he is.”

The best friends locked gazes, and Bay nodded.

“And go see that boatbuilder,” Tara said.

“That what?”

“Danny Connolly,” Tara said.

“Why?” Bay asked, her eyes clouded with confusion and pain.

Tara swallowed, holding back what she really thought: that maybe the one decent thing Sean had done this whole horrific year was to open this door for Bay. But she didn't say that. Instead, she conjured up Joe Holmes and her grandfather and made herself feel and sound like an investigator on the case.

“Because you're in a mystery right now,” she said steadily, “and Daniel Connolly is one of the clues.”

6

A
S DAYS WENT BY WITHOUT ANY NEW
developments,
the news trucks began to travel to other stories, leaving the McCabes alone. Joe Holmes took note as he drove by, and he was relieved. He also took note of Tara O'Toole sitting on the front steps, reading to the youngest McCabe child, Pegeen. He saw her watch him like a mother eagle, sharp-eyed and ready to use her talons if necessary.

He had checked her grandfather out. Since she'd mentioned the law-enforcement connection, he'd been curious. So he'd looked up all the O'Tooles he could find. The most prominent one in Connecticut had been Seamus O'Toole, Captain of Detectives, in Eastport. The particulars seemed right—his wife was named Eileen, and they had retired to their summerhouse in the Hubbard's Point section of Black Hall.

Captain O'Toole had been known in the department for his tough crackdown on drugs, in the early days of an epidemic that had seen neighborhoods turned into war zones. He had become known for brash raids on dealers in the West End, leading his officers into warehouses filled with drugs just off boats, in Long Island Sound, hidden in trucks speeding up the northeast corridor of I-95.

His record was full of gun battles, important arrests, personal injuries, being shot three times. Medals for valor and bravery, for his prowess as a pistol shot. The file also included the story of how Captain O'Toole had been the first on the scene of a head-on traffic fatality: One of the drivers had been drunk. He had died instantly, as had the woman in the other car. His name was Dermot O'Toole. He was the captain's son.

And Tara's father.

Joe nodded at Tara as he drove by. She nodded gravely back. Two products of law-enforcement families, he thought. She'd probably want nothing to do with another officer—not that he'd ever get the chance to find out. She was too close to this investigation.

Pulling into the parking lot at Shoreline Bank, he shook her from his mind and went inside. He had seen Eduardo Valenti yesterday, a dark-haired college kid spending his summer as a teller. His contact with Sean McCabe had been minimal. He had told Joe about an outing on the
Aldebaran
with a few other people who worked at the bank, and times when McCabe would stop by his desk to ask how things were going. Eduardo hadn't liked Sean.

“I found him to be slick and superficial.”

“That's quite a comment to make about your boss,” Joe said, smiling and amused at the kid's haughtiness.

“My parents raised me to recognize sincerity,” Eduardo said. “I didn't see it in Mr. McCabe.”

Eduardo Valenti came from a very wealthy Castilian family, formal and dignified, and he was always called “Eduardo”—never “Ed.”

Joe didn't see any red flags there. He then asked for Edwin Taylor, and the receptionist told him he'd be back from vacation the next day.

And now she said he was in. Joe said a quick hello to Mark Boland and Frank Allingham, then walked across the lobby and was greeted by a man, about thirty-five, with a high forehead, glasses, and a perplexed expression in his eyes.

“I'm sorry I wasn't in yesterday when you came,” Edwin Taylor said, shaking Joe's hand. “I just got back from Scotland, and I'm in total shock. I can't believe what they're saying about Sean. Is it true?”

“From what we've been able to gather,” Joe said. “Why don't you tell me what you know about Sean and his banking practices?”

Edwin Taylor ran through basically the same story Joe had heard from every other Shoreline employee. Sean was a charming, witty guy with a great work ethic and a need to succeed. He had been upset about Mark Boland's appointment to the presidency; like others, Taylor had thought Sean had had a shot at the position.

“What are you called, Mr. Taylor?” Joe asked. Although he had already asked other employees, he wanted to hear it directly from him.

“Excuse me?”

“Is your nickname Ed?”

“No, ‘Trip,' ” he said. “I'm the third. My dad is called Ed. Why?”

“Does your father live nearby? Does he bank here at Shoreline?”

“Yes, to both,” Trip Taylor said. “He lives in Hawthorne, and yes, he banks here.”

“Is he one of Sean McCabe's clients? Or does he work directly with you?”

“Actually, I asked Sean to take care of him,” Taylor said. “Sean's very good at what he does. He did a great job, getting the private banking division up and running. Besides, my dad's a friend of Augusta Renwick's, one of Shoreline's biggest clients, and she's always singing Sean's praises.”

“I'm going to need to talk to your dad,” Joe said grimly, picturing Sean's strange drawings and doodles, remembering the name Edwin Taylor, Jr., from the account ledger Joe had found on Sean's boat.

ELIZA DAY BOAT BUILDERS WAS LOCATED IN A LARGE SHED
at
the far end of the New London Shipyard. The shipyard did major marine business, including hauling and servicing the ferries that plied Long Island Sound between New London and Orient Point, providing dockage for large yachts and commercial fishing vessels, and serving as home port for the wild-card, dark-horse, and long-shot America's Cup challenger built by Paul James and skippered by Twigg Crawford.

The boatbuilders were a different story. This was a small operation. The shed was large and airy, about the size of a cow barn. With both doors open, the sea wind gusted through, blowing sawdust and feathers all over the place. The feathers were from all the swallows that nested in the rafters. The sawdust was from all the wooden boats built or restored by Dan Connolly, owner. Charlotte Day Connolly had been the backer.

Bent over an old hull, Dan pried back a section of veneer sheathing to see what was underneath. This was a delicate operation, but he had to find out whether the original planks had been planed back enough for the sheathing to lie flush with the ballast.

“Shit,” he said, as the veneer broke off in his hand.

“Nice, Dad,” came a voice from above.

“You really need to get out more,” Dan said.

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“That'd be the general idea.”

“You shouldn't swear at the boats.”

“I wasn't. I was swearing at myself.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Seriously,” Dan said, looking up and over his shoulder to peer into the murky darkness. All he could see were shadows, beams, and two very white legs dangling down. “How did you get here?”

“I flew.”

“That's a bunch of bullshit, and we both know it. How did you get here?”

“I climbed on the back of a sea hawk and said, ‘I'm Eliza Day, take me to my boathouse.' And the sea hawk obliged and just came straight across the harbor . . .”

“You rode in my truck again, didn't you?” Dan asked, straightening up as he smacked his hand down on the now-broken hull. “You hid under the tarp and let me drive you right down the highway; the back gate's been broken all summer, goddamn it, you could have slid straight into traffic, for Christ's—”

“Don't take the name of the Lord in vain,” came the voice, sounding dangerous now.

“And don't tell your father what he can and can't say,” Dan said, voice rising, walking over to the ladder to the loft. “First I can't swear in my own shop, now I can't take the name—”

“Of the Lord in vain,” she said beatifically.

“Get down here right now,” he said, tanned hands on the rough ladder. “Don't make me go up there after you.”

“Or what? Or what? You're going to beat me? Beat your child? Maybe I should just scream for help now. Mr. Crawford will hear me and come rescue me. Maybe they'll take me away from you. You have no idea how to take care of a motherless child.”

“Eliza, shut up.”

“And NOW you tell me to shut up,” she said, her voice rising to a squeak. Were the tears real or fake? Dan had lost the ability to tell. He was at the end of his rope—an excellent cliché, if ever he'd heard one. He thought of boats he'd seen at the end of their ropes—boats in hurricanes, nor'easters, spring tides, ebb tides—violently bucking and straining to break free.

“I didn't mean it,” he said slowly, carefully. “I didn't mean it.”

“Which part? The part where you told me to shut up? Or the part where you threatened to beat me?”

“Eliza, I never did, and you know it. I just meant, don't make me come up there to get you. It's too hot, okay? Take it easy on your old dad. Come on down, and I'll take you to the Dutch for a burger.”

“The Dutch is a bar,” Eliza said.

“True,” Dan said, craving a beer. He never drank during the day when Charlie was alive, and he hardly ever did now, but the desire to check out was strong: He wanted out of the fury and sorrow he almost always felt, and the shame he was trying to bury, and there was nothing like a visit to Dutch's Tavern to help it all along.

“Mom wouldn't want you taking me to a
saloon
.”

“Mom liked Peter and Martha so much, I think she'd let it slide,” Dan said, thinking of the Dutch's owners. The place was a classic New London hole-in-the-wall, hidden on a side street in an old building with a tin ceiling and scarred wooden tables reputed to have once accommodated Eugene O'Neill. “And you like them, too.”

“Yeah,” Eliza had to agree. “I do.”

“So what're you bellyaching for? Come on down and we'll go to lunch.”

Gripping the ladder, he watched a swallow circle the shed twice before flying out the open door. The white legs just dangled, crossed daintily at the ankles.

“Eliza?”

“Will you make me go home after lunch? Because I don't want to.”

Dan exhaled, grimacing so she couldn't see and counting to ten. He knew this was a test. He could lie, and they'd be on their way to lunch. Or he could equivocate, and work out the details later. “We'll see.”

“Forget it,” she said, pulling her legs up into the darkness so he couldn't see them at all. “Here's the deal, Dad. I stay. That's that. That's all there is to it. This is MY business, and don't you forget it.”

“Oh, yeah? This is a boatbuilding business, in case you didn't know. Who's the one who builds the boats around here?”

“Who's the one who's named ‘Eliza Day' after her great-grandmother with all the MONEY?” screeched the voice.

Just then, Dan heard footsteps on the old plank floor. He looked up and saw someone silhouetted in the light of the doorway, framed by the midday summer sun like some otherworldly figure in the opening credits of one of those quack-religious TV shows Eliza watched.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“You've come a long way since the boardwalk,” said a voice that seemed piercingly familiar. “We both have.”

BAY STOOD IN THE DOORWAY, STARING AT DAN CONNOLLY.
She would have known him anywhere. He looked exactly the same as he had twenty-five years ago, but, somehow, very different. He smiled at her, lines around his mouth and eyes scored deep in his tan face. His eyes were blue, the color of his faded jeans, and wary, as if he'd seen too many things he didn't want to see. Lean and strong, he looked like a man who had spent his life building things.

As he came toward her, Bay felt her stomach dip. Their eyes met and held.

“It's really you,” she said, almost unable to believe her eyes.

“Bay?” he asked, taking one hand, then grabbing for the other, and then, because how could a reunion between them be otherwise, pulled her toward him in a hug. She hung on to him, completely lost in the smell of sawdust and machine oil, and then pushed back to look up into his eyes.

“I'd forgotten how tall you were,” she said.

“Why would you remember?” he asked, laughing.

She smiled. If he only knew how she had adored him, how she had reflexively compared all others, Sean included, to him for years.

“The last time I saw you,” he said, “you were fifteen years old.”

“About to turn sixteen,” she said.

“Galway,” he said, using her old nickname.

“Galway Bay . . .” She laughed, remembering.

“How have you been, Bay? How has life treated you?”

She smiled, but her face felt frozen, her insides locked up. “I've had a wonderful life,” she said. Would he notice the past tense?

“Good. I'm glad,” he said.

“How about you, Dan?”

His smile washed away; his face tightened, especially around the eyes. She waited, wondering what would come next. Suddenly he looked like she felt: shell-shocked by life. A week ago, Bay wouldn't have been able to see it, to recognize someone suffering like this. But now she could.

“My life's been . . .” he began.

Just then something came flying down from up above. Shielding her head, Bay ducked and tried to see. Light coming in the big open doors couldn't illuminate the vast darkness above the shed's rafters, but Bay thought she saw two beacon-white legs dangling from one of the beams. Another projectile came whizzing past. Bay crouched down and picked it up: a paper airplane.

“Eliza,” Dan said sternly.

“His life's been ruined,” came a voice from above. “By me. That's what he was going to say.”

“No, I wasn't,” Dan said. “Don't put words into my mouth.”

“That's one of the stupidest clichés around,” the voice said. “How can someone put words into someone else's mouth?”