Vanished in the Dunes

Vanished in the Dunes

A Hamptons Mystery

Allan Retzky

Copyright © 2012 by Allan Retzky

FIRST EDITION

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-60809-053-2

Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing,
Longboat Key, Florida
www.oceanviewpub.com

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For Susan

When an international commodity trader transitions to fiction writing, there are many to thank for their support and input. I gratefully salute those whose assistance made this work possible.

A toe in the water at The Writers Studio in Manhattan afforded me some initial confidence, thanks to the tolerance and skills of Lesley Dorman and Cynthia Weiner.

The Southampton College Graduate Writing Program, under the remarkable leadership of Robert Reeves, provided the groundwork for my writing. The extraordinary faculty was always there to teach and encourage. My work benefited in particular from the intellectual and teaching skills of Clark Blaise, Ursula Hegi, Kaylie Jones, Matt Klam, Bharti Mukherjee, and Lou Ann Walker.

This novel had its own specific need for expertise. Detective Peter Schmidt of the East Hampton Police Department professionally described local law enforcement activities; I apologize if my liberal use of literary license transformed the department's procedures into something less recognizable. Dr. Robert Sussman led me through the scope of mental illnesses and the range of effects from various medications. Any errors of fact are completely my own.

My agent, Ellen Levine of Trident Media, never lost faith in the novel and her constructive suggestions reshaped the story's focus and propelled it forward. And special thanks to the editorial skills of Dr. Patricia Gussin of Oceanview Publishing who believed in the
book from the onset. My thanks to the Oceanview team, Bob Gussin, Frank Troncale, David Ivester, Susan Hayes, and George Foster.

Thanks also to an array of colleagues and friends who were unstinting in their reinforcement of my efforts. You all showed remarkable patience.

My final appreciation goes to the most important requisite element, my primary support group—my family. Andrea Retzky, and Deborah, Bob, Anna, and Daniel Shaul offered constructive criticism and relentless encouragement. Most of all, my wife and best friend, Susan, supported my efforts from the very beginning, always willing to read, take a breath, and then reread some more. None of this would have happened without her.

Amagansett, New York
January 2012

Vanished in the Dunes

Posner first sees the woman in profile as she moves past him at the bus stop. There is a flash of a pink-and-white dress, smooth tanned arms, and black hair cut short with a tight curl that kisses her ears. He doesn't know why he looks up at that moment. Perhaps it is just habit, seeing if the bus has turned the corner, or possibly it's the flicker of her dress's pink that seizes the edge of his eye, but as soon as she passes, he returns to his newspaper.

He's waiting for the Hampton Jitney to take him to Amagansett on the East End of Long Island. But for Amos Posner, the summer season, which officially begins in four weeks with the Memorial Day weekend, brings too many people, too much noise, an excess of money and boasts, all of which he has been trying to avoid for the last two years.

He waits in front of a Victoria's Secret window on 86th Street. The bus is due at 8:30 a.m., but it is already a few minutes late. He folds the
New York Times
in half and slides it into the backpack between his legs. A few years ago he carried a wide expandable leather briefcase, but circumstances have drastically changed his life, and he finds the backpack roomier and more convenient. The air is cool and spasms of wind appear and vanish with indecisive regularity. The beach will be much cooler than the city. He knows this from years of irregular residence in Amagansett.

The woman stops a few yards away and again draws the corner of his vision as she looks up at the Jitney sign. She has no suitcase, but
carries a large straw bag. She speaks to a man standing nearby, who, pointing to the bus sign, seems to confirm that she is standing in the right place. Posner briefly studies her face, olive complexioned like his own, a nose with a small bump in its center, a full-lipped mouth. Silver hoop earrings contrast with her dark skin. The dress fits a bit too tightly around her body and the skirt seems shorter than is stylish. She has nothing of his wife Sara's classic good looks or elegance, yet the woman emits an effortless erotic aura.

The bus pulls to a stop at the curb just as Posner moves to the spot where he knows the door will open. A solitary newspaper page races determinedly through the morning air just past where he stands, as if it, too, wishes to board and escape the city. The paper plunges to a stop as it clings to a post that carries a parking sign, before it gently slides down to the sidewalk. That's as far as you'll go today, Posner muses as he turns toward the just-opened door.

The woman is presumably somewhere behind him now, waiting with the few who will board at this first pickup spot. Posner knows the driver and attendant—regulars on this run, as is he. Nevertheless, he calls out, “Amagansett,” and moves up the stairs. He finds an aisle seat a bit more than halfway down and drops his backpack on the adjoining window seat. He removes his newspaper from the backpack, leans into the seat, and stifles a yawn.

Pulling out the Wednesday sports section, he begins to scan the headlines just as a flicker of pink and white passes and moves farther toward the rear. He briefly follows the movement until she passes, then contemplates her circumstances, as if it were a kind of challenge, like the old television show,
What's My Line?
where a celebrity panel must ponder the occupation of a mystery guest. Posner guesses that her occupation is that of a housekeeper or nanny, and that she has been in the city for a night to visit family or friends. Her features and coloring lead him to believe she has probably emigrated from some place far more exotic than the Hamptons. Satisfied that he has solved
the origin and occupation options of the young woman, he looks in earnest at the review of a Yankee victory the previous night.

The bus picks up more passengers on 59th Street, but the majority of commuters will enter on 40th Street. That's where he drops the paper in his lap and looks up to see if he will need to relinquish the seat where his backpack rests. He studies the passengers. At this early hour, the young males usually opt for the very rear, where they are likely to find a double seat to spread their bodies out and sleep. The occasional men in suits are likely day-trippers who have some business meeting worthy of the more than four-hour, two-way commute. They congregate toward the front, folding their jackets neatly and resting them in the overhead bin, as if they were fragile antiques. Young women often seek each other out, grasping cups of coffee from the store at the bus stop.

In a few minutes Posner is satisfied that the seat next to him will remain empty. He scans the business section. Just as the bus enters the Midtown Tunnel, he is drawn to an article under the fold. The headline shouts the news of the indictment of a financial executive for bribing foreign officials. He feels a chill dance across his back and his pulse rate elevates. He has felt this way before, but not in a few years. He believed all of this was behind him. He forces himself to read through the article. He does not know the man, but the transaction description is all too familiar.

For two years he has waited for a call from the Justice Department. In his address book he keeps the name and number of a lawyer, a specialist in challenging government accusations of misconduct in such matters. He waits in limbo for a call that may never come while the statute of limitations runs toward expiration.

He knows the Justice Department is still involved and has not yet decided to dismiss the case. The authorities have in recent years showed a particular interest in transactions that involve excessive payments to foreign agents to secure overseas business in a country
where honest auctions are unknown. If he had worked for a public company, the Securities and Exchange Commission might also have tracked the matter, but his past employer was a private, family-owned business, so there is no question of securities fraud, but this is small consolation. He has lived with this issue without comfort. The smallest thing can set him off into an orbit of worry that might take days to ease. His mind tells him that he is innocent, at most a dupe of more senior people's ambitions, but he sees no easy resolution.

He folds the business section and stuffs it in the mesh pocket of the seat in front, as if this gesture will make the story disappear. He takes deep breaths and turns toward the window. The face in the return image has been called nice looking. When they were first married, Sara even teasingly described his looks as a small step below really handsome, but he was never comfortable with that assessment. He is a bit less than six feet with all his dark hair still in place. His eyes are brown, yet there is weariness in his reflection he can't hide from himself or others.

They leave the tunnel and are on the expressway. An attendant offers muffins and juice, but he waves her off. His stomach has a hollow void that food will not fill. He stares out the window until his eyes flutter closed.

His nap is short lived as the attendant provides the ritual announcement regarding fares. Posner slips his discount coupon from his wallet and wedges it into the back of the broken tray table. He has already printed his name and destination, so the attendant will not bother him with personal details for the computer database, but the interruption has voided any further possibility of sleep. He pulls his wrist up and checks the time. Traffic must be light. They are already past the Great Neck exit. Less than two hours to go.

A cluster of dark clouds moving east parallels the bus. He cannot shake this new angst. Two years have passed since his last attack of fear, but nothing has been resolved: not today's paper's veiled dark
portent about the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act, nor how he might be personally involved. He has been forced to resign, but the owners attempted to make it appear as amicable as possible. His severance was generous, yet there was an agreement provision that the same severance would be forfeited to the extent of full recapture if he provided any evidence of past irregularities to authorities. The agreement is probably unenforceable, according to Sara, a lawyer, as well as the special attorney he consulted, but he still signed it. He is now basically unemployable at fifty-five. At least he has the house near the beach he tells himself, the mortgage all paid off, and the isolation from commercial matters, a small consolation.

Sara continues to work in mergers for a medium-sized law firm where she recently became a partner. That's why they keep the one-bedroom apartment on East 90th Street. She left a note on the kitchen table this morning saying she may arrive at the beach late in the evening since she is driving to a meeting on the East End of Long Island. She asked if he could pick her up at the entrance to the East Hampton Airport terminal around nine after she drops off the rental car. Her plan to come out to the beach is a welcome idea, but he's not sure if she'll actually show up since they've barely spoken over the past several weeks.