and I were rotting on the sun porch, him gnawing on a dinosaur bone, and me admiring the way the moon sketched flickering white lines across the blackness of the Little Peconic Bay. In other words, the two of us were thoroughly engaged in our favorite pastimes.
So it was a little annoying to see Jackie’s name pop up on the cell phone’s little screen.
“What.”
“What’s wrong with hello? Or, wow, Jackie! It’s so great to hear from you!”
“I guess if it was.”
“You love hearing from me,” she said.
“Not at eleven o’clock at night, when most responsible people are either drunk or trying to get there.”
“I read through all the files from Dame Edith and the White Witch. Do you want to hear what I found out?”
“You don’t fancy Oksana? She seems kind of cuddly to me.”
“If you like cuddling scorpions. Do you want to know what I learned or not?”
“I do.”
I could hear wine pouring over the sound of her perennial sighs.
“Okay, Joey Wentworth. Son of Manhattan rich people, high school dropout after eleventh grade (idiot), skinny, pimples, white skin, heroin habit (even bigger idiot), dishwasher at Jacques and Valencia’s for two years.”
According to Jackie, he was slowly getting turned by the Southampton cops, specifically by the other Town detective, Lionel Veckstrom, whom Jackie and I generally referred to as “Prick Cop.”
Few appreciate that the East End of Suffolk County, the farther reaches of which encompass the Hamptons, is essentially an island. A big swath of pine barren separates the East End from the rest of Long Island, and the Shinnecock Canal assures that the only way in or out is over a pair of bridges, unless you want to flee by way of the ferries to the North Fork, which run at the speed of number ten motor oil.
This was a big advantage for law enforcement, one Joey Wentworth recognized. And as a dedicated entrepreneur, figured out a work-around.
Speedboats.
“Joey had a twin engine picnic boat he could run to Bridgeport in just a few hours,” said Jackie. “Stock up on the bad stuff and be back at Hawk Pond before nightfall.”
“Nice gig.”
“Until someone emptied a twelve-gauge into the cab of his SUV. Needed DNA to confirm his identity.”
I knew Joey. Friendly, but twitchy guy. Docked his powerboat about five slips down from mine. Now I knew why I could hear the rumble of the big diesels five boats away and what was in the giant duffel bags tossed into his Range Rover, and why I hadn’t seen him around for a while.
Next snitch up was Lilly Fremouth. Black father, white mother. Waitressed at a diner up on Old County Road. Had an infant daughter and a pimp, who also happened to be the daughter’s father. Instrumental in busting a brothel and drug-retailing operation in Flanders, an impoverished backwater just south of Riverhead.
She was found strangled in her living room by her mother when she showed up to babysit for the grandkid.
“Ross has suspended all interaction with confidential informants while these killings are investigated,” said Jackie. “Trouble is, snitches grease the gears of investigations. So effectively, the detective squad is half shut down.”
“Might explain him letting us meddle in the Alfie thing,” I said.
“Might.”
“Is there a common thread?”
“Not that I can see. No evidence they knew each other. Joey was Veckstrom’s, Lilly and Alfie were run by Joe Sullivan. Any thoughts on how we deal with that?” she asked.
That was the Big Thing. What to do about Joe Sullivan. A good, true, and loyal friend, when we weren’t battling over alleged obstruction of justice or interference in police investigations. We’d all saved each other’s lives and been through a load of crap together over a lot of years, so it didn’t seem possible to hide this from him; the district attorney and her pretty pale assistant be damned.
“We tell him,” I said.
“Of course we do,” she said. “I just want to know
So it was a little annoying to see Jackie’s name pop up on the cell phone’s little screen.
“What.”
“What’s wrong with hello? Or, wow, Jackie! It’s so great to hear from you!”
“I guess if it was.”
“You love hearing from me,” she said.
“Not at eleven o’clock at night, when most responsible people are either drunk or trying to get there.”
“I read through all the files from Dame Edith and the White Witch. Do you want to hear what I found out?”
“You don’t fancy Oksana? She seems kind of cuddly to me.”
“If you like cuddling scorpions. Do you want to know what I learned or not?”
“I do.”
I could hear wine pouring over the sound of her perennial sighs.
“Okay, Joey Wentworth. Son of Manhattan rich people, high school dropout after eleventh grade (idiot), skinny, pimples, white skin, heroin habit (even bigger idiot), dishwasher at Jacques and Valencia’s for two years.”
According to Jackie, he was slowly getting turned by the Southampton cops, specifically by the other Town detective, Lionel Veckstrom, whom Jackie and I generally referred to as “Prick Cop.”
Few appreciate that the East End of Suffolk County, the farther reaches of which encompass the Hamptons, is essentially an island. A big swath of pine barren separates the East End from the rest of Long Island, and the Shinnecock Canal assures that the only way in or out is over a pair of bridges, unless you want to flee by way of the ferries to the North Fork, which run at the speed of number ten motor oil.
This was a big advantage for law enforcement, one Joey Wentworth recognized. And as a dedicated entrepreneur, figured out a work-around.
Speedboats.
“Joey had a twin engine picnic boat he could run to Bridgeport in just a few hours,” said Jackie. “Stock up on the bad stuff and be back at Hawk Pond before nightfall.”
“Nice gig.”
“Until someone emptied a twelve-gauge into the cab of his SUV. Needed DNA to confirm his identity.”
I knew Joey. Friendly, but twitchy guy. Docked his powerboat about five slips down from mine. Now I knew why I could hear the rumble of the big diesels five boats away and what was in the giant duffel bags tossed into his Range Rover, and why I hadn’t seen him around for a while.
Next snitch up was Lilly Fremouth. Black father, white mother. Waitressed at a diner up on Old County Road. Had an infant daughter and a pimp, who also happened to be the daughter’s father. Instrumental in busting a brothel and drug-retailing operation in Flanders, an impoverished backwater just south of Riverhead.
She was found strangled in her living room by her mother when she showed up to babysit for the grandkid.
“Ross has suspended all interaction with confidential informants while these killings are investigated,” said Jackie. “Trouble is, snitches grease the gears of investigations. So effectively, the detective squad is half shut down.”
“Might explain him letting us meddle in the Alfie thing,” I said.
“Might.”
“Is there a common thread?”
“Not that I can see. No evidence they knew each other. Joey was Veckstrom’s, Lilly and Alfie were run by Joe Sullivan. Any thoughts on how we deal with that?” she asked.
That was the Big Thing. What to do about Joe Sullivan. A good, true, and loyal friend, when we weren’t battling over alleged obstruction of justice or interference in police investigations. We’d all saved each other’s lives and been through a load of crap together over a lot of years, so it didn’t seem possible to hide this from him; the district attorney and her pretty pale assistant be damned.
“We tell him,” I said.
“Of course we do,” she said. “I just want to know
Similar Books
