Linda Fairstein - Likely To Die

Mike joined me. “Sleepy?”

“I was an hour ago but I’m really wired now.”

“Anything in particular?”

“The case, I guess. Odd to be in the middle of all this elegance, all this irrelevant excess from another age, while somebody else is working our murder case. I don’t mind that they are, I just wonder what they’re up to. You think it’s DuPre?”

“You know me. I think it’s everybody until we prove it’s somebody.”

Now it was a man’s voice singing to me from inside the great house. In between Mike’s comments I could make out phrases. “When the day-” Then Chapman spoke to me over the sound of the singer. “-and night has come-” And, in fact, the moon was the only thing I could see.

“Dance with me?” I asked. I was gliding to the music by myself across the uneven foundation of the ancient structure, imagining that all sorts of titled men and women had waltzed over the same terrace for centuries.

I was singing along with Ben E. King now, hoping my partner would stand by me. Chapman was staring at me, cigar in hand and unable to repress his grin at the sight of my intoxicated, finger-snapping dance steps.

I said it again, a bit less tentatively this time. “Dance with me, please.” He still seemed to hesitate. “I’m only asking you to dance, I’m not-”

“All right, all right.”

He put down his cigar, placed his glass next to mine, and picked up the beat as we swayed to King’s tender voice.

“So who am I dancing with tonight, a Wili or a duchess?”

I didn’t get it. “What?”

“Are you planning to dance me to death, like the Queen of the Wilis, or does ‘blue collar’ just look more appealing to you this evening because Lady Turnbull got such a kick out of it?”

“That’s not fair. I-”

“Shhhh.” He let go with his left hand and put it up to his lips. “No talking. I’m trying to figure out a way to get one of those tiaras for you. If her boyfriend had left her with me for just another hour, I could have talked that one off her head and given it to you. You know how good you’d look in front of a jury trying a case with a tiara on? You couldn’t lose.”

The disc had switched once more and Smokey had speeded up the pace by telling us that he was going to a go-go. Mike danced himself over to the edge of the balcony and picked up his cigar. I was swaying alone and watching my skirt twirl, backing up the Miracles with some harmony, and trailing after Chapman to find my glass of port and refill it.

“I’m pulling the plug, Blondie. Bar’s closed.”

“I just want to fin-”

“C’mon upstairs. Tomorrow’s a long day and we got a lot to catch up on when we get back.” He had me by the elbow and was steering me through the library doors and across the Great Hall.

“You didn’t cut Jennifer off last night, did you?”

“She holds it a lot better than you do, kid. Stairs or elevator?”

I looked up at the three-tiered flight of stairs when we reached its bottom and the steps appeared to be rolling like an escalator. “The lift will do just fine, thank you.”

It lurched its way to our floor and Mike again reminded me to lower my voice as we passed the row of suites that led to ours. He turned the knob and opened the door and I followed him inside. He gave me the shirt he had worn earlier in the day and grabbed the robe that I had left on the end of my bed. “Go into the bathroom, brush your teeth, take a couple of aspirin, and get yourself ready to go to sleep.”

When I came out five minutes later, he handed me a slip of paper with my name on it that had been folded and pushed under the door of the suite while we were at dinner.

I opened the note, glanced at it, then looked up at Mike to see if I could tell from his expression whether or not he had read it. “Mr. Renaud phoned. Please call him at whatever hour you get in tonight.” Joan must have egged him on and explained my relationship with Mike.

“Want me to leave the room?”

I shook my head. “It’ll wait ‘til I get home.” I was crashing rapidly.

“Go on, Blondie. Get into bed.”

The housekeeper had turned down the blankets. I unwrapped the little chocolate mint on my pillow, put it in my mouth, and slid down between the covers. I reached up to turn out the light as Mike came over and kissed the crown of my head.

“You’re a lousy drunk, Coop. Harmless but lousy.”

I must have fallen asleep immediately because I didn’t remember anything else until the front desk rang for our eight o’clock wake-up call. I could hear a noise coming from the floor at the foot of Mike’s bed. I sat up and looked, but the only thing there was the pair of pants to his suit, wriggling and buzzing as if a giant bumblebee was trapped in its pocket and trying to escape. “Good morning. At the risk of being told it’s none of my business, may I ask you what you’ve got in your pants?”

“Whaddya mean?” He didn’t look much better than I felt as he rolled over to face me.

“Something’s jumping around in your trousers.” I pointed at the moving pile on the floor.

“That’s my Skypager,” he laughed. “I had it in my pocket last night. But it’s set on the vibrating mode so it wouldn’t beep in the middle of dinner and make any noise. That’s why it’s so frisky.”

Mike got out of bed, picked up the writhing pants, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the little machine. “It’s John Creavey’s number.” He called the desk and asked them to dial it for him.

A short conversation with the commander and then he turned back to me. “Mercer called Creavey ‘cause the Skypager doesn’t work this far away and the reception desk here wouldn’t put his call through during the night.

“John DuPre is on the run. Skipped town some time within the last twenty-four hours. Mercer seized some stuff from his office and they’ve got his house staked out, too. But the wife is hysterical. Claims she’s left there on her own with two kids and no idea where her husband is. Let’s get packing. Mercer’ll tell us the rest of the story when he picks us up at the airport.”

“Well, is the guy a neurologist or not?”

“Are you kidding? Mercer doesn’t even know his real name. He’s not John DuPre, he’s not a doctor, and it seems he never went to medical school. He’s a con artist and a scammer. And when they figure outwho he is, maybe we’ll figure out how to find him.”

IT WAS ALMOST FIVE O’CLOCK WHEN THE announcement came that our flight was ready to depart after hours of delay caused by a mechanical problem. We were both bored and squirming as we were marched onto the plane with three hundred other disgruntled travelers and found our way to our seats two-thirds of the way to the back of the coach section. Our upgrade didn’t work on this side of the pond.

Once airborne, the trip was unremarkable. We ate and read and watched Mel Gibson shoot up half the population of Los Angeles in the fifth sequel to whatever action series was on the screen. I finally came to life about twenty minutes east of JFK as we descended to twelve thousand feet and I could point out to Chapman a crystal clear view of Martha’s Vineyard off the right wingtip of the plane. We were flying just to the south of the island and from the air the bareness of the trees in the early spring made it possible to pick out the distinct towns and bodies of water as well as some of the actual farms and houses that I knew so well.

Mike leaned across me and looked down through the window. “Can you see the Bite? I’m ready for a second portion of those incredible fried clams.”

I tried to point out where Menemsha was, orienting him by the large red-and-black roof of the Coast Guard building.