Riptide (4 page)

Jason’s corpse. Jason’s corpse should be ready.

“Good luck to you, ma’am.”

His hand, when she shook it, was surprisingly soft.

Christina followed the detectives through the subterranean hallway that smelled of antiseptic.

They rode the elevator in silence. It was oversized, lined with heavy steel bumpers and had two sets of extrawide doors that opened at either end, a fact Christina had not fully appreciated on the way down.

She checked her watch, a diamond-bezel Rolex tank that had been a gift from Jason on their wedding day.

Quarter past six. Dan Cunningham would be finishing up work if he were on a new job, which he very likely was. By placing the call now, she could reach him on his way home to shower and change before he headed out for the night. It was summertime in the Hamptons. Christina wanted to hear his voice more than anything. She wished she had the nerve to tell the two cops she needed to make a call in private, but she did not.

She had already spoken with her son Tyler today, and they knew that, just as they knew it was the middle of the night now in France. Tyler would be in bed early in preparation for his dawn departure from Marseille up to Paris, where he and his grandparents would board their transatlantic flight to JFK.

“I’m okay, Mom.” Tyler had said those words to her this morning on the phone in a voice that was masculine, foreign.

He was managing her, she realized with a pang. Like Jason does.

Like Jason used to do.

The way her in-laws did, who were there with Tyler right now. While she, his mother, was six thousand miles away in the residence unit of a rehabilitation center for alcoholics.

The modern-day version of a loony bin.

She had failed her son. Again. And now, on the worst day of Tyler’s young life, she was not there for him. Fate dictated that his childhood would come lurching to a halt in the space of a single summer’s day, and he would either get through it or not, with no more help from his
mother than she’d had from hers. Christina’s shoulders folded inward like a bird with broken wings. She had gripped the phone till her hand hurt.

“We’ll be back tomorrow night,” Tyler had said.

Not “I’ll be home,” but “We’ll be back.” He was one of the Cardiffs, and she, Christina, felt like the in-law.

She sensed her son slipping away from her through the long-distance lines.

“Tyler,” she said, unable to control the need in her voice. “Tyler,” she said again, choking on a sob. She was the one who needed comforting, not him.

Her father-in-law had come on the line then. Calm, soft-spoken, as always. In control. Informing her of their travel plans, their estimated time of arrival tomorrow afternoon at JFK. There was, he said, no need for her to worry. They would handle everything. All Christina needed to do was get herself back to the East Coast. Just get her self through this, take it just a little bit at a time. They would handle the rest.

Christina wondered later whether it was coincidence that her father-in-law had used one of AA’s big slogans, perhaps to taunt her.

One day at a time.

They rode east from the morgue in silence. Ben Jackson drove, with Christina next to him in front.

And all the while Christina needed a drink so bad she could practically taste a vodka burn at the back of her throat.

S
omeone had stubbed out a cigarette in one of the potted geraniums.

The sight of it was irritating to Christina. Señora Rosa should have cleaned that up before she left. The patio furniture was askew, left at odd angles. The straw mat outside the back door had been pushed to one side into a bed of impatiens.

Christina frowned.

A tiger lily lay crumpled in the grass, its spine broken. The turf all around a side gate, rarely used, was bent and flat.

Two fresh tracks had been carved down the center, which was now a sea of mud.

Wheel ruts.

Of course, she thought, they would have taken Jason away through the side gate. He had no need of doors or houses anymore.

This realization had the effect of lowering the sky, dark and gloomy today, until it touched the top of her skull, making it impossible to breathe. Christina hunched low on the edge of the striped cushion of her patio chair and gripped the teak trim.

Detective Frank McManus got up from his chair with
its coordinated floral cushions. “Can I get you some water, Mrs. Cardiff?”

The patio set was supposed to evoke the feel of the Tuscan countryside. An oversized amber shade umbrella, not necessary today, had been carelessly left open to gather droplets of mist.

Christina shook her head without looking up.

“Water will help. Even without the sun, it’s still pretty hot out here.” McManus was already heading inside.

She could have directed him to the refrigerated bar, fully stocked, inside the pool house, but that would have required too much effort.

“Just take it easy, ma’am.” Detective Ben Jackson walked around the side of the pool and stood in front of her, big enough to block the sun if there had been sun.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Christina sucked as much of the humid air into her lungs as she could, taking in deep breaths she remembered from her birthing class until the wave of panic had passed. She straightened up. “I’m fine.”

McManus returned with a water bottle. “Drink this, Christina.”

The thought of anything, even water, made her stomach heave. She raised one finger to the bridge of her nose and pushed her sunglasses back into place. She had kept them all day through the plane ride and even now, despite the gloom. “Can we please, you know, just finish with this?”

“No problem, Mrs. Cardiff.” Detective Jackson was sticking to formalities, Christina noticed, unlike his partner, who had begun using her first name. Creepy. Somewhere in the back of her brain she remembered something about Good Cop, Bad Cop.

Detective Jackson walked back to the edge of the pool.

McManus sat once more, watching his partner, but Christina was aware he maintained a good peripheral view of her face.

“When we arrived, the decedent was lying here.” Detective Jackson pointed to the steps in the shallow end of the pool.

Decedent. If that was a real word, Christina hated it already.

“After placing a call to 911 dispatch, your housekeepers managed to move the decedent from the deep end.” He pointed to the area beneath the diving board, where today the water was a malevolent shade of blue.

Christina shivered.

The ocean waves were landing closer than usual today, just out of sight beyond the top of the dunes at the southern edge of the Cardiff property.

The patio was silent as a tomb.

Someone had turned off the pool filter.

“They managed to get it as far as the shallow end,” Jackson continued, “but they were not able to remove the decedent from the water.”

That word again. Meaning Jason. Christina pictured Señora Rosa and Marisol, their gray nylon skirts billowing around them in the water that was always kept at eighty degrees, as they struggled with Jason’s lifeless body.

“At some point during this process, the landscapers became aware of the housekeepers’ efforts.”

“¡Ay, ay, ay, Dios mío!”

Señora Rosa’s screams would have echoed off the walls of Cotswold stone they’d had built by a certified English mason. Whenever something upset her,
Señora Rosa would grab the crucifix hanging around her neck.

“The landscapers ceased work and entered the pool area to assist,” Jackson continued.

The landscapers arrived each morning this time of year in an aging Ford pickup driven by Roberto, the foreman. They worked till sundown, pulling weeds and removing debris from the beds with miniature hand rakes. Jason absolutely forbade the use of leaf blowers except on mowing day.
“What’s the point of living on the goddamned ocean if all you ever hear is leaf blowers?”

The landscapers, to the best of Christina’s knowledge, spoke no English. They stopped work whenever she passed by, just long enough to flash smiles of white teeth mixed with crowns of gold. None of them were as tall as she, except Roberto.

Detective Jackson stood at the shallow end. “Even with the landscapers’ help, they were unable to remove the decedent from the water. They began attempts at resuscitation here on the pool steps until East Hampton Police Department officers arrived on the scene.”

The detective’s dark jacket and thick-soled black shoes looked out of place against the backdrop of tumbled Cotswold stones.

Christina had argued with Jason over the cost of importing those stones, and she had won.

Detective Ben Jackson stared down at them now.

He was the larger of the two officers and younger by fifteen years, maybe more. It was hard to tell. He was supermodel handsome, his skin a shade of eggplant with the reddish tones that were common in certain parts of the East End. He’d be killer handsome when
he smiled, Christina thought, but she didn’t suppose he had much cause to do that in his line of work.

As if to prove her point, Jackson looked up and resumed speaking in a tone that was dry and matter-of-fact. “Two police officers arrived within approximately fifteen minutes of receiving the initial call. They continued resuscitation efforts and began external heart massage. They continued these ministrations throughout the transfer by ambulance to Southampton General Hospital, and for approximately twenty-five minutes inside the emergency room, at which time the attending physician performed an EKG, and the victim was pronounced to have expired.”

Decedent. Resuscitation efforts. Expired. Death had a language all its own, Christina thought. She tried hard to concentrate on the chain of events that had just been described, but her mind was sluggish. “He must have been dead before they ever found him in the pool,” she said at last.

Detective Jackson looked at her, his expression giving away nothing.

McManus was the one who spoke. “It would appear that way. We won’t know for certain until the ME files his report. That’ll probably be in the next day or so. We’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything.” His words were helpful, his tone a few degrees warmer than that of his partner.

Christina thought again about Good Cop, Bad Cop.

A dove cooed from its perch on the low branch of a scrub pine.

It was a mournful sound.

Christina wanted this episode to be done with, wanted these men to be gone. She didn’t like cops. It occurred
to her they wouldn’t leave until she took some action. “Okay.” She pushed her chair back.

Neither of them made any move to leave. “Okay,” she said again and stood.

After a moment McManus rose from his chair.

Ben Jackson walked around the pool.

Christina made no move to extend her hand. “Thank you.”

“If we can do anything at all, please don’t hesitate to give us a call,” McManus said.

“We’re compiling a list of the people who were present in the house early last night,” Ben Jackson said. “Once we have that list, we’ll talk to the people on it.”

Christina gave a quick nod, studying a stand of Queen Anne’s lace that was blooming in a bed just inside the privet hedge. She had a pretty good idea who had been here last night with Jason. Lisa.
Tramp.
Low-life
bitch.

Now it was Christina’s turn to keep her face impassive. “Fine.” She hugged herself, shivering against a sudden chill.

McManus watched her. “Is there anything else you think we need to know?”

Her mind flashed on the tabloid headlines after Jason’s uncle divorced several years back. Details of the breakup had made it into
People
magazine, and someone had even written a book about it.

No, Christina thought, if the police wanted to sniff through her and Jason’s dirty laundry, they’d have to dig though it themselves. “No,” she said, avoiding McManus’s gaze.

Storm clouds piled up overhead, and she watched, wondering if there would be thunder.

There was silence. They were watching her, she knew. “Not really,” she said for good measure. “No.”

Neither man said anything.

Christina kept watching the clouds, waiting for them to thank her and leave.

But they did not.

McManus then sat, watching her, his eyes a grayer shade of blue than they had been earlier. It seemed to Christina they had changed colors somehow, to a shade resembling the dark centers of the storm clouds overhead.

Nobody said anything for a while.

“Well,” Christina said, when she couldn’t stand it any longer. “One of the housekeepers, Marisol, was having an affair with the head gardener, Roberto.” She waited, relieved to have come up with some tidbit that might satisfy them.

McManus, the older one who had done most of the talking, merely continued to watch her. He did not so much as nod.

Ben Jackson gave a small nod but did not, she noticed, bother to write this information down in his pad.

McManus finally blinked. “And you are basing this statement on, what observation?”

Marisol and her beady eyes that lingered on things just long enough to let Christina know she’d seen things she hadn’t been meant to see. Once, after she wiped vomit that had splashed up against the edge of the toilet seat, she said something in rapid-fire Spanish to her aunt with a cackling sort of laugh when she didn’t know Christina was there.

Christina drew in a deep breath now, letting it out through her mouth. “Just a lot of little things. Roberto
drives her to work sometimes. They sit together at lunch and talk. She has a kid, you know, somewhere in Costa Rica, so she must be married.”

Neither man reacted.

Christina shrugged again. “I just thought you should know.”

“Thank you.” McManus gave a tiny nod.

Christina never felt good when Marisol was in the house; she’d tried on several occasions to convince Jason to get rid of her.

“You can’t get rid of her unless you fire the aunt as well,” he’d said. “And there’s nothing wrong with their work.”

And that was it. End of discussion.

“I just thought it was worth mentioning,” Christina said.

Ben Jackson tapped his pen once on his writing pad. “This guy, Roberto, you know his last name?”

Christina shook her head. She didn’t know much about anyone who worked for them. Jason handled all that.

“Thanks for the information,” Ben Jackson said. “You remember anything else, you give us a call.” He removed a business card from the back of his notepad and handed it to her. “You take it easy, Mrs. Cardiff.”

Frank McManus fished one of his cards out of his breast pocket and did the same.

A wave of pure relief washed over Christina. At last, they were going to leave.

“Try to get some rest,” McManus said. “Is there someone you can call? You want us to wait?”

There was, and she didn’t. Shaking her head, Christina looked at the gate. Hint, hint.

Ben Jackson cleared his throat. “I guess we’ll head out.”

Christina nodded. She hated cops.

“You just take it easy now,” Frank McManus said, and at last they were gone.

“So?” McManus hunched out of his jacket as Jackson eased the cruiser down the winding drive of pea gravel.

Jackson let out a low whistle. “Some spread.”

A starling swooped from the boughs of an ornamental pear tree.

The wrought-iron gate swung open at their approach.

As they nosed through, a man straightened from his slouch against the side of a black Escalade and trained his camera lens on them.

“Smile and say cheese,” Jackson muttered, pulling onto the road.

Seeing the county plates, the paparazzo snapped away but maintained a respectful distance.

“You low-life, scum-sucking moron,” McManus murmured in a low voice as they passed.

Jackson nodded, giving the car some gas but staying well inside the speed limit.

Twilight was prime time for the weekend warriors to jog or roller-blade or take a spin on their titanium-framed bikes to get in an aerobic workout in the rarefied air that blew across their oceanfront estates.

McManus reached for a Marlboro Light. If the county meant business about banning smoking on the job, they would have to prove it by removing dashboard lighters from their fleet of Crown Victoria cruisers. Pressing the tip of his cigarette to the bright orange glow, McManus took a deep drag and felt better than he had in hours. “What do you think?”

“Couple of things,” Jackson replied.

McManus took another long drag, enjoying the way the plume of bluish smoke mingled into the mist of the humid night. Ben Jackson was in the habit, common among Gen Xers or Gen Y or whatever the hell they were called these days, of thinking out loud. It was a quality Frank McManus disliked in the general population, but he had grown to appreciate in his partner.

Jackson’s massive shoulders hiked up a bit before settling back down. “First, there’s probably nothing in this. Guy got wasted and went for a swim. Too bad, man, what a way to go.”

“Yeah.” McManus shook his head. As the son and grandson of avid fishermen, McManus possessed a genuine love of the Atlantic that was matched with equal parts respect and fear.

“A man who ventures out onto the ocean in a boat had better know what he’s about,” his grandfather had taught him.

McManus’s father, as always, had been more direct. “You go out alone in a boat, you better have your shit together, or your own mother won’t recognize what washes up onshore.”