Short Squeeze (31 page)

“Damn fucking right I’m cooperating,” said Denny.

Izzy did everything but slap his hand over Denny’s mouth.

“I understand what’s going on here,” Izzy said to Joe. “Can I just have a minute with my client, and could you turn off the mikes? So we don’t have to go to another room?”

“Sure,” said Joe, escorting me out of the room. “I’ll signal when they’re off.”

When we got to the observation room, he flicked off the mikes and knocked on the one-way mirror. Then he sat down to watch.

“Didn’t say anything about observing,” he said to me.

“Riverhead really got that DNA back in a hurry,” I said.

“It would’ve been a hurry if it was true.”

“You lied.”

He turned around and looked at me.

“I’m allowed to lie in the course of an interrogation. I’m just not allowed to strike the subject or his lawyer, or speak disrespectfully about the bastard’s race, creed, or favorite color.”

Watching the two of them told us everything we needed to know. Izzy was grilling him and Denny was dumping out all the information he could think of. After a while, Izzy did all the talking and Denny just nodded. Then Izzy looked up at the glass and waved to us to come back.

“Knew we were watching,” said Joe. “Crafty son of a bitch.”

We went into the interrogation room and assumed our same seats. Joe leaned back again in his chair.

“I assume you honored our confidentiality,” said Izzy.

“Hey, that offends,” said Joe.

“My apologies,” he said. “My client would like to share some information that may assist the police in their investigation. We simply hope that in doing so, his own situation will be taken into account.”

“No assurances,” said Joe. “Tell us what you got and we’ll think about it.”

This set off alarms in Denny, which Izzy calmed with a pat on the forearm and a wise nod. I’d used the same approach myself, more than once. It was meant to say cooperating was good for you, even though that wasn’t always the case.

“Denny?” said Izzy.

“About trying to run over Ms. Swaitkowski—I don’t know anything about that. I never saw her till she barged in on me at Building Two.”

“We don’t care about that now,” I said. Sullivan looked over at me, more surprised than annoyed. “We want to know about you and Fuzzy. All of it.”

“We went to boarding school together,” said Denny. “He was a lot older than me and kind of a dweeb, but more interesting than the jocks I hung with. So we stayed in touch off and on and started e-mailing each other a few years ago. I haven’t actually seen the guy in the flesh since school. But that’s what the Internet is for. We both started blogs, kept e-mailing, the usual shit.”

“No profanity,” said Joe. “That also offends.”

“Okay, sorry. Anyway, Fuzzy had been into day trading for a long time, and he liked to rant about it, but it wasn’t exactly my thing. Then like a dope, I let him get me interested, and he starts feeding me tips, and I get into it pretty heavy. I don’t know why they don’t call it straight-out gambling, because your chances are about the same going to the
casino. But guys like Fuzzy think they’re smart enough to beat the odds, and that’s why they keep losing.”

“You both lost money,” I said.

“Oh, yeah. Trouble is, he had a lot more of it to lose. I got caught in this margin call that basically screwed the pooch, but Fuzzy stepped in and covered the loss. I let this happen a few more times, and before I knew it, I was into him for a healthy chunk of change.”

“Then a year ago August the bill came due,” I said.

He looked down at the table.

“Dead bodies are dead bodies,” he said. “It wasn’t that big a deal to me. I’m just not that into the work. It’s boring and messy. And all the fluids stink. But Fuzzy had this thing he wanted me to do, and I said, sure, if he could draw down the tab a little.”

“He told you to carve parts off Edna Jackery before you took her to the crematorium. Then freeze them and wait for further instructions,” I said. “Soon after, he asked you to start sending the parts, one at a time, to a particular person. No letter, no explanation, just the part. He’d take care of the rest.”

Denny looked up at me.

“If he’s already told you that, then you know all I know. He didn’t tell me why I was supposed to do this, and I didn’t ask. It was freaky fun and it saved me a boatload of money, so that was fine with me.”

“Fun?” said Sullivan.

Denny almost looked apologetic.

“I know it looks sick, but Fuzzy’s an extreme dude. It didn’t feel like he was just blackmailing me into doing what he wanted.”

“He made it seem like a goof on the power elite,” I said, interrupting him. “The lazy rich, the exploiters of the truly righteous. The hopelessly craven upper-class snobs whose greed was destroying the world. Who all deserved to burn in hell anyway. Isn’t that what the FuzzMan said?”

He looked back down at the table again.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“So who’d you send the parts to?” asked Sullivan.

Denny looked at Izzy, who nodded.

“His own fucking aunt, excuse the French. Betty Pontecello. The one who got all drunked up and took out the snorkel shop lady with her old Chrysler 300.”

His own fucking mother, I thought to myself.

Joe Sullivan got out of his chair and left the room. In a few minutes a call would be put through to his counterparts at Atapougue Police Headquarters, and a pair of patrol cars would be dispatched to pick up Oscar Wolsonowicz, a.k.a FuzzMan.

I was left alone with Izzy Fine and Denny Winthrop.

“How’s Janette?” I asked Izzy.

“Quite well, thank you,” he said. “She’s been busy with the Field School fund-raiser. I assume you’ve bought your tickets.”

“Wouldn’t miss it. Who’s the entertainment this year? Hard to beat Jimmy Buffett.”

Denny listened to this incredulously, then rolled his eyes—another suspicion confirmed. The power elite were all in this together; the righteous didn’t stand a chance.

Sullivan came back in the room.

“We can get this bird back in his cage,” he said to me. “Unless there’s something else you want from him.”

“One thing,” I said.

“Have at it.”

“Was Sergey in the car with Betty when she hit Edna Jackery?” I asked Denny.

He looked at Izzy and Sullivan, then back at me.

“Who’s Sergey?”

“Betty’s husband.”

He shook his head.

“Fuzzy never said anything about any Sergey. He just told me to get the car out of their garage in Sagaponack. Said it was hot and needed to go bye-bye. I just couldn’t bring myself to trash the old bomber. Got a four-forty with a giant quad under the hood. The torque’ll tear your head off. Obviously a stupid move on my part.”

“Son, you’ve invented more stupid moves than most stupid dopes pull off in a lifetime,” said Sullivan, standing up and dragging Denny by the collar to his feet. “Let’s go find a comfortable place for you to write it all down. Maybe you can publish it in
True Stupid Crime Stories.”

I exchanged a few more pleasantries with Izzy, then went back to the visitors’ lounge to rescue Harry, who was busy using his oversize thumbs to write messages on his PDA.

I was thankful that Alden Winthrop had already left to meet with Izzy and his son. I didn’t know what I could say to him that he’d want to hear.

I waited until we were in Harry’s car to tell him what had transpired in the interrogation room. Since a lot of it was new information for him, I had to go back a few steps to fill in the whole picture.

“Okay,” he said, turning the ignition, “where we going now?”

I looked at my watch. Still plenty of time to get to Shelter Island and back while it was still light, I thought.

“Home for you,” I said. “I got an errand to run.”

He nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “I understand.”

“Understand what?”

“You need to do things on your own.”

“I do. Is that bad?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Doesn’t always work out that great for you.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

“Okay. I’ll just go home and worry,” he said.

“No, you won’t. You’ll just go home. Keep your cell phone on and a light in the window.”

“Ten-four.”

Harry dropped me off at my car and I drove up North Sea Road to the ferry to Shelter Island. I rode across the channel on the South Ferry, standing outside the car to catch the salty breeze and watch the sea birds dive-bomb for fish. Once I reached the other side, I made the trip to Wendy’s in about ten minutes.

I thought about Bilbo, Poaggie, and Bert. Poaggie was the smallest dog, yet the biggest threat, based entirely on the weirdness factor. Though, for all I knew, Bert and Bilbo were actually trained killers disguised as goofy fur balls.

I’d promised Wendy that I’d call her if I wanted to see her again, but I’d been through a lot lately and couldn’t muster the necessary remorse over violating the pledge.

Wendy was in the front yard, digging around one of her flower beds. Her face showed alarm over the approaching car, but it was too late to do anything about that.

Bilbo, Poaggie, and Bert charged the Volvo en masse.

“Nice doggies,” I said after rolling down the window. Dogs are impressed by size, I told myself. Try to make yourself look bigger.

I got out of the car and waded through the barking, sniffing canines, following the path to where Wendy was tending her flower garden. I dropped to my knees to get on her exasperated level.

“I thought you understood you aren’t supposed to come here without my permission,” she said.

“I understood. I chose to ignore it. That’s a public street. I’m a free agent. I’m here to talk. You can try calling the cops, but like I’m always telling your family, the cops are friends of mine. They’re going to look closer at you than me.”

She was wearing a blue work shirt, jeans, and a flowered bandanna. She used the back of her forearm to wipe the sweat and streaks of mud off her brow. In the same hand she held a small garden trowel. I felt like I was in a scene from
The Good Earth
.

She looked grim but rose to her feet and led me to the same picnic table we’d sat at the last time.

“So I suppose the police haven’t decided what happened to Uncle Sergey,” she said.

“No. But some other interesting tidbits have surfaced along the way. Mostly about your family.”

She smirked. “Can’t imagine what would be interesting about that.”

“You told me last time I was here that the family unit was the root of all pathology.”

“I was just making conversation,” she said, looking back at where she’d just been messing with her flower garden, as if wishing she were still there.

“You also said Sergey was oblivious. Oblivious to what?”

She studied me with her brilliant eyes, as clear and hard as blue diamonds.

“Maybe you already know something,” she said, more inquisitive than defiant.

“Why did you tell him?” I asked.

“Who?”

“Fuzzy.”

“Tell him what?” she asked, her face blank except for her eyes, which had widened just a little.

I’d smuggled in a pack of cigarettes in the front pocket of my pants,
a loose-fitting pair of pleated slacks that were just right for the purpose. I pulled them out and lit one up, just to be sure Wendy understood that she and I were as different from each other as two people could be. She’d charmed me once before; it wasn’t going to happen again.

“About the accident. About your Aunt Betty hitting that woman on County Road Thirty-nine. You had to know he’d do something ugly with the information.”

She sat at the table in silence, looking at me, deliberating.

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said finally.

“Yes, you do. You were in the car a year ago when Betty hit Edna Jackery, the lovable knucklehead who was walking along the road in the dark, and Betty, half bombed as usual, didn’t see her. She was picking you up at the train station, like she did every August. You promised her you’d never tell a soul, yet you told Fuzzy, the one person on earth who would use it as a weapon against her. His own mother. What the hell were you thinking?”

Bilbo decided that was a good time to come up to me and shove his meaty shoulder into my leg. I reached down to stroke his back and scratch under his ears.

Wendy took on the mantle of her mother, Eunice, Antonin’s genetic influence disappearing behind a cloud of haughty self-importance.

“They lied to us, all of them. We always knew Fuzzy was adopted. They just didn’t bother to tell us his parents were Betty and Tony, my aunt and my father. Which means we’re half siblings, but we didn’t know that. Not until Betty caught us one summer at the house in the Hamptons. In bed. Not sleeping, which I hope you’re proud of yourself for making me say.”

I was hardly proud of myself. I hadn’t expected that at all. It might have been there, hiding out with all the other family secrets, but I hadn’t seen it or ever thought it was a remote possibility.

“I don’t talk to Fuzzy very often,” she said, folding back into herself.
“But I don’t have anyone else in the family to talk to. It was such a shock when Betty hit that woman. She barely understood what had happened. I asked his advice, and he said to just stay quiet about it. That sending Betty to jail wouldn’t bring the woman back. I was a little surprised by that. Fuzzy hated Betty for what she did to him. To us. Made him so crazy with anger he was never the same again. He was such a beautiful boy growing up, so sweet. I know it’s hard to imagine now, but you didn’t know him then.”

She tried to stifle the tears, but they came anyway, silently rolling down her cheeks. She held her head up, and the set of her mouth showed her determination not to allow any further emotion to follow those traitorous tears.

With my own emotional state teetering between triumph and shame, I left her where she sat, surrounded by her dogs, otherwise alone in her island exile.

Someone had to tell Eunice what was going on. I wanted it to be someone other than me, but after leaving Wendy’s, I found myself heading for Sagaponack to get it over with.