Death on a Vineyard Beach (21 page)

“Mr. Jackson. Have you decided to accept my offer of employment?”

Thornberry and I had left the Boston PD about the same time, one big difference between our departures being that he was retiring as a captain, to organize a private detective agency, and I was retiring on disability, with a bullet parked near my spine.

“Thanks, but no thanks, Jason. I'll stay a civilian. As you no doubt know, I'm working for Luciano Marcus, down here on the island, and I thought I'd touch base with you.”

“Mr. Marcus told me he'd hired you. So you are an unlicensed investigator once again, eh? Very well, what base would you prefer to start on?”

I told him about my talks with Linda Vanderbeck, Joe Begay, and Sandy Dings, and about the two Gay Head guys. I gave him their names and addresses. He listened without comment. When I was done, he said: “And what do you want from me?”

“Anything you have. The shotgun is a definite Vineyard tie, so I'm looking for a link between somebody down here and the Boston shooting. I'm looking for motives and opportunities. Check out these two guys, for instance. And there's Thomas Decker. He carries a gun when he and Luciano travel. Luciano says it's because he sometimes has a lot of money on him, but that rings a little hollow with me. Why does Decker really feel a need to carry?”

Thornberry's smooth voice never hesitated. “Mr. Marcus
has told you the truth. Many businessmen have bodyguards. Especially these days. And Mr. Marcus does often carry a lot of money. Mr. Decker has been with him for many years.”

“I'm going to be talking to a detective named Sullivan,” I said. “I'll be asking him the same questions I'm asking you.”

“Detective Sullivan and I have talked to one another already. As you know, the confidentiality between our firm and its clients must be firmly maintained, else we'd soon be out of business. Detective Sullivan is not bound by such rules, so perhaps he'll be able to tell you something that I cannot.”

I tried again. “What I want to know is whether Marcus has a past that's putting him in harm's way—something shady or maybe even criminal—that's catching up with him.”

Thornberry's voice was like melting ice. “I can only tell you that our investigations have revealed no such information.”

I decided that if I ever wanted a truly confidential investigation, I would hire Thornberry. His lips were vacuum-sealed. “How about his present business interests?” I asked. “Has he done anything to anyone lately that would inspire somebody to kill him? It might not take too much; a lot of killers have pretty short fuses these days.”

“Indeed they have. I can tell you that so far our investigations have revealed no such evidence. Of course, we're still making inquiries.”

I changed the subject. “What can you tell me about this guy over on the cape? A PI that Marcus hired named Aristotle Socarides.”

“Mr. Socarides has the reputation of being too independent in his ways to work well with superiors. Thus, he operates alone. Not unlike you yourself if I may say so. Of course, Mr. Socarides has a license, whereas you do not.”

“Is he any good?”

“He has that reputation as well,” acknowledged Thornberry. “I believe that Mr. Socarides is looking into Mr. Marcus's business interests in Provincetown. I've received
no reports from him as to his findings, if any. Perhaps he reports directly to Mr. Marcus.” He sighed. “It would be better, I believe, if a single agency, ours in this case, was the recipient of all information from the various people employed by Mr. Marcus. But so far, I have been unable to persuade him of this.”

I thought of how much information I'd given him, and how little I'd gotten in return, and almost smiled. Instead, I said: “If you learn anything that will help me out down here, let me know.”

“Of course.”

Of course.

I rang off and tried Gordon R. Sullivan again. He was still out, and would still call back. I called Aristotle Socarides. No answer. I was having a fine morning. I hung up, and the phone rang. It was Gordon Sullivan.

“You think of something, or come up with something, Mr. Jackson?”

“No. The chief down here tells me that you two have been in touch. I thought I'd tell you what I've been up to.”

“Okay. You a licensed PI?”

“No. Strictly a civilian.”

He thought that one over. Cops don't like to have citizens prowling around criminal cases, messing things up. On the other hand, there wasn't much I could mess up with this one.

“What do you have?” he asked, finally.

I told him what I'd told Thornberry, then asked him the same questions.

“Fact is,” said Sullivan, “some state and federal people used to be pretty interested in Luciano Marcus. He is known to them, as they say in the papers. Got his start right after the war, the way I hear the story. He was a young guy then, just back from Europe, and out of the army, like a million other guys. Lots of ambition, and a pretty tough cookie, to boot.

“Started small, but grew fast. Stepped on a lot of toes. A few people disappeared or retired and he took over. A couple of arrests, but nothing stuck. No convictions.

“All that was a long time ago. The older he got, the
further away from the rough stuff he got, the more legit. He may still have some ties to shady operations, but if he does, nobody's been able to nail him for it. Right now he's probably the deacon of his church.”

“Anybody want him dead?”

“Somebody does, for sure, but we haven't found him yet.”

I told him my theory that the kid was an amateur, and I could almost see him nod.

“Yeah, I been thinking about that, too. Usually these guys in sweatshirts kill each other over drugs or women or territory, or rob and kill some storekeeper to finance their habits. They don't hire out to assassinate old men coming out of opera houses. No, this has a different smell to it than most cases. It's not a professional job, and it's not robbery. It's something else. Something personal, I'd guess. The shotgun angle still interests me.”

“You said there'd been a couple of earlier shotgunnings. Who were the targets?”

“Just a couple of toughs trying to be tougher. We won't miss either one of them, but we want the guys who got them.”

“You have anyone in mind?”

“A lot of people are glad they're gone. We've been asking questions and talking to folks, but so far, nothing.”

The police always have too much to do. “I'll stay in touch,” I said.

“And I'll see if those two guys you mentioned are in our records anywhere,” said Sullivan. “If they are, maybe we'll have something to work on.”

“Maybe,” I said.

I tried Aristotle Socarides again. He didn't answer again.

Ignoring Wally's warning, I got into the Land Cruiser and drove west, running things through my mind. It was a muggy day, with a misty sea, and a warm haze that made things seem more ethereal than usual. In Chilmark, when I crossed the bridge between Nashaquitsa and Stonewall ponds, Stonewall Beach, that thin spit of sand that usually keeps Gay Head from being a separate island, was only a dim line in a gray fog, and farther on the overlook, which
on a clear day gives such a fine view of Menemsha and Nashaquitsa ponds, today gave only a fine view of gray mists.

The fog floated over the driveway leading into the Marcus estate, but as the road climbed, the haze thinned and then thinned some more, until it fell away behind me, and I drove into sunshine. The house on its high hill floated like a ship on an ocean of gray-white mist. Priscilla opened the door when I knocked, and waved me toward Luciano's office.

“He's in the office, waiting for you.”

Luciano's cameras worked in the fog, apparently. I went down the hall, and knocked on the office door. When invited to come in, I did.

Marcus was seated at his desk. It was covered with papers. He spread his hands. “It is a paper world we live in, Mr. Jackson. We can do nothing without letters, memos, forms, and bills. What can I do for you today?”

I told him whom I'd been talking to, and what I'd been told, and about the two guys from Gay Head. He listened without interruption, until I was done. His face betrayed nothing.

“So,” he said, when I was through. “Two Wampanoag toughs, eh?”

“Two wanna-be heros, is more like it. Linda Vanderbeck didn't have anything to do with it. They did it on their own. I don't think they will again.”

“Do you think they're the ones who tried for me?”

“I doubt it, but Sullivan is checking to see if they have any Boston connections.”

“Neither you nor detective Sullivan nor Mr. Thornberry see this as having to do with my business affairs?”

I nodded. “Neither past nor present.”

“An amateur effort, you believe?”

“That's how I see it. It's worth remembering that most killers are amateurs, and that they can be as deadly as pros.” I brought up the subject he was least likely to appreciate. “I asked you this before: Can you think of anyone in your private life who might be involved in this?”

“My family, you mean.” His voice was hard.

“Who inherits, is what I mean.”

“Everyone inherits.”

“Cash or businesses or both?”

“My sons will control the businesses. There will be trusts. And there will be cash.”

“A lot of cash?”

He shrugged. “What is a lot? There will be considerable.”

“So everyone in the family has a motive.”

He put a pill under his tongue. “I think you should spend your time looking someplace else. I don't want to talk about this anymore.”

“Another question, then: When did you make arrangements to attend the performance of
Carmen?
”

He thought for a moment. “Late last winter. March, I believe. My wife doesn't care for opera, but I like it and Thomas goes where I go. I get mailings of upcoming productions in New York and Boston. I'm sure that I ordered my tickets at that time. Why do you ask?”

“The guy up in Boston knew you were going to be there. I want to know how long he had to find out.”

He touched his chin with his forefinger and looked at me. “Four months,” he said. “Quite a long time.”

“Yes. I'd like to talk with Vinnie.”

His eyebrows raised slightly. “Vinnie? Why do you want to talk with Vinnie?”

“There were three of you in Boston. I've talked with you, and I've talked with Thomas, but I haven't talked with Vinnie.”

He frowned, but nodded. “Okay. You'll probably find him down at the garage.”

“And some time or other I'd like to talk with your wife.”

This time, his brows gathered together. “My wife? I don't think that Angela can help you.”

“You're probably right,” I said. “But I won't know that until I talk to her.”

But now he was frowning even more. “I don't want Angela involved in this.”

I stood up. “You're paying me to find out what's going
on. As for not wanting your wife to get involved, she already is involved. She's been involved with you since you were married, and you've been married a long time. That's a lot of involvement.”

His hand strayed to his chest. His frown didn't go away, but he nodded again. “All right. You can talk with her. But be gentle.”

Like many men, he thought his wife was fragile, and needed protecting. I'd made the same mistake myself.

I went out of the house and down to the garage. Vinnie was polishing the already polished hubcaps of the black Cadillac. He clearly took pride in his cars.

I got right to the point. “Vinnie, I get the impression that you get along with your grandmother better than with your grandfather. Am I right?”

He gave me a shocked look, then shook his head. “Nah. What do you mean?”

“I mean you call your grandma Grandma, but you call your grandpa boss, and you frown when he tells you what to do.”

Vinnie ran all that through his head. It took a while. “I don't know what you mean,” he said, sullenly. “I don't hate Grandpa. I don't hate nobody at all. I don't know what you mean.”

“She gives you money, he gives you work. That's what I mean.”

Vinnie thought some more. “They got me out of some trouble,” he said. “They brought me down here.”

“But you'd rather be back in the city.”

He shook his head. “Nah. Who told you that?”

I studied him. He stared back. There was not a lot of intellect in his eyes. I changed the subject.

“Vinnie, you've dated Maggie Vanderbeck a few times. Do you remember ever telling her about Luciano's plans to go up to Boston to see that performance of
Carmen?”

Vinnie rubbed his handsome jaw. He frowned and looked at some spot of empty air. Then he smiled and shrugged. “Maybe. It wasn't no secret or anything. I don't remember telling her, and I don't remember not telling her. I don't know why I would have told her, but maybe I did.”

“While you were at UMass Boston, you met some of the other college kids who live here on the island. Aside from Maggie, do you date any of the other UMass girls down here, or hang around with them or the guys? You know, at a party or a dance or the movies? Anything like that?”

Vinnie nodded and ran a hand through his hair, smoothing an errant curl. His smile was white. “Sure. I date some of the girls. And I been to parties, or we go to the Connection there in Oak Bluffs.”

“You ever mention that Luciano was going up to the opera?”

“Jeez,” said Vinnie. “Like I say, maybe I did, and maybe I didn't. Why you want to know?” Then it came to him. I could almost see the lightbulb brighten in his brain. “Oh, I get it. You think maybe I told somebody about the boss going to that opera, and that's how those hoods in Boston knew he'd be there. Sure, I get it now.”