Riptide (11 page)

“Doggie needs a haircut,” Jackson said.

“Don’t be critical,” McManus murmured. He was closer to the dog. “You’ll piss him off.”

But it was too late. The dog’s head was large, out of proportion to its tanklike body and stubby legs. It bared its fangs, revealing a set of teeth that would have been at home inside the jaws of a German shepherd.

A loud rumbling came from deep inside its chest.

“Jesus,” Jackson muttered.

McManus kept one hand on the car door. He tried again in a light, friendly tone. “How ya doin’, fella?”

The Scottie charged, barreling at him in a blur of black fur.

Frank McManus dove back into the car.

Ben Jackson roared with laughter.

McManus muttered an oath.

The Scottie parked itself near the grillwork in the front of the cruiser, keeping up a steady, shrill bark.

For a little dog with stubby legs, he was loud.

McManus watched the screen door, one of those old-fashioned ones with a wooden frame, the kind that would slam shut in a classic sound of summer.

Nobody came to the door.

“Anybody home?” Jackson gave the horn a couple of quick toots.

One blast from the Mace they carried would solve the problem, but that would piss off the dog’s owner. And that would not get things off on the right foot. However tempting it was to blast Fido in the snout.

The dog kept up its steady barking, actually rising to stand up again on its hind legs.

The better to terrorize them.

“Cujo lives.” Jackson tooted the horn again. “Hello,” he said through the loudspeaker. “Anybody home? Suffolk County PD.”

“I’m coming.” A woman’s voice came from the direction of the yard. “I’m coming.”

And the woman herself appeared a moment later. Barefoot, wearing a linen blouse and plaid shorts that were on the longish side but still showed she had great legs. She wore gardening gloves, not the cutesy canvas kind but the serious ones with chamois leather reaching halfway up her shapely arms. She carried an honest-to-goodness wicker basket filled with fresh-cut roses, and looked straight out of a centerfold from
Hamptons Life.

“Shep,” she yelled, giving a cheery wave to the car.

As though police cruisers showed up in her yard all the time.

“Shep,” she yelled at the dog, who finally lowered his volume to somewhere around earsplitting. “You miserable beast,” she said happily. “Where are your manners?”

Shep’s mother pulled off one glove and extended her hand, still smiling in that sunny way she had. “I’m Biz Brooks.”

Biz. Short for something preppy and elegant to match the melodious voice, the million-dollar smile, and the house to match.

“Come and sit down.” She headed up the porch stairs without waiting for an answer.

Ben Jackson glanced uneasily at the dog, which kept its snout pointed their way, like a cruise missile ready to launch.

Biz Brooks motioned for them to sit.

The choices ranged from Adirondack chairs to a porch swing with faded floral cushions.

“Can I get you some iced tea?”

A cold glass of iced tea sounded great.

“No, thanks,” both men said in unison.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” Biz said, dropping into the swing.

The Adirondack chairs did not lend themselves to any sort of official pose, so Frank settled on perching at the edge.

Ben Jackson did the same.

Biz Brooks ran a hand through her blond hair, which she wore in a short blunt cut.

Usually, blondes had masses of tumbling thick curls, like McManus’s ex-wife, but Biz Brooks’s hair was pin straight. The overall effect was refined. McManus cleared his throat. “We’re here to talk about your neighbor, Jason Cardiff.”

Biz’s eyebrows skipped in close together.

“He died,” Frank said.

“Oh.” Biz Brooks’s eyes widened.

And that was it. Which pretty much told you the Brookses and the Cardiffs had never traded gardening tips through the privet hedge.

“That’s too bad,” she said. “He was young, wasn’t he?”

Younger than two out of the three of them on her porch. Frank nodded. “Thirty-eight.”

Biz’s shoulders dropped, and she shook her head, her mouth settling into lines that didn’t exist when she smiled. “That’s terrible.”

Ben Jackson shifted so the Adirondack chair gave off a sharp cracking sound.

Shep let out a low rumble.

“We were hoping you could help us with some information.”

“Sure.” Biz Brooks frowned at the wall of green separating her yard from the Cardiffs’.

Ben Jackson flipped out his notepad and pen.

“Mr. Cardiff’s body was discovered in his swimming pool yesterday morning by the housekeepers,” Frank said. “Apparently, he drowned sometime during the night.

“That’s awful.” Biz shook her head sadly and looked at Frank.

Her eyes were hazel, intelligent. “Were you at home night before last?”

She nodded.

Frank glanced through the screen door to the living room, where you could just make out an overstuffed couch and a couple of easy chairs gathered around a fieldstone fireplace.

Overall, the effect was cozy.

“Was anyone in the house with you, ma’am?”

“Um, no. Only Shep.”

The phone was listed under Brooks, Edward.

“It’s just us.”

Frank ignored the tiny tha-rump inside his chest as Biz flashed a rueful little smile. “I’m a widow,” she said quickly. “My husband passed two years ago.”

Shit.

“I’m sorry,” Frank said.

“It’s okay,” Biz said, focusing on a spot somewhere past the hydrangeas. “I’m okay.”

Which meant it wasn’t, she wasn’t, and that she’d had a lot of experience with people telling her they were sorry.

“I’m sorry,” Frank repeated, as Ben Jackson chimed in, because no matter how long they’d worked homicide, there was never anything else to say.

“I wasn’t home yesterday,” Biz said briskly.

Moving things along. Frank liked her, everything about her.

“I got up early to meet friends and play golf. I started taking lessons last summer. My husband always wanted me to.” She gave a little smile that held a big dose of rue.

Widows did things a lot to please their dead husbands. Frank wanted to take them by the shoulders and tell them to yuk it up, spend the inheritance however they pleased. If there was an afterlife, the poor bastard was in the strings section learning to play the harp. Not looking down to keep tabs on the Missus.

But Frank McManus didn’t believe there was any sort of afterlife. What he believed in was justice for wrongs done in this one. “Where do you play?”

“Over at the Maidstone,” she said casually. Okay, maybe Mr. Brooks was nodding approval somewhere. The Maidstone was a challenging course, besides being one of the most elite clubs around. “I did notice a van coming down Dunemere as I returned home,” she added.

The County wagon carting off the earthly remains of Jason Cardiff, a fact Frank McManus did not spell out. “What about the night before? Did you notice anything or hear anything out of the ordinary?”

She gave the same answer everyone did when he asked this question, ten times out of ten. “No.”

A little prodding always helped.

“The weather was still calm Wednesday night, not too windy,” Jackson said. “Do you sleep with the windows open?”

“Usually,” Biz replied. “We had A.C. installed, but I hate to use it. I love the sound of the ocean at night.”

“So, you can hear the Cardiffs as well. Say, sounds of a party?”

Biz’s frown returned. “They entertain a lot.”

Records showed a series of noise complaints had been phoned in from the Brooks residence over the years, two in the last eighteen months.

“I’m a really light sleeper, I guess, especially since my husband died.” Biz shifted around in her seat, self-conscious.

Widows and insomnia went together, after all, like a hand in a glove.

But, from what they were learning, the Cardiff house shook, rattled, and rolled many nights.

“What about him?” Ben Jackson motioned with his chin to where the dog lay motionless in the hydrangea beds under the porch. “Is he a light sleeper?”

Biz Brooks smiled.

They had returned to a subject of her liking.

“Shep?”

At the sound of its name, the dog stirred.

“Yeah,” Jackson replied quickly. No doubt hoping ol’ Shep would go back to his union break. “Does he ever hear things at night?”

“He sure does. I had to cancel my
New York Times
subscription because he kept waking up when they came to deliver. Now I’ve got to buy it in town,” Biz said with a shake of her head.

And who said the überrich had it easy? Frank exchanged glances with his partner. Frank knew what Jackson was thinking. If Shep were his dog, he’d be sent somewhere nice and quiet so Jackson could enjoy a peaceful night’s sleep.

“What about Wednesday night? Did Shep hear anything?”

Biz let her gaze drift from the dog’s napping spot to
the skyscraper of a hedge separating her property from the Cardiffs. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “come to think of it, he did.”

McManus and Jackson waited.

“I went up to bed early for my golf game Thursday morning. There was nothing on TV.”

McManus knew what she meant. Even
Survivorman
was in reruns till fall. Living alone was evil. “Nothing wrong with TV,” he pointed out.

Biz smiled. “Anyway, the wind picked up, and I just couldn’t sleep. I tried to read. After a while I got tired of the book and came out here to sit for a while.”

Jackson looked up from his notepad. “Approximately what time was that?”

“Oh, I’d have to think.” Biz let out a breath.

McManus thought of his own weeknight routine, downing a bottle of Bud on the back deck while the Weber heated up. “The sun sets around half past eight,” he said, trying to be helpful.

“Way later, close to eleven thirty. I saw a bunch of cars pass on their way to the Cardiffs.”

Jackson glanced up from his notes. “A bunch of cars?”

Biz frowned. “I don’t know. A few, I’d say.”

“Two?” Jackson pressed. “Or more like three or four, or more?”

She considered this. “I’d say four, counting Jason’s. He drives a sports coupe. It’s smaller than the others and lower to the ground. I definitely saw that one first. There were two or three others following that one. One of them was loud, like it needs a muffler.”

She wrinkled her nose in a girlish way that was fairly
attractive, and Frank would just bet she drove a nice, pricey ecofriendly hybrid that was quiet and great on gas. “Sounds like a party,” Frank commented.

“Nothing unusual for that house.” Biz’s frown deepened.

Frank nodded, all ears. “They entertain a lot?”

She rolled her eyes. “Um, yeah.”

He waited.

“I don’t really know what goes on there.” But you could tell by the way she said it that Biz Brooks had a fairly good idea of what went on there. “There are lots of cars coming and going from that house, especially at night.” She paused. “How is their son doing? Tyler.” Her concern appeared to be genuine.

Not a good side path for this interview.

“He’s good,” Frank said quickly. “With relatives, at the moment. He’s in good hands.”

“The Cardiffs?”

McManus gave a quick nod.

Biz’s face lightened. “That’s good.”

Frank pressed on. “So, is it busy around here at night in summer? Or quiet?”

Biz made another face. “Pretty quiet. The neighbors across from me don’t come till August. The house across from Cardiffs is owned by a film producer. He only comes in June.” There was a pause while she completed her mental inventory of Jonah’s Path. “There’s a retired couple just off Dunemere who are visiting their daughter out of state.”

Which pretty much accounted for anyone who might have seen or heard anything night before last. Frank nodded.

“Things were pretty quiet after the Cardiffs finished redoing their pool house a few weeks back.” Biz hesitated. “Well, fairly quiet.”

McManus shifted in his Adirondack chair again, trying to get comfortable. His butt cheeks were numb. “Fairly quiet?”

Biz hesitated. “Pretty much,” she said at last.

Jackson looked up. “Meaning?”

“Meaning only one of them was there at a time. When Jason was around, there’d be lots of cars at night. With her, not so much.” She paused. “Just one car that needs a muffler.” She plucked at the roses in the basket at her feet, fidgeted in her seat.

Trying to get comfortable with the fact that she was engaging in the good old American pastime of ratting out the neighbors.

McManus and Jackson exchanged a glance, and Frank did the asking this time. “Would you say it’s the same car?”

You could tell by the look on her face it wasn’t the first time she’d considered this. She looked Frank in the eye, and her gaze was startlingly direct. She was, he could tell, the type that wanted to get everything right. “I don’t know,” she said. “Honestly, I just don’t know that much about cars. But maybe.”

“This is good,” Jackson said quietly. “What you’ve told us is already a big help.”

Biz frowned. “Are you here because…” She let her voice trail off. “I mean, it was an accident, right?”

Frank chose his words with care. “At some point during the night, Jason Cardiff went swimming in his pool. He drowned. We’re trying to put together a time line for the events of that night.”

And if Biz Brooks was correct, there was a gap of several hours that needed accounting between the time Jason Cardiff dined with his attorney and when he returned home to Jonah’s Path.

The new chef at the Dunes was supposed to be pretty good. In fact, he had made it all the way to the finals last season on
Top Chef.
Still, nobody spent five hours over dinner with his attorney. No matter how good the crab-cake appetizer was.

Jason Cardiff had made another stop on the last night of his life.

“So,” Frank said, “you noticed headlights and cars heading toward Cardiffs around eleven, maybe eleven thirty. Then what?”

“I went up to bed.”

Jackson nodded, his gaze drifting down into the hydrangeas bushes. “And Scottie here, he went up to bed with you?”