Whiskey Beach

Chapter Eleven

HE ROSE AT DAWN, AFTER PULLING OUT OF A NASTY DREAM where he looked down at a broken, bloody, staring Lindsay on the rocks below Whiskey Beach Light.

He didn’t need a shrink to buy him a clue into his subconscious on that one.

He didn’t need a personal trainer to tell him every bone, every muscle, every freaking cell in his body hurt because he’d overdone the pumping iron the day before.

Since there was no one around to hear, he whimpered a little as he dragged himself to the shower, hoping the hot water would pound out some of the aches.

He sweetened the pot with three Motrin.

He went down to make coffee, drank it while dealing with e-mail. Time, he figured, for another update to his family. He wished he could realistically edit out any reference to break-ins and dead bodies, but at this point, better they hear it from him than elsewhere.

Word always traveled. Ugly words traveled fast.

He took care with the delivery, assured them all the house was secure. If he glossed over the death of a Boston PI, he thought he was entitled. For Christ’s sake, he’d never even laid eyes on the man. Deliberately he left the impression of an accident. It could have been an accident.

He didn’t believe that for one quick minute, but why worry the family?

He segued into progress on his book, the weather, made some jokes about the book he’d read on the Calypso and the dowry.

He read it over twice, decided weaving the bad news through the center, bookending it with light and positive, equaled the best framework. Hit send.

Remembering his sister, and their bargain, he wrote another e-mail just to Tricia.

Look, I’m not editing . . . very much. The house is secure, and the local cops are on it. At this point it looks like some a*shole’s been digging for mythical treasure. I don’t know what happened to the guy from Boston, whether he fell, jumped, or got tossed over the cliff by Captain Broome’s vengeful ghost.

I’m okay here. Better than okay. And when the cops come around—and I know they will—I’ll deal with it. I’m ready to.

Now, stop scowling at the screen, and I know you are. Go find somebody else to worry about.

That would do it, he decided. She’d be a little annoyed, a little amused, and hopefully trust he’d told her the truth.

With a second cup of coffee and a bagel at his desk, he opened the file on his work in progress, and let himself slide back into the story while the sun climbed over the sea.

He’d switched to Mountain Dew, and the last two cookies, when the doorbell no one ever used echoed its first notes from “Ode to Joy”—a favorite of his grandmother’s.

Taking his time, he shut down his work, stuck the half-finished soft drink in the office fridge, then headed down as the notes rang out a second time.

He’d expected the cop at his door. He hadn’t expected two of them, or the unhappily familiar face of Detective Art Wolfe from Boston.

The younger one—military haircut, solidly square face, placid blue eyes and a gym rat’s body—held up his badge. “Eli Landon.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Detective Corbett with the Essex County Sheriff’s Department. I believe you know Detective Wolfe.”

“Yeah, we’ve met.”

“We’d like to come in and speak with you.”

“All right.”

Directly against his lawyer’s advice, he stepped back to let them in. He’d already made the decision, and hell, he’d been a lawyer himself. He understood the idea behind “Don’t say anything, call me, refer all questions to me.”

But he couldn’t live that way. He couldn’t, and wouldn’t, keep living that way.

So he led them into the big parlor.

He’d built a fire earlier, in anticipation of just this. It simmered low now, adding warmth and atmosphere to a room comfortable with its art and antiques. One where the high tray ceiling welcomed the light spilling through the tall windows, and the view of the front garden where hardy green spears of daffodils waved and a single brave yellow bloom trumpeted.

He felt a bit like that himself. Ready to face what came and show his true colors.

“Some house,” Corbett commented. “I’ve seen it from the outside, and it sure makes a statement. Makes one on the inside, too.”

“Home’s where you hang your hat. If you’ve got one. We might as well sit down.”

He took an internal scan of himself as he did. His palms weren’t damp, his heart wasn’t racing, his throat wasn’t dry. All good signs.

And still, looking into that bulldog set of Wolfe’s face, those hard, flat brown eyes kept him wary.

“We appreciate the time, Mr. Landon.” Corbett did a scan of his own, of the room, of Eli, as he took a chair. “You might have heard we’ve had an incident.”

“I heard a body was found near the lighthouse yesterday.”

“That’s correct. I believe you were acquainted with the deceased. Kirby Duncan.”

“No, I wasn’t. I never met him.”

“But you knew of him.”

“I know he said he was a private investigator out of Boston, and he was asking questions about me.”

Corbett took out a notebook, as much a prop as a tool, Eli knew.

“Isn’t it true you stated to the police you believed Kirby Duncan had broken into this house on Thursday night?”

“He was my first thought when I learned about the break-in, and I gave his name to the responding officer. That’s Deputy Vincent Hanson.” As you damn well know. “However, the woman who was attacked during the break-in, who had met and spoken with Duncan earlier, stated unequivocally that it wasn’t Duncan, as the man who grabbed her had a taller, leaner build. Added to that, when Deputy Hanson spoke with Duncan that night, Duncan produced receipts that proved he was in Boston at the time of the break-in.”

“Must’ve pissed you off, him coming here, stirring things up.”

Eli shifted his gaze to Wolfe. There’d be no polite Q&A here, Eli thought. “I wasn’t happy about it, but more, I wondered who hired him to come here, follow me around, ask questions.”

“Easy answer is somebody interested in finding out what you’re up to.”

“And the easy answer to that is I’m up to adjusting, working, taking care of Bluff House while my grandmother recuperates. Since Duncan wouldn’t have had any more than that to report to his client or clients, I have to figure they were wasting their money. But that’s their choice.”

“Your wife’s homicide investigation’s still open, Landon. You’re still on the list.”

“Oh, I’m aware. Just as I’m aware it would be neat and convenient if you could tie me to a second homicide investigation.”

“Who said anything about a second murder?”

Smug bastard, Eli thought, but kept his tone even. “You’re a murder cop. If you believed Duncan’s death was an accident, you wouldn’t be here. That means it’s either murder or a suspicious death. I used to be a criminal attorney. I know how this works.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you know all the ins and outs.”

Corbett held up a hand. “Can you verify your whereabouts, Mr. Landon, between midnight and five Friday morning?”

“Friday morning? I went into Boston Thursday. I was at my parents’ when I got the call about the break-in. I drove straight back. I think I got here about eleven-thirty, before midnight anyway. I’m not sure of the exact time. I went to check on Abra—Abra Walsh, the woman who was assaulted in Bluff House.”

“What was she doing in the house when you weren’t?” Wolfe demanded. “Are you sleeping with her?”

“And how, exactly, is my sex life relevant to this inquiry?”

“Apologies, Mr. Landon.” Corbett’s warning glance at Wolfe, while subtle, held a charge. “Can you tell us why Ms. Walsh was in the house at that time?”

“She cleans here, and has for my grandmother for a couple years. She’d been in that day and couldn’t remember if she’d closed all the windows. We had a storm. I imagine you’ve already spoken to her, but I’ll take you through it. Knowing I was in Boston, she came down to check the windows and drop off some stew she’d made for me. Someone grabbed her from behind—our power was out, so it was dark. She managed to get away, drove to her friends’ house—her next-door neighbors, Mike and Maureen O’Malley. Mike contacted me, and the police. I left Boston immediately after Mike called, and drove back to Whiskey Beach.”

“Arriving sometime between eleven-thirty and midnight.”

“That’s right. Abra was shaken up, and as she’d injured her assailant in her struggle to get away, she had the assailant’s blood on her clothes. The responding officers took her clothes in evidence. I spent some time at the O’Malleys’ before coming here. Abra came with me. We met Deputy Hanson.”

“A friend of yours,” Wolfe put in.

“I knew Vinnie when we were teenagers, into our twenties. I haven’t seen him for a number of years.” Eli let the implication go, kept his voice even. “The police who responded found the power had been cut, the alarm deactivated. At that time I couldn’t find anything missing or out of place. I told Deputy Hanson about Kirby Duncan, and as I previously stated, Ms. Walsh described her attacker as a man with a different body type. Being thorough, Deputy Hanson indicated he would interview Duncan, who was, I believe, staying at the Surfside B-and-B. Again, I don’t know what time, exactly, Deputy Hanson left. My guess would be around twelve-thirty or a little before.”

Too bad, Eli thought, he hadn’t logged the times.

“When he did, I went, accompanied by Ms. Walsh, into the basement. We have an unreliable generator, and I’d hoped to get some power on. When we were downstairs, and I was hunting around for tools, I found, in the oldest section of the basement, a large trench. There were still tools, which the police have since taken into evidence—picks, shovels, that kind of thing. It’s clear whoever broke in had done so before.”

“To dig a trench in the basement?” Corbett suggested.

“If you’ve been around Whiskey Beach for any amount of time, you’d have heard about the legend—the dowry, the treasure. For every person who believes it’s bullshit, there’s another five who believe it’s gospel. I can’t swear to the purpose of the break-in, the excavation, but it’s a pretty educated guess somebody figured they’d unearth a fortune in jewels.”

“You could’ve dug it yourself.”

This time Eli barely spared Wolfe a glance. “I wouldn’t have to break into a house I’m already living in, and I’d be pretty stupid to show the trench to Abra or the cops if I’d been spending my time digging. In any case, we were down there awhile. I managed to get the generator going for emergency power. When we came up, I built a fire. It was cold in here, and Abra was still upset. We had some wine, sat in here. She fell asleep on the couch. I do know it was about two in the morning when I went upstairs. I got up about seven-thirty, maybe closer to eight the next morning. She’d gone, left an omelet in the warming drawer. She feeds people, can’t seem to help it. I don’t know what time she left.”

“So you don’t have an alibi.”

“No,” he said to Wolfe. “By your standards I guess I don’t. Exactly why do you think I killed him?”

“No one’s accusing you, Mr. Landon,” Corbett began.

“You’re sitting here asking for my whereabouts. The head investigator from my wife’s murder is with you. You don’t have to accuse me to let me know I’m a suspect. I’m wondering about my motive.”

“Duncan was a solid investigator. He was investigating you, and you knew it. And all of his records on that investigation are missing.”

“You know him.” Eli nodded at Wolfe. “Odds are he was a cop at some time. You knew him. Did you hire him?”

“We’re asking the questions, Mr. Landon.”

Eli swung back to Corbett. “Why don’t you ask why the hell I’d kill somebody I never met.”

“He could’ve dug up some evidence on you,” Wolfe began. “Could’ve made you nervous.”

“He dug up evidence on me in Whiskey Beach on a crime I didn’t commit in Boston? Where the hell is it? A solid investigator keeps records, makes backups. Where’s the evidence?”

“A smart lawyer who knows the ins and outs would make sure he destroyed that evidence. You took his keys, drove to Boston, walked right into his office and got rid of his records, his computer files, the works. Did the same at his apartment.”

“His office and apartment in Boston were rifled?” Eli sat back. “That’s interesting.”

“You had the time, the opportunity, the motive.”

“In your mind, because you’re so damn sure I killed Lindsay, I had to have done this.” Eli continued before Wolfe could speak. “So, walk it through. He either agreed to meet me at the lighthouse in the middle of the night—in the rain—or I somehow lured him there, and that’s after he dug up evidence that proves I already killed once. It also means I snuck out of the house while Abra was sleeping—not impossible, I agree. I then killed Duncan, went to the B-and-B, snuck in there, got all his things, took them and his car. I assume I drove his car back to Boston, went to his office and apartment, took care of that. Then drove back. It would be stupid to drive his car back here, but how else do I get back? Then I have to ditch his car somewhere, walk back to Bluff House, get back inside without Abra knowing I ever left.”

He knew better than to appeal to Wolfe, so turned to Corbett. “For God’s sake. Just looking at the logistics, the timing, I’d’ve needed some incredible luck to get all that done before Abra got up to make a goddamn omelet.”

“Maybe you didn’t do it alone.”

Now Eli felt his temper snap, and rounded on Wolfe. “You’re going to drag Abra into this? A woman I’ve only known a few weeks suddenly decides to help me commit murder? Jesus Christ.”

“You say a few weeks. Duncan was working the case here, and here’s where he found enough to be a threat. How long have you been banging the housekeeper, Landon? Screwing around on your wife, she finds out. It just gives you another reason to kill her.”

The anger he’d managed to hold at a steady simmer boiled over. “You want to come after me again, you come. But you leave her out of it.”

“Or what? Are you going to try for me next?”

“Detective Wolfe.” Corbett snapped the words out.

“You think you got away with it once, so you figure you can get away with it again.” Ignoring Corbett, Wolfe slapped his hands on his thighs, leaned forward.

Close in, Eli thought, the way he liked to crowd into personal space in interviews.

“Yeah, I knew Duncan. He was a friend of mine. I’m making it my mission in life to bring you down for him. You won’t slip through this time. Everything you and the woman do, have done, think about doing, I’ll know. And when I bring you down, you’ll stay down.”

“Threats and harassment,” Eli said, oddly calm again. “That should give my attorney an excellent springboard. I took it before, and I let the life I had go down the drain. I won’t take it again. I’ve answered your questions. You’ll need to go through my lawyers now.” He got to his feet. “I want you out of my house.”

“Your grandmother’s house.”

Eli nodded. “I stand corrected. I want you out of my grandmother’s house.”

“Mr. Landon.” Corbett got to his feet. “I apologize if you feel threatened or harassed.”

Eli simply stared. “Really? If?”

“The fact is, due to the connection, due to the victim’s purpose here in Whiskey Beach, you’re a person of interest. I’d like to ask if you own a gun.”

“A gun? No. No, I don’t.”

“Is there a gun in the house?”

“I couldn’t say.” Now he smiled. “It’s my grandmother’s house.”

“We’ll get a warrant,” Wolfe put in.

“Then get one. You’ll need one to get back in this house because I’m done being badgered and hounded by you.” He walked out, to the door, opened it. “We’re done.”

“Keep thinking that,” Wolfe muttered as he strode out.

“I appreciate your time,” Corbett said.

“Good because I’m finished giving it.” Eli firmly closed the door. Then allowed his hands to ball into fists.

Corbett waited until he and Wolfe were in the car. “God damn it! What the f*ck were you doing?”

“He did it, and he’s not getting away with it again.”

“For f*ck’s sake.” Infuriated, Corbett stomped on the gas. “Even if he had motive, which we don’t know, can’t prove, his opportunity is below nil. He gets Duncan up to the lighthouse in the middle of the damn night, shoots him, shoves him off the cliff, then pulls off the rest? The way he spelled it out’s exactly right.”

“Not if the woman’s part of it. She could’ve lured Duncan up there, then she follows Landon into Boston, drives him back, sits as his alibi.”

“That’s bullshit. Goddamn bullshit. I don’t know her, but she came off clean and up front. So do her neighbors. And I do know Vinnie Hanson. He’s a good cop. He vouches for both of them. It went down just the way they said. The break-in, the goddamn trench, the timing.”

“Landon’s got money. Money buys a lot of vouches.”

“Be damn careful, Wolfe. You’re here because we invited you. We can rescind the invitation, and that’s exactly what I’m going to recommend. You’re f*cking obsessed, and you just screwed any chance I have of getting Landon to cooperate.”

“He killed his wife. He killed Duncan. Cooperation from him’s bullshit.”

“You’ve had a year to pin him for the wife, and you haven’t. Duncan’s a hell of a bigger reach. If you weren’t so dug in, you’d be asking yourself who hired Duncan, why, and where the hell they were between midnight and five on Friday morning. You’d be asking yourself who broke into that house while Landon was in Boston, and how they knew he was in Boston.”

“One doesn’t have dick to do with the other.”

Corbett only shook his head. “Obsessed,” he repeated under his breath.

Inside the house, Eli went directly upstairs, turned into the south wing and into what he’d always thought of as the memento room. Various cases held bits and pieces belonging to ancestors. A pair of lace gloves, a music box with a jeweled butterfly, a pair of ornate silver spurs. Mixed together in what he considered charming and unstudied displays were three leather-bound diaries, military medals, a wonderful brass sextant, a marble mortar and pestle, a pair of satin button shoes and other interesting Landon debris.

Including a case of antique guns. Locked, he noted with considerable relief, as always. The shotguns, a beautifully preserved Henry rifle, the fascinating pearl-handled derringer, the Georgian-style dueling pistols, flintlocks, a tough-looking Colt .45.

He didn’t relax until he’d confirmed every space in the custom-made cabinet held its weapon.

All present and accounted for, he thought. At least he could be confident none of the Landon guns had killed Kirby Duncan. To his knowledge none had been fired in his lifetime, and likely for a generation prior. Too valuable for target practice or sport, he mused, remembering his grandfather allowing a thrilled eight-year-old Eli a chance to hold one of the flintlocks while he explained its history.

Valuable, Eli thought again as he wandered the room. The dueling pistols alone were worth thousands. And easily transportable, easily sold to a collector. A locked glass-fronted case would hardly stop a thief, yet whoever had dug in the basement hadn’t taken the bird in the hand.

Hadn’t known about them? Didn’t know the layout and history of the house well enough? Besides the guns—and there had to be six figures, easily, inside that case—the house contained countless valuable, portable items.

His grandmother would have noticed, eventually. But there’d been a decent window of time between her accident and when he himself had moved in. But if and when the intruder had used that window he’d apparently kept his focus on the basement.

Focused, Eli thought again. So it wasn’t simply about money, or why not take what came easily to hand? It was about treasure.

What kind of sense did that make? he wondered. You could spend one night hauling out a few million in art, memorabilia, collectibles, silver—Jesus, his great-uncle’s extensive stamp collection on display in the library. Or you could spend God knew how many nights hacking away at the basement floor with hand tools for a legend.

More than money, then, he thought again as he prowled through the house, taking a speculative mental scan of easily portable valuables. Was it the thrill? The true belief in treasure beyond price?

Was it an obsession, like Wolfe’s obsession with him?

The idea took him back to the basement to take a closer study of the intruder’s work. On impulse, he stepped down into the trench, found it nearly waist-high in some parts. To his eye it looked as though the work started in the center of the area, then moved out in a kind of grid. North, south, east, west.

Like compass points? How the hell would he know?

He climbed out again, pulled out his phone to take photos from several angles. The cops had pictures, but now he had his own.

For whatever reason, it made him feel proactive. He liked the sensation of doing something. Anything.

To add to it, he went back up, took the brass telescope on its mahogany stand—a gift to his grandmother—out onto the terrace. Proactive meant informed. Maybe it wasn’t the best time for him to take a hike or drive to the lighthouse, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see.

He aimed, focused, adjusted until he had a clear view of the yellow police tape. They’d blocked off the entire area, lighthouse included. He noted a few people behind the tape—the curious, and a couple of official-looking vehicles.

He turned the scope, aimed down, watched what he assumed were crime-scene techs working on the rocks, and getting soaked despite their protective gear.

A long drop, he thought, using the scope to judge the distance from the bluff to the rocks below. In all likelihood the fall would’ve been enough to kill Duncan. But shooting him first guaranteed it.

Why? What had he known, seen, done?

And how was it connected to Lindsay’s death? Logically, there had to be some connection. He didn’t believe Wolfe had that part wrong. Unless the whole thing was as illogical as digging in a basement for pirate treasure, the murders were connected.

Which opened the possibility Duncan’s murder was connected to the intruder.

Again, why? What had he known, seen, done?

A puzzle. In his other life, he’d enjoyed puzzles. Maybe it was time to find out if he still had an aptitude for them.

He left the telescope on the terrace, went back upstairs for a legal pad, a pen. This time on his pass through the kitchen he did slap a sandwich together and, what the hell, added a beer. He took it all to the library, lit the fire and sat down at his great-grandfather’s magnificent old desk.

He thought to start with Lindsay’s death, but realized that wasn’t the beginning—not really. He’d considered their first year of marriage an adjustment period. Ups and down, lateral moves, but a great deal of focus, on both sides, on outfitting and decorating the new house.

Things had begun to change between them, if he were honest, within months of moving into the house.

She’d decided she wanted more time before starting a family, and fair enough. He’d put a great deal of time and energy into his work. She’d wanted him to make full partner, and he felt he was on track for that.

She’d enjoyed the entertaining, the being entertained, and she’d had her own career path and social network. Still, they’d argued, increasingly, over his workload, or conflicts between his priorities and hers. Naturally enough, if he continued to be honest. Sixty-hour workweeks were more common than not, and as a criminal attorney he’d put in plenty of all-nighters.

She’d enjoyed the benefits, but had begun to resent what earned them. He’d appreciated her success in her own career, but had begun to resent the conflicts of interest.

At the base? He admitted they hadn’t loved each other enough, not for the long haul.

Add in her intolerance—and that was a fair word—for his grandmother, for his affection for Bluff House and Whiskey Beach, and the erosion just quickened. And he could see now that even in that first year of marriage, an emotional crack had formed between them, one that had steadily widened until neither of them had the means or desire to bridge the gap.

And hadn’t he resented Lindsay for his own decision to limit, then to end, his visits to Bluff House? He wanted to save his marriage, but more out of principle than for love of his wife.

That was just sad, he thought.

Still, he hadn’t cheated, so points for him.

He’d spent a lot of time trying to calculate when her infidelity had begun. Conclusion? Not quite two years into the marriage, when she’d claimed to be working late, when she’d started to take solo weekend trips to recharge, when their sex life had gone to hell.

He wrote down the approximate date, her name, her closest friends, family members, coworkers. Then drew a line from one, Eden Suskind. Both casual friend and coworker, and the wife of Justin Suskind, Lindsay’s lover at the time of her death.

Eli circled Justin Suskind’s name before continuing his notes.

Eden stood as her cheating husband’s alibi for the night of Lindsay’s murder. He’d hardly had a motive in any case. All evidence pointed to his plans to take her on a romantic getaway in Maine at what had proven to be a favorite hotel.

His wife certainly had no reason to lie for him, and had been humiliated and devastated when the affair came to light.

Eli’s investigator had pursued the possibility of an ex-lover or a second one, one who’d confronted Lindsay and killed her in a fit of temper and passion. But that seed hadn’t borne fruit.

Yet, Eli reminded himself.

She’d let someone into the house that night. No forced entry, no signs of struggle. Her phone and e-mail records—home and work—had shown no communications with anyone who hadn’t been cleared. Then again, Wolfe had been focused on him, and his investigator could have missed something. Someone.

Dutifully, Eli wrote down all the names he remembered, right down to her hairdresser.

At the end of two hours, he’d filled several pages of the tablet, had cross-references, unanswered questions, two assaults, if he counted his grandmother’s fall, and a second murder.

He’d take a walk, he decided, let it simmer.

He felt good, he realized. Despite—maybe even because of—the muscle aches, he felt damn good. Because he knew as he walked out of the library he’d never let himself be railroaded a second time.

Kirby Duncan’s killer had done him a horrible kind of favor.