Short Squeeze (11 page)

I looked for more recent articles, but there was only one, which said the police had yet to track down the hit-and-run driver.

“If Edna Jackery died at Southampton Hospital, Markham would’ve been the one to declare, am I right?” I asked Sam.

“If he was there, and when isn’t he?”

“You can ask him what happened to her nipple.”

“I’m not asking him,” he said.

“Why not?”

“I’m on my way to the Pequot to eat fish, drink vodka, and crack a new physics text from the library. See if I can bring a little certainty to Werner Heisenberg.”

“I don’t know how you read stuff like that. It makes my hair hurt.”

“Tell me what you find out,” he said. “I’ll do the same.”

“Certainly.”

My new car was still where I parked it. I don’t know why it wouldn’t be, but I was feeling overly protective.

As predicted, Markham was at the helm of the Southampton Hospital ER. The woman who sat in a little glass booth just inside the double doors, through which I’d recently been wheeled, examined me carefully when I asked to see him, looking for blood or evidence of blunt-force trauma.

“Dr. Fairchild is on the surgical floor on a consult. How important is this?” she asked.

“It’s regarding a murder investigation,” I said, hoping that sounded important enough.

She seemed unhappy about it, but picked up the phone and murmured into it for a few minutes. Then she looked up at me.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Jackie Swaitkowski. He knows me.”

Still looking at me, she listened and nodded and pointed to the waiting room.

“Any relation to Pete Swaitkowski?” she asked.

“Widow.”

“Oh. Sorry. My sister had a terrible crush on him in high school. I guess you’re the one who caught the fish.”

“More like a bird,” I said, and went to sit down. I’d had this exchange a few hundred times since Pete and I got married. Nobody could argue with Pete’s looks. Or his gentle, good-natured smile and eagerness to do whatever dopey thing anybody else thought would be fun. He’d walk in a room and all the gay men and heterosexual women would drop dead in love. I finally got used to it when I realized he was oblivious to the whole thing. Probably assumed it happened to everybody.

Half an hour later, the woman in the booth waved to me and told me to meet Markham in the canteen.

“I didn’t know you were in the employ of the police,” he said as I approached. He was sitting at a table with a half dozen cups of yogurt, apparently purchased from one of the vending machines.

“I’m not. The victim was one of my clients.”

“And one of mine?” he asked.

“Sergey Pontecello. Found in a bloody heap in the middle of the road.”

He nodded as he dug around the bottom of the yogurt container.

“I love the ones with all the little pieces of fruit,” he said. “It’s like finding buried treasure.”

“He was declared dead at the scene, so I assume they took him straight to the forensic morgue in Riverhead.”

“That’s right. But I hear about it from the paramedics. They like to impress me with gruesome stuff I don’t actually see, so I can’t prove them big talkers.”

“Not sure they could exaggerate this one. Pretty gruesome.”

“I take your word for it, Counselor. How you feeling yourself? Sometimes the bad stuff take some time to show itself. That neck okay?”

Markham Fairchild was the biggest person I’d ever seen. He was almost as tall as Harry, but twice as wide everywhere else. Not fat, just enormous. I loved to watch his hands—which should have been too big to do anything other than wrench boulders out of the ground—handle delicate medical instruments or sweetly brush the hair out of a patient’s face.

“I’m fine, Doc. Thanks for asking. I’m also interested in a woman named Edna Jackery. She was a hit-and-run, about a year ago. The newspaper said they brought her here.”

Markham gathered three empty yogurt containers and flung them one by one with startling accuracy into a trash can easily ten feet away. He peeled back the foil on number four.

“One of the blessed, that one. Gave it up in less than an hour. Could still be on the fancy equipment in someplace to dis day, breakin’ the State of New York’s bank and her family’s heart.”

“So no hope.”

Markham tapped the side of his head.

“Once the brain give up, there ain’t a whole lot can happen. Modern medicine can keep the rest runnin’, but that’s just a technical trick.”

I didn’t know how to ask the next question delicately, so I just asked.

“What kind of shape was she in, otherwise? I mean, the rest of her body. Was she all ripped up?”

Markham must have found some interesting treasure, because he spent the next few moments intently digging around the bottom of the yogurt container.

“I got so much stuff to t’ink about and paperwork to do, I never have time to t’ink about anything else, you know? But that don’t mean
I totally forgo my natural curiosity. So, Counselor, that curiosity is asking me, what is all dis about?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I once sewed a man’s penis back on that was three-quarters severed by a flying saw blade. That was complicated.”

“Yeah, but did it still work?”

“The saw? No. But according to my lucky carpenter, all systems are go.”

“We found her nipple,” I said.

“Mrs. Jackery’s?”

“It was in Sergey Pontecello’s pocket. So that’s why I’m here.”

Markham took a break from devouring the yogurt to sit back in the canteen chair, which didn’t seem capable of supporting him, and give me a look both sour and perplexed.

“That lady was all head trauma. A couple small cuts and contusions from the impact, but the cause of death was a header into the pavement. I’ve seen dis a lot. Car hits person, person ends up on hood, driver panics and hits brakes, person, who could be fine if they only just stop the car, goes flying like a missile into the road headfirst, and the rest is up to the funeral director.”

“So as far as you know, all nipples were where they should’ve been.”

He nodded.

“For sure, presumin’ they real. Got a lot of nipping and tucking coming through these days. Including nipple nipping, if you can believe it. What is it with the ladies to go messing around with their natural selves?”

“The ladies have a lot of pressure on them, I guess,” I told him. “We’re still figuring out how to deal with it.”

He shook his head sadly.

“Dr. Fairchild,” I said, “one other thing. Joe Sullivan will probably be calling you with some of the same questions. It would be oh so convenient if you didn’t sort of mention that I’d gotten here first.”

He went back to digging around in the yogurt container. I sat and watched in silence, suddenly feeling stupid and small, not a hard thing around the good doctor. Before I suffocated in the dead air, I thanked him, apologized, and bolted from my chair. I was almost to the door when he called out to me.

“Of course, Mrs. Jackery stop off at the same place as Mr. Pontecello.”

I stopped.

“Huh?”

“All hit-and-run mandatory autopsy. Murder investigation. All done by the M.E. in Riverhead. And I thank him for it. Autopsy’s not my cup of tea.”

I knew that, but I thanked him anyway.

“And Counselor,” he said. “Only one withholding from the police per customer. Next time, don’t ask.”

I thanked him again and headed out the door before I could further embarrass myself. I’d have to be more careful if I was going to approach Suffolk County Forensics, or the medial examiner, who worked in the same lab. I’d gotten to know them on some of Burton’s nastier cases. They were brilliant, exacting, and as paranoid as hell, living in mortal fear of missing a crucial detail that would blow up a case. You can guess how they felt about defense attorneys, the people often decrying slipshod procedures and incompetence. I could see myself dropping in on the lab and casually asking if they’d misplaced any nipples lately.

I sensed my mood starting to teeter, which was ridiculous. One little bump in the road and it’s misery. But before darkness fell I had another thought. I checked my watch, hoping it wasn’t too late, and drove out to County Road, where I thought I’d find a place called Sydney’s Snack and Scuba Shack.

The building sat alone in the middle of a field. It was a converted house, or more accurate, converted shack. Somebody, perhaps Sydney
himself, had hand painted the sign, which was about three feet high and ran the width of the second floor. The style of lettering was late 1960s Haight-Ashbury, and the choice of colors startling in their incompatibility, which might have been Sydney’s intent. A different sort of artistry expressed itself on the front door, which was covered with a three-quarter-size poster of a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader wearing scuba gear.

Inside, an avalanche of aquatic equipment cascaded down from the walls and spread out across the floor. More clung from the rafters and aggregated around freestanding displays whose original purpose was long forgotten. Flippers, goggles, tanks, regulators, weight belts, baggy trunks, snorkels, surfboards, kayaks, paddles, wet suits, underwater radios and cameras, dry bags, knives, and life preservers for small, medium, and oversize dogs. In a far corner was an island of relief, a small counter with a half dozen chrome-and-black leather stools, behind which was a single shelf with a blender, an espresso machine, and other subtle evidence of food preparation.

Zen serenity in the midst of material profusion. Couldn’t be the work of the same person. I said as much to the wiry, balding, ponytailed guy in a tropical shirt unloading a box of Day-Glo buoyancy compensators. I assumed it was Sydney.

“Brandon Wayne,” he said when I introduced myself.

“Oh. So who’s Sydney?”

“My girlfriend. Ex. Twenty years, now.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I booted her. Probably for no good reason. Not a bad girl. Though explaining the name of the place all the time has probably improved my memory of her.”

“So which was her idea, the water gear or the snacks?”

“Neither. She wanted a hair salon, one just for men. Make ’em all look like Duran Duran. Couldn’t abide that. I got into food after rehab. Don’t let the empty stools fool you. Come in around December and the joint’s full of Joes off the construction sites drinking joe.”

He held one of the buoyancy vests up to my chest, frowning appraisingly.

“Supposed to be a safety thing. Makes you look like beach ball.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He caught himself.

“Not the shape. The color. I don’t think divers are going to dig it. Would undermine their dignity.” He dropped the vest back into the box. “So what’re you looking for? Not exactly the season, unless you’re heading south.”

“Information,” I said.

“No more training classes till the spring. I could sign you up now.”

He climbed over the box and headed for the mound at the back of the room that served as a counter. I picked my way around the stuff on the floor while I tried to explain what I meant.

“Not diving information. I was wondering about Edna Jackery.”

He stopped cold and turned around. “You family?”

“I’m an attorney.” I handed him my card. “I was looking into another matter when something related to Edna came up. That’s when I learned she’d been killed in a hit-and-run.”

“Great person, lousy bookkeeper. I still don’t get why you’re interested.”

The truth is a funny thing. It’s usually the most reliable fallback, but plenty of times it can do more harm than good. Other times, it’s just too damn complicated to be a serviceable strategy.

“I’m doing research on hit-and-runs. Especially those involving women, who seem to be disproportionately affected. It’s too late to help Edna, but maybe my report will save someone else’s life. That’s enough for me,” I concluded earnestly, suggesting that not helping me was tantamount to involuntary manslaughter.

He crossed his arms and nodded. “I told the cops everything I know. I liked the hell out of Edna, but she was the sloppiest person I ever knew.” I forced myself to keep my eyes on his and not gaze around
his shop. “A natural-born fuckup, and blissfully unconcerned about it, though like I said, a doll to be around. What can I say, I’m a sucker for the type.”

“Me, too. The newspaper said she was working late and had to walk home because her car wouldn’t start.”

He shook his head, looking down at the floor.

“I wished she’d just called me. I’d have driven her home. She didn’t want to bother her dopey kid, who was probably responsible for screwing up the car in the first place. It’s dark along this part of County Road. No streetlights, and the glare from the traffic can be disorienting, even if you aren’t a knucklehead like Edna. Forgive me, Lord, may she rest in peace.”

“Some knucklehead ran her over and didn’t bother to stop or call an ambulance.”

“Yeah. Motherfucker. If I catch him before the cops …” He made the gesture of a quick slip of a knife across his throat. It looked fairly authentic, so I probably looked surprised.

“Naval training. SEALs,” he said.

My surprise deepened.

“Where do you think I learned to dive?” he said. “Worked off a sub for four years. No big deal. Just a job like any other. What else you want to know?”

I shook off a vision of the fiftysomething Brandon Wayne climbing a cliff in a wet suit, in the dark, with a knife in his mouth, stabbing and garroting an unsuspecting sentry, packing plastic explosives under the gun emplacement …

“Did she know anyone named Pontecello or Wolsonowicz?” I asked.

He thought about it.

“I didn’t know her well enough to know her friends. Those names are a little familiar, though. Maybe they came in the shop. Men or women?”

I ticked off the members of the happy family, throwing in the dead artist for extra measure.

He nodded.

“That’s what rang a bell, probably. I knew Tony’s work. I’m an artist myself,” he added, pointing either toward the inspiration of heaven or his psychedelic sign.

“That’s yours?” I asked, almost breathlessly. “Really something. Honestly.”

“Couldn’t paint like that now. Had to move on. I’m into miniatures. Like crazy miniature. Use steel microfibers and ultra-low-viscosity dyes. Kills the eyes, even with a big magnifying glass, but it’s so cool.”