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  I heard Sullivan let out a little puff of disdain, but he stayed quiet.

  Elvin led us past a long row of tellers across from a field of elegant desks with computer screens and well-dressed people who spoke subaudible words into their phones. True to custom, the safe-deposit boxes were in the vault at the back of the bank. This was my favorite part—seeing the colossal and exquisitely beautiful round door. I don’t know if I caught this from my engineer father, but I always loved the splendor of shiny machined steel. I could never be a bank robber if it meant drilling such a thing full of holes and blowing it up. I’d have to get really good at hearing the tumblers drop into place, listening with perfect concentration for the traitorous little clicks.

  Elvin showed his ID to the gnarly old woman guarding the wooden gate that led into the staging area in front of the vault. Even though they’d been working together in the same office for more than twenty years, she gave it a good look, then waved to me. I gave her my license, which she looked eager to reject, running her eyes up and down my entire body.

  “I had some surgery done on my face since that photo was taken,” I said. “Medical, not cosmetic,” I added, after seeing disapproval light up her face. I’m not sure she bought it, but I got my license back. Brad skated through, probably on the strength of his resemblance to a worthless grandson, and Joe simply stuck his detective’s badge in her face. She averted her eyes and rushed him through.

  While the three of us waited, Elvin secured the key to the safe-deposit box. Then we all went into the vault. Another bank employee was there with a few boxes on a table and a pad of paper on which she was taking notes.

  “We’ll wait until the vault is cleared,” said Joe.

  “That’s not necessary,” said Elvin, trying to be helpful.

  “Yes, it is,” said Joe, with that flat, dead tone cops use that usually scares the pee out of regular civilians.

  “Of course,” said Elvin, walking quickly over to the woman and whispering in her ear. She booked out of there with barely a sidelong glance.

  Elvin gave us a strained smile and led us to the box. He asked Brad about the protocols.

  “Uh, I guess you open it and I, like, write down a list of all the stuff that’s in there.” He held up a clipboard to help us grasp the concept.

  “You guess?” Joe said.

  “I mean, yeah,” said Brad. “That’s how it works.”

  “You want to think about it some more?” asked Joe.

  Brad found the courage of his convictions.

  “No, sir. That is absolutely the way it works.”

  Sullivan nodded and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a wad of surgical gloves and handed them out.

  After we were fully gloved, he nodded at Elvin, who gave him a little bow, then stuck in the key, turned it, and slid out the box. We gathered around a chest-high table and watched him open it up.

  A bald, naked doll with jaundiced skin stared up at us with a crooked, maniacal leer.

  “Whoa, holy crap. Fucking freak me out,” said Brad.

  Sullivan instantly stuck him in the chest with a stubby, rigid index finger.

  “None of that stuff, hear?” he said.

  Brad recovered his composure.

  “Noted,” he said.

  “Write it down,” said Sullivan.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Elvin lifted out the doll. Under it was a bundle of yellowed newspaper clippings. While Brad made a log, I asked Sullivan if I could take a peek. He nodded. Afraid to damage the brittle scraps, I barely lifted the corners to look. From what I could tell, they were all recipes. I reported that to my colleagues.

  “Write that down,” said Sullivan to Brad.

  Under the recipes was a box containing a gold class ring covered in Latin and a cameo, very old, picturing a stern, homely woman. Also a rhinestone necklace, the kind you could find by the bushel at any Sunday afternoon flea market.

  Under that was an envelope labeled QUITCLAIM DEED, just as Sergey had said. After Brad logged it onto his clipboard, I asked Joe Sullivan if I could take a look. He said sure.

  It was a legitimate document, with all the formal legal language, blocky typewriter type, and oversize papers. I took in the first few paragraphs and scanned to the end. It was plenty official and not overly burdened with legal jargon. In fact, it was all pretty clear.

  It was written about twenty years ago and said that Eunice Hamilton Wolsonowicz had released all rights and claims to the Hamilton property in the Sagaponack section of the Town of Southampton, conveying such to Elizabeth Hamilton Pontecello.

  Folded inside was another document, this one a promissory note, stating that the house and contents, the specifics to be determined, were posted as collateral against a loan to be paid as funds were requested, up to a limit of $4,685,000. It was dated a year ago.

  So Betty had essentially set up her sister as a credit line with the house as collateral. I already knew where this led, but still, it was oddly depressing to see the details so irredeemably documented.

  I handed both documents to Joe, who looked at them before handing them over to Brad.

  “Is that it?” Joe asked.

  Elvin dug around and pulled out a set of ceramic salt- and pepper shakers. The salt was in a naked breast and the pepper an erect penis. “We’ve seen stranger,” he said, and as if to prove the point, pulled out the last item, a pint-size Ziploc bag containing a pair of severed ears.

  Brad said, “Oh, Christ,” then slapped his hand over his mouth.

  I took the bag out of Elvin’s hand and tossed it to Sullivan, who caught it in midair.

  “Write it down,” said Sullivan. Brad handed him the clipboard and headed for the exit. Couldn’t blame him.

  “Send them along to Riverhead,” I said to Sullivan. “Next time, we’re going for the whole head,” I added, grinning at Elvin, who’d already decided the consequences of unfettered curiosity weren’t all they were cracked up to be.

  16

  The leaden weariness brought on from the last few days pinned my limbs to the bed. I decided I needed the whole morning to gather my strength. To call up reinforcements, renew my vitality.

  Or maybe just loaf around in bed playing Dead Girl. This was a game of mine growing up. On mornings when waking up all the way seemed too high a mountain to climb, I’d pretend I was dead. This was more difficult than you’d think. I had to lie there, perfectly still, holding my breath and trying to will my skin into a gray, cadaverous pallor. My mother never once fell for it, though she’d say things like, “Oh, dear. Jacqueline is dead. What a pity, such a nice little girl. Sigh. I suppose we’ll just have to buy another one.”

  The problem with playing Dead Girl when you’re my age and living alone is there’s no one to fool but yourself.

  After I’d tried to simulate the total lifelessness of a murder victim my joints began to rebel, making it so uncomfortable I gave up the fight and slid off the bed onto the floor. This position seemed more authentic, so I lay there for a while, imagining a circle of horrified witnesses, muttering that they’d never seen such a beautiful dead body.

  This worked for another half hour, until I was forced to admit I was wide-awake and bored with the idea of lying flat on my back. Still, it was a good hour before I managed to clean myself up and choose between the yellow jeans and green hiking boots or dark green jeans and white running shoes, compromising with all green from top to bottom.

  I’d decided that morning to visit Winthrop’s, which likely incited the performance by Dead Girl. It was a short trip to the funeral home, one of two in town. The other was started by a Greek guy who was also in the pizza-shop business. Though his name was Andre Pappanasta, he named the place Livingston and Hawthorne, understanding that Long Islanders preferred to think that starchy, impeccable Anglo-Saxons, like the ones they saw on Upstairs, Downstairs, would be handling their loved ones’ remains. Winthrop’s was the real deal, having been in the business forever, a selling point reinforced
by the facilities themselves, housed in a lovingly restored colonial inn on Montauk Highway.

  I pushed a button on a table in the lobby labeled FOR ATTENTION, which I got seconds later. He was a well-dressed man in his late forties, tall and clean-featured, with wire-frame glasses and rapidly evaporating black hair made blacker by an oily dressing pasting the defeated remains into a slick skullcap.

  He stood before me with hands clasped tightly to his chest.

  “Mrs. Anderson, I presume,” he said.

  “Sorry, no. Jackie Swaitkowski. I’m an attorney here in Southampton. I was hoping to meet with your management.”

  The man smiled.

  “My management is my wife, so you must mean the person in charge of Winthrop’s Funeral Home, which would be me.”

  He put out his hand. I took it, fearing something cold, limp, and creepy, but suffered hard, dry, and assertive instead.

  “Alden Winthrop,” he said.

  “I’m looking into the death of one of my clients. I was hoping I could ask you a question or two.”

  He smiled another well-practiced smile.

  “I’m happy to speak with you, only I can’t imagine how I could help.”

  Winthrop still looked eager to please but now slightly uncertain.

  “Can we just sit down for a second?” I said, rubbing my leg as if nursing an ancient injury. That did it.

  “Oh, of course, come this way.”

  I felt like I was back in Sandy Kalandro’s office. Winthrop’s space was every bit as comfortable, though distinguished by its greater vintage, predominantly mid-eighteenth-century, with some arts and crafts mixed in. And devotedly cared for. The leather couches were a dark and supple cordovan, and the finish on the elegant veneered desk and credenza so deeply luxurious I had to sit on my hands to resist stroking the grain. On the walls were black-and-white photographs taken in the old days of Southampton Village, when the streets were mud, people dressed in black, and cattle grazed in the empty fields next to the treacherous ocean. When I was getting over my dead husband, I went to a shrink who had an office like this.

  Winthrop nimbly slid around the desk and sat down. I dropped into one of the two visitor’s chairs facing the desk and immediately felt the urge to talk about my childhood.

  “So,” said Winthrop.

  “Do you remember Edna Jackery?” I asked.

  Winthrop furrowed his brow.

  “Jackery. Familiar name.”

  “Your family has been burying their family for decades.”

  “I wouldn’t have phrased it quite that way, but I understand what you’re saying,” he said. He leaned both elbows on the top of the desk and set his chin on top of his folded hands.

  “You probably remember she was killed in a hit-and-run about a year ago,” I said. “Somewhere between the medical examiner’s and here some of Edna got separated from the rest of Edna. Any ideas?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “I know she left the M.E. intact and was cremated by you folks,” I said. “So I’m wondering why pieces of Edna keep showing up in places where they don’t belong.”

  “Curious.”

  “Does cremation happen here or off-site somewhere?” I asked.

  He looked around as if the crematorium was just outside the door and down the hall.

  “Did you say you were an attorney?” he asked me.

  I nodded.

  “Is the family aware of this situation?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “No, and they won’t be if I have anything to do with it. This is an entirely private inquiry,” I said.

  His silence seemed to say he was weighing his options. I waited him out.

  “How do I say this delicately,” he said.

  “Not too delicately for my sake, Mr. Winthrop. I’m a lawyer. I’ve heard it all.”

  “For certain items, by-products of the embalming process, we have a small furnace at the facility. For total cremation, we have a long-term arrangement with a crematorium service,” said Winthrop. “The deceased from the medical examiner usually come with the family’s instructions. If Mrs. Jackery was cremated, that was her family’s wish. We have no direct involvement in this beyond preparing the proper manifest, picking up the deceased, holding services, then scheduling the cremation. Frankly, this all sounds thoroughly appalling. You are sure that some of Mrs. Jackery became detached in the process?”

  “According to the DNA, at least one part we’re sure of,” I said. “Who picked her up at the M.E. and dropped her off at the crematorium?”

  “Did you say it was a year ago?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Winthrop rose slowly from his chair and went over to a tall oak filing cabinet. He flicked his fingers across the file tabs until he reached the right spot. He pulled out a file and opened it, and took a moment to read through the papers. Then he sat back in his chair and put both hands flat on the desk.

  “Alden Winthrop the fourth. My son. He’s just breaking into the business, learning the ropes. As I did—start at the bottom and work your way up.”

  “Then he’s the one we need to talk to,” I said.

  This pained Winthrop, though it was hard to tell why. Unless it was the obvious—that here was this pushy woman, intruding on him and asking unsettling questions. In fact, he had a perfect right to tell me to take a hike. That he hadn’t so far was more likely caution in the face of a threat than professional courtesy.

  “I’m beginning to wonder if we should be having this conversation,” said Winthrop. “I don’t wish to be rude, but the irregularities are rather extreme.”

  It was too bad that the arms on my big leather chair were broad, solid oak, providing a hard surface for me to tap my fingernails. I realized I was doing it when the sound drew Winthrop’s attention.

  “Here’s the thing, Mr. Winthrop,” I said, sitting back on my hands.

  “You can call me Alden.”

  “Alden. A client of mine was killed recently under what the police consider suspicious circumstances. There’s a connection between his death and Edna Jackery’s remains. That’s all I can tell you and I shouldn’t be telling you that. You’re under absolutely no obligation to talk to me about this, but I’m only a couple steps ahead of the Southampton Police, and with them it’s a different story.”

  “In what way?”

  “Let’s just say, Alden, you won’t find them as sensitive to your interests as I am,” I said.

  Color would have been draining out of his face if there had been any color there in the first place.

  “Should I be reaching out to my own attorney?” he asked.

  “Not a bad idea,” I said. “But should you need any help from me with the cops, you’ll wait till I talk to your kid.”

  I said this as gently as I could, but there was no disguising the implication. After some more silent deliberation, Winthrop picked up his desk phone and dialed.

  “Denny, it’s your father,” he said into the receiver. “Are you still in Building Two?”

  He listened to the answer.

  “I know you said you would be. I was merely asking. There is someone here who wants to talk to you.”

  Another pause.

  “I’ll let her explain that. She’s on her way over,” he said, then hung up the phone without saying good-bye, as if to thwart the next objection.

  “It wouldn’t be a family business if we didn’t work with family, now would it?” said Winthrop, almost to himself, which probably explained something, though I wasn’t sure what.

  Building Two looked like a big two-story garage with a row of eight bays. There was a side door at the end of a path. I opened it without knocking. The door led into a small foyer, with another door that led into a large open area, much larger than it looked from the outside. It was brilliantly lit by banks of industrial fluorescent lighting. The floor was painted a spotless dove gray. Parked inside were a pair of hearses, a blue van, a vintage something covered in canvas
, and at the far end, a Ford pickup truck, the official vehicle of Eastern Suffolk County. The vehicles that were exposed looked recently detailed, polished to a finish you could use to check your mascara.

  The back wall extended well beyond the depth of the garage bays. In one corner was a virtual suite, complete with a single bed—brutally unmade—dresser, fridge, top-loading freezer, sink, and a card table with two chairs. The rest of the space was crammed with folding chairs, tents, portable pulpits, and PA systems, flower boxes on wheels, easels to hold photo collages of the departed, and other accoutrement you’d expect to be in the service of a funeral home.

  Except for the half dozen surfboards, ice hockey sticks, aquarium, kayak, and diving gear.

  In the middle of a small open space was a padded thing on skids being kicked and punched by a young man with a long blond ponytail and a tattoo of Groucho Marx on his muscular shoulder.

  He treated me to about five minutes of vigorous pummeling of the defenseless equipment, to which he gave a bow before acknowledging me with a wide, humorless smile.

  “Once I start a sequence, I have to finish. It’s a discipline,” he said.

  He walked briskly across the canvas, slipped through the ropes, and offered me his sweaty, taped-up hand.

  “Denny Winthrop.” He held eye contact and my hand longer than necessary in that reflexive way good-looking young guys always do. I knew how to hold back my gratitude.

  “Jackie Swaitkowski.”

  I pulled back my hand until he relented and let go. He swept a towel off the floor and dabbed his face.

  “What’s this about?” he asked. “My old man wouldn’t say.”

  “It’s a little complicated,” I said. “Can we sit down?”

  “Sure, you can,” said Denny, “but I have to stand. It’s part of the cooldown.”

  He used one hand to snap open a folding chair, which he dropped down in front of me. I sat.

  I gave Denny the same basic briefing I’d given his father. I watched his face as I talked but saw no change in his confident poise.

  “If the old man says I shipped the stiff, I guess I did. A year ago’s a long time. I don’t usually get to know the cargo all that well.”