what?’ said Milligan, repeating himself.
Hollis frowned, still unsure.
‘You said, “Who gives a damn?”’ explained Milligan.
‘I did?’
Christ, not only was he talking to himself now, he didn’t even know it.
‘Oh, you know, the baseball.’ He flapped the East Hampton Star vaguely in Milligan’s direction.
‘My boy scored the winning run in the twelfth.’
He should have remembered. He did remember. Young Tim played for the Bonackers. Southpaw. Swing like a caveman killing his lunch. It was coming back now. All too late.
‘Think you could give a damn about this?’ said Milligan, advancing. He slid a sheet of paper across the desk. Hollis scanned it.
His first thought was ‘There goes my lunch.’
* * *
Hollis turned left on to Newtown Lane from the East Hampton Town Police Department. From here it was pretty much a straight run east of two miles into Amagansett, but as he cleared the town limits he swung the patrol car south on to Skimhampton Road, opting for the back roads.
He reached for the bottle of Gordon’s in the glove compartment, steering with his knees while he unscrewed the cap. A bracing shot, he persuaded himself, because of what lay ahead. He didn’t allow himself to recall the numerous other corpses he had confronted in his career without the aid of liquor.
The beach landing at the end of Atlantic Avenue was deserted except for a black sedan with New York City plates. Hollis pulled on his cap, squinting against the sun and the dust whipped up by the dry, stiff breeze. Even the beach appeared empty. Strolling down on to the sand he saw a gathering of vehicles and men about half a mile to the east through the thin haze of mist thrown up by the breakers. Half a mile. He’d only walked thirty yards and already his shirt was clinging to his chest. He removed his jacket and set off along the shore.
The body lay beneath a faded green canvas tarpaulin in the shade of a large truck, some kind of military transport converted for beach use. A dozen or so fishermen stood about talking in huddles. A few curious vacationers hovered on the fringes, morbid onlookers.
‘Deputy Chief Hollis,’ he announced, approaching the group of fishermen nearest the body. Amagansett fell within the jurisdiction of East Hampton town, but he rarely ventured over here and didn’t recognize any of the characters gathered around regarding him coldly. He didn’t blame them. He couldn’t abide small-town cops himself.
He removed his cap and wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. ‘Who found her?’
One of the men nodded over his shoulder. Thirty yards down the beach, a fisherman, tall and big-boned, was loading a net into a surfboat hitched to the back of an old Model A flatbed. Another fellow – slighter, wirier, with lank, bleached hair – was helping him.
Hollis glanced back at the tarpaulin. ‘Don’t worry,’ said one of the younger men, thin lips buried in a scraggy beard worn to conceal a weak chin. ‘She’s fresh. A day, not even.’
His reluctance to take a look was that transparent? Crouching, Hollis folded back the tarp.
Death had not completely obscured her beauty. Blonde tresses matted with weed framed an oval face that descended to the delicate point of her chin. Her lips, though blue, were arched and full. Faint smile lines flanked her mouth. Her nose was sharp, her eyes wide-set and closed.
He resisted the temptation to force open the lids. Green, he guessed. He’d find out soon enough. There was a small scar etched into her left eyebrow, and pierce-marks in her ears. A beautiful young woman, her life cut short after no more than, what, twentyfive years? Thirty, maximum.
He examined both sides of her neck, instinctively, a vestige of his time in homicide. There was no bruising, but he did find something else, in the sand beside her head.
‘Anyone recognize her?’
The fishermen shrugged, not bothering to reply. Hollis folded back the tarp and got to his feet. ‘Who took her earrings?’
They stared at him, their faces set in stone. He held up the gold back-stud he had found in the sand.
‘I said, who took her earrings?’
He intended his words to have an edge of easy menace, but he knew they sounded petulant.
‘What you take us for?’ From the one with the beard again.
Hollis let it go.
The two men who had netted the body exchanged a few words as he approached them. ‘Deputy Chief Hollis,’ he announced. The tall fisherman nodded an acknowledgment. His dark hair was cropped short, his mouth was wide, intelligent. Steel gray eyes looked down on Hollis from beneath a broad, heavy brow.
‘You were the ones found her?’
‘Uh-huh.’
There was something unnerving about the steady, unyielding gaze. The stillness of the fellow was in stark contrast to his companion, who shuffled his feet nervously as he glanced around him.
Hollis removed a small memo pad from the breast pocket of his jacket. ‘Your name?’ he asked the taller one.
‘Conrad Labarde.’
Hollis looked up. ‘What is that, French?’
‘Basque.’
Basque. It rang a bell, some distant memory of a geography lesson.
‘And you?’ asked Hollis. The nervous fellow froze, then looked to his tall friend as if for assistance.
‘Rollo Kemp,’ replied the Basque. Even Hollis had heard of the Kemps, an old dynasty of farmer-fishermen, one of those families that went back all the way.
‘Cat got his tongue?’
‘You make him a little jumpy is all.’
There was no hint of aggression in his tone, no allocation of blame despite the phrasing. Hollis looked the Kemp boy over – something not quite right about him, he could see it now. Not ‘overburdened’, as his mother would have said. The product of inbreeding, perhaps.
‘You want to tell me what happened?’
Hollis took notes while the Basque, in an even monotone, described the events leading up to the discovery of the body. When he was finished, Hollis closed the pad and placed it in his hip pocket.
‘Any idea who she is?’
‘No.’
‘And what did you do with her earrings?’ It was an old cop trick – a question charged with assumptions, asked ever so casually.
The Basque held Hollis’ gaze, no trace of a flicker. Hollis showed him the earring back-stud.
‘Wait here,’ said the Basque, making
