Chapter 21
Bloch
The time it takes to get from Manhattan to East Hampton varies according to the time of day, and the time of year.
It was the tail end of winter, spring was promised and the traffic on the freeway was light.
Two and half hours, for the one-hundred-and-ten-mile trip.
In the summer, the same journey can take anywhere between four and seven hours.
East Hampton is a rich getaway town for the Manhattan elite.
With its beaches and old-town feel, it’s a haven for millionaires looking to summer on Long Island.
You won’t get a house with a pool for under eight million, and the mom-and-pop stores on Main Street have all but been replaced by Prada, Gucci and Ralph Lauren.
The Clintons summered here, Robert Downey Jr. lives in a converted windmill and the most in-demand addition for properties in the area isn’t a tennis court, or a heated pool, it’s a helipad, so the super-rich don’t have to spend seven hours fighting through the traffic on a Friday night.
Bloch pulled her Jeep off Montauk Highway, so named after one of the indigenous peoples who were forced, bribed or hoodwinked out of their land. Another sharp left brought them into the parking lot of East Hampton Police Headquarters, just behind the local airport.
Bloch found a space, and killed the engine. No police vehicle in the lot was more than two years old, all fitted with the latest tech. A police helicopter sat behind the station. For a small-town police force, they were better equipped than most city cops.
‘It’s more like a country club than a police station,’ said Lake.
Bloch nodded.
They got out of the car and entered the building.
It was a few years old now, but to Bloch, any place that smelled of fresh paint was new.
The desk sergeant looked as though he’d just had the same kind of cosmetic surgery as the building.
It was a hell of thing, policing the rich.
Of course, the police force wasn’t there to keep order among the millionaires and billionaires – mostly they were there to stop homes being robbed by outsiders and to keep in check the staff who lived west and south of the village, in considerably smaller homes, who cut lawns, brewed coffee, drove Ubers and did the laundry.
The Christmas tip jar for this station would’ve funded a precinct in the Bronx for a month.
‘Bloch for Captain Landry,’ she said.
The desk sergeant looked up from the mirror on his desk – he had just been admiring his tan – and picked up the phone.
‘Say, what kind of moisturizer do you use?’ asked Lake.
Bloch rolled her eyes.
‘Depends if it’s my morning or night routine,’ said the sergeant. ‘Mostly, I use L’Oreal for daily moisturizing. In the evening, I prefer something aloe based.’
Lake nodded. ‘Thank you.’
As they took a seat to wait for the captain, Bloch said, ‘Aloe?’
‘It’s good for you,’ said Lake. ‘You should try it.’
‘Sometimes I don’t understand you.’
‘What’s wrong with moisturizing?’
‘What’s wrong with buying food and putting it in your refrigerator? What’s wrong with ironing a shirt? Or shaving more than once a week?’
‘I’ve got my priorities straight,’ he said.
‘Miss Bloch?’ said a voice.
Standing in front of them was a middle-aged man in uniform – black pants, white shirt with insignia, black and gold epaulettes that came with the rank.
He sported a thick, graying moustache that might have come with the rank too.
A row of three silver pens sat in his shirt pocket, neatly held in place by their clips.
The shirt was clean and diligently pressed.
‘Captain Landry,’ she said, and stood to shake hands. ‘It’s just Bloch.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Just Bloch. And this gentleman?’
‘He’s not important,’ said Bloch.
‘Do you have your identification?’ Landry asked.
Bloch handed over her private-investigator’s license. Landry glanced at it, threw it on the desk of the sergeant and asked him to take a photocopy.
‘Just for our records, you understand,’ he said. ‘What about Mr. Unimportant?’
‘He’s with me,’ said Bloch.
‘Does he have a license?’
‘Why don’t we talk in your office?’ asked Bloch.
Landry pressed his thick fingers onto his hips. He said nothing. And didn’t move again for a time. He was putting up a roadblock of sorts. There was no getting around this.
‘I don’t usually like giving my name,’ said Lake. ‘I don’t have a PI license. I’m not insured or regulated as an investigator. I pay my taxes, I’m polite and I obey the law, most of the time. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m just assisting Bloch.’
‘You want to talk about Teresa Chase, I’m going to need your name and identification.’
‘I might have an old Blockbuster Video membership card, if that helps?’ asked Lake.
‘Your name will suffice.’
‘Gabriel Lake.’
‘You’re him.’
Lake stared at him. Landry stared back.
‘I thought you’d be bigger,’ said Landry.
‘I get that a lot,’ said Lake.
‘So you’re not a licensed investigator in the state?’
‘I’m consulting.’
Landry stared at him, and rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek, mirroring the thoughts rolling around in his head.
Finally, he said, ‘Well, the two of you can come on back to my office. Professional co-operation is the cornerstone of good policing. Just out of interest, who is your client?’
‘We can’t release that information,’ said Bloch.
‘I understand. Come on. You want coffee?’
Bloch nodded. Lake shook his head.
‘Bring us a couple of fresh cups, along with the ID,’ said Landry to the desk sergeant.
The captain’s office had more screens and tech than Bloch was used to. Two monitors sat on his desk, another wide screen hung on the wall and a TV with the local news played in the corner, with the volume down low.
Landry clocked Bloch taking in the room.
‘It pays to be up to date. I can monitor every officer on shift at any time from here. Take a seat,’ and he waved to two leather chairs facing his desk.
A thin file with a blue cover sat there. It was old and the cover was curled up at the edges. Landry sat down and opened it. Bloch leaned forward.
There were perhaps ten or twelve pages in the file. No more.
A paltry body of work for a missing woman.
The desk sergeant came in, handed out the coffees, took the ID from his back pocket and handed it back to Bloch. She took a sip from her coffee. It was hot, but not fresh. It tasted of old coffee machines that brewed twelve hours a day and gave every pot the same stewed flavor.
‘The coastguard handled this for the most part,’ said Landry.
He’d eyed Bloch sizing up the file. ‘Teresa Chase had been swimming off the east shore. She was there one minute, gone the next. Riptides, you see. We were called out, as is routine, took some particulars and then handed it over to the coastguard. Tragic accident. Not much more I can tell you.’
‘She drowned?’ asked Lake.
‘It would appear so. Body was never recovered.’
‘Tell us about her,’ said Bloch.
‘She was twenty-eight years old. No immediate family. She’d lost both her parents a few years before in a car wreck.
Had a half-sister, somewhere, but we couldn’t find her and she never came forward.
Teresa was an English grad, worked a little in the local paper, writing up movie reviews, restaurant reviews, that kind of thing.
Nice girl, by all accounts. Such a shame. ’
‘Who reported her missing?’
Landry leaned on the desk, covering most of the open file with his forearm.
‘A local, who was on the beach.’
‘Did you get a name?’ asked Bloch.
‘Sure, doesn’t matter much. They did the right thing – called it in straight away. Coastguard was in the water fast. They did everything they could to find her. It’s just one of those—’
‘Do you mind if I take a look at the report?’ asked Bloch.
‘Like I said, not much to it.’
‘This local, was his name Patrick Vanderpool?’ asked Bloch.
Landry swallowed a mouthful of bitter coffee, then said, ‘Why, yes it was.’
‘Were they friends? In a relationship?’ asked Bloch.
‘Whether they were or not, doesn’t matter much when you’re searching for a body ripped out to sea. The riptide doesn’t care about that, now does it?’
Bloch thought for a moment, said, ‘I take it you have a report from the coastguard about the search?’
‘Sure do.’
‘Can I look at that report?’
Landry hesitated.
Lake spoke for the first time. ‘If we saw that, it might go some way to confirm that everything possible was done to save Teresa. That kind of thing can be of comfort to some people who have lost those who were dear to them.’
‘Sure,’ said Landry, tearing the report out of the file.
It was a single page, recounting the report from the coastguard and their searches, including geographic coverage, an examination of the tides and theories of possible locations based on that.
The first thing Bloch did was look for the name of the reporting officer – Winchester, Paul.
Detective. And she scanned the rest of the document, but took her time. She had all she needed.
Handing the report back to Landry, she asked, ‘Is there anything else you think might be important?’
Landry held up the thin file, and said, ‘We don’t have much. It’s really a coastguard matter.’
‘Do you think it would be worthwhile talking to the lead officer on the case?’ she asked.
Landry coughed, leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk.
‘He’s not with us. Not any more. He had some personal issues.
Mental health, that kind of stuff. He took early medical retirement.
He won’t be able to tell you anything more than I’ve told you.
And, well, I feel sorry for the guy. This job takes a toll – you know that.
I wouldn’t want him disturbed. Plus, the kind of meds he’s on – probably doesn’t remember his own name half the time, never mind anything else. ’
Bloch took another drink of coffee, set the mug down and said, ‘Thank you for your help.’
Together, Lake and Bloch got up and he escorted them out of the building.
‘Sorry you had to come all this way for that. Good to meet you both,’ he said.
They all shook hands. Lake and Bloch walked silently to her car.
Once inside, the car doors closed, they watched as Landry stood in the lot, his hands in his pockets.
Neither of them said anything. They didn’t need to. Bloch fired the engine, and waved at Landry as they left. In the rearview, she watched him turn and head back inside.
Lake had his phone in his hand. Staring at the screen.
‘I’ve got a Paul Winchester in Sag Harbor.’
‘Give me the address,’ said Bloch, pointing to the navigation screen. Lake punched in the address. It was an hour away.
‘What did you think?’ he asked.
‘I think at least half that file is missing. Sometimes it can be difficult to distinguish between incompetence and a cover-up.’
‘Landry isn’t incompetent. Did you see those pens in his shirt pocket?’ asked Lake.
Bloch had noticed them, but had given them no further thought.
That’s not how her mind worked. She had a hard time reading people.
She had a basic understanding that Landry had been cautious about what information he had given out, and didn’t want anyone poking around in their old case.
But the same could be said for any number of cops.
Nobody likes having their work judged in hindsight.
‘I saw the pens. So what?’ said Bloch.
‘His shirt was fresh on today, right out of the dry-cleaning wrap. He keeps those pens in his pocket to make notes, corrections, additions, all in different colors. His desk, his dress, his entire office was neat and orderly. He is a meticulous man. He’s not worried about anyone judging police work from his precinct.
Plus, he stood in the lot, and he made sure we left. At least we know one thing about him.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We can’t trust a word he said. The police, at the very highest level, are covering something up for Patrick Vanderpool.’