They came to the main gate, framed by artisanally crafted granite pillars accented with brick. A thick timber crosspiece formed an arch overhead. Implanted in its center sat a rectangular steel plate whose white paint showed weathering and blossoms of rust. The sign, cut from the hull of an old ship, read in black letters COSMO.
Rook appraised the gate, which was made of heavy wood that matched the crossbeam. “We could get over this.”
“And get arrested.”
“Then it’s a good thing you made a police friend.”
When she protested again, he said, “Come on, Nik, we can’t come this far without a healthy peek. You think I got two Pulitzers by waiting in the Humvee because some sign said keep out? Although, I can’t read Russian, so I had plausible deniability.”
Heat ignored him and pressed the call buzzer on the code box. He checked his watch face. “Fine, but exactly one minute, and you’re giving me a boost.”
A dead bolt snapped and the gates parted in the middle wide enough for the man to step out. He had graying hair poking out from under his Carhartt cap and wore a tan, long-sleeved shirt and pants that matched. No stretch for Nikki to take him to be the groundskeeper. “Help you?”
Heat showed her ID and, without any mention of Keith Gilbert or the circumstances, explained she was looking for information on someone. His face tightened, and he said, “I’m just the caretaker.” She had encountered men like him before. Middle-aged pool cleaners and house painters, mostly. Emotionally fragile types not wired for life’s interactions. A lot of them had an unhappy history of desk jobs, and working outdoors alone provided a way to drop out in plain sight. In deference to his unease she kept it simple.
“I’d just like you to look at a picture.”
When she held out the mug shot his eyes barely swept it; then he said in sort of a plea, “I’m only here today to shutter up in case we get that hurricane.” Heat tried to read him for a reaction. Was that blinky look away stress or something more?
“Have you ever seen him?”
“I don’t like to get involved in stuff that’s not my business. I’m just the caretaker,” he repeated.
“Have you ever heard the name, Fabian Beauvais?”
He closed his eyelids as he said, “You should talk to my boss.”
Then Nikki got distracted. Behind the caretaker’s back, Rook flashed her an impish grin and tiptoed through the gap in the gate. What the hell? The man started to look over his shoulder. She drew his attention back. “What about your boss? Has Mr. Gilbert ever mentioned his name?”
He never answered. Behind the gate they heard an urgent bark and Rook’s more urgent “No!”
When they got inside the German shepherd had a mouthful of Rook’s right leg. Sharp teeth took hold of his calf above the Achilles’ — but only clamped firmly without biting. It served its purpose, freezing him in place while the guard dog awaited further instructions. “Call him off?” said Rook, trying to keep his cool. The caretaker drew a forefinger across his throat like a TV director’s cut sign, and the guard dog let go. Then he tapped his thigh twice and the shepherd left Rook and trotted off to heel and sit on alert at the man’s left knee.
“You got lucky. Topper here’s all about strangers.”
The dog’s ears flicked when he heard his name but remained locked on Rook, who inched his way back beside Heat. “Sorry. Really. The gate was open and I just thought it was OK.”
Nikki took the opportunity to study the mansion. Keith Gilbert downplayed it, but with all its grandeur, its multiple gables, its widow’s walks, its nineteenth-century windmill looming over the topiary garden, the gazebo by the pool, and the outbuilding that housed what looked like four sea kayaks, a pair of Lasers and a Hobie Cat, it could only be called the M-word. The caretaker interrupted her survey. “Going to be dark in an hour, and I’ve got chores to finish. I’ll close the gate after you.”
As soon as the dead bolt slid behind them she said, “This is why I make you stay in the car.”
“And, if I had, you’d have never seen that place. Did you get a load of that garden? Straight out of Architectural Digest.”
“I want to try the neighbors.” Nikki crossed the road, trying to find a house close enough to be considered neighboring. She chose the nearest, a sore thumb of a Moroccan modern situated on the pond.
Rook didn’t miss a beat as they walked toward it. “How could Gilbert not call that a mansion? Jeez, it’s the size of a hotel. No, it’s Downton Abbey’s little brother, only of wood. And did you see the color variation on the roof and siding? That must be the post-Irene repair work he was complaining about.”
Actually, Nikki had made note of the new shingling, too, first on the old windmill, then on the house and roof; the older squares appeared slightly darker than the replacements. “Lot of work got done on that place since spring.” Meaning a Rook Theory couldn’t be far off.
“Here comes.”
“Hey, I don’t think it’s tinfoil hat time to postulate that our dead Haitian’s manual labor job was rehabbing Cosmo. In fact, are you ready for a hypothesis?”
Heat said no, but he voiced it anyway, one that she herself had been percolating. “You’ve got a guy about to run for political office. Lots of scrutiny. Everybody sniffing through every aspect of his life. And what’s one very damning skeleton he could have rattling in his closet? Employing an illegal alien.”
“So you think the ten grand was hush money to Beauvais?”
“Got you thinking, haven’t I?” Then he stretched and grinned. “Validation. Hello, my old chum.”
Alicia Delamater invited them in. As Heat put away her ID, the woman said, “You didn’t strike me as religious solicitors. Not that you’d get many converts on this stretch of road. Can I offer you anything?” Nikki noticed the half glass of red on the black lacquered hutch where she must have parked it when they rang the bell.
“That’s very kind. We’d just like to ask you a few questions, then we’ll be off.”
“Sure. But can you come with me? You caught me in the middle of something.” They followed her from the foyer into the dining room, which had been converted into a home office. “I’m downloading a bunch of baby pictures to make posters for a client’s surprise seventieth for her dad.” She moved around to her Cinema Screen monitor and frowned. “Can you believe people still use DSL? So East Ender.”
Outside of, maybe, pizza, a meal hadn’t been served in that room for a long time. It bespoke ordered chaos with surfaces and shelves full of large-format planning calendars, catering menus, three-ring binders with client last names on the spines, and event photos with socialites and celebrities. Rook said, “I take it you’re a party planner.”
“Planner, executor, part-time shrink to the wealthy dysfunctional. I’m also not above valet parking a few Bentleys, if it makes the host happy.” Alicia Delamater radiated a gameness for just about anything. Beyond energy and ambition, she gave off an up-front lustiness, like a skinny-dip or a margarita in a red cup was never out of the question. Nikki took her to be about her age, but showing some mileage that must have gone with the lifestyle. “I’m all yours,” she said, surrendering to the sluggish bit rate.
“Do you mind if I ask if you’ve been around here long?”
“About two years. Got sick of the corporate insanity and chose my own brand. Moved here, started my own business, and, Geronimo.”
“You must be doing all right,” said Rook.
“Not getting the call from Sean Combs to revive his White Party all right, but all right enough.” She let her gaze linger on the handsome journalist in frank assessment.