Heat broke that right up with the photo. “Sometime in the last few months would you have seen this man?”
The woman let out a throaty laugh. “Oh my God, are you kidding? Sure. That’s Fabian.” Then she gave Heat a worried glance. “This is a mug shot. Is he in some kind of trouble?”
Nikki remained nonchalant, but Rook moved closer in his excitement. “And do you know his last name?”
“It’s one of those French-Haitian ones. Not Bouvier but close.”
“Beauvais?” offered Heat. And Alicia affirmed with a nod. “How or where do you know him?”
“He worked here for me. I had a lot of high-water damage after Irene that I just lived with through the winter. I hired Fab in the summer to get the property in shape.”
Rook joined in. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Exactly two weeks ago. He cut his leg on the power clipper. I offered to take him to the ER but he refused. Probably paranoid because he was illegal.” An idea struck her. “You’re not here because I hired an alien…?”
“No,” Nikki assured her. “We’re just trying to piece together his movements. “Did he have any other interaction around here, perhaps do some work for some of the neighbors?” She held her breath, waiting for the Keith Gilbert connection. But Alicia shook her head.
“No way. I kept him too busy here, believe me.”
“Did Beauvais tell you where he was going when he left?” asked Rook.
“Back to New York was all he said.”
Heat turned a page on her notebook. “And what about visitors, did anyone come by?” The woman wagged no again. “Did he ever mention any problems or conflicts with anyone?”
“No, I’m sorry, Detective. He was just a nice guy who worked on my property and left. Not much else to tell.”
They walked down her driveway in silence. Heat churned conflicted feelings. Not just the surface disappointment that Fabian Beauvais’s connection pointed to Alicia Delamater, not Keith Gilbert, but the wariness she felt that of all the places the Haitian could end up in an area the size of the Hamptons, it was with Gilbert’s neighbor. As he so often did, Rook voiced her thoughts. “Did that pass the smell test for you?”
“She never asked why we were interested in him.”
“But you never told her, either. Is that a holdback, Detective?”
“I want to knock on some more doors.”
They got no answer at the first four places they canvassed. They agreed to try one more before dark and were greeted on the driveway of a best-selling author, a mystery writer who routinely held the top spots on airport bookracks.
“Sure, I can spare a minute. Got Connelly, Nesbø, and Lehane waiting for me at Nick & Toni’s, but that’s all right. Good for humility.” He chuckled, and it softened his brawny good looks, making that iconic face appear like his early author photos, the ones before he started wearing sunglasses and black leather coats in a dark alley. He gave a polite nod of recognition to Jameson Rook when Nikki introduced him, but the crime novelist seemed more keen on Heat and her police interview.
“No, I can’t say that I’ve seen this guy. But there’s a battalion of casual laborers through here. On any given day, somebody’s building something or tearing something down. Have you tried Beckett’s Neck? I swear Gilbert’s been single-handedly turning the economy around this summer.”
“We didn’t get anybody who could help us there,” said Heat. “Aside from you, the only person we’ve talked to is Alicia Delamater, his neighbor.”
The author seemed to find that funny. He repeated “neighbor” and made air quotes then leaned forward, as if he could be overheard on his four-acre estate. “Try substituting ‘mistress’ and you’ll have it.”
“Aha,” said Rook. “So there’s been a little hedge jumping?”
“And then some. Rumor is Keith Gilbert was doing her when she worked at his shipping company. Must be good because he installed her out here and set up her business.”
Rook nodded. “That’s what I call a golden petticoat.”
“Stick to magazines,” said the author.
When she opened her door to find Heat and Rook, Alicia Delamater’s smile seemed forced. “You back to check on my download? Still cooking, can you believe it?”
“I had a few more questions, if that’s all right.”
Alicia shrugged fine and smiled a little more. Heat made it a point to hold her pen over her notebook. “I was wondering, how did you come to hire Fabian Beauvais?”
Alicia pursed her lips and let her eyes roam the beadboard on the porch ceiling. Nikki prodded her. “I mean, could you give me the name of the agency? Or did you drive by and pick him out of the crowd of immigrants who hang out near the train station?”
“Hmm, can’t remember. But I’ve got your card; I’ll call you when I do.” Heat sensed uneven breathing and decided to push.
“Are you currently, or have you been, in a relationship with Keith Gilbert?”
“I…I think you should go.” And Alicia Delamater closed her front door.
“I’m no detective,” said Rook, “but I would definitely mark that down as a yes.”
The hostess at the 1770 House gave them the most romantic spot in the restaurant, a table for two against a pony wall for privacy right near the antique fireplace for atmosphere and coziness. “I feel sort of weird checking into a special place like this without luggage,” she said after they sat.
“See?” said Rook. “A first.” He reached across the linen and took her hand. “You’re not still perseverating on the fact that I’ve been here before.”
Heat surveyed the subdued dining room’s exposed beams, tasteful oil paintings, and period china displays that adorned the walls. As she watched the hearth’s goldenness flicker on Rook’s face, Nikki felt a warmth and anticipation spread inside her and slid her other hand to caress his. “I can be distracted,” she said.
Aware of the small world of East Hampton, they had decided in the car not to discuss the case in an open setting, which was difficult because the afternoon had raised as many questions as it answered. But that would wait. A bottle of Lucien Crochet Sancerre sat on ice and the pressing order of business for Heat and Rook was to choose between pan roasted Atlantic cod or the organic chicken with mashed potatoes and kale.
Rook made a face. “Problem with chicken after today?” she asked.
“What’s all the excitement about kale? Know what kale is? Kale is the pubic hair of greens.”
“Shh.” Nikki swept the other tables, but nobody else heard.
He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Seriously. Know what kale tastes like? The Jolly Green Giant’s nether regions. Don’t ask how I know.”
They laughed and made a lovers’ tink of their wineglasses. Nikki studied him, fighting her anticipation, just as she also embraced it and felt its thrill. Then her phone buzzed. She stole a discreet look and the caller ID told her it was Detective Ochoa. “I’m sorry.”
“Please. Take it.”
Heat excused herself and whispered, “Hang on,” during her walk to the inn’s reception area. Both Ochoa and Raley were on the call and eager to fill her in.
Ochoa began, “We still haven’t turned any eyewits, and the security cams aren’t pointed in our favor. As for the Wall Street check, so far this guy was a candidate for sainthood. But we’ll still mine that shaft.”
“Now for the strange. Want to talk odd socks?” asked Raley, employing the term she had coined to instruct her squad always to look for things at a crime scene that don’t match or feel right. “We’ve spent the day here combing through everything with CSU and the inventory specialist from the victim’s insurance company. Nothing valuable got taken. And there’s plenty here. Jewelry, collector paintings, sculptures. Even some gold Krugerrands in a cigar humidor.”
“Anyway,” continued Ochoa, “drawers have been emptied, bookcases pawed, closets ransacked, you get the picture. But all this valuable stuff around, and nothing seems to have gotten boosted.”