Stranger on the Shore - lanyon Josh (лучшие книги читать онлайн бесплатно TXT) 📗
“I think it was the other one,” Johnson said. “Miss Muriel. I used to drive her and Mr. Arlington. Everybody else had their own cars and drove themselves. Not Miss Muriel. She didn’t drive.”
Griff stared at him. “You think what was Miss Muriel? You think she was behind Brian’s disappearance?”
Johnson seemed surprised and then he considered it, blinking his long-lashed brown eyes like a contemplative bull. “Naw. I mean, I think she’s the one who told Mr. Arlington about me and Mike. That’s why they got rid of me. That other was bullshit.”
“What do you mean? You did have a criminal record.”
“They knew about that.”
“They—what? What do you mean? You mean you told Tuppalo about your record when you were interviewed?”
“That would have been stupid. But they had to know. People like that check your references, check your driving record. I worked for them for over a year. They had to know. It didn’t matter to them because I was good at my job.” He said darkly, “But then—” He stopped.
“So you think Muriel told her father about your relationship with Michaela, and they fired you and pretended it was because of your record?”
“Yep. That Miss Muriel? She was a piece of work. Always butting her nose into other people’s business. One of those do-gooders who doesn’t do anybody any good.”
Griff had no idea if that was true or not. He wasn’t all that taken with Muriel, and after reading Gemma’s journal he was less taken still. “If someone did take Brian, who do you think it was?”
Johnson said, sounding slightly offended, “How would I know?”
“What did you think would happen when you made that demand for ransom?” Griff asked curiously. “It must have occurred to you that you’d probably get caught.”
“No. If I hadn’t been a damn fool and rushed it, I’d have gotten clean away. And even if they did get me for extortion, they couldn’t prove the rest. There wasn’t even a body. It’s not murder if there’s no body. But old man Arlington’s money and powerful friends got me railroaded right into a prison cell.”
That was a common misconception among criminals: no body equaled no homicide. But corpus delicti referred to the body of evidence required to establish a crime rather than an actual human body. A wealth of circumstantial evidence had been used to convict Johnson of Brian’s murder.
Griff asked a few more questions and Johnson replied and even elaborated, but the truth was, this interview, the intended cornerstone of Griff’s book, wasn’t eliciting a lot more information than he already possessed.
He came at last to his final question. “It’s been twenty years. What do you want people to know?”
It seemed Johnson had been waiting for this. He folded his big, rough hands not quite in prayer, but not so far from it, and said earnestly, “People have to know. I didn’t take Brian. I didn’t hurt that little boy. I’ve been locked up here for twenty years for a crime I didn’t do. Anything I did do wrong, I’ve paid for a dozen times over. I don’t deserve to spend the rest of my life here.”
* * *
Traffic was heavy on Griff’s drive back to Long Island, and it took about two hours to reach Muttontown. By then it was about four-thirty, and Griff decided to stop and grab something to eat before returning to Winden House. The idea of another of those painful dinners with the Arlingtons was just more than he could take after a long and not particularly fruitful day.
Muttontown was a residential village located in the Town of Oyster Bay. One of the most affluent places to live in the country, the average Muttontowner’s income was over three hundred grand, the average Muttontowner’s net worth was just about a million and a half. The village had incorporated in 1931, not so long after F. Scott Fitzgerald had been knocking around the area, cooking up East Egg and West Egg.
One of these mansions housed the elder Mathers, Thomas and Elizabeth, and their daughter. Pierce too probably lived somewhere around here in one of these splendid houses. A lot of those in the Arlingtons’ social circle lived in these chateaus and colonials surrounded by rolling meadows and lush gardens. Lived with their chefs and nannies and chauffeurs and swimming pools and limos and stables. Wealthy people by any reckoning, but not on the same scale as the Arlingtons.
Not far away was the Muttontown Preserve, five hundred plus miles of walking trails through woodlands and meadows and the overgrown grounds of ruined Gold Coast estates including Knollwood, which had once belonged to the last king of Albania.
After Brian’s disappearance, the Muttontown Preserve had been searched several times, and a number of people still believed Brian’s body was hidden somewhere in that wilderness.
Griff drove on to Syosset and stopped at a steakhouse called The Carriage House.
The building was indeed a Civil War-era carriage house trendily renovated in pale woods and white leather. Gigantic abstract paintings of white flowers decorated the fashionably unfinished walls. Tall white orchids in shallow stone dishes sat on the tables. Tiny white light bulbs were strung across the open air space.
It was happy hour and the bar was crowded with young and not so young professional types. It sounded like they had been there awhile.
Griff was seated at a small table in the back of the room, handed a menu which he promptly scanned for French dip. There was no French dip, but the Prime Rib Melt featuring toasted Havarti, parmesan truffle fries, and au jus sounded reasonably close and happened to be the evening special.
He ordered the prime rib and a beer called Blind Bat, and sat back to enjoy the spectacle of pretty people enjoying themselves. His own home, his own friends, seemed very far away. As though all that was behind him now. It was a lonely feeling.
The waitress brought his beer. Blind Bat’s Long Island Oyster Stout turned out to be a very nice Irish dry stout. Griff sipped thoughtfully. The tune from dinner the night before had been running through his mind all day. “Stranger on the Shore.” He thought maybe it would make a good title for the book.
But he didn’t want to think about the book right now. The interview with Johnson had been a disappointment and he was going to have to regroup. Later. For now he would concentrate on enjoying his meal—he didn’t often splurge on a sit-down dinner at a nice restaurant—and not let himself borrow trouble. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have plenty of worry already banked.
There was a burst of laughter from the bar, a couple of bodies shifted and Griff caught a glimpse of Pierce in the center of the group of suits and skirts. He was laughing at something a very pretty brunette was saying. He looked relaxed, younger and very handsome.
Griff looked away, surprised at his own sudden flush of excitement. What the heck was that about? He didn’t like Pierce and Pierce obviously didn’t like him. Pierce was not remotely his type.
He got his phone out, rang information and got the number for Charles and May Chung in Syosset. He called the number, an answering machine came on, and after a moment’s consideration, he hung up. Considering how cagey all the Arlington staff members were, maybe it would be better not to give Mr. Tuppalo’s daughter advance warning that he wanted to interview her.
He drank his beer and looked out the side window at the crowded parking lot. He thought he could pick Pierce’s voice out from the rest of the noisy crowd in the bar section.
What was this sudden fascination with Pierce?
Maybe it had to do with Gemma’s journal. She had mentioned Pierce several times in connection with Brian, and her descriptions of the serious, slightly awkward boy’s patience with the pest Brian had been, had amused Griff. Softened him toward Pierce.
Or maybe it had to do with not being with anyone since Levi. Pierce was incredibly good-looking. Too good-looking, really, which didn’t change the fact that Griff found him attractive.
