Plum Island

  RAVES FOR NELSON DEMILLE’S

  PLUM ISLAND

  “THIS BRILLIANT STORYTELLER DOES IT AGAIN, GIVING A TERRIFIC READ…. THIS GEM WILL MAKE A TERRIFIC MOVIE.”

  —Los Angeles Features Syndicate

  “A FINE SUSPENSE NOVEL.”

  —Associated Press

  “THRILLING … TOLD WITH PANACHE AND A SARDONIC SENSE OF HUMOR…. Deftly juggles several plots while delivering a cast of fully realized characters.”

  —Denver Rocky Mountain News

  “SATISFYING.”

  —Detroit Free Press

  “ROLLICKING … DEMILLE HANDLES THE STORY DEFTLY … sharp, amusing, and occasionally laugh-out-loud funny.”

  —Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “AN INGENIOUS … THRILLER. YOU’LL BE REWARDED WITH A CLIMAX AS FUNNY AS IT IS TENSE.”

  —Time Out New York

  “DEMILLE IS IN TOP FORM…. A RICH TALE YOU CAN’T PUT DOWN … a snappy read from start to finish … warm, funny, and immensely entertaining.”

  —Orange County Register

  “A JAUNTY, HIGH-SPIRITED DIVERSION.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “A THRILL RIDE … YOU’D BE WISE TO JUMP ABOARD … PURE ADVENTURE/MYSTERY…. DEMille is an expert at seamless narrative…. A ripsnorting good read.”

  —Ft. Lauderdale Sun Sentinel

  “AN ARRAY OF SURPRISES AND FINE WRITING BEFORE REACHING A SATISFYING CONCLUSION.”

  —Orlando Sentinel

  “NELSON DEMILLE IS BACK IN FULL FORCE…. MORE THAN A PLUM OF A NOVEL, IT IS A WHOLE BUSHEL OF FRUIT. The story line is excellent, and the lead protagonists are real and charming…. A rare reading experience.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “A WONDERFUL STORYTELLER … EXCITING, WELL-WRITTEN, AND DOWNRIGHT FUN TO READ, certain to be one of the fun books of leisurely summer reading. Grab some pieces of eight and pick up a copy today.”

  —Newport News Daily Press (VA)

  “DEMILLE’S TURF: SUSPENSE, TECHNOCRATIC THRILLS, WRY HUMOR.”

  —Hartford Courant

  “SUCKS YOU RIGHT IN.”

  —St. Louis Post Dispatch

  “CHILLING…. THAT RARE BREED OF SUSPENSE NOVEL THAT KEEPS YOU SITTING ON THE EDGE OF YOUR BEACH CHAIR EVEN WHILE YOU’RE LAUGHING OUT LOUD.”

  —Newsday

  “FASCINATING … EXPERTLY MELDS MEDICAL MYSTERY, POLICE PROCEDURAL, AND NAUTICAL ADVENTURE…. Acquires its own storm force as it moves toward a catastrophic denouement…. A smooth job from an old pro.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “THRILLING, ENTERTAINING.”

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

  “A CHUCKLE-PROVOKING WINNER … CLEVERLY COMBINES BIOLOGICAL HAZARDS AND SHIVER-ME-TIMBERS PIRATE LEGENDS … entertaining.”

  —Booklist

  “ONE OF THIS COUNTRY’S BEST YARN SPINNERS HAS TOLD ONE OF HIS MOST ENTERTAINING STORIES.”

  —Toledo Blade

  “CAPTIVATING … NELSON DEMILLE IS A BRILLIANT STORYTELLER.”

  —Bookman News

  “A MASTER STORYTELLER … plumb good reading in the mold of the page-turner, and will be savored by connoisseurs of the murder mystery.”

  —East Hampton Star

  Novels by Nelson DeMille

  Available from Warner Books

  BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON

  CATHEDRAL

  THE TALBOT ODYSSEY

  WORD OF HONOR

  THE CHARM SCHOOL

  THE GOLD COAST

  THE GENERAL’S DAUGHTER

  SPENCERVILLE

  PLUM ISLAND

  THE LION’S GAME

  With Thomas Block

  MAYDAY

  Copyright

  Author's Note

  Concerning the United States Department of Agriculture Animal Disease Center at Plum Island, I took a small amount of literary license regarding the island and the work done there.

  “Oklahoma” (by Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II) Copyright [H17015] 1943 by WILLIAMSON MUSIC. Copyright Renewed. International Copyright Secured. Reprinted by Permission. All Rights Reserved.

  “A Wonderful Guy” (by Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II) Copyright [H17015] 1949 by Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II. Copyright Renewed. WILLIAMSON MUSIC owner of publication and allied rights throughout the world. International Copyright Secured. Reprinted by Permission. All Rights Reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1997 by Nelson DeMille

  All rights reserved.

  Warner Books, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  First eBook Edition: June 2003

  ISBN: 978-0-7595-2833-8

  Contents

  RAVES FOR NELSON DEMILLE’S PLUM ISLAND

  Novels by Nelson DeMille

  Copyright

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  To Larry Kirshbaum,

  friend, editor,

  and gambling partner.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am grateful to the following individuals for sharing their special knowledge with me. Any errors or omissions in the story are mine and mine alone. Also, I have taken a small measure of literary license here and there, but for the most part, I have tried to stay true to the information and advice provided to me by these men and women:

  First and foremost, thanks to Detective Lieutenant John Kennedy of the Nassau County Police Department, the man who did almost as much work as I did on this novel. John Kennedy is a dedicated police officer, an honest lawyer, an expert sailor, a good husband to Carol, a good friend to the DeMilles, and a tough literary critic. Many, many thanks for your time and expertise.

  I would like to thank again Dan Starer of Research for Writers, NYC, for his diligent work.

  I would also like to thank Bob and Linda Scalia of Southold for their help with local lore and customs.

  My thanks to Martin Bowe and Laura Flanagan of the Garden City Public Library for their excellent research assistance.

  Many thanks to Howard Polskin of CNN, and Janet Alshouse, Cindi Younker, and Mike DelGiudice of News 12 Long Island, for making available their video reporting on Plum Island.

  Thanks again to Bob Whiting, of Banfi Vintners, for sharing with me his knowledge of and passion for wine.

  My thanks to Dr. Alfonso Torres, Director of the Plum Island Animal Disease Center, for his time and patience, and my admiration for him and his staff
for the important and selfless work they do.

  Thanks and gratitude to my assistant, Dianne Francis, for hundreds of hours of arduous and dedicated work.

  My penultimate thanks to my agent and friend, Nick Ellison, and his staff, Christina Harcar and Faye Bender. An author couldn’t have better representation or better colleagues.

  Last, but certainly not least, thanks again to Ginny DeMille—this is her seventh book and she still edits with love and enthusiasm.

  Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.

  —Benjamin Franklin,

  Poor Richard’s Almanac (1735)

  CHAPTER 1

  Through my binoculars, I could see this nice forty-something-foot cabin cruiser anchored a few hundred yards offshore. There were two thirtyish couples aboard, having a merry old time, sunbathing, banging down brews and whatever. The women had on teensey-weensey little bottoms and no tops, and one of the guys was standing on the bow, and he slipped off his trunks and stood there a minute hanging hog, then jumped in the bay and swam around the boat. What a great country. I put down my binoculars and popped a Budweiser.

  It was late summer, not meaning late August, but meaning September, before the autumnal equinox. Labor Day weekend had gone, and Indian summer was coming, whatever that is.

  I, John Corey by name, convalescing cop by profession, was sitting on my uncle’s back porch, deep in a wicker chair with shallow thoughts running through my mind. It occurred to me that the problem with doing nothing is not knowing when you’re finished.

  The porch is an old-fashioned wraparound, circling three sides of an 1890s Victorian farmhouse, all shingle and gingerbread, turrets, gables, the whole nine yards. From where I sat, I could see south across a sloping green lawn to the Great Peconic Bay. The sun was low on the western horizon, which was where it belonged at 6:45 P.M. I’m a city boy, but I was really getting into the country stuff, the sky and all that, and I finally found the Big Dipper a few weeks ago.

  I was wearing a plain white T-shirt and cutoff jeans that used to fit before I lost too much weight. My bare feet were propped on the rail, and between my left and right big toes was framed the aforementioned cabin cruiser.

  About this time of day you can start to hear crickets, locusts, and who knows what, but I’m not a big fan of nature noises so I had a portable tape player beside me on the end table with The Big Chill cranking, and the Bud in my left hand, the binocs in my lap, and lying on the floor near my right hand was my off-duty piece, a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver with a two-inch barrel which fit nicely in my purse. Just kidding.

  Somewhere in the two seconds of silence between “When a Man Loves a Woman” and “Dancing in the Street,” I could hear or feel on the creaky old floorboards that someone was walking around the porch. Since I live alone and was expecting no one, I took the .38 in my right hand and rested it on my lap. So you don’t think I’m a paranoid citizen, I should mention that I was convalescing, not from the mumps, but from three bullet wounds, two 9mm and one .44 caliber Magnum, not that the size of the holes matters. As with real estate, what matters with bullet holes is location, location, location. Obviously these holes were in the right locations, because I was convalescing, not decomposing.

  I looked to my right where the porch turned around the west side of the house. A man appeared around the corner, then stopped about fifteen feet from me, searching the long shadows cast by the setting sun. In fact, the man cast a long shadow himself which passed over me, so he didn’t seem to see me. But with the sun at his back, it was also difficult for me to see his face or to guess his intentions. I said, “Help you?”

  He turned his head toward me. “Oh … hey, John. Didn’t see you there.”

  “Have a seat, Chief.” I slipped my revolver into my waistband under my T-shirt, then lowered the volume on “Dancing in the Street.”

  Sylvester Maxwell, aka Max, who is the law in these here parts, sauntered toward me and plopped his butt on the rail, facing me. He was wearing a blue blazer, white button-down shirt, tan cotton slacks, boating shoes, and no socks. I couldn’t tell if he was on or off duty. I said, “There’re some soft drinks in that cooler.”

  “Thanks.” He reached down and rescued a Budweiser from the ice. Max likes to call beer a soft drink.

  He sipped awhile, contemplating a point in space about two feet from his nose. I directed my attention back toward the bay and listened to “Too Many Fish in the Sea”—The Marvelettes. It was Monday, so the weekenders were gone, thank God, and it was as I said after Labor Day when most of the summer rentals terminate, and you could feel the solitude returning again. Max is a local boy and he doesn’t get right down to business, so you just wait it out. He finally asked me, “You own this place?”

  “My uncle does. He wants me to buy it.”

  “Don’t buy anything. My philosophy is, if it flies, floats, or fucks, rent it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You going to be staying here awhile?”

  “Until the wind stops whistling through my chest.” He smiled, but then got contemplative again. Max is a big man, about my age, which is to say mid-forties, wavy blond hair, ruddy skin, and blue eyes. Women seem to find him good-looking, which works for Chief Maxwell, who is single and hetero.

  He said, “So, how’re you feeling?”

  “Not bad.”

  “Do you feel like some mental exercise?” I didn’t reply. I’ve known Max about ten years, but since I don’t live around here, I only see him now and then. I should say at this point that I’m a New York City homicide detective, formerly working out of Manhattan North until I went down. That was on April twelfth. A homicide detective hadn’t gone down in New York in about two decades so it made big news. The NYPD Public Information Office kept it going because it’s contract time again, and with me being so personable, good-looking, and so forth, they milked it a little and the media cooperated, and round and round we go. Meanwhile, the two perps who plugged me are still out there. So, I spent a month in Columbia Presbyterian, then a few weeks in my Manhattan condo, then Uncle Harry suggested that his summer house was a fitting place for a hero. Why not? I arrived here in late May, right after Memorial Day.

  Max said, “I think you knew Tom and Judy Gordon.”

  I looked at him. Our eyes met. I understood. I asked, “Both of them?”

  He nodded. “Both.” After a moment of respectful silence, he said, “I’d like you to take a look at the scene.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not? As a favor to me. Before everyone else gets a piece of it. I’m short on homicide detectives.”

  In fact, the Southold Town Police Department has no homicide detectives, which usually works out okay because very few people get iced out here. When someone does, the Suffolk County police respond with a homicide detail to take over, and Max steps aside. Max does not like this.

  A bit of locale here—this is the North Fork of Long Island, State of New York, the Township of Southold, founded, according to a plaque out on the highway, in sixteen-forty-something by some people from New Haven, Connecticut, who, for all anybody knows, were on the lam from the king. The South Fork of Long Island, which is on the other side of Peconic Bay, is the trendy Hamptons: writers, artists, actors, publishing types, and other assorted anals. Here, on the North Fork, the folks are farmers, fishermen, and such. And perhaps one murderer.

  Anyway, Uncle Harry’s house is specifically located in the hamlet of Mattituck, which is about a hundred road miles from West 102nd Street where two Hispanic-looking gentlemen had pumped fourteen or fifteen shots at yours truly, accomplishing three hits on a moving target at twenty to thirty feet. Not an impressive showing, but I’m not criticizing or complaining.

  Anyway, the Township of Southold comprises most of the North Fork, and contains eight hamlets and one village, named Greenport, and one police force of maybe forty sworn officers, and Sylvester Maxwell is the chief, so there it is.

  Max said, “It doesn’t hurt to look
.”

  “Sure it does. What if I get subpoenaed to testify out here at some inconvenient time? I’m not getting paid for this.”

  “Actually, I called the town supervisor and got an okay to hire you, officially, as a consultant. A hundred bucks a day.”

  “Wow. Sounds like the kind of job I have to save up for.”

  Max allowed himself a smile. “Hey, it covers your gas and phone. You’re not doing anything anyway.”

  “I’m trying to get the hole in my right lung to close.”

  “This won’t be strenuous.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s your chance to be a good Southold citizen.”

  “I’m a New Yorker. I’m not supposed to be a good citizen.”

  “Hey, did you know the Gordons well? Were they friends?”

  “Sort of.”

  “So? There’s your motivation. Come on, John. Get up. Let’s go. I’ll owe you a favor. Fix a ticket.”

  In truth, I was bored, and the Gordons were good people…. I stood and put down my beer. “I’ll take the job at a buck a week to make me official.”

  “Good. You won’t regret it.”

  “Of course I will.” I turned off “Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog” and asked Max, “Is there a lot of blood?”

  “A little. Head wounds.”

  “You think I need my flip-flops?”

  “Well … some brains and skull blew out the back….”

  “Okay.” I slipped into my flip-flops, and Max and I walked around the porch to the circular driveway in the front of the house. I got into his unmarked PD, a white Jeep Cherokee with a squawky police radio.

  We drove down the long driveway, which was covered with about a hundred years’ worth of raw oyster and clam shells because Uncle Harry and everyone before him threw shells on the driveway along with the ash and cinders from the coal furnace to keep the mud and dust down. Anyway, this used to be what’s called a bay farm estate, and it’s still bayfront, but most of the farm acreage has been sold. The landscape is a little overgrown, and the flora is mostly the kind of stuff they don’t use much anymore, such as forsythia, pussy willow, and privet hedges. The house itself is painted cream with green trim and a green roof. It’s all pretty charming, really, and maybe I will buy it if the cop docs say I’m through. I should practice coughing up blood.