I sipped on my coffee and tapped my pencil on the table in time with the regulator clock on the far wall, and I thought about all of this.

I went to the kitchen cabinet beside the wall phone and found the local telephone directory among the cookbooks. I looked under "W" and located a Margaret Wiley who lived on Lighthouse Road in the hamlet of Southold. I actually knew where that was, it being the road that, as the name suggested, led to a lighthouse: Horton Point Lighthouse, to be exact.

I really wanted to call Margaret, but she might be annoyed at the two a.m. phone call. It could wait until dawn. But patience is not one of my virtues. In fact, to the best of my knowledge, I have no virtues. Also, I had the feeling that the FBI and CIA were not all asleep at this hour and that they were getting ahead of me on this case. Last, but not least, this was no ordinary murder; even as I hesitated to wake Margaret Wiley, a civilization-destroying plague could be spreading over the nation. I hate when that happens.

I called the number. The phone rang and an answering machine picked up. I hung up and dialed again. Finally, the lady of the house was awakened and she said, "Hello?"

"Margaret Wiley, please."

"Speaking. Who is this?" asked the groggy and elderly voice.

"This is Detective Corey, ma'am. Police." I let her imagine the worst for a second or two. That usually wakes them up.

"Police? What's happened?"

"Mrs. Wiley, you've heard on the news about the murders on Nassau Point?"

Oh… yes. How awful-"

"You knew the Gordons?"

She cleared the froggies from her throat and replied, "No… well, I met them once. I sold them a piece of land."

"In March?"

"Yes."

"For $25,000?"

"Yes… but what does that have to do with-"

"Where is the land, ma'am?"

"Oh… it's a nice piece of bluff overlooking the Sound."

"I see. They wanted to build a house?"

"No. They can't build there. I sold the development rights to the county."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning… it's a conservation plan. You sell the right to develop the land, but you still own the land. It has to stay undeveloped. Except for agriculture."

"I see. So the Gordons couldn't build a house on this bluff?"

"Lord, no. If the land could be developed, it would be worth over $100,000. I was paid by the county not to develop it. It's a restrictive covenant that runs with the land. It's a good plan."

"But you can sell the land?"

"Yes, and I did. For $25,000." She added, "The Gordons knew it couldn't be developed."

"Could they buy back the development rights from the county?"

"No. I sold the rights in perpetuity. That's the purpose of the plan."

"Okay…" I thought I understood now what the Gordons had done-they'd bought a nice piece of Sound view land that, because it couldn't be built on, sold for less than market price. But they could plant on it, and I realized that Tom's fascination with local viniculture had led him to the ultimate hobby-Gordon Vineyards. Apparently, then, there was no connection between this purchase and their murders. I said, "I'm sorry I woke you, Mrs, Wiley. Thank you for your help."

"Not at all. I hope you find who did this."

"I'm sure we will." I hung up, turned from the phone, then went back and dialed again. She answered and I said, "I'm sorry, one more question. Is that land suitable for grapes?"

"Goodness, no. It's right on the Sound, much too exposed, and much too small. It's only a one-acre parcel that drops fifty feet to the beach. It's quite beautiful, but nothing much will grow there except scrub."

"I see… did they mention to you why they wanted it?"

"Yes… they said they wanted their own hill overlooking the water. A place to sit and watch the sea. They were a lovely couple. It's so awful."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you." I hung up.

So. They wanted a place to sit and watch the sea. For twenty-five thousand bucks they could have paid the parking fee at Orient Beach State Park five thousand times and watched all the sea they wanted every day for the next eight years and still have money left over for hot dogs and beer. Did not compute.

I mulled a little. Mull, mull. Well, maybe it did compute. They were a romantic couple. But twenty-five Gs? That was almost all they had. And if they were transferred by the government, how would they unload an acre of land that had no use for building or agriculture? Who else would be crazy enough to pay $25,000 for encumbered property?

So. Maybe it had to do with maritime drug running. That would make sense. I'd have to take a look at that land. I wondered if anyone had yet found the deed to the property among the Gordons' papers. I wondered, too, if the Gordons had a safe deposit box and what was in it. It's tough when you have questions at two a.m., and you're flying high on caffeine and no one wants to talk to you.

I poured another cup of coffee. The windows above the sink were open, and I could hear the night things singing their September songs, the last of the locusts and tree frogs, an owl hooting nearby, and some night bird warbling in the foggy mist that rolled in from the Great Peconic Bay.

The autumn here is tempered by the big bodies of water that hold their summer heat until November. Terrific for grapes. Good boating until about Thanksgiving. There was the occasional hurricane in August, September, or October, and the odd nor'easter in the winter. But basically the climate was benign, the coves and inlets numerous, the fogs and mists frequent: an ideal place for smugglers, pirates, rum runners, and more recently, drug runners.

The wall phone rang and for an irrational second, I thought it might be Margaret. Then I remembered that Max was supposed to call about the Plum Island outing. I picked up the receiver and said, "Pizza Hut."

After a confused second, Beth Penrose said, "Hello…"

"Hello."

"Did I wake you?"

"That's all right, I had to get up to answer the phone anyway."

"Very old joke. Max asked me to call. We're going to be on the eight a.m. ferry."

"Is there an earlier ferry?"

"Yes, but-"

"Why do we want the cover-up team to get to the island before us?"

She didn't reply to that but said, "We'll be accompanied by the island's security director, a Mr. Paul Stevens."

"Who's going on the earlier ferry?"

"I don't know… Look, John, if they're covering up, there's not much we can do about it. They've had some problems in the past, and they do cover-up real well. You're only going to see what they want you to see, hear what they want you to hear, and speak to who they want you to speak to. Don't get overly serious about this trip."

"Who's going?"

"Me, you, Max, George Foster, and Ted Nash." She asked, "Do you know where the ferry is?"

"I'll find it. What are you doing now?"

"I'm talking to you."

"Come on over. I'm looking at wallpaper samples. I need your opinion."

"It's late."

That almost sounded like yes, which surprised me. I pressed on. "You can sleep here, and we'll drive to the ferry together."

"That would look cute."

"Might as well get it over with."

"I'll think about it. Hey, did you find anything in the computer printouts?"

"Come over and I'll show you my hard drive."

"Cut it out."

"I'll pick you up."

"It's too late. I'm tired. I'm in my-I'm dressed for bed."

"Good. We can play hide the pickle."

I heard her take a long, patient breath, then say, "I would have thought there'd be a clue in their financial records. Maybe you're not looking hard enough. Or maybe you don't know what you're doing."

"Probably."

She said, "I thought we agreed to share information."

"Yes, with each other. Not the whole world."

"What…? Oh… I see."

We both knew that when you're working with the Feds, they'd slap a tap on your phone within five minutes of being introduced to you. They didn't even bother with a court order when they eavesdropped on friendlies. I was sorry I'd made the call to Margaret Wiley.