"Maybe. In any case, I think the Gordons were acquainted with their killer or killers."

"Agreed." I said to Beth, "I don't think it was chance that put the killer there and the Gordons there. It would have been easier for the killer to do the shooting inside the house rather than out here. But he chose this spot-he set up his shots right here."

"Why?"

"The only reason I can think of is that he had a registered pistol, and he didn't want the bullets subject to ballistics later, if he became a suspect."

She nodded and looked out toward the bay.

I continued, "Inside the house, the rounds would have lodged somewhere, and maybe he wouldn't have been able to recover them. So, he goes for two close-up head shots with a large-caliber pistol and with nothing between the exit wounds and the deep bay."

She nodded again. "Looks that way, doesn't it?" She added, "That changes the profile of the killer. He's not a hophead, or an assassin with an unregistered piece. It's someone with no access to an untraceable piece-it's a good citizen with a registered pistol. Is that what you're suggesting?"

I said, "It fits what I see here."

"That's why you want the names of locals with registered weapons."

"Right." I added, "Big-caliber, registered as opposed to an illegal or hot weapon, and probably an automatic, pistol as opposed to a revolver because revolvers are nearly impossible to silence. Let's start with that theory."

Beth said, "How does a good citizen with a registered pistol get an illegal silencer?"

"Good question." I pondered the whole profile I'd come up with and said, "Like anything else in this case, there's always one inconsistency that screws up a good theory."

"Right." She added, "And then there are those twenty.45 caliber automatics on Plum Island."

"Indeed there are."

We talked it out awhile, trying to piece this thing together, trying to make it 5:30 p.m. yesterday, instead of 5:30 p.m. today.

I could see a uniformed Southold policeman through the glass doors, but he didn't see us and moved away.

After about five minutes of noodling, I said to Beth Penrose, "When I was a kid, I used to come out here from Manhattan with my All-American-type family-Dad, Mom, brother Jim, and sister Lynne. We usually rented the same cottage near Uncle Harry's big Victorian, and we spent two weeks getting eaten by mosquitoes. We got poison ivy, we got fish hooks in our fingers, and then we got sunburned. We must have enjoyed it, because we looked forward to it every year, the Coreys on their annual S amp;M outing." I She smiled.

I continued, "One year, when I was about ten, I found a musket ball, and it blew my mind. I mean, some guy fired that thing a hundred or maybe two hundred years before. Then Harry's wife, my Aunt June-God rest her soul-took me to a place near the hamlet of Cutchogue that she said was once a Corchaug Indian village, and she showed me how to look for arrowheads and cooking pits and bone needles and all that. Incredible."

Beth said nothing, but she was looking at me as if this was very interesting.

I went on, "I remember that I couldn't sleep nights thinking about musket balls and arrowheads, settlers and Indians, British soldiers and Continental soldiers, and so forth. Before the two weeks of magic end, I knew I wanted to be an archaeologist when I grew up. It didn't work out that way, but I think that was one reason I became a detective."

I explained to her about Uncle Harry's driveway and how they once used cinders and clam shells to keep down the dust and mud. I said, "So, a thousand years from now, an archaeologist is digging around, and he finds these cinders and shells, and he makes the assumption it was a long cooking pit. Actually, he's found a driveway, but he's going to make what he thinks is a cooking pit fit his theory. Follow?"

"Sure."

"Right. Okay, here's my speech to my class. Want to hear it?"

"Shoot."

"Okay, class-what you see at the scene of a homicide is frozen in time, it is no longer a moving, living dynamic. You can create several stories about this still life, but these are only theories. A detective, like an archaeologist, can assemble hard facts and solid scientific evidence, and still draw the wrong conclusions. Add to this, a few lies and red herrings and people who are trying to help but make mistakes. Plus people who tell you what you want to hear consistent with your theory, and people with hidden agendas, and the murderer himself, who may have planted false clues. Through all this mess of contradictions, inconsistencies, and lies is the truth." I said to Beth, "At this point, if my timing is right, the bell rings and I say, 'Ladies and gentlemen, it is your job to know the truth.' "

She said, "Bravo."

"Thank you."

"So, who killed the Gordons?" she asked.

"Beats the hell out of me," I replied.

CHAPTER 15

We stood in the sun-dappled lane near Beth Penrose's black PD. It was approaching six o'clock. I said, "How about a cocktail?"

She replied, "Can you find Margaret Wiley's house?"

"Maybe. Is she serving cocktails?"

"We'll ask. Jump in." I got in. She started the big engine and off we went, north through Nassau Point, across the causeway, and onto the mainland of the North Fork.

"Which way?" she asked.

"Right, I think."

She took the turn with squealing tires. I said, "Slow down."

She slowed down.

It was pleasant with the windows down, the setting sun, the clean air, and all of that. We were away from the bay area now and were in farm and vineyard country. I said, "When I was a kid, there were two kinds of farms-potato farms owned mostly by Polish and German families who came here around the turn of the century, and the fruit and vegetable farms owned mostly by the original settlers. There are farms here that have been in the same family for three hundred and fifty years. Hard to comprehend."

She stayed silent awhile, then said, "My family owned the same farm for a hundred years."

"Really? And your father sold it?"

Had to. By the time I was born, the farm sat in the middle of the suburbs." She added, "We were considered weird. I was laughed at in school. For being a farmer's daughter." She smiled and said, "But Dad had the last laugh. A million bucks for the acreage. Big money then."

"Big money now." I asked, "Have you inherited?"

"Not yet. But I'm squandering a trust fund."

I asked, "Will you marry me?"

"No, but I'll let you drive my BMW."

"Slow down and turn left there."

She turned, and we headed north again. She glanced at me and said, "I understood you were married."

"Divorced."

"Signed, sealed, and delivered?"

"I think so." In truth, I didn't remember getting my final discharge papers.

"I remember a story on TV… when you were hit… an attractive wife visiting the hospital with the mayor, the police commissioner… you remember that?"

"Not really. Heard about it." I said, "Right and a quick left."

We found ourselves on Lighthouse Road, and I said, "Go slow and we'll read numbers."

The small road, which led to Horton Point Lighthouse about a mile farther on, had a scattering of small houses on both sides, surrounded by vineyards.

We came to a pleasant brick cottage whose mailbox said "Wiley." Beth stopped the car on the grass verge. "I guess this is it."

"Probably. The phone book was full of Wileys, by the way. Probably old originals."

We got out and went up a stone path to the front door. There was no bell and we knocked. We waited. There was a car parked under a big oak tree alongside the house, so we walked around to the side, then to the back.

A thin woman of about seventy wearing a flowered summer dress was puttering around in a vegetable garden. I called out, "Mrs. Wiley?"