Free Ice Cap by Chris Knopf Page A

except to say I was acting like an idiot.
    It was only when I was getting into my car that a message arrived, not from spectral sources but my own brain.
    â€œDammit, Franco, what are you not telling me?”
    *   *   *
    When I got back to my office, there was a message on my answering machine from Dayna Red.
    â€œSomebody named Detective Sullivan wants to talk to me,” her message said. “What do I do? I’m supposed to call him back before the end of the day.”
    She left her cell-phone number, which I immediately called. When I reached her, she told me she had yet to call Sullivan back.
    â€œNot without talking to you,” she said. “Not like you’re my lawyer or anything, I just don’t want to mess this up.”
    â€œYou did exactly the right thing, Dayna. And I really appreciate it. They’ve arrested Franco. The arraignment’s tomorrow. It’s only a preliminary hearing, but they can do some real damage even before the indictment is passed up.”
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about, Jackie, but it sounds interesting.”
    â€œThe point is they’ll want to get your statement before tomorrow, hoping it helps the ADA go for some crazy high bail number. My firm can handle almost anything, though I’ll need the okay from my boss. Whatever happens, it’ll be way above my authorization level.”
    â€œSo what do I do?”
    â€œCall him back and set a time to meet at your place. I’ll be there a half hour ahead and we’ll go from there.”
    â€œA half hour?”
    â€œThat’s when he’ll actually show up. I know the guy. Don’t worry, he’s okay despite what it might look like. Just tell the truth about what you witnessed, as best you can. I’m only there to keep my eye on things. I like the guy, but sometimes police investigators can practice selective listening.”
    We decided on a time and she gave me directions to her place, easily identified by a sign on one of the main roads through Sagaponack, an incorporated village inside the Town of Southampton, and by some measures the wealthiest zip code in the United States.
    â€œIt’s not what you think,” she said, reading my mind. “You’ll see when you get here.”
    *   *   *
    By this time nearly all the roads in the area had been plowed, at least enough to allow one car through at a time. You could tell by the haphazard performance of some of the crews how unfamiliar they were with big snowfalls. It was made worse by continuing cold temperatures, which restrained the usual melt-off. On my way over to Dayna’s I felt lost inside deep white valleys, peppered as they were with sand and gravel, making me fear for the Volvo’s side panels should I slip or slide.
    Harry blamed it all on global warming, and I made him explain how too much warmth caused the Hamptons to get too cold, but the explanation became so confusing I made him stop.
    â€œBy that reckoning, if they cool things down too much, we could turn into Ecuador,” I said.
    â€œNot necessarily,” said Harry.
    â€œOkay. Stop.”
    As promised, a tidy little engraved sign at the end of Dayna’s driveway announced SPECIALTY HARDWOODS. SALVAGED AND PLANTATION GROWN ONLY . It was a long driveway, thoroughly plowed, past a field to the right and a stand of naked oaks, maples, and dogwood to the left. As she’d told me, the house and a barn where she stored and prepped her products were toward the back behind the woods. Both the house and barn were painted a deep, rich red. Scattered throughout the setting were mature maples, oaks, and one towering evergreen that turned out to be a cryptomaria, some sort of gargantuan cedar from Japan. Gates, fences, and pergolas like Tad Buczek’s testified to various garden areas currently buried beyond recognition in deep snow.
    A black-and-white border collie met me at my