“I hope you know I adore you,” I say, lowering my head for my first careful sip.

“Keep your affection, Dunleavy,” says Marjorie. “A couple more of these, you’ll be pawing my ass.”

As the Grey Goose does its work, I’m thinking about whether or not I should tell Billy, off the record of course, about the events of the afternoon. For the most part, so little happens to us townies, it seems ungenerous not to share a good tale.

So trying to strike the right balance of modesty and humor, I give it a shot. When I get to the part when Michael Walker puts the gun to Feifer’s head, I say, “I thought for sure I was going to be scrubbing blood off Wilson ’s million-dollar court.”

Belnap doesn’t smile. “Was Wilson there?” he asks.

“No. I hear he’s afraid to set foot down there.”

“I believe that.”

I’m wrapping it up, describing Walker ’s last face-saving threat, when a scratchy voice barks out of the two-way radio lying next to Belnap’s half-full glass. He picks up the radio and listens.

“Three bodies in East Hampton,” says Belnap, draining the rest of his drink in one gulp. “You coming?”

Chapter 11. Tom

“THREE MALES, EARLY twenties,” says Belnap as he drives. “A jogger just called it in.”

I want to ask from where, but the hard way Belnap stares through the windshield and the way the car squeals around corners discourage me from any questions.

I must have lived a sheltered life, because this is my first ride in a squad car. Despite the frantic flashing and wailing, it seems eerily calm inside. Not that I feel calm. Anything but. Three dead bodies in East Hampton? Outside a car crash, it’s unheard of.

The roads out here are wooded and windy, and the powerful beams of Belnap’s cruiser barely dent the dark. When we finally reach the end of Quonset and burst into the glaring light of Route 27, it feels like coming up from the bottom of a deep, cold lake and breaking through the surface.