South of the Highway: A Gabriel Fortuna Hamptons Mystery($15.95Value)

Description

When an old buddy offers ex-New York City cop Gabriel Fortuna a thousand dollars to work a one-night security gig, Gabe doesn't turn him down. Gabe is confident he can handle any incidents that might occur during The Hamptons Designer Showcase. But the situation quickly changes when the owner of the showcase home, celebrated Muslim film producer, Binyamin Al Shareef, is found murdered in his pool. All fingers point either to terrorists as his murderers, or to the ex-husband of the woman with whom the dead movie mogul has been having an affair, that being one Gabriel Fortuna. Homeland Security, the FBI, local police, and the Southampton Town Council all want Gabe to take the fall for the crime so life can go on as usual in the quaint but opulent seaside villages of The Hamptons. Gabe has other ideas. Enlisting the aid of some not-so-welcome newcomers to Long Island's East End Paradise, Gabe battles his way through red tape, lustful women, murderous fiends, and rich temperamental artists to discover the truth behind Al Shareef's murder. The person responsible for the murder has no qualms about killing again to keep his secret. Glen Berkowitz taught for more than thirty years in The South Bronx and Chinatown. He wrote three novels and has published several short stories. He has been a member of the Southampton Writers Conference for four years. Berkowitz and his wife, Beth, split their time between Southampton and Florida. South of the Highway A Gabriel Fortuna Hamptons Mystery By Glen Berkowitz iUniverse, Inc. Copyright © 2009 Glen Berkowitz All right reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4401-5158-3 Chapter One It was the middle of May when Gasper Dupree, Captain of the Southampton Town Police, called to off er me what he termed a lucrative opportunity to serve as security for the opening night party of The Hamptons Designers' Showcase. The affair, the first big event of the ever-expanding Hampton's summer season, was scheduled for the weekend before Memorial Day at the Al Shareef Castle off Deerfield Road in Watermill. It was a hot ticket and getting one was considered quite a coup, especially if you gave a shit about fabrics, moldings, paint chips and bathroom accessories, which, of course, I didn't. Still, I hadn't heard my old friend's voice in a long time, and although I found it hard to believe he was calling simply to give me a chance at earning an extra buck, I kept my cynicism to myself and patiently listened to what he had to say. I reminded Gasper that in spite of what I might look like I wasn't a bouncer and just like old times, as if six years hadn't slipped between us like a wedge, he responded with his old familiar laugh and said, "Fuck you, Gabe. You know what I mean." He went on to assure me that the attendees at this event, the rich and the rich wannabees, were not the types who go looking for any kind of trouble. They wanted only to rub shoulders with each other, to catch up on the latest divorces and gossip, and to see what new trinkets their brethren had picked up during the off-season. In other words, who was screwing whom? To find that out, they were willing to pay an admission price of one thousand dollars, with all proceeds supposedly going to The Southampton Hospital Fund. Gasper said I could dress casually and would be free to mingle with the guests because for all anyone would know I was a guest. I could eat the food and drink the wine and if I got lucky with any of the attendees, well, that was okay, too. Should anything unruly occur, which Gasper again assured me would be about as possible as a meteorite from Krypton hitting me between the eyes, it would be my responsibility to step in and make sure things got settled without anyone getting hurt. For doing that, he said I'd be paid a cool thousand in cash. That sounded like a lot of easy money to take care of people who were generally so soft and pampered they drycleaned their underwear, but I knew that protecting that sort was what helped make the East End prosper. Gasper had only one request before hiring me. "There's just one thing, Gabe," he said. "What's that, G?" "Don't bring your piece." "You ought to know me better than that, G. I haven't taken the Smith & Wesson out of the locker since I retired from the force. Like I've always said, if I can't handle things with my hands, then I can't handle things. Nothing's changed with that." Gasper went on to tell me how good it felt to speak with me, how sorry he was that he'd ever let a woman come between us and assured me that if I liked the job he could hook me up with a gig just like it every weekend, adding that with the connections he had with police forces from Montauk Point to Westhampton Beach, I could probably make a small fortune. I knew that a thousand bucks wasn't going to change my Hampton's status, even a hundred-thousand wouldn't do that, but it occurred to me that Gasper's way of thinking might have defined what an old-time local was; some