Crossing the Line

By George Arthur Bloom

The bloodied body of Harding Lovejoy is found in the woods at the Candleberry County Club in upstate New York. Due to a fluke in the property line, Connecticut State Trooper Eli Trucks finds himself in charge of the case. Amidst a surprising pattern of betrayal and duplicity, the battle lines are drawn between the law and the four families that run the Valley.
Armed with his Sig Sauer P220 and a past hed like to forget, Eli discovers that lust and larceny run rampant in the wealthy community that is determined to protect its public image rather than bring a killer to justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479765423

George Arthur Bloom

George Arthur Bloom is an Emmy winning television and motion picture writer. His new movie, ANY DAY NOW, will be in theatres at the end of 2012. It’s a heartfelt film about two gay men who fight the system to adopt a young boy with Down Syndrome. The author’s writing career has spanned a number of years and has taken him on a great ride through many different genres. CROSSING THE LINE is his first full-length novel. He hopes this provocative story of murder and deceit will be the first of many to feature his hero, Eli Trucks.

Book preview

-1-

H arding Lovejoy was dressed in a black running suit, one of the many he owned. Black was his favorite color, but that didn’t matter anymore. Not now that his motionless body was partially covered in leaves. Not now that a patch of dried blood formed a thick, red crust on his scalp, the result of someone taking a huge divot out of the top of his head.

Some two hundred yards away, four men approached the first tee of the Candleberry Valley Country Club. A low hanging mist spread across the fairway like a pool of water, not unusual for the first week in November in the Northeast. The temperature was still in the low forties. Winter was fast approaching and the club would be closed in two weeks. Despite the cold, the sweet aroma from the candleberry trees that lined the eighteen fairways was evident in the air. Soon the berries would drop off and not return until the club reopened in May of the following year.

Nestled in a picturesque valley on the border between New York and Connecticut, the country club had been carved out of the woods by Tyler Haggerty in 1947, and officially opened in 1951. At that time, only rich and powerful residents of New York were allowed to become members. It was clear then that Jews and Italians need not apply. Over the years, however, attrition and a failing economy forced a change in philosophy. Older residents began to die off or move out of the valley, and new people moved in. Many of the homes surrounding the course had changed hands. It became obvious that in order to perpetuate the club, the membership had to be expanded. Those who were previously deemed unacceptable were suddenly acceptable. Those who lived in Connecticut, however, were never totally embraced by the four families who ran Candleberry. Tyler Haggerty was unwilling to give up even the smallest amount of control. It was still his club, and he was determined to rule it his way no matter what. While times had changed, Tyler Haggerty had not.

The time was twelve minutes after eight on Wednesday morning, the customary tee time for the group who gathered at the first tee. They had played together at the same time on the same day for the past six years. But today would be different. Very different.

Of the four men, only three were regulars. The fourth, Casey Devore, was a last minute substitution for Bryan Malone. Bryan had called late the night before and said he couldn’t make it. No matter, this was a bonus round. The guys were happy to get in an extra eighteen before hibernating for the winter. Last year at this time everyone’s clubs were already stored in the bag room next to the pro shop, or taken home for trips to warmer climes. As the men stepped up to the tee, they could see the fog was quickly burning off and visibility was a good two hundred and fifty yards, well beyond where anyone could hit their tee shot.

First up was Tony Pagano. Tony was a plastic surgeon with a very successful practice in Manhattan. Much to the anger and disappointment of Harding Lovejoy, Tony had snatched up one of the larger, historic homes in The Valley even before it had gone on the market. Like many of the homes in the area, it had a name: Buckthorn. Lovejoy, who lived a few houses away, had coveted Buckthorn for many years and he wasn’t at all happy when Tony bought it out from under him. Lovejoy argued that Tony had gotten inside information from a stunning real estate broker he was seeing at the time, giving him an unfair advantage. He was right, of course. Lovejoy tried to kill the deal, but Tony got the house anyway.

Do we get a breakfast ball? Casey asked. It was the first time Casey had played with the group, so he didn’t know.

We always take a mullie off the first tee, old chap Walter muttered. Walter Eckersley wasn’t British, but he loved to sprinkle his conversation with a little Brit-chat to make him sound superior. He had made a fortune in the catering business and retired at the age of fifty-two. Unlike most men who retire at a relatively early age, Walter was content with his life. And why not? He was on his second trophy wife, Caroline. A gorgeous blonde twenty-five years his junior, Caroline was a former sales associate at Barney’s in New York. They married a month after they met.

Tony teed up a Pro V1 and swung hard. He always swung hard. Most of the time the ball faded to the right about half-way before it reached the end of its journey but this time it went straight, almost disappearing in the mist. Tony hitched up his pants with a satisfied smile and turned to his partner, Give it a ride, Mikey.

Mike Greene was shorter than the others, and stocky but very athletic. He was good at any sport he played. He had big arms and a great sense of humor. Mike played keyboard for The Spoilers, a rock band from the 80s. Though the band broke up in the early 90s, Mike continued to make money writing songs for other singers along with an occasional movie score. His rock-star past made him something of a celebrity at the club among the younger members. The older more conservative members pretended he didn’t exist.

Unlike Tony, Mike didn’t care what brand of ball he played with. Whatever ball he found in the woods or in the water worked just fine for him. It was the player not the ball, he liked to say. Mike’s tee shot drew down the left side of the fairway and came to rest a few yards past where Tony’s ball had stopped rolling.

Walter re-snapped the golf glove on this left hand and slipped a duplicate glove onto his right as he stepped up to the tee box. He was the only one in the club to play with two golf gloves. He took three practice swings. Walter claimed to have seen Arnold Palmer do that at Pebble Beach, but nobody believed him. It didn’t matter. He still took three practice swings.

Finally ready, Walter hit his tee shot about a hundred and eighty yards down the center of the fairway. That was pretty much Walter’s game. A short but straight tee shot, a layup to the green on his next shot, then a chip to the pin. Walter had the best short game of the group, maybe the best short game in the club.

Casey hit last. He was several years younger than the others, and didn’t really know them that well. His nerves showed through his bravado. High-strung and fidgety, Casey was always nervous, but he seemed more so as he lined himself up on the tee. His fingers opened and closed around the shaft of his driver. His first ball hooked into the woods on the left. His mulligan went deep into the woods on the right.

The two golf carts motored down the first fairway. Walter was furthest from the pin, and they stopped at his ball first. Walter took out a seven iron and hit a layup to the hundred-yard marker. He meticulously cleaned off his club with a towel, slid the club back in his bag and drove the cart into the woods on the left to look for Casey’s first ball.

It didn’t take Casey long to find it. Unfortunately, the ball was wedged under a dried up old log.

Take an unplayable, suggested Walter.

Let’s look for the other one first, Casey grumbled. See if I have shot.

Casey’s second ball, a Nike, was harder to locate than the first.

Just take a drop, Mike said, anxious to move play along.

No way, Walter said. Lost ball. You have to re-tee. You’re hitting three.

Mike and Tony had played enough golf with Walter to know he was a stickler for the rules, and made sure everyone played by the book. It wasn’t about the money for Walter, it was the principle.

Determined to find his ball, Casey wandered deeper into the woods where he eased aside a candleberry shrub. Then he saw it. Not his ball, but a shoe. An expensive running shoe. Curious, he pushed the shrub back and found the other shoe. This one was attached to the foot of Harding Lovejoy. Holy shit! exclaimed Casey, his eyes as big as golf balls.

Tony called out from a few yards away. Find it?

Not exactly, Casey said, unable to move.

Walter was the first to reach Casey, the second one to see Harding Lovejoy. His jaw dropped open in shock. What the fuck?!

A few seconds later, the phone rang in the pro shop. Cindy, the cute, dark-haired girl who worked the counter and made tee times for the members, was selling a golf shirt to Cyril Mosser. Cyril was in his mid-eighties and still able to shoot his age on occasion. A recent widower, Cyril loved to flirt with Cindy who tolerated his sometimes crude remarks and roving hands, figuring he was harmless. Cindy artfully slid her wrist from Cyril’s grip and answered the phone.

The voice on the other end was charged with urgency. Cindy, Walter Eckersley here. Let me speak to Buddy,

I’m sorry, Mr. Eckersley, he’s on the range giving a lesson right now, responded Cindy.

Get him! snapped Walter.

But you know he—

I said get him!

Cindy put down the phone and rushed outside to the driving range.

Buddy, the club professional, wore long pants and his signature red cardigan sweater as he worked on Mrs. Stanshenko’s backswing. Mrs. Stanshenko was an extremely attractive widow. Buddy would have liked to be working on more than her backswing, but he knew the rules: fool around with a member or his wife and you’re gone.

Excuse me, Buddy, Cindy said apologetically. She could see Buddy wasn’t happy at the interruption, but she went on anyway. Mr Eckersley is on the phone. He wants to speak with you. Buddy was about to protest when Cindy added, I… I think it’s important.

-2-

S herman, Connecticut. Population 4,212. A small, rural town, Sherman bordered the south side of Candleberry Valley Country Club. Sherman consisted of a post office, a school, a library, a real estate office, a gas station, the local IGA, the hardware store and a stick-to-the-ribs-more-fat-than-you-can-possibly-imagine-diner fittingly called American Pie. There was also a small upscale restaurant next to a pizza joint that barely did any business, and had changed hands at least five times in the past six years. Nothing too exciting ever happened in Sherman, but it oozed charm and was listed in the top one-hundred safest towns to live in by a number of travel magazines.

It was just past eight-thirty in the morning when Eli Trucks, the Resident State Trooper of Sherman, pulled his patrol car up the driveway to the home of Jack and Eileen Couce, pronounced Cousay. They lived at the end of Leach Hollow, a tree-lined street that cut between Route 37 and Route 39, the two main drags in and out of Sherman. Eileen was still in the kitchen cooking breakfast while her husband Jack was outside splitting logs for the fireplace.

Jack split one more log as the trooper walked toward him with a serious look on his face. Eli was in his late-thirties, a lot younger than the trooper who patrolled Sherman before him. He had the build of an athlete and the square jaw of a super hero. But that wasn’t how Eli saw himself at all. To the contrary. When he was assigned the post in Sherman he knew it was a reprieve, a second chance to prove he was worthy to wear the uniform. Most likely his last chance.

Jack had lived in Sherman for nearly fifty years and knew every State Trooper from then to now by his first name.

What’s the problem, Eli? Jack asked as the trooper neared. You look worried.

I gotta ask you some questions, Mr. Couce.

Fire away, young man. But I don’t promise I got all the answers. Jack said with a smile.

Did you hear any gunshots yesterday? Or maybe last night?

Jack rubbed his scraggly beard and tilted his head to the side as he answered. Nope. Can’t say that I did.

You hear any shouting? Any angry words coming from next door?

Jack looked off in the distance to his neighbor’s house. It was barely visible through wooded area that separated the two houses. You mean the Staley place? Jack asked, turning back to the Trooper.

Yes sir, Eli answered politely.

Nope. Nuthin’. Somethin’ happen I oughta know about?

There was a long pause as Eli waited for Jack to play his hand, but he obviously didn’t hold the cards. Someone shot Mr. Staley’s duck, Eli told him.

Jack’s eyes went wide. Yer shittin’ me!

Wish I was, Mr. Couce. We don’t like it when things like that happen around here.

I hear you, Eli. This ain’t New York City.

You call me if you hear anything. Okay?

Jack agreed, promising to keep his eyes open for any clues to the duck killer when Eli’s cell phone rang. Eli pushed the answer button and stated with great authority like he always did, Trucks.

Eli listened to the excited voice on the other end of the phone. I’ll be right there. Don’t anybody leave. Eli said to the caller. Sorry, Mr. Couce’, I have to go.

Without another word, Eli raced to his car, climbed inside and sped away. Jack kept an eye on the patrol car all the way down the driveway, and shook his head in disbelief.

Damn. Who’d want to shoot old Staley’s duck?

#

It was Buddy Larkin who had called the State Trooper. Buddy was standing in the woods with Mike, Walter, Tony and Casey trying to keep control of the situation. Nobody looked in the direction of Harding Lovejoy. They had all seen enough. It had gotten colder instead of warmer, and Walter wanted to go home.

Sorry, gentleman, Buddy said, used to being the one in charge. You have to stay. Trooper’s orders. As the club pro, Buddy had to do pretty much what the members wanted and he took a lot of crap along the way. The money wasn’t great, but he got to keep whatever he made from giving lessons. At least it was better than working in a golf shop.

I’ve never seen a dead guy before, Casey said, glancing at Lovejoy’s body.

Just think, began Mike, with a hint of sarcasm, you broke your cherry on Harding Lovejoy. Lucky you.

Jesus, Mike… the guy had his head split open. Tony chided.

Mike threw his hands up defensively. Hey, I was just making a little joke. What’s the big deal? Nobody liked him anyway.

C’mon, man. Show a little respect for the guy. said Casey.

The five men turned at the sound of brakes squealing to a stop on Candleberry Lane, the road that ran parallel to the club just above the woods. A moment later Trooper Trucks came sliding down the hillside, nearly tripping over Harding Lovejoy in the process.

Buddy pointed to the corpse. That’s him.

Eli knelt down and felt Lovejoy’s pulse.

He’s dead, said Tony, stating the obvious.

Eli confirmed the diagnosis and got to his feet. Not knowing any of the men, he addressed them all. I don’t understand something. This club is in New York, right?

The men nodded and mumbled their agreement.

"So why call me? I’m with the Connecticut State Police."

Buddy stepped forward and gestured to a white out of bounds stake near Harding Lovejoy’s body. See that out of bounds stake? From there up to the road… all three point two acres of it… Buddy said, sweeping his hand up to the road where Eli had parked his car. This is Connecticut we’re standing in.

Looks like Harding Lovejoy died in your jurisdiction, old chap, added Walter.

It took Eli a few seconds to absorb the reality of what he had just learned. Well, I’ll be damned!

-3-

A fter getting detailed statements from the four golfers, Eli had a small glimpse into the life of Harding Lovejoy. Apparently the man was a big deal in the town of Pawling, the quaint little New York town that included all but three point two acres of the Candleberry Valley Country Club. He was a partner in the biggest and oldest law firm, as was his father before him. He also enjoyed a long run as a Councilman on the Town Board.

He was a big cheese here in The Valley, concluded Walter.

Can we go now? asked Casey, anxious to get as far away from the murdered man as possible.

Sure, nodded Eli. He had their phone numbers and addresses if he needed to talk to them again. Just be available for further questioning.

Eli knew he sounded like every cop on every TV show, but it seemed like the right thing to say. The men headed back to their carts, leaving Eli alone with Buddy.

I’ll stay if you need me, said Buddy.

That won’t be necessary, replied Eli. But it might be a good idea to close the course for the rest of the day.

Will do. The membership won’t be happy, but they’ll have to understand. After all, Mr. Lovejoy wasn’t just anybody—he was President of the Club.

This was news to Eli, and he made a note of it.

Mr. Lovejoy was married to Tyler Haggerty’s daughter, added Buddy.

Tyler Haggerty?

He built this club way back when, replied Buddy. Pretty much runs the whole show around here. They call him the Lord of the Valley.

Lord of the Valley, huh? muttered Eli as he made another note, amused by the royal title.

Yes, sir, said Buddy. Nothing happens without The Lord’s blessing.

Buddy banked his finger off the bill of his cap and headed back to the clubhouse. Eli stuffed his notepad back into his pocket, and called the local medical examiner, Pepper Jessup, to pick up the body. Then he ran up to his car, grabbed his Canon Power Shot A80 and some yellow police tape, and slid back down the hillside to take pictures of the crime scene.

Based on what he had just learned about Lovejoy, Eli figured the man was no stranger to having his picture taken, although this time he wasn’t smiling. Once Eli got a picture from every possible angle, he quickly sealed off the area with a length of yellow tape that read, "Police Line Do Not Cross". He wound the tape around the trees to block off access and protect the crime scene. He knew it wouldn’t take long for word of Lovejoy’s demise to get around, and the curious would soon be sticking their noses into the woods to see where it all happened.

While he waited for Pepper, Eli searched the surrounding area for clues, hoping he might even find the murder weapon. No such luck. He did, however, find Casey’s Nike golf ball under the leaves and a couple of beer cans that he carefully placed in a plastic bag, but that was all he turned up. He looked to see if he could find any signs of a struggle. There were no tracks in the soft dirt where the body might have been dragged, no large sections of dried leaves that had been overturned. Eli found a few broken branches, but upon closer inspection the break points were dry, meaning they were old. If Lovejoy was killed here it was quick and probably by surprise, thought Eli. Or just maybe he was killed elsewhere and left in the woods by his killer.

It was at that moment that Eli understood the totality of the situation. The death of Mr. Staley’s duck paled in comparison. In his four year stint as the Resident State Trooper of Sherman, Connecticut, there hadn’t been a single homicide. In fact, the only death was an out-of-state motorcyclist who flipped his bike while speeding on Route 39. The murder of Harding Lovejoy was a first.

Eli took a deep breath as he weighed the limitations of being a one-man police force. At the same time, he was determined to meet the challenge head on, just like he always had. Just like he did when he was in the Marines. Just like he did when he was an All-League linebacker for his high school football team. Just like he had done his entire life. But deep down, he knew this challenge was different. Everything was riding on it. He could not afford to fail. Not again.

Just then it started to rain. Eli looked around at the surrounding woods, knowing he had to return to do a more thorough search of the area. But he would need help to do it right.

#

Okay, people! Hold hands and spread out, Eli shouted.

The rain had stopped and the three dozen senior citizens bundled up against the cold did as they were told. They formed a line that stretched between the two out of bounds stakes that bordered the golf course, and waited for their next instruction.

Now, when I say ‘go’, I want all of you to take small steps forward and walk straight up the hill toward the road. Keep your eyes peeled for any strange objects on the ground or anything unusual stuck in branches. And be careful not to trip or poke your eye out.

If we find something, do you want us to pick it up? asked Lillian, a frail but willing great-grandmother.

No. Don’t touch anything. Just call me over and I’ll handle it. Is that clear? Eli asked. Everyone nodded or mumbled something like ‘yeah’.

Lovejoy’s body had already been taken to the morgue at New Milford Hospital. Pepper Jessup had done the best job he could to search for blood splatters and brain tissue before he left, but the rain had made it all but impossible to find any evidence to support or contradict any theory of whether or not Lovejoy was killed where his body was found. Pepper had told Eli he’d have to come back another time and see what he could find.

In need of more eyes to search the three point two acres of Connecticut woods, Eli had gone to the Sherman Jewish Community Center for help. More than thirty seniors volunteered. Most were excited by the prospect of aiding in a police investigation. It didn’t matter that none of them had ever heard of Harding Lovejoy.

Up the hillside they went like a long gray line, crunching the leaves beneath their winter boots and galoshes.

This reminds me of ‘CSI: Special Victims Unit, Ira shouted. He stepped forward, eyes darting left and right as he diligently searched his quadrant.

How much longer do we have to do this? complained Bernie, anxious to get back to his gin rummy game at the JCC.

For Chrissake, Bernie, we just started, barked Ira.

Bingo! yelled Lillian a few minutes later. I found something!

Eli hurried to where Lillian was standing, pointing to something chalky white sticking out from under a leaf. Eli took a pencil from inside his boot and carefully lifted it off the ground. Lillian and her friends peered at the droopy item hanging over the end of the pencil. What is it? she asked.

A condom, said Eli.

Looks like someone had a good time, Bernie added, laughing out loud.

Lillian scrunched her face up. Ewww, that’s disgusting! she screamed.

By the time the team of seniors reached the road above the woods the search had garnered in addition to the condom two more beer cans, a coke bottle, a single screw, an old tire, some food wrappers and an empty jar of peanut butter. Not much. But there were three items that might prove to be worthwhile: a ticket stub from the Metro North train line, a button, and the soft spike from a golf shoe.

Eli escorted the group to the row of cars parked along the side of Candleberry Lane. He thanked them for their assistance, and the seniors drove back to the JCC, feeling good to have done their part in the name of law and order.

Before leaving,