"Maybe," Garrison said. "But why not tell the truth when the FBI stepped in? Like I said to Marisa, it would have helped us a lot if we'd known."
"It's possible she was afraid Marisa wouldn't forgive her. Even if it had been inadvertent, she got Vinnie killed."
"You believe that?"
Nate couldn't seem to force words past the niggling suspicion in his gut.
"It's possible."
Garrison didn't sound convinced, and Nate wasn't either. Leslie might have helped clear her sister's name, if she'd been honest. She hadn't done anything illegal, and surely putting up with her sister's anger would have been better than never seeing her again. Even if she hadn't come forward at first, when suspicion turned to Marisa, Leslie could have given the cops more information, kept her sister out of their crosshairs. But she hadn't. Nate couldn't help but think they were missing a big piece of the puzzle.
Nate waited for the former FBI guy to at least hazard another guess. Instead, Garrison remained silent for the rest of their walk.
The body shop wasn't far from the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel. Hell's Kitchen was like a plumber at a cocktail party. Manhattan might need its goods and services, but she hoped her guests wouldn't get a glimpse of the crack in their sophisticated facade. Although they were just a handful of city blocks from the New York Times building and Times Square, this corner might have been in a different city all together. A warehouse on one side, a couple of unmarked brick buildings on the other, and in front of a backdrop of skyscrapers, a one-story brick building with a blue-and-white sign above that read Acme Auto Body.
"Whenever I hear the word Acme," Garrison said, "I think of Wile E. Coyote."
Nate could picture the coyote beside an Acme invention—and the explosion that often followed. "Not the image you want of the place fixing your car."
"No kidding." Garrison stopped in front of the door. "Look, let me do the talking, okay?"
"Why?"
"Like you said, I have an instinct for people."
"You said that. I think you just got lucky. And I have an instinct, too. I interview people for a living."
"I've been collaring criminals for nearly twenty years. Trust me, okay?"
Nate started to argue, but this wasn't a competition. "Fine. What's your strategy?"
"Ask a bunch of questions, hope for the best."
Some strategy.
They pushed through the door of the Acme Auto Body.
Nate was surprised at the interior. He'd expected to see a bunch of bays with cars suspended in midair. Instead, they stepped into a nice lobby area with upholstered chairs and magazines on the tables. Two men sat in the chairs, both wearing business clothes. One was typing on a laptop, the other scrolling on his phone. A faint scent of paint mingled with air freshener coming from one of those plug-in things on the wall between the two men. A receptionist looked up from her desk behind a glass-fronted partition.
"Can I help you?"
Garrison stepped forward. "Looking for Russell Anderson."
"Sure thing." She picked up a phone, spoke into it, and hung up. "He'll be out in a sec. Have a seat. You need something to drink? There's coffee in the corner and sodas in the mini fridge."
"Great. Thanks."
Garrison chose a water bottle out of the fridge. "Want something?"
Nate sat in one of the chairs. "I'm good."
Garrison unscrewed his water and sipped it. He'd barely gotten it re-screwed when a man opened the door that separated the lobby from the area beyond. He wore a pair of khakis and a blue golf shirt. His hair was neat and cut short, and his face was clean-shaven. Nate had assumed the guy worked on cars. Obviously not. The man stepped out and looked around. His gaze landed on Garrison.
Garrison stood. "Russell Anderson. You remember me?"
"Unfortunately."
Nate stood. "I'm Nate Boyle."
"We'd like a few minutes of your time." Garrison stepped toward the man. "It won't take long at all."
Anderson looked at the other men in the waiting area, who were watching the exchange. "Fine. Come on back." He turned and led the way.
Through the door, the scene changed. The left-hand side of the long hallway was lined with windows showing men working on cars in various states of disrepair. The scent of paint and the sounds of pounding and drilling and shouting drifted through the glass. On the right, past the receptionist's office, Anderson stepped into a small, cluttered room that held a big wooden desk. He sat in a leather chair on the far side. Garrison took the chair that faced the desk. With no other seats, Nate closed the door behind them and leaned against it.
"Whatever it is you think I did," Anderson said, "you're wrong."
"That's what I hear," Garrison said. "And you should know, I'm no longer with the FBI."
"Oh. What's this about?"
"Marisa Vega."
Anderson's perplexed expression turned to a scowl. "What about her? They find her yet?"
"Somebody found her," Garrison said. "Any idea who it might have been?"
"How would I know?"
Garrison didn't answer. Instead, he took in the windowless office. Posters of muscle cars had been tacked to the walls. A few awards Nate couldn't read hung behind Anderson's head. Files were stacked on the desk, and a black computer monitor sat on the far corner, angled toward the chair.
"What is it you do here?" Garrison asked.
"I'm the manager. I keep the books, make sure the customers are getting what they want, and deal with the employees."
"That must be a challenge," Garrison said.
"They're good guys. The ones who aren't don't last very long."
Garrison nodded. "Far cry from Wall Street."
"What's going on here? What do you think I did?"
"Nothing." Garrison settled his long frame back in his chair, which creaked. "Ever talk to any of your old friends?"
"You mean from G&K?"
Garrison shrugged.
"You think they want me around? I'm a felon."
"You're doing okay, though."
Anderson looked beyond Garrison for a moment. "There was a guy who worked in the same building as me back then, a stockbroker a few floors down from G&K. We used to get drinks together, hit on women. Played golf a few times. We were friends. He brought his car in a couple months ago. A BMW or some such thing. He looked right at me and acted like he'd never seen me before."
"That must've made you mad," Garrison said.
"What are you, my therapist? Yeah, I was mad. But geez.” He slowed his speech as if talking to a dimwit. "I'm a felon. I wouldn't want to be friends with me, either."
"So nobody else?"
"I don't keep in contact with any of them. Charles is in prison. Vinnie...well, you know what happened to Vinnie. Burns got off with a slap on the wrist. He's still working on Wall Street. I haven't tried to contact him."
"Lot of people lost their jobs. You don't hear from any of them?"
Anderson seemed about to snap. He blew out a long breath. "I don't see anybody. I don't want to. Look, I've got a life now, okay? My wife left me, and I was pretty ticked off for a long time. Now, I've got a good job. I help people with their taxes on the side for extra money. I bought a place in New Jersey. I got a woman who lives with me. My daughter comes over on weekends. We're doing good."
"Glad to hear it," Garrison said.
"I never belonged on Wall Street. I think Charles brought me on because he knew about the trouble I'd gotten into as a kid. Figured I had...questionable morals."
"And he was right."
"That's in the past."
A cell phone rang. Garrison reached into his pocket and pulled his out. He swore and stood. "I have to take this."
"Go ahead," Nate said.
Garrison passed him on his way out. Nate slid into the chair and pulled out his notebook.
Anderson seemed to relax when Garrison was gone. "What's going on?"
"Marisa Vega."
"So he said.
What about her? They find her?"
"They who?"
"Whoever. The feds. Weren't they looking for her?"
"Why would they be?"
"'Cause of the money, of course." He threw up his hands. "She stole millions of dollars."
"Why are you so sure Marisa did it?"
"She disappeared, didn't she?"
"She thought your friend Buck was going to kill her, like he killed Vinnie."
Anderson narrowed his eyes. "What's this about?"
"Did you know Buck was going after Vinnie?"
Anderson lifted his hands, palms out. "I knew nothing about that. Charles said he needed a guy to do him a favor. He told me his kid was getting in with the wrong crowd."
"You believed that?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Buck was your friend. He didn't tell you the truth?"
Anderson stood abruptly, and his wheeled chair hit the wall behind him. "This is... Buck was not my friend. He was a guy I knew, that's all. A guy from my neighborhood."
"He never told you who his target was?"
"I went over all this before. I never talked to Buck. I just gave Charles his number. That's it."
Nate settled deeper in the chair. The way the office was configured, there was no way Anderson could get out without passing Nate, who purposely took up a lot of space, unless Anderson wanted to climb over his desk like a gorilla. "And you had no idea Vinnie was talking to the feds."
"Not a clue." Anderson looked at the door, glared at Nate, and sat back down. "Don't you think if I knew, I'd have sheltered some of my money? The feds confiscated everything. If I'd known, I would have emptied my accounts, stuck my money overseas like Charles did."
"So you think Charles took the money?"
"That's not what I meant. But he has other money, accounts the feds never found. You should see how his wife still lives. Obviously, there was more money."
"His wife's living large?"
"Like nothing changed."
Nate made a note of that. "Why do you think it was Marisa who stole the money?"
"Who else? She knew what was going on. She knew the feds were coming. She was ticked her boyfriend got killed. And I don't blame her. Except why not just steal Charles's money? Why destroy the whole business? Why make it so everybody loses their jobs?"
"One thing I don't understand," Nate said. "Marisa was just the cleaning lady. I can see how she might have been able to dig through paperwork, get access to the business accounts. But how do people figure she stole Charles's money, too?"
"You don't get it? That's the easiest part of all. Obviously, she was sleeping with him."
"As in...you mean Vinnie right? But how would he—?"
"Charles."
The very thought of Marisa with that gray man. Nate couldn't imagine. "You think Marisa and Charles—?"
"Obviously. How else would she have gotten the money?"
"You assume they were sleeping together because she stole the money. And you assume she stole the money because they were sleeping together. And at the same time, you assume she stole the money because she was mad her fiancé was killed, all while she was sleeping with his boss, the guy who had him killed. That doesn't make sense."
"Why, because you can't screw one person and love another?" He looked at Nate like he felt sorry for him.
"You don't have any other evidence for this supposed affair between Charles and Marisa? Because Charles told me the name of his mistress."
"Jessica English. Yeah, everybody knew about her. She shot her mouth off all over town about her relationship with Charles. But you have to understand Charles... I don't want to say anything bad about the guy. I mean, I hate that we got caught, but I was right there with him. I don't blame him for what happened. Not anymore. But the guy was like a horny rabbit. He cheated on his wife, cheated on his mistresses, cheated on the girls he cheated with. Any willing woman, Charles was there. Call it an addiction if you want. I think he just liked sex."
Nate tried to put together the image of the man he'd met in prison with Anderson's information. Of course, when Charles was in his heyday, making boatloads of money and throwing it around like confetti, there'd probably been plenty of willing women.
But had Marisa been one of them?
"You don't believe it," Anderson said.
"I spent a lot of time with her. I never got that impression."
"Like she'd have told you. She was grieving her dead fiancé."
"The thing is, Marisa Vega didn't steal the money. So your theory is flawed."
"Not just my theory. Everybody assumed she was screwing him."
Nate's temper was rising like the tide. He needed it to roll back. "Let's just assume everybody was wrong. Because Marisa didn't steal the money. But somebody thinks she did. That somebody kidnapped her four-year-old daughter. Now she has to figure out who took it, or the kidnappers are going to kill her child."
Anderson's jaw dropped. He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. “It's never going to be over, is it?"
"Any other bright ideas?"
He opened his eyes and shook his head. "I'm sorry. I have no idea. Is Marisa around, then?"
"She's hiding."
"You're sure she didn't take the money."
"Positive. And Garrison Kopp agrees. The feds stopped looking at her a long time ago."
Anderson swallowed. "Man, I had no idea. I wish I could help, I really do. My daughter's a lot older than that, but... Sheesh, four years old. Who would do that?"
Nate wondered the same thing. He stood, and Anderson did, too. "If I have any more questions, do you mind if I come back?"
Anderson handed him a business card. "Just call, if you want. I'm happy to help. Even if Marisa did steal the money, nobody deserves to have their kid snatched."
Nate was halfway to the door when Anderson said, "You know what I never understood?"
Nate turned. "What's that?"
"The money was stolen from two accounts and sent to two different accounts. I always figured maybe the person was hedging his bets—maybe the feds would get to one, but he'd always have the other, too. But maybe... Maybe two different people did it."
Chapter 12
MARISA YANKED THE KEYS out of the ignition, climbed out of the pickup, and slammed the door. She'd been waiting half an hour, and she couldn't sit still another minute. The problem was, Nate hadn't told her the address of the auto body shop. She could start walking in the direction he and Garrison had gone, but what if she couldn't find it? And what if Nate and Garrison got back and she wasn't there? Would they worry?
It would serve them right.
She crossed her arms and rubbed her shoulders. It was chilly and overcast, and it smelled like rain. She'd always loved that scent, like the air was charged with some invisible force. When she'd been a little girl, her father had told her that the smell of rain meant God was close. "He's always near, but when you smell rain, he's trying to remind you, to bring you peace. When you smell rain, God is right beside you."
For all her father's faults, he'd been a believer. He'd taken their family to the Catholic Church faithfully every Sunday before he and Mom had divorced. And Marisa knew that tradition hadn't fallen away over the years. He'd believed in a good, kind God. And then, he'd been killed. He'd been back in Puerto Rico visiting family—people she'd never met—when he'd borrowed a cousin's motorcycle to take a ride. Family reunion one minute, funeral the next.
Would Marisa ever get to keep anybody she loved, or would they all be taken from her? Her mother, her father, Vinnie, Ana, Leslie. Would Nate be next?
The scent of rain wasn't bringing her the peace her father had promised.
Where were Nate and Garrison? Would Nate take her back to Nutfield today, or would they stay in New York? Despite the fact that New York reminded her of all she'd lost, and all she feared, she wanted to stay. Ana was nearby. She could feel it. Or maybe she just wanted desperately to believe it. She felt the phone, still in her pocket. Sh
e hadn't walked away from it for a second since it had been dropped in her bag in Acapulco. Why hadn't the kidnappers called back? Garrison's theory had made sense at the time, but in retrospect, she wondered if he'd just been trying to placate her.
She paced on the sidewalk beside the truck. Past a pizza place, a plumber's shop, a coin-operated Laundromat, and a place called Freedom Tax Preparation—Be Free to Keep More of You're Cash. She read their stupid sign every time she walked by. Apparently they only employed math geniuses. The English geniuses were probably working at the Laundromat.
Was this what it felt like to lose your mind? Marisa couldn't take it anymore. If she'd had a smartphone, she'd have figured out where Acme Auto Body was, just to give her something to do. With Ana and Leslie gone, Nate and Garrison doing who knew what, Marisa wanted to scream. She was trapped here, dodging the little foot traffic there was on this street and scowling at the signs.
"Marisa?"
She spun and saw Garrison standing beside the truck, watching her.
"Where's Nate?"
"I left him with Anderson. I have to go."
She returned to the truck to see Garrison squeezing the life out of his keys. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing to do with you. My son..." He shook his head. "I'm sorry. I have to go."
"Is he okay?"
"He will be. You got a pen and paper?"
"Uh..." She opened the truck and looked inside. The thing was spotless. She turned to tell Garrison she didn't, but he'd returned to his sedan, parked a few car-lengths down. She locked Brady's truck and joined Garrison as he placed a pad of paper on the roof of his car and wrote something down.
He ripped the paper out of the notebook and handed it to her. "That's my cell phone number. Have Nate call me when he gets back."
"Anderson was there?"
"Yeah. Nate'll tell you. I'm sorry, but I—"
"It's fine. Go. Thank you for your help."
Twisted Lies Page 15
