by Adam Mitzner
She didn’t expect them to believe it. Still, she thought it was a good speech.
“We need to know your whereabouts the day he died,” Lieutenant Velasquez said. “Start with when you woke up.”
“Did it happen yesterday?” she asked, proud of herself that she did. If the police were going to trick her into revealing that she knew more than she let on, they’d have to work harder.
“Actually the day before yesterday. Two days ago.”
Haley considered this, the way she imagined she would if she didn’t know exactly when James had died. “Okay. So two days ago. Well, I’m unemployed, which while unfortunate in many ways, does have the one upside that my time is my own. So two days ago, let’s see . . . After I got up, I went to the gym. I’m sure there will be a swipe record of me being there from maybe eleven to noon. Then I came back home and showered. And I just puttered around here alone for a while.”
She thought about whether to mention anything about her time in Sant Ambroeus. If they asked around, someone was bound to remember her being there. But maybe it would never come to that. She decided to go straight for the alibi. If the police later learned that she’d been at Sant Ambroeus, lying to them would be the least of her worries.
“After that, I went to a friend’s apartment in the Bronx. I got there at around five. I was with him until the morning, at which time I went home to my place.”
“Write down the name, address, and phone number for this friend of yours, please,” Detective Jamali said.
Wayne knew he should do this face-to-face. At least that’s what people always said about breakups. He actually had never done it before. The few girlfriends he’d had prior to Jessica had dumped him. Some not even face-to-face.
He wondered if the in-person rule still applied in the smartphone era. Wouldn’t Stephanie prefer to hear the news by text rather than have to endure it in person?
Nonetheless, he suggested that they meet for a drink. That should have been a tip-off to Stephanie. Not dinner, as was their usual Friday-night activity. On the other hand, he said that he was tight for time because he had to see Owen right after. If she accepted that at face value, she’d be blindsided by what he was about to reveal.
He half expected (or maybe hoped) that Stephanie would decline. They hadn’t seen each other all week, and he held out some hope that was another sign she’d read. But she said she’d come straight from work, and they agreed to meet at six. Perhaps she thought he wanted to talk about James’s death, which he’d told her about over the phone when making their date.
Wayne arrived at 5:30 p.m. He selected a table that would allow him to see Stephanie enter—and provide quick egress when the deed was done.
When she walked in, the look on Stephanie’s face suggested that she was dreading this as much as he was. No smile of recognition when he waved, and she didn’t take off her coat when the coat-check girl asked for it. She clearly wasn’t expecting to stay too long.
He stood when she approached and gave her a peck on the lips to keep up appearances. As soon as he did, he realized how stupid that was. He wasn’t trying to maintain suspense here. The purpose of this get-together was so that they wouldn’t have any more dates.
As soon as Stephanie sat, the waitress arrived. While waiting, Wayne hadn’t ordered anything to drink, in case Stephanie didn’t show up. A half hour of him nursing an ice water had made the waitress particularly attentive.
“Give us a minute,” Stephanie said.
The moment the waitress left them, Stephanie said, “Let’s get this over fast, shall we?”
Well, at least she wouldn’t be blindsided.
“I’m sorry, Steph. It’s just that . . . I’ve got so much going on now, it’s not fair to you, really.”
She chuckled. “So this is really you thinking of me, then. Thank you for that, Wayne. As always, so considerate.”
He didn’t react to her sarcasm other than to say, “I’m sorry, Stephanie.”
“Yeah, me too. Not that it’s over. I think that’s for the best too. I’m sorry that . . . you know . . . that it never really started, in a way. I thought that enough time had passed for you to be over Jessica. That maybe you were ready to start your life again. You certainly talked a good game about it. But I think we both know that just wasn’t true.”
She waited for him to respond. Probably thought he was going to deny it. The only thing that occurred to him to say, however, was to repeat that he was sorry, and that would only escalate the situation.
“I . . . tried,” he said instead.
“I guess you did. At least as much as you could. In a weird way, as soon as you told me that Jessica’s husband was killed, I knew that our relationship was dead too. I know that sounds terrible. The man died and all. But I knew you would see it as some type of opportunity for you rather than as a tragedy for your ex-wife.”
She was right, but he wasn’t about to admit that. Then it occurred to him that her statement sounded like an accusation.
Could she be wearing a wire? Was that why she’d decided to come? To help the police?
“I . . . don’t think that’s true.”
He meant to issue a more forceful denial, intended for the police who were listening rather than for Stephanie, who was spot-on in her appraisal.
“Okay, then,” she said. “I guess we’ve come full circle.” She stood. “No reason to prolong this. Let me just say goodbye, tell you that I enjoyed . . . at least some of our time together, and wish you the very best.”
He stood too but didn’t move any closer to her. If she wanted to embrace, she’d have to make that move.
She didn’t. Instead, she turned on her heel and left the bar.
“I’m going to do it now, I think,” Owen told his mother that morning.
He’d come straight from Wayne’s house to the loft that morning and asked his mother for permission to stay home from school. “I’m not going to be able to concentrate on anything,” he’d explained.
At first Jessica said that he’d be missing so much school after the transplant that he shouldn’t be missing even more. Plus, James’s funeral was Friday, and he’d miss school that day too.
“Another day isn’t going to matter, Mom. Not in the big scheme of things.”
That argument had won the day, though Owen figured his mom had her own reasons for letting him stay home: she didn’t want to be alone.
“Are you sure you want to do it?” she asked, the beginnings of tears in her eyes.
“Yeah . . . I think maybe it’s better if I take some control over it, you know? And tomorrow I start chemo again, so I’ve got to do it today if I want to do it myself rather than have it happen to me.”
“Okay. I mean, if that’s what you want. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Nah. I think it’s a one-man job.”
“I’m so sorry, Owen. I know I say that a lot. It’s just that I don’t know what else to say, you know?”
He did. “I know.”
“One of the things that is so unfair about all of this . . . one of the ten billion things, I should say, is that I’m supposed to have experienced everything you’re going through. That’s why the universe created parents. I’ve done long division and not made the team and all the rest. But I have no idea what this is like for you. And for that, I’m so sorry, because I feel like I’m . . . useless.”
They’d had this discussion before. Many times, actually. It always seemed to him a silly thing for her to focus on. First, because he doubted very much that even if his mother had suffered from leukemia as a teenager she would really know what he was going through . . . or that he would have cared. He remembered being stressed out about a million different things before he got sick, and it never made him feel any better when his mother claimed to understand.
But the other reason was that he didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about fairness. If having leukemia had taught him anything, it was that life was unfair. Not just having leuk
emia, truth be told. His parents had taught him that too when they had divorced. James’s death had only reinforced the point.
Without any further discussion on the topic, Owen went into the bathroom and shut the door. It was like déjà vu, except that the last time he’d done this, his hair hadn’t been very long and the bathroom had been his father’s in Queens.
He found a pair of scissors that he assumed were a relic from his art projects in middle school. Still, they were sharp enough to do the job. He couldn’t remember if he had used the same ones the last time. Maybe.
Owen stepped into the bathtub, grabbed a fistful of hair, and began cutting. He didn’t look down until he had reached the end, and ringlets and stray hairs covered the tub.
He took a break, looking at himself in the mirror. His hair was now the length it might have been if he had never had cancer. Like a regular seventeen-year-old’s.
That wasn’t who he was, of course. Cancer made sure that he would never be a regular kid. He might as well look the part.
He brought the scissors up to his scalp and resumed snipping. He’d need to switch to a razor at some point, but he wouldn’t stop until he was completely bald again.
15
Wayne went directly to Jessica’s loft after the school day ended. He had called ahead to ask her permission and told her he wanted to visit to check on Owen, because phrased that way, he knew his request would not be denied. In fact, he was there first and foremost for her.
Wayne had seen Jessica at her lowest. He recalled only too vividly the days after Owen was first diagnosed. Jessica had been inconsolable, and nothing Wayne attempted to lift her spirits had made the least bit of difference.
Yet when he entered her apartment, it was worse than anything he could have previously imagined. She looked practically dead herself. As if her inner light had been snuffed out with James’s passing.
“Owen is in his room,” she said.
From her attire—sweatpants and a T-shirt, no shoes or socks—Wayne assumed that Jessica had not breathed any fresh air that day. “Before I see him, is there anything I can do for you?”
“That’s sweet of you, Wayne, but no.”
“How about if I go out and get some dinner? Then we can all eat together.”
The concept of food seemed foreign to her. Wayne wondered if she’d eaten anything in the last twenty-four hours. Then she eked out a smile.
“I suppose we do have to eat. Although I don’t think either of us have much of an appetite.”
Wayne went to the Morton Williams a few blocks away. He got ingredients to cook penne alla vodka, which he hoped Jessica still liked. Or at least liked as much as she’d claimed when they were married. From there he stopped at the liquor store and bought a twenty-dollar bottle of Chianti, which was twice as much as he’d otherwise spend on wine.
Jessica’s kitchen was certainly an upgrade from his in Forest Hills. A six-burner Viking range and All-Clad pots. In the end, however, the penne alla vodka came out the same as it had when he made it with inferior appliances and cookware.
He left the pasta to sit for a little, his trick to get the noodles to soak up the sauce. While he did, he checked in on Owen. Much like at his house, Owen’s room here was arranged so he sat with his back to the door, staring at his computer.
One thing Wayne had not expected, however, was that his son would be hairless. Jessica hadn’t told him that. How could she not have shared this? Well, now was not the time to raise that issue, but the sight of his bald son did cause a lump to form in his throat. A not again feeling seized his heart.
“Nice ’do, O.”
Owen started and turned around in his chair. “What are you doing here?”
“I decided to come here after school to check up on you and your mom. See if I can be of any help. I’ve already been here for about an hour. I made some penne alla vodka for dinner. It’ll be ready in about ten minutes.”
If Owen found this odd—his father at his mother’s house, calling him for a dinner that he had prepared—he didn’t show it. He only gave a small nod of his bald head.
Wayne couldn’t remember the last time they had all sat around a table together for a meal. Jessica commented that the penne was great, and when Wayne asked if it was too spicy, she assured him it was perfect. Even Owen said it was good, although when dinner was over, his plate remained nearly full.
The dinner conversation was stilted. Owen gave his typical closemouthed account of how the first day of chemo had gone. Jessica was largely mute, undoubtedly thinking about the funeral to come, as well as the rest of her life without James.
And there Wayne was, sitting between them, wanting so desperately to solve their problems by giving of himself. And it broke his heart that neither wanted his help.
Malik was busy pounding away. He had reached out to Haley earlier that day to report on how well he’d done with the police interview. So well that he thought he should be rewarded with another throw.
She was tempted to tell him that she was too tired. Or that she shouldn’t have to reward him with sex because he’d told the police that they were having sex the other night. But the very fact that he was expecting it told her that he knew the truth. That she hadn’t actually arrived at his place at five. Which meant that if he was telling the police that she had, he was lying to protect her. And given that, the least she could do was fuck him.
Besides, it wasn’t as if having sex with Malik was digging ditches. She could get into it too.
When it was over and he had left, Haley considered her circumstances. They were, to put it mildly, less than optimal. The man she was on record threatening to murder had just been murdered, she had lied to the police about her whereabouts at the time of the crime, and now her alibi witness was demanding sex in exchange for maintaining that lie.
After Wayne left, Jessica contacted the life insurance company and asked how she could collect the proceeds of the policy on James’s life. She explained that her son was undergoing an operation, and she needed the money quickly. The claims adjuster expressed her condolences and explained that the process was fairly straightforward: fill out a form and attach the death certificate.
Jessica wondered if there’d be a delay in processing the payment because James’s death was being treated as a homicide. She knew from the movies that there was some rule against rewarding murderers with benefits of their crime, like collecting on life insurance. That meant the payment might not be issued right away.
The irony of the situation was not lost on her. The fact that she desperately needed that money only made it more likely that the police would use the existence of the policy as evidence against her, which would in turn delay her receipt of the funds.
Worse than that, the moment the police discovered James was worth more dead than alive, they’d assume she’d killed him to save her son.
Gabriel was disappointed to hear that Annie had already been put down for the night. He had come home early just to see her.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get to see her at five a.m.,” Ella said with a laugh. “Earlier if you want to wake up for the middle-of-the-night feeding.”
“That’s okay. Besides, a quiet evening alone with my beautiful wife sounds pretty great.”
“You want a beer? You look like you could use one.”
He laughed. “No. I’m still in complete solidarity.”
“Well, partial solidarity, at least.”
When Ella became pregnant and had to swear off alcohol, as well as caffeine and sushi, Gabriel agreed to do likewise. He’d been able to keep that promise for the most part, but he’d confessed to her that he couldn’t function at work without coffee. And because he never really liked sushi anyway, her dig was on point.
“Touché. How was your day?”
“Same. Annie was perfect, but she’s not the best conversationalist. Tell me about the case.”
While Ella had been on maternity leave, her only connection to the justice world had been
through Gabriel. In their pre-Annie existence, they would share their respective cop and prosecutor war stories over dinner each night. In the post-Annie world, it was a one-way street, but Ella always seemed excited to hear about Gabriel’s work.
“We seem to be looking for a skinny, short-haired woman in a haystack,” he said. “Asra contacted more than fifty galleries and auction houses, none of which had a short-haired, thin Allison on staff. Well, that isn’t entirely true. This glorified poster shop in SoHo claimed to have one, but when we hiked down there, it turned out the woman in question was actually named Alicia, and her hair wasn’t that short. She was pretty skinny, though, so one out of three. Needless to say, she had no idea who James Sommers was, so it turned out to be a dead end.”
“Maybe your mystery girl doesn’t exist,” Ella said.
“Why would Jessica Sommers make her up?”
“Maybe because her husband made her up, or at least gave her a false name and vocation.”
“Come again?”
“Maybe he was sleeping with this Allison, like you think. But he didn’t want his wife to know that, obviously. So, when she confronts him, he just makes up a name. And says, ‘Oh, she’s working with me on a deal, so it’s all legit.’ Without the real name, the wife can’t google her and cause a scene, and the fake job gives him a reason to be seen with her in public. Kinda brilliant if you ask me, in a lying-cheating-sack kind of way, of course.”
Even while on maternity leave, Ella was still a step ahead. Seeing things that he should have noticed.
“So you’re suggesting that James Sommers has a piece on the side, the ex-wife sees her or something and tells the current wife, then the wife confronts Sommers, and he says, ‘Oh, that’s my business partner, Allison.’ And Allison is a name he just made up to throw suspicion away from the actual short-haired, skinny woman he was with?”
