“I need to talk to you, please.”
He raises one eyebrow as if he’s considering it but then shuts me down. His wife says something in the background while the baby cries and the dog barks.
“Please, it won’t take long,” I try again.
“You need to leave.” Ricky shuts the door in my face.
I walk back down the stairs in a state of shock. Normally, I’d cry either from anger or frustration or both but on this occasion for some reason I can’t.
I just feel lost and confused.
I kick myself for going up there and creating this hostile situation. Maybe if I hadn’t then he would be more likely to speak to me. On the other hand, he wasn’t particularly willing to before, so perhaps that didn’t make things any worse.
When I get back in the car, I start the engine and put the car in reverse. But I can’t make myself go.
I can’t make myself do it.
I look back to make sure that there’s no one coming behind and check the mirror as well but I can’t force myself to step on the accelerator.
Something is keeping me here.
Did I try hard enough?
Did I give up too easily?
11
Olive
When we talk…
This time hours fly by.
I find a few granola bars in the bottom of my purse and quench some of my hunger. Luckily, I always carry water with me and there are two bottles in the back.
The first hour, I spend perusing through Facebook and Instagram, looking at beautiful pictures of sunsets and tan lines and white beaches. It wasn’t that long ago that this life was a very real possibility to me. But what now?
I recline the seat and turn up one of Charlotte Byrd’s audiobooks. The book is anything but boring, but the narrator’s smooth voice puts me at ease and I can’t help but let myself drift away.
A loud thump on my window shakes me out of a deep sleep and it takes me a few moments to remember where the hell I am.
He knocks again.
When my vision comes into focus a little more, I see his mustache and the beginnings of a beard and realize that it is Ricky.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says when I roll down the window just a little bit. “This isn’t a good neighborhood.”
He walks around the car and I unlock the passenger door. A burst of cold air rushes into the car until he closes it.
“Thank you for coming to see me,” I say, turning my body toward his.
“You’re quite persistent.”
It’s less of an observation and more of an accusation.
“I’m sorry about how I went about all of this, but I really needed to speak to you. Mrs. Crawford told me that you were very close friends with Nicholas and you might know something.”
He bites on the inside of his cheek and looks out of the window. At least, he’s listening, I say to myself and take a deep breath.
“Nicholas has been arrested for the death of his partner, David Kendrick. The FBI thinks they have a case against him, but it’s all based on the words of a crooked agent who probably committed much worse crimes.”
Ricky shakes his head as he taps his hand on his knee.
“What? Is it not true?” I ask.
“You don’t know who Nicholas was back then,” he says after a moment.
“And you don’t know who he is now,” I insist.
“People don’t change,” Ricky says, waving his hand in my direction.
I feel frustration building up within me but I don’t let it boil over. I’m here to ask him questions about what he knows and to find out the truth, not to convince him about the man that Nicholas is now.
“Nicky and I came into the organization about the same time. He rose through the ranks quickly because the bosses liked him.”
“Was that his boss, earlier today?” I ask.
“No, different guy. At that time, we didn’t really know who was in charge because that was just the way the organization was set up. The less people knew about what we were doing, the better.”
I give him a slight nod, encouraging him to keep going.
“Nicky and David were put in charge of insurance scams. They were quite good at that and made a bit of profit doing it.”
I have always wondered how much of what Owen told me about Nicholas was true and now at least part of it is confirmed.
“Nicky vanished a day after David showed up dead,” Ricky says. “At first, no one thought anything about it. Thought that maybe they just went down to Florida to blow off some steam, celebrate. Not everyone was in the position to do that kind of thing, but the bosses liked them. Well, that didn’t turn out to be the case. We quickly found out that David was dead and Nicky was gone.”
Owen’s story reverberates in my mind as it is almost identical to what Ricky just told me.
“Afterward, we found out that they had a side job going, breaking into wealthy homes, usually ones that are closed up for the season,” Ricky continues.
“Do you know what happened to David?” I ask quietly, bracing myself for what he is about to say to me.
Ricky tilts his head from one side to another, as if he is cracking his neck.
“No, I don’t,” he finally says.
“Do you think Nicholas did it?”
“Nicky was good at his job but he had one major flaw for a mob guy. He wasn’t very good at hurting people.”
I glance up at him.
“Yeah, you can only go so far in this business if you refuse to take a few lives. That’s why the insurance scams worked out so well for him. He always started the fires when no one was around and he was so careful, no one ever got hurt.”
“But maybe David did something to make him angry? Turn on him? People get killed for a variety of reasons.”
Ricky laughs.
“You seem to have more of an understanding of what kind of moral flexibility this business requires than Nicky ever did.”
I shake my head. “So, what are you saying exactly?” I ask.
“Nicky never hurt anyone. And he certainly would never hurt David, his best friend. He even took a bullet for him.”
My mouth nearly drops open.
“Nicky is as loyal as people get. There’s no way he would ever do anything like that let alone for something as stupid as a bit of money.”
I sit back in my seat taking in everything that he has just said. Suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle all come together in one moment. I realize that I had known the real Nicholas Crawford all along. I thought I needed facts in order to prove what my intuition told me but now it’s nothing but a confirmation.
“But how do you know for sure?” I ask, still searching for something that resembles proof.
Ricky waits for a moment. “He was with me the night that it happened,” he says slowly.
I furrow my brows and wait for him to continue.
“I knocked off a liquor store and the cops were after me. Nicky hid me. I didn’t know they did that job until later.”
I lick my lips and pick at the fabric around the steering wheel.
“But how could you know he didn’t kill him before you called or after?” I ask. I believe him but my rational mind is looking for details that the prosecution definitely will.
“David’s body was found at six a.m. in the marsh by a dog walker. Nicky was with me from six the previous night.”
I nod, still looking for loopholes. I try to remember what I read about decomposition science and how inaccurate and imprecise it can be given the cold and other conditions. When I bring this up, Ricky just shakes his head.
“None of that matters,” Ricky says. “I was with him and I was there when he heard the news of David’s death. I saw him break down and that’s when I knew for sure that he had nothing to do with it.”
I swallow hard.
“I’ve never seen him that distraught,” Ricky continues. “He kept sobbing and just asking why over and over again.”
R
icky looks away from me and out at the bright yellow moon hovering in the distance.
“He just kept saying, ‘It was just money. Why would anyone kill him over money?’ What Nicky never got was that money is the main reason why people kill anyone.”
We sit in silence for a while, not so much enjoying each other’s company but rather just tolerating it. I turn up the heat but it doesn’t really warm me up no matter how much the hot air blasts in my face. Ricky reaches over and closes the vents on his side of the car.
“What do I do now?” I ask. “Why is the FBI blaming Nicholas?”
Ricky shrugs.
“Is it because of Art? But he helped him out of a pretty big jam.”
“You just answered your own question,” Ricky says. “He has been crooked for years and there’s an Internal Affairs case open on him. They got him for something and he needed to give them something bigger in return. So, he came up with this.”
I consider that for a moment, but it doesn’t add up.
“Not to be rude, but David was just a smalltime mob guy, why would they care about that? Or at least, why would they consider it a big case at all?”
Ricky shakes his head.
“But it’s not just that case that they arrested him for, huh? What about the girl? They probably think they’ve got themselves a serial killer and there’s nothing more sexy to law enforcement officers than serial killers.”
“So what do you think I should do now?” I ask. He shrugs his shoulders and gets out of the car.
“Good luck,” he says. “Remember, we never had this conversation.”
12
Nicholas
When I ask for his help…
The water feels good running down my naked body. It’s warm and comforting and, for a few moments, it allows me to forget that I don’t have my freedom.
Everyone here watches everything and I’m not just talking about the guards. We all watch each other; every move and every word.
I’ve made a few friends but it’s hard to know if they are my actual friends or if they will turn on me at some convenient point in the future in order to get something.
Very few people in here admit they are guilty of the crimes they committed, but most of them have. I’m still technically in jail, not prison, so there are those who are serving the sentence and those still awaiting trial or plea deals.
When anyone asks, I tell them that I didn’t kill those people they accused me of, but no one believes me, not even those I would consider friends.
I open my eyes and watch the water run down from the shower head onto my skin.
Today, I’m alone in here and for a moment I’m suddenly reminded of being home again.
I try to remember what it was like to hold Olive in my arms and transport myself to the last time that we were together; the night before, not during the arrest.
I miss her.
There’s no other way around it.
No matter how much I try to convince myself that I should forget her, I can’t.
I know that it was she who turned me in and yet I still somehow forgive her.
I love her and that’s what love is, right? Or maybe I’m being an idiot.
I don’t hear them coming until they are already here. Through the water rushing past my eyes, I see them. There’s four of them and they’re dressed.
Somewhere in the corner, I see the guard.
He’s lurking, waiting for it to happen. He knew about this before I did and he has no intention of stopping them. I don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t like me or if he just likes them better.
The first blow lands on my stomach. I fold in half from the pain and my feet slip.
I catch myself on the wall and stop myself from falling down.
The second fist collides with my head. It throws me off my feet as I hit the tile behind me.
The ones that follow, I can’t remember very well. Everything becomes a blur.
I try to block the blows as best as I can by putting up my forearms into the air in front of my face, but they quickly get heavy and tired yet the blows keep coming.
The men take turns attacking me while they call me filthy things. I can hear the hatred and the anger in their voices and I can’t help but wonder what I’ve ever done to them. And after that, things get even more bleak.
When men are cooped up together in a dark place like this, their sexual urges become a game of power play. And some of them will do anything to satisfy their desires.
The assault goes on for a long time, how long I don’t know.
Instead, I just wait for it to end.
A while later, when I think it can’t possibly go on any longer, they surprise me and it does. I keep fighting, but it’s all to no avail. They use their fists and legs and other parts of their bodies until I’m exhausted and completely spent and then one of them punches me so hard I black out completely.
Sometime later, I regain consciousness in the infirmary. My eyelids feel too heavy to lift so I keep them closed. There are people rushing around me and other prisoners somewhere on other cots, also shackled to their beds.
One of the nurses is talking to another just within earshot. At first, I can’t make out their words but slowly I start to put pieces of their conversation together.
“You know that you have something to live for, right?” one of them says, talking to the guy next to me about him slitting his wrists.
Her voice is quiet but high, and she sounds young. The prisoner doesn’t respond. She talks to him about God and all of the good that there is in the world, probably not realizing that she’s just making his decision to leave this place even easier.
I try to open my eyes again but it’s a struggle so I give it more time. Flashes of what happened in the shower come back to me, sending shivers down my spine. For a second, I consider doing what that other poor bastard did, just end it all with one clean slice.
But then my thoughts return to Olive. No, she’s worth fighting for. Even if she was the one who turned me in, I’ve got to stay strong for her. I’ve got to prove to her that I didn’t do those horrible things they are accusing me of, if it’s the last thing I do.
“He’s not going to make it,” a nurse with a deeper and lower voice says, walking right next to me. My heart sinks.
“No, he’ll be okay. Those bruises will heal eventually,” the younger nurse insists. She touches the sheet draped around my torso and I feel it get taut under her palm.
“I’m not talking about that.”
“What do you mean then? The rape?” The last part she says so quietly, it’s barely audible, as if the word itself is forbidden.
“No, that happens all too often,” the older nurse says in a nonchalant sort of way that makes me sick to my stomach. “I just don’t think he’s going to make it through the trial.”
“What do you mean?”
“Eh, he’s too famous.”
“It’s not like he’s an actor or a celebrity or something.”
“He’s a celebrity in these circles. His face has been all over the news and he was on the FBI’s list.”
A loud sound of metal hitting metal interrupts their conversation, but only briefly.
“What does that matter?” the younger nurse asks.
“Everyone is talking about the four guys who did this to him. What do you think is going to happen to the one who puts a shank into him and watches him bleed out?”
The grotesqueness of the details makes me want to vomit but I can’t seem to move a muscle.
My body is still too weak and tired. The only thing I can do is to put these images out of my mind by replacing them with something else.
I take a small breath and focus my mind on a place that’s far away from here.
I see a little cottage overlooking the sea. The breeze is warm and there are palm trees swaying nearby. The cottage is freshly painted, white with blue shutters and a white-picket fence that Olive would love.
I see her in
the garden, kneeling down next to a bushel of daisies that she has planted herself. Everyone loves roses but daisies are Olive’s favorite. They are sunny and friendly and unassuming and yet breathtakingly beautiful just like she is.
The sun is setting somewhere over the horizon as I walk up to her and take her into my arms. She wipes the sweat off her brow with the back of her hand and gives me a kiss on the lips. Just then a little boy of about two with blonde hair and blue eyes runs out of the cottage. He is followed closely by a white and gray dog with blue eyes to match. They swirl around us filling the air with their contagious laughter and happiness.
13
Olive
When I make a choice…
Ricky has provided me with more answers than I could’ve dreamed of but it’s still not enough. Even after he leaves, I debate whether I should ask him if he would tell the FBI and tell them that he was with Nicholas that night. He was his alibi and that has to mean something, right?
Perhaps, but I suspect that it would only mean something if the FBI were actually after the truth instead of trying to make a case as good as possible.
Besides, Ricky was there right after committing a crime. I doubt that he would be too eager to come forward unless the situation was already going to trial or worse.
Ricky’s answers provide context but still leave me grasping for more. Suddenly, I have even more questions than I had before. It takes me almost an hour to get home and when I finally do, I come to a rather dire realization.
If I want to free Nicholas, I’m going to have to figure out who killed both his old partner and his ex-girlfriend and not just that, I’m also going to have to find enough proof to convince the prosecutor that the cops are wrong.
At home, I make myself a cup of tea and grapple with what seems like an impossible task. If Ricky doesn’t know who killed David, and hasn’t figured it out in all of these years, how am I supposed to? And what about Owen’s ex-girlfriend? He was so certain that Nicholas did it and now the FBI is, too. My heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach. Each breath becomes laborious.
Tell me to Lie Page 5
