by Evan Ronan
But if it was the act of a cold-blooded killer, why had Julie been stabbed thirty-seven times?
Because the kid’s fucking nuts.
But if he was smart enough not to kill her at home, and he had planned to do it, why would he be dumb enough to kill her in that parking lot where his graduating class might happen across them?
Because he wanted it to look like somebody else killed her.
Then he’s not that crazy, because that kind of planning requires a modicum of thinking.
The more I think about it, the less this case makes sense.
Maybe she said something that set him off.
But it’s a very short drive to the lake from his place. And besides, he would have needed to have the knife on his person. So that gets back to the idea that he planned it …
I’m not getting anywhere, so I switch gears.
The lawyer.
James Stanek did not go out on a limb for this kid. After less than twenty-four hours of half-heartedly poking around, I already have doubts. Nick’s lawyer was wishy-washy about hiring a defense investigator and in the end probably got run over by Nick’s Dear Old Dad.
I can’t help but think I’m onto something.
At the same time, I still don’t believe Nick because …
Why?
Because ever since he was convicted, I’ve seen him as guilty.
No. There’s more than that.
Her blood, in his house.
Yep.
The violent history between them.
Yep.
I need to talk to more people.
But first—
Denise answers my call after the first ring.
“Greg, I just gotta call from James Stanek, Nick’s lawyer.”
News travels fast.
“He and I had a little chat,” I say.
“He was kind of an asshole.”
“He is kind of a lawyer.”
She laughs nervously. “Kind of?”
“Yeah.”
“He said that Nick and anybody helping him should be careful what they say. What did he mean by that?”
“He means, he’ll sue the shit out of anybody that publicly states, in person or in print, that James Stanek forced his client to take a plea deal.”
“He’d actually sue us?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” I say. “He’d have to, actually. A lawyer can’t have potential clients thinking he threw a former client under the bus.”
“Oh my God. I can’t believe this is happening.”
Time for more good news. “I think it’s going to get worse.”
“How could it?”
I get in my car, shut the door. “The police won’t like me looking over their shoulder. And remember, the whole town thinks Nick is guilty because of how he changed his plea. It’s going to rub a lot of people the wrong way.”
She brightens. “So does that mean you’ll take the case?”
I need this like I need a needle in my eye. “Yes.”
“Oh, Greg.” She chokes up. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“You’re welcome.” Deep breath as a staggering sense of déjà vu overtakes me. In my mind, I’m suddenly back in my old bedroom, phone to my ear, as Julie unloads her latest heartache on me. I promise to take care of the guy who’s speaking out of turn about her and she’s forever grateful …
And I slip back into my car outside the lawyer’s office, feeling like past and present and maybe future are all happening at the same time and wondering if we only perceive these moments as separate from each other.
“Julie,” I say. “I still don’t believe Nick. But there are things bothering me about the facts and evidence that I want to look into further. At the end of the day, we might find out that Nick is in fact guilty but the crime occurred differently than everybody else thinks. I want you to be prepared for that.”
“He’s not guilty,” she says. “You have to believe that.”
“I’ll talk to you later.”
The coffee is lukewarm. I bite into the pretzel and savor it. There is nothing quite as all-purpose as a pretzel. It can serve as breakfast, lunch, sometimes dinner, and always as a snack.
Twelve
Jason Shaw has a shaved head and an unkempt beard.
“When’d you graduate?” he asks.
He’s leading me around the grounds of the Commodore Apartments, no doubt letting me see what he wants and no more. The lawn is in need of a mow, and the grading of the land is off in a few places.
“Class of ’95. Yourself?”
“You’re young.”
Forty doesn’t feel young. But it doesn’t feel old either, though.
“I was ’85.”
“How about we see a couple units in this building?” I ask, stopping suddenly and hoping to throw him off his game.
“Sure,” he says, after a pause.
I can tell he’s trying to think of which ones to show me.
And we do this game for another thirty minutes. Make small talk as I ask to see certain things and he allows it or comes up with a valid-sounding excuse. But the whole time I’m distracted by the murder of Julie Stein.
We get back to his office, where his receptionist, the nice young woman I spoke to yesterday, has fresh coffee waiting for us and a tray of bagels.
Three dozen assorted bagels.
I know what he’s going to say before he says it.
“Some other investors have expressed interest,” Shaw says. “I’m expecting them to come through later this morning.”
“Jason, I’m ready to make you an offer contingent on the inspections.”
He smiles. “You just saw the units for yourself.”
“I’d like the soil and water tested. I’ve heard too many horror stories about buyers purchasing polluted grounds without knowing it. And I’d like my inspector to see every unit. So I know exactly what I’m paying for.”
“Every unit?” He shakes his head. “That’s hard on my tenants. I have to arrange times for over forty families and clear it with them.”
I turn as if I’m about to leave. “No deal if I can’t see every unit. Again, I’ve heard too many horror stories of buyers not getting into every apartment before buying and then getting burned by what they didn’t know.”
“Hmmm. Well let me see what I can do.”
So he’s interested.
“Last, I’d like to see the income from the last two years, broken down by unit.”
“I showed you the rents.”
“That was the rent, what you asked for from the tenants. But I want to see what you actually got. That’s the true operating income.”
Shaw glances over at the receptionist, who’s been busy pretending not to listen to our negotiation. “I’m sure Marcia can pull that together. Can’t you?”
She smiles and nods.
“Great,” I say. “If the income is where I think it is, I’ll put in my offer that’s contingent on the inspections.”
“Give me a ballpark.”
Deep breath. “I’m pre-approved for three point five million.”
“Sure,” he says, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Just keep in mind I’ve got more people coming through here. This property is hot right now.”
“I’ll bet it is.”
Back in my car, I go over the conversation with Shaw in my head. Replaying his words, I try to gauge his level of interest. He hasn’t rejected any of my requests yet, so he’s thinking about it.
During the thirty-minute ride to Willow Grove, my mind slips back into PI mode. I try looking at the murder from different perspectives, but I still can’t untangle the illogical sequence of events. The crime is two-faced, being both one of passion and of premeditation.
Maybe it’s both. Nick could have been thinking about it a long time, maybe battling the urge to kill her. Then she says something and all that rage he’s been bottling up inside explodes.
Maybe it’s both.
In Willow Grove, I find a spot on the street, feed the meter. The Access Group is a small, boutique consulting firm specializing in the healthcare industry and headed by Tony Carlisle, Nick’s father. The building looks like it was converted from an old dance studio or something.
Inside, a receptionist looks up from her computer. “Can I help you?”
“Greg Owen to see Tony Carlisle.”
“Do you have an appointment?” She frowns.
“Nope.”
She looks at me like I’ve committed a cardinal sin. “Let me see if he’s available. You can have a seat there.”
I sit and riffle through golf magazines that are so old, Tiger Woods is on the cover.
“Mr. Owen?” she calls out a few minutes later.
I stand.
“Mr. Carlisle will see you now. Right back this way.”
She gets up and I admire the view, pig that I am. The receptionist leads me back through an open space where a few people look up from desks to gaze inquisitively at the
tall,
dark,
and handsome
stranger who’s just entered their office.
Tony Carlisle has a big office with big windows and a big desk and big aquarium with a big fish in it.
“You must be Greg,” he says.
“I must be somebody.”
I look around and see pictures of him and his wife.
No pictures of his son.
“I want to apologize up front,” Tony surprises.
“I wasn’t expecting you to apologize.”
“I shouldn’t be.” He signals to a small conference table, where we sit. “My sister-in-law should be.”
“Oh?”
“She has an active imagination. As I’m sure you know already.”
“Do I?”
“My wife mentioned you two were very close in high school.”
“Yes.”
I had a crush on her.
She saw me as a friend.
Complicated.
“So you know how she is.”
I dead-eye him. “Why don’t you tell me how you think she is?”
He’s unfazed by my hard-ass glare. “She’s impressionable and flighty. She’s wishy-washy. She believes what she wants to believe and she’s needy.”
“Don’t hold back. Say what you’re feeling.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” He lays the sarcasm on me. “Did you want me to hold back?”
“Guess not.”
God I hate this guy already.
Tony Carlisle is wearing an expensive three-piece suit. His hair just cut. He has the look of being always freshly-shaven. Five years have passed since he lost his son to the penal system. But it looks like he hasn’t missed a beat.
“Nice office,” I say.
He picks up on my sarcasm but fails to appreciate its source. Instead, he makes a big showing of checking his Rolex.
“I’m afraid I have an eleven o’clock. Let’s get down to business.”
“We already are down to business.” I cross one leg over the other. “I spoke to James Stanek. He didn’t answer any of my questions like a human being, so I figured I’d ask an actual human being instead. Assuming you are one.”
He can’t tell if I’m joking or if it’s a cheap shot. So he hedges his bets and gives me a fake smile.
“Last I checked.”
“Good. Who do you think killed Julie Stein?”
He does a double-take. “I don’t know.”
“You sure about that?”
“About being unsure? Sure I’m sure.”
“Your son went to prison for it.”
“He took a deal.” This is an important distinction to Tony. “There’s a difference.”
“Not for him.”
He purses his lips, looks away for a minute. Then the cool businessman returns.
“Greg, it’s obvious my sister has put some ideas into your head. Speaking of heads, maybe you’re thinking with the wrong one.”
“What’s the saying? Two heads are better than one.”
Even he has to admit that’s a good one. A tiny smile before he grimaces.
“He didn’t stand a chance with the jury,” Tony says. “If you knew him like I do, you’d understand.”
“Why didn’t you believe in him?” I ask. “He’s your son.”
There’s a fractional, but significant, hesitation. “What do you mean?”
“He told you what happened,” I repeat and add, “and of all the people in the world, he only has one father, one man who should have believed him.”
“Believed him?” Tony laughs and it’s an ugly sound. “Of course I believed him. But her blood was in my living room.”
“So you didn’t believe him enough.”
He doesn’t answer that question.
“How much blood was there in your living room?”
Tony doesn’t answer that one either. “Nick put his hands on her.”
I have no comeback for that.
Tony goes on. “You know how many times I heard them arguing over the phone? My son flew into rages. Screamed his head off. I ordered him to break it off and get his fucking head together because a man doesn’t act like that.”
“Good advice. Did he heed it?”
“He never listened.”
“When the student isn’t learning, is that his fault? Or the teacher’s?”
Tony glares at me. “It’s easy to stick your nose in somebody else’s business and point out everything they did wrong. I know, because I run a consulting business and that’s how we make our money. But you have no idea what it’s like to parent a child who never listens to reason and won’t make decisions in their own best interest. Nick had everything and he threw it all away.”
“From what I remember, Nick was a straight A student and college-bound with an athletic scholarship. Sounds like an awful kid.”
Tony stands. “You’re going to look into this, I can tell. But let’s make a few things clear. I don’t want to see you again. Stay away from my wife. You have no idea how difficult it’s been, adjusting to a new life. We’ve moved on. This has been hell on my wife and I don’t want her looking backward. Do you understand me?”
“You know, Tony, I saw your son yesterday.”
He grunts. “And he’s telling you that he didn’t want to take a deal, I’ll bet. He’s telling you we forced him into it, right? Talk to him long enough and you’ll see Nick takes no responsibility for anything. Ever.”
I don’t engage. “We talked for a little bit and I don’t believe his story. Yet.”
“Then you’re not a complete fucking moron.”
“You know what amazes me most, Tony?”
He’s done with me. “I don’t give a shit what amazes you.”
“Not once, this whole time you and I have been talking—not once—have you asked me how Nick was.”
He squirms in his seat.
“When was the last time you saw your son?” I ask.
He just simmers.
I nod. “That’s some cold shit right there.”
Thirteen
Tom, mercifully, has shown up for work today at the pool hall.
We’re running a couple tables, not including Wally and Roy, who have resumed their unending game of straight pool.
“How’d your date go last night?” Wally asks.
I wave him off, in no mood.
Roy interjects, “Maybe you should take that Denise out.”
That Denise. He sounds like an old man.
I’m still on fire having just come from Dad-of-the-Year, Tony Carlisle, so I send one across his bow. “Maybe you should learn how to properly execute a safe so Wally stops taking your money.”
Roy frowns. “I was safing shots since before you were born.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I turn to Tom, who’s behind the register. “Tom, can I see you a moment?”
Shoulders slumped, he follows me into the back.
“Tom, I nee
d to be able to rely on you to show up to work. I almost had to close the place down yesterday. At the very least, I need you to call in.”
“I did.” Tom has surfer-blond hair and lazy posture. I must be getting old too, noticing a thing like posture in a young man. “I told Bernie why I couldn’t come in.”
Relaying messages—in fact, doing anything helpful—is not in Bernie’s wheelhouse.
“Sorry, Tom, he didn’t pass that information along to me.”
“I had to take my mother to the hospital.”
I want to die of shame. But not as much as I want to strangle Bernie.
“I’m very sorry to hear that, Tom. Like I said, Bernie didn’t let me know.”
“It was scary. We thought she was having a heart attack. Turns out it was only indigestion.”
“Indigestion?”
He nods.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Tom.”
He mumbles an apology and sloughs off back to the register.
I add Kill Bernie to the list, then head into the back to crunch numbers. I’m going over the financials for the convenience store when somebody knocks at my door.
I look up.
There’s a twenty-something kid with long sweeping hair that covers his ears.
“Help you?” I ask.
“Greg Owen?”
“In the flesh.” He’s about Nick Carlisle’s age. “And you are?”
“Henry Lucetti.”
He doesn’t move out of the doorway. Doesn’t offer his hand.
“What can I do for you?”
“Are you looking into Julie’s death?”
“What’s it to you?”
By the way he gulps, I can tell he and Julie were tight. “We were friends.”
“Were you in class together?”
He nods.
“Class of ’11?”
He nods again. Henry has something to say but doesn’t know how to say it. He’s been out of school for five years now but still could pass for a high school senior.
“We were friends,” he repeats.
“Impossible.” I smile. “Guys and girls can’t be friends.”
He can’t tell if I’m joking.
“I’m joking.”
“Oh.” Only then does he feel comfortable smiling.
“Why don’t you sit down, Henry?”
“Thanks.”
