by Evan Ronan
The blubbering starts.
I let her cry for a moment but then start to feel awkward when the sorrow stretches out. I consider leaving the room, or saying something.
Instead I pat her shoulder.
She recoils at my touch, like I’m a leper.
“Sorry,” I say. “Just trying to help.”
“Do NOT touch me.”
“Okay.” I hold both palms out.
My touch has dried the tears up. I have that kind of effect on women.
But seriously, this girl has an angry streak in her. The last five years have not been kind. And the reaction to my attempt to console her seems a bit excessive … I wonder if something happened to her in high school or in college, maybe some guy tried to take advantage?
“I should have said in the beginning, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
If someone can nod suspiciously, she does. “You’re wasting your time. Nick admitted to killing her.”
“He took a deal,” I say, hating how I’m echoing Tony Carlisle. “There’s a difference.”
She shakes her head. “If he was innocent, he should have testified and the jury would have believed them.”
“Come on.” I give her a sidelong glance. “You’re an educated woman. You know that juries don’t always get it right. And with a father like this ...”
I hope to draw her out.
“Everybody’s parents are assholes. But few people turn into murderers.”
Not a lot of sympathy there. “Was that the first falling out you and Julie had?”
She gives me the stink-eye. “I have a lot of work to do. I’m teaching a study group tonight.”
I nod, pretend like it’s no big deal she didn’t answer the last, very important question I just asked her.
“What are you in grad school for?”
“Physical therapy.”
She might want to work on her bedside—or exercise-bike—manner.
Sixteen
How would I feel if, at the time my best friend was murdered in high school, we weren’t on speaking terms?
Probably a little bit of everything.
But then again, Molly Coates has had five years to process her emotions. By now, I would have expected the misplaced anger and teenage angst to be gone, replaced by a feeling more stoic.
So what does that mean?
Maybe she just hasn’t gotten over her best friend’s death. Maybe she bottled up her grief for the last five years, kept it hermetically sealed, and seeing me today broke that seal, so the grief and anger and regret were as fresh as they were the day she found out Julie Stein was dead.
Everybody grieves differently.
Still, I can’t help but wonder if their falling out was bad and bitter enough to be deadly.
I decide to push my luck a little further.
The Carlisles live in a newer neighborhood on the edge of town in a sprawling two story that sits on a cul-de-sac and backs up to a lake. I park on the street. It’s almost dinner time, so I’m hoping to get out of here quickly to avoid Tony.
Gabby, Denise’s sister, answers the door and there is no emotion in her face when she sees it’s me.
“Hey, Greg.”
“Gabby.” I smile. “How are you?”
“Oh.” She pauses. “You know.”
Gabby is a few years older than her sister, so she and I never really got to know each other. There is a strong resemblance in the eyes though. Gabby is taller and curvier than her sister.
I say, “Mind if I come in?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Tony here?”
“He will be soon.”
“I see.” What to say? I try, “I’ve started looking into things and …”
I notice she’s not wearing her wedding ring. Does that mean something?
“And?” she prompts.
“There are some things that don’t make sense about that night.”
For a moment, a microscopic amount of hope fills her eyes.
But only for a moment.
Then the emotional wall goes back up and her eyes deaden.
“I think you should leave now.”
“Gabby—”
“My sister shouldn’t have hired you.”
I ignore that. “The reason I’m here—”
“Go away.” She starts to shut the door.
I put my foot in the way.
“I’ll call the police,” she hisses.
“I’m just asking questions. It might not help, but it certainly can’t hurt.”
She smiles bitterly. “It can always hurt.”
She puts her weight against the door and I have to take my foot away.
Back in the car, I sit there and think about my next steps. I need to talk to other kids that attended the graduation party. There are four hundred of them.
Four hundred potential witnesses that might have seen something that could change the fate of many lives.
Or confirm what everybody already thinks.
Good thing I got Molly’s number.
“Hello?”
“Molly, it’s Greg Owen.”
“Hi.”
“I need the names of your friends from high school, yours and Julie’s. Can you do that for me?”
“Do you really think Nick is innocent?” she asks.
“I don’t think anything. I’m just trying to get a complete picture of certain things that happened that night at the graduation party. Can you think about it and email me a list of names?”
A looooooong pause. “Okay.”
“Thanks.”
I hang up and head to the pool hall. Tonight is the biweekly nine-ball tournament so I do a quick cleaning while Tom wraps up his shift. Roy and Wally are back, or maybe they never left.
Somebody’s clogged the toilet in the bathroom and Ms. Pac-Man decided to take the night off and we’re out of ketchup for the soft pretzels.
The joys of small business ownership.
I get the toilet unclogged and mourn the hopefully temporary loss of Ms. Pac-Man and by then the first players are already drifting in to get warmed up. Nine-ball nights are good for business. Fifty percent of my income is from food and drinks and snacks when we hold tournaments. Some people just come to watch and buy mozzarella sticks or pretzels and play the arcade games we have in the back.
Tom’s shift is over, but he’s kind enough to pick up some ketchup at the grocery store down the block and come back. I begin assigning tables for the tournament. A few guys groan—the same guys that always do—when I handicap them too lowly in their estimation, forcing them to give all their potential opponents this evening at least the nine ball and possibly more. But given the wide disparity in talent that shows up, it’s the only way to make the games interesting.
Just like the American Dream:
Everybody has a chance.
But only a few consistently win.
Every table is running and I’ve been on my feet for two hours when I take a break, only to look up and see the two detectives that my cop buddy Shawn warned me about stroll in and give the place the once-over, before walking over to the register like they own the pool hall.
“Hey, Greg,” Minghella nods.
“Greg,” Barnes adds.
“Gentlemen, I’ve been expecting you.”
Minghella is Italian, but looks Irish. Barnes is English but looks Middle Eastern. Emblematic of the—
Great
Melting
Pot.
That is America.
“Where can we speak in private?” This from Minghella.
“Guys, I’m peopling the register tonight.”
“Peopling?” Barnes says it like it’s a dirty word.
“Yeah, it’s … never mind. The point is I’m the only one here.”
“Thought a big businessman like you could afford help,” Barnes pokes.
I hit the ignore button for that one. “We can talk right here.”
The two d
etectives look at each other and have a silent, five second conversation. Then they both turn back to me.
Minghella leads, while Barnes turns sideways and looks about the place.
“So you’re looking into Julie Stein’s murder,” Minghella says.
A patron comes to the front before I can answer and orders three hot dogs. Tom already had some going, so I give her the three least burnt ones.
When she leaves, I answer, “Yep.”
Minghella waits for me to expand, but I make like a lawyer and only answer the question specifically asked.
“You do know we’ve got a guy in prison for that.”
“I heard about that,” I say.
Minghella nods. Keeps the deadpan. “You might have heard he pled guilty.”
“He took a deal,” I say.
Somebody else comes up for a soda. Another guy comes up to bitch about the fact he’s spotting the opponent all the way down to the seven ball. I tell him I’m happy to refund his entry fee, minus the charges for his table time.
Grumbling and morally outraged, he returns to the table with promises to never return again.
If only I could be so lucky …
“Isn’t the customer always right?” Barnes asks, without looking at me.
“Sometimes not.” And I can’t help myself. “Just like judges and juries. You never know how they’re going to feel.”
Barnes keeps his composure. Minghella’s face does a little thing.
“So far you’ve talked to Nick, Henry, and Molly, am I right?” Minghella asks.
“So far.”
He gives me a cool grin. “You know, Julie’s murder nearly tore this town apart. Nick’s parents were getting death threats. Assholes sent anonymous messages to Julie’s parents about how much of a slut she was and how it was her fault what happened. Things quieted back down once Nick admitted to the crime and the DA got the conviction.”
“What if he’s innocent?”
“What did he tell you?” Barnes asks.
“He’s my client. I won’t tell you unless you get a court order.”
Minghella is losing his cool. “Why would take a deal if he was innocent?”
“Really?”
He waits for an answer.
“He was young and severely depressed. He didn’t care what happened to him.”
“Why not just plead guilty up front then?”
“Because then he goes away forever.”
“Did anyway,” Minghella says. “Basically.”
“He got the best deal he thought he could.”
“This is bullshit.”
“He was bullied into it by his pop.”
Minghella shakes his head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Not to you or me.”
“Regardless,” Barnes says, “it’s our duty to officially say we are happy to cooperate, and unofficially to give you a warning.”
“Oh?”
“You’re pissing a lot of people off by dredging up the past,” Barnes says.
“We have no problems with licensed private investigators reviewing our closed case files,” Minghella adds. “Our work is solid and we have nothing to hide. But we are here to warn you.”
“We’ve already gotten calls,” Barnes says. “Julie’s father might be paying you a visit.”
Should have seen that coming.
“Thanks for your concern,” I say.
The two detectives have another silent, five-second conversation, then both face me once more.
“Stay outta trouble,” Minghella says.
Two hours later the tournament is winding down. It’s come down to an eighteen-year-old kid who’s quiet and has ice water in his veins and an older fella who’s been playing in the biweekly games for years but never made it to the big dance. Which makes for good drama and makes me think I need to get local press, or at least a local sports blogger, out here to hype this up.
All the players have stuck around for the conclusion, and battle lines are quickly drawn. Side bets are placed, and most people wager on the kid even though he plays reckless. They’re going to race to three games—
“Hey, Greg.”
“Denise.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Wally elbow Roy in the side. Both older men nod approvingly.
Denise has been crying. Most of her makeup has been washed away but there’s still a little eyeliner on one side.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she says.
I’ve lost all interest in the finale. “Come on back.”
Again we retire to my office. A couple knuckleheads make some very loud suggestive comments about what they think we’ll be doing back there. I’m ready to throw down, but Denise is gracious and just laughs it off. It’s over quickly enough, because the final match starts and there’s a ton of money about to change hands.
This time I close the door behind her to kill the chatter from the hall.
“Thanks,” she says. “I didn’t know where else to go. A bar seemed like a bad idea.”
I grin. “Only if you want about twenty guys hitting on you.”
“Aw, Greg, you always know what to say.”
She comes in for a hug, and then she’s crying. I do my damnedest to keep my thoughts pure, but hey, I am a guy after all.
Denise doesn’t let me go, but she does pull back and look up. “Some asshole called.”
My anger is bubbling up. “What did he say?”
“If Nick gets out of prison, I’m going to end up like Julie.”
“Jesus. Did you—”
“Unlisted,” she says. “I already spoke to the police.”
“I’m sorry.”
She lets me go. Reluctantly. Then sits in the same seat as before. “Got anything to drink back here?”
Just what we need to make things more confusing and emotional: booze.
“You sure that’s a good idea?”
“Still playing big brother?” She winks.
I laugh and say, without thinking, “I never wanted to be your big brother, Denise.”
She smiles at that. “The timing never seemed right.”
That’s a bit more direct than she’s ever been.
“Maybe to you.”
Her smile falters. She gets up.
“Wait,” I say. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to make things weird. The older I get, the less of a filter I have.”
She snorts. “I know what you mean. Now how about that drink?”
“I might have something.”
Turns out I do. A couple unopened bottles of tequila and vodka.
“Straight up?” I ask ironically.
“Really?”
I wink. “I’ll get us soda.”
Out in the hall, the kid has already won the first game. Money changes hands—there’s action on everything, sometimes there’s action on the action. It never ends.
Everybody hustles.
When I return with the two sodas in plastic red cups, Denise is standing up and closely examining some of the pictures of Tammy.
“She really is beautiful, Greg.”
“Takes after her mother.” The obvious line.
“Not completely.”
She looks over her shoulder so we can have another awkward moment. I want to kiss her but that just seems wrong, so wrong. The circumstances that put us in this room together have cast a pall over everything.
So I pretend like things aren’t awkward and put the sodas down. “Vodka or tequila?”
“You mean, which one first?”
Oh boy.
We decide to start with vodka. I promise myself it will only be one drink because tomorrow is coming up fast on us. And nobody hates yesterday like the present.
“Cheers,” she says.
“To your health.”
We toast with our cups and then—
Down
The
Hatch
“I don’t know if Nick’s innocent,” she says.
“Me eith
er.”
She stares into her cup, like she’s reading tea leaves. “Who else could have done it?”
“Nobody.”
She looks up.
“Or maybe one of four hundred other people.”
“You think?”
How to say this? “I think it’s a long shot, Denise.”
“Then why are you going through with this?”
The truth: “Because you asked me.”
“Come on.”
The truth doesn’t always work. I hold up my thumb and forefinger and make the gap between them small.
“Little bit of doubt.”
“It can’t be that small.”
Why does everything she say come out full of innuendo?
“Right now it is. Nick is the best, most likely suspect. Sorry, Denise, but he’s damaged goods.”
“His father did a number on him and my sister …”
She shuts down.
“Your sister what?”
“Never stood up to Tony. She still doesn’t. You went to see her, so you know what I mean.”
“She seems like the walking dead.”
Denise looks back at my daughter’s pictures. “I always wanted children.”
“You can still have them.”
“No.” Sorrow fills her eyes. “I never could.”
My stomach drops. “I’m sorry?”
“When I was in college, the doctors found some cysts in me. They had to remove my ovaries.”
Oh God.
“Damn, Denise. I never knew. I’m real sorry.”
She chews on her bottom lip as she glances back at me. “I’ve always seen Nick as my own. That’s what makes this so hard.”
“One way or another, we will get to the truth,” I say.
She nods sadly and looks like, in this moment, she doesn’t want any part of the big, bad truth.
“What happened between you and Lorelei?”
The million dollar question.
“No one thing,” I say. “Just a lot of little things over time.”
“Is it true that she—”
“Lorelei did not cheat on me,” I say.
Everybody knows everything.
Even things that aren’t true.
The most persistent rumor was that Lorelei was cheating, because, well, she traveled a lot for work. She is a pharma rep and overnights are customary in their business. But that didn’t keep people from rumoring the shit out of our marriage.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “I didn’t mean …”
