by Ellen Hart
“You and Kit still living in that old duplex?”
The question seemed to unsettle Eli. “You remember where my dad lives? I’m staying in that small house near the pond at the rear of the property, the one my uncle built. You remember it, right? We played strip poker there once, with Tina Langdon and Sara Clark.”
“How could I forget?”
“How does six thirty sound?”
“What can I bring?”
“Just yourself. I, ah—” He pulled on his ear. “I don’t drink anymore. Or do drugs. I finally got clean.”
“Me too,” said Peter.
“We’ve got a lot to talk about. Hope we can figure out a way to tell the truth without getting high.”
“Did we ever tell the truth when we were high?”
“Good point, man. See you tonight.”
12
Jane left the restaurant around noon and drove downtown. After parking her truck in a ramp, she took the elevator up to the fifteenth floor of the IDS Tower and was ushered into a sleek, modern conference room at the law offices of Cantrell & Diaz. Four years before, “Wise” had been the first name on the masthead. She’d called ahead for an appointment with Andrew Cantrell, a senior partner and one of Gideon Wise’s closest friends. She mentioned up front that she was working with her father, Raymond Lawless, on the possibility of reopening the investigation into the Wise murder case, hoping that it might pique Cantrell’s interest and get him to agree to the meeting. He had agreed, and so here she was, drumming her fingers on the polished wood table, thinking through the questions she wanted to ask.
Jane’s father had driven to Stillwater that morning to visit Rashad at the state prison. She’d been hoping to accompany him, but learned it would take time to jump through all the legal hoops necessary to make that happen. Her dad had called her after the meeting to say that Rashad looked good and was elated at the prospect of getting another chance to prove his innocence.
As the minutes ticked by with no Cantrell, Jane’s thoughts turned once again to her brother. After their dinner last night, it seemed clear that he wanted his space while he was in town. Before he’d left the restaurant with Cordelia, she’d made him promise to contact their dad today. She wanted to be there to see the joy on her dad’s face when Peter appeared, but decided not to push it. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on still lingered between them. She’d hoped that, in the time they’d been apart, whatever it was would have faded. It hadn’t. The ease they’d once shared had been replaced by a kind of tight wariness.
Standing as the door opened, Jane came face-to-face with Andrew Cantrell. She’d searched the internet last night until she found a picture of him. Standing before him now, she realized that the photo was taken years, if not decades, ago. His black hair had turned gray. His standard, totally forgettable, businessman glasses had morphed into an eccentric, round, black-rimmed pair.
They shook hands and sat down. Cantrell exuded a kind of kinetic energy. He peppered Jane with questions, wanting to know what new information had been found, if it really seemed plausible that Rashad May hadn’t been Gideon’s killer. Once satisfied that the meeting wasn’t a complete waste of his time, he sat back and asked how he could help.
“I’m trying to get a handle on what was going on in Gideon’s life before he died.”
“Looking for other potential suspects,” said Cantrell. “I’m not a criminal lawyer, but yeah, I get that. But are you saying you don’t think the police did their investigation properly?”
“Did anyone ever come here to talk to you about Gideon’s law practice?”
He hesitated. “No.”
“Could they have talked to someone other than you?”
“They might have, but I would’ve heard about it.”
Jane felt she’d made her point. Removing a notepad from her pocket, she began with a broad question. “Do you have any thoughts on Gideon’s life around that time? Were there any particular issues?”
He pushed his chair back from the table so he could cross his legs. “There were always issues with Gideon. He was a brilliant man, but as with most brilliant men, he could be difficult. He had a temper, and he didn’t suffer fools. As I recall, his daughter had been taking a toll on his peace of mind in the months before his death. She was determined to marry a man just a few years younger than Gideon. He opposed it. Got pretty heated, from what he told me. Have you met Marlo?”
Jane shook her head.
A smile played at his lips. “The phrase ‘bitch on wheels’ comes to mind.” He raised his eyes to Jane, trying to gauge her response. “Don’t get me wrong. She’s incredibly talented and isn’t afraid of hard work, as long as it’s something that interests her. There were times, mainly when she was in college, when I thought she saw Gideon primarily as a bank. Of course, I could say the same about my two sons. Gideon and Marlo loved each other fiercely. Never any doubt about that. She owns her own business, you know. Quite the entrepreneur.” His eyes drifted to the ceiling lights. “A greeting card company, I believe. She wanted Gideon to invest.”
“Did he?”
“I don’t think so, though I’m not one hundred percent sure. It was moot after Gideon died. She inherited his estate.”
Jane scratched a few notes. “Tell me more about Marlo’s boyfriend.”
“George, yes. Can’t recall his last name. I’ve only met him a couple of times, and it was a few years back, but I have to say he seemed rather lost to me. Didn’t have a job. That was a big issue for Gideon. I don’t think it was a matter of the two of them not getting along. Gideon simply felt he was unsuitable.”
“So there was no bad blood?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
It seemed to Jane that if Marlo was a “bitch on wheels,” Gideon had a temper, and the boyfriend was the focus of a serious disagreement between the two, further investigation was warranted. “What about Gideon’s relationship with Rashad?”
“It was good, as far as I know. My wife and I would socialize with them occasionally. Dinner parties, that sort of thing. They always seemed happy together.”
“What about Gideon’s work life here at the firm?”
“Oh, you know. There are always issues when it comes to corporate litigation.”
“Did he have any clients who might have had it in for him?”
Cantrell thought about it. “Not that I knew about. If he was being harassed, threatened, or targeted, he would have said something. We have people who handle things like that. I won’t say it doesn’t happen, but it’s rare.”
“What about here in the office?”
“Oh,” he said with a sigh, “there’s always office politics. But Gideon was well-liked. He was a respected leader.”
It struck her for the first time that Cantrell might not be telling her everything. “Nobody was angry at him?”
“Nothing that rose to the level you’re talking about.”
Jane took another tack. “Did anyone get fired around that time?”
His eyes locked on hers as he considered the question. “Now that you mention it, yes, we did have a problem with one man. I don’t know the details because Gideon was intent on keeping them private. He let Chuck go a few months before he died.”
“Chuck?”
“Charles Atchison. Gideon’s nephew. He’d worked here for, oh, maybe five years. Gideon hired him. And he was the one who fired him.”
“Must have been some hard feelings about that.”
“Yes, I’m sure there were.”
“What was the stated reason for his firing?”
Cantrell used his cell to make a call. “Brett, find Chuck Atchison’s termination papers and bring them to me in conference room C.”
“What did you personally think of Chuck Atchison?” asked Jane. She’d written his name on the notepad and underlined it three times.
He shrugged. “He didn’t distinguish himself in any way that I can remember. Other than his ego.” He smiled.
“A systemic problem with lawyers.”
“Was he married? Did he have a family?”
“I have no memory of ever meeting his wife. No idea about children.”
Jane asked if Cantrell had talked to Gideon on the day he died.
“I did,” he said, gazing out the window. “I was on my way to a meeting, so we walked out together. He’d been to the dentist earlier in the day and his tooth was killing him, which was why he left early. He was aggravated, in pain, but other than that, he seemed normal.”
Jane asked a few more questions until the assistant arrived with a file folder.
Cantrell thanked him and, as the young man left the conference room, opened the folder. “Let’s see,” he said, adjusting his glasses as he ran a finger down the first page. “All it says here is low production. Meaning not enough billable hours.”
“That’s a reason for termination?”
“Of course. We’re not a philanthropy. I will say, when something like this happens, it’s often a matter that other lawyers in the firm aren’t willing to work with him.”
“Because…?”
“Well, all law firms have their little fiefdoms. But generally speaking, it’s because the work product is lacking in some way.”
“Meaning Chuck wasn’t very good at his job?”
“That would be the most likely explanation.”
Jane tapped the tip of her pen against the notepad. “Is there anyone else at the firm who might have more details about the firing?”
“Gideon’s secretary would be your best bet. Let me speak with her. If she’s willing to talk to you, I’ll have her call.”
“That would be wonderful,” said Jane.
Cantrell rose from his chair. Jane assumed the meeting was over.
“One last question,” she asked. “Do you know what happened to Chuck Atchison? Where he went after he left your firm?”
“No idea. You might contact Gideon’s daughter. She lives in Gideon’s midtown condo. I can get you the address if you need it. Since she and Chuck are cousins, she’d likely have more information.”
Marlo Wise was already on Jane’s list. This was one more reason to contact her.
13
Peter spent a couple hours with his father late in the afternoon. There were so many things he wanted to tell him, but couldn’t. He was too ashamed. He steeled himself for his dad’s questions, trying his best to make his responses sound casual. Yes, Sigrid was good. Yes, she loved her new job. Mia, his daughter, was deaf, so they spoke at some length about deaf culture in England, eventually moving on to the last documentary Peter had filmed in Poland and Estonia. The conversation was a tightrope walk. When his dad failed to show any signs that he’d caught on, that he understood his son wasn’t being completely candid, Peter registered silent relief.
As he stood in his dad’s office, putting on his coat, he screwed up his courage and brought up the subject of the money his father had loaned him before he left for Brazil. He wasn’t in a position to pay it back and said so, but he also wanted to let his father know that he hadn’t forgotten.
“Don’t worry about it,” his dad had said, giving him a parting hug. “Consider it a gift.”
Peter wasn’t a weeper, but the comment made tears well in his eyes. He hoped that one day, he could be as generous with his daughter. The truth was, Peter ached to be strong and decent. Like his father. Like his sister. But when it came right down to it, he wasn’t sure he had it in him.
* * *
As Peter drove down 35W toward Eli’s parents’ house in Apple Valley, his phone rang. He fished it out of his shirt pocket and saw that it was Sigrid. “Not now,” he whispered. “Not yet.”
Peter only vaguely remembered the house in question. He knew it was a sixties rambler, one that sat on several acres. There was a small, weedy pond a few hundred feet from the smaller house, the one Eli was living in. That house sat on the far side of a rise, hidden from the view of the main house. Peter was glad he’d jotted down the address before he left the gallery. As he drove along a dark country highway, he searched the reflective numbers on the mailboxes whizzing past, slowing as he reached the one he was looking for.
Turning in on a narrow paved road bordered by landscape lights, he continued to the driveway. The main house—one story, tan-and-brown siding, with a two-stall garage on one end—was as ugly as he remembered it. As he got out of the Maybach, locking the door behind him, he looked around for the graveled road to Eli’s place. Thankfully, it had been partially shoveled. He could see tire tracks in the snow, which probably meant Eli had carved out a space to park his truck. As he came over the hill, he stopped for a moment. Even thirty yards away, the small house, blazing with light, looked surprisingly inviting.
It was a one-story wood-frame building that Eli’s uncle had built after he lost the job he’d been working at for most of his life. If Peter recalled correctly, the uncle, Eli’s mother’s brother, had suffered from depression. Allowing him to live on the property had been a kindness, though one that had been short-lived. The uncle had hanged himself from a tree down by the pond a few years after he’d moved in. Eli confided the story to Peter one night as they killed nearly an entire bottle of rum. At the time, they shared a four-bedroom dump near the university with two other students. That had been Peter’s junior year. Eli was a year ahead of him, the quiet dude you could always go to when you needed weed.
Back then, Eli had been an enigma to Peter. If left to his own devices, he would happily tinker on a car engine, sweating through a sweltering summer afternoon as he drank his way through a six-pack. Just as easily, he could spend an afternoon with his nose in a book. Sometimes, when the mood struck, he’d dig out his .22 and take off for some gun range. He was definitely a loner, although after he had a few drinks in him, he could become the life of the party. When he had to work at the gallery, he changed—turned into Mr. Sophistication, as Peter called it. His voice would even change, grow quieter and deepen.
Peter remembered the first time he’d seen Eli’s bedroom closet. The left half held three perfectly pressed suits and half a dozen dress shirts. The right half was stuffed haphazardly with sweats, shorts, faded jeans, and wrinkled clothes of one form or another. Flip-flops, hiking boots and athletic shoes all tumbled together on the floor underneath the chaos. On the other side was a single pair of perfectly polished wing tips. It was like the guy had two personalities, two warring sides vying for dominance.
With his breath visible in the cold night air, Peter knocked on the front door. Eli appeared a few seconds later, dressed in jeans and a Minnesota Vikings jersey.
“Come in,” he said, helping Peter off with his coat. “Did you have a hard time finding Dad’s house?”
“GPS app,” said Peter, waving his cell phone. Glancing around, he was surprised by what he saw. “This is so much nicer than I remember it.” The brown paneling had been painted white, the linoleum flooring replaced by an oatmeal-colored Berber carpet.
Eli stepped behind a counter in the kitchen and returned to cutting up a cucumber. “Look around if you want. I’ve updated a lot of stuff. Bought new furniture. Fixed the plumbing.”
To Peter’s right was a remarkably spacious living room, complete with couch, small coffee table, flat-screen TV, and two comfortable-looking chairs.
As he was about to move into a hallway, he noticed something white, gray, and furry wedged behind a couch cushion. “Do you have a cat?”
“Yes and no. I rescued her the other night. She was cold and frightened and very hungry.”
“What’s her name?”
“She had a tag on her. ‘My name is Charlotte.’ She answers to it—sort of. When I called her into my bed this morning she actually came. No use changing it. I’m going to put her up for adoption on Craigslist when I get a chance.”
“Can’t keep her?”
“Well, I could, but I think she could do better than me. I’m not around much.”
Peter watched the cat
patrol the couch, her white paws looking like socks. “She seems pretty happy here.”
“She loves to burrow into blankets. I always have cat litter in my trunk in the winter, in case I get stuck in the snow, so making her a litter box was pretty easy. Had to give her a bath—she was really dirty. She didn’t like that much, but I think she’s forgiven me because she sat on my chest for a while before I left for work this morning. I have an appointment for her at a vet tomorrow. I just need to know she’s okay before she moves on.”
The cat regarded Peter with her bright coppery eyes. “I think she may be a British shorthair. If she is, she’ll grow to be a lot chunkier.” He watched her for a few seconds, then walked over to a small, round table, already set with plates, glasses, and silverware. “You don’t mind living so close to your dad?”
Eli raised his eyes and looked straight ahead. “Not really.”
“That’s cool. Hey, it smells wonderful in here. What’s for dinner?”
“Stuffed manicotti and a salad.”
“Where’s your other half?”
Turning his back to Peter, Eli opened the oven door. “Kit and me, we’re not together anymore.”
“You’re not? But I thought … she was at the gallery this morning.”
“She still works there. I suppose you could say it’s complicated.” He returned to the cutting board, picking it up and brushing the cucumber slices into a wooden bowl. “I got home kind of late, so it will be a while before we eat. I made a pot of oolong. You okay with that?”
“Sure.”
“Go make yourself comfortable and I’ll bring it in.”
Peter paused for a moment next to a narrow bookshelf. His sister always said that a bookshelf was the first thing she tried to peek at when she entered a new home. She felt it told her more about the person occupying the house than just about anything else. On the top shelf were maybe twelve books in all, extremely well-worn volumes on meditation, spirituality, and Buddhism. He slipped out one entitled The Wisdom of Insecurity and opened it, finding a sentence highlighted in yellow: “You do not play a sonata in order to reach the final chord, and if the meanings of things were simply in ends, composers would write nothing but finales.”
