ON Edge

by John W. Mefford

“I think we have something in common there.”

  Another quick laugh, which allowed me to relax enough to take in a deep breath. She asked if I wanted to sit, and I actually said yes. She asked me tons of questions, all of which were quite predictable. When I thought she was done, I asked if she was going to share this information with Bowser.

  “As a professional courtesy, of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  I simply shrugged.

  “So there is one more question, and this is really the most important. Why do you think someone would want to kill your father?”

  “You are aware that my father was going to be charged with two felonies this morning?”

  “I am, but I really don’t know the details at all. Care to fill me in?”

  “I don’t know the details either. But he does.” I pointed out the window toward Bowser, who was walking by the window.

  “I’ll give it another shot,” she said, typing a note on her phone.

  “A shot at what?”

  “Getting the Feds to share. If something has happened with your father, I need to know all the facts, not just the facts they deem appropriate.”

  I liked this woman’s angle. She had a backbone. Handing me her card, she said she’d be in touch as more questions came up.

  “Feel free to call if you can think of anything else that might be relevant to this case,” she said. “Now, if you call the precinct and someone else picks up the phone, you can’t just say, ‘Give me the redhead detective.’”

  My expression fell to one of puzzlement.

  “There are two of us with red hair. Our last names are close as well. Hers is Pressley.”

  “Seriously? As in Elvis?”

  “Crazy, I know. So, just use my first name. It’s easier.”

  I looked at her card. “Brook. I had an old girlfriend named Brook.”

  “She break your heart too?”

  “I broke up with her, right after homecoming.”

  “Damn, you were cold-blooded.” She had a phone call coming in and waved goodbye.

  I wondered if I had it in me to go visit with Mom.

  14

  Dad had apparently let it be known that he wanted a full-blown Jewish funeral. I found this odd, considering my parents and I had been to temple only on a rare occasion, probably when Dad had his eyes on a potential client.

  The last twenty-four hours had been a hellish time, when I was subjected to hearing every complaint possible from my mother’s mouth. She criticized almost every decision and act that landed at the feet of my dad over the years. I was actually rather astonished that she never mentioned Bianca. Maybe that one actually hurt too much.

  I agreed with her on many of her complaints, but then she started nitpicking the small stuff. And it became too much. I walked away more than once, but somehow stayed at the house, helped her plan the funeral, listened mostly.

  While the Jewish faith called to hold the funeral as soon as possible, those twenty-four hours had felt like twenty-four days. And it didn’t help that I still didn’t have my legs underneath me. My wife was still absent, my job had apparently disappeared, and none of my questions about Dad’s death or the indictment had been answered. Thankfully, I had access to a shower. Some old but clean clothes were still in my closet at my parents’ home.

  Standing near the fireplace, I plucked a glass of punch off a tray being carried by a caterer—Mom went all out on the reception since the funeral was simplistic, a typical Jewish ritual. No flowers, a plain wooden casket. I was still wearing my yarmulke—again, trying to appease Mom—but it felt like a beetle burrowing into my thick mane of curly blond hair.

  I felt a nudge on my shoulder. I turned to see my admin…uh, my former admin, Stacy, chugging her drink. “Is your drink spiked with vodka?” she asked me.

  “No, is yours?”

  “I was just hoping, that’s all. Funerals are the worst. Nathaniel, I mean…” Her voice cracked, and she wiped a finger near her eye. I gave her a one-arm hug and swallowed back some emotion. I’d shed a few tears at the funeral home, after I read a passage. It felt like Dad was hovering just above me, listening and nodding, and not talking. Later, when I thought about it, I wondered if those tears weren’t just tears of sorrow. Well, not just for the loss of Dad, but for everything else that had piled up at the same time. And still, so many unanswered questions.

  “Your dad was a lot of things, Ozzie, but he was still loyal. I’ve been with the firm for almost fourteen years, and I’m so touched that he wanted to take care of me if something happened.”

  She’d apparently talked to Arie. At that moment, I spotted him speaking with two other men; they were quietly laughing. Probably telling an old story about Dad. I supposed that was how old people coped with loss, since they were surrounded by it so much. Regardless, I needed to bend Arie’s ear once the reception ended.

  I went back to Stacy’s comment about loyalty and Dad. I felt a surge of food moving up my chest. “Yep. Dad knew how to take care of everyone.” She had no idea that I hadn’t been included in the distribution of funds from selling off the company. I had no reason to make her feel guilty.

  “So, are you going to take some time off, maybe go on vacation with Nicole, and then possibly start your own firm? Even though I’ll have a nice little nest egg coming my way, I’d be open to coming out of retirement to help you.”

  The Nicole question. Surprisingly, I’d been asked that question only a couple of times. Mom had asked while I was over there listening to her bitchfest. I’d told her Nicole had the flu. Today, a couple of folks from the office had asked, and I gave them the same response.

  “She has the flu.” As soon as I said the words, I realized they sounded forced.

  “Nicole has the flu?”

  “Uh, yeah.” I drank my punch, wishing more than ever it was spiked with vodka. I spotted Mom receiving hugs from friends and extended family. She looked genuinely touched by their show of respect. She could put on a hell of a game face.

  “Is she going to be okay?” Stacy said.

  “Mom’s a strong woman. Nothing brings her down. She’ll be back to doing her thing within the next week, I’m sure.”

  “I meant Nicole.”

  “Oh, her.” I felt my chest tighten, and I tried to inhale.

  “Oz, is everything between you and Nicole—”

  Tobin appeared out of nowhere, and I grabbed him. “Where have you been?”

  “Around. Hey, Stacy,” he said.

  She nodded as both our eyes went to his hand that slipped inside his suit coat. I was almost certain I’d seen a flask.

  “Is that the hard stuff?” Stacy was excited. “Can you give me a little nip?”

  “You can’t smell it on my breath, can you?” he asked.

  His eyes were bloodshot. He took a mint from a small canister and tossed it in his mouth; then he covertly poured the contents from his flask into Stacy’s drink. She chugged it down.

  “Did Mom say anything about me not being around much?” he asked me.

  “Not really. But I noticed.”

  “Uh, sorry. You know, business never stops.”

  One business had stopped. I kept my snide comments to myself. I noticed Tobin wiping at his nose a couple of times. Dad’s death must have really rocked him. He was, after all, the only blood child. “Are you okay, Tobin?”

  “I’m fine, just working hard and dealing with all of this…I don’t know, somber bullshit. It’s just so depressing.”

  “That’s what happens when your father dies.”

  “I get that, bro. Geez, do you think I have my head stuck up my ass? Whatever.” He walked off, pissed.

  “That didn’t go over too well,” Stacy said.

  “I guess we all have our ways of dealing with tragedy.” Or not dealing with it.

  Stacy clung to me like Velcro for the next few minutes. We got food, tried changing the topic to something other than Dad and death. She seemed to have also picked up on not inquiring
further about Nicole. We were discussing the weather when all heads in the room turned. It was Bianca, dressed in a black mini-dress that hugged her body like it was made from cellophane.

  “What the hell is she doing here, bro?” Tobin had just rushed up to me.

  I shook my head, put my food and drink down. “I’ll go take care of it; let her know that this isn’t the time to make a claim on the Novak fortune.”

  I made it about five steps before I was intercepted by my mother. She interlocked my arm in hers and pulled me into the dining room where there were only three or four other folks. “Have you tried this dish that the Clancys brought over?”

  I just looked at her. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  Her grip on my arm became tighter. “Now isn’t the time to make a scene.”

  “But Mom, you haven’t talked about—”

  “I don’t want to hear her name in this house. Is that clear?”

  “Okay.” She was protecting herself. I couldn’t blame her.

  “Just to make you feel better, Oz, I’m going to be fine.”

  “Yeah, I thought you would. It’s just that everyone has their own way of grieving and all.”

  “Your father was a lot of things…”

  “Yeah, I know. You told me that yesterday.”

  “Sorry if I unloaded on you. I guess that was one of my stages of grief, like you just mentioned.”

  “I get it.”

  Mom continued walking me through the house, as if she were leading me on a tour.

  “I can go ask her to leave, you know. I have no problem doing it.”

  “She can have her few minutes. I just don’t want to create a scene.”

  “I can be subtle.”

  She patted my arm, then stopped and looked me in the eye. “You are a worrier, Ozzie. That’s one of the reasons I love you.”

  I felt a tear bubble in my eye.

  “Your father…he planned ahead. I have a nice insurance policy to cash in.”

  I’d always thought they spent every penny he earned. I also felt certain Bianca spent whatever pennies were thrown her way.

  “I’m glad you don’t have to worry about money. But realize, it can run out, so try not to go too crazy.”

  “It’s worth five million. And we own the house outright. So I think I’m set.”

  Five million. Was that why she was able to deal with Bianca showing up? From the sound of it, she might even let Bianca know about the insurance policy. Her own way of showboating my dad’s lover.

  She finally moved on to say goodbye to some guests, and I tried to avoid Bianca on my way back to Stacy. I rounded the corner into the living room and nearly ran over Arie. Before I could apologize, he waved to a friend behind me, popped me on the arm, and kept walking. He must have known that I was restless and looking for answers.

  I made a diversion and headed to the bathroom. I splashed water on my face, then stared in the mirror. I wondered what had spooked Arie. He’d made it quite clear about how the dissolution of the firm would be handled, so that topic was essentially a non-starter. My questions involved Dad’s death. While I waited to hear back from Detective Pressler, I needed to know more about what had led to the charges, specifically, the evidence the Feds had—or thought they had. And what were they really after? In cases like these, the Feds usually cared less about the lawyer and more about the person the lawyer worked for. But as Dad had told me, there was no official record of this client. He, or she, was a ghost.

  I flashed back to Bowser talking to me at the hospital. Not in the waiting area when he thought he was throwing me a bone—implying that someone might have had justification to harm Dad—but earlier when I ran into him coming off the elevator, before he started jabbering about his son and daughter and basketball practice. He mentioned that he took the guard off duty the previous night because he knew Dad couldn’t travel.

  A surge of bile moved into the back of my throat. Was there any way that Bowser had been asked, or told, to remove the guard? Maybe by the person or group that wanted my dad to be silenced?

  The internal replay of my theory made it sound all that more ludicrous. Bowser was an FBI agent. He wasn’t the top cop in a one-light hick town in West Texas. Yes, there were corrupt FBI agents, no different than any other government entity. But what few federal agents I’d run across in my time at the courthouse meant serious business.

  But why, then, did I still have a bad taste in my mouth? Dad died during the time when a guard wasn’t watching his room. Bowser, in so many words, hinted that other forces might have wanted him silenced. In my limited experience as an attorney, I had never offered up the “C” word as a reasonable defense.

  The “C” word in the lawyer community was “coincidence.” And, frankly, it was considered to be a laughable, if not indictable, act on behalf of a client. Sure, coincidences happened, but convincing a judge or jury of that was practically impossible. And did I mention laughable?

  I couldn’t just sit back and wait for a gust of wind to enlighten me with answers to every question.

  A bang on the door. “Oz?”

  It was Tobin. “Yeah. Just give me a minute.”

  “Bianca is downstairs mouthing off about reading the will. Can you come help?”

  I looked in the mirror: you can’t leave here until you figure out something actionable to do, something that will bring you closer to the truth.

  “Fucking A, Oz. I can’t deal with her right now. All the guests are looking at her; even Mom can’t hide from it. She’s causing a big stink.”

  Something he said just sparked a thought. “I’ll be right down. Give me a minute.”

  I made sure he was away from the door, then I made a call to the one person I thought could actually help.

  15

  Even in my limited capacity to differentiate sounds, I could hear the whining of electric wrenches. Beyond that, the symphony of clatter in the closed-in garage—the temperatures had dipped down into the upper thirties as darkness fell on Austin—made my head feel like it was being smashed by two marching cymbals. I turned down my hearing aid, hoping to thwart a massive headache.

  Finally able to think a second as I waited to enter the back corner office, I blew out a breath and typed in a text to Nicole, or at least my final draft. After stopping and starting the text about a dozen times between me sitting in my Cadillac and walking inside the garage, I told myself to keep it short and unemotional.

  Please let me know when I can drop by and pick up my things. Thx

  I waited a second, my thumb hovering over the screen. I wanted to say so much more. But my thoughts debated over whether to ask questions—countless whys and hows—or to go with a more direct approach, telling her I was pissed that she’d cut off my ability to support myself. But then I thought about the desired outcome. That was what I’d often asked myself during a case. If I said or asked one thing, then what would I expect the outcome to be? If it wasn’t the right answer, then I needed to move on and think of a different approach.

  So glad that my law degree had helped me learn how to negotiate with the woman who, up to about sixty hours earlier, had been the center of my world.

  The door to the office opened, and a woman in a pencil skirt ran out with a tissue to her face. She bumped into my shoulder and then smacked me in the arm. “Sorry?” I said, while at the same time turning up my hearing aid. I sounded as if I were asking a question, even though she’d run into me. She burst into tears and then quickly exited Gartner Automotive.

  “Hey, Oz.” Ray Gartner, whose brother Steve owned the automotive repair business, picked something out of his teeth and then held out his hand. “I want to say how sorry I am to hear about your dad. He was a good man.”

  Ray was a private investigator often used by Novak and Novak to handle sensitive investigations. While I’d interacted with him only a couple of times and this was my first visit to his official office—his unofficial office had been Peretti’s—he was discreet and damn good a
t his job.

  “Thanks, Ray.”

  Something dropped to the garage floor—a loud boom—and I looked over to see a mechanic kicking a tire. Apparently, he was frustrated.

  Ray shrugged, and I followed him into his office. His gait appeared as if he’d been strapped to a horse for the last ten years. Almost instantly, I was hit with a rancid odor that made me think I knew why the woman had been in tears. I pinched my nose. “Is she okay?” I threw a thumb over my shoulder.

  The edge of his lip twitched, which made his thick, bushy mustache move like it was a live animal. “Jilted wife. She just saw the pictures of her husband banging his secretary. Didn’t go over well. Never does. But sometimes it takes the reality of the pictures for them to believe. Know what I mean?”

  I could feel a knot take root in my gut. “Uh, yeah.”

  “You want a little of my chew?”

  I glanced around the room, and besides the stacks and stacks of newspapers, manila folders, magazines, and a whole bunch of other crap, I found at least six leftover cups that Ray had used to dispose of his chewing tobacco. I was just glad I didn’t have an instant gag reflex.

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  “You’ve never been to my office, have you?” He was all country. If it was allowed, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see his horse tied to a pole out front.

  “Don’t think I’ve had the honor,” I said, looking for a place to sit.

  He chuckled as he first found a chair, then placed two enormous stacks of crap onto two lesser stacks by his desk. In order not to disturb the precious stacks, he climbed over his desk. His cowboy boots banged against the hollow metal. I found my spot as he leaned back in his chair and took hold of his spit cup, at least the one he was using right now. I could see the wad of chew tucked inside his lower lip.

  “You said on the phone that we had to talk in person. I’m all ears. Hit me.”

  I wasn’t sure how to jump into the subject. “It’s about my dad.” I looked over at one of the stacks. The frayed edges of the newspapers were brown.

  “Good old Nate.”