“Hey, what’s going on?” he asks.
“We’re here to ask you about Ernie Vinson, and what happened that night with the homeless man on the street.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. “You don’t want a car; I’ve got a job to do here.”
“Danny, we know two things with absolute certainty,” I say. “You were the driver for Ernie Vinson that night, and this car does not get twenty-six miles to the gallon.”
“Who are you?”
“We represent the homeless man that you tried to kill.”
“I didn’t try to kill anybody. How did you find out about me?”
“Here’s the way this is going to work, Danny. We’re going to ask the questions. If we like the answers, we won’t go to the police. If not, we will. But if we do that, everybody finds out, even the people you’re afraid of. It’s really pretty simple.”
“I didn’t try to kill anybody.”
“What were you doing there?” Laurie asks.
“Ernie asked me to give him a ride. He said he had a quick job, and he’d pay me.”
“How much?”
“A grand. I didn’t know what he was going to do.”
“What was he doing?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Just grabbing the guy.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know; he said I wouldn’t be a part of it. But then the guy turned out to be pretty tough, and that damn dog bit him.”
“What happened then?”
“We drove away, but then he said to go back. He needed to get that guy; I don’t know why. I mean, it was just a bum.”
“So you went back?” Laurie asks.
“Yeah, but there were cops there. That’s when Ernie got really scared. He tried not to show it, but I could tell. He told me not to tell anyone what we did that night, not a word.”
“Who was Ernie afraid of?” I ask.
“I don’t know; I swear. But Ernie was a tough guy, the toughest I know. If he was scared like that, then there was some dangerous shit going on. And then … well, you know what happened to Ernie. I never saw him again.”
“Did Ernie say anything else that night? Anything that maybe surprised you?”
He thinks for a few moments. Then, “After he got bitten and we drove off, he was like talking to himself. And he said, ‘That’s twice I missed that son of a bitch.’”
We have nothing else to ask Costa, so I kick the tires of the Chevy a few times just to show Laurie that I know what I’m doing, and then we leave.
I didn’t tell Costa that I might be calling on him to testify at trial, since that would send him running. He’s going to resist when and if the time comes, because he won’t want his name to be out there.
But I have ways to convince him.
I can prove that Ernie Vinson is the man Zoey bit.
He has his DNA on the bloody sleeve that was at the scene. Once we had our DNA results proving that, I withdrew my request that the state have the same test done. I’ll reinstate it later; the longer the prosecution is unaware of Vinson’s involvement, the better for me.
I can also prove that there was a connection between Vinson and Karen McMaster. Sam has gotten the phone records, and when the time comes I will subpoena them through normal channels. Again, I don’t want to do that yet, because I don’t want to tip off the prosecution.
I can’t prove that Vinson was the one who stole Carrigan’s hat, or previously attacked him. I have no doubt in my mind that this is the case, but unfortunately my mind won’t be one of the minds on the jury.
Of course, I also can’t prove that it was Vinson that murdered Steven McMaster. I believe that he either committed the murder himself, or directed someone else to do it. I also believe that whoever did it planted Carrigan’s hat there.
I don’t know if Carrigan was chosen specifically for this purpose, or was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and made an easy target for a frame. I suspect it is the latter because I haven’t yet found any previous connection between Carrigan and either McMaster or Vinson.
It is also obvious that Vinson was just the hired help. He left Joseph Russo because he had a better job, a chance to make much more money. That in itself is evidence that he was not calling the shots.
More proof lies in what Danny Costa told us about Vinson’s fear of someone as yet unidentified. Vinson had been sent to do something to Carrigan and he had failed. He feared that his failure would prove fatal, and he was right.
Vinson was working for scary, powerful people, and for some reason those people had Don Carrigan in their sights. Maybe it was just as a patsy, someone to pin the McMaster murder on. But they had already accomplished their goal; why send Vinson back for round two?
The important thing to uncover now is the reason that Karen McMaster was in contact with Ernie Vinson at all, but specifically why that contact came two days before her husband was murdered. Actually, the how might be more interesting than the why.
I can believe that Karen wanted her husband dead; I just don’t know how she would have found the person to make it happen. There has to be a third party who knew both of them and made the connection.
Sam Willis comes over to give Laurie and me his report on Karen McMaster. The police, based on the discovery documents, did very little work in that area. Ordinarily the spouse has to be eliminated as a suspect early on, especially when that same spouse stands to become single and very wealthy.
But Carrigan was such an obvious choice as the perpetrator that the cops did little more than cursory work, and what they did uncovered nothing untoward. Karen was a grieving widow who was out of town when the murder happened. She was in the clear.
“Karen McMaster grew up in Nanuet, in Rockland County,” Sam says. “She went to Syracuse and majored in interior design. Once she got out of school she moved into the city and got a job at an ad agency, working as an assistant designer for commercial shoots.
“She then moved out of that and started doing her own interior decorating. That’s how she met Steven McMaster. Based on the timing, they hit it off right away, which must have made things a little uncomfortable.”
“Why?” Laurie asks.
“Because they were both married at the time. Within a year they had divorced their spouses and married each other.”
“What a beautiful story,” I say. “Love conquers all.”
“It certainly improved her lifestyle,” Sam says. “McMaster was already loaded. He took over his father’s business and built on it. By the time they got married he was worth fifty million dollars.”
“What about when he died?”
“Estimate is two fifty.” He shakes his head in amazement, then says, “From delivering groceries.”
“People gotta eat,” I say. “If not for guys like that, you’d be sucking down imaginary waffles, dry without syrup.”
He nods at the sad truth of my statement. “Anyway, there was a lot of stuff in the media about their marriage being in trouble. Apparently, Mrs. McMaster was more into high Manhattan society than her grocery clerk husband, and it created a rift. She seemed to be spending most of her time in their Manhattan apartment, while he hung out in Short Hills. His company office was in Montclair.”
“Were either of them fooling around?” I ask.
“I can’t say one way or the other. But I can say that the grieving widow did not wear black for a year and hibernate. She was almost immediately seen in the company of one Craig Kimble.”
“I think I heard of him,” I say. “He’s either a rich guy or a relief pitcher for the Red Sox.”
“The pitcher is Craig Kimbrel,” Laurie points out, elevating herself to an even higher level in my estimation.
“This is the rich guy,” Sam says. “Buys companies, either builds them up or strips them down, but sells them at a profit. Also doesn’t worry much about legalities; he’s always accused of reneging on deals, stealing patents. They take him to court and he wears them down w
ith an army of lawyers.”
“An army of lawyers,” I repeat. “Like me and Hike. Are Karen and this Kimble guy still together?”
“Doesn’t seem like it. My best guess is they split up about four months ago, because she’s been seeing other rich guys since. Not that she needs the money.”
“I think we should talk to Kimble,” Laurie says.
“You got a number, Sam?”
“Of course. You want his private cell phone?”
I can’t help but smile. “Why not?”
I dial the number Sam gives me, and it’s picked up after one ring. “Craig Kimble?” I ask.
“Who wants to know?”
“My name is Andy Carpenter. I’m a lawyer and—”
“Is there anyone in this country who isn’t a lawyer?”
“We do breed a lot,” I say. “I want to talk to you about Karen McMaster.”
“What about her?”
“I wasn’t clear enough. I want to meet and talk to you about Karen McMaster.”
“What about her?”
“It’s about her husband’s murder. When is a good time for you?”
“I don’t know anything about it. I’m busy, and—”
“I could ask the judge to issue a subpoena; I doubt he’ll factor in the fact that you’re busy. So if you spend fifteen minutes telling me what you don’t know, we could bypass that.”
He relents and says he’ll meet with me tomorrow in his Manhattan office. That will give me time to do a Kickstarter campaign to raise money for the parking.
Don Carrigan seems genuinely happy that Zoey gave birth to the puppies.
I stopped off to tell him the news on my way to Kimble’s office, and he broke into a wide grin on hearing it. It’s the first time I’ve seen that expression on his face, which is a shame in itself. He deserves better.
“What will happen to the puppies?” he asks.
“We’ll take care of them, probably for a couple of months, and then find them good homes. Placing puppies is easy; everybody wants them.”
“Good to hear.”
“Let me ask you a question,” I say. “You told me once that people in your situation, I mean homeless, rarely use your names, even when talking with each other. Just how rare is it?”
“Pretty rare,” he says. “I don’t want to overstate it, and often we’d use first names, but in that situation, in my situation, identity becomes less important. It’s just about getting through the day.”
“So you specifically rarely told anyone your last name?”
He nods. “Close to never. Why?”
“I’d love to know how Ernie Vinson knew where you were.”
We talk some about the state of his case, which takes the smile off his face. Carrigan is a smart guy who could see through my bullshit even if I attempted to give him any, which I don’t. I am always honest with my clients about our chances of success, which means in this case that I have little good to say.
As I’m getting ready to leave, I ask him if he needs anything to read. He declines, saying that the prison library has books, magazines, and newspapers. “I’ve been reading about that sniper,” he says.
I nod. “Not a good situation. They don’t seem to be making progress.”
“I know Chuck Simmons, the guy they think is doing it.”
I’m surprised to hear this. “How?”
“We crossed paths in the service, and then he stayed in my apartment for a couple of weeks after his marriage went south.”
“Why did he stay with you?”
“Because I ran into him, and he needed help. He was in a bad way. All he talked about was his ex-wife, and how they robbed him. That’s when I could understand him.”
“What do you mean?”
“His drinking was pretty much out of control. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t hear me. And I’m not the best one to do mental health counseling, you know?”
“You think he’s doing the shooting?”
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t have; he seemed like a good guy. But he was pretty upset, and it probably ate at him all this time. It’s too bad.”
“Any idea where he could be?”
He shakes his head. “Not really; I think I heard at one point he was hanging out in Garfield, but that could have been wrong. Sorry. I hope he’s okay, and if they find him, I hope they’re okay. He’s a very tough guy on the rare occasions that he’s sober; he wouldn’t go down easily.”
I leave Carrigan. The only positive aspect I can think of to any of this is that if they catch Simmons, Laurie can’t ask me to defend him, because I’m already defending Carrigan.
Kimble’s office is on Fifty-Seventh Street near Madison Avenue. I’m going to have to pull into another ridiculous parking lot because if I instead decide to look for the nearest free spot on the street, I’ll have to park in Rhode Island.
Kimble’s company is called CK Enterprises, and it occupies one floor near the top of the building. When I get off the elevator I am immediately blinded by gleaming steel; everything is shiny and modern. On the wall across from the elevator is what seems like a real street sign that says I am on “K Street,” an obvious takeoff on the famous lobbying street in DC.
I tell the receptionist that I’m here, and I am told to take a seat. Twenty minutes later, another young lady, who could be the receptionist’s twin sister, comes out to tell me that Mr. Kimble will see me now.
I expect to see someone who seems to be really busy, thus showing that he has very little time for me. Instead, Craig Kimble seems completely relaxed and calm, greeting me with a smile and handshake and offering me something to drink.
Sam mentioned that he has some serious lawsuits he is defending; in fact, he said because of his rather aggressive business practices, he always has serious lawsuits he is defending. But he certainly does not give the appearance of being under any strain.
“So what do you make here?” I say.
“Money,” he says, and then laughs, although I’m sure the answer was accurate. Then, “I have a bunch of companies, but I don’t maintain an office at any of them. I hire good management, I pay them well, and then I let them run their companies. I only step in when I have to. They get rich and I stay rich.”
“You want to buy a small New Jersey law practice?”
Another laugh, followed by, “Now what about Karen McMaster?”
“I’m representing the man wrongly accused of her husband’s murder.”
He nods. “Yet another wrongly accused man.” I’m pretty sure he’s being sarcastic, but he says it straight.
“You dated her after Steven was killed?”
He nods again. “And before. They had what could be called an open marriage. It was especially open on Steven’s side; he had a pretty good-sized stable going. For Karen it was just me, or at least I think so.”
“So her grief when he was killed was short-lived?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way; I think she loved the guy. I definitely know for a fact she didn’t want him dead. Why should she? She had a good life going.”
“She’s a lot richer now.”
He nods. “True. But for Karen it’s not only about having money; it’s about showing people that she has the money. She could do that married to Steven, and she can do it now.”
“What made you split up?”
“None of your business, but nothing relevant to your case.”
“Are you still in touch with her?”
“We’re still friends, but that’s all. Karen doesn’t shed friends. She’s a warm person, plus she never knows when they might come in handy. Especially me.”
“Why especially you?”
“The more money one has, the more potentially handy they can be. But don’t misunderstand, I really do like Karen.”
“You ever hear her mention a guy named Ernie Vinson?”
“Name sounds familiar, but I don’t think it’s from her. Wasn’t that the mob guy who was killed a while back? Or am I
thinking of someone else?”
“That’s him.”
“Karen wouldn’t associate with a guy like that. Way beneath her social class.” He laughs. “She would consider Prince Charles beneath her social class.”
I ask a few more questions, none of which get me closer to any evidence that Karen McMaster had her husband killed.
As I’m leaving, I thank Kimble for his time.
“No problem,” he says. “Compared to most of my lawyer meetings, this was relatively pleasant.”
On the way home I call Sam and tell him to find out who, if anyone, Kimble called when I left his office. I basically want to know if he is going to warn Karen McMaster that I’m causing trouble.
It wouldn’t prove anything if he does call her; he indicated they are still friends. And it wouldn’t mean either of them is guilty of anything; even innocent people would want to know if someone is looking into their life.
But it’s information that I’d like to have.
Any information is information I’d like to have.
It was a conversation Judge Linda Abernathy was not looking forward to.
As chief judge, it was Judge Abernathy’s job to assign cases. The close-knit group of judges in her court system was devastated by the shooting death of Judge Alexander, but they needed to move on. So that is what she was trying to do.
As one of two financial experts among the court judges, it would be Judge Eric Yount who would normally be called on to take over Judge Alexander’s cases. But this situation was nowhere near normal.
For one thing, Judge Yount had been Judge Alexander’s closest friend on the court. They were contemporaries, had been confirmed close to the same time, and had the same area of expertise. It was natural that they would become close, and they had.
Another incredibly complicating factor was that Judge Yount was the target of the shooting. Had he not turned when he did, he would have been the victim, and this meeting would be with Judge Alexander. Judge Yount was understandably racked with guilt about it, and had confided in his colleagues that he was undergoing therapy to help deal with it.
Deck the Hounds: An Andy Carpenter Mystery Page 12
