Our research into Schwartz revealed no nefarious skeletons, no financial problems, no reason to help Frances scam Teller. Still, despite a well-paying job and zero debt, he lived frugally, in a two-bedroom bungalow in an outdated suburb an hour outside the city. The street teems with neatly maintained lawns and minivans, a few unsupervised children braving the damp weather.
Schwartz sold his house when he moved to Costa Rica a year earlier, so Berry parks at the curb in front of the old address and climbs out. “Stay close,” he orders as I follow him to the sidewalk.
“Is this your idea of a dangerous neighborhood?” I inquire. “Watch out for wayward Frisbees and lemonade stands?”
He shoots me a warning look over his shoulder. “I don’t want you talking to anybody without me,” he clarifies. “The last thing I need is for you to turn the neighbors against us.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your people skills could use some work.”
“Excuse me?”
He stops and glares at me sternly. “Don’t say a word when we’re up there.”
“Why did you invite me?”
He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a copy of Chicago’s Finest, my carefully made up face beaming from the cover. “Because. Not everyone will trust me. But if they see you lurking behind me—”
“What the hell—”
He’s trying not to laugh. “They’ll tell me everything I need to know so I don’t sic you on them.”
“I hate you.”
He rolls up the magazine and bats me on the arm with it. “Let’s go.”
This is a working-class neighborhood, and Berry arranged our visit to coincide with dinnertime, when most people would be home. True to his prediction, lights are on in most of the houses on the street, and we get answers at four of the first five we visit. Two of them are new to the area and never laid eyes on Schwartz, one recognized Schwartz but barely knew him and the other talked to Schwartz occasionally, but had never seen him with any women, never mind Tori Castille.
“Told you he was gay,” Berry murmurs.
I think of Louis Wexler’s slideshow of the men I’ve been seen with. “Maybe he was private,” I reply. “Discreet.”
Berry’s snort sums up his opinion of that theory, and we carry on with our questioning. The rest of the street turns up similar responses, and it’s only when we’re headed back to Berry’s car that an old baby-blue Cadillac pulls into the drive next door to Schwartz’s old place and an equally old woman climbs out.
“Evening,” Berry calls from the end of the drive.
She turns slowly to face us and I plaster on a smile to try to seem unthreatening. “Hello,” she says after a moment.
Berry makes brief introductions and we approach, shaking hands and trying not to choke on the smell of dying roses. She may be old, but her eyes are alert and she’s taking in everything. Lacey Pepper could be our worst nightmare, or a dream come true. Berry shows her a picture of Schwartz and asks if she remembers him.
“Remember him? Of course I do,” she says. “We lived next to each other for fourteen years. He’s a nice man.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” I ask. Berry narrows his eyes at me but I pretend not to notice.
“Oh...when did he move to Colombia? A year ago? Whenever that was. His moving day. I said goodbye. He gave me a vase he couldn’t take with him. Ugly old thing, but I use it for umbrellas.”
“Colombia?” I echo.
“Colombia,” she repeats. “Or was it Chile? Or Cameroon?”
“Costa Rica?” Berry tries.
Lacey snaps her fingers. “That’s probably it.”
He shows her a picture of Tori Castille. “Did you ever see him with this woman?”
Lacey doesn’t look at the picture. “I never saw him with any women. I know because I kept an eye out. I have daughter. A real dud. I thought maybe they would hit it off, but he didn’t seem interested.”
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Pepper,” Berry says. “We won’t keep you any longer.”
I echo the sentiment and trail Berry back to the car, not speaking until we get in. “That was a bust.” I check my phone for messages, but Eli hasn’t called or texted.
“Yeah. Got somewhere to be?”
“Why? Do you?”
“I thought we’d talk to Alistair Pena’s neighbors next.”
“You found his contact info?”
“Of course I did.”
True to his word, Arthur had finally found the missing photo of Laurel Frances and her mystery protest partner, soon identified as twenty-nine-year-old Alistair Pena, a Guatemalan national who had been living in the United States for six years. He was a less prolific protestor than Frances, but Berry tells me that his single arrest for disturbing the peace had listed this address as his last known place of residence.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” he warns as we drive. “The phone number’s disconnected, and I’m not convinced he’s even in the country anymore. The guy dropped off the face of the planet about thirteen months ago.”
“Is there a missing persons report?”
“Nope. But he doesn’t have family here, so it’s possible no one noticed. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to be found.”
Alistair lived in Camden, a crime-plagued neighborhood at the edge of the city. I’d spent my share of time there last year working on the Fowler class action, and hoped to never return. Back then we’d only come during the day; at night it’s even grimmer.
When we park in front of Alistair’s old apartment complex, it starts to look more and more likely that something terrible happened to him. And will happen to anyone who comes to this building, or any of the others crowding the dingy, run-down street. This time when I look at my red suit and silver heels I do not feel quite as pleased.
“Want to stay in the car?”
“Do you have a gun I could borrow?”
“I’m not giving you a gun, but I’ll find you a big rock.”
I try to look confident as I step out of the car, though almost instantly wolf whistles sail out of the darkness. Berry meets me on the sidewalk and grips my elbow. “Stay close.”
“No problem.”
It’s starting to sprinkle now, the sky fully dark at eight o’clock. We hurry to the front door of Alistair’s three-story building, and, thanks to a broken lock, walk right inside. Alistair lived in unit 108, so we start knocking on doors on the first floor. Only two of the first ten we try open, and neither recognize Alistair’s photo. We show them Schwartz and Castille, too, but nothing.
We get more responses on the second floor, but still no help, and on the third floor it’s only a frazzled young mother with what looks like a dozen children racing around in the background who can identify Alistair. “How’s he doing?” she asks, hesitating briefly before gesturing for us to come inside. The apartment is cramped and warm, and smells like pasta and tomatoes.
In between picking up a screeching toddler and scolding another for making the first one cry, she introduces herself as Dana and tells us she and Alistair were friendly, if not exactly friends.
“Do you know where he’s living now?” Berry asks. “We’re having a hard time tracking him down.”
“I thought he was going back home,” Dana says, “but his plans changed all the time. Protest this, study that, travel here, write a book, record a song, become a doctor, a plumber, a dancer. He had a million interests.”
“Do you recognize this man?” Berry shows her Schwartz’s photo and she wrinkles her nose.
“Never seen him.”
“How about her?” The picture of Tori Castille.
Dana pauses. “She looks sort of familiar. Is she his sister or something? This—” She taps the sarong Castille wears in the picture.
“This is very Alistair. He loved bright colors and dressing up.”
“To protest?” I ask, thinking of the flying tiger.
“Anything, you name it. Full moon? Feather boa. New Years? Ball gown. Tuesday afternoon? Heels and pearls.”
Berry glances at me, then turns back to Dana. “Was Alistair gay?”
I’m prepared to do my part to be politically correct and point out that a fondness for fashion does not make a man gay, but Dana’s already nodding.
“Uh-huh.” She’s tasting red sauce from an enormous pot. “He wasn’t a cross-dresser or anything, but he liked playing dress up as much as my kids.”
“I want to play dress up!” a little girl screams.
Dana rolls her eyes.
“We won’t take up any more of your time,” Berry says as we back toward the door.
“I want to wear makeup!” the girl cries desperately.
“You’re five, you’re not wearing makeup.”
“Have a nice evening,” I add, opening the door and hurrying into the hall, Berry hot on my heels. We finish canvassing the rest of the floor, but no one recognizes Alistair, Schwartz or Castille, and we return to the lobby.
“Hang on,” Berry says, stopping at the mailboxes, one of which is labeled “Landlord.” I watch as he retrieves a business card from his pocket and scribbles Looking for info on a former tenant, Alastor Pena. Please call. He slides the card in the slot and we return to the car, impressed to find all four tires intact.
“Hey,” I say, when we start to drive. “Can I see those pictures?”
Wordlessly Berry pulls the pictures from his jacket and passes them over. I stick Schwartz’s photo in the cup holder and turn over Pena’s to reveal Arthur’s neat handwriting. Alistair Pena.
“You spelled Alistair wrong,” I say.
“I did?”
“Is there someone else in the car?”
“A-l-a-s-t-o-r.”
I read Arthur’s spelling out loud.
Berry shrugs. “That’s what was on the police report. I imagine they check that sort of thing.”
Somewhere in the back of my mind, alarm bells start to clang. “Let’s talk to Lacey Pepper again.”
“What? Why?”
“Because,” I say. “We just assumed Tori Castille was Costa Rican when we saw her picture.”
“And?”
“Who’s to say she’s not from Guatemala?”
“You think she knows Alastor?”
I turn on the overhead light and compare the two pictures. There’s a noticeable softening to the facial features, and one is clearly male while the other is female, but now that I’m looking for it, the answer is obvious. “I think she is Alastor,” I say.
Chapter Twenty
It’s almost ten thirty when I let myself into my apartment. I didn’t want to listen to Berry’s childish jokes about my “boyfriend,” so I wait until I’m upstairs to call Eli. I slip out of my shoes and jacket as I listen to the phone ring. And ring. I’m about to disconnect when he picks up.
“Hello?” It’s hard to hear him over the din in the background. Music, people, the clink of glasses. It sounds like he’s at a bar.
“Hey,” I say. “It’s me.”
A pause. “Hey.”
“I just got home.”
A longer pause. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Where are you?”
“Just out.”
I frown as I remove my earrings and place them on the kitchen island, then let down my hair and dig around in the fridge for an open bottle of wine. “Guess what I just discovered.”
“Hang on.” The volume gets louder as he passes in front of a speaker or something, then fades completely as he finds a quiet place to talk. “What?”
“Berry and I went to canvass neighborhoods to see if we could find a way to connect Herbert Schwartz to Laurel Frances.”
“Who?”
“Herbert’s the expert witness for the plaintiff in the Teller case? The one where she cut off her finger.”
“Right. I remember.”
“Anyway, we needed to find a reason Herbert would testify against Teller and we knocked on a million doors—”
“Who’s ‘we’ again?”
“Me and Berry. Derek Berry, one of the firm investigators.”
“The guy with the hat.”
“Yes. We didn’t find anything in Herbert’s neighborhood so we drove out to Camden—”
“Camden Camden? Crime central Camden?”
“Yes,” I answer, rolling my eyes. “We talked to Alastor Pena’s neighbors—”
“Who?”
“This guy who protested with Laurel Frances—the woman who cut off her finger—”
High-pitched laughter has me pulling the phone away from my ear, but not so far that I can’t hear female voices squealing, “What are you doing out here? Come inside!”
He covers the phone to block his muffled response. A second later more loud music blares, then abruptly cuts off again. Wherever he is, he seems to have made some new friends. An image of Stella and Eli pops into my mind, the two of them looking perfectly matched as they approached the movie theater. Eli telling me he thought he’d never love anyone after her.
My enthusiasm for my story is rapidly dwindling. I’d texted Arthur the details of our return visit to Lacey Pepper and her confirmation that Alastor had been a frequent guest at Schwartz’s place, and received a smiley face emoticon as a response.
It hadn’t irritated me the way it might have, because Eli was the one I’d really wanted to talk to. But it’s more than obvious he doesn’t want to listen. Still, I force myself to remember his patience when dealing with the girls on his team, the ones who would rather braid their hair or eat candy than play softball, and take a deep gulp of wine to calm myself.
“Where are you?” I ask, managing to make my voice curious and not at all annoyed.
“Why?”
My irritation creeps up a trillion notches. “It’s still early,” I answer. “I could come meet you. Or you could come here.”
A pause. More loud music, then it’s quiet again. “No, that’s okay,” he says finally. “You do your thing.”
“My thing’s over.”
The music increases in volume, and this time it doesn’t lessen. He’s gone back inside. “Mine’s not,” he says. “Good night.” And then he hangs up.
* * *
I don’t see or hear from Eli all weekend. He’s obviously mad at me for blowing him off, and I’m mad at him for blowing me off. We don’t talk on Monday, or on Tuesday. I figure we’ll hash things out Wednesday night before, during or after Dorrie’s game, but my delightful niece throws a wrench into that plan when she calls at noon to say she’ll get a ride with Layla.
“What?” I say. “I thought you liked having a fan.”
“Stella and Kent will cheer for us. I know you don’t like coming.”
“What are you talking about? I love coming!” Well, I tolerate it nicely.
“You’re always working again. And they said they’d take us to get pizza afterward, and tomorrow we’re going to the waterslides, so I was going to get a ride home with them anyway.”
There’s really nothing I can offer that will rival a trip to the waterslides. Still I ask, “Are you sure?”
“Yep.” As an afterthought she adds, “You can come to the tournament on the weekend, though. If you want.”
“That’s this weekend?”
“Uh-huh.”
The season-ending softball tournament. Instead of losing one game a week, they’re going to be destroyed in five games over two days. But in lieu of the dread I normally feel at the prospect of wasting time at a softball game, I’m sort of excited to see Dorrie pl
ay. Going from “the worst” to just “pretty awful” isn’t the highest accolade, but it’s still a step in the right direction.
Then it hits me. With everything that’s been going on, I’d completely forgotten that the firm’s summer gala is schedule for this Saturday, too. Though I’d known both dates for a while, I’d failed to notice the conflict. Dammit.
“I’ll be there,” I tell Dorrie. For at least one game. “Let me know if anything changes tonight and you need me to come get you.”
“I will. Bye.”
“Good lu—” But she hangs up on me, too. A growing trend, it seems.
Arthur and I mope around for the rest of the afternoon. We’d left a message for Martina Novak, Laurel Frances’s attorney, first thing Monday to ask for an emergency meeting so we could drop our Alastor/Tori bombshell, but her assistant told us she was working out of town and would get back to us sometime today, Wednesday.
“This is terrible,” I say around four o’clock. I don’t actually have any other work to do; Arthur probably does, but instead he’s sitting across from me in the boardroom, checking his phone every five seconds to see if Novak replied. She hasn’t. The umpteenth glance at my phone confirms that she hasn’t called me either.
My fingers twitch with the need to work, and when I resort to doodling on a pad of legal paper, an idea springs to mind. Even though I’m irritated with Eli, I know I probably need to apologize first—again—and maybe I can kill two birds with one stone.
“I’m going home,” I announce, standing abruptly.
Arthur looks confused. “What time is it?”
“Doesn’t matter. Let me know if you hear from Novak.”
“I will.”
“Like, the exact second.”
“Got it.”
“And keep going over the notes.”
“I will.”
We’d drafted up six different mock scripts for the meeting, doing our best to be prepared for every eventuality. Our favorite scenario is the one in which both Frances and Novak cry hysterically and beg us to have mercy. We will, of course, not, but do pretend to consider it for half a page in script four.
In Her Defense Page 25
