Open and Shut ac-1

by David Rosenfelt

  After about an hour at the party, I start to feel overwhelmingly tired. The intense pressure and emotion have taken their toll, and I say my goodbyes. I make plans to meet with Willie about the lawsuit and his life in general, with Kevin about the prospects of getting him out of the Laundromat and into a form of partnership with me, and with Laurie about, well, who knows?

  But all of these meetings are going to have to wait until two weeks from tomorrow, because, as they say, I'm outta here.

  LOVELADIES IS THE NAMEOF A small town on Long Beach Island. Its colorful name has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the town as it exists today; it is a wholesome, family community set on the most magnificent, pure white beach in New Jersey.

  I've spent a good deal of time there in the past; it's a place where I can unwind and depressurize after the intensity of a trial. For the next two weeks my life will consist of lying on the beach with Tara, walking on the beach with Tara, and reading on the beach with Tara. There is also a seafood place called the Shack, where Tara and I can sit outside and eat terrific shrimp and lobster. To say that I'm looking forward to this time is to expose the inadequacy of language.

  But before I can get to that, I've got a promise to keep, and I take a detour out to Wally McGregor's trailer. He's sitting in his rocking chair, as if calmly waiting for my arrival, though I hadn't called ahead. His German shepherd companion looks just as mean as ever, but Tara seems to see something in him that I don't, since she jumps right out of the car and ambles over to him. They commence sniffing each other, which seems to go well enough, since in a few seconds they're lying down next to each other in the sun.

  “Hello, Wally,” I say. “I saw you in court the day of closing arguments, but afterward I looked for you, and you had gone.”

  “You seemed pretty busy,” he says.

  “Have you heard what happened?”

  He nods. “Lieutenant Stanton called and told me. He said Markham was the real killer.”

  “Yes.”

  “He took my whole family. Doesn't seem right that he lived free all these years. Or that Willie Miller didn't.”

  “No,” I say, “it's certainly not right.”

  “But better late than never.”

  “Much better,” I agree.

  “You did a good thing, and I thank you for it,” he says.

  “Believe me, I was glad to do it.”

  I stay another two hours, during which time not another word is mentioned about the murders or the trial. We mostly talk baseball, a subject on which his knowledge is virtually encyclopedic. By the time I leave, Wally McGregor is no longer a man I've helped, nor is he a man I feel sorry for. He is simply a good friend.

  Tara and I arrive on Long Beach Island in the early evening, as ready for peace and quiet as I have ever been in my life. The first thing I do, since I know it will hover over me if I don't, is try to understand my father's role in the events that shaped and destroyed so many lives. Unfortunately, I have limited success in doing so. There is no one to tell me if he had direct involvement in Julie McGregor's death and murder, or why he took and then never touched the two million dollars. I can make guesses, some exculpating and some painful, but they seem destined to remain guesses.

  I can make a more informed judgment of his involvement in the Willie Miller trial. I believe that he considered Willie to be guilty. He would likely never have known Julie McGregor's name, and therefore would have had no reason to connect Denise's murder to that horrible night all those years before. He may have taken a hands-on role in the prosecution because of his prior friendship with Victor, but he must have believed that Willie was guilty. I suspect that years later he may have started to question that belief, and that is why he asked me to take the case.

  I've given a few people permission to call me on my cell phone, while admonishing them to make sure they do so only in an emergency. I'm lying in bed on the tenth day, about nine o'clock in the morning, when the phone rings. It's Pete Stanton calling, with the briefest of messages. “Turn on CNN.”

  He hangs up without waiting for me to say anything, and I rush to the television and do as I'm told. There is a press conference taking place, featuring the current DA, Richard Wallace's boss. Wallace is at his side as he announces the arrests of Victor and Edward Markham. They have turned themselves in, rather than face the indignity of being brought into the jail-house in handcuffs, and they are facing arraignment the next morning.

  I'm pleased and more than a little gratified, and I suppose my thirst for revenge is at least partially quenched, but I'm also strangely detached from this news. My role in this case is over, and I have no desire to relive or resurrect it. It is in competent hands, as evidenced by the speed with which the investigation has been conducted, and I'd just as soon leave it alone.

  So, in terms of the last four days of my stay here at the beach, I wouldn't describe the impact this news has as drastic. Instead of spending all my time walking, sunbathing, and reading, I add a Walkman to the mix, and occasionally listen for radio reports on the Markham situation.

  I learn that a conditional bail has been set at two million dollars for both Victor and Edward, an amount which of course Victor is able to raise with ease. He and Edward have been released to electronic house arrest, which means that they must stay in Victor's house, with high-tech ankle bracelets recording their movements and ensuring they cannot flee. Victor in electronic shackles; now that is something I would buy a ticket to see.

  Tara and I reluctantly pack up the car and head for home. We make the two-hour drive listening to the Eagles’ Greatest Hits and Ragtime ; let no one accuse us of having particularly modern taste in music.

  I'm feeling the benefits of the time off, and I'm even experiencing rumblings inside myself of wanting to get back into the fray. It's hard to know what is going to come up next, but surely the notoriety of the Miller case should result in a wide array of clients wanting to hire my services.

  I'm about five minutes from my house when I realize that I'm not driving to my house at all. I seem to be semivoluntarily driving to Laurie's, though I certainly haven't called her and told her I was coming. In fact, I haven't spoken to her since I left.

  I'm about three blocks from her house when I see her jogging on the side of the road, ahead of me and going in the same direction. She looks phenomenal in shorts and T-shirt, and I drive very slowly behind her all the way to her house, not wanting to spoil this picture.

  When she reaches the house, I speed up and pull up in front, pretending that I'm just seeing her for the first time.

  She comes over to the car, a little out of breath. “Into stalking, are we?”

  “You knew I was there?” I ask.

  She nods. “I'm a trained investigator. And I have a slimeball detector that can locate leering, drooling men up to a mile away.”

  Seeing Laurie is jarring, in a good way. For two weeks I have kept myself in a plastic bubble, not letting real life enter. Now I see Laurie, and I'm incredibly glad that she is a part of that real life. I am stunned by the realization of how much I have missed her.

  Laurie leans in and gives me a light kiss on the cheek, then pats Tara's head. “Come on in,” she says, and Tara and I do just that.

  Laurie gives Tara some dog biscuits that she has in the house for her neighbor's dogs, then showers and changes. Tara then jumps up on the couch to take a nap, and Laurie and I go over to Charlie's for dinner.

  We order a couple of burgers and fries, though we have to get separate orders of fries. I want mine very, very crisp, but cooks seem to have a resistance to making them that way. I have come to ordering them “burned beyond recognition, so that their own french fry mothers wouldn't know who they are,” but it never seems to help.

  We also get bottles of Amstel Light, and toast to Willie's freedom. The discussion then turns to other cases, future clients, other work issues. Laurie does most of the talking, while I do most of the staring.

  She finally notices and a
sks me why it is that I'm staring, and when I don't respond immediately, she figures it out.

  “Oh, come on, Andy.”

  “What?” I innocently inquire.

  “You can't expect us to just get back together, as if nothing had happened.”

  “I can't? No, of course I can't. Can I?”

  “No, you can't. I know you went to law school, Andy, but did you ever go to grammar school? Because you're acting like you're there now.”

  “All I'm suggesting is that we slowly, very slowly, see if we can rebuild the nonbusiness portion of our relationship.” I'm crawling now. “Which I screwed up by acting like the idiot that I am.”

  “That's a little more like it,” she says, weakening slightly.

  “Also, I can't remember if I've mentioned this previously, but I'm really rich.”

  “That's much more like it,” she says, weakening greatly.

  “I'm a multimillionaire, desperately in need of a woman to shower with gifts.”

  She nods, feeling my pain. “And I'm a woman who believes in second chances,” she says.

  I lean across the table and kiss her, and she responds. As Jackie Gleason would say, “How sweet it is.” Unfortunately, the moment is broken by a guy who comes over with a camera, unusual since Charlie's is not exactly a tourist trap. The guy has seen me on TV in connection with the Miller case, and he asks me to take a picture with him. Laurie agrees to take the picture, and the guy leaves happy. Ah, stardom.

  We go back to Laurie's, but I don't think that I'll try anything sexual; it seems like that would be rushing things. Fortunately, Laurie disagrees, and she tries something very sexual. Not only does she try it, but it works. Really well.

  It works so well that it leaves me exhausted, but even though we've agreed that I'm staying over, I can't go right to sleep, because Tara has to be walked. We go outside for what I hope will be a short walk, but which I extend because she's enjoying the smells of this new neighborhood so much.

  I'm feeling good, make that great, about the turn of events with Laurie, and I sort of relive the day in my mind. It's when I'm thinking about our evening at Charlie's, about the guy wanting the picture, that it hits me, and I take Tara back to Laurie's at a full run.

  We rush into the house and I head straight for the bedroom, where Laurie is sound asleep. I try to wake her, which is no easy task. When I exhaust a woman, I exhaust a woman.

  I finally get her coherent enough to respond. “What the hell do you want?”

  “Laurie, it's about the picture.”

  I think the intense tone of my voice pulls her out of her sleep. “What picture?”

  “My father's picture, the one of the four men.”

  “What about it?” she asks.

  “There's somebody not in it.”

  “Who?”

  “The person that took it,” I say.

  I'M CARRYING A PAPER BAGAND waiting outside Vince Sanders's office when he arrives at nine-thirty in the morning. He had left a surprisingly warm message on my answering machine while I was away, congratulating and thanking me for my work in finding Denise's real killer.

  “Oh, shit,” he says when he sees me. “What the hell are you doing here?” Obviously he doesn't retain warmth real well.

  “I need your help,” I say.

  “Forget it. I'm too busy.”

  I hold up the bag. “I brought you a dozen, fish-free jelly donuts.”

  He looks at the bag, then opens the door and motions me in. “Make my home your home.”

  We enter and he proceeds to eat three donuts and drink two cups of coffee in about a minute and a half. The time is not completely unenlightening, however. He explains to me that the way to prevent jelly from dripping out of a donut is to bite into the hole on the side through which the jelly had been inserted. Brilliant, but not what I came here to learn.

  Vince can tell that I'm anxious to get down to business, so he pauses midway through the fourth donut to ask me what I need.

  “I want to go through copies of your newspaper for the week of June fourteenth, nineteen sixty-five. I assume you have it on microfilm.”

  “Microfilm?” He laughs. “Nowadays that would be like having it on parchment. It's all computerized.”

  I nod. “All the better.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “The night Julie McGregor was killed, my father, Markham, Brownfield, and Mike Anthony were at some kind of future leaders conference in Manhattan. I want to know who else was there.”

  He looks doubtful. “So what are you doing here? In case you forgot, this is a Jersey paper. We wouldn't have covered it.”

  “I'm betting you did.”

  Within five minutes, Vince and I are going through the old papers. He finds the article almost immediately, and instantly understands why I am sitting in his office.

  “Jesus Christ,” he says.

  I jump out of my chair and go over to his computer screen. The article is there, and the headline jumps out:

  PHILIP GANT NAMED A FUTURE LEADER OF AMERICA

  I can't say this is exactly what I expected, but it does give me an even healthier respect for my own hunches. The potential implications of this are stunning, and my mouth opens in amazement. It is the only mouth in the room that isn't filled with jelly donut.

  Vince looks to me for confirmation. “Gant was a part of this?”

  I shrug. “I can't be sure.”

  “But you think he might be?” Vince is a reporter, and he's sensing a beauty of a story.

  I nod. “I think he might be.”

  Vince takes a final swallow; he wants to be able to clearly enunciate this point. “If he is, I get the story first. We clear on that?”

  “Crystal,” I say.

  I meet up with Laurie back at the office. She's been tracking this on her own, and I'm not surprised to hear that she's gotten even further than I have. Not only has she confirmed that Philip was there that night, but she has the entire list of that year's future leaders.

  A quick check shows that it includes young men and women from all over the country, and that in fact Philip was the only one besides my father living in New Jersey. I know for a fact that my father's house did not have a swimming pool, so it may well be that Philip's house is the one at which Julie McGregor was killed. The question is how to prove it.

  Laurie logically points out that a crime this old is not going to be solved by physical evidence, and requires a witness. Victor has steadfastly refused to implicate anyone else, and for that reason Brownfield is not in custody. But with Victor facing murder one for Denise's murder, he seems the one most likely to crack.

  We make two decisions, not necessarily in order of importance. One, we're going to include Pete Stanton in our deliberations, and two, I'm going to spend tonight at Laurie's. Therefore, we pick Tara up, take her for a brief walk, and then bring her to the precinct with us. Maybe I can introduce her to a male from the K-9 squad.

  Pete's not there when we arrive, but he shows up a few minutes later. He is of course surprised to see Laurie, myself, and especially Tara sitting there.

  “What the hell is this? A family picnic?” He points to Tara. “Is he house-trained?”

  “She,” I say. “Her name is Tara, and you would shit on the floor before she would.”

  “Okay,” he shrugs, “what do you guys want?”

  I proceed to tell him, and he listens to the story without interrupting. When I'm finished, he thinks for a few more moments before responding. “You know Gant well. You think he could be involved?”

  “I think he's a pretentious, controlling asshole, but I've never thought of him as a murderer.”

  “That wasn't my question.”

  I nod. “I think he was there that night. I think he'd do anything to protect his position. Yes, I think he was involved.”

  Pete cuts right to the meat. “You're going to need Markham to give him up.”

  “Do you think he would?” Laurie asks.
<
br />   Pete shrugs. “Hasn't so far.”

  “Can you get me in there?” I ask.

  Pete laughs. “He'd be real happy to see you. You guys are good buddies.”

  “Just get me in.”

  Pete nods. “Okay. But only with Wallace on board. You want me to talk to him?”

  I tell Pete that I'll talk to Wallace, and I call him. He's more skeptical than Pete, perhaps because he's not feeling the force of my face-to-face charm. Wallace's boss has to get elected every two years, which makes him sensitive to life's political realities. He sounds sorry he even answered the phone.

  “Andy, I'm not even talking about whether or not Gant is guilty, or whether we could make it stick even if Markham gave him up. I'm saying that making the decision to go after Gant is a huge one. The kind we'd both better be right on.”

  “I agree, but we're not making that decision now. Right now we're just talking to Markham.”

  He finally agrees, which I knew he would. Wallace is not the type to sweep things under the rug, no matter how politically powerful those things might be.

  Pete makes a phone call to get us in to see Markham at his house. I drop Laurie and Tara off, then pick up Wallace. We drive out in my car.

  We arrive at Markham's and the patrolman at the gate lets us through. The justice system has determined that electronic ankle bracelets are not enough to keep Victor and son confined, and that armed guards are necessary to prevent their possible flight. I concur.

  The house is on a par with Philip's, which is to say it is magnificent. I reflect to myself that this scene of Victor's incarceration, albeit temporary, is rather different from Willie's residence for the past seven years.

  A patrolman accompanies us inside, and we are led into the den, where Victor awaits us with his lawyer, Sandy Michelson. Victor has changed lawyers since the deposition, a wise move, since Sandy is a first-rate criminal defense attorney. I had asked that Edward not be a part of the meeting, and apparently Victor agreed, since Edward is nowhere to be seen.