by Jason Starr
“Hey.” He gave me a big hug. Yep, I’d definitely caught him on a good day.
“Thanks for letting me come by,” I said,
“Hey, anything for you, buddy. You know that.”
Remembering all the times Anthony—in an opposite mood—had treated me like total dog shit, I said, “Yeah, of course I know that.”
I followed him into the apartment. It was a very small, maybe four-hundred-square-foot one-bedroom with a separate kitchen and a counter/breakfast bar. Unlike other times I’d been here when the apartment was in disarray with dirty dishes piled on the table and counter, and laundry and newspapers strewn everywhere, this time it was clean and well organized. The simple square table had nothing on it except a branch of lucky bamboo in a narrow vase.
“I want to hear everything,” Anthony said. “Coffee?”
He gestured toward the Keurig machine.
“Sure,” I said.
“I don’t have decaf, caffeinated cool?”
“Always,” I said.
As he went in the kitchen to make the coffees, he said, “Have a seat, make yourself at home.”
I remained standing.
“Thanks again for having me over,” I said.
“You look like shit.”
I wasn’t offended. Anthony had a directness I appreciated.
“Feel like shit, too, man,” I said.
He must’ve picked up on the shakiness in my tone. He said, “So, talk to me. What’s going on, Jack?”
Struggling not to cry, I said, “I almost had a drink.”
“Happens,” he said. “But you didn’t, that’s the important thing. You talked yourself out of it.”
“Barely,” I said.
A tear reached my upper lip. Anthony didn’t offer me a tissue or say, I’m sorry, or some bullshit cliché like that. I appreciated that. I didn’t want sympathy or assurance that everything would be okay. I wanted help.
After taking maybe a minute to compose myself, I explained to him how I’d met Sophie online, leading up to how I’d discovered her body. I was open and honest about everything that had taken place—including all of my bad decision-making—knowing that, as a fellow addict, he would accept my behavior and wouldn’t judge it.
When I told him about the aggressive questioning from Barasco, he cut me off.
“I knew Nick Barasco back in the day.” Anthony sounded bitter. “I’m not surprised he’s been dicking you around. He used to walk around like he thought he’d be police chief someday, but the guy’s not even a good detective.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who feels that way about him. I was starting to feel like I was going crazy.”
Anthony had served the coffee and was sitting across from me at the kitchen table.
“So what’s going on now?” he asked.
In a matter-of-fact tone, I summarized the rest, including how Maria had locked me out of my apartment and how I’d had to spend a night in jail. I didn’t feel any shame in telling Anthony about this, especially since he was an ex-con.
When I was through, as I’d expected, he seemed unfazed. He said, “Well, if you need to shower, or want to spend the night here, mi sofa, tu sofa.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate that, man.”
“But first, I need you to look me in the eye,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Did you do it?” he asked
“No,” I said.
“Your eyes shifted when you said ‘no.’”
I didn’t realize they had.
Making sure I was staring right at him, not blinking at all, I said, “No, of course I didn’t. Come on.”
“I believe you,” he said. “I know a thing or two about criminals and you’re not a criminal.”
“I wish Nick Barasco thought like you.”
“Putting my police cap on, maybe he thinks you know something, or you’re protecting somebody,” Anthony said. “I’m just spitballing, of course, ’cause I don’t know the details. But it sounds like he’s using the pressure techniques you gotta use these days. You can’t take a witness into a back room anymore and slap him around, or stick a broomstick up his ass anymore. So what can you do instead? Threaten the witness with evidence you might or might not have.”
“There’s no evidence because I didn’t do anything,” I said.
“You gave her CPR,” he said. “That puts your DNA at the scene. Also you met her online, so that has shady connotations built into it, if you know what I mean.”
“Her husband killed her,” I said, “I’m positive.”
“Well, you know they’re checking the husband out thoroughly, ’cause that’s what they always do when a married woman is killed. But you said he has an alibi, right?”
“That’s what Barasco said.”
“You think he’s bullshitting?”
“Maybe. The thing I don’t get—if he doesn’t have an alibi, why wouldn’t they just arrest him?”
“Good question,” Anthony said. “Well, either it’s true and he does have some kind of solid alibi, or they think the alibi has holes in it. Maybe Barasco thinks if he pressures you enough, you’ll give something up, something they need to make their case more solid. My point is it’s always a waste of time to try to get in the head of detectives in these situations because you never know what the real M.O. is. That’s why lawyers always tell their clients to keep their mouths shut.”
“I know I need a better lawyer,” I said, “but I obviously can’t afford one. That’s why I thought that maybe—”
“Of course I’ll help you,” Anthony said. “You even need to ask?”
“Really?” I was surprised. The way things had been going for me lately, I’d expected him to tell me he was too busy or there was nothing he could do to help me.
“After everything you’ve done for me?” he said. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d probably be back inside right now, or maybe even dead.”
“I think you’re exaggerating.”
“Am I? I don’t think so. You’re one of the good guys, Jack.”
Again, I felt fortunate that I’d caught Anthony on a “good day.” He could have just as easily told me to go fuck myself.
“Thank you, man,” I said. “I really appreciate this.”
“No thanks necessary. I’m working on a couple other cases right now, but I know how to walk and chew gum. I’ll check out the husband first. What did you say his name was?”
“Lawrence Ward. He lives in White Plains.”
“I know White Plains,” Anthony said. “My uncle had a landscaping biz up there. That was my first job in high school. You got an address?”
“No. I know he works at a pharmaceutical company in Stamford.”
“That’s more than enough info to go on,” Anthony said.
“What can I do now?” I asked.
Anthony looked at me. “Want me to be honest?”
I nodded.
“Take a shower,” he said. “You fuckin’ stink.”
* * *
When I came out to the living room, sans prison grime, towel around my waist, Anthony was on an iPad, Google Earthing Lawrence Ward’s house.
“Soundview Avenue,” he said. “Nice hood. Must have some serious coin.”
He was sitting on a chair at the dining table, putting his sneakers on, as if getting ready to head out.
“They’re definitely well off,” I said. “I mean to own a townhouse in the city plus a big house in White Plains?”
“Means he could afford to hire somebody to knock off his wife if he wanted to,” Anthony said.
“I’ve thought about that,” I said. “It would explain how he has an alibi.”
“The police are looking into that, I’m sure,” he said. “Question is why didn’t they get anything on him yet? My opinion? His alibi’s bullshit.”
“The detective said it’s airtight.”
“Yeah, the detective who’s trying to nail you for it.
I’ve been there, done that. Detectives are the biggest bullshit artists on earth, especially the ones under pressure to make a bust.”
“So you think her husband killed her?”
“Going from my gut here, but yes—yes I do. The way he killed her, with the tie, sounds like it could’ve been a crime of passion.”
“But she didn’t die from strangulation,” I said.
“Right, but why wrap the tie around her neck when she was dead if he didn’t have to? There’s something twisted about that—and I’m not talkin’ about the tie. I mean something sexual. You’re thinking, Then why not use his hands? Well, you said she’d brought the tie with her, right? So it might not have been his intention—it was just opportunity. He sees the tie, decides to strangle her. Maybe he thought he was being smart—didn’t want her to fight back and get DNA in her fingernails, was looking to cover his tracks. On the other hand, if it was a pro job, maybe the killer was trying to make it look like a crime of passion. The husband knew she was online, cheating on him, so—”
“She didn’t cheat,” I said.
“But she was planning to,” he said. “That’s why she went there, right? And how do you know you were the only guy?”
“That’s what the detective said.”
“Well, on that count he might’ve been right. Maybe she had a string of affairs and the husband knew it so he hired a hit man, told the hit man to make it look like a crime of passion. The more I think about this, the more sense it makes.”
From the closet near the front door, Anthony took out his leather jacket.
“Where you going?” I asked.
“I’m working on a case up in the Heights.”
“This late?”
“Surveillance,” he said. “Guy I’m tailing works at a bar, gets off late, so I’ll be burning the midnight oil. But actually it’s only about twenty minutes to White Plains from there, no traffic this time of night, so I might do a cruise-by of the house. More importantly I’m gonna get in touch with some of my old buddies in Homicide—they can fill me in on where the cops are at in the Sophie Ward investigation. If there are any witnesses, I want to talk to them, too … But you make yourself at home—there’s some roast beef in the fridge and I got a fresh loaf of rye. You’re probably exhausted. Bet you didn’t sleep much in lockup.”
“Yeah, I am zonked,” I said. “But, uh, slight problem for tomorrow. I don’t have any clean clothes.”
“Right, clothes.” He headed into the bedroom, saying, “I’m probably a few sizes ahead of you, but you can pick out any tee shirt you want from the bottom drawer of my dresser. For underwear and socks, I don’t think you wanna wear mine unless you’re up to date on all your shots. Why don’t you wash yours out in the sink and use the blow-dryer? It’s in the hall closet.”
He returned from the bedroom and handed me a pair of faded jeans.
He said, “I left a set of keys for you on the dresser. The silver one’s the front door, the gold one’s to the apartment. You probably need some money, too, right?”
“I can’t take money from you,” I said.
“You’ve lent me before,” he said.
“I have?”
“Don’t you remember? It was when you first started sponsoring me. I didn’t have any work and I was living on my friend Tommy’s couch on Staten Island. You lent me five hundred bucks.”
I remembered now. He’d paid me back a few weeks later.
“Right,” I said, “I almost forgot.”
“But I didn’t,” he said. “You were there for me then, and now it’s my turn to be there. It’s called loyalty. You’re a good guy, Jack—one of the best people I know. Good people deserve loyalty.”
He was taking money out of his wallet.
“Here’s a hundred and forty-somethin’ bucks,” he said. “It’s all I have on me, but it’s okay, I’ll hit an ATM later. I’ll give you whatever you need, and you pay me back when you can.”
“Gotta be honest,” I said. “I don’t know when that’ll be.”
“Whenever you can’s good enough for me.” He smirked. “What else am I gonna do with my money, buy H with it?”
I smiled then said, “Thanks man. I owe you big-time.”
“The way I look at it,” he said, “you already paid me.”
When he left, I called home again and got the same message—the call couldn’t be completed as dialed. I knew Maria was angry, and she had every right to be, but if the situation were reversed, I would’ve put my feelings aside and at least let her know that Jonah was okay. This wasn’t about me and Maria—it was about Jonah. I knew our marriage was beyond repair, but I hoped she’d realize that hurting me in a vindictive divorce would only mean hurting Jonah, too.
Since Anthony had agreed to help me, I felt much better about everything—I wasn’t alone anymore, I had a teammate. I’d been at low points in my life and recovered and I’d do it again. As I sometimes said at the podium at A.A.: “The great thing about being at the lowest point of your life is you know things can only get better.”
A-fuckin’-men.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WHEN I OPENED my eyes, I was disoriented. At first I thought I was on my couch in Manhattan and Jonah was asleep several feet away behind the flimsy wall. Then reality kicked in, and I remembered that I was in Anthony’s place in Queens.
It was dark outside, but I was wide awake. I’d charged my phone overnight with Anthony’s charger. I glanced at the display: 6:33 a.m.
On my way to pee, I glanced into Anthony’s room, but he wasn’t there and the bed was still made. The guy had dedication, no question about that. I was proud of him—he’d been through so much, struggling with his demons, but he’d survived. More than survived—he was working hard, building up a P.I. business. And, I had to admit, I was proud of the role I’d played in helping him to get back on track. The way my life had been going lately, it was nice to have something to feel good about.
I rinsed out my socks and underwear and blew them dry, then got dressed in my borrowed clothes. The jeans were big, but with my belt they fit all right. Most of the tee shirts were huge, so I checked in his dresser. I couldn’t find one in the top three drawers, so I checked the bottom drawer. I spotted a couple of possibilities; as I pulled the shirts out, I saw the syringes.
There were four of them at the bottom of the drawer. As a fellow addict I should’ve been able to see through his bullshit, but I tried to stay positive. Maybe he wasn’t using again; maybe there was some other possible explanation. Maybe it was drug paraphernalia from his past, or he could’ve taken the needles from someone he was sponsoring. Unfortunately, I couldn’t muster up enough denial to believe any of this. While I felt, well, stupid for trusting him, I reminded myself that I hadn’t had any better options. Even if he was using again, it didn’t mean he couldn’t help me. I had to hope for the best.
I found a plain black button-down that was about my size. I checked myself out in the bathroom mirror. I had a couple of days of scruff and the bags under my eyes were darker than usual, but I decided that, all things considered, I looked pretty good.
As I wolfed down a roast beef on rye with mustard sandwich, I went online on my phone and checked to see if there was any news about Sophie. Hopefully, the police had made an arrest, Maria would take me back, and this nightmare would end.
I couldn’t find a story about an arrest in the case. Worse, the only new stories were about me.
I wasn’t major news, but several local sites had reported about how I’d been arrested on Sunday and charged with resisting arrest. The stories mentioned that I had been questioned in connection with the death of Sophie Ward, and had discovered her body. One article, on the Spectrum News online site, included a quote from Detective Nick Barasco: “Jack Harper remains a person of interest in this case.”
I tried to stay positive. “Person of interest” sounded a lot better than “murder suspect.” And once Anthony dug up some dirt and Lawrence Ward was charged, I
would be vindicated completely.
Okay, maybe I was a little too optimistic, but getting down wouldn’t get me out of this any faster. Sometimes if you want good things to happen you have to act like good things are already happening. What do the life coaches call it? Faking it to make it? Creating your own reality?
A new reality—that’s exactly what I needed.
I left Anthony’s apartment, telling myself that I’d have my life back soon, that it was only a matter of time.
I tried my best to believe this.
* * *
I was determined to have a normal Tuesday. I’d go to the office, immerse myself in work, follow up some leads, maybe show a couple of apartments. It would be good to take a vacation from my problems for several hours.
I rode the subway into the city. I knew something was wrong when I entered my office and Brian and Claire didn’t even glance at me. Normally at least one of them would say hello to me, but they both stared at their monitors like I didn’t exist.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I asked.
I hoped the icy reception wasn’t for the reason I suspected, because they’d read the news stories about me.
Then I looked toward my desk and saw that everything was gone. All the papers and files, my PC—everything.
“What the hell?” I said.
Brian and Claire were still staring at their PCs.
“Come on, this is ridiculous,” I said. “I know you’re not working, so what’s going on? Seriously, Brian, what’s up? Come on, Claire, talk to me.”
“Leave the premises immediately, Jack.”
I turned and saw that Andrew Wolf had stepped out of his office. He was in black—black pants, black shoes, a black button-down. He was glaring at me like an executioner.
“What’s happening?” I asked. “Why did you take away all my stuff?”
“Because you don’t work here anymore.”
His voice was even-toned, no affect. He’d made a decision, and I knew there was nothing I could say to change his mind.
But I tried anyway, saying, “I think you’re making a big mistake. If you’d just let me—”
“You have to go—right now, Jack.”
