by Mike Lawson
“You mean a hit-and-run,” Ella said.
“Exactly. And in this particular case, let’s say three witnesses saw the man commit the crime. They got his license plate number, or maybe he stepped out of the car and they were able to identify him. You with me?” It really irritated her when he did that, like she was too slow to keep up, but all she did was nod.
“Well, the man’s lawyer might ask me to help out. In this case, that means I need to make sure the three witnesses don’t testify, or that if they do testify, they say they were mistaken and can’t identify the driver.”
“So what did you do?” Ella said. “And stop pretending this is all hypothetical.”
Bill gave her a little, rueful okay-you-got-me smile. “This was actually the first job I had, and it turned out to be fairly simple. One of the witnesses, a guy who was about one step from being evicted from his house, I just paid to lie when he testified, and that’s what he did. He got on the stand and said he’d had quite a bit to drink that night and really didn’t see the driver all that well.”
“Okay,” Ella said.
“The second witness was a kid. He was eighteen years old, living on his own, just like you when I met you. He had a shitty job at a Home Depot stocking shelves from midnight till six and was taking about one class a quarter at some community college to get a degree. He was renting a room in this old lady’s house, and to keep the rent low, he mowed the lawn and fixed shit and was basically the old lady’s slave.
“Well, I found out he wanted to be a writer and was always talking about going to Europe, so I sat down with him one day and handed him an airline ticket—a one-way ticket to Paris that departed the day the trial started. I picked Paris because I figured he’d probably read stories about Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald writing in some little café on the Left Bank.”
“Left bank of what?” Ella said.
“The Seine River; we’ll see it together one day. Anyway, I explained to him that I didn’t want him to appear at the trial and that in addition to the ticket, I’d give him enough cash so he could bum around Europe for six months.
“He wasn’t a terrorist, his name wasn’t on any sort of watch list, and the prosecutor wouldn’t even know he’d left the country until it was too late. I told him once the trial was over, he could go wherever he wanted. He was a bright kid and his life sucked and he knew an opportunity like this might never come along again. He took the deal.”
“Huh,” Ella said. “And the third witness?”
“The third witness was a problem. He was an upstanding citizen—married, had a decent job and a kid. He wasn’t rich but he didn’t have much debt, so I wasn’t sure I could buy him off. I followed him for two months to see if he had any vices, like seeing hookers or visiting gay bars on the down low—something I could use to blackmail him—but he was squeaky clean.”
“So did you kill him?” Ella said.
“No,” Bill said—but he didn’t say it like: My God, of course not. I’d never do that. He just said, “No.”
“What I did was kidnap his little girl.”
“Jesus, Bill!” Ella said.
“Well, ‘kidnap’ is maybe a little strong. I picked up his daughter from her day care place, told the idiot day care lady I was little Susie’s uncle, and took her to a petting zoo. I bought her an ice cream cone and a balloon, and we actually had a pretty good time. Four hours later, when her parents were frantic, I dropped her off at a store near her house and called the dad and told him where his daughter was. But I told him that if he testified against the driver, his kid would disappear and he’d never see her again. It helped that the driver was rumored to have connections to a Mexican drug cartel—this was in Texas—but the truth was he wasn’t connected to them in any way.”
“And I take it the dad didn’t testify,” Ella said.
“Nope. Got amnesia on the stand, and the defendant walked.”
“Huh,” Ella said. “Would you have done it?”
“Done what?”
“Disappeared the little girl if he testified?”
“Of course not. Not only was she a little girl, but if the guy had testified against the driver at the trial, the game would have been over. I took a stupid risk as it was taking her, and I’ve never done anything that dumb again, but I bluffed the guy and it worked. If it hadn’t, there was no way I would have hurt a kid.”
He paused and said, “Now you understand what I do, Ella. So are you going to come with me when I leave Charleston?”
Ella’s mind was spinning.
She’d fallen in love with a criminal.
“Judging by where we’re living right now,” she said, “what you do pays pretty well.”
“I don’t work cheap, and I only take cases where the defendant is very rich. I’m not going to risk going to prison for a few thousand bucks.”
“So how much do you charge?”
Bill hesitated. They’d never talked about money before. “A million per case,” he finally said.
“Jesus,” Ella said. Now, that was impressive.
“So what are you going to do, Ella? Are you going to come with me or not?”
“Bill, I’m going for a walk. I need to think.”
Ella stepped off the deck, walked through the dunes, and went down to the beach. She took off her sandals and strolled along the edge of the water, where every once in a while a cold wave would come in and tickle her feet.
“Well, Ella Sue,” she said out loud, “what are you gonna do?”
She called herself Ella Sue only when she felt particularly stupid.
Falling in love with a disbarred lawyer and self-confessed criminal was definitely not on her things-to-do list. Her plan had always been to marry a rich man, figuring if things didn’t turn out the way she wanted, she would divorce him—and she’d divorce him while she still looked good enough to snag another man. If the man insisted she sign a prenup, she’d make him see what he’d be missing if he didn’t marry her, then walk away—and he’d tear up the prenup and beg her to come back. And when she divorced him, she’d end up with a big house, a fancy car, and a pile of cash. Maybe not enough cash to live on for the rest of her life, but enough to let her live in style until she could marry another rich man.
Yep, that had been her plan—and that plan had just flown out the window like a big-ass bird.
She loved Bill Cantwell, no doubt about it, but more important than love was that he was just about perfect in so many ways. Not only was he fun to be around, but he’d broadened her horizons; she was growing in so many ways because of him. Best of all, he seemed to have money to burn, which you’d expect if he made a million on each job—unless, of course, he was lying about that.
But what would happen to her if they arrested him—which was certainly a possibility. If she were living with him, they’d probably think she was his accomplice, and she might get arrested, too. She was not going to end up in prison, and she wasn’t going to wait around for him if he ended up in prison. And although he’d never brought up the subject of marriage—and she hadn’t pressed him on it—what if they got married? He’d already told her he didn’t own a home—he just lived wherever his work took him—so she wouldn’t end up with a house if they divorced. For that matter, she might not end up with half his money in a divorce, either. She didn’t know for sure, but she figured that if he made his money illegally, the government might be able to take whatever he had. Or that, because he made his money illegally, he hid it somewhere, like in an offshore account or buried under a damn rock. Whatever the case, she might not see a dime of his money as his ex-wife.
“So what are you gonna do, Ella Sue?” she said again. This was not a time to get emotional. This was a time for cold-blooded, dispassionate logic. This was her life she was talking about.
The smart thing would be to walk away. She was only nineteen years old. She had plenty of time to find another man. But would another one like Bill—minus the criminal history, that is—ever co
me along? Then there was Bill’s age. He was a virile thirty-five right now, but still sixteen years older than her. His being sixteen years older didn’t make much difference now, when she was nineteen and he was thirty-five, but it could make a lot of difference when he was old and sick and senile; she did not intend to become some old man’s nursemaid.
Yeah, no doubt about it, it was time to walk away.
Hell, it was time to run away.
Ella returned to the beach house. Bill was still sitting on the deck, drinking a beer, looking out at the waves slapping the beach.
“Looks like the wind’s picking up,” he said. “I wonder if it’s going to rain tonight.” When she didn’t answer—could he possibly think she wanted to talk about the fucking weather?—he turned to face her. “Well?” he said.
“I’ll go with you on two conditions,” Ella said.
“Okay.”
“First, we’re going to get married.”
To hell with cold-blooded logic.
Bill smiled at her. “Darling, nothing on this earth would make me happier. What’s the second condition?”
“We’re going to have a serious—and I mean serious—talk about money.”
14
Ella knew three important things about Esther Behrman. First, she was eighty-six years old. Second, her short-term memory and her eyes worked just fine; she’d had no problem at all picking Toby Rosenthal out of a lineup and would make an excellent witness. And third, as Ella had concluded after visiting the crime scene, Esther was the best witness against Toby, since she’d been seated closest to the table where Dominic DiNunzio had been shot. Considering Esther’s age, the longer David Slade could delay the trial, the better the chances were that she might croak from natural causes. Unfortunately, however, Ella had no way to ensure that Mother Nature would cooperate.
No one stopped Ella when she walked into the assisted living facility where Esther lived. Off to the right of the entrance was a hotel-like reception desk. A sign said that visitors were required to check in, and a woman was at the desk, looking down at some paperwork as she talked on the phone. The lobby had a number of sofas and chairs where people could sit, coffee tables stacked with magazines like those in a dentist’s waiting room, potted plants next to the sofas. There were about a dozen people in the lobby: a couple of old ladies sitting and chatting, wearing coats, probably waiting for someone to pick them up; a few more old women in wheelchairs, sitting alone as if someone had parked them where they were and forgotten them; and two middle-aged couples hovering over an old woman. It was a busy place, and from what Ella had read online, there were at least three hundred residents.
Ella walked briskly past the reception desk, expecting the woman there might call out to her, but she didn’t—so Ella walked to the stairs and started up. She found Esther’s apartment on the fourth floor. The only other person in sight was an ancient crone who had her back to Ella and who was bent into the shape of a question mark from scoliosis or something. Ella examined the lock on Esther’s door. She had no intention of breaking in today; she just wanted to see what she’d be up against. She’d been hoping Esther would have a cheap lock, one she could open by slipping a knife blade between the latch and the doorframe—but no such luck. Esther had a good lock.
Ella went back down to the lobby and strolled around the facility. She saw a few people dressed like housekeepers or nurse’s aides, but again no one asked her who she was or what she was doing. If she’d had a relative living there, she would have complained about the lack of security. Near the dining room she found a poster board that took up an entire wall, and on the board were photos of the residents. Under each photo was the person’s name—Ella was surprised at how few men lived there—and a short phrase saying something about the person.
The Dallas data miners had provided Ella with a photo of Esther taken from a driver’s license that was long expired, and Ella was hoping the poster board would have a more recent photo. It did. Under Esther Behrman’s smiling picture—Ella had to admit the old girl looked as though she still had a lot of life left in her—the label said: Esther can play bridge with the best of them. And poker, too. Ella used her phone to take a photo of Esther’s photo.
As Ella was leaving, she noticed a security guard standing near the reception desk. He was an overweight black man in his fifties, wearing a white shirt with a gold patch resembling a badge. On his belt he had a radio, a flashlight, and a big ring of keys, but no weapon. He was your basic useless rent-a-cop, and Ella imagined his only job was to chase away any bums who might try to enter the facility. Since Ella didn’t look like a bum, she wasn’t worried about the security guard.
Ella had an idea for how to deal with Esther. It occurred to her when she looked at Esther’s credit card charges and saw that every three months, regular as clockwork, she paid a pharmacy bill. What Ella needed to do was break into Esther’s apartment when she wasn’t there and take a look at her medications—but she hadn’t figured out how she was going to do that.
Ella hated driving in New York, but she decided to rent a car in case she had to follow Esther. She left the car in the parking lot behind the facility in one of the spots marked for visitors. There were a lot of empty visitors’ spots, and she thought it pretty unlikely that her car would be towed. The first morning she waited outside the front entrance, hoping Esther might venture out. She didn’t. At lunchtime, Ella went inside, took a seat in the lobby, picked up a magazine, and pretended to read, as if she was waiting for one of the residents. No one said a word to her.
At noon Ella saw Esther and another old lady get out of the elevator. Esther was five foot six, a bit stout, but moved well for her age; she didn’t use a walker or a cane. The woman with her was short and slim, and chatting like a magpie as she and Esther walked to the dining room.
Ella left the lobby, walked up the stairs to Esther’s apartment, and checked to see if the door was locked. It was. Rats. Esther hadn’t been carrying a purse when she went to lunch, so she probably had her apartment key in a pocket. The next two days, Ella did the same thing, going out of her mind with boredom, hanging around the assisted living facility, hoping Esther would leave. She wore a different-colored wig each day, sometimes a hat, and sunglasses.
On the fourth day, a Tuesday, at ten a.m., a short bus that would hold about twenty people pulled up in front of the main entrance to Esther’s building and a gaggle of old women came shuffling out and boarded the bus. One of the women was Esther, and with her was the little lady that Esther had had lunch with the other day. It seemed as if she and Esther were best friends.
Today Esther was wearing a navy blue Yankees baseball cap, a white sweatshirt, blue jeans, and neon blue running shoes. Ella couldn’t help smiling when she saw Esther’s shoes. Her pal was also wearing a baseball cap—a pink one, probably a breast cancer cap—jeans, and tennis shoes so white they looked as if they’d never touched dirt. Esther’s friend had a fanny pack—and Ella thanked God that Esther wasn’t wearing one. Esther was carrying a large purse.
Ella followed the bus to the Manhattan Mall on Broadway off Thirty-third Street. It appeared the residents were going on a shopping trip, where they’d most likely have lunch and maybe get their hair done, and Ella wondered if this was a weekly excursion. But now Ella had to scramble: She had to park the damn car, then get back in time to follow Esther, because the mall didn’t have its own parking lot.
A sign near the mall told her that there was a parking lot a block away. Ella’s tires squealed on the asphalt as she raced to the lot, then she sprinted back to the shopping mall. By the time she got back, all the old ladies had gotten off the bus and a young woman, most likely a member of the facility’s staff, was giving a lecture to the group, probably telling them what time they needed to get back to the bus. Ella wondered if they had GPS devices strapped to the old women so they could find them if they got lost. If they didn’t, they should have.
The group broke up and Esther and her friend too
k off, looking ready to shop until they dropped. Ella followed them, and when they entered a women’s clothing store, she took a seat outside the store and pulled out her cell phone and searched Google Maps. Thank God for smartphones and the Internet. She found what she needed only two blocks from the mall.
Moving quickly, Ella went into a sporting goods store across from the women’s clothing store that Esther had entered. She paid cash for a cheap New York Knicks blue nylon jacket with orange sleeves and an orange baseball cap with a Nike swoosh on the front. She asked the clerk for a large shopping bag to hold her purchases, but once outside the store, she put on the jacket and the cap, keeping the empty shopping bag. Ella had a plan—now all she needed was some luck.
Esther and her buddy came out of the women’s clothing store and continued down the mall, Ella following. Ella couldn’t help noticing that Esther moved at a pretty good clip. In fact, for an eighty-six-year-old, Esther was amazingly fast on her feet.
Ella noticed that Esther had her purse slung over her shoulder and kept one hand on it. She’d most likely heard stories about young thieves running by, snipping purse straps with a switchblade, and running like Jesse Owens. Ella needed to snatch that purse—and she had an idea for how she was going to do it—but an hour later Esther and her friend were still wandering around the mall. They didn’t buy a damn thing—but, man, did they have stamina.
Finally, Esther gave Ella the opportunity she’d been waiting for. Esther’s friend went into a store called Perfume Heaven, which made Ella smile. Who was the old gal wearing perfume for? Did she have a young seventy-year-old stud back at the assisted living place? Esther, however, didn’t go into Perfume Heaven with her. Instead, Esther headed toward the ladies’ room.
