by David Ellis
“I still don’t like the idea.” I was never keen on using Linda as bait. But Joel talked me into it. He said it was Linda’s idea. Linda Sparks is a former Marion Park cop, a martial arts expert with a license to carry a firearm, a firearm she knows how to use very well. And she has two of Lightner’s other investigators tailing her night and day. If “James” goes after her, he won’t get very far.
But that assumes a lot of things I don’t know. It assumes that “James” even followed me to that Greek restaurant in the first place, and that he would take the bait if he was there. But we sure made Linda an inviting target. She fits the profile, and I flirted with her openly, even giving her my business card, which would be irresistible to “James.” A dead woman with my business card in her purse? If “James” was there, he’s going to tail Linda, check out where she lives, scout out the whole thing. If he keeps to form, it will be a week or so before he makes a move. Could be longer than a week, could be shorter.
“Hey,” I say. “What about this signature of his? Remember you said the cops told you he left a signature at every crime?”
Joel takes a sip of his drink and smacks his lips. “I remember.”
“You can’t get me any more information on that? If I knew what that was—”
“Jason, no cop investigating a serial killer is going to tell someone like me what the offender’s signature is. That’s their one chit. They hold it back so they can differentiate between bogus confessions and real ones, helpful information and unhelpful, and so they can separate copycat crimes from the real offender. Nobody’s going to tell me that information, and I wouldn’t ask them to.”
“Well, can you guess?”
“Can I guess? Sure, I can guess. Um, he leaves a rose at each scene. No, he writes a love letter to each of them and stuffs it in their mouths. Maybe he removes their front teeth. Wait, wait, here we go, he jerks off into a cup—”
“Okay, I get it. So why am I talking to you?”
“Why are you talking to me? Maybe because I’m the only person on the face of this earth who can tolerate you. Besides Shauna, whom you’ve managed somehow to alienate. Don’t be an asshole. Call her up.”
I look at my martini, certain now that I won’t touch the second drink. I miss vodka, though. I miss the buzz and the late nights, the give-and-take with Lightner and with Shauna, when we could get her out with us. “Alexa tolerates me,” I say.
“Yeah, great. She must fuck you really well, kid, because you’ve disappeared since you met her. I mean, this has been a true honor tonight, just to have the pleasure of your company. And where is the lovely Alexa tonight? She let you off your leash. What’s the occasion?”
I don’t know why I put up with Lightner. “She grabbed a few things from my office. I didn’t feel like going back there and having it out with Shauna.”
“Well, she sure made friends with Linda,” he says. “What was that? I thought she was going to slap Linda across the face. She looked like she wanted to.”
I shrug. “She gets jealous. Wouldn’t you, if you had a catch like me?”
Lightner gets a good laugh out of that. “A catch like you? I believe this is not the first time I’ve mentioned that you look like shit, Kolarich. I mean, absolute dog shit. Comb your hair once in a while, guy. Eat a meal. Sleep a few hours. You know who you look like?”
“Brad Pitt?”
Joel’s phone, resting on the table next to a bowl of nuts, starts to vibrate. On the face of the phone, it says Shauna Tasker.
“Don’t answer it,” I say.
He answers it. “Hey, girl. I’ve got your law partner here and he’s brooding. No, that’s okay, go ahead. You sure? It’s no . . . Okay, I’ll call you tomorrow. Hey, listen—you guys are going to work this out. Yes, you are. Yes, you are. Okay, tomorrow.” He clicks off the phone. “You’re an asshole,” he says to me. “Shauna’s a peach. Granted, she won’t sleep with me, which is a major character flaw, but otherwise she’s the best. Don’t be an idiot. Kiss and make up with her.”
“I’ll get right on that.” I fish out some peanuts, but think better of it.
“And just for my own curiosity,” says Joel, “why did you bail on that trial with her? That’s a heater of a case she’s handling. I thought you lived for that shit. The high stakes and conflict. That’s right up your alley. Why didn’t you work on it?”
I throw some money on the table and scoot out of the booth. “This has been a real treat,” I say. “Let me know when you figure out who ‘James Drinker’ is or if you get any leads on the surveillance. And definitely send me a bill for your services.”
“What are you doing? Don’t leave. Let’s get a steak.”
“I have to get home to paint my toenails,” I say.
“Jason.” Joel steps out of the booth, blocking my exit. “Sit down.”
“I’m leaving.”
“No bullshit,” he says, raising a hand. “What the hell’s wrong with you? This whole new . . . I mean, everything. You look like you haven’t slept in days and you’re, what, thirty pounds lighter. Your clothes are hanging on you. You don’t cut your hair or shave. You part ways with the best friend you’ve ever had and you act like you don’t even want to be a lawyer anymore. Seriously, man. What’s—Are you—are you sick?” He leans in for the last question, lowering his voice. “Is there something I can—”
“I’m sick,” I say. “I’m sick of helping criminals stay out of prison so they can hurt more people. I’m sick of people expecting everything from me and then being disappointed when I don’t fit into their vision of how I’m supposed to act. Just—just leave me alone, okay? I appreciate the concern, but I’m totally fine and I don’t need anything. Got it?”
Joel looks away, that whole disappointed thing I’ve managed to bring out in so many people, his tongue rolling around his cheek. “Got it,” he says simply.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure, cowboy. You’re totally fine and you don’t need anybody. We’re clear.”
“Good.” I nod at him and walk out of the restaurant.
56.
Shauna
Monday, July 8
“This is a case about incompetency and inefficiency in our city government,” I say, standing at my desk in my office at close to midnight. “This is a case about inefficient and incompetent bureaucrats who were given a job—to hire a construction company to renovate the civic auditorium—but who were totally unwilling and unable to properly prepare for the job. And when it turned out they hadn’t adequately prepared, hadn’t properly informed that construction company about all sorts of structural problems with the existing building and all sorts of problems below ground that affected the structure, it became a game of hear no evil, see no evil. It became anyone’s fault but theirs. It became my client’s fault, a father-and-son operation that’s done business for over thirty years with hardly a blemish on their record.”
I close my eyes and let that sink in. The recent problems the city’s had with the new garbage and waste-hauling contracts have grown more prominent by the day, soaking up the headlines in the Herald. Just today, in fact, Mayor Champion fired the head of Streets and San. So I’m hoping this theme finds a soft landing with my jury. If they live within the city limits, they’ll immediately think about this scandal. If they live in the near suburbs, they’re probably already inclined to think the worst of city employees.
I rub my eyes. I can’t do this anymore. I can hardly concentrate anyway. Why did I pick today to have it out with Jason? And why the hell didn’t he fight me when I told him to pack his stuff and get out? Why did he just accept it without a word? So now I’m alone at work, too? It’s not enough that I’m alone in my personal life, I have to be alone in the professional world, too?
I drop into my chair. I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired of cold beds and pretending that I love my independence. I’m tired of telling myself how proud I am that I haven’t settled for any of those nimrods who think I’m supposed to spr
ead my legs for them because they went to Princeton undergrad or they wear hundred-dollar ties or once worked on the Hill. I’m tired of men who assume that they’re smarter than me because they were born with a penis and me with a vagina, and the moment they realize the scale is tipped the other way, they lose interest.
I’m tired of assuming I’ll have kids. I won’t. It’s time to see that, ma’am, because them are the facts. I’m thirty-five and a galaxy far, far away from a relationship with anyone even remotely—
The front door to our office pops open. Security checks in at night, but the security guy came through an hour ago. And they routinely announce themselves right away, so they won’t send a thrill of terror up the spine of someone working late at night, like me.
“Hello?” I shout.
Footsteps coming my way. I get out of my chair.
“Hey.” Jason stands in the doorway, looking haggard and disheveled, his collar open and his tie missing altogether.
The stranger danger adrenaline subsides, replaced with the Jason adrenaline, a seesaw of emotion.
He didn’t just pack his stuff and leave quietly. He came back.
“How’s your opening coming along?”
“How’s my opening coming along . . . how’s my opening coming along.” I drop my head and make a noise. “Is that what you came here to ask me?”
“No.” He looks down the hallway toward his office, like he’s about to walk away. Since when have we been unable to communicate? When did that happen?
“Sometimes,” he says, still facing the hallway. “Sometimes I wonder if I still want to do this. Be a lawyer. I’m not totally sure I do anymore.”
“Okay,” I say gently, soothingly, but inside it’s like a dagger to my heart.
“But . . . I do know one thing.” He turns to me. “As long as I practice law, I want to do it with you. I love you, girl.”
My eyes instantly well up. I come around the desk but stop short of him. “Okay,” I say, choking out the word. I’m not going to cry. I’m not. Maybe I am.
His expression softens. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I say.
His eyebrows curl in, serious-face. “About this other thing—”
“Shut up. I don’t want to talk about that now.”
He takes a deep breath and nods. “Okay. Well, so . . .” He gestures to the hallway. “I should probably—”
“Stay,” I say.
“Oh. You want some company?”
“I want you.”
To stay. Finish the sentence. I want you to stay. Not just, I want you.
“You . . . want me?”
“I want you,” I say again, and then my mouth is on his, my hand in his hair, and for an instant, for an insane, horrifying instant, I think that he’s going to draw back, reject me, and if he does we’ll never be the same, nothing will ever be the same, and then he kisses me hard and he lets out that moan, Jason’s moan, and then he yanks my blouse out of my skirt and runs his hands underneath, and then we’re tearing at our clothes and his rib cage is so prominent, skeletal, but he’s still Jason, big and strong Jason, with Jason’s soapy smell, Jason’s big hands, and we fall to the ground, right there in the threshold between my office and the hallway, and he rolls me over and my head bangs against the door and we both laugh and then he’s on top of me, running his hands everywhere, his tongue on my neck, then lower, then he’s pumping hard and moaning, and I close my eyes and grip the back of his hair and cry out into his ear—
“Wow,” he says, falling over me when it’s over, panting, his heart beating against my shoulder.
“Wow,” I agree.
He rises up and sits on the carpet, facing me, his hair all in his face, stuck with sweat. And there I am, up on my elbows on the office carpet, my skirt hiked up, panties curled around one ankle, semen dripping down my leg.
“Where did that . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to. But he could smile. He could look pleased. He could look moderately happy.
“I’m not sure,” I say. Then I say, “Maybe I just needed to release some stress.” Playing defense, giving him an out, giving myself an out. Hating myself. Lobbing the ball gently onto his side of the court.
“Yeah, right.” He isn’t smiling. He isn’t saying, I’ve always loved you, Shauna. He isn’t saying, This feels right.
Maybe Alexa was right. He never picked you. You went a couple of rounds with him over the years, but somehow, he never picked you, did he?
“It doesn’t mean anything,” I say. Despising myself. When did I become such a coward?
“Yeah, no, I . . . I mean, it was great,” he says.
I scrunch up my face. That was great, the high school senior said to the other high school senior. See how far we’ve come! Maybe we can talk about R.E.M. music next.
“I should probably get back to my opening,” I say. “And you should go home to Alexa.”
We put our clothes back on in silence, no eye contact. He gets himself together and isn’t sure what to do. At this point, if he tries to give me the obligatory kiss, I’m going to vomit, so I walk back around my desk like I’m about to start reciting my opening again right away.
“Shauna,” he says.
I make a point of shuffling some papers before I look up, my eyebrows raised, holding back emotional responses that are aching to come out.
“Yes, Jason, what?”
“I just . . .” He thinks it over a moment, his jaw working but no words.
“Yes, Jason?”
His expression softens. He lifts his shoulders. “Just wanted to say, good luck tomorrow. Which courtroom?”
“It’s 2106.” As if either of us believes he’s going to stop by to watch.
“Good, great. You want me to walk you to your car?”
“Security will. I’m fine. I’m going to stay a while longer.” I finger-comb my hair, try to compose myself.
He nods. “Don’t stay too late,” he says. “You know when you’re on trial, you always stay up too—”
“Jason, you should go,” I say, not interested in his attempt to recapture some intimacy. Even our associate, Bradley, knows I deprive myself of sleep while on trial. If that’s the best he can do, he should hit the road. And that’s clearly the best he’s going to do tonight. Ever.
He didn’t pick you.
“Okay. Good luck.” He taps the door and exits.
And just like that, our conversation went from I love you, girl to a Grand Canyon between us. I clean myself up with some tissues, feeling like a two-dollar whore. Well, I wanted him to fuck me, and he sure did fuck me.
I take a deep breath and steel myself. “This is a case about incompetency and inefficiency in our city government,” I say, before my throat chokes closed.
PEOPLE VS. JASON KOLARICH
TRIAL, DAY 3
Wednesday, December 11
57.
Jason
Katie O’Connor, the prosecutor playing second chair to Roger Ogren, rises from her seat. “The People call Lieutenant Oswald Krueger,” she says.
She takes her position at the podium and adjusts her notes, tucks a strand of her orange hair behind her ear. She has the complete Irish look with the hair and the freckles. She is tall and thin and earnest, but somehow manages to give off the impression that she’s a nice person at the same time. That’s a hard thing to pull off, especially for a female lawyer—as Shauna has often reminded me over the years—being strong and firm but likable all at once. I have to stifle my instinct to root for her. I’ll bet Shauna does, too.
Ozzie Krueger is also tall and thin, a balding man in his late fifties who wears a goatee and wire-rimmed glasses. He looks like my biology teacher at Bonaventure, except that Krueger doesn’t reek of tobacco as he passes me and takes the witness stand.
“I’m a senior supervisor in the County Attorney Technical Unit,” says Krueger.
“Is that sometimes called the CAT Unit, Lieutenant?”
“CAT Unit, CAT
squad, sure.”
“Lieutenant, can you describe in general terms what role you played in the investigation of Alexa Himmel’s murder?”
Shauna could object to the use of the word murder as a legal conclusion, but she doesn’t. I wouldn’t, either. It’s not like we’re arguing suicide here. There had been some talk of arguing self-defense at trial—Bradley John and my brother, Pete, in particular, pushed for it—but I rejected it out of hand.
“Part of the CAT Unit’s responsibility is to check computers and e-mails and the like,” says Krueger. “I obtained Ms. Himmel’s laptop computer and inspected it.” O’Connor spends a good amount of time establishing how Krueger went about obtaining the computer, how he preserved it, how he discovered she had an e-mail account with Intercast.
Now that she has set the table, the prosecutor is going to return to my interview with Detective Cromartie on the night of Alexa’s death. The prosecution has already shown the jury snippets—my bravura performance in explaining the house key and my vague, shifty discussion about a guy named Jim who I suggested had killed Alexa—but now they want to go back to the beginning of the interview.
Cromartie, I thought, did a nice job during the interrogation. What I liked most—from a clinical perspective, certainly not a personal one—was how the interview began. Most cops, in my experience, lack imagination when they interview suspects. Most would start at the start, would get my name, rank, and serial number, all the essentials, and then the same for Alexa, and then work their way forward to the point where she ended up dead in my living room. When I used to interrogate suspects in Felony Review, I never followed that routine. Because every situation was different, every interviewee different. Sometimes I would start nice and easy, trying to establish a rapport. But I usually started at the pressure point, whatever that would be in the given situation. For a domestic, a situation like mine with a dead girlfriend in the boyfriend’s house, I’d always start right there with the relationship. Look, I can imagine what you’re going through. You loved her, didn’t you? Did she love you? Relationships can be tough, can’t they? I would even share some of my personal life, although it was made up. I love my wife, but Jesus, sometimes—sometimes the ones you love are the ones that make you the craziest, right? That sort of thing.
