Dead Certain: A Novel

by Adam Mitzner

  This silence is not an ally in the interrogation, however, but a wall between us. Zach isn’t going to budge. I decide to change tack. Perhaps I can get something out of him about whether Matthew or Jason exist outside the pages of Charlotte’s manuscript.

  “Did you read Charlotte’s book?” I ask.

  Even though Gabriel asked me not to disclose the manuscript’s existence, I assume that Zach already knows about it. He and Charlotte were living together, after all. I can’t imagine she could keep such an extensive project from him, even if she had been so inclined.

  “What book?” he says, indicating my assumption is incorrect.

  “She wrote a novel. A romance.” Far better that he not know Charlotte’s novel involved a murder. “Some of the characters are based on people in her life. For example, there’s a boyfriend who seems to be loosely based on you. She calls him Marco. He’s someone she loves and who is very talented, although she made you a painter in the book.”

  Zach stares at me, stone-faced. It occurs to me a beat too late that Charlotte might actually be having an affair with a painter named Marco.

  “And there’s a character based on me too,” I continue quickly. “The protagonist’s older sister is named Emily, which is my middle name. And she’s a lawyer. Among the other characters . . . one is a banker and the other is a student at NYU. The banker she calls Matthew and the student is named Jason. I know this is an awkward thing for me to ask, but . . . was there anyone like either of them in Charlotte’s life? Past or present?”

  “I don’t know,” Zach says, but his voice clearly belies his claim. He knows things. Things he isn’t sharing.

  “Zach . . . please. I’m begging you. Help me.”

  More silence. Then he says, “I have a friend over at the law school, and she told me that the smartest thing for me to do is keep my mouth shut. Maybe I should call her now.”

  He’s lawyering up. The piece of shit.

  In a police interrogation, when the suspect asks for a lawyer all questions must cease. The police are precluded from trying to talk someone out of invoking his right to counsel. If they do, anything that’s said after the request for counsel is inadmissible at trial.

  But this isn’t a police interrogation.

  “She’s giving you terrible legal advice, Zach. Trust me, I’m not some first-year law student trying to impress you. I was a prosecutor for a long time, and I’ve seen a lot of people dig deep holes for themselves by keeping their mouths shut. But I’ll say this: if you did kill Charlotte, then your friend is absolutely right. One hundred percent. But if you didn’t, then all lawyering up does is cause reasonable people to conclude that you’re guilty. Because why else wouldn’t you cooperate? So, which one is it? Did you kill her? Because if you did, you should definitely tell me to leave. But if you’ve got nothing to hide, then all you’re doing by staying silent is making me think you murdered my baby sister. And if I think that, you bet your ass that I’m going to make it my mission in life to make you pay. So, which is it, Zach?”

  He shakes his head. I can’t tell if it’s because he disagrees with my analysis or if it’s just his way of telling me he’s sorry.

  “Please, Zach. For the love of God, please help me and the police find Charlotte.”

  “I need to think about things, Ella,” he says softly. “I’m not saying I won’t help the police, but right this moment I can’t say I will either.”

  He walks to the front door. I’m certain he expects me to follow him, but after he opens the door and looks back, he sees me still in the living room.

  “Please, Ella,” he says. “Don’t make me call the police to get you to leave. That won’t be good for anyone.”

  He’s right about that. In fact, it’s the first thing he’s said that makes any sense to me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Clare, goddamn it, you have to stay still!”

  For the last forty minutes I’ve been frozen like a statue, clad in nothing but a bra. Nevertheless, Marco’s voice is full of contempt, as if my need to scratch my nose is a deliberate attempt to sabotage his work.

  He’s wearing boxers and a T-shirt, his painting garb. The canvas he’s working on is large, not quite the size of a movie poster, but at least the size of our television turned vertical. I haven’t seen a brushstroke of his masterpiece yet, even though this is the third day I’ve sat for him.

  “I’m tired,” I say back, knowing full well that I sound whiny. What my older sister Emily calls my baby-of-the-family voice. “Can’t we take a break?”

  “Soon,” he snaps without making eye contact, or at least not with the me that is flesh and blood. He might be staring right at the eyes of the painting of me for all I know.

  “You said that twenty minutes ago.”

  “It was true then, and it’s true now. Soon doesn’t mean now. Someone should have told you that before.”

  It’s a common refrain of Marco’s to remind me that I’m spoiled. I’ve long been inured to that criticism, but I’m always on the lookout for some sign that he’s self-aware of its hypocrisy, given that he also reaps the rewards of my father’s indulgence. I haven’t seen it yet.

  “I don’t understand why I’m not allowed to move. Your paintings never look like me anyway, so what difference does it make?”

  This stops him in his tracks. I knew it would, and that it would give me the opportunity to pee.

  “Go!” he shouts. “Take your fucking break. You obviously don’t value what I’m doing here anyway.”

  I immediately grab the robe lying on the sofa. It’s a bit of affect I adopt when serving as Marco’s model because I walk naked in front of him all the time in our day-to-day existence. He turns the canvas so it faces the wall, to prevent me from sneaking a peek, and then heads out to the terrace to smoke.

  After I return from the bathroom, I continue to let him stew a little on the balcony, but not for so long that his anger will bake in. I’ve seen Marco angry, and it’s something to be avoided at all costs.

  When I step onto the terrace, the breeze off the river is cool. I breathe it in, enjoying a moment for myself before I must focus on Marco’s enormous, eggshell-fragile ego.

  “Are you happy with it?” I ask.

  “I’d be happy if my model and, I dare say, my muse, was a little more interested,” he says back, without making eye contact.

  “I’m committed. But I’m also human. And standing there naked without moving for hours at a time is not my idea of a good time.”

  Now he looks at me. A cold stare.

  “It’s not supposed to be a good time. It’s art. There’s got to be some pain involved.”

  “I thought the artist was supposed to suffer. Not his subject.”

  “Everyone suffers in the making of true art. If you understood that better, you’d be more successful.”

  He shakes his head, once again denoting that this is all my fault. Then he takes a long drag on his cigarette and blows the smoke away from me.

  “What’s going on with you?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. It’s like . . . I don’t know who you are anymore. Something’s going on with you.”

  My heart rate involuntarily spikes. I’ve wondered for some time if Marco has any inkling of what is actually going on with me. I had assuaged myself with the belief that he’s sufficiently self-absorbed not to notice anything other than himself.

  “Jesus, Marco. Nothing’s going on.”

  He turns to me, looking almost menacing. It’s a look I’ve seen before. It frightens me enough that I tighten my grip on the terrace’s railing.

  “You really think I’m stupid, don’t you?”

  “No. Why would you even say that?”

  “Little rich girl shacking up with your Mexican painter boy.”

  This is another running theme for Marco. It fits in with the tortured artist thing for him to also identify himself as a member of a marginalized ethnic group. His father is a doc
tor and his mother a college professor in Mexico City, but to hear Marco tell it he came to this country in a banana boat, not on JetBlue.

  “Please,” I say.

  “Tell me it’s not true.”

  “It’s not true.”

  “Fuck you, Clare.”

  And with that, he walks away.

  As I watch Marco stomp around our living room, I realize I can no longer push my fears to the recesses of my subconscious. The honest truth is that I’m afraid of him. In the past weeks, his mood swings have been wilder. Sweetly affectionate one day and a raging lunatic the next.

  I come in from the terrace. Without saying a word to Marco, I head toward the bedroom.

  “Where in the hell do you think you’re going?” he barks.

  “To take a shower.”

  “Not when we still have work to do, you’re not. I’m going to lose the light in an hour.”

  “I assumed that when you said ‘Fuck you, Clare’ and then walked away, that meant you were done with me for the day.”

  “Done talking to you. Not done painting you.”

  I find myself at a decision point: submit or defy.

  “Maybe I’m done with you for the day. Ever think of that?”

  He rushes forward, coming so quickly that I freeze in place. I can see the rage in his eyes. Marco has never hit me, but he’s the first person I’ve ever been with who I could see someday crossing that line. There’s anger boiling within him that I know he can’t control. Whenever I’ve tried to talk to him about his temper, he brushes it off as passion.

  He doesn’t touch me, but he stands right in front of my face. With the snarl of an animal he says, “Take your fucking robe off and get over there.”

  I follow his command, hating myself every second of the next two hours that I stand naked before him. My only solace is fantasizing about my revenge.

  Not two minutes after Marco vacates the apartment, I’m sending a text to the burner phone that Matthew uses only with me.

  Want you. Now!!

  The response is immediate and expresses equal urgency.

  Four Seasons. ASAP

  Less than half an hour later, Matthew opens the door to his hotel room wearing nothing but a robe. From our first kiss, I can feel him hard against my leg. His body is the way a man’s should be. Neither too muscular nor so slight you can feel his bones. And he has the exact right amount of chest hair. He reminds me in both respects of a young Sean Connery—maybe of Goldfinger vintage.

  I trace my tongue around his nipples and then along the soft hairline that dissects his chest. I always stop just below his hip, running my hands across the scar in the shape of an M.

  When I first happened upon it, I asked him how he received it. He told me a cock-and-bull story about a fight he had in college with a guy who pulled a knife. A month or so later, when I told him that the scar’s smooth edges didn’t look to be the result of a stabbing, he confided that he’d actually fallen on the sharp-cornered edge of a metal box.

  Finally my mouth arrives at where he’s been aching for it to go. Like everything else about Matthew, I find this part of him to also be pure perfection. To change any of it—length, girth, texture, smell even—would be to lessen it.

  He often tells me that I possess extraordinary oral skills. It’s a compliment I’ve heard before, and I’ve always just assumed that men are so thankful to receive it that they’ll say anything to keep it going. Still, Matthew usually has a frenetic energy about him, but when he’s in my mouth I can feel that he’s completely in another world, oblivious to everything. Much the way I am when the roles are reversed.

  He pulls himself away and brings his mouth to mine. His hands on my breasts, his tongue everywhere—my earlobe, running down my neck, caressing my nipples. When he traces his mouth down the center of my body, I begin to tremble with the anticipation of what’s to come. I have no doubt that he knows how close I am by the way he holds back just as I’m about to hit the point of no return, only to resume again and bring me right to the edge without allowing me to cross over.

  When he finally enters me, I’m more than ready to explode. He goes faster in response to my demand, trying to keep up with my pace. It doesn’t take more than a few strokes before I’ve reached the summit.

  I have to confess that I’m never happier than I am with Matthew. And not just in bed, although that’s truly magical, but simply in his company. It’s the only time I feel like I’m really me, as corny as that sounds. Even with my sister, who is the closest I’ve ever come to this sense of true actualization, I sometimes feel like I’m playing a part. The little sister. The artist. The free spirit. With Matthew I’m allowed to be more complex, permitted to show the contradictions that define me on a daily basis, to express my insecurities without concern that I’m whining for no purpose, to dream about a future with him in which I’m happy.

  In a word, I’m in love with him. Truly.

  13.

  I return to the office a few minutes before my 3:00 p.m. appointment with Paul Michelson. Stopping at the reception desk, I ask Ashleigh if my father is in.

  “He’s in court,” she says.

  “No, really, Ashleigh. Where is he? I’m not a client.”

  She laughs. “No, he really is in court. Garkov.”

  Right . . . the adjournment.

  “Any news about your sister?”

  “No.”

  “Your father is . . . he’s taking this hard, I think.”

  Ashleigh is a few years younger than me, closer to Charlotte’s age, I’d guess, but the four-decade age gap between her and my father doesn’t necessarily mean that they couldn’t be romantically involved. That would certainly explain why she considers it appropriate to opine about the mental state of the head of the firm. I don’t want to engage her about my father, however, so I switch to business.

  “Paul Michelson will be here any minute now. Please preclear him through security downstairs and put him in the conference room when he gets here.”

  I’m sitting in my office for less than five minutes before Ashleigh calls to tell me that Paul has arrived. In that time, I’ve done some cyber-searching and found the press release issued this morning by the DA’s office about Jennifer Barnett.

  It’s not good news for Paul. The police conducted a search of Jennifer Barnett’s apartment and found DNA and fingerprint evidence. As a banker with licenses to sell securities to the public, Paul’s fingerprints are on file with the Securities and Exchange Commission, and that means they now have proof that Paul’s been in Jennifer Barnett’s apartment. Not the most incriminating thing in the world, but when a male boss visits the home of his beautiful, twenty-two-year-old subordinate, most people reach a common conclusion as to why he was there.

  When I arrive at the conference room, I see Paul sitting in the same seat as he did the last time we met. Like then, his back is to me. This time he quickly rises when I enter.

  He kisses me as if we were old friends greeting each other at a party instead of a lawyer meeting with her client because he’s a person of interest in a potential murder. Being in Zach’s company has stripped me of whatever vestige of goodwill I previously had toward Paul. I now feel repulsed by the sight of him.

  “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” Paul says as I take the seat at the table’s head, the one my father occupied at our first meeting. “Given the situation with your sister, are you sure you want to do this?”

  I have little doubt that his question is motivated more by his concern about our ability to represent him than for my well-being. That said, I can’t hold his self-interest against him too much. I wouldn’t want a brain surgeon to operate on me while her sister or daughter was missing either.

  “My father and I discussed it, and we believe that we’re more than able to give you one hundred percent of our effort. If that changes, we’ll tell you. And, of course, if you want to move on from us, that’s understandable too.”

  He doesn’t hesitate.
“No. You’re my lawyers until you tell me you can’t do the job.”

  With that out of the way, I get down to it. “The police searched Jennifer’s apartment and found some fingerprints and DNA. My guess is that they reached out to you because you’re a match.”

  “How’d they get a set of my prints and my DNA?”

  His question tells me two things. First, he has definitely been in her apartment. He isn’t going to claim there must be some mistake. And second, he doesn’t have an innocent explanation as to why he’s been there.

  “You have a series seven, right?” I say, referring to the license to sell securities to the public.

  “Yes, and a sixty-three.”

  “Well, that’s how they have your prints. It’s part of the background check for getting your securities license, if you recall. On the bright side, they probably don’t have your DNA on file—unless you’ve previously been arrested for a sex crime.”

  Paul isn’t the kind of guy to panic. In college, he played on the tennis team and often told me that he was at his best when he was down a set. Met with the disclosure that the police are going to be able to place him at what is very likely a murder scene, he doesn’t display anything but cool-as-can-be confidence.

  “Where does the fingerprint thing leave us?”

  “Well, I think it’s a safe bet that the police have evidence that you’ve been in Jennifer Barnett’s home.”

  We stare at each other for a few seconds. I wonder if Paul understands that I want him to confess. To tell me that he can’t take it anymore and blurt out that he killed her. To be a good person and do the right thing.

  When the quiet passes long enough that I know he’s actually waiting for me to say something, I ask him, “So what do you want to do? About the police’s invitation to submit to an interview, I mean.”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me,” he says.

  I think about how I want to answer, actually running the response through my head before committing to it. I can’t imagine my father offering the advice I’m about to give, but I convince myself that I’m providing it for Paul’s benefit and not to further my own sense of justice.