The Hidden Man

by David Ellis

“Why you asking about me testifying before the parole board?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Trying to get my arms around the entire landscape here.”

  “That sounds like something a lawyer would say when he doesn’t want to answer the question. The landscape.” He leaned in toward me. “You investigating me?”

  “Should I be?” I always loved that question. But it moved the conversation in a different direction. Now I was confronting him.

  He squinted at me. He had a pretty good poker face. He didn’t reveal much of anything. I figured he was running through his options. He could tell me to take a leap and kick me out of his house, but he was smart enough to realize that such a response would only pique my interest. More likely, he would take the common route of anyone cornered—he’d try to talk his way out of it. That’s an option I always encouraged as a prosecutor and strongly discouraged as a defense lawyer. It’s the human impulse to defend yourself, but often you just dig a deeper hole.

  All of this assumed that Archie Novotny had something to hide. But the longer he stared at me through those narrow slants, the more I thought I’d stumbled onto something.

  “I was at a guitar lesson that night,” he said. “I’ve had guitar lessons every Thursday night for three years.” He nodded presumptively. “I was playing guitar.”

  Interesting that he had an alibi at the ready. I wanted to explore this. And I wanted to seem nonchalant in doing so. But that effort typically backfires; in fact it has the opposite effect, trying too hard to seem unaffected, and then you’ve emphasized the importance of the question still further by trying to be underhanded about it. I wanted to know more about this alibi, and there was no way to ask about it in a casual manner.

  I was instantly sorry that I hadn’t brought a “prover”—somebody who could verify the contents of this conversation in court. I couldn’t testify, obviously, as I was counsel, and it had been an oversight on my part not to bring Joel Lightner or anyone else along with me. I’d been so focused on sneaking out of my building without Smith’s guys seeing me that I hadn’t taken this elementary precaution. It was another reminder to me that I wasn’t bringing my “A” game to this case, that I probably wasn’t capable of doing so, that I quite possibly was in over my head as I tried to help my childhood friend escape a first-degree murder charge. The usual physical symptoms of minor panic showed themselves—my chest tightened, my throat constricted—but I had no way out at this point and there was simply nothing I could do but motor forward and play out this string. I took a deep breath and refocused.

  “Who said Griffin Perlini was murdered on a Thursday, Archie?”

  He drew back. “Wasn’t he?”

  He was. September 21, 2006, was a Thursday. But how did he know that?

  “I heard about it,” he explained, rather vaguely.

  “When did you hear about it?” I asked. “How did you hear about it?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Hell, I heard about it, is all.”

  If this were a game show, a buzzer would have gone off. People don’t remember details of most things that happened in their lives, even last week, but they typically remember quite accurately the wheres and hows of memorable events. I remember exactly where I was when President Reagan was shot; when I learned my mother had had a stroke; when the second plane hit the World Trade Center.

  The significance of Griffin Perlini’s death would have been tantamount to 9/11 to Archie Novotny.

  I tried to control my reaction. This conversation, this line of questioning, was precisely why I was here, but I realized, now, that I hadn’t expected this to happen. Sammy Cutler had not asked me to believe in his innocence. His comments had essentially suggested his guilt.

  Did Archie Novotny kill Griffin Perlini?

  “Where do you take guitar lessons?” I asked.

  Novotny shook his head, his eyes cast off toward the window. Things had turned decidedly adverse now, and he was rethinking his strategy. Again, I considered, and rejected, the idea of downplaying things, telling him I was just dotting i’s and crossing t’s. This guy’s feet were on the fire, and I needed to let this play out.

  After a long pause, he seemed to calm, his crimson face settling in tension, a clenched jaw and the narrow squint. “She still has nightmares, you know. And she won’t admit it to me, but she still thinks, on some level, that it was all her fault.” His eyes, still focused on the window, grew shiny with tears. “Perlini told her, you know—he told her that Mommy and Daddy said it was okay. He told her that we knew what he was doing to her and it was okay with us.”

  I knew a little something about self-torture and guilt, and it was everything I could do to keep a clinical perspective. If this guy killed Griffin Perlini, I would offer to defend him, free of charge. But I had to know. And this guy had motive written all over him.

  And if he was working with Smith, if he had engineered a criminal case against my brother for leverage, I couldn’t let my sympathy for his plight get in my way.

  “When we found out about this monster—when the Drurys came forward about their Charlene—we asked Jody about it. Just like every parent who had a child in that park district program. And I remember thinking, then, that Jody had become really moody that summer, she was wetting the bed, she wasn’t eating—it all dawned on me, and I remember thinking to myself, How could you not have noticed? How could you have missed it?”

  I didn’t dare speak. My heart was rattling against my chest.

  “And when we asked her—when we sat her down and talked to her about it, you know what she said to me? To me and my wife? You know what she said? She said, ‘I’m sorry.’ She—she—apologized to us.”

  My eyes dropped to the floor. I felt like an eavesdropper, a witness to something intensely private, which I had no right to observe.

  “This man has haunted our home for twenty years,” he continued. “He doesn’t get to haunt us anymore.” I looked up just as he turned to me, a sharp frown, a snarl, on an otherwise emotionless face. “So you don’t get to ask me these questions. Okay, Jason? You want to try to pin his death on me, you go right ahead. You’ll get no help from me.”

  He was kicking me out. I wasn’t ready to go. I tried the only words I could imagine that would avoid a violent reaction, a complete shut-off of the valve.

  “Sammy Cutler,” I said. “He knows a thing or two about being haunted. He lost his sister for good, Archie.”

  Novotny placed his hands on his knees and pushed himself off the couch. “Music Emporium,” he said. “Greenway and Thirty-ninth. Every Thursday night, eight to nine. Guy who teaches me is Nick Trillo. Be on your way, now, Jason.”

  He didn’t wait for me to leave. He returned to the corner of the room and plugged in the sander. I took the stairs back down, finding myself back at the front door. I reached for the doorknob but pulled back. Overhead, I heard the high-pitched whirr of the floor sander.

  My eyes drifted to the coat closet. I pulled the string for the single light bulb and did a quick inventory of the hanging ware. There were a couple of windbreakers, a baseball jersey, a heavy coat, and—yes—a brown leather bomber jacket.

  I raised up on the balls of my feet and looked at the top shelf. There were four baseball caps, all with union labels, a ski mask, and yes, there it was.

  A green stocking cap.

  28

  WHEN I LEFT Archie Novotny’s place, I kept driving west. I was already in Marion Park, so there was no reason why I couldn’t stop by another address in that town, the home of John Dixon—J.D., Pete’s supplier. I’d already called his place of employment, McHenry Stern, and it sounded like he’d taken a leave of absence of some kind. If I was right, and he’d decided to lay low while my brother Pete was out on a limb, then it stood to reason that J.D. would not be lounging around his home, either.

  The address Lightner had given me was 4554 West Elvira. It was a three-story walk-up, which Joel hadn’t mentioned. The signs on the buzzers
showed J.D. as occupying the garden apartment, his front door just a short walk down a few steps, but protected by a gate ten feet high. It looked like there was no one home at Chez Dixon, but I buzzed for good measure.

  No answer, but it was dinnertime, so I tried another buzzer, beside the name WILLIS. After a long wait, I noticed in my peripheral vision a stirring of a curtain on the second floor, presumably checking me out. Shortly thereafter, a voice cackled through an intercom.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m looking for John Dixon.”

  “He’s not around. I think he’s gone for a few weeks.”

  “Okay. Shoot. Well, thanks.” I walked away before I’d have to explain myself to J.D.’s neighbor.

  So J.D. had taken off work and he’d left his home, too. He was in the wind, on the order of whoever had hired Smith. J.D. had been part of the setup. I needed to find him. And I thought I knew how.

  I dialed up Joel Lightner again and made the arrangements. Then I explained to him what I had just learned at Archie Novotny’s house.

  “Brown bomber jacket and green cap,” Lightner said. “Wow. Hard to argue with that. You got a shot of it?”

  I did. I’d taken a photo of the jacket and the green cap in Archie Novotny’s closet using the camera on my cell phone. Again, it would have been preferable to have a prover with me, someone who could authenticate the photograph in court. For the time being, the only people who could attest to the accuracy of the photo were Novotny and me.

  Joel asked, “You think he’s our killer?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t know. Leather jackets aren’t all that rare.”

  “But green stocking caps?”

  “Yeah, I hear you. Look, either way, he’s at least a very viable suspect. I’ve got someone to point at. I’ll have to take a look at that alibi, those guitar lessons.”

  “Okay, but what about the Pete problem?” Joel asked. “I mean, is Archie Novotny the guy behind Smith?”

  It was hard to imagine. Archie Novotny was an out-of-work union painter working part-time at Home Depot. We’d have to confirm all of this, but if it was true, he didn’t have the resources to use a guy like Smith. “This guy hates Griffin Perlini, no question,” I said. “I could see him committing the murder. But I just don’t see this thing with Smith.”

  “Then you still have a problem.”

  Yeah, thanks. I drove back to my office building, parked underground in Shauna Tasker’s space, and headed briefly back up to my office. I walked out of my office at about seven-thirty and headed over to my parking space to drive my car home. The Buick tailed me at an appropriate distance.

  They didn’t know I’d left the building this afternoon, I decided. They thought I’d been in my office until I walked to my car and drove home just now. I would be free to move about, when necessary, without their knowledge. It was one of the few advantages I had.

  Among many disadvantages. Lightner was right: Even if I could put the murder of Griffin Perlini on Archie Novotny, I still had to find Smith. I still had to figure out who he was working for.

  The smart money said Smith was representing the family of one of Griffin Perlini’s victims. But it wasn’t the Drurys, and I didn’t think it was Archie Novotny. And beyond that, I couldn’t name another victim of Griffin Perlini’s sexual crimes.

  How could I find this family?

  SMITH DROVE to see his client, Carlo. His dealings with Jason Kolarich had been disappointing, though not entirely unexpected. Kolarich was a contrarian, a trait which had probably served him well in his life but was utterly unhelpful for present purposes.

  No deal, Kolarich had said. But surely he didn’t mean it. Surely, he’d be willing to play ball if it meant coming to the aid of his only remaining family, his brother.

  Before getting out of his car, Smith popped a pill, something for his stomach the doctor had prescribed. He’d had recurrences of the problem over time, but now, with this thing with Carlo, his stomach was in full revolt. He’d been through a lot with Carlo over the years, had guided him through a number of tough times, but this thing—this was unique. It was unique because they had so much to lose, and because Jason Kolarich was unpredictable.

  At Carlo’s door, Smith was led into a large room where Carlo sat, stroking the hair of his daughter, Marisa. Smith stood at the threshold, not wanting to intrude, uncomfortable as he heard the soft moans and sobs of Marisa. Carlo, he thought, would not want Smith to encroach on this moment. Carlo was fiercely protective of his family, particularly of Marisa, who was slow—the term Carlo always preferred, a gentler term than retarded, which probably was closer to the truth. All the time Smith had known the family, he’d never known exactly how Marisa had been diagnosed. She was fairly functional, physically capable as well, but she was still a child intellectually and emotionally. All in all, a sweet woman who just needed some help to get along.

  Smith still remembered vividly everything from way back when—God, it was well over twenty years ago now. Marisa had been a complete wreck. Carlo had gone so far as to move Marisa out of the house, away from the city, to another home he purchased downstate. Carlo’s wife had recently passed, so he spent nearly all of his time downstate with Marisa for several years. A tough stretch for the entire family.

  But they had bounced back. In her mid-fifties now, Marisa and her daughter, Patricia, now lived next door to Carlo in a house he’d purchased for them. He kept them close and provided for them in every way, but now everything was slowly coming undone. It was hard enough for a woman with Marisa’s disabilities that she had to cope with a daughter who was growing sicker by the day, but now everything that happened back then was returning to the fore.

  Still caressing his daughter’s soft brown hair, Carlo turned one eye to Smith. Carlo nodded and whispered into Marisa’s ear. He kissed her on the cheek and left the couch.

  He moved past Smith in silence; Smith followed him down the hall to his study. Smith felt his pulse race.

  “Give me something good,” he said, after he closed the door.

  Smith delivered it straight and concise. It would only anger Carlo more if he let it out tidbit by tidbit. “The lawyer understands his brother’s vulnerability,” said Smith. “I think he’ll work with us now.”

  “You think. Okay, you think.” Carlo gathered his shoulders, growing introverted. He scratched his arm absently.

  “How’s Patricia?” Smith asked.

  Carlo shook his head. The news was obviously not good. “And you saw Marisa in there,” he said. “She’s a mess. I don’t even know what to tell her.”

  Smith nodded. Carlo had a lot on his plate right now.

  “My family needs me right now. You understand that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “This trial with this guy, Cutler. This can’t be a problem for me. I’ve got enough problems right now. You understand I’m counting on you.”

  “I do, Carlo. I’ll make it right.”

  “I know you will.” Carlo’s eyes bored into his lawyer. “I know you will.”

  29

  PETE HAD ACTUALLY cooked dinner when I got home, chicken pan-fried and sliced up for fajitas with sautéed peppers and onions, corn tortillas, and refried beans. “I have to do something,” he said to me. “I’m going crazy here.”

  I was surprised at my hunger and I downed three fajitas in the space of five minutes. I had a beer, as did Pete, which I thought was not his first of the day. Afterward, we went into the family room with fresh bottles.

  “Talked to Dan today,” said Pete, referring to his boss. Pete’s job du jour was a sales gig, selling medical products to retail outlets. It seemed like a pretty easy job to me, selling aspirin to a grocery store, but apparently the bigger issue was getting preferable product placement in the stores. Anyway, Pete was suited for sales, that personal touch, a dose of charm, and I’d hoped this might be the right career move for him.

  “I told him,” Pete said.

 
“You told him—about the arrest?”

  He shrugged. “What, I’m gonna be sick for six months? He’d find out, anyway.”

  “No, he wouldn’t, Pete. You don’t have to tell him un—”

  Pete gave me a sour smile and finished my sentence. “Unless I’m convicted,” he said.

  “You’re not going to be convicted.”

  Pete pushed his hair back, sighed, looked up at the ceiling.

  “You’re not going to be convicted, Pete.”

  Pete nodded, but it was a sarcastic gesture. A cop had arrested him at a crime scene with a mountain of cocaine and a crate full of stolen firearms. His defense was that the whole thing was a coincidence, a misunderstanding. He wasn’t liking his chances at trial.

  I had to tell him the story. He had to know how this whole thing came to be. “This is my fault,” I said. “You were set up, like you said. But you were set up because of me.”

  I ran through the whole thing for him, told him about Smith, his interest in my defense of Sammy Cutler, his proposed trade—I do what he wants and he fixes everything with Pete’s case. My brother listened with rapt interest, but where I was expecting him to haul off and take a swing at me or something, instead he seemed, of all things, to be somewhat relieved. I had underestimated how much he was beating himself up over this arrest, how embarrassed he was to have to turn to me. In some way, circumstances notwithstanding, my role in this affair exonerated him. This wasn’t a fuck-up entirely of his own making.

  He’d always seen himself that way—the lesser of the two Kolarich boys. The one without the physical ability, without the drive. The one who took his father’s abuse, not avoided it. The one who couldn’t hold down a job, who partied too much and even got pinched a couple of times by the law, making it harder still to secure quality employment—a cycle I had seen firsthand as a prosecutor and defender of the lower ranks of society.

  “I’ll make this right,” I said. “I’m going to figure out who’s behind all this. Shit.” I finished off my beer and wiggled the empty bottle. “I’ve got three weeks, little brother. Three weeks to figure all this shit out.”