The Ex

by Alafair Burke

  Chapter 15

  THE NEXT MORNING, Einer and I sat with Jack at his dining room table, huddled around Einer’s laptop, searching the video footage from the waterfront for additional sightings of the missed-moment woman.

  Einer hit Pause. “Take a look here. Is that her?”

  A voice broke through on the speakerphone. “Wait. Who are you talking about?”

  Thanks to the byzantine rules governing Jack’s release, Charlotte had to dial in. Plus, Jack couldn’t have an Internet connection. The legal team was allowed to go online but, without a wireless network, we had to use my cell’s personal hotspot, which wasn’t breaking any records for speed. Somehow Einer and Charlotte had figured out a way to connect their computers remotely so Charlotte could see whatever was happening on Einer’s screen, but she still missed out on other information, like Einer’s finger pointing to a woman with an umbrella passing Chelsea Piers the morning before the shooting.

  Jack shook his head, and Einer continued to play the tape.

  “Who were we talking about?” Charlotte asked again.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said, annoyed by the cross talk. “Jack said it wasn’t her.”

  So far, the only sighting we had of the woman we were still calling “Madeline” was the one I’d found yesterday. A few minutes after Jack had passed her on his morning run, Madeline packed up her picnic, turning to the camera just enough to permit Einer to grab a still shot of her face from the footage. In theory, it was a decent enough image that someone might recognize her.

  Charlotte had been running that photograph on the front page of the Room website since last night. She had blurred the background so no one would connect what all the “Roomers” were calling “Who’s That Girl?” to the shooting at the piers. A couple of smaller media-focused websites had picked up the link, wondering why the Room was so curious about the “lady in the grass,” or to debate the ethics of conducting an online hunt for an anonymous woman. Charlotte was sifting through the hundreds of (mostly smart-assed) responses she’d received, but so far none of the tips had panned out.

  Meanwhile, Jack continued to watch surveillance video, hoping to catch a glimpse of Madeline on another day, in a different place, on her way to the football field—anything.

  As disappointment began to set in once again, I tried to remind myself that we were lucky to have the initial missed-moment contact on video. Jack’s description of seeing the woman would have sounded ludicrous to the police after he was arrested. The video proved that he’d been telling the truth, at least about seeing her in the first place. It also helped bolster his explanation for carrying a picnic basket into the park the day Malcolm Neeley was shot, and coming home without it.

  Charlotte gave us the flavor of some of the tips coming into her website. That’s your mother after I kicked her out of bed last night. My next ex-wife. Send her my way when you find her. “I’ve always known that my site caters to the worst of humanity, but damn, I’m starting to hate my readers. I do have a few more people for Jack to look at, though. I’m sending them to you now.”

  So far, Charlotte had not heard from anyone claiming to be Madeline, but she had gotten a few legitimate messages from people who thought they might know the woman. In those instances, she was doing her best to get a first and last name and then to aggregate online photos of candidates for Jack’s review.

  While waterfront footage continued to play on Einer’s laptop, I used mine to open the incoming messages from Charlotte.

  I turned the screen toward Jack as Charlotte continued to speak. “The third woman seemed like she could be a match, but the rest didn’t really look right to me. But you’re the one who saw her in person.” Charlotte could not see Jack’s face fall as he clicked through the photographs.

  As he pushed the laptop back toward me, I saw his eyes suddenly light up. “Hey, you. Didn’t hear you come in.”

  Buckley’s high-waisted denim shorts and cap-sleeved blouse looked like an outfit I would’ve worn at her age. “I guess today’s therapy session has me walking on air,” she said in a sugary-sweet voice.

  I suppose if I’d seen a therapist as a teenager, I would have poked fun at it, too.

  “Hey, kiddo,” Charlotte called out from the speaker.

  “Hey. I don’t want to be negative, but I hope you’re working on some other defense than finding the woman in that picture. I mean, it seems like a total long shot.”

  Charlotte insisted she was on top of it. “Since we don’t really think Madeline herself is behind this, someone must have hired her. I’ve got a bunch of temp workers pulling up casting and escort sites, looking for a match.”

  Charlotte had told me about the strategy this morning. It was a waste of her time and money, but I knew not to argue with her. She loved Jack and needed to help however she could.

  Three hours later, we were no closer to identifying Madeline, and we all needed a break. When Einer and I were packing up to leave, Jack asked me to stay behind. He led the way to the kitchen and poured two glasses of orange juice.

  “Remember how it was such a splurge to get the real stuff instead of in a can?” he said as I sipped.

  “Being poor sucks.”

  He smiled. “So . . . Buckley.”

  “I didn’t realize how plugged in she was to the evidence.”

  “Neither did I. I think she just heard enough to realize that we’re looking for a potential witness. She’s good at filling in the blanks. She’s also apparently good at telling people things that they probably don’t need to know. The pictures in my closet?”

  “Oh, please. No big deal.” I did my best to sound like I had forgotten all about it.

  “Buckley said she told you about the fight Molly and I had when she found them.”

  “Really, Jack. It’s fine. We don’t need to talk about this.”

  “Okay.”

  I could tell he wanted to say more. I took another sip of my juice.

  “It was just an argument,” he said. “Buckley was still in grade school. It probably seemed like a big deal to her at the time. Other kids’ parents were getting divorced. But it was nothing. I loved Molly very much.”

  “Of course. You don’t need to explain.” Damnit. Did I sound disappointed? Did I actually feel disappointed? “I’m sorry you lost her so early, but I’m happy that you had that time together. Some people never find that.” I never found that. “At least from what I read, she seemed like a really good fit for you.”

  He looked down and nodded. “After you, Molly was the only one. I never even dated anyone in between.”

  I downed the rest of my drink and handed him the glass. He walked me toward the door, stopping at the table that marked the beginning of the danger zone for his electronic monitor. I reached for the doorknob but then turned back. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I did. Or Buckley did, when I was arrested.”

  “No, I mean before. After Owen died. When you went to the hospital, or after. Why didn’t you ever call me?”

  “I told you—I just couldn’t.”

  “I just wanted to know you were okay. I knew you hated me but—”

  “I never hated you. I could never—” I heard his voice break.

  “Then why?” He stared at me helplessly, but said nothing. “Jack, I felt so fucking guilty.”

  He cleared his throat and his eyes suddenly hardened. “So, wait, Olivia: was the hardest part not knowing if I was okay, or that you had to feel guilty for what you’d done? Because maybe not calling you was my way of being cruel right back at you. To let you wonder. To let you think that maybe I wasn’t actually okay and never would be. Is that what you want to hear? There, now you know why I never called.”

  I stepped toward him and he pulled away. “Just go.”

  We were interrupted when Einer stepped into the kitchen. “Charlotte just called again. She found her. Your scary, crazy friend actually found Madeline.”

  “DID YOU GET THE PICTURES yet?” Ch
arlotte was on speaker.

  I watched a blue circle spin at the top of my browser window. “It’s taking a while to load.”

  “Did someone finally recognize her?” Jack asked.

  “Yes,” Charlotte said, “but it wasn’t a tip from the Room. Remember how I said I hired some temp workers to go through websites? Well, I might’ve understated the size of the effort. I made a list of every single escort, modeling, and casting site I could identify in New York City. And I hired a shit ton of eyeballs—and not just normal temp workers. I hired models and actresses and casting agents—people who are good at face recognition. Whatever, you can tell me how amazing I am later. The point is: we found her. Do you have it yet?”

  When the website finally appeared, the banner promised “New York Companionship 24/7” and a “diverse array of absolutely stunning beauties,” all at rates ranging from $800 to $2,000 an hour. I could imagine the kind of variations that might affect the price.

  As I scrolled down, I found the promised array, displayed three per row, in various states of undress.

  “Who are we searching for?” I asked.

  “Helen. Scroll down. They were thoughtful enough to alphabetize.”

  I found her about halfway down the page. Her damp, dark brown hair skimmed the top of her breasts, which were clearly visible beneath a white, wet tank top. Soaking wet, and yet somehow her makeup was perfect.

  “That really does look like her,” Jack said next to me. “She was dry, obviously, and didn’t have all that eyeliner on. But that could definitely be her.”

  I clicked on the photograph, and my browser did its spinning-wheel churn again before opening to a “Helen” page, with six more photographs. Jack pointed to one where her back was to the camera, her skirt lifted to reveal an impossibly perfect bottom. “I really think that’s her.”

  “You saw her butt?”

  “No. Her profile.” Helen was looking at the camera over her shoulder. “I mean, I can’t be sure, but it’s a lot closer than anyone else you’ve shown me.”

  “The only problem,” I said, “is that, given the way online prostitution works, if we call for a date with this Helen, some other sexy brunette will show up.”

  Charlotte sounded proud to be yet another step ahead of me. “Which is why I already made a little phone call to the so-called escort service. I got Helen’s real name for less than the cost of whatever it is that they call ‘the round-the-world treatment.’ I’m sending you another picture.”

  The incoming e-mail showed the same woman looking considerably more refined.

  Jack let out a gasp. “Oh my God, that’s her.”

  Charlotte’s voice was beginning to crackle in the speaker connection. “That’s one of her professional head shots as aspiring actress Sharon Lawson. Guess she hasn’t had her big break yet. I have a home address in Staten Island.”

  I asked her to give me the details so I could follow up.

  “Nope. I’m the one with the minions. If you’re going, I’m going. I’ll pick you up in ten.”

  AFTER CHARLOTTE CLICKED OFF THE phone, Jack shook his head and laughed. “I’m picturing Charlotte bookmarking that escort site for future purposes.”

  I was glad that the good news had gotten us past the tension that had been mounting before Charlotte called. It felt like everything was falling into place. If this Sharon Lawson turned out to be “Madeline,” and someone hired her to catch Jack’s eye, we might actually be able to prove Jack was framed.

  “I probably shouldn’t get my hopes up, right? Whoever did this had to have been smart enough to cover their tracks.”

  “I know, but we don’t have to prove who’s actually pulling the strings.” We only needed to make it feel plausible that strings were in fact being pulled. After Jack was arrested, that feat felt impossible. Now I was finally starting to picture the beginning of a defense. Max Neeley hated his father, was searching for independence, and would now control the Sentry Group after his father’s death. And by all accounts, he was smart—the kind of smart someone would have to be to orchestrate Jack’s setup.

  “You really think Max Neeley did this?”

  “It’s not our job to figure that out. I just have to sell it as a possibility.”

  “God, is it crazy that I feel bad about doing this to him if he’s not actually guilty? For him to come out of that household in one piece is pretty remarkable after everything his father put him through.”

  A text appeared on my phone. It was Charlotte. I’m here. How in the world did she get downtown in ten minutes?

  As I packed my laptop into my briefcase, I told Jack not to feel bad for Max. “He’s alternative suspect number one right now. And either way, he’s free of his dad and has an entire hedge fund to himself.”

  Outside, Charlotte had pulled in front of Jack’s building in a shiny, white Porsche Carrera.

  “No Barbie?” I asked, steadying myself as I crawled into the low-slung seat.

  “If we have to cross the Verrazano, we may as well have some fun.”

  SHARON LAWSON’S HOME LOOKED LIKE the setting of All in the Family, the right half of a side-by-side row house, complete with a thick, squared-off hedge beneath the windows.

  Charlotte beat me to the punch when the door opened. “Sharon, we have a role to discuss with you. It’s a follow-up to your gig at the Christopher Street Pier.”

  “What gig on the pier?”

  “You know—with the champagne and the basket.”

  I saw panic in Sharon’s face, quickly replaced by an actress’s composure. I stuck my hand out, complete with business card, hoping it would keep her from slamming the door. “Ms. Lawson, we need to talk to you, or the police will.”

  I never should have let Charlotte inject herself into this. Maybe she would have had a chance of making a connection on her own, or I could have done it with my usual approach. But the two of us together were a mess. The door was beginning to close. Charlotte stuck her black canvas tennis shoe in the door. “A man’s life is at stake!”

  The door jerked opened again. “Fucking Emin! He’s the one, right?”

  I tried again to salvage the situation. “It doesn’t matter how we found you.” Charlotte had indeed bribed a man named Emin at the escort service for Sharon’s real name and address. Emin had also confirmed that a cash client had booked Sharon for an “all-night date” that would have included the early morning when Jack spotted the girl in the grass. Emin did not, however, know the identity of the client or the location of the date. “We need to know who hired you to go to Christopher Street Pier.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “If you’re afraid of discussing the escort business—”

  She stepped onto the porch and shut the door behind her. “Of course I’m afraid. I’m twenty-nine years old and have two children and can barely afford the rent for the roof over our head. I can’t believe greedy Emin sold me out. He’s the one who found me at an audition and told me this was an easy way to make money on the side. No one was supposed to know. Fine, I guess my secret’s out. But I have no idea what you’re talking about with some stupid picnic basket.”

  “We have surveillance footage,” I said, locking eyes with her. “We don’t have any interest in exposing anything about your life. In fact, there was nothing illegal about this particular job. Someone hired you to sit on the waterfront—dressed to the nines, reading a book, waiting for a man who’d be jogging by. He’s in trouble now. You’re the only one who can help us understand what really happened. We need to know who hired you.”

  “I don’t know how many times I can say this: whatever you’re talking about has nothing to do with me.”

  “Emin confirmed you were hired for the entire night,” Charlotte insisted. “June fifth.”

  “I remember that night. I was at a hotel on Central Park South, if you must know.”

  “What hotel?” I asked.

  “Essex House, okay? That’s all I can tell you.
I’m sorry, maybe there’s some other woman who looks like me. Now, please, go. I don’t want my boys to hear any of this.”

  She closed the door once more, this time for good. Charlotte started to knock again, but I shook my head, knowing it was futile.

  I had looked up Sharon Lawson the actress online. She had minor guest roles on a number of television shows filmed in New York: Gossip Girl, Law & Order, The Good Wife. Last year, she starred in an off-Broadway play. But New York was no longer a city where artists could pay the bills with a side job waiting tables, especially if the artist had two extra little mouths to feed. On the other hand, I noticed she’d been wearing hundred-dollar yoga pants on the porch and had what appeared to be a relatively new Lexus SUV in her driveway. Maybe she only told herself the money was for her children.

  I pulled out my phone to snap a picture of her license plate. It was a long shot, but we could check parking garages near both Essex House and the waterfront to figure out where she’d been before Jack’s missed moment.

  My phone vibrated in my hand before I had a chance to take the picture. It was a reporter from Eyewitness News named Jan Myers. She said she was calling for a comment on Jack’s case.

  “We’re under a gag order,” I said. “You know that.”

  “Well, I’m not, so I always give every party the opportunity, regardless.”

  “What’s there to comment on anyway? Max Neeley’s interviews? Of course it’s understandable that a shooting victim’s son would be looking for quick answers.”

  “Ah, I guess the prosecutors haven’t told you yet. Sorry to be the one with bad news.”

  It was far worse than bad.

  A homeless man named Francis Thomas had arrived at the Downtown Men’s Center during this morning’s downpour, a shopping cart full of possessions in tow: clothing, cans and bottles, books, a soggy picnic basket. Inside the picnic basket was a Glock .45—the same kind of gun used in the waterfront shootings.

  Chapter 16