The One That Got Away

by Joe Clifford

  In the following months, which slipped into the following years, Alex tried to convince herself she’d done nothing wrong. How much more did Denise deserve? A formal funeral would’ve run Alex at least a couple grand she didn’t have, and for what? No one to show up? Far as Alex was concerned, death was for the dead, and it didn’t matter what happened when you were gone. Burned to powder. Food for worms. All the same. You’re done.

  Alex didn’t know if she had the same spot after all this time. Trying to recollect a bend of branch, a crook of tree, a fool’s errand. She’d been wasted that day. It had been summer, lush green leaves and ripe pollen instead of stripped bare trees on the cusp of winter.

  She drove up and down the stretch of 146, hoping scent or sight might trigger memory, but she recognized nothing, feeling lost all over again. She flipped a bitch and backtracked. The more she drove, going in circles, remorse sneaking in, no pharmaceuticals to help push those feelings back down, the worse the world weighted.

  Until, unable to squash the regret, guilt, confusion, whatever was going on inside her, Alex pulled off to the shoulder, onto a dirt path unlikely to lead to her mother’s childhood house or any final resting spot, and slammed the car in park.

  Alex gripped the wheel and screamed until her voice frayed hoarse.

  Then she put her head in her hands and cried.

  On her way out of Schenectady, Alex hit the 76 gas station, parking by the air pumps. She needed cigarettes and caffeine, a minute to collect herself. Drained and depressed, trapped in her head, she didn’t see him standing outside her door until he knocked on the window.

  Of all the people Alex suspected might be following her, she hadn’t once considered Yoan Lee. After Noah boasted about his famous father, Alex had dug up information on the journalistic icon. The bylines and awards. Hall dedicated at the college. A sandwich named after him at the local deli. Which in these parts was as famous as famous got. It didn’t leave a lot of time to play hide and seek. Although sitting in the passenger seat, Yoan quickly dismissed the notion, explaining that he hadn’t been the one actually driving around spying on her.

  “I had an intern keep an eye on you once I learned what Noah was up to. I hope I didn’t scare you? I wanted to know what trouble my stepson was causing now.”

  “Stepson?”

  “He’s my second wife’s child from a previous marriage.”

  “No, you didn’t scare me,” Alex lied. “But you could’ve called instead of creeping up on me at a gas station.”

  “I did call you. Several times. You didn’t answer.”

  Alex thought about the missed calls from those two days she was passed out at Linda and Tommy’s following the incident at Sweetwater, the blocked number without a voicemail. “Ever hear of leaving a message?”

  “My apologies,” Yoan Lee said. “You need to understand Noah has done this before. It’s very frustrating, and I’m fed up at this point. Don’t get me wrong. I love Noah as one of my own, and I have tried to give him every opportunity to prove himself. Uniondale’s tuition isn’t cheap. But he cuts corners, takes the easy way out. Every time. This is a last straw, hiring someone to complete a term paper for him.”

  “It’s not exactly like that, Mr. Lee,” Alex said, unsure why she was covering for Noah, since it was exactly like that. A part of her knew, without the excuse of the job, she’d pack it in. Even at her resolved best, Alex excelled at self-sabotage.

  “You’re not working for my son?”

  “No. Yes. But not like you think. Noah contacted me to help conduct interviews because of my, I guess, history.”

  Yoan studied her, and Alex felt victimized by the interrogation. Despite conflicts in ideology, there wasn’t much difference between detectives and journalists. Both possessed tunnel vision when it came to their version of the truth, and neither minded circumventing due process to get it.

  “I’m not writing his paper for him,” she said. “I’m a pretty lousy writer, if you want to know the truth. I’m a source. My history is part of the story.”

  “Making a subject part of the story is a gross violation of ethics. Noah, above all, should know better.”

  “Noah isn’t focusing on Parsons, just the Benny stuff.”

  Something changed in Yoan’s expression. It wasn’t understanding and it wasn’t disappointment.

  “Can I be honest with you, Alex?”

  What was she supposed to say to that?

  “My stepson, my son, Noah, has always had a morbid fascination with cases like this. The macabre. Serial killings. Murder. Sexual assault. Which would all be well and fine if there was an underlying quest for justice. But I’m sad to say he simply elicits enjoyment from the gruesome, the sensational. And right now that interest is counterproductive.”

  “Maybe not for Benny Brudzienski.”

  “You’re not telling me you think Benny is innocent?” Yoan looked like she’d just called the moon landing a hoax or said lizards ran the government.

  “I’m not saying that. I mean, I don’t know. There seems to be inconsistencies.”

  Yoan Lee smiled, an expression both comforting and patronizing. She could see why he excelled in his field. He commanded the discussion. Even when casting suspicion, Yoan projected endearing charms that made you want to tell him secrets.

  “I’m going to share something with you, Alex, something that I hope you’ll keep between us. This business with Benny—the decision about whether or not to bring formal charges—has further reaching ramifications than you know. It’s a landmark case. A battleground, if you will, being fought by the bureaucrats in Albany. He’s being used. Outside interests are lobbying for prison reform, at the cost of people who can least afford it. People like Benny.”

  “I’m trying to help Benny.”

  “Then let him get the treatment he needs. Galloway is not equipped to provide long-term care. Without formal charges and sentencing, a loophole is cast wide open, allowing men like our friend Ken Parsons to potentially go free.”

  “How does Benny Brudzienski’s case affect Ken Parsons?” The idea was ludicrous, laughable. Alex’s heart did summersaults inside her chest. “Those two have nothing to do with one another.”

  “Sorry. I don’t mean that literally. I’m only saying that in the future, resulting legislation could impact such cases.” Yoan Lee’s phone buzzed. He glanced down, lips pursed, then tucked the cell away, reaching for the handle. “It was nice talking to you, Alex. Please, if my son calls you again, do me a favor and tell him to do his own classwork, okay?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “You talked to my father?!”

  “He ambushed me in a parking lot.” Alex stood on the muddy banks of the river. Backlit by the bar, her towering figure threw shade across choppy waters.

  “Why did you tell him you were helping me?”

  “I didn’t tell him anything. He’s an investigator. It’s what he does.”

  “Do you know how much you fucked me?”

  “I backed your play. I said I was assisting with research. A source. That’s it.”

  “A technicality. You think my father cares?”

  The storm had passed, hunter’s moon high and bright, but stiff winds still gusted, angry waves slapping the pier. A chipping sparrow trilled in the distance.

  “Did you listen to my voicemail?”

  “I don’t give a fuck about a fucking farm. I wanted information about Benny.”

  “I know what you want.”

  “It doesn’t matter now, does it? My father is cutting me off. I sent you money. And you fucked me. You were supposed to get me quotes, something I could use for my assignment. I paid you. You fucked me. It’s been almost a week, and I don’t have shit.”

  “Relax. I’m giving you way more than you’re paying me for.”

  “You’re fucking me.”

  “Did you get my texts and email?”

  “I got all of it. Texts, emails,
voice messages. What do you think I can do with any of it? Why do I care what Wren Brudzienski does with the family farm? I needed to know why the cops suddenly think Benny Brudzienski is innocent. I don’t give a shit about property management.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “I paid you to find out why your boyfriend is itching to get the charges dropped. That was going to form the basis of my paper. That was my launching point. That was how I planned to get the Codornices to run the goddamn thing, the angle, hook, lead, what I was parlaying into a summer internship, a foothold in the industry, and now my plans are all shot to hell.”

  “Stop calling him my boyfriend. And that isn’t what’s happening. Riley isn’t trying to get charges dropped. He doesn’t want charges filed.”

  “Same difference!”

  “No. It’s not. Charges filed mean a trial, and if Benny is found guilty, he goes to Jacob’s Island. It’s a very violent place. Benny won’t get the help he needs.” Which contradicted what Yoan had said earlier, how a conviction netted better care.

  “Did Riley say that? Can I quote him?” Noah spat a nasty laugh. “I’m out.”

  “No. You’re not. You’re not quitting on this.”

  “Excuse me? Yes, I fucking am.”

  “Wren doesn’t care about his brother. He doesn’t want to be on the hook for restitution.” Alex didn’t know if Riley really thought Benny was innocent, but this overlap, preventing formal charges, at least explained why the two, Wren and Riley, would be working together.

  “None of that helps! This isn’t what I hired you for!”

  “You can do some work yourself, y’know? Your father is this hotshot reporter. You have his last name. Use his connections.”

  “I can’t! That’s the whole point! Why else would I have asked someone like you if I had access to his contacts? He wants me to make my own name, not ride his coattails. Even if I wanted to keep going with this, which I don’t—even if I could survive without his money, and I can’t—you think my father will give me his contacts now?”

  “Then work harder. Get creative.”

  “I. Don’t. Care. Alex, I paid you to do it, good money for this paper, this class. And it’s called Beats and Deadlines. Not Shady Real Estate Deals. I was very specific—”

  “You need to check out Ron Earl’s will. From what the doctor said, the farm only became profitable after Wren took over the reins—”

  “Are you not listening to me? I’m out! I don’t give a shit about Benny Brudzienski’s finances. I don’t give a shit about any farm. Quotes, copies of reports, evidence. About the Kira Shanks disappearance. The rest of this Nancy Drew crap, you’re doing on your own—with my money!” She heard Noah collecting himself on the other end of the line. “I want my money back.”

  “You have to think bigger.”

  “It’s a term paper. I don’t need bigger. I need a grade. I’ll be eating Top Ramen till winter break. Send me back my thousand bucks.”

  “Even if Benny did it, word on the street is, someone put him up to it. Which means someone else, every bit as guilty, is out there walking around.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I’ve seen Benny. I’ve looked into his eyes.”

  “Hold the presses! Alex Salerno has looked into Benny Brudzienski’s eyes!”

  “While you’ve been sitting on your ass, I’ve been busting mine, and I’m telling you, something isn’t adding up.”

  “And while I’m looking into some farm bullshit, what exactly are you doing?”

  “For one, I’m talking to Kira’s friends.”

  “Oh, that sounds real helpful. Going to get some pics, make a scrapbook?”

  “It’s called covering all your bases. Jesus, what do they teach you in school?”

  “This is bullshit.” Noah huffed, a bratty child’s response to not getting life handed to him in the order he wanted. “I’m going to have to beg my professor for an extension, and pray he lets me pick a new topic.”

  “Listen to me, Noah. You look into the farm. Find out whose name was on the life insurance. The exact beneficiaries. Was there escrow? A trust? How much money are we talking about? That material has to be filed with probate. The farm is a taxable business, income reportable. I’ll talk to Kira’s friends. Someone has to know something about the night she went missing. Someone has to have seen her at the motel. I need you to trust me, give me a few more—”

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “No, I don’t trust you, and, no, you can’t have a few more days. No, I am not pursuing this further. I want my money back.”

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “No, you can’t have your money back. Man, I spent it. How do you think I’m eating up here? Paying for a place to sleep?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You better care. Because we made a deal. And you still owe me another grand.”

  Noah mocked an exaggerated laugh. “You are crazy! If you think—”

  “You’re going to pay me. Every penny. Forget Daddy. You welch on me and I am going to the dean of your school and telling him that you paid me to do your work for you.”

  “That’s not true. I wanted—”

  “I know what you wanted. Me. To do your work. For you. Which violates about eighteen rules of journalism. And education. And life. I’ll tell the dean and you’ll get expelled. How do you think Daddy will feel about that?”

  “Like you know how higher education works. You went to college?”

  “You don’t have to go college to know what cheating is. Forget cheating, asking me for any help is a breach of ethics because I’m part of the story. Dumb fuck. So, yeah, you are going to pay me the rest. But here’s the thing. You paying attention?”

  Noah groaned. “I’m listening.”

  “Lucky for you, I take keeping my word seriously. I am going to earn this money and send you something you can use. You’re going to grow a pair and stand up to your father. You write the paper, put your name on it, call me an anonymous source, and call it a day. You get your grade, the story runs. I get paid. That’s our deal. But we’re also going to figure out what really happened, because nobody up here believes Benny acted on his own. And if Benny didn’t act on his own that means someone else got away with murder. And, Noah?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Try bailing on me again, and after I’m done with the school and Yoan, I’ll rat you out to every newspaper in the tristate area. You’ll be lucky to find a job writing copy for shopping flyers.”

  “Alex, hold on, wait—”

  Alex ended the call as Nick headed over.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Peachy.”

  Nick motioned back at the bar. “This is the third place we’ve checked out tonight. No one’s seen Cole for days. Tell me again why you want to speak with him so bad?”

  “Cole works, worked, at the same motel, had the same job Benny did. If Kira was killed at the motel, where’s the body? Someone had to help clean up that mess.”

  “Why would Cole help Benny cover up a crime? Besides, no one cleaned up anything. They found all the evidence in the room, right?”

  “Except a body.” Alex looked over the Mohawk, which drained into the Hudson, a river more than capable of selling secrets to the sea.

  “Maybe we should stake out his trailer? If the guy got fired, he isn’t out drinking.”

  “We tried that last night.”

  “Maybe he split town.” Nick glanced around the lot, hugging himself with a shiver. “Let’s piss or get off the pot. I’m freezing my balls off.”

  Alex was ready to take Nick’s suggestion, try the trailer park again or call it a night, start fresh tomorrow, when she saw the stooped-over figure sloughing toward the bar. Even without seeing his face, she knew who it was. She’d seen him before, that first afternoon at the Idlewild, the man with the big eyeglasses and bushy musta
che carrying the ladder around back.

  Cole Denning was not a small man, but the way he moved—back hunched, shoulders rounded forward—made him seem small. His body appeared in danger of caving in on itself.

  Alex slapped Nick on the elbow, pointing.

  As Cole crossed beneath the moth-eaten awning, he peered over his collar, squinting in their general direction. The porch-bulb reflected off his giant glasses, lighting up a weathered face.

  “How much older than us is he? Dude looks fifty.”

  Cole Denning ducked into the Jackal’s Den. After her night at Sweetwater, Alex wasn’t looking for more trouble. True, she had Nick with her this time. But she’d seen him fight. She considered waiting till Cole was done for the night, question him on his way out. Except she hadn’t known many affable drunks. They were quick to take things the wrong way, and people seldom walked out of a bar more sober than they walked in.

  “What’s it like inside?” Alex asked.

  “Alkie bar. Not much of a crowd, mostly old men slumped over shot glasses. Hard drinkers. Couple rough-looking bikers playing pool. Bartender didn’t look too friendly.”

  Alex started for the door.

  “Maybe we should catch him on the way out? If Cole’s got friends in there, they won’t like us getting nosy.”

  “Stop being a pussy, Nick.”

  She heard him fall in line behind her.

  The Jackal’s Den wasn’t much different than Sweetwater, either in layout or prevailing mood. Dank, desperate, dirty. With one glaring exception: no Uniondale students. Since being back, Alex hadn’t found a single bar immune to the college’s influence.

  Cole sat at the counter. Drawing nearer, they got a better look. To say Cole Denning wasn’t a handsome man shortchanged the ugly. An unruly yellow mustache overwhelmed his soft chin. A thick pair of glasses, the kind they make you wear when contacts aren’t an option, swallowed his eyes, relegating his irises to two tiny slits. He drank alone, nothing about the man inviting. Like sharp quills on a rodent, or the bright, blistery skin on a red hot pepper, nature’s way of saying to steer clear.