Remembering Sarah

by Chris Mooney

  “Finding Sarah’s jacket is supposed to mean something, Ed. I’ve waited five years. I’ve done my time. You try walking around with all these weights piled high on your chest, see how long you can go.”

  “Sully.”

  Mike pulled the phone away from his ear, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, Sarah still there in his chest, telling him to keep fighting.

  “Sully,” Slow Ed said, his voice a bit softer but still clearly pissed.

  “What?”

  “Just tell me where you were last night, and don’t bullshit me, okay?”

  And then Mike felt that need to fight for Sarah dry up.

  “My dog’s at Bill’s house,” he said. “His kids have been watching him for a few days. I had dog food in the truck so I swung by his house and ended up staying the night.”

  “What time you get in?”

  “Around eleven-thirty. Bill saw me come in. He was up with one of the twins.”

  “Good,” Slow Ed said. “The other bodyguard said Bresler went outside for a smoke at one. This is good. Bill know you talked to me?”

  “I gave you my word on that, remember?”

  “Hold on a sec.”

  Mike heard mumbling and then Slow Ed came back on the line, his voice a drawn out, heavy sigh. “Where you at right now?”

  “On my way back to Belham.”

  “Meet me at Highland Auto Body. You can park your truck there, and I’ll take you in and you can give your statement.”

  “I just told you where I was last night.”

  “I know, but word just came down. The bodyguard died. We’re dealing with a homicide, and right now you’re the prime suspect.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The name Samantha Ellis would forever take him back to the kind of lazy days spent on the beach where the only cares you had were making sure your beer was cold and whether or not you liked the music pumping from the speakers. Mike wouldn’t have met Sam at all if Jess hadn’t decided to spend the summer after her freshman year working in Newport, Rhode Island, with her roommate and new best friend, Cassy Black; Jess wanting to see other people, to find out if what they had between them was real and meant to be and not the mutually shared neediness of two teenagers afraid of adjusting to life after high school.

  In a weird way, he’d felt relieved. True, he had grown to love the predictable rhythm of their relationship: driving an hour north every Friday night to spend the weekend with Jess at UNH and hanging out with old friends from high school, guys like John “Bam-Bam” Bamford. Bam was riding a full boat scholarship for football, and his coach had hooked him up with a sweet summer job working as a house painter, only the guy who owned the business needed more hands. Did Bam know anyone who was interested?

  Every Saturday morning, they’d drag their hangovers north to get agood spot at Hampton Beach, home of the neon bikini and Lee Press-On nails, and hang out with a group of girls working as bartenders and waitresses—the Aqua Net Chicks, Bill called them. Fun, bubblegum-smacking gigglers with teased hair who wore lots of gold—chains, bracelets, anklets, rings, you name it—and liked to rock out to the king of the hair bands, Bon Jovi.

  Except Samantha Ellis. Sam, as she liked to be called, wore her brown hair straight, tied back in a ponytail, and unlike the other girls, Sam didn’t feel the need to show off every inch of her skin. She read books by Hemingway and Faulkner and drank Tanqueray and tonic while her friends read Cosmo and Glamour and did shots with names like Screaming Orgasm and Titty Twister. The other girls tolerated her when she was around, but the second she left, they tore into her. Just because she’s been to places like France and Italy and goes to Smith she thinks she’s better than everyone else. I don’t even know why she’s up here working—her parents have a home on Martha’s Vineyard, you know. A girl from Saugus called Sam “that stuck-up Jew from Newton.”

  It wasn’t dislike; it was discomfort. Sam didn’t have to put on makeup or buy fancy clothes to look good because she always looked good. She didn’t have to struggle to make herself interesting because she was interesting. Having Sam around was a reminder of their limitations. They envied her. The only shot they’d have at Sam’s future life was to marry up. Sam could afford to be choosy.

  On the last Saturday in July, a storm swept through and roughed up the waves. Mike went bodysurfing and an hour later stumbled back up to his blanket and saw everyone playing volleyball—everyone except Sam. She sat in her beach chair, sipping a Coke as she alternated her attention between the sunset and the volleyball game. One of the girls screamed. Bill had dropped his shorts and was mooning her.

  “You should tell your friend to try Clearasil,” Sam said. “Clear that problem right up.”

  “I don’t think he cares.”

  “And that’s what I love about him.” Sam cocked her head to him, squinting in the remaining sunlight. “How come you’re not playing?”

  “Surf ’s too good to waste. What about you? Afraid of getting mooned?”

  “My mother told me to never waste the opportunity to watch a sunset. You never know when it’s going to be your last.”

  “You sure you’re not Irish Catholic?”

  Sam laughed. Mike loved the contagious sound of it, the way it moved through him. A thought flooded his mind and turned his mouth dry, made his heart beat a little faster.

  No way, a voice warned. Not in a million years.

  But it was summer. He was having fun and hey, the mood felt right, so why not?

  “Sunset’s better down by the shore,” he said. “Want to go for a walk?”

  “Sure.”

  She lived in Newton, a city he had always associated with money and status. Both of her parents were Harvard-educated lawyers and worked at the same law office in downtown Boston. Her father had arranged a clerking job. An internship at a law office would look good on a resume, her father said.

  “So what brings you up here?” She did seem more suited for a place like the Vineyard.

  “Because my father would never be caught dead in a place like this. What about you?”

  The one thing he knew about himself was that he wasn’t good at pretending. So he told her.

  Come September, he was going to drop out of community college and start a contracting business with none other than the pimple-assed William O’Malley. Mike liked working with his hands. It was a skill that had provided Bill’s father, a guy with no college diploma, with a good house, his pick of trucks and every three years a brand new Ski-Doo snowmobile. What was the point of taking out loans to attend classes that, when you got right down to it, added up to nothing more than an expensive hand job that left you feeling unsatisfied and totally ripped off?

  “Congratulations,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For being real. For being eighteen and knowing who you are and being so sure about what you want to do with your life and having the balls to go after it. Most people spend their whole lives pretending to like a job they hate. You should feel relieved.”

  They slept together three weeks later. Years would pass, and yet Mike would always be able to recall the way Sam looked as she took off her clothes, the curtains swelling around her; the cool air filled with the smell of fried seafood wafting up from the restaurant below; the electric touch that made his skin quiver; the way she stared into his eyes in that final, heart-twisting moment, Mike knowing that she was sharing more than just her skin.

  It should never have ended, but it did, during the last week of summer. Jess had come home from Newport in tears, saying that she had made a mistake and wanted to get back together. He said yes.

  He waited until Sam went off to college before he told her it was over. He did it over the phone, and when she asked why, he said he was getting back together with Jess. Sam didn’t buy it. When she kept pressing him, he started dodging her phone calls. Maybe he was afraid of acknowledging the truth: that his shared history with Jess was comfortable and familiar and predictable. Besides, how realis
tic was it to hope that someone like Sam would stick around for the long haul with a blue-collar guy without a degree? He was going back to life in Belham, and Sam, well, she could go anywhere she wanted.

  On an early Sunday morning, right before six, Mike woke up to Sam banging on the front door. He begged Lou not to open it.

  “It’s a big deal when you give over a piece of your heart, Michael. If you’re going to shit all over it, then at least have the guts to look me in the eyes and tell me why.”

  Sam waited for ten minutes and then jumped back in her Jeep and peeled off down the street.

  “Must have been one hell of a ride in the sack,” Lou said with a grin. “The ones full of piss and vinegar usually are.”

  · · ·

  “Mr. Sullivan?”

  The slightly feminine voice belonged to a pencil-thin, twentysome-thing man wearing black pants and a black shirt. His skin was deeply tanned, and although Mike was certainly no expert in such matters, he was pretty sure the guy had his eyebrows plucked or shaped. He had certainly done something to them.

  “Hello,” he said, extending his hand. His handshake was about as firm as wet toilet paper. “I’m Sam’s assistant, Anthony. Sorry to keep you waiting, but it’s been like, so incredibly hectic in here today. Follow me.”

  Mike followed Anthony as he navigated his way through hallways packed with suits and skirts. Some looked up from their law books and shot a look of mild curiosity at his clothes. Mike had been driving back from the jobsite when the idea hit him. He remembered the first two names in the law office, and the patient lady from Verizon had filled in the rest.

  Sam stood in the archway of her door and still looked every inch of the smart, confident girl he had fallen in love with that summer in New Hampshire.

  Bill was right. She looked good. Damn good.

  “Michael Sullivan,” she said. “What’s it been? Fifteen years?”

  “Something like that. Thanks for squeezing me in on such short notice, Sam.”

  Anthony said, “ Mr. Sullivan, what can I get you to drink? We have Pellegrino—”

  “Coffee’s fine,” Sam said. “Come on in, Sully.”

  Sam’s office was roughly the size of his TV room. Cherry bookcases ran the length of one wall, but the most impressive piece of furniture was the desk—or the desk and a half. It was as long as the bed of his truck and held a computer, printer and fax machine and still had plenty of room left over for all her papers and books.

  “Wow,” Mike said. “You even have your own private bathroom.”

  “With a shower. This is what you get in exchange for working ninety-hour weeks and having no social life.”

  Sam sat down behind her desk. Mike took a seat in one of the two cushy black leather chairs arranged in front of her desk. Anthony came waltzing back in with a tray holding two china cups and a decanter full of coffee. He placed the tray down on the corner of the desk and asked if there was anything else she needed. Sam said no, thanked him, and told him to go home. Anthony bid them adieu and shut the door behind him.

  Sam put on a pair of tortoise-framed glasses and, coffee cup in hand, settled back in her chair. “I’m assuming this isn’t a social call.”

  “I wish it was. I take it you’ve been following the news.”

  Sam nodded, her face growing softer. “Bill told me what happened when I bumped into him,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “My daughter’s jacket has been at the lab for two weeks. Every time I try and talk to the detective running the case, this guy Merrick, he keeps stalling me.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t have the results back yet.”

  “He’s sitting on them.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “Someone working close to the case told me. My question is—why I came to see you—can he legally do that? I mean, if Merrick knows something, he just couldn’t keep it from me, right?”

  “First off, I’m not a criminal attorney. I do mainly contract work. Mergers and acquisitions—don’t worry, I won’t bore you with the details. What I can tell you is that Merrick is under no legal obligation to share anything with you. I know that sounds cold, but homicide detectives are, by and large, a cold bunch. That being said, they’re not heartless, so I would think Merrick would want to keep you up-to-date with the progress of the case—unless he has a legitimate reason not to.”

  His run-in with Jonah was being rehashed all over the papers and TV.

  “Merrick thinks I may go after Jonah again,” Mike said.

  “It’s a legitimate cause for concern on his part. If I had to guess, I’d say that he’s afraid you’re going to blow his case and, frankly, closing the case is all he cares about.”

  “If that’s true, then he should have Jonah behind bars.”

  Sam nodded sympathetically.

  Mike held up a hand. “Sorry, I’m not trying to unload this on you.”

  “Your frustration is perfectly understandable.”

  “Sam, do you know if there’s any way to find out what’s in the lab report?”

  “You’d have to talk with a criminal attorney. What about the one who handled your criminal case?”

  “He died about a year ago.”

  Sam thought about it for a moment. “We have a criminal attorney here named Martin Weinstein. He’s the best in the state. He’s on vacation, but I believe he’ll be in toward the later part of next week. I can give him a call then.”

  More waiting. Mike could manage the sleepless nights, dragging his exhaustion like shackles with him throughout the day along with his growing need to drink, but the waiting was maddening. People like Merrick and Sam weren’t holding onto threads. They did their jobs and clocked out, left for their other lives, their real lives.

  Sam said, “Mind if I ask a personal question?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Why me?”

  “You mean why did I come to see you?”

  Sam nodded. “Surely you must know other lawyers.”

  “Actually I don’t. You’re the only lawyer I know. And the ones I’ve met over the years are generally full of shit.”

  “It’s a job requirement.”

  “Not with you. You never pulled any punches.”

  “You could have told Anthony what you wanted on the phone,” Sam said. “I could have called you back.”

  “I wanted to talk to a face, not a phone. And honestly, I can’t stand all this waiting. Bill mentioned he saw you, mentioned your firm, and I decided to give you a call, figuring that if there was a lawyer out there that could help me, it would be you.”

  Sam nodded, fixed him with a cool gaze. “I have Martin’s cell phone, but I can’t promise anything. Where can I reach you?”

  Mike placed the coffee cup and saucer on the edge of her desk and then removed a business card from his wallet. He wrote his home number on the back and handed the card to her.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “You won’t be thanking me when Martin sends you his bill.”

  She walked him to the door, opened it for him.

  “Bill also told me about you and your wife,” she said. “I’ve been through it myself. It’s rough in the beginning, but then it gets better. Dating is certainly more interesting this time around. Two months ago, a guy flew me to Europe on his private plane.”

  “That must have been nice.”

  “He flew me there to see a David Hasselhoff concert.”

  “That’s not so nice.”

  “More like yuck. Hang in there, Sully.” Sam smiled and patted his arm.

  Ten minutes later, when he started his truck, he could still feel the touch of her hand. Fifteen years, he thought. Maybe it wasn’t possible to go back in time, but it certainly was possible to go back and revisit those moments you once held close to your heart.

  CHAPTER 20

  Fang suffered from a major case of colitis, so when Mike heard that high-pitched yelp, he threw back the covers and, dressed only in a pair of
boxers, rushed through the semi-dark house and found the dog whimpering in the family room, his nose practically pressed against the sliding glass door.

  Mike opened the door and Fang ran down the porch steps, disappearing into the thick, white mist that hung in the predawn light. Mike yawned, listening as Fang moved across the backyard, sniffing the grass as he searched for the perfect spot to relieve himself. Didn’t matter how badly they had to go, dogs still had to search for that perfect spot—

  Fang barked, a loud, deep rumbling sound that ripped through the quiet morning, and before Mike could call him home, the dog bolted into the woods.

  Mike rushed upstairs, threw on jeans, sneakers and the flannel shirt he had worn last night, and then headed out through the screen door and ran up the trail that led into the woods. Somewhere in the mist he could hear Fang’s barking, branches snapping back as he ran.

  The trail opened up to a main road made of packed dirt that would later be nothing but mud. This wooded area was the last remaining section of undeveloped land in Belham, part of a nature conservatory or something, and during winter weekends, Salmon Brook Pond was crawling with small kids learning to skate, teenagers organizing hockey games, adults getting together, talking and catching up. Mike banged a left and jogged up the road, the mist thick and Fang’s barking loud enough to wake up half the neighborhood. It had probably woken up his neighbor, Bob Dowery, a retired airline pilot who had annointed himself the neighborhood watchdog. Mike knew for sure that Bob would pop over later wearing that humdrum look of bad news on his face just before he launched into a lecture on how to be a responsible dog owner.

  The barking stopped. Mike slowed to a walk, and a few minutes later spotted Fang’s tail wagging back and forth in that windshield-wiper caught-in-a-storm way that let the world know he was in doggy ecstasy. A man was lying on his stomach on the edge of a steep slope. It had to be a man. A woman wouldn’t wear a Navy peacoat and a bright orange hunter’s cap that fastened around the ears.