I greet Melanie in front and Joe in back; he’s in the small kitchen starting to make his usual brew. “Hey,” I say, plunking my Java beans down next to him. “Just in time. Want to try these?”
He admires them. “Great,” he smiles. “Thanks.”
“Thought maybe something different.” I pull off my slicker and toss it. Joe raises his eyebrows, seems surprised at my appearance.
“Red?” he says, pouring the clattering beans into his Cuisinart. “I thought you’d consigned yourself forever to wearing black.”
“And navy,” I correct him. “I dunno, I just felt like red today.”
“And lipstick! What brought on the change?” he says, flipping on the grinder before I can answer. The teeth-jarring rattle fills the small room. When it stops I repeat the same, that I just felt like a change. “Ah,” he smiles. “Great, that’s good.”
Something’s eating him.
The coffee takes a few minutes to brew as we chit chat, with me making most of the effort. By the time we taste it – “mm-mm,” Joe says – I decide that he definitely seems distant. Hurt about yesterday? What else? I recall the tension in my voice when he guessed about my trip uptown.
I search for something placating to say…and my phone chirps. I feel Joe watching me as I check the screen, excuse myself, and walk quickly back to the front.
I may also have turned the color of my sweater, because the caller is Peter.
“Hello?” I say neutrally, as if it’s nobody important. Mel looks up, bored from unpacking rolls of florist cellophane. She really hates this, wants to get back to her law books. Business is slow this early, so I move out onto the sidewalk.
“Did you make it home okay?” Peter asks.
“Yes,” I say, feeling my voice tremble a little; can’t help it. “Thanks again for the ice pack and for…”
“The tape.” His voice is somber.
“Yes, I’m still floored.” I walk slowly, hearing at his end phones dinging and men shouting. I picture him hunched with one ear covered.
“I’m sorry I passed out,” he says. “Woke up thinking of you getting home alone. That’s not right, a woman alone in the street.”
How many men these days talk like that? “I was okay. How’s your head?”
“Hurts.”
“Triple sec and you hadn’t slept in two days.” There’s a loneliness to his voice that I feel too; a yearning. I watch my feet walk. “You’ve helped me so much.”
“Ditto. I’ve been thinking about what you said.”
“Nick Jakes?”
“Yes. And that back stairway.”
I sidestep a FedEx guy and a woman walking her poodle. Tentatively I say, “Something else has come to me. Are you up for more?”
“Definitely.”
“Okay…when, exactly, did you separate and move out?”
“Middle of May,” Peter says without hesitating. “Stayed in hotels till I found the place on Charles.”
“And when did Nick move in?”
“Mid-June. The kids were depressed, Chrissy was overwhelmed and he announced he was going to run things.”
The sidewalk isn’t busy. Just dog walkers and a few people starting to shop. I watch my feet walk, take a breath, and plunge. “Darcy Lund was killed on June twenty-sixth.”
Silence, for moments. Then: “Out of the blue. I was stunned.”
I breathe faster. “Before you moved out, had there been some attempt at reconciliation?”
“Yes, didn’t last three days.”
“That whole month after you left, the gossip sites had you getting serious with Darcy.”
“I wasn’t.”
“But Page Six and the click-bait sites kept showing you with her.” I grip the phone. “So… reconciliation failed and Chrissy maybe cried her eyes out? And big brother maybe felt full of protective vengeance and had that great stairway and saw his chance…?”
Someone at the other end is calling to Peter. He answers tensely, saying wait a sec, then comes back to the phone. “Possible,” he exhales tiredly. “But it stops there. Just an awful possibility.”
I say nothing, feel my heart thud. Régine’s open doorway enters my vision. I turn, start back.
“My kids are coming tonight.” He sounds suddenly rushed, and the conversation shifts. “It’s Friday, I’ll be with them tomorrow but not Sunday. How are you at helping an almost-a-bachelor unpack? I hate it. Most of my stuff’s still in movers cartons.”
“I saw,” I say and smile. “You’ve been there since July and haven’t unpacked?”
“The minimum. A decorator did the bedrooms, some of the kitchen. I spent any free time on the garden. Can’t find anything.”
“No wonder you went back to Fifth that night.”
“Right. Mary’s still nice to me. Tucked me in like you did. Still helps at the new place.”
I close my eyes for a second. There’s a soft neediness in our small talk. “Your daughter’s doll is Mary too.”
I can feel him smile. “Abby,” he says. “Not named after the housekeeper…Mary’s the little girl in The Secret Garden. Abby loves it.”
“Me too.”
“She keeps it under her pillow.”
“That’s what I used to do.”
“You’re kindred spirit with my daughter.”
The someone previously calling to him is now practically whining, and he goes back to sounding rushed. “I’ll call Sunday morning. You up for planting bulbs too?”
“I’d love that,” I say, and breathe in. “Until then.”
I sense someone come up to me, and raise my eyes.
Joe, watching me.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he says blandly, pointing back over his shoulder. “We’ve got a rush on roses.”
I return with him to Mel, who’s hurrying white sweetheart roses into bouquets for a young woman who says her sister has suddenly decided to get married.
“Tonight! Spur of the moment!” The woman is thrilled and her hands wave as the three of us cut and wrap and tie little white bows. “So romantic! We have to decorate!”
Joe meanwhile overdoes his apologies about interrupting my call. “Must’ve been important,” he murmurs, handing me scissors. “You looked emotional.”
He was watching me? “Yeah, I got choked up.”
“How’d you get that slight abrasion on your cheek?”
“Scrubbing too hard.”
“You looked really emotional during that call.”
“It’s about Kim’s trial,” I tell him. “Alex is coming.”
37
He doesn’t arrive until noon. After three texts and a frantic phone call, Alex jumps from the firm’s black Lincoln griping about the traffic and his rapper client just arrested and his deposition moved to three o’clock.
“Still needs more prep,” he groans, following me inside. Joe has volunteered to go out for sandwiches so we can talk. We have his office to ourselves, and take the two chairs facing his desk. Only then does Alex frown; give me a double take.
“What’s wrong?”
I know I look awful because I’ve been crying. Didn’t listen to Peter’s warning last night, couldn’t stop myself from watching the tape after all. I had to; I owed it to Kim, it would be my only chance before handing it off. In a sickening swoon I still see her weeping, begging for her life, plunging…
Jerkily, I hand Alex the small manila envelope. “I watched in the john. Saw it all.”
He frowns from me to the envelope. “That bad?”
“Horrible. It shows Moore pushing her, then screaming at his house guy see what you made me do? It’s right there - his own verbal admission that he did it. Picture the jury hearing that.” My face works. I lean my elbow on the chair arm and fight tears. “He’s done.”
Alex’s jaw drops. This horrific, extraordinary tape just fell into his lap – and not from his effort. Practicing law never gets this easy.
“Awful you had to see that,” he murmurs absently, with hi
s fingers all over the small envelope, itching to open it.
My palm goes up.
“Wait till you get back, I can’t hear those voices again.” I take a shaky breath, but I’m firm. “Be sure your door is closed. Tell no one. Moore has guns and he’s insane. There are innocent people he’ll go after if he feels screwed.”
Alex scowls, torn between rapture and frustration. “We got a subpoena for Moore’s surveillance. It showed nada. Zip.”
“When was your subpoena?”
“Ten days later.”
My disgust shows. The tape they saw was obviously switched or altered; just edit out a few seconds of tragedy. A sharper lawyer would have gotten a subpoena fast, had it scrutinized by an expert before the M.E. could rule Kim an accident.
Alex knows we’re thinking the same thing. He’s embarrassed, scrubs his hand over his mouth…then his features seem to decide that he’s thrilled after all. The case just got more huge, big as O.J.! I can see the wheels in his head turning.
“So who gave this to you?” he says almost enviously, minding that someone obviously has more connections.
“A friend,” I hedge.
“Well somebody got paid off,” he presses excitedly. I see his urge to gossip kick in. “The only person with money that big is-”
“Don’t go there-”
“Peter Greer. His people tell my people-”
“Stop.” My sorrow turns to annoyance. What happened to his big hurry? His arrested rapper and his looming deposition? “Lots of people hate Moore,” I improvise lamely. “There’d been damage; carpenters brought in, designer types ripping out wires. Kim’s fall smashed that Foo dog into the wall.”
“Did I hear the name Greer?” we hear from the doorway, and turn. Joe stands there holding a bulging deli bag. Damn, he said he’d stay out longer.
“Not really,” I say tightly, getting to my feet. “Alex was just playing a guessing game and leaving.”
“Aw, no glamor.” Joe comes to put his bag on his desk. “Greer’s name just seems to keep popping up around here.” He shakes with Alex, noticing the manila envelope in his left hand.
“Is that it?” he asks me. “The help Greer was going to give you?”
Alex looks at me.
“I hope so,” Joe adds, sitting, pulling out napkins, sandwiches. “Hope that trip to his apartment made it worthwhile. I got you turkey, Ava, your favorite.”
Alex’s eyes say, You went to his apartment?
Ambush. Joe’s been miffed since yesterday and I’m angry, just furious to be forced into feeling defensive.
Gritting my teeth, I go to the doorway.
“I visited his wife,” I explain to Alex because he didn’t know. “She’s a depressed shut-in. Greer moved out weeks ago.”
Joe, busy with napkin-wrapped plastic silverware, adds cheerily, “He offered help with Kim’s case if Ava paid his ex a visit – wasn’t that nice?”
“He feels sorry for her,” I protest, turning for a quick peek out to the front.
Joe’s hands still, and he looks up regretfully. “Alex?” he says slowly. “I have no business butting in but I’m going to chance it because I think we need an intervention here. I’m worried because I care. Greer helping sounds to me more like manipulation; he wants Ava ready to say nice things about him - but hey, if it works, that’s good, I guess.” His gaze shifts to me. “I’m sorry, Ava. I had to get it off my chest.”
Intervention? Double ambush. My emotions rage and I glare at both of them; turn again in the doorway, squint through the store to the front.
“Your car’s back,” I tell Alex, feeling strangled. “He must have circled the block five times.”
“Four.” He glances out, too. Then he looks back with his face all lawyer-mask, cautious about saying more. “Okay, I gotta jet,” he tries to say casually. “Thanks, Joe, don’t worry.”
He dogs me nervously to the front.
The black Lincoln is double-parked, partially blocking traffic. The driver in front sits patiently, a silhouette behind tinted glass.
Alex greets Melanie absently, and nudges me feet away. Sees me glaring at him like a defensive storm cloud.
“This could backfire,” he says low, sliding the manila envelope into his breast pocket. “Joe’s right, stay away from Greer.”
I’m hurting bad, still hearing Manipulation! He wants Ava to say nice things about him!
“If I’d stayed away,” I say bitterly, “you wouldn’t have this slam-dunk career maker and I wouldn’t have justice for Kim.”
Alex lowers his voice further. His hazel eyes are intense and bore into me. “Want to hear the awful truth? This could worse than backfire…it could be a trap. Greer’s side could be gearing up to use you. You’ve been to his apartment-”
“His wife’s,” I practically hiss, hoping Alex doesn’t guess more.
“Same thing!” he whispers. “You could be portrayed as ingratiating yourself. Don’t look at me like that, hear me out.”
He’s aware of Mel watching us; puts his hand on my arm and nudges me closer to the curb.
“With your history you’re perfect for Greer’s case,” he says urgently. “His lying SOB lawyers could posit that maybe you’re crazy and had, like, a crush on him. They could say you were stalking him and followed, saw them fighting, saw your chance to have him for yourself and came back later…to kill.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. “Jesus.”
Alex’s palms fly up. “It’s what lawyers do. They distort, smear, make up crap to help their side.”
I can’t breathe.
Stalking? Implications of coming back to kill? This on the heels of seeing my sister thrown to her death…? I feel sick, dizzy; grab the back of a parked car to steady myself. Alex is talking too fast and my mind can’t believe what it’s hearing.
Mel leaves the counter and approaches us. “Knock it off, Alex.”
He ignores her, raises his finger to me. “Just don’t, whatever you do, go back to his apartment. Once is enough - at least it was just his wife’s…”
My eyes slide away as it dawns on him. His mouth drops open. His gaze is stunned.
“Waitaminnit. If Greer wasn’t there when you visited his wife - when could he have given you…?”
He touches his breast pocket, realizing. “Oh Christ, there was a second visit? He’s left Fifth so you went to his place down here? Please say you didn’t go to Greer’s place.”
I see that Mel has heard. Anger surges.
“So what if I did?” I look him in the eye, biting out each word between clenched teeth. “My business, and I don’t care if sleazy lawyers make up garbage – where does it get them? A mountain of circumstantial?” My hand shakes as I point to the street. “Your car’s waiting.”
“Yeah,” Mel tells him, stepping closer. “Go sue people.”
Alex throws up his hands, looking aghast but also harried because he has to rush to other chaos.
“I’m sorry, but please listen,” he whispers. His hands go to my shoulders, turn me away so Mel can’t hear. “Greer’s lawyers calling you nuts and worse is not going to help Kim’s case.”
“You’re paranoid,” I say.
“No, I’m a lawyer!” His eyes practically bulge and he presses his lips tight, shakes his head. “Be careful, Ava, please, for God’s sake.”
He moves to the car and opens the door; slides into the back and looks dourly back to me.
“I’ll call after I check this out,” he says with tight, careful vagueness, patting his pocket.
“Good!” I snap. “Keep copies in separate places in case your building burns down.”
Mel thinks that’s funny.
Alex looks at her pleadingly. “You’re not helping. Please tell her to listen to her lawyer?”
“We’ll talk,” she says dismissively, her features promising nothing.
He looks back to me. “Especially avoid Greer,” he says. “Joe’s right; don’t get pulled into a whole new” - his
hand gestures – “awfulness.”
“I’ll try,” I say stiffly.
“Try harder!”
The driver starts the ignition, and Alex pulls his door closed. Through the tinted window I see him waste not a second to dive scowling into his phone. He must have a dozen calls waiting, is already arguing with someone as the car moves into traffic.
I turn away with Mel, back to the flowers.
38
Everyone telling me what to do. How to feel….
There’s an old folding chair behind the counter and I fall into it, lay my brow on my hand. Mel tends quickly to customers who have been waiting: a woman wanting carnations and a man wanting a fall bouquet. When they leave she leans conspiratorially down to me.
“Greer, huh?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That slight abrasion on your cheek,” she grins and leers. “I know stubble-scrape when I see it - ooh, you’ve been with him.”
“Stop.”
“He’s gorgeous. And didn’t I say I don’t for a second believe he’s a bad guy? Well, good for you. Ooh, I’m trying to picture him shirtless. Describe, please.”
My head hurts so much, and my heart. I keep hearing Manipulation! His lawyers could say you were stalking. What if Joe and Alex are right? If only I hadn’t watched Kim’s tape. I was devastated before Alex came. I can’t think.
“…his fabulous place,” Mel is saying. “Did you see much of it?”
It takes a second.
“What?” I blink; tune her back in.
“His place!” Mel is still leering. “Isn’t that parlor something? All that mahogany, cupids carved into the mantle.”
“How do you know?”
“Joe and I delivered the palms by the front windows. I was disappointed he wasn’t there, I’d been gasping just to stand near him.”
Girl Watching You Page 16