by Jason Starr
The bar was small – three stools. A scraggly, depressed-looking guy sat in one of them, nursing a pint, staring at the small TV propped up in the corner, showing a hockey game. The young bartender, a thin guy with a long, dark hipster beard, came over to me and said, ‘What can I get ya?’
‘Rum and Diet Coke.’
My old favorite drink. I hadn’t ordered one in years, but saying those words felt natural, like I’d never stopped.
As I watched the bartender prepare the drink, I felt like I could smell the rum. We alcoholics have a natural way of picking up on the scent of booze, but from about ten feet away? And I could already taste the first sip, the alcohol seemingly going from my tongue to my brain in an instant. Then that rush of relaxation and relief would hit. Ahhh. Drinking was such an escape that just thinking about drinking felt like an instant vacation from reality. Why had I quit anyway? To save my marriage? Yeah, like that had helped. Marriage – in quotes. Maybe if I’d kept drinking I wouldn’t have had as much conflict with Maria the past several years. I would’ve had an outlet for my anxiety and could’ve stayed pleasantly drunk.
The bartender put the drink down in front of me, then said, ‘Nine dollars. Start a tab?’
Jonah was the first one I’d apologized to when I went into AA. Although he’d only been two years old at the time, I’d knelt by his crib and told him how sorry I was, and that I hoped he’d forgive me someday.
Now I was about to have another reason to apologize.
‘Sir? Did you want a tab or not?’
I’d been staring at the drink, mesmerized.
‘I’ll pay it out,’ I said.
I put a ten down and left the drink on the bar, untouched.
I rushed out of the bar, like I was trying to get away from a grenade. I didn’t feel like I was safe until I was about three or four blocks away.
On the podium at AA meetings I’ve told people that sometimes in order to change your life you have to bet on yourself. That’s what I had to do now. I’d had a moment of weakness, but I’d been smart enough to see the devil in disguise. Now the ridiculousness of Barasco harassing me had to end, and Lawrence Ward had to be arrested. Why was it taking so long? Was Freemont right? Did Barasco have some evidence he was planning to use against me?
I wanted to see Jonah; that’s all I cared about. I wanted to hug him, and laugh with him, and play our leaf catching game, and teach him how to play guitar.
To hell with waiting for the cops to find the killer.
It was time to get my life back.
14
A few years ago, in an AA meeting at St. Monica’s Church on the Upper East Side, I’d sponsored an ex-cop named Anthony Sorrentino. A narcotics addiction had gotten Anthony kicked off the force and his life spiraled. He started dealing, got busted, did six years at Sing Sing. In jail, he found God and got clean, but unlike a lot of addicts, he stayed clean when he got out. In AA we hit it off – well, at first. He asked me to be his sponsor and I helped him through a couple of crises, but he had a complicated personality. Our falling-outs always happened suddenly, for seemingly no reason. We’d be buddy-buddy one day, meeting for coffee and talking about life, and then the next time I saw him he wouldn’t talk to me or even make eye contact. When I probed to find out what was wrong, he’d either snap, cursing me out, or ignore me – depending on his mood. Then, after some time went by, he’d come up to me at a meeting and give me a hug, like I was his best friend in the world. We all have our demons, I guess, but Anthony’s were worse than most.
I wasn’t sponsoring Anthony anymore and hadn’t seen him in several months. I had no idea how he felt about me lately – if he considered me a friend or foe, but I’d heard, through the AA grapevine, that he was working as a PI While it was unusual to ask an ex-sponsoree for help, I couldn’t think of a better option.
I walked along Hester Street, where it was a little quieter, and called Anthony from my cell. I got a busy signal. I remembered that he had a landline with no call waiting. I tried a few more times, and finally got through.
‘Hey, Anthony,’ I said. ‘It’s Jack. Jack Harper.’
Either by his experience as a cop or as a recovering addict, he must’ve recognized the desperation in my tone.
‘I know who it is, you’re on my caller ID. What’s wrong, Jack?’
‘I need your help,’ I said.
Must’ve caught him on a good day because he said, ‘So what’re you waiting for? Get your fuckin’ ass over here.’
* * *
Anthony lived in Long Island City in Queens, just one subway stop out of Manhattan, about a half-hour ride from Chinatown. I’d been to his place several times before, usually when he was in the midst of a crisis and needed my help. Now the roles had reversed. I didn’t feel shame, knowing that, as a fellow addict, he’d understand how quickly fortunes could change.
Over the past several years, a lot of construction had taken place in Long Island City. I barely recognized some streets and it seemed as if at least a few new buildings had gone up on every block. Years ago, when Maria was pregnant with Jonah and we still had a decent amount of money in savings, we’d considered buying an apartment here. Would things have been different if we’d moved out here? We could have found a cheap one-bedroom apartment, fixed it up, and, as the real estate market picked up, flipped it, maybe cleared a hundred grand. We could have used the hundred K as a down payment on a bigger place, a real two-bedroom. Or maybe we could have flipped a second apartment and then gotten the bigger place. Flipping apartments sometimes isn’t easy, but with my real estate savvy we could’ve pulled it off. Maria had been against the move then – she didn’t want to move out of Manhattan, and we wound up staying. Living in a small space for years had definitely had an adverse effect on our marriage. The financial pressure had weighed on us too. In an alternate universe, Jack and Maria may have fought less, had less resentment toward each other, stayed closer, continued having sex. One decision, like moving to Queens, may have changed everything.
Anthony lived in one of the few older buildings in the neighborhood that hadn’t been demolished, although it probably should have been. It was a narrow, semi-dilapidated five-story tenement, sandwiched between two new buildings under construction. Obviously, the owner of Anthony’s building hadn’t been willing to sell to the developers.
I rang Anthony’s apartment and, without talking to me on the intercom, he buzzed me up. The building didn’t look any better on the inside. As I headed up the stairs, I saw mouse droppings, and on a landing, a water bug scampered by.
On the fourth floor, Anthony was waiting in the hallway in front of his apartment. He was in gray sweatpants and a wife beater. He seemed heavier than the last time I’d seen him; he must’ve put on at least fifteen or twenty pounds, mainly around the stomach.
‘Hey.’ He gave me a big hug. Yep, I’d definitely caught him on a good day.
‘Thanks for letting me come by,’ I said,
‘Hey, anything for you, buddy. You know that.’
Remembering all the times Anthony – in an opposite mood – had treated me like total dog shit, I said, ‘Yeah, of course I know that.’
I followed him into the apartment. It was a very small, maybe four hundred square-foot one-bedroom with a separate kitchen and a counter/breakfast bar. Unlike other times I’d been here when the apartment was in disarray with dirty dishes piled on the table and counter, and laundry and newspapers strewn everywhere, this time it was clean and well organized. The simple square table had nothing on it except a branch of lucky bamboo in a narrow vase.
‘I want to hear everything,’ Anthony said. ‘Coffee?’
He gestured toward the Keurig machine.
‘Sure,’ I said.
‘I don’t have decaf, caffeinated cool?’
‘Always,’ I said.
As he went in the kitchen to make the c
offees, he said, ‘Have a seat, make yourself at home.’
I remained standing.
‘Thanks again for having me over,’ I said.
‘You look like shit.’
I wasn’t offended. Anthony had a directness I appreciated.
‘Feel like shit too, man,’ I said.
He must’ve picked up on the shakiness in my tone. He said, ‘So, talk to me. What’s going on, Jack?’
Struggling not to cry, I said, ‘I almost had a drink.’
‘Happens,’ he said. ‘But you didn’t, that’s the important thing. You talked yourself out of it.’
‘Barely,’ I said.
A tear reached my upper lip. Anthony didn’t offer me a tissue or say, I’m sorry, or some bullshit cliché like that. I appreciated that. I didn’t want sympathy, or assurance that everything would be okay. I wanted help.
After taking maybe a minute to compose myself, I explained to him how I’d met Sophie online, leading up to how I’d discovered her body. I was open and honest about everything that had taken place – including all of my bad decision-making – knowing that, as a fellow addict, he would accept my behavior and wouldn’t judge it.
When I told him about the aggressive questioning from Barasco, he cut me off.
‘I knew Nick Barasco back in the day.’ Anthony sounded bitter. ‘I’m not surprised he’s been dicking you around. He used to walk around like he thought he’d be police chief someday, but the guy’s not even a good detective.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m glad I’m not the only one who feels that way about him. I was starting to feel like I was going crazy.’
Anthony had served the coffee and was sitting across from me at the kitchen table.
‘So what’s going on now?’ he asked.
In a matter-of-fact tone, I summarized the rest, including how Maria had locked me out of my apartment and how I’d had to spend a night in jail. I didn’t feel any shame in telling Anthony about this, especially since he was an ex-con.
When I was through, as I’d expected, he seemed unfazed. He said, ‘Well, if you need to shower, or want to spend the night here, mi sofa, tu sofa.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I appreciate that, man.’
‘But first, I need you to look me in the eye,’ he said.
I looked at him.
‘Did you do it?’ he asked
‘No,’ I said.
‘Your eyes shifted when you said “no”.’
I didn’t realize they had.
Making sure I was staring right at him, not blinking at all, I said, ‘No, of course I didn’t. Come on.’
‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘I know a thing or two about criminals and you’re not a criminal.’
‘I wish Nick Barasco thought like you.’
‘Putting my police cap on, maybe he thinks you know something, or you’re protecting somebody,’ Anthony said. ‘I’m just spit balling, of course, ’cause I don’t know the details. But it sounds like he’s using the pressure techniques you gotta use these days. You can’t take a witness into a back room anymore and slap him around, or stick a broomstick up his ass anymore. So what can you do instead? Threaten the witness with evidence you might or might not have.’
‘There’s no evidence because I didn’t do anything,’ I said.
‘You gave her CPR,’ he said. ‘That puts your DNA at the scene. Also you met her online, so that has shady connotations built into it, if you know what I mean.’
‘Her husband killed her,’ I said, ‘I’m positive.’
‘Well, you know they’re checking the husband out thoroughly, ’cause that’s what they always do when a married woman is killed. But you said he has an alibi, right?’
‘That’s what Barasco said.’
‘You think he’s bullshitting?’
‘Maybe. The thing I don’t get – if he doesn’t have an alibi why wouldn’t they just arrest him?’
‘Good question,’ Anthony said. ‘Well, either it’s true and he does have some kind of solid alibi, or they think the alibi has holes in it. Maybe Barasco thinks if he pressures you enough you’ll give something up, something they need to make their case more solid. My point is it’s always a waste of time to try to get in the head of detectives in these situations because you never know what the real MO is. That’s why lawyers always tell their clients to keep their mouths shut.’
‘I know I need a better lawyer,’ I said, ‘but I obviously can’t afford one. That’s why I thought that maybe –’
‘Of course I’ll help you,’ Anthony said. ‘You even need to ask?’
‘Really?’ I was surprised. The way things had been going for me lately, I’d expected him to tell me he was too busy, or there was nothing he could do to help me.
‘After everything you’ve done for me?’ he said. ‘If it wasn’t for you, I’d probably be back inside right now, or maybe even dead.’
‘I think you’re exaggerating.’
‘Am I? I don’t think so. You’re one of the good guys, Jack.’
Again, I felt fortunate that I’d caught Anthony on a ‘good day.’ He could have just as easily told me to go fuck myself.
‘Thank you, man,’ I said. ‘I really appreciate this.’
‘No thanks necessary. I’m working on a couple other cases right now, but I know how to walk and chew gum. I’ll check out the husband first, what did you say his name was?’
‘Lawrence Ward. He lives in White Plains.’
‘I know White Plains,’ Anthony said. ‘My uncle had a landscaping biz up there. That was my first job in high school. You got an address?’
‘No. I know he works at a pharmaceutical company in Stamford.’
‘That’s more than enough info to go on,’ Anthony said.
‘What can I do now?’ I asked.
Anthony looked at me. ‘Want me to be honest?’
I nodded.
‘Take a shower,’ he said. ‘You fuckin’ stink.’
* * *
When I came out to the living room, sans prison grime, towel around my waist, Anthony was on an iPad, Google Earthing Lawrence Ward’s house.
‘Soundview Avenue,’ he said. ‘Nice hood. Must have some serious coin.’
He was sitting on a chair at the dining table, putting his sneakers on, as if getting ready to head out.
‘They’re definitely well off,’ I said. ‘I mean to own a townhouse in the city plus a big house in White Plains?’
‘Means he could afford to hire somebody to knock off his wife if he wanted to,’ Anthony said.
‘I’ve thought about that,’ I said. ‘It would explain how he has an alibi.’
‘The police are looking into that, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘Question is why didn’t they get anything on him yet? My opinion? His alibi’s bullshit.’
‘The detective said it’s airtight.’
‘Yeah, the detective who’s trying to nail you for it. I’ve been there, done that. Detectives are the biggest bullshit artists on earth, especially the ones under pressure to make a bust.’
‘So you think her husband killed her?’
‘Going from my gut here, but yes – yes I do. The way he killed her, with the tie, sounds like it could’ve been a crime of passion.’
‘But she didn’t die from strangulation,’ I said.
‘Right, but why wrap the tie around her neck when she was dead if he didn’t have to? There’s something twisted about that – and I’m not talkin’ about the tie. I mean something sexual. You’re thinking, Then why not use his hands? Well, you said she’d brought the tie with her, right? So it might not have been his intention – it was just opportunity. He sees the tie, decides to strangle her. Maybe he thought he was being smart – didn’t want her to fight back and get DNA in her fingernails, was looking to cover his tra
cks. On the other hand, if it was a pro job, maybe the killer was trying to make it look like a crime of passion. The husband knew she was online, cheating on him, so –’
‘She didn’t cheat,’ I said.
‘But she was planning to,’ he said. ‘That’s why she went there, right? And how do you know you were the only guy?’
‘That’s what the detective said.’
‘Well, on that count he might’ve been right. Maybe she had a string of affairs and the husband knew it so he hired a hit man, told the hit man to make it look like a crime of passion. The more I think about this, the more sense it makes.’
From the closet near the front door, Anthony took out his leather jacket.
‘Where you going?’ I asked.
‘I’m working on a case up in the Heights.’
‘This late?’
‘Surveillance,’ he said. ‘Guy I’m tailing works at a bar, gets off late, so I’ll be burning the midnight oil. But, actually it’s only about twenty minutes to White Plains from there, no traffic this time of night, so I might do a cruise by of the house. More importantly I’m gonna get in touch with some of my old buddies in Homicide, they can fill me in on where the cops are at in the Sophie Ward investigation. If there are any witnesses, I want to talk to them too… but you make yourself at home, there’s some roast beef in the fridge and I got a fresh loaf of rye. You’re probably exhausted. Bet you didn’t sleep much in lockup.’
‘Yeah, I am zonked,’ I said. ‘But, uh, slight problem for tomorrow. I don’t have any clean clothes.’
‘Right, clothes.’ He headed into the bedroom, saying, ‘I’m probably a few sizes ahead of you, but you can pick out any T-shirt you want from the bottom drawer of my dresser. For underwear and socks, I don’t think you wanna wear mine unless you’re up to date on all your shots. Why don’t you wash yours out in the sink and use the blow dryer? It’s in the hall closet.’
He returned from the bedroom and handed me a pair of faded jeans.
He said, ‘I left a set of keys for you on the dresser. The silver one’s the front door, the gold one’s to the apartment. You probably need some money too, right?’