by Evan Ronan
This is my third attempt at meeting someone online. You’d think with all the frigging people I know, somebody would raise a hand and say “Hey, Greg, I know a great woman …” but that hasn’t happened.
Maybe nobody likes me enough to set me up.
I venture out into the hall. Bernie is working on what might be his fifth soft pretzel and we’ve—no, I’ve—got six tables running right now. I was banking on Tom being here.
“Bern, you want to earn a little money for a change?”
“I could be convinced.” He checks his phone in between monstrous bites from his pretzel.
Wonders never cease. “I need you to cover till eleven. I’ll be back no later than that.”
Without looking up from his phone, he flips a salute. Then thinks of something:
“What kind of benefits do you offer?”
“401k and a pension and full medical, dental, and eye.”
His ears actually perk up. Through a mouthful of dough, manages: “Really?”
“Someday.”
I retreat back into my office.
The police file is grimmer than a Cormac McCarthy novel. Julie Stein was mutilated and then, as if that weren’t enough, she was strangled. Her body was dumped in one of the protected lakes not far from the big graduation party.
Nick’s address at the time is in the file. I use Google maps to get the distances between the three points: his home, the lake where the graduation party was, the other lake where the body was found. The two lakes are half a mile apart. The lake where the body was dumped is about four miles from Nick’s house.
The time gap between Julie Stein’s final text message sent—a note to her friend, Molly Coates—and when the neighbors saw Nick is about an hour. It’s plenty of time.
Just enough time to drive to the lake, kill Julie, drag her body to the other lake, and get back home.
Plenty.
So it comes down to whether I believe him or not.
I don’t.
Nick and Julie had a tumultuous high school relationship, especially at the end. She nearly pressed charges against him before the murder. Her blood was in his house.
But not in her car.
So what? Maybe he knocked her out, plugged her nose, then threw her in the car. It’s a short drive to the lake from his place, so it’s possible there’d be no blood in the car. But if he did it that way, that meant he drove Julie’s car to the first lake, killed her, dragged her a half-mile to the other lake, and then ran home, all inside of an hour.
No, that’s impossible.
Because I know they both drove their own cars. The prosecution introduced footage from one of the traffic lights showing him following Julie.
So he drove to the first lake, killed her in the parking lot, then dumped her body at the second lake.
Why would he do that?
He should have just killed her when she was at his house, if he was going to go to the trouble of driving the body somewhere anyway.
Maybe he just snapped at the lake, Greg.
Maybe.
Maybe.
Nine
The restaurant is one of those Asian fusion places. My date, a pretty woman named Becca, is wearing a red dress and black shoes.
“So you’re a small business owner?” she says, referring to the vague fact from my online profile.
“Yes.”
The waiter brings our appetizer: coconut shrimp with orange dipping sauce. Becca goes for another glass of wine, I ask for a beer.
“After you,” I say.
“Thanks.” She forks a shrimp, dips it, then takes a bite.
“Good?”
Mouth full, she nods. I like a woman who isn’t afraid to eat in front of a man.
I sip my beer then try the shrimp. It’s hot and the sauce is a little spicy.
“What kind of business is it?” she asks.
“Different ones, actually.”
“Oh?” She gives me a look. “There’s more than one?”
I’ve never been good about explaining what I do for a living. Because there’s no one thing I do, and my work life is very different than the norm. I don’t fit the traditional nine-to-five mold and most people just think my way is strange and doomed to failure.
“I own a pool hall, which Pop left for me. I have equity in a few other local businesses, like a laundromat and a convenience store. I operate a couple online businesses that sell products. I rent a home out to a family. And I’m trying to get into more real estate investment.”
“Wow.” She’s genuinely interested, though I think her career is far more intriguing. Not to mention, important. Becca works as an ER nurse. “So, with all that going on, what did you do today?”
“Did I forget to mention I’m a—”
My phone buzzes again. With everything going on, I have to check it.
“Sorry.”
It’s Denise again. I push it through to voicemail. I do owe her a call, but today has been hell.
“Do you need to get that?” she asks, failingly polite.
I smile. “Probably.”
“You were saying you forgot to mention something?”
This date should be going better. She’s very friendly and attractive and seems nice. But I’m only half here. The other half of me is thinking about the case and the apartment complex and Tammy.
And, Denise.
“Sorry,” I say, “it’s just been a crazy day.”
“Good crazy or bad crazy?”
“Maybe both.” I sip my beer. “I was—am—a private investigator too. And this morning, an old friend from high school asked me to look into something for her.”
She just looks at me.
“I swear I’m not making all this up.”
She smiles. “How do you fit all this into a day?”
“I don’t.”
She laughs at my little quip.
“I haven’t done any PI work in a few years. One of my many business ideas that never really took off. This is more of a favor.”
“Can you tell me what kind of case it is?”
“I can but first I have to make that dumb joke about having to kill you.”
She laughs again. Becca’s got a nice sense of humor.
Focus, you idiot!
“Her nephew is in prison for murdering his high school sweetheart. He’s been locked up for five years and … I can’t really say anything else, but I’m looking into it.”
“Is that a joke?”
“Honest to God.”
“Wow.”
“Like I said …” My phone buzzes again. Denise. “This is her. Look, I’m real sorry but I have to take this.”
“Go ahead.”
I excuse myself and head outside. The air is chilly enough I regret not bringing a coat. “Hey, Denise.”
“Greg! I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
“I know, things have been crazy. I had to—”
“Are you taking the case?”
I wait for my mouth to say no.
But it doesn’t.
“I’m still thinking about it.”
“You talked to Nick. He told you everything, right?”
“He told me something. Whether it’s everything, I’ll never know.”
“What does that mean?”
“Denise. I have to think about this some more. Can I call you back tomorrow?”
She doesn’t answer. “The police stopped by today, those two detectives.”
“They did?” This reminds me I had a visitor at the pool hall today as well. A young man whose name Bernie didn’t get.
“They asked me why I’d hired you. I didn’t want to lie to the police, so I told them what Nick said, about how he was pressured to take a deal.”
Damnit. If things get adversarial with the police, I want to know things they don’t. Knowledge is power. But now, they’ve already seen my hand.
“I understand, Denise.”
“And one of her classmates Friend-requested me too …�
�
“Molly Coates?”
“No. His name’s Henry Lucetti.”
Maybe this is the guy who came to see me. “News travels fast.”
“It does.”
“Alright, Denise, I have to get—”
“Greg, I want to thank you. From the bottom of my heart. Even if you don’t end up doing anything more, at least you heard Nick out. Nobody else has ever given that kid a chance.”
“Not even your brother-in-law or sister.”
She’s quiet for a noticeable stretch. “My brother-in-law is … a hard man.”
“Greg?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve missed you a lot. I hate that we fell out of touch.”
Oh boy. “Me too.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
I head back in, my head swimming. Becca and I share a nice dinner with good conversation, but I can’t stop thinking about Denise and Nick and the past and how Denise and I are falling right back into our old patterns of behavior. I’m the guy she comes to when she has a problem. She’s the girl for whom I inhabit that weird intra-space between friend and more than friend.
But hey—
That doesn’t stop me from inviting Becca back to my place.
Ten
And she accepts.
Eleven
Becca is gone when I wake early. No note.
Disappointment as I get the feeling this is going to just be a one-nighter. I’m no hopeless romantic and I love a roll in the hay as much as the next guy, but at this point I want something more …
But what exactly?
I can’t even imagine getting married again. My life is crazy enough, my waking hours filled. How much could I offer somebody?
With that sobering thought, I stop by the laundromat early. Another washer is on the fritz and two more of the dryers are underperforming. When I bought the business with my partners, the equipment was in great shape and based on average use of the models we thought we had another five years before we had to replace any.
A month later, the first washer went.
I check the books and see this month’s income is on pace to match last month’s. Thank God for small kindnesses.
I talk to the young woman minding the store, another student at another nearby community college who works early, has her infant son in the afternoon, then attends evening classes.
Everybody hustles.
Everybody chases The Dream.
Then I backtrack to Main Street. With the town serving as the county seat, I pass right by the courthouse where Nick Carlisle took a plea deal after a full trial. It’s one of those events locally that serves as a Date—remember what you were doing when …?
Most attorneys have their offices along Main Street, since it’s so close to the courthouse. James Stanek is no exception. I find parking along a side street and feed the meter.
Stanek’s office is old and small. His receptionist is not. She looks about twenty and is my height. Looks like she could have played pro volleyball.
“Can I help you?”
“I’d like to see James for a few minutes. We have a mutual client.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“You’re perceptive.” I give her a wink. “You already can tell I don’t.”
She smiles but her eyes don’t change so I know it’s a fake. Damn. Can’t charm them all. Especially the ones that are half my age.
“My client is Nick Carlisle.”
There’s a flash of recognition in her eyes. “Mr. Stanek has a court appearance this morning, but let me see if he’s available.”
She slips into the back of the office, out of sight. I hear a door shut, then a silence, then a door opens. The receptionist comes back out and smiles.
“Mr. Owen? Come on back.”
I didn’t give her my name. News travels fast.
I follow her through an open space and into James Stanek’s office, where the attorney is putting a tie on.
“Good morning, Greg. I’ve only got a few minutes to spare, but please sit down.”
I do and the receptionist shuts the door after she leaves.
James Stanek is short and squat with a close-cropped goatee going grey. He knots his tie and pushes the knot to his throat. He’s got just a couple years on me so we know each other but never really crossed paths.
“James, thanks for seeing me. I wanted to talk to you about Nick’s case.”
“Uh-huh.” He sits down and turns on his laptop. His eyes jump back and forth from the screen to me.
“He says he didn’t do it.”
“That so?” James seems more interested in his laptop.
“Says he was … um … talked into a plea deal.”
James stops what he’s doing and finally gives me his undivided.
I nod.
Once.
Wait.
James narrows his eyes. “He’s free to say what he wants under the First Amendment, but he should know if he spreads any lies he could be held liable for libel or slander.”
“Liable for libel. That’s cute.”
James’s eyes loosen up a bit.
I inquire, “Is that a threat?”
James smiles a shark grin. “A threat? No. That’s legal advice for an old client. If you’d be willing to pass that along.”
“I’m just a dumb private eye,” I say. “So I want to make sure I get this. You’re saying, if Nick tells people his lawyer forced him to take a deal when he swore his innocence, said lawyer is going to sue him?”
“I said no such thing.”
“Of course not.” I shake my head. Lawyers. “Did Nick ever tell you he was innocent?”
James wags a finger and tuts. “Uh, uh, uh, Greg. Attorney-client privilege prohibits me from divulging what a client has shared with me.”
“Let me try it this way,” I venture. “When you reviewed the physical evidence, the details of the crime, the timeline, did you think he was guilty?”
“Mr. Owen, you’re discussing matters which are strictly confidential between attorney and client. Moreover, what I believe or don’t believe it immaterial. My job is to put on the best possible defense of my client and force the prosecution to make their case.”
“Did you ever retain an independent investigator?”
James shifts in his seat. Even if I didn’t play a lot of poker, I’d still know this is a tell.
“That is something I always consider whenever a client presents initially but the … peculiar circumstances of this case made that unnecessary.”
“You thought he was guilty as sin.”
“Like I said attorney-client privilege …” James waves a dismissive hand.
“How much did the boy’s father get involved with trial strategy?”
“I provided him with what information I legally could as he was, after all, footing the bill.”
“And what did he say?”
“He just wanted the best possible defense for his son. I believe I provided that.”
“By getting him put away for twenty-five years?”
“He’s eligible for parole in eighteen.”
“What does that do for him? He’ll be about my age, with no college degree or work experience, and this conviction hanging over his head.”
James blanches. “Unfortunately, in my line of work, the mess has already been made by the time I get involved. It’s my job to make it look as unmessy as possible.”
“Thanks for your time.”
He stands. “The circumstantial evidence was overwhelming, Greg. Her blood is in his house. There was a history of violence between them. And I couldn’t put him on the stand. The DA would have slaughtered him.”
“Who else could have killed Julie?”
He goes to object, so I add—
“Hypothetically.”
“Nobody. That too was a problem for us. That girl was beloved.”
“What about Molly Coates? Did you ever talk to her?�
�
He has to think about the name for a moment. “Her best friend? Why would I do that?”
“Because according to your client, Julie Stein was going to talk to her best friend, which is Molly, when she left Nick’s house.”
He nods, the details of the case coming back to him. “I didn’t speak to her, because I didn’t want Molly Coates anywhere near the witness stand going on and on about how great and wonderful a human being Julie Stein was. There’s strategy at play here.”
“All the same, could she have done it?”
“Molly? No, I don’t think so.”
“How do you know?”
“She had an alibi.”
“Who?”
“The entire graduating class, since she was at the party by the lake.”
I shake my head. “Why does that alibi work for her, but damn Nick Carlisle?”
“I don’t follow.” He’s playing dumb.
“According to the prosecution, Nick killed Julie in the parking lot a few hundred yards away from the graduation party. If he could do it there, why couldn’t somebody else have done it there?”
“Of course, anything is possible when we’re speaking hypothetically. But you’re forgetting the violent history and the blo—”
“And the blood in his house, yeah. Thanks for your time.”
Outside, the air is warming up. I stop in the pretzel shop, catch up with the owner, buy a coffee and pretzel, and head back out.
Nick killed Julie Stein.
But.
Here’s what’s bothering me.
He didn’t kill her at home.
Instead, he decided to drive back to the lake where there were four hundred potential witnesses and stab her thirty-seven times in the parking lot within screaming distance of help.
There’s a lot I can’t reconcile with that scenario.
He would have needed to plan it that way.
I.E. he would have had to bring the knife with him.
Nick didn’t own a knife. The police determined no knives were missing from his house after an extremely thorough search. They turned that place upside-down looking for the murder weapons. All of this meant he had to buy one and hide one, with the intent to kill Julie.
That meant he planned to do this.
But if he had the presence of mind to plan the murder, that made it less a crime of passion and more the act of a cold-blooded killer.