by Evan Ronan
I turn as I’m strolling out, make sure to flip him the bird.
“Julie Stein didn’t have any tattoos.”
The guard opens the door. Fereday is trying to coax me back into the room.
“Wait! There were so many girls! Sometimes I get them confused! I was right about her being shaved! I was right!”
I just keep going.
Twenty-Seven
All I can say is this—
Finding out a convicted serial pedophile murderer is not also responsible for the girl’s death you’re looking into is a … weird feeling.
On the one hand, I’m glad Julie Stein wasn’t sexually assaulted or even just mentally tormented by a completely deranged child-killer.
On the other hand, it puts me right back to square one.
Who killed Julie Stein?
You’re a smart guy. You figure it out.
I backtrack to the pool hall, then decide not to go in. I swing by the store, then check on the laundromat, and the whole time I know I’m just stalling because I don’t know what else to do.
Nick Carlisle, once again, looks guilty as sin.
Denise calls but I don’t answer.
I try my guy at the mortgage company once more but he doesn’t pick up. I leave him an even less civil voicemail than what I left last time.
Jason Shaw pings me again but I don’t answer.
You’re just keeping the plates spinning, pal. It’s time to start putting some of them away.
My body feels like one big ache, so I head home. Pop another pill. Think about what to do. Open the email from Molly Coates with the list of names. Remember the two she told me to focus on.
Henry Lucetti and two girls named Alana and Deanna.
Henry’s my next best suspect … I guess … but I’ve already talked to him so I decide to find Alana first, Deanna second. Using my powers of deduction—
By searching Google—
I discover both young women are still in town. Could probably interview both this afternoon in time to get to Lorelei’s house.
But I’ve got another stop to make too.
Should be a quick one.
Somehow I remember my log-in information for the criminal background database my PI license allows me to access and I get the address I need.
I grab my pill bottle and a couple bottles of water. Now my head feels okay but my wrist is sore and throbbing. Driving with one hand isn’t a problem, but getting in and out of the driver’s side with only your right hand fully functional is a pain in the ass.
I know the neighborhood where I’m going. It’s posh, the houses sprawling. Not the newest construction in town, but only about fifteen years old.
I make my way through the development. A cruiser passes me going the other way, the cop staring pointedly at me. I give him a little wave like I’m a resident just coming home early from another day’s work.
He doesn’t wave back.
I bang a couple turns and find the street I want. The house is five down on the left. It’s the nicest on the block. The lawn is immaculate.
I park on the street.
It’s a long, highly visible walk to the front door. I can feel the eyes of the entire neighborhood on me as I step onto the porch. The wooden steps creak under my weight. I’m nervous ringing the doorbell.
A middle-aged woman opens the door. Her blonde hair is peppered with greys and her face is lined with wrinkles that age her.
A rather large dog is nipping at her heels. Hasn’t started barking yet.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for your husband, Mrs. Stein,” I say.
“He’s working,” she says.
It is early in the afternoon.
“Where does he work?”
“Who are you?”
“I think you know who I am,” I say.
She’s about to object, then sees the futility in lying.
“I know who you are,” she says and looks me over. Is that satisfaction I see in her eyes as she registers my injuries?
“So where does he work?” I ask.
“Go away.” She looks behind her. “Or I’ll call the police.”
“Call them,” I say. “They might want to hear what I have to say to your husband.”
That’s a bluff.
But I’m pretty good at poker.
She looks over her shoulder again. The dog hasn’t taken his eyes off me. Without saying a word, she shuts the door. The dog, for whatever reason, decides to start barking then.
Guess she’s not going to tell me where her husband works. That’s okay. I have other ways of finding out.
I turn on my heel and do the PI version of the walk of shame down the steps. Might as well get hustling so I can interview Alana and Deanna both today before I pick up pizza.
“What do you want?”
I didn’t even hear the guy come out of his house. Guess he works from home sometimes.
Alan Stein, father of the beautiful young woman who’s been dead for five years now, kind of looks like Mr. Potato Head with his wire-rim glasses and fleshy features on an oddly shaped head.
I’m polite enough not to tell him that though. That’s just the kind of guy I am.
I hold up my left arm so he can see the wrist splint.
“I want to talk about this.”
He says nothing.
“Members of your extended family are attempting to harass me. I say attempting because it’s not working. And I’m going to keep doing what I’m doing until I get to the truth.”
I let that sink in. The news articles I’ve read about Julie Stein’s murder included scant biographical information about her parents, but I recall this guy being an investment banker of some sort.
He’s not responding and I feel the appropriate amount of time has passed for him to get I won’t be deterred.
I say, “Couple of nights ago, some asshole came up behind me with a bat.”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“Yeah. You don’t look like the type to get your hands dirty.”
This ruffles his feathers.
Mr. Potato Head comes off his porch and stalks forward. He stops about a foot away from me.
“You are a lousy human being,” he says. “You should be ashamed of yourself for putting my family through this nightmare all over again. You should be ashamed of yourself for taking any money to work this investigation, or whatever it is, when you and I and everybody else knows that kid is guilty. He’s guilty. Guilty.”
I look him in the eye. “He took a deal.”
His eyes bulge and I think he’s going to throw a punch, but he manages to get himself under control.
“He admitted to killing her.”
“When I was thirteen years old, I told my father I’d made the Varsity football team. I was only in seventh grade.”
He folds his arms. “So you’re a liar to boot.”
“No, I was a kid, just telling my Pop what I thought he wanted to hear.”
“Your point being?”
“I had a good father, and still it was difficult being his son.”
“Cry me a river.”
“Now imagine you’re a kid who suffers from anxiety and depression, and you have an asshole for a father.”
He unfolds his arms and bunches his fists. It’s difficult to be scary-looking when you resemble Mr. Potato Head, but this guy gives it his all and he’s fueled by a father’s anger so he just about gets there.
“You deserve whatever comes your way,” he says.
“So does everybody.”
He ignores my oh-so-deep thought. “If something happens to you, I won’t lose any sleep. And if you come back here again, I’ll kick your ass.”
I smirk. “This Marine would like to see you try.”
“Fuck off.”
He heads back to the house.
“Hey.”
He keeps going.
“What line of work are you in?” I ask because my somet
imes-addled brain just concocted a hunch.
He stops, turns just his head, and looks over his shoulder.
“I’m an investment banker,” he says.
I nod. It makes sense now.
“So you’re in the lending business, aren’t you?”
He half turns. “Yes.”
Son of a bitch. My stomach feels like a ball of lead.
“I’ll bet you know some people over at PennSafe Mortgage.” I draw it out a little before adding a perfunctory, “Don’t you?”
An infinitesimal smile cracks his lips.
“Yeah, I know a few people over there.”
I could strangle the guy and he must see the rage in my eyes because he smiles just a teeny tiny bit wider, before going back inside.
“You son of a bitch,” I say.
Twenty-Eight
“Steve, I’ve been waiting to hear back from you,” I say.
I can hear him squirming through the phone.
“Sorry, Greg, but things have been crazy here.”
“What’s the issue with my preapproval?”
“To be honest, Greg, I’m not sure. I’ve been trying to get a hold of the underwriters to find out.”
I left him a voicemail before lunch. The business day will be over shortly. I find it hard to believe he was unable to get an answer by now.
“Steve, I’ve got serious things in motion right now.”
Beep. Call waiting. I check the number and—
“As a matter of fact, this is the owner I’ve been dealing with. He’s ready to set a closing date.”
“Shit, Greg, I’m real sorry about this. But like I said, I don’t know what’s going on. Apparently, your line was randomly pulled by senior leadership for review.”
Fuck.
Alan Stein must know some goddamned Executive or Senior Vice President, who’s now putting the kibosh on my preapproval.
Beep.
Another voicemail from Jason Shaw.
I’m going to miss out on this deal if I can’t get this loan squared away.
“Steve, I need to know what the problem is and how we can remedy it by close of business. Or else I’m taking my business elsewhere in the future.”
“Understood, Greg, and again, I can’t say how sorry I am.”
I hang up without a goodbye.
My wrist is quieting down again, but now my head is hurting. Instead of a throb, though, it’s more a slow-burn simmering pain.
I’m not due for meds for a while.
I grit my teeth and decide to deal with it. At least the pain in my wrist and my head is distracting me from the hairline fracture in one of my ribs.
Always look on the bright side.
I hop across town and pull into the diner. There are several others like it in town, but this one’s been here forever and it’s so beloved that it’s the diner.
It’s tradition for teens to go there after Homecoming and Proms. I’m sure the servers love that, waiting on a bunch of obnoxious teenagers who are drunk or horny or more likely both.
Stepping inside, I spot Mrs. Papadoukalis behind the register. This is one of those places where you bring your check to the front and pay the owner as opposed to the server.
“Greg, how are you?”
She gets all European and kisses both my cheeks and the friendly reception warms my heart. The last few days have left me wondering if I’m the most hated man in town, so it’s nice to feel welcome somewhere.
“You are hurt!” she says suddenly. “Who did this to you?”
She pretends not to know. God bless her.
“I’m alright, Mrs. P. How are you doing?”
“Good. Peter will be home in two weeks. You should see his baby!”
Peter and I were in the same class a million years ago. “I’d love to.”
“Would you like a table or counter?”
“I’m actually looking for Alana,” I say. “She working today?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Papadoukalis grows instantly suspicious—of her young employee. “What did she do now?”
“Now?”
She shakes her head. “Mr. Pete is too nice. He won’t fire anybody. In the old days, she would have been gone one year ago.”
I lean in. “What’s the problem?”
“She is five minutes late all the time.”
I want to say, anything more serious than that? But to Mrs. P, this is a grave offense.
“Kids, right?”
She shakes her head indignantly. “They don’t want to work anymore. They want everything handed to them. It’s ridiculous!”
“So is she here?”
“Why do you want to talk to her?”
I give her my story. The whole time, she pretends to not have known anything about what I’m doing.
“Do you think she killed Julie?” Mrs. P blurts out, loud enough for the guys perpetually grazing at her counter, to hear.
I keep my voice hushed. “I just want to ask her a few questions about that night.”
“Okay, Greg. No problem. I’ll get her.”
“Thanks.”
I slip outside and wait. The smokers are just around the side of the building, upwind from the entrance, probably breaking all kinds of laws. I realize I’m old when I begin to miss second-hand smoke.
A woman in her early twenties comes out a few minutes later. I say woman because she is no longer a girl. I barely recognize Alana from some of the trial pictures I saw online. She has put on about fifty pounds since she got out of high school and her mouth has one of those perpetual frowns that adds years to a person.
She sees my broken wrist and is confused for a moment, then launches into a tirade.
“Now you’re coming to my work?” she asks. “You know, you people are unbelievable.”
“My name is Greg Owen.”
And I leave it at that to see where she goes with it.
“There’s no money, alright? And I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen the asshole since he left six months ago. What do you people want from me?”
“Six months ago?”
She wrings her hands. “I’ve told you people my ex isn’t coming back and I’m a waitress at a diner. I’m lucky to pull in five hundred bucks a week. Lucky.”
“Alana, I’m not here about your ex.”
Relief floods her face. “You’re not?”
“You graduated with Julie Stein, right?”
“Yeah …”
“I’m—”
“OhmyGod you’re the guy!” Her eyes take in the wrist splint again. “I heard you were in the ICU because you almost got killed.”
“Not quite.” Though my brain would beg to differ. “Now I want you to pretend like Nick isn’t in prison, okay? Is there anyone else you can think of that would want Julie hurt?”
“Hurt?”
“Is there anybody she was arguing with?”
“Other than Molly? No.”
“She and Molly were arguing that night?”
“Yeah, before Julie left they were ready to rip each other’s hair out.”
“What happened?”
“I was talking to Molly but she seemed distracted the whole night. Julie did or said something and it set Molly off. She said something like, I can’t stand this bitch.”
It seems too easy a lead to follow, but then again you have to take the good luck with the bad. I wonder why Molly would have connected me with Alana, though, if she knew Alana would tell me she and Julie got into a fight that night.
“Molly liked to drink, right?”
“A lot.” Alana makes a nasty face. “Still does, from what I hear.”
Maybe Molly was too drunk to remember this.
“Why did she say she couldn’t stand Julie?”
“I just told you, I don’t know. I was in the middle of talking to … Henry, I think … when Molly just snapped and pulled Julie aside.”
“What did she say?”
“It was loud at the party, I couldn’t hear her.�
� She sighs. “I remember Henry trying to break them up, but Molly shoved him away.”
Not surprising. Henry is small and slight and from what I can gather was a bit timid back in high school. Molly, on the other hand, seems like she could have fought in the UFC and has, if anything, mellowed with age.
“What were they fighting about?” I ask.
“Henry,” Alana says. “What else?”
“Did they fight about Henry a lot?”
“Yeah.” She looks at me like I and everybody else on the planet should know this. “It was probably all they fought about.”
“What about Henry?”
“It sounds so stupid now.” She shakes her head. “It was all so stupid. And we all thought it was so important, you know?”
“High school is important. Till you go to college. Then college is important. Till you get a job.”
She looks at me like she doesn’t quite follow.
“What is so stupid?” I ask. “Specifically?”
“Julie was with Nick, but those last few months they were together, she, you know, cheated on him.”
“I thought she and Henry got together after Julie and Nick broke up.”
“That was what she told everybody, but she had already started seeing Henry. I mean, not seeing him. You know what I mean.”
“They were having sex?”
She laughs, like it’s a funny and old-fashioned way to put it. “Yeah.”
“Over an extended period of time?”
“Couple of months.”
Why did Henry lie to me then?
“Did Nick know?”
She shakes her head. “Nick thought they got together once, but only after he and Julie had broken up.”
“How did you know?”
“I was close with Julie.”
“Best friends?”
She laughs like I’m an idiot. “We never called each other that.”
“Did she think of Molly as her best friend?”
She puts her hand out. “No, what I meant was, none of us called each other best friend.”
“What?”
“We were all best friends. Our group was tight. We made a pact in the summer before senior year to be like that.”
“A pact?”
“Yeah.”
“So Molly wasn’t Julie’s best friend?”