by M. P. Cooley
“So we show up at his house, and our friend Bernie didn’t look happy to see us at all. He had luggage and a blow-up raft in the living room, all set to join his wife and child out on the Cape. He kept repeating ‘Luisa is going to kill me,’ over and over.”
“Afraid you’d bust up the place?” asked Hale.
Dan laughed. “Pretty much. We were a rowdy bunch back then, Jake leading the charge. Bernie had eased off a bit since becoming a father, and Maxim made sure nothing got out of hand, knocked everyone upside the head when they got too out of bounds, or made calls, getting people out of trouble later.”
“But both Bernie and Jake went to prison,” I said. “If he couldn’t get charges dropped against his brothers, he didn’t do a very good job.”
“But remember,” Dan said, “Bernie could have gone away for life, and Jake’s assault charges—bullshit as they were—were originally attempted murder.”
Felony assault was rarely bullshit. I asked him to explain.
“Well, it was before my time, but the story is that some contractor did a shitty job of paving the streets on the Island. Worse, he didn’t hire anyone from the Island on the job. Maxim was a councilman back then, but he wanted what was best for his constituents, if only to get re-elected. Jake didn’t want his brother to be disappointed, so he went to persuade the guy to re-do the work for free. With a lead pipe.” He shrugged. “The contractor is still around—I worked with him on a job back in October—so it couldn’t have been that bad.”
Dan handled lead pipes to the skull with considerable equanimity.
“Anyway, back to Vera. Things got going in Bernie’s party room, his pride and joy. Had a big black glossy bar, white shag carpeting, and a white leather couch. That couch was where things started to go downhill.”
“Why?”
“Vera was all over that night, three sheets to the wind by the time things got rolling.”
“Who’d she arrive with?” I asked.
“Honestly, I don’t remember.” Sentences started with “honestly” rarely had much truth to them, but I let him continue. “She stumbled downstairs mid-party like she had been there the whole time and settled right in. She was doing cocaine, talking ten thousand miles a minute, sharing with everyone what a genius she was and how she was about to be a rich woman. She was off on a rant and she let a cigarette burn down on the arm of his couch. Bernie went through the roof.”
“What did he do?”
“He was ready to kick her and the whole crowd out of there, but the judge talked him down; the night went downhill, with arguments over a poker game, and Vera picking a fight with Oksana, Jake’s girlfriend. Oksana was a meek little thing, but Jake took offense and was on the warpath with Vera, too. Someone must have decided to defuse the situation and slip Vera a Quaalude, because she went from motormouth to out of it in a few minutes. I decided to get out of there before things got ugly. When Bernie walked me to the door, he thanked me for treating his sister right. Said he was jealous, that he was supposed to do a night drive out to Cape Cod to avoid the traffic and now he had a house full of drunks.
“So when you left, Bernie, Jake, the judge, and Oksana were the last ones there?”
“The judge may have been gone, and Oksana and Jake walked out a few steps ahead of me and were sitting in the car when I drove away. That left Bernie and Vera, alone in that house.” He paused and seemed to be struggling for the right words. “Bernie’s my brother-in-law, and Deirdre would kill me if she heard this, but with him, alone in the house with her? I think he did it.”
I asked him for the names of other witnesses who were at Bernie’s that night, looking for people who could validate either Dan’s or Jake’s story. As I put away my notebook, he offered to answer any additional questions we had.
“One more, if you don’t mind,” I said. “You don’t seem very protective of your in-laws.”
“Do you think those brothers need protection?” He didn’t look at us, pulling blueprints out of the rack. “Bernie, I always liked the guy, but he’s been in prison for thirty years for a murder I think he’s good for. Maxim, he’s okay in small bursts, but he goes into judge mode and is a huge pain in the ass. Jake, though. Jake’s a thug. I don’t like him now, and I never did.” He paused. “And he dragged his son down with him. Me and my wife, we were ready to do anything for Brian when he got back from Iraq, his leg blown off, get him back his life.” He shook his head. “But Brian has no life. Jake locked him away in that new house of his, gave him the keys to the bar, and tied him to the Island for the rest of his life.”
CHAPTER 9
THE SUN WAS SETTING AS WE DROVE UP THE HILL TO COLONIE, the glare through the passenger side window blinding. We were driving west, past the border of Hopewell Falls, to talk to Tanya Zulitki. Tanya had left the Island, but she’d known Dave’s mom, and more importantly, she was the daughter of Yolanda Zulitki, the woman who saw Vera leave the building the night she disappeared. We hoped that if she saw Vera leave, she might also have seen who she went with.
We had agreed to meet her after work, but when we pulled up in front of her house, it was dark. We rang the bell to be sure. No answer.
The sun dropped over the horizon, and Hale took off his sunglasses. With the hard angles of his face, the shades made him harsh and unreachable—it was nice to be able to talk eye-to-eye. As we waited, my phone rang. The chief.
“Officer Lyons”—Donnelly’s voice sounded tinny and faraway—“I’ve got you on speaker here with the DA.”
“Hello, Officer Lyons,” Jerry said. We had made a certain peace after the Brouillette case, but we were hardly friends. “You’re going to be very happy for this phone call.” Somehow Jerry managed to make good news an insinuation. “We’ve arranged for you to get in to see Bernie Lawler tomorrow.”
That was good news. “How’d you swing that?”
“We made a little deal with his lawyer. She’s been pushing to have the blood evidence retested, everything we collected from the basement and the back of Bernie’s car. There’s no chance she’ll find anything, so there’s no harm in indulging her. I mean, your father did thorough police work, and he wouldn’t have made a mistake that big, would he?”
Ah, there’s the Jerry I knew and hated. He would have fought that retest tooth and nail, but on the off chance that my dad had made a mistake and Jerry could humiliate him? No way would Jerry let that opportunity pass.
“The blood types in both the basement and Bernie’s trunk matched,” the chief said. “Gordon did everything right. Bernie’s lawyer did put some stipulations on the meeting, however. She will be present. And also, Hale Bascom can’t be in the room. It’s you and them, June.”
I looked over at Hale, who mouthed “what?” Had he heard?
“She can’t prevent you from visiting,” the chief said.
“But she could delay it,” Jerry said. “I greased the wheels for you.”
A sedan came up the street, pulling into the driveway, and I quickly agreed to the terms.
“Thanks—to you both,” I said, hanging up. That was as close to appreciation as Jerry was going to get from me.
Spotlights went on in the driveway, revealing a pearl-gray Audi. A tall African-American woman got out of the car.
“What’d they say?” Hale asked, but my answer was cut off by Tanya Zulitki.
“Sorry for the delay,” she called, pulling her purse out of the back-seat. “Things got crazy at work and I underestimated the commute.”
She jogged up the walk. The pink reflective panels on her zip-up jacket, exercise capris, and sneakers glowed bright, even in the weak light. She scaled the steps and opened the door, punching in a security code and hitting the lights.
Her hallway was clean, but not scarily so—mail was dropped on an entry table, and shoes had been kicked off next to the door, including her current pair.
“Gimme a sec,” she said. “If I don’t get some protein, this interview ends fast. Settle yourself in the liv
ing room and I’ll be right back.”
We sat on a suede couch, its muted browns letting the bright textiles, pictures, and masks that hung on the wall really pop. Magazines were piled under a side table almost to tipping, but the desk tucked in a corner was completely clear, without even a pencil.
She walked in carrying a tray of sparkling water, cheese, and crackers. “Thought you might be hungry. I’d offer wine, but I’m working tonight and need to stay sharp.” She cracked open the sparkling water and poured some for the three of us without asking. I placed mine on a coaster next to me, keeping my hands free to take notes. She dove into the cheese, cutting off several slabs.
“Manchego, my favorite.” She swallowed her cracker and cheese and took a long drink of water. “So, Vera, right? Dave and Lucas’s mom?”
Hale sat up straight. “Yes. Your memories, but also if you recall anything your mother said about the night Vera disappeared or who might have put her in that barrel.”
Tanya pulled her legs onto the chair, settling into her story. “I was about five when my dad took off, and Vera left the same week. She and my Mom had been thick as thieves. Oh, before I forget . . .” She walked over to her desk. Unlocking it, she retrieved a folder from the top drawer and handed us a photo.
It was a picnic, the picture’s focus close enough that it could have been anywhere, the leaves of a maple tree hanging low, putting the group in shade. An African-American woman—Tanya’s mother, Yolanda—talked to Vera, who sat across the table, an open bottle of rosé between them, next to the hamburgers, hot dogs, chips, and potato salad spilling across the rest of the table. Vera wore a red shirtdress, the same dress she was wearing when her body was found in the barrel. Big loose curls framed her face, and her burgundy lips twisted in a half smile, sharing a joke with Tanya’s mother. Across the table, Yolanda laughed.
“Vera was always nice to my mother, a rare thing on the Island. When my father brought his lovely, young, pregnant black bride home, she wasn’t welcomed with open arms. They’d insult her in Ukrainian, thinking she didn’t understand what they were saying. She could guess.” Tanya crossed her legs. “So could I.”
I studied the picture. Next to Vera was Dave, drinking from a can of generic soda, “Orange” stamped black on a white can. Taras hunched over Dave, putting mustard on his hot dog, revealing Taras’s balding head, black hair thinning to reveal the pale skin below. He was wearing a white button-down shirt, cuffed at the elbows, and black pants. Across from him, almost out of the frame, was Lucas, reaching for potato chips. Only Tanya, with her huge brown eyes and her yellow sundress, smiled for the camera.
“My memories of Vera are mostly superficial,” Tanya said. “I liked her because my mom liked her, but Vera was one of those people who didn’t get kids, talking to me in a loud voice, and petting me, but at arm’s length. I loved her clothes: high-heeled clogs and these beautiful peacock feather earrings.” She laughed and waved to the room. “I like things a little different, design wise.”
“That painting over there,” Hale said. “Cambodian, right?”
I was a little confused as to why Hale decided now was a good time for a discussion on home decorating.
“That it is. I’ve very impressed, Agent Bascom.” He gave her a shy smile and my alarm bells went off: Hale smiled, but shy was not in his emotional repertoire.
Tanya pointed to the screen in the corner, three monstrous puppets in front of a delicate brown paper screen. “That’s my last purchase. Picked it up two years ago in Indonesia. I try to go on one big trip every year, but it’s getting harder and harder as my firm grows—the cases are higher profile and don’t always have a defined deadline.” She took a sip of her sparkling water. “It was easier to do when I was setting up divorced guys in bars.”
“You’re a PI?” I asked. Dave had failed to mention that. Even so, I’d never met Tanya, and usually we tripped over the PIs when criminal charges turned into civil.
“I am. Followed around old Harvey Sanger for a few years, part of a crew of honey traps, batting my eyes at men stepping out on their wives. That was small-time, though, so about ten years ago I set up my own firm, focused on insurance, and in the last few years, corporate spying and espionage.”
I was surprised that she was admitting she did corporate spying straight out, but she laughed, merry and bright.
“Oh, to see your face,” she said to Hale. She hadn’t noticed my reaction. “No, not doing it. Hunting it down. Biggest part of my work now—big pay and big clients. I wouldn’t cross paths with you, Officer Lyons. With my clients, I’d tangle with Special Agent Bascom.” She winked at him. “Although generally my clients prefer to settle these things out of court. Less bad publicity.”
I decided to steer the conversation back to the original topic. “I was reading through the original case file, and your late mother said she saw Vera leaving through a back door. Did she ever tell you anything about that night?”
“She did,” Tanya said. “Mom was a safety rep for the union, and there had been an injury. She had gone to the office to pick up a form and saw the tail end of Vera sliding out the side door in high-heeled boots and that red dress right there.” Tanya tapped the photo. “Not that anyone believed her at first.”
“Why wouldn’t they believe your mom?”
She sighed. “No reason, or should I say no real reason. Back then, people thought Mom was lying because that’s what black people did. They kept her around because they drank beer with her husband. They weren’t so prejudiced that they thought black people should be sent back to Africa.” She crossed her arms and her legs. “But Albany would be far enough. Outside of Albany and Troy this area’s really white. Really, really, really white.”
She was right. After spending time in New York and California, it was a shock for me to come back to my hometown. Diversity for us was when the Irish mixed with the Italian Catholics.
“Anyway,” Tanya said, “after a week of Vera being gone folks allowed that maybe, possibly my mother was telling the truth. Then they started hitting her with all these questions—When did you see her leave? Who was she with?” She shook her head. “What they were really trying to find out is the name of her new boyfriend so they could call him and tell him to bring her home.”
“Dave mentioned your dad might have been close with Vera,” Hale said.
“Everyone thought they were screwing. But he was a deadbeat, not a cheater. Because of the timing, people assumed they took off together. I gave him a call last week—”
“He’s alive?” I asked.
“Alive and kicking in South Carolina with his third wife. I usually call him at Christmas and his birthday, so he was thrilled with a third call. He was cagey about Vera, not wanting to sully my virgin ears”—at this she laughed—“but he did say Vera was ‘in a bad place’ when he last saw her. In Dad-code that means drugs or possibly sex and drugs. I confronted him straight out, asked if they’d been dating, and he denied it. Then I hung up, because that was plenty of time talking to the old goat.”
I asked for her father’s number, and she pulled out her phone, reading it to me.
“A second?” Tanya said, typing something into her phone. She finished and placed it on the arm of her chair. “Any more questions?”
Hale and I looked at each other.
“No?” she said, looking from me to Hale. “So now you can help me solve my very first case.”
She reached out and handed me the file. I opened it up and was greeted with a picture of five women—one blonde, one redhead, and three brunettes, one of whom was Vera. The pictures of two of the brunettes were X-ed out.
“When my dad left, I became a little fixated on missing persons, to say the least. By the time I was eight, I investigated disappearances in my neighborhood: my dad, Vera, and several other women.” She shifted closer so her knees brushed Hale’s. “The two brunettes crossed out there? They came home to their families. The blonde and the redhead, both from the neighborhood, t
hey didn’t come back. Neither did Vera.”
I examined the pictures more closely. Both women were pretty—clean, shiny hair, smiling. Families had given photos like this before. Later, when I went to the station and ran the person through the database I found mug shots, people too thin, cheeks pockmarked or scarred the mark of drugs and hard living.
“Those last two never popped anywhere. It’s completely possibly that Oksana, the redhead, ran away. Her father was a famous bastard.”
Was this the same Oksana who was there the night Vera disappeared? I pulled the file closer, Hale leaning in to get a closer look. “Did she date Jake Medved?”
“She did—risky behavior back then. Hold up a second.” Tanya picked up her phone, texting something. “I’ll have to run in five, so I’ll talk fast. Anyway, Oksana might have taken off, a lot of reasons to, but Jeannie?” She pointed to the blonde. “She had the bohunk boyfriend, was in secretarial school, and had a part-time job at Brouillette Paper. No way would she have taken off. The cops treated her like a runaway. I checked with my cousin, who still lives down the street from her brother, and he says she never came back.”
Tanya stood up. “Unfortunately, I’ve gotta go. One of our targets has left his office, a flash drive full of intellectual property in his pocket, and I have to pretend to be a jogger out for a run, make sure those company secrets don’t end up with the competition. Do I look nondescript enough?” She twisted her hair into a baseball cap, showing off her beautiful cheekbones, and I thought Hale was going to fall over. His usual types were blondes with big breasts, but he seemed willing to make an exception for someone as gorgeous and smart as Tanya.
On her way out of the driveway, Tanya beeped. We made a U-turn and followed, but she quickly outpaced us.
“You’re not going to the prison alone,” Hale said when I told him about the visit to Bernie tomorrow. “We know Bernie killed his wife and son, and the evidence we have so far points to him as Vera’s killer, too. The man’s a psychopath, and sometimes—”