These days I’m trying to appreciate the small pleasures.
I’m getting well-known here at NetLink Systems.
This time the receptionist gives me an enthusiastic hello and asks me how I am today. I decide to lie and tell her that I’m fine; it will shorten the conversation. I refer you to my previous comments about small talk.
Once again she calls back to alert Kyle Wainwright that I’m here, and this time the wait is only two minutes. The door opens and a man says, “Andy Carpenter? I’m Kyle Wainwright.”
I’m momentarily surprised. I’ve thought of Kyle only as the eighteen-year-old boyfriend of Kristen McNeil, so it’s a little jarring to see that he’s in his early thirties, and even balding slightly. How come Laurie and I are the only ones who never age?
We shake hands and go back to his office, stopping to get coffee along the way. They use one of those Keurig machines, which I bought for Laurie at home, only to be told that the little pods that hold the coffee are bad for the environment when they get discarded. So the machine is sitting unopened in a closet. If anyone wants to make an offer on it, I can get you a good deal.
Kyle’s office is two doors down from that of his boss, Jeremy Kennon. Like Kennon’s and all the other offices on this hallway, the walls are glass, so anyone passing by can look in. Once we’re seated, I notice someone walking by who stops and looks in at us. He’s about sixty years old, and what little hair he has is gray. He seems to shake his head slightly and then continues walking.
“That’s my father,” Kyle says.
I don’t see a need to respond to that, so I don’t. Instead I ask, “So, you’ve had fourteen years to think about it. Any idea who killed Kristen McNeil?”
He shakes his head. “No, like everybody else I’ve always assumed it was whoever left their DNA on the scene.” Then, “Man, it seems so long ago, like in another lifetime. But it also seems like it was yesterday.”
“I understand that she had broken up with you shortly before she died?”
“Not officially. She just wanted space, needed time to think, that kind of stuff. But that’s the kind of thing they always say, you know? I’ve used those lines a few times myself. But, yeah, whatever the reason, the handwriting was on the wall. But it wasn’t final, or at least I didn’t think so.”
“But she quit her job here; that seems somewhat final.”
He nods. “I remember being surprised by that. We didn’t work in the same department, and even if she dumped me, it wasn’t like she was going to get fired. My father liked her, and I never would have been vindictive like that. We were really young. But those were strange times.”
The phone on Kyle’s desk rings. He can’t see it from where he’s sitting, but makes no effort to answer it.
“You want to get that?”
He shakes his head. “It’s my private line, which means it’s my wife. I’ll call her back, and she’ll remind me to pick up something at the market on the way home.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Four years. One child, three years old. I won’t force you to see pictures of her, but take it from me, she’s adorable.”
I’m sure I’m supposed to insist on seeing the pictures, but I don’t. “You were away the day Kristen was killed?”
“Yeah … hey, wait a minute, you think I might have killed her?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea. Do the names Freddie Siroka or George Taillon mean anything to you?”
He thinks for a moment. “No … should they?”
I was searching for a reaction—and got none. Which of course means absolutely nothing. “Did you know Noah Traynor?”
“Your client? No, never met him, and Kristen never mentioned him to me. The first I heard of him was when they announced the arrest.” Then, “Look, if you’re trying to make a case that I killed Kristen, or even got someone else to do it, you’re really wasting your time. Although I guess I’d be saying that even if I did it.”
“I’m just covering all the bases, but thanks for answering my questions.”
The door opens and a young woman peers in. “Mr. Carpenter, Mr. Wainwright would like to talk to you before you leave.”
“Uh-oh … that’s my father,” Kyle says. “You’re going to get sent to your room without supper.”
The woman smiles at what I guess is a common joke around here. “If you’re ready, you could just follow me.…”
So I do. I follow her to the office all the way down the hall to the other corner office, on the opposite side of Kennon’s. But Arthur Wainwright’s office makes Kennon’s and Kyle’s look like telephone booths, if telephone booths still existed.
The woman knocks on the door, then opens it. Arthur Wainwright looks up from his desk as if annoyed, which seems unusual since he requested the meeting. He calls me in with a hand motion, and in the reverse motion seems to dismiss the woman. This guy is good with his hands.
“I want you to leave my son alone,” he says.
“Fine, thanks, how are you?”
“I mean it. He’s been through enough.”
“We had a conversation; no threats and no punches thrown. He seemed like he came out of it pretty well. But if you’re worried, I’ll send him some flowers. What’s his favorite color?”
“I know all about you, Carpenter.”
“You do? Then what’s my favorite color?”
“Get out of here.”
“You just asked me to come in. Are you rescinding your invitation?”
“Leave now.”
“Your son is a grown man. What are you so afraid of?”
“Would you like me to have you thrown out?”
“Believe me, I’ve been thrown out of better places by better people,” I say as I leave. It’s a pretty good exit line and would be even better if it weren’t true.
Gale Halpern was Kristen McNeil’s best friend.
At least that’s how she was characterized in a number of media stories at the time of Kristen’s death, as well as in many of the follow-up stories since. She wasn’t talking to the press in the weeks following the crime, but she’s given a couple of interviews in recent years.
Laurie has tracked her down and she agreed to talk to me. She asked that I come to her house, which is on Morlot Avenue in Fair Lawn. When I pull up, she comes out on the porch to greet me, shaking my hand with her right hand while cradling a baby girl in her left arm. At least I’m guessing it’s a girl; the blanket is pink.
We go inside and I almost trip over a small tricycle in the hallway. “I don’t think she’s ready for this yet.”
Gale laughs. “I don’t think so either. That belongs to Bobby; he’s my oldest. He’s almost seven.”
“Sounds like there’s more than two?”
She nods. “Chris … Christine … is three.”
This woman has her hands full, quite literally. It also once again highlights the terrible loss that occurred when her best friend died; Kristen might have gone on to bring other people into the world or cure some disease or just do kind things for people that needed kindness.
I am Andy Carpenter, sentimentalist.
“It’s so hard to believe it’s been fourteen years.” Gale points to a photograph in a frame on the mantel of two teenage girls, arms draped over each other’s shoulders, mugging for the camera. “That’s how I’ll always remember her because that’s how she’ll always be.”
“Do you know why she was running away?”
“Who said she was running away?”
It’s not a good sign that I know more about Kristen McNeil’s mind-set than the person I’m interviewing. “People who knew her.”
Gale shrugs. “I knew her as well as anyone, and she never told me that. But if it’s true, then I would think she was getting away from Kyle.”
“She was afraid of him?”
Gale nods. “I don’t mean physically; he never hit her or anything. But he was taking over her life and she was feeling confined. He wa
nted to know where she was all the time; I think that’s why he got her the job at his father’s company.”
“Did you know Noah Traynor?”
“Not by name, but I knew there was somebody.”
“Why?”
“I never said this before, but I think she was having an affair … although I guess at that age ‘affair’ sounds too sophisticated. She was fooling around, but she thought she was in love.”
“But you don’t know with who?”
“No, she wouldn’t say, which was unlike her. We talked about everything, or at least I thought so. But people keep secrets.”
“Do you think Kyle knew about it?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I’d bet he did. He knew every move she made. He was incredibly possessive.”
“Were you surprised when she quit her job?”
Gale nods. “Very. She loved that job and she really loved earning money. Kristen spent money faster than anyone I’ve ever known; she just loved to shop. She was making good money at her job, but was still borrowing from me.
“Kristen always wanted to be older than she was; she was in a hurry to get somewhere, but I don’t think she knew where. She seemed to think she’d know when she got there.”
“Was she interested in dating older men?” Kristen’s sister had said her impression was that Kristen might have been doing just that.
Gale almost does a double take. “How did you know that?”
“That’s a yes?”
Gale nods. “She talked about it a lot. I don’t know if she actually dated anyone older, but the idea certainly appealed to her.”
“If she loved her job, why would she have quit?”
“I wish I could help you. Maybe you’re right; maybe she was running away. But she had a life here, and family, and friends, and a job. If she was leaving all that, then something bad must have happened. Maybe the guy she was having the affair with dumped her. But I would say she was not running towards something; she was running away from something.”
There’s nothing more for me to learn from Gale, which is just as well, because she tells me that it’s diaper-changing time.
All in all, nothing that Gale said to me is positive for us, and it would likely be negative in the eyes of the jury. If Kristen was having a secret affair, then the most likely person she was having it with would be the guy she rendezvoused with outside Hinchliffe Stadium.
My only suspect, and it’s a stretch to even use that word, is Kyle Wainwright. Regardless of who Kristen might have been fooling around with, the result was that she was clearly separating from Kyle.
That would give him reason to be angry and lash out, particularly if he was as controlling as Gale makes him out to be. But he was out of town that day; that seems incontrovertible.
Do eighteen-year-old boys have the resources and connections to hire hit men? What about if they have rich fathers?
My next stop is the Coach House Diner on Route 4 to talk with Steven Halitzky, Kyle’s college roommate at Tufts. I’ve caught a break in that Halitzky lives in Short Hills and works in the city, so it was not inconvenient for him to stop here on the way home.
I’m sitting in a booth having coffee when he walks in, looks around the large restaurant, and comes right over to me. “How ya doing?” he asks, smiling.
“How did you know who I was?”
“Are you kidding? I’ve seen you on television a bunch of times. You’re a celebrity.”
I like this guy already. He sits down and orders coffee and an English muffin. We chitchat a bit and he tells me that he is the creative director at a Manhattan ad agency. “This is the first day this month I’ve been out of the office before eight o’clock.” Then, with a grin: “You’re my excuse.”
“Happy to do it. Have you stayed in touch with Kyle Wainwright?”
He shakes his head. “No, we see each other occasionally at get-togethers related to the school, but that’s it. We were roommates as freshmen in the dorm, but then we both got apartments off campus. We weren’t that close, which is a nice way of saying I didn’t like him very much. I don’t think he was crazy about me either. We weren’t enemies or anything; we just had different interests and attitudes about things.”
“Did he talk about the murder of his girlfriend, Kristen McNeil?”
Halitzky nods. “A few times, maybe more than a few.”
“Do you remember what he said?”
“Well, first of all, he said she was his ex-girlfriend, that they had broken up.”
“So he wasn’t terribly upset?”
“If he was, he hid it pretty well. And it sure didn’t stop him from dating and partying. I’m talking about right out of the gate.”
“Anything else you can tell me about him? Whether it relates to Kristen McNeil or not. I’m trying to get an accurate picture of who he is.”
“I’ll tell you one thing: I think it’s hilarious that he wound up working for his father.”
“Why?”
“He hated the guy. Talked about him like he was the worst father of all time; all he cared about was money and looking good. Apparently he used his high-priced lawyers to screw Kyle’s mother in the divorce and left them with basically nothing.”
“What brought Kyle and his father back together?”
Halitzky grins. “You tell me. You think money was involved? All I know is that Kyle said his father’s whole public persona, the charity stuff and everything, was a fake. That behind closed doors his father was … well, one time he called him a ‘piece of garbage.’”
We talk some more, but I don’t learn anything that seems significant. I thank Halitzky for coming, pay the check, and we both go our separate ways. I got some information today, about both Kristen McNeil and Kyle Wainwright. Like all information that I acquire during an investigation, it might someday prove useful, or not.
I’ll know when I know.
As Thanksgivings go, this one is more crowded than usual.
Laurie has invited Julie and Danny Traynor to join us, and they’ve brought Murphy, the dachshund. Tara has definitely taken a liking to Murphy, and they sort of wrestle and sniff each other a lot. I think Sebastian likes him and is excited to see him too, because a couple of times he’s summoned up the energy to blink.
Sam Willis is also going to join us, though he won’t be here until almost mealtime. My major focus is how to arrange it so that I get to watch the most football possible, a job made easier by Laurie’s being great about stuff like that.
The Traynor contingent arrived at ten thirty this morning, at my suggestion. I thought it would be fun for Danny to go down to the Tara Foundation to see all the rescue dogs. We have twenty-five there at all times; as we place them in homes, we just rescue more to take their place.
So Danny, Ricky, Tara, Murphy, Sebastian, and I head down there. We’re a little delayed because getting Sebastian up into the back of an SUV would ordinarily require a construction crane. But with Laurie’s and Julie’s help, I manage it, and we’re off.
Willie Miller and his wife, Sondra, are waiting for us, even though the foundation is closed today. It is remarkable how much they love doing this, and I very much appreciate how they don’t begrudge my putting in so many fewer hours than they do, especially when I’m on a case.
Willie lets all the dogs out into the main play area, and Ricky, Danny, Murphy, and Tara dive right into the middle of it. If it is possible to have more fun than they do for a full hour, I’d like to see it. I’m exhausted from watching them.
Doing this was a great idea, especially since football doesn’t start until twelve thirty. It even briefly takes my mind off the fact that I am making no progress in avoiding a lifetime in jail for Danny’s father. Emphasis on the word briefly …
We head back home, and Sam comes over in time to watch the Lions play the Packers. Ricky and Danny start to watch with us, but then Ricky suggests that they stop watching the television to go out in the backyard and play.
Where
did I go wrong?
We eat the meal between games. It’s so good that I don’t even mind missing the first few minutes of the Redskins-Eagles game. Laurie has always been a great cook, but with Julie helping her, she has scaled new heights.
After dinner Sam and I head to the game, and at halftime he asks, “Did you get my email?”
“No; what email is that?”
“I tried to call you, but you were out investigating something and you had your phone off. So I emailed some stuff to you.”
I shake my head. “I stopped in the office, but my computer was down; the wireless wasn’t working.”
“That’s what happens when your internet provider owns a fruit stand.”
Sam has long been on my case for using the wireless that Sofia Hernandez provides. It’s always been good enough for me, except for the times it doesn’t work, which is too often. Sam, though his office is in the same building, has his own network.
I vow that I’ll change the setup, but we both know that I won’t. It’s too much trouble and involves too much technical stuff that I don’t want to deal with. Besides, when my imminent retirement is official, I won’t even keep the office.
“Should I open the email from here now, or can you summarize?”
“Open it when you get a chance, there’s a lot of detail in there. But I can tell you a couple of highlights if you want me to.”
“Please.”
“Okay. Taillon didn’t use his cell phone much, so it wasn’t hard to track the calls down. I went back twenty years; that’s as long as the phone company keeps records. He kept the same number down through the years, so that made it even easier. I’m sure he switched hardware a bunch of times.”
Sam tends to take forever to get to a point. “Sam, can we move this along? Halftime is almost over.”
“Okay. There are twenty-one calls that he received from eighteen different burner phones. As best I can tell, they were purchased, used maybe a few times, and never used again. I can’t trace who owned them.”
“Makes sense. I’m sure he dealt with people that didn’t want to be traced.”
Dachshund Through the Snow Page 9