The Player

by Brad Parks

  “Yeah, but those guys like to take their time,” I said. “And we pretty much already know it’s arson. So I’m not too worried about that. What else?”

  “That’s it,” she said.

  I pondered this all for a few seconds, then said, “Okay, type up what you got and send it to Tommy and me. And when you’re done, why don’t you go out to West Orange and work the neighborhood a little bit. See if anyone knows anything about the life and times of the former Barry McAlister that we don’t. Or, better yet, ask if anyone saw anything shortly before he became the former Barry McAlister. I’m sure the police have already done that, but it’d be cool if we got it, too. And…”

  I was trying to think of what else I could have Pigeon work on when Tommy raised his hand, as if waiting to be called on.

  “Yes, Tommy?”

  “She also might want to ask if there were any signs he was having money troubles,” he said.

  “Oh? Him too?”

  “Yeah. I had sort of reached the end of my snooping on Vaughn, so I started looking into Barry,” Tommy said.

  “Which is exactly what I would have told you to do if you had asked. My little intern has grown up so fast.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” he said. “Anyhow, it turns out Barry started selling off his apartment buildings about ten years ago.”

  “About the time Vaughn was starting the commercial side of McAlister Properties,” I interjected.

  “Exactly,” Tommy said. “It looks like he was sort of selling them off one at a time. In dribs and drabs over the course of the last decade, he sold seven buildings for a total of $10.2 million.”

  “I’m sure he had loans left on some of those. But even assuming that wasn’t all profit, that’s not a bad little retirement account.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think any of it is left,” Tommy said. “About a year ago he applied for a reverse mortgage on his house. And he just took out a home equity loan, too. So it seems like he was scraping around for cash.”

  “Jeez, what’s with these McAlister boys and money?” I said. “They kept acting like they didn’t have any cash, yet all the while they had lots of it.”

  “Yeah, are you sure about that?” Tommy asked.

  “It’s what Marcia Fenstermacher told me. And I don’t think she was lying to me. She even promised to let me have a look at their P-and-L statement.”

  “Did you take her up on the offer?”

  “Not yet. We talked at her house and she said it was at the office.”

  “You think she’d mind if I looked, too?” Tommy asked. “I might see something in there that lets us make sense of everything. I’ve done so much work on McAlister Properties’ finances at this point I feel like I could apply for a job as their accountant.”

  “She probably won’t want you to print things that are proprietary,” I said. “But I think she knows the cops aren’t showing much interest in Vaughn’s murder, so we’re kind of her only hope. But there’s one way to find out.”

  Interns are sometimes wont to make things harder than they really need to be, so with Tommy and Pigeon looking at me curiously, I completed the thought for them:

  “Call her and ask her.”

  * * *

  Breaking our huddle, I returned to my desk. There was no answer at the offices of McAlister Properties, so I tried Marcia’s home number. It rang four times and I was thinking I’d have to leave her a message when she answered.

  “Hello?” she said, breathing heavily.

  “Hey, Marcia, it’s Carter Ross,” I said. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, sorry, I was outside and I thought you were going to be the insurance company calling back and I didn’t want to miss the call so I sprinted to the phone.”

  “The insurance company?”

  “Yeah. My house was broken into this morning. The police have already been out here. The insurance company is supposed to be sending an adjuster out. It’s just, ugh, like I didn’t have enough going on with Vaughn’s funeral and now Barry and—”

  “Wait, wait, slow down, your house was broken into?” I said.

  It could have been a coincidence, sure. But this was another one of those things—like the fire at Barry McAlister’s place—that felt decidedly un-random. There was some kind of unknown, unseen actor, constantly setting things into motion, but I still didn’t know who it was or what was motivating it all.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Can you believe it?”

  “What did they take?”

  “Oh, I can barely even tell yet, they made such a mess of the place. All of my jewelry is gone, for sure. So are some of the electronics. And Trevor’s computer. And the silver. They didn’t take the crystal, but they grabbed pretty much anything else they thought would have quick resale value.”

  “And it happened this morning?”

  “Yep. While I was out running some errands. The police think that maybe they were watching the place and waited until I left. It’s so creepy. People always talk about how violated they feel when something like this happens, and it’s true. Some of what was stolen was Vaughn’s and it’s like, I don’t know, losing another part of him. I know it’s just stuff and I should be happy no one was hurt. But I don’t know how much more I can take right now.”

  Her voice was faltering. The woman whose life had been all about control was doing her damnedest to hold it together in the face of a series of events that could have unhinged anyone. Resilience in the face of tragedy is a fascinating area of study, and psychologists are only beginning to understand why some people are more resilient than others. But, whatever the secret ingredient was, Marcia Fenstermacher seemed to have it.

  “Marcia I’m … I don’t even know what to say. I’m so sorry. That’s … awful.”

  I heard her sniffle twice and breath heavily before she said, “Anyhow. Sorry to dump that on you. Were you calling about something?”

  There comes a point when even the most dogged reporter has to put his humanity first. And there was no way in good conscience I could dump more on this woman. So I just said, “Yeah, but forget it. You’ve got enough to worry about.”

  “No, what is it?” she said.

  “Marcia, seriously, it’s just something for the story about Vaughn. It can wait.”

  “Please. I want to help. I … I … really could use any distraction at this point. I promise I’ll have a good, long nervous breakdown when this is all over—I’ve got it scheduled for two weeks from now. But in the meantime, you’re the only person who is trying to make any sense of what’s going on. So, please, distract me.”

  I allowed a small pause into our conversation before saying, “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” she confirmed.

  “Okay. Well, you said I could look at that P-and-L statement you had at the office. I was hoping maybe a colleague and I could do that this afternoon.”

  “How long do you think it would take?”

  “I don’t know. Fifteen minutes?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Five minutes to three.”

  “All right. Why don’t you meet me in the office at three forty-five.”

  “Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?”

  “Absolutely. We had all decided to close the offices for the rest of the week—it’s not like anyone was getting anything done anyway—but I actually have to be in the office at four anyway. Will Imperiale’s secretary called to set up an emergency meeting.”

  Will Imperiale. There he was again. “And what did he want?”

  “I don’t know exactly. She said he was going to make some kind of take-it-or-leave-it settlement offer that’s going to be so good I won’t be able to refuse it. But it’s only on the table through the end of today.”

  “That’s sort of curious. You know he’s been telling his clients that the thing is settled already,” I said, then filled Marcia in on the conflicting conversations on this subject I’d had with Jackie Orr and Kevin Ryan.

  “Well, as far as I
know, Kevin is right,” Marcia said when I was done. “Vaughn never mentioned anything about a settlement to me, either. And it’s hard to believe he would have kept something like that from me and Kevin.”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I said. “But, wait. Imperiale wants a meeting with you? Why you? No offense, but what authority do you even have to make a settlement on behalf of McAlister Properties?”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’m now part owner of McAlister Properties. Vaughn left his share of the company to me in his will.”

  “I see. So if you own half, who owns the other half?”

  “Actually, that might be me, too. Barry McAlister had owned the other half. I haven’t seen his will yet, but I’m guessing he left his half to Vaughn. It’s not like he has any other close relatives. And if that’s the case, then it’s mine, too.”

  So the woman who had started as a clerical employee was now, perhaps, the sole proprietor of McAlister Properties. That was an interesting twist.

  “You like being the boss?” I asked.

  “Believe me, I was a lot more happy being the secretary. I don’t really even know what to do. Vaughn used to talk to me about all this stuff, so I basically understand it. But when it comes to the banks and the tenants and all the vendors and everything … I don’t mean to sound like an idiot, but he was always the one who made the decisions. I’m not sure … Well, anyway, I guess it’s just one more thing I’ll have to deal with before I have that nervous breakdown.”

  “Right,” I said. “So I’ll see you at three forty-five?”

  “Yep. See you then.”

  * * *

  As I hung up the phone, I was feeling pretty good about things, with the afternoon all mapped out:

  I needed to be at my parents’ house at four thirty, or else my mother would send out the National Guard to hunt me down. But it was only a twenty-minute ride from Newark to Millburn, twenty-five with traffic. As long as I left Newark at four, I would make it to Millburn in plenty of time.

  My good mood lasted for another twenty-eight seconds, which is the amount of time that I was able to sit in my chair unharassed before I heard a loud noise coming from Tina’s office.

  Worse, it sounded like my name.

  “Carter Ross!” she repeated.

  I looked over and once again saw her standing near the entrance to her office, doing that finger-crooking thing. I complied and was barely inside when she said, “It’s about the wedding. Close the door.”

  I shut the door behind me, then sat down. I immediately feared the worst: she had heard that Kira was coming as my date. And now I was going to get in trouble not only for that but also for not having told her. She would, of course, insist it was the second part that bothered her—she would lay it on thick about trust and communication and all that. We would never acknowledge that the first part was really the sticker, because then she’d have to actually admit she cared for me.

  She was drumming her fingers and shaking her head.

  “It’s just a shame,” she said.

  “What?”

  “That your baby is going to be born fatherless.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, I swear, I’m going to kill you. Your mother called last night and asked if I could come to her house at four thirty today so we could all go over to the rehearsal dinner together.”

  She said “together” with special disdain. Like she was saying “anthrax” or “cholera outbreak” or “The Bachelor: season 18.” But I was actually feeling strangely buoyed. I still had, what, ninety minutes or so to figure out how I was going to finesse the situation in a way that didn’t involve Tina severing my head from my shoulders.

  “And why is that my fault?” I asked. “I can’t exactly control my mom. You’re the one who is such good friends with her. She invited you to the wedding, not me, remember?”

  “Yeah, but you’re supposed to serve as a buffer between me and that which might be upsetting to me. I’m pregnant! I’m … in a delicate condition!”

  “With all due respect to the future mother of my child, I’m not sure you and ‘delicate’ belong in the same sentence.”

  “Whatever. I shouldn’t have to survive one-on-one time with your family without you there to run interference for me. Your mother stays on good behavior when you’re around. But if you’re not there, she starts asking all these questions. It might get ugly. Just tell me you will be there on time.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there. I’ve got a meeting with Marcia Fenstermacher at three forty-five but it’s in downtown Newark at McAlister Place and it’ll only take fifteen minutes. I’ll be prompt. I promise.”

  “Marcia Fenstermacher,” she said, giving her head a tilt that indicated her confusion. “I thought we were thinking she was the one who killed Vaughn.”

  “Yeah, that theory is now out of fashion. It’s so … so yesterday afternoon. We’ve got a much more nuanced understanding of the situation now.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Actually, I have no idea. But it doesn’t look like Marcia Fenstermacher is our culprit.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the theory was that Vaughn was going back to his ex-wife, Lisa Denbigh, and Marcia killed him out of jealousy. But I talked to Lisa and it really sounded like nothing of the sort was happening. And, I don’t know, I think Marcia and Vaughn were really in love. Besides, if this was a lovers’ quarrel, Barry McAlister would still be alive, not sitting in a pile of ashes at the Essex County Medical Examiner’s Office.”

  “So you’re sure she has no motive? Nothing to gain financially by Vaughn being dead?”

  “Um,” is all I could say. Otherwise, I would have had to make a baaing sound, because I was feeling a little sheepish. As usual, Tina had a point.

  “What?”

  “Well, I was starting to think that maybe this sleazy lawyer, Will Imperiale, had something to do with this, because it seems like everywhere I turn, he’s there. But now that you mention it, Vaughn did leave Marcia his interest in McAlister Properties in his will. And … uh…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, we don’t know what Barry’s will says. But if Vaughn is his sole heir, that means Marcia would get that, too. So McAlister Properties would effectively become hers alone.”

  Tina was shaking her head at me. “Did you know that ‘gullible’ is not in the dictionary?”

  “Aw, come on,” I started, but she cut me off.

  “Actually, I don’t care. We’re not playing Columbo here. We don’t need to crack the case. What we need is something to put in Sunday’s newspaper. Brodie still has major wood for this thing. He’s like a teenage boy who has found his father’s stash of porno magazines.”

  “I think most teenage boys know how to get porn off the Internet these days.”

  “Don’t quibble with my metaphor. Just tell me you can cobble together something for Sunday.”

  I sat with my chin in my hand for a moment, because I figured that would make what came next seem more thoughtful.

  “Let’s go big picture,” I said. “Make it one of those ‘The Rise and Fall of McAlister Properties,’ the homegrown company that once had so much promise but now appears to be in tatters.”

  “That sounds kind of soft. What would it conclude?”

  “It wouldn’t. It would just sort of lay out what we know.”

  “Talk it out for me,” she said.

  “Okay, you go with the big doomsday opening, about how death, destruction, and apocalypse has rained down on this once-prospering, Newark-based company. Then you go to the narrative. Start with Barry’s slow rise as a landlord in rough-and-tumble postriot Newark, then with him selling his buildings so Vaughn can go into commercial real estate. Vaughn acquires some nice-sized buildings downtown and slaps his name on them, but he wants the brass ring—McAlister Arms, the shiny project he develops himself and really puts him in the big time. And then things start going awry. Thanks to a rash of break-ins, his buildings start losing t
enants and bleeding cash, so in desperation he pockets the money that’s supposed to be earmarked for cleaning up this new property, getting a fake LSRP to sign off on it. Then people start getting sick. Then McAlister Arms loses its blue-chip tenant. Now McAlister Properties is getting sued by the sleazy lawyer and the McAlister boys are getting dead for reasons the authorities are still investigating.”

  “Sounds good. But can you deliver all that?”

  “As long as you don’t get too picky with me on the sourcing? Yeah.”

  “And you have time to write it?”

  “I’ll let Tommy and Pigeon come up with a rough draft tonight, then I’ll have time to make it pretty—and you’ll have time to edit it—tomorrow before the wedding.”

  “Okay. But why do I feel a little sick?”

  “It’s probably the baby.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s because, as usual, you have no real idea what’s going on and I’m afraid it’s going to get you in trouble.”

  “My soon-to-be brother-in-law Gary is a state trooper. If you’re worried, just call him. I’m part of the family now. Besides, I thought you were the one who’s ‘in trouble.’”

  “What do you…” she started, then the double entendre caught up with her. She just shook her head and said, “You’re awful.”

  “Sorry,” I said, grinning.

  “Just be careful with Miss Fenstermacher,” she said as I rose from the chair. “I know you think she’s just the harmless secretary, but it’s just a little too convenient how this has lined up for her.”

  “I promise,” I said. “I won’t turn my back on her.”

  * * *

  Departing Tina’s office, I gathered Tommy and Pigeon one last time to talk them through the story we were going to craft for Sunday’s edition. I told Pigeon to head back out to Barry McAlister’s neighborhood and see if she could gather any more string there. Then Tommy and I made our departure for McAlister Place, taking separate cars so I could make my Millburn getaway at the appointed time.

  As I drove, I thought through that basic story sketch I had laid out for Tina. I kept trying to pinpoint what might have been the catalyst for the murder and mayhem that had visited the McAlisters. Some of it seemed a long time coming—the business hadn’t started struggling with vacancy overnight—while other factors, like losing Best Buy and getting sued, were more immediate. Those things seemed more likely triggers. But, again, until I developed a better theory on who was doing this, I was likely to be a little lost on the why.