Ice Shear

by M. P. Cooley

  Dave hit the gas, but he didn’t remove his hand. He tended to be casual with his affection, cuffing heads and resting his hand on people’s shoulders, so I felt a flash of embarrassment when I realized we were holding hands.

  “Do you want off?” he asked.

  “No!”

  Dave pulled his hand away. My vehemence surprised him, and me, too. “No. I like the work. And hey, this could be a way to get a little of my own back, right?”

  “Right. Won’t bring it up again.” He drummed a little song on the steering wheel. “You, me, and the G-man will have a strong and effective working relationship.”

  “Yeah, about that . . . ,” and I explained my suspicion that Hale was holding back some of the story about Marty’s father the enforcer and Danielle’s adventures in Los Angeles.

  That got Dave’s attention. “So you think it is related to the trouble she got into in L.A.?”

  “Maybe, although the Abominations shouldn’t be discounted—they are nothing but trouble. Marty’s patches were stripped—”

  “Marty could be faking leaving the gang.”

  “He could, but bikers take their patches very seriously. To have them stripped, well, bikers have very clear rules that require that a brother be beaten hard; if he survives, he can leave. Marty suffered to get those off, but the gang, and his family, are a dangerous connection.”

  We turned onto Saint Agnes Cemetery Highway. We passed hundreds of grave sites on the left, many of the stones sunk low, the letters rubbed away. Every relative of mine for generations was buried there. My eye went to where I knew Kevin’s grave was, out of sight but not out of mind, and I felt a pull: I never drove past without stopping.

  We turned right, and the land opened up, the houses elevated with great views of Vermont. Ahead, I saw a bunch of parked news vans, reporters clustered on the lawn. Dave pulled up to an ungated driveway guarded by two FBI agents who waved us through, cameras pressed to our windows. We drove up to a Tudor-style home, its high painted roof beams rising three stories. Hale paced the length of its long white porch, talking on his phone. He hung up when he saw us, and knocked on the door when we were still three steps down, leaving time for hellos and little else.

  The congresswoman’s assistant, a young woman with a navy blue suit, fake pearls, and the faintest hint of a Bronx accent, answered the door. She was all brisk solicitousness, introducing herself as Gloria before demanding our coats and then hanging them neatly in the hall closet. Behind an oak door on our right Amanda Brouillette’s voice could be heard, rising and falling like the ripples on a pond. Gloria stopped us before we could enter.

  “President,” she said, as though no further explanation was needed. She was right. Amanda Brouillette was often spoken of as the next candidate for vice president of the United States, so of course the president would extend his condolences.

  The young woman paced back and forth in front of the door, forcing us to keep a respectful distance. This gave me quality gawking time, at least of the foyer and what I could glimpse of the living room on my left. The walls of the hallway were creamy white, on the edge of gold, and rose up three stories. I felt child-sized. Not that the house was kid friendly. The living room had furniture upholstered in almost the same goldish white as the walls, the couch sharp-lined and unblemished. In my house it would stay clean for forty minutes before Lucy did something kiddish on it: cutting orange paper into tigers or pulling the cushions onto the floor to make a fort. Above a marble fireplace was a huge painting, nineteenth century, from the Hudson River School, which contrasted rather than clashed with the furniture. I couldn’t have said who the painter was but I knew the view: a bend in the river north of Rhinebeck. A designer, rather than the occupant, had chosen the tchotchkes on the side table.

  I didn’t fantasize about living here.

  Overall, this house had a certain substance, with moldings, hardwood floors, and thick doors that separated it from the McMansions that were popping up. And were the floors heated? I wanted to take off my shoes to check, but decided that might lessen my impact as a law enforcement professional.

  The study door swung open.

  “Hello, hello,” Amanda Brouillette said vigorously as the assistant led me and Dave to a leather couch next to the fireplace, while Hale stood behind us, keeping watch out the front window. The congresswoman wore small rimless glasses, a brown tweed skirt with a cream silk blouse, and real pearls, luminous against the freckles that dotted her pale Irish skin and offset her auburn hair. With my wool pants tucked into boots and pilled sweater, I felt like a Cossack.

  Rather than sitting with us, the congresswoman took her desk chair and swung it toward us, away from the wide oak desk that faced the backyard.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, her voice clear and calm across the several feet that separated us. “I had to take the call. You know how it is.” No, I had no idea how a call from the president was. “Gloria, can you grab Phil? He’s working on the heavy bag, and I bet he’s lost track of time.”

  “He boxes,” she explained, once Gloria had left. “Times, like now, when he doesn’t know what to do with himself, he takes himself down to the basement to his home gym and burns off all his extra energy. You’ll see, he’ll be calm when he gets here.”

  As introductions were made, I found myself watching the door for Phil Brouillette. In my research, he came off as nothing but your friendly neighborhood multimillionaire. He’d started at what was then Canal Paper at age fifteen as a barker, removing bark and dirt from the wood pulp used in manufacturing. Soon he was overseeing the department and then all operations. Eventually he bought it from the owners, an investment firm that wanted nothing to do with running a paper company after they’d raided the cash assets and retirement accounts. He moved quickly once in charge, turning the company into a digital document management center, and making it profitable for the first time in years. While I personally admired him because the sulfuric scent of paper manufacturing no longer came off the Mohawk River, the business press praised him for his self-taught ability to drag an old manufacturing company into the information age. He was considered a revolutionary; a revolutionary who, from everything I heard, liked to punch people.

  Dave had just run through the communications plan when Phil Brouillette hurtled in. He crossed the room to kiss his wife on the cheek before leaning against the desk behind her. He was a fireplug of a man, short with broad shoulders and thick forearms, perspiration stains ringing his sweatshirt—he didn’t look like he had the size to take down Marty Jelickson, but the bristle of energy off him made me think he had the will. His shoes and socks were off, the soaked edges of his sweatpants skimming surprisingly fine-boned feet. He reminded me of my uncles, strong men who smelled faintly of cigars and bourbon, and who always had a quarter for a Popsicle.

  The congresswoman introduced her husband and offered coffee, trying to give “another social call” mood to our interview, before getting down to business.

  “First, I need assurance that everything spoken here stays in this room,” she said. “My opponents would love to use this to crucify me politically, and I can’t have that.” Her voice was even, but she endlessly ran her finger over the edge of her glasses, as if feeling for flaws.

  “We can guarantee that, ma’am,” Dave said. Amanda waited, I realized, for me, and I nodded assent as well.

  Satisfied, she put her glasses back on. “So, what can you tell us about the status of the investigation?”

  “Yeah,” said Phillip Brouillette. “Who killed our daughter?”

  Dave launched into an edited version of the events of the day, leaving out details that even the parents didn’t need to know. While he talked, I watched as Amanda sized us up, taking in her opponents. She met my eyes, and I felt like I was in the principal’s office, which made sense: Amanda Brouillette was a former schoolteacher. Over the course of fifteen years she had leapfrogged up the ladder, going from municipal council to winning her firs
t congressional term. In her early fifties, she had kept her red hair longer than most women in politics, pulling it into a bun when she needed to get her schoolmarm look on with her fellow representatives.

  Dave got to the medical examiner’s findings, explaining how, with Danielle’s exposure to the elements, we could only narrow her time of death down to a broad window.

  “It seems as if these days, with all the advances in science, that we ought to be able to have a more definite time estimate,” Amanda Brouillette said. She looked past Dave and me to where Hale stood behind the couch. “Does the FBI have technologies that could aid in that, Special Agent Bascom?”

  “Ma’am”—Hale floated forward—“with the weather factor, we couldn’t do much better than the local labs.”

  Amanda’s eyes stayed on Hale even as Dave continued sharing the details. Periodically Hale would nod, silently affirming what Dave said; I guess we were lucky that he was backing up our statements. Phil Brouillette seemed to trust Dave, which was good. Ignored by both Brouillettes, I had a chance to study Phil. His puffy eyes and pale skin showed the wear that comes from lack of sleep, lack of food, or really, just lack. He was waiting for this to be fixed; I knew it never would be. His anger seemed uncontainable, and I thought it might make him dangerous in this interview, but his quiet, controlled wife might be the bigger threat in the long run.

  Amanda Brouillette detailed her movements on the night of Danielle’s murder: she was in DC for a fund-raiser, which finished after 11:00 P.M.

  “And you, Mr. Brouillette?” Dave asked. “Same schedule?”

  “You asking because we need alibis?” Phil Brouillette took a step forward.

  The congresswoman brushed her hand against her husband, her knuckles barely skimming his leg, and he rested back on the desk like a dog brought to heel. That was a nice trick she had.

  “What do you think of Marty Jelickson?” Dave asked. “Know him?”

  “I know him.” Phil spat out the words. “I know everything about him.”

  Dave widened his eyes, all innocence. “Spend a lot of time with him?”

  Phil choked out a laugh. “Not if I can help it. No, when Dani brought home her ‘true love’ I did a complete background check, and what that security firm found, it made me sick. Those Abominations don’t leave any slimy rock unturned—drug dealing, arms dealing, abusing women, prostitutes. There weren’t many things the little scumbag hadn’t been involved in, not that Dani listened.”

  “But you met him in person, before that,” I said, hoping to get a little more information on the fight with Marty. “When Danielle left school.”

  “Can I ask where you heard about that?” the congresswoman said.

  “The Jelicksons,” Dave said. “But we’d appreciate hearing your version, Danielle’s version.”

  “You know she was asked not to return for the fall semester, I assume,” Amanda said.

  That was a nice euphemism for expelled, I thought. Dave and I nodded.

  “What you must understand is that Danielle was blameless. The other young woman stole some of Danielle’s medication. Adderall. Danielle got a prescription in high school when we discovered that her low grades were caused by attention deficit disorder. It is, except for the rarest of exceptions, a very safe drug.”

  This was better than I’d hoped for. Misunderstanding my question, Amanda Brouillette was giving us all information on the incident that got Danielle thrown out of school.

  “It seems that the young woman didn’t know that she had a heart murmur,” Amanda said.

  Phil took over. “The girl had a heart attack. Almost died. Did die, for a minute or two. Thank Christ they lived close to the UCLA Medical Center.”

  “Your daughter and the woman lived together?”

  “Nah, Danielle couldn’t stand the dorms. Couldn’t stand the girl, either, but wouldn’t have hurt her.” Amanda Brouillette winced, and I wondered if she’d make him pay for stepping out of line, but Phil didn’t seem to notice.

  “So how did the girl get the pills?”

  “They had some classes together. She came over to study and took the bottle out of Danielle’s room. And they started to go after Danielle, accusing her of all kind of stuff—drug dealing, can you believe it?” Ignoring me and Hale, he waited until Dave nodded. “Once they found out who my wife was, who I was, and how it was my name on the new law school, they went to town.”

  Phil described how a multimillion-dollar lawsuit had been filed. The parents of the other girl had gotten the cops involved, who had lined up witnesses—“all liars,” Phil said—claiming his daughter was a drug dealer.

  “Obviously, they dropped the charges,” Amanda Brouillette said. “There was some confusion early on, but once the police realized that it was a prescription drug overdose, and that Dani had valid scripts from her New York, DC, and California doctors, they were happy to drop the case.”

  Interesting. Even if they were all legal, Danielle had access to a lot of Adderall and might have seen a way to make some extra cash.

  Phil Brouillette picked up the story from his wife. “And the girl’s family dropped the case once they received some cash, but it took my lawyer forever to get them to settle. All sorts of shenanigans regarding the timing of the payout and their pack of witnesses, college students who wanted to generate drama. The university backed up the little shit-stirrers. They wanted to pay us back for when we threatened to sue.”

  “What for?” Dave asked. “Problems with construction?”

  “Nah. Some sleazoid graduate TA tried to get Dani to sleep with him in exchange for an A. She turned him down and he gave her a C. He claimed she seduced him, but we had texts from the pervert, and between that and Dani’s testimony, he got kicked out of his graduate program. His wife divorced him, too, after we showed her the texts.”

  “Obviously, the university wanted to avoid controversy,” Amanda Brouillette said. “And though neither situation was Danielle’s fault, they were not willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, especially with a student hospitalized.”

  “My lawyer was pretty good,” Phil said, “got the family to settle for a quarter of what they asked, but he fucked up one thing. Well, two things. The school still kicked her out, and, worse, he had Danielle go to AA meetings so if this whole thing went to trial, she’d look penitent.”

  “And there was no need,” said the congresswoman. “Danielle never had a substance abuse problem.”

  “But she got to hang out with the dregs of humanity, and met that cretin of a husband at one of the meetings she went to. And when we were getting ready to move her back and I asked her if she knew any men who could help load up the furniture—not one of those college boys, but someone who could work—she came up with Marty and his friends.” Phil jutted out his chin. “He told you what happened?”

  “He told us,” Dave said.

  “Yeah, well, I was tired, tired from moving, tired from trying to manage my business from across the country, tired from the whole thing, and with Danielle screaming blue murder about how I was beating her, I decided to let her go, cool her jets. I certainly didn’t expect her to show up six months later married to the mover.”

  “Her marriage was a surprise to you?”

  “We lost touch for a while,” said Amanda. “She got a new cell phone number, and it took a bit of time for me to track her down. By the time I did, well, she barely mentioned Marty, honestly. She told me she missed me. She said she wanted to come home, and I told her she would always be welcome.”

  “And that was when?” Dave asked.

  “October,” she said. “And she was back two weeks later.”

  “Husband in tow, and she expected us to take him in with open arms. No way was I letting him and his deadbeat brother in the door.” Phil corralled himself, but his anger was seeping through the seams. Hale moved right up with us, perching on the arm of our couch. “Danielle was angry. My little girl wasn’t afraid to speak up.” Phil Brouillette pause
d, his hand on his forehead like he was pushing the information out. “That husband was just cold, though. He just left, pulled her out the door behind him without a word. A couple of days later he sent us a wedding album and a letter, a letter on paper, telling us he would do everything he could to make her happy.”

  Interesting. The picture of Marty I was getting didn’t quite jell with his background as a hardened biker. I had no doubt that he had the rage and skill to hurt someone, even kill someone, but it seemed to be paired with an old-fashioned courtliness. He used coasters, took care of those he loved, and sent letters—on paper no less—to his true love’s parents.

  “Do you have a copy of that letter?” I asked.

  “No, I was pissed off. I burned it.”

  “And the album?”

  “Threw it out,” Phil said. He balled his hands into fists. “Last pictures of our daughter, alive, and we threw them out.”

  “No,” Amanda said. “We didn’t.”

  She walked over to an oak filing cabinet, the fine wood giving off a warm glow. I would have identified it as an antique until she ran her finger along the edge and punched a security code into some well-hidden keys, releasing the drawer.

  She handed us the cream satin album. I slid next to Dave and we flipped through the pages together: Marty and Danielle standing under the entrance to a white tent garlanded with flowers, Marty in a tux and Danielle wearing the same dress that I had seen on Ray’s Facebook page. I could see the expensive detail in the fabric and the stitching of her gown, and with the camera not shooting down her cleavage and no flask in her hand, she looked almost demure.

  The rest of the shots depicted a pretty traditional wedding, albeit a DIY version. Supermarket flowers stuck in mason jars with ribbon tied around them dotted the tables, and Christmas lights gave the tent a gentle glow. There was no bar, but the food looked amazing: a salad garnished with brightly colored edible flowers, and shrimp skewers resting on rice studded with almonds.