A Filthy Business [Kindle in Motion]

by William Lashner

  “Gould? The Scarlett Gould case?”

  “That’s it exactly.”

  “You have a lead?”

  “I know something no one else knows.”

  “Yet you’re not expecting litigation or a settlement. And there is no place for the client’s signature on the referral agreement.”

  “We will not be informing the client of our arrangement.”

  “You must not be so careful a lawyer, Mr. Triplett. The rules are clear. Without the client’s consent this agreement is not enforceable.”

  “Not by a court, if you get my drift. But I don’t want you thinking that you could screw me with a loophole, Alberto. That would be a dangerous thought, do you understand?”

  “What am I supposed to understand?”

  “I am here in good faith. I’m assuming the same from you. But you won’t want to disappoint me as you disappointed the Patels. I have no scruples.”

  “Everyone has some scruples.”

  “I am the exception.”

  “Shady, shady, shady. I am beginning to have serious reservations.”

  “Good. That only goes to show your shining intelligence. If you agree, I’ll set up an appointment and tomorrow we’ll drive up together to Baltimore where the Goulds live. You’ll be meeting them without me.”

  “And they’ll agree?”

  “That’s the trick. But you’ll convince them, Alberto, I have faith. I’ll brief you on what to say on the drive. By now, what they want more than anything are answers, and you will promise to get them. Then, with signatures in tow, you’ll hand a copy of the contingency fee agreement to me and return to your seat at the bar top. I’ll take it from there.”

  “There was a time when my reputation was impeccable, beyond impeccable, when speeches were given in my honor. In those days I would have thrown you from my office with my own two hands.”

  “Time’s a bitch.”

  “Seven thousand?”

  “As soon as the family signs.”

  He stared at me for a moment and then shook his head with a weary sadness. As he scrawled Alberto Menendez on the referral agreement, he said, “La necesidad tiene cara de perro.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s from García Márquez,” said Alberto. “It is what I have learned to be truth ever since the incident with Patel. ‘Necessity has the face of a dog.’”

  18. Interrogations

  I was planning to go to law school,” said Bradley Beamon, Scarlett Gould’s ex-boyfriend. He was the most obvious suspect; isn’t it always the ex-boyfriend with blood on his hands? We were in the living room of his parents’ brick split-level just north of the northern curve of the Beltway. The house smelled of onions, the couch sagged beneath a plaid throw, a side table was populated with a corps of porcelain figurines: children and ballerinas and dogs.

  “I was working as a paralegal at one of the best firms in the city. I had my own place, I was building a life. And then . . .”

  As Bradley’s voice trailed off into a sad reverie over lost opportunity, his mother bustled in with tea service on a silver-plated tray. “All I had was Lipton, I hope that’s all right,” she said.

  “Mom.”

  “I’m just being polite.” His mother, a chunky block of worry, had dressed for the occasion. Her print dress was faded, she had put on stockings, her shoes were so sensible they had become accountants. “It pays to be polite even in difficult circumstances. Isn’t that right, Mr. Johnstone?”

  “I’ve always thought so, ma’am,” said Gordon.

  “Sugar, Mr. Triplett?”

  “Oh yes, thank you. And I must say, Mrs. Beamon, I love the figurines. Lladró?”

  “A few yes,” she said, brightening. “How fine of you to notice. And do you see the cute little boy reading the newspaper on the toilet? That’s a Hummel.”

  “Ooh,” I said. “Hummel.”

  “He always reminded me of Bradley.”

  “Mom.”

  “Except Bradley wasn’t reading the newspaper.”

  “Mom, for Chrissakes, we’re talking here.”

  “Let me pour and then I’ll be out of your hair. I can keep myself busy in the kitchen. You really think you can help my son, Mr. Johnstone?”

  “That’s the hope,” said Gordon. “The lawyer we work for, Alberto Menendez, represents the Gould family. The family is convinced that the police department’s early obsession with Bradley allowed other possible avenues of investigation to wither. We’re out to rectify that.”

  “It’s about time someone took an interest in Bradley’s well-being,” said Mrs. Beamon. “The new police detectives were here just the other day. I don’t think they care one whit about Bradley, or that girl if you ask me.”

  “What is it you think they care about?” I said.

  “Clearing their docket, getting their faces in the paper, writing their names in the sky while pissing on the back of my son.”

  “Mom.”

  “That’s just the way I feel. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

  We waited quietly as Mrs. Beamon and her church shoes made their exit, along with any possibility that her son had killed Scarlett Gould. It was in the looseness of Mrs. Beamon’s stockings, in the sensible height of her shoes, in the plaid throw on the couch, in the Lladrós and the Hummels and the scent of onions. The fact that we were involved meant that someone had spent an obscene amount of money to protect a killer, and no one would spend that kind of money to save the likes of that woman’s son.

  Bradley Beamon was fair, with pale eyes that were focused on his nervous hands. He wasn’t that much younger than me, but it was if we were of different generations entirely, what with his lost-boyishness and the way he squirmed when his mother was in the room. He wore a T-shirt, jeans, sandals, really. On his jaw were the weak beginnings of an attempted beard. Whatever confidence he had carried as a Phi Gamma Delta at Maryland had been stepped on like a toad.

  “We appreciate you meeting with us today, Bradley,” I said. “There’s a lot to discuss, I know, but for now we just want to talk about one aspect of the case, if that’s all right.”

  “I have plenty of time. There’s not too much job demand for a paralegal suspected in a murder investigation.”

  “From what we understand, you and Scarlett broke up at the beginning of November. But the shaming and threats coming from you in social media didn’t happen until January, shortly before her murder. Why the gap?”

  “I guess I didn’t believe we were done at the start. It was sort of a mutual thing at first, but I figured after each of us played around some, we’d just start it over again. I always expected Scarlett and I would end up together. The breakup wasn’t like the papers made it seem, all angry and bitter, at least at the beginning. It was just sad.”

  “Then what happened?” said Gordon.

  “Something changed. We were talking more and more, on the edge of maybe giving it another try, and then suddenly her attitude changed. And I knew without a doubt what had happened.”

  “What was that?”

  “She had started screwing someone else.”

  “She told you this?”

  “No, but I could tell.”

  “Did you have any idea who it was?”

  “None. I still don’t.”

  “There was no indication of a new relationship on any of her social media accounts. And apparently none of her friends were aware of any new boyfriend.”

  “I know that. When I told this to the cops right off, they came back and told me there wasn’t anyone, as far as they could tell. But there was someone, I’m sure of it.”

  “How are you so sure, Bradley?”

  “I knew Scarlett. I could read her. It was in her voice, a sort of upswing at the end of all her words, as if there was someone there with her while she talked to me, breathing on her neck as she blew me off.”

  “And that’s why you called her the names you did on Facebook and in the text messages? And that’s w
hy you posted that threat?”

  “I didn’t react well. I reacted terribly. I regret that every day, and not just for the trouble I caused myself. The last emotions she ever got from me were bitterness and hate.”

  “The thing with the ivory-billed woodpecker might have been a mite much,” said Gordon.

  “You think? Christ. I’ve been off social media for a year. Some people just can’t handle it. But I didn’t kill her. I loved her. I still do.”

  “I believe you,” I said, and this was where I put a hand on his knee and gave him my version of Caroline Brook’s empathetic gaze. “We’re going to help you, Bradley. We’re going to get this monkey off your back. We just have one more question. If you don’t know who she was sleeping with, of all her friends, who would?”

  From the digital recording:

  Q: This is a session between Caroline Brooks, MD, and a patient we will refer to only as Phil. I’ll be recording my questions and your answers, if that’s okay with you, Phil. I’m going to need a verbal response.

  A: Fine. Record away.

  Q: All right, let’s begin. On a scale of one to five, with five being total agreement, where would you put the following statement: Even if I were trying very hard to sell something, I wouldn’t lie about it.

  [Laughter]

  Q: What’s so funny?”

  A: I thought this would be difficult. Let’s give it a zero.

  Q: The lowest allowed is one.

  A: The reason I lost my sales job was that I was too good a liar.

  Q: Was that the only reason?

  A: Well, the lying, and also that I slept with the boss’s girlfriend.

  Q: Did you know that would cause a problem?

  A: He specifically told me not to sleep with her when he hired me.

  Q: But still you did it.

  A: Well, we didn’t exactly sleep. And her breasts were legendary. If you had seen them, you would know I didn’t have much choice in the matter.

  Q: It wasn’t your fault, it was her fault.

  A: Well, the fault of her breasts, I suppose. Joey had spent a lot of money on them and it was all well spent. If he had spent a little less, maybe I would have thought twice.

  Q: So now it was this Joey’s fault.

  A: Joey Mitts. He was sort of like a father to me.

  “What did that creep say about me?” said Denise Brucker, leaning against a wall outside the coffee shop, squinting into the sun as she spoke to me and Riley. She was a thick girl in a green smock with a ponytail and a pout.

  “Only good things,” I said.

  “I bet.” Her tattooed hands fumbled a bit as she lit a cigarette.

  “You seem to have had a sorry history with Bradley?” said Riley.

  “Let’s just say we had a conflict of interest,” said Denise.

  “And the interest was Scarlett?”

  “Who are you again?”

  “I’m Riley. Hi.”

  She looked at Riley, at me, and then again at Riley. “And why are you here?”

  “We represent Scarlett’s family,” I said, taking a copy of the contingency fee agreement from my jacket pocket and handing it to her to examine. “The family is trying to learn what really happened to Scarlett. Bradley sensed that she was seeing someone new at the time of her murder. He said if anyone would have known the truth, it would have been you.”

  “He’s a worm,” she said as she looked over the document. “He always has been. That thing with the woodpecker? Typical sexist troll stuff. With men, somehow or other it always comes back to violence. Are you Menendez?”

  “We work for Menendez,” I said. “I’m Dick, this is Riley, you’re Denise. And you know as well as we do that Bradley might be an asshole, but he doesn’t have the stones to have killed her.”

  She handed back the document, took a long drag, looked down the street.

  “So what’s the story between the three of you?” said Riley.

  “There is no story. Scarlett and I were friends and he was screwing her. That’s the end of that.”

  “But according to him,” I said, “you were screwing her first.”

  “It wasn’t like that.” She ruefully laughed out some smoke. “Well, maybe it was exactly like that. We were all at College Park together. She was a sorority girl, I was a GDI.”

  “GDI?”

  “Goddamned independent. It’s what the Greek assholes called those who chose not to join their little clusterfucks. But then one night Scarlett and I hooked up and we kept at it for a bit. She was experimenting, so she said. That’s always a good word to convince yourself that it isn’t real. Like I’m really an artist but I’m experimenting at being a barista. When the experiment got a little too heated, she got scared and broke it off. And then, when she was at her most confused, Bradley the frat asshole swooped in. So that was the end of that little affair. But we still hung out a lot.”

  “I bet that was a boatload of laughs,” said Riley.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, you were still in love with the girl, right?”

  Denise took another drag of her cigarette.

  “Are you denying it?”

  Denise shrugged before exhaling.

  “Still in love,” said Riley, “but you could only be a friend, a confidante. It’s what we do in middle school. Pajama parties, brushing each other’s hair as a substitute for brushing something else. But you were a little old for that role, weren’t you?”

  “I’ve got to get back to my shift.”

  “What’s that tattooed on your wrist?” I said.

  “Nothing.”

  I reached out and gently took hold of her hand, turned it over. “Gabba Gabba Hey,” I read. “And Scarlett named her cat Didi. What is it with you guys and the Ramones?”

  She pulled her hand away, looked at Riley, looked away. “Whenever a Ramones song came on, wherever we were, even after we stopped screwing, we used to slam-dance like crazy. The floor would clear in self-defense as the two bat-shit crazy girls went at it. It was our bit.”

  “That must have been something,” said Riley.

  “It kept us together. But the Ramones are all dead now.”

  “And so is Scarlett,” said Riley. “Was she seeing anyone new just before she was killed?”

  “I already told this to the cops,” said Denise. “She told me pretty much everything, and she never told me about anyone serious, anyone that mattered.”

  “But I’m sure there were some things she wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Like what?”

  “You tell me,” said Riley.

  “Did the lawyer send you over here thinking that I’d open up to you in a way I wouldn’t open up to your friend with the ridiculous hair?”

  “Too much gel?” I said.

  “Do you buy it by the keg? Look, I’ve got to get back before my manager starts giving me the stink eye.”

  “Maybe we could talk more a little later,” said Riley. “After your shift? When do you get off?”

  “What are you going to do? Take me out, souse me up, put your hand on my leg, and pump me for information?”

  “I don’t know about you,” said Riley, “but that sounds like a night to me.”

  Denise’s pout twitched.

  From the digital recording:

  Q: Let’s continue, Phil. One to five, with complete agreement being a five: I often admire a really clever scam.

  A: Five. When I hear something that went over like gangbusters, the only thing I feel, other than admiration, is resentment that I didn’t think of it myself.

  Q: Even if it involved cheating other people.

  A: Especially that. The way things are today, the way the economy’s tilted against anyone who didn’t end up on the right side of that silver spoon, I think we’re justified in doing anything we can to succeed. Behind every great fortune is a crime. Who said that?

  Q: Balzac?

  A: No, maybe that was Joey Mitts, too. What’s right is whatever we can ge
t away with. People who are stupid enough to get ripped off usually deserve it, anyway. Losers are losers because they want to lose.

  Q: And you’re a winner.

  A: You said it, not me.

  Q: You know, Phil, you’re sounding a bit defensive. Your voice has an edge to it.

  A: This is why I lie. I tell people what they want to hear and they like me better.

  Q: And you want to be liked.

  A: I want people to like me, sure. If I ever let them see what was really inside, they’d run away screaming, and then where would I be?

  Q: What is it that is really inside?

  A: Ice.

  Q: Does it get lonely?

  A: Never.

  Q: On a scale of one to five, with total agreement a five: Love is overrated.

  A: Really, that’s your question?

  Q: What’s your answer?

  A: The only things not overrated are a good crap and a boatload of money.

  Q: Why is money not overrated?

  A: Because it doesn’t give a damn about who holds it. It doesn’t want to peer into your soul. It doesn’t judge you because it doesn’t care about you. It caresses your cheek or rips out your heart and it is the same either way. It just is. And what it is is perfect.

  The next morning, in shorts and sweat-soaked T-shirt, I rode the elevator up from the gym. When the doors opened at my floor, I found Denise Brucker waiting for a ride down. She glanced up from her phone, blinked at me, and then looked down again.

  “Good workout?” she said flatly as she walked past me into the elevator.

  “Yes, thank you,” I said as I walked out. “And you?”

  After my shower, I found Riley in the suite, sitting at the dining table, staring at one of the computers, her face as impassive as the screen.

  “Anything interesting?” I said.

  “I’m looking at some ritzy apartment building in the District. The lap of luxury on Connecticut Avenue, surrounded by all the fancy embassies. Seven stories, twenty-six units, all co-op, starting at about a cool mil.”