Dead Certain: A Novel

by Adam Mitzner

  Standing behind me, Gabriel extends his hand to Zach.

  “Mr. Rawls, I’m Gabriel Velasquez. I’m very sorry we have to meet like this, but I greatly appreciate you coming in. I’ve already spoken to Ella, so why don’t you and I spend a little time together?”

  I look for some tell of surprise from Gabriel that Zach is African American. If Zach’s race was not what Gabriel was expecting, he doesn’t show it.

  Gabriel leads Zach back down the hallway, and I replace Zach in the wooden chair. As soon as they retreat into Gabriel’s office, I begin to cry.

  Zach’s with Gabriel for an hour. When the office door finally swings open, Zach exits and then proceeds to walk right by me. No hug. Not even a good-bye. He wants to get out of the building as fast as possible.

  Gabriel is a step behind him. “Come in,” he says to me.

  I’m literally shaking, holding my hands together so as not to show it, as I wait for Gabriel to tell me what Zach had said. I knew he hadn’t confessed because if he had, they would have arrested him. But something must have happened, or Zach wouldn’t have fled the building like it was on fire.

  The time it takes to reenter Gabriel’s office is less than thirty seconds, but feels interminable. Fortunately, he gets to the point right away.

  “The interview did not go well,” Gabriel says. “Zach’s scared, which is understandable. I mean, everyone knows that the boyfriend is the first and sometimes only suspect in these types of things. Most people in his position, if they’ve got half a brain, shut us down. But I got the distinct impression that he’s hiding something, and that means we’ll be focusing a lot of attention in his direction.”

  “What did he say?”

  “It’s more what he didn’t say. It started off fine. He said everything was good between him and your sister. No recent fights. No talk of breakup. The last time he saw your sister was yesterday morning. He claimed she was still asleep when he left for the day, and places the time at around eight thirty a.m. But when I asked him to account for his whereabouts on Tuesday, he started getting cagey. So I asked if he’d be willing to take a polygraph. He said something about how he thought they were unreliable. I told him that they were inadmissible in court but that as a law-enforcement technique we find them useful because if he passes, we’d know not to question anything he’s telling us.”

  “He refused to take the polygraph?” I ask.

  “Not exactly. He said he wanted to think about it. He said the same thing with regard to whether he’d consent to a search of their home.”

  “He’s on his way home now to scrub the place clean, that asshole.”

  “Maybe. On the other hand, he’s been in the apartment alone for enough time already that if there was something incriminating there, I’m relatively certain he’s smart enough to have gotten rid of it by now.”

  “Why do you even need his consent? My father bought the apartment for my sister. Zach’s name isn’t on any lease. It’s her apartment, not his.”

  Gabriel smiles at me. “Assistant District Attorney Ella Broden would rip me a new one if I searched someone’s home without a warrant on the technicality that his name wasn’t on a lease. It’s Zach’s home too, right? He doesn’t live anywhere else? That means we can’t go in without a warrant.”

  I’m thinking like a family member. Gabriel’s right: there’s no way to get a warrant to search through Zach’s belongings based on the present facts. One night missing doesn’t even create the probability of a crime, and a boyfriend’s refusal to take a poly or consent to a home search doesn’t even come close to meeting the probable-cause standard necessary for the issuance of a warrant. Plenty of innocent people don’t like being hooked up to a machine and asked personal questions about their relationships, or to have the police rummage through their underwear drawers.

  “Just because we can’t search her home doesn’t mean we’re stuck,” Gabriel continues. “I may be able to convince a judge to issue a warrant for your sister’s e-mails and cell phone. That might help us trace her movements.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Please tell me if that leads you to anything.”

  “I will,” Gabriel says.

  Gabriel walks me back to the elevator. I’m able to maintain a veneer of calm, but inside I realize that a seismic shift has occurred. I arrived thinking that the police might be able to find Charlotte and bring her back to us. Nothing Gabriel said indicated otherwise, but I could see it in his eyes. A happy ending is very unlikely.

  9.

  Standing out in the plaza in front of One PP, amid a throng of pedestrians, I begin to break down again. I don’t even try to stanch the flow of tears. Instead I let the emotion crash over me like ocean waves in the surf. I imagine them just like that, considering the relief that would follow if I succumbed to the grief and let the water sweep me out to sea.

  My father’s call wakes me from this escapist fantasy. I pull myself together as best I can before answering.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hi, sweetheart. Everything going okay down there?”

  “I just met with the detective running the investigation. I know him and he’s really the best they have, so that’s good.”

  I’m about to explain to him that Zach isn’t cooperating when he interrupts me.

  “I had a thought and I wanted to raise it with you because . . . well, my whole strategy with Garkov for these past few years has been to delay so he can continue living under house arrest in that palace of his. And now with Charlotte missing, the trial will have to be delayed, despite Judge Koletsky’s dictate that we pick a jury next week. Garkov couldn’t have asked for a better gift.”

  That, in a nutshell, is the problem with representing sociopaths. They’ll do anything to protect themselves, including turning on their lawyers. I know from my father, and from the press coverage, that Garkov had already blackmailed his prior lawyer and the original judge presiding over his case. So kidnapping his current lawyer’s daughter to gain another year’s delay would be consistent with his modus operandi.

  “I don’t think we’re in a position to rule anything out, Dad. I’ll mention to Lieutenant Velasquez that he should talk to Garkov too.”

  “Don’t do that,” my father says quickly.

  He’s using his lawyer voice, assertive and confident. I haven’t heard it since I told him about Charlotte’s disappearance.

  “I’m still Garkov’s lawyer, and . . . as crazy as this sounds, I’d never let him talk to the police about the disappearance of a young woman. Besides, even if I told him to do it now, he’s got a dozen other lawyers who will tell him not to. The better way is for me to talk to him. On second thought, you should come too. I’ll tell him that the conversation will still be subject to the attorney–client privilege so we can’t share it with anyone.”

  I’m certain my father knows that the privilege permits disclosing attorney–client communications to prevent the commission of a violent crime. Hopefully Garkov isn’t so informed.

  One of the advantages of having a client under house arrest is that he’s always available to meet with you. As a result, less than an hour after I get off the phone with my father, the two of us are met at the door of Garkov’s apartment by a butler wearing a morning suit. He leads us to what he refers to as the formal living room, allowing for the fact that there are others that are less grand.

  Nicolai Garkov is already standing when we enter, and the scene reminds me a little bit of when Anthony Hopkins first met Jodie Foster in Silence of the Lambs—how he seemed to sense our presence. I thought I was prepared for meeting Garkov because I’d seen him in photographs and knew he was a freakishly tall, blond Russian terrorist. Nonetheless, experiencing him was much different than reading about him.

  His hair is yellow straw, and his eyes are an almost iridescent blue. He’s so tall that my father and I look like children beside him, barely coming up to his waist. And he’s clad in a purple velvet bathrobe that falls to midknee, channeling Hugh He
fner in his heyday.

  The room we’re in is indeed formal. It’s at least thirty feet long, with views on all sides that rival those from our office. Six armchairs in an embroidered red-and-gold jacquard float on an enormous Persian rug, and every fixture is gilded.

  “Welcome,” Garkov says. “Please, sit.”

  He has only the subtlest trace of an accent, but what comes through most in his first words is that Nicolai Garkov is ice cold. It’s as if he has read about human emotions but never experienced one firsthand.

  If my father thinks that Nicolai Garkov is behind the disappearance of his youngest daughter, he doesn’t betray it. He looks like I’ve seen him countless times, the very picture of learned legal counsel.

  “Nicolai, this is my eldest daughter, Ella,” he says. “I believe I’ve mentioned that she recently joined my firm.”

  “Yes. So nice to meet you, Ella. Your father has spoken about you so often I feel like we’ve already met.”

  My father continues. “The reason I’m here is to let you know that I’m going to ask Judge Koletsky for an adjournment of the trial.”

  My eyes are fixed on Garkov, looking for some evidence that he already knew his trial would be postponed. He gives me nothing. Not a twitch or even a blink.

  My preoccupation with reading Garkov has caused me to ignore my father’s distress. He has begun to choke up, although I don’t realize it until it occurs to me that he hasn’t yet explained to Garkov why he needs to postpone the trial. When I finally turn to my father, he’s cradling his head.

  I reach over to take my father’s hand. He makes contact with me but doesn’t allow me to get a grip. Instead he straightens, ready to take charge of the meeting again.

  “Nicolai, I have something very serious to discuss with you,” he says, his voice now trembling. “We’ve known each other a very long time, and I think you know all that I’ve done for you. Now I’m asking for a favor from you.”

  “Of course,” Garkov says. “Anything.”

  “My youngest daughter, Charlotte, has gone missing. She’s twenty-five years old and was last seen yesterday morning. The police are now investigating. As you can imagine, I’m currently in no mental state to begin a trial.”

  “My . . . I’m sorry, sometimes my English fails me. Condolences is not the proper word . . . so let me say that I pray for you, Clint, that your daughter returns unharmed.”

  “Yes. Thank you, Nicolai. We are praying for that too. But my daughter . . . she’s the kindest person on this earth. It is hard to fathom that anyone would benefit in the least by harming her. But it did occur to me that you were hoping very much for a further delay of your trial, and now, because of this tragedy in my family, you’re going to get it.”

  Nicolai Garkov remains a study in repose. He has just been accused of kidnapping—or murdering—his lawyer’s daughter for no other purpose than to delay the inevitable, yet he hasn’t flinched.

  “Mr. Garkov,” I say, “because I’m a partner at the law firm, my father has filled me in about your case, all of it of course subject to the attorney–client privilege. I’m also aware of the issues that caused your prior counsel to withdraw, and so I know that you’ll go to extremes to get what you want.”

  He doesn’t offer a word of protest. Nor does his expression change in the least. It’s as if he’s confirming what I’ve just said.

  “Given that, I’m sure you can appreciate why it has occurred to us that you might be involved in Charlotte’s disappearance. And if you are—I know I speak for my father, when I say that the only thing we care about is getting my sister back home. So please tell us. There will be no repercussions to you. My father will request the continuance either way, and we’d be disbarred if we ever revealed what you tell us. We just need to get Charlotte back.”

  My father’s eyes start to moisten again. He wipes at them with the back of his hand.

  “As one father to another,” my father says slowly, “I’m begging you, Nicolai. All I care about is my daughter’s safety. If you have anything to do with this, please, for the love of God, tell me. It won’t leave this room. I swear it.”

  Garkov still doesn’t outwardly display any reaction. He looks at me impassively before turning back to my father. Then, in a measured tone, he says, “I understand how this type of uncertainty can make you desperate, which is why I am not in the least offended by the accusation. But I swear to you, on the lives of my own children, I do not know anything about the disappearance of your daughter. If I did, I’d not only tell you, but I’d make it my business to make whoever was responsible pay, and pay dearly, for hurting your family.”

  My father looks at me. His eyes are still watery, and it triggers a similar response in me. He’s silently asking whether I believe Garkov.

  In truth, I don’t so much believe that Garkov isn’t behind Charlotte’s disappearance as I am convinced that we’ll never find out if he is. Given that the purpose of this meeting was to beg Garkov to return Charlotte, it’s now clear to me that our pilgrimage was a waste of time. Nothing is gained by making an emotional appeal to a man who lacks a soul.

  “Thank you, Mr. Garkov,” I say. “As my father said, we’re going to seek an adjournment of your trial. If you’d prefer to retain someone else, we would understand.”

  For the first time, Nicolai Garkov changes his expression. A thin smile now comes across his lips.

  “Not at all. I’m willing to wait for Clint to be ready. No matter how long that takes.”

  At least during the day I had distractions. Back in my apartment that evening, I’m alone. After my mother died, my father immediately left for this big trial out in Dallas, and at the time I was furious at him for not postponing it. But now I understand. He needed to focus his mind on something else.

  God, how I miss Charlotte. I’d give anything to talk to her.

  Then I remember. Even if I can’t talk to her, she can still talk to me. Clad in my pajamas, I go to my bag, pull out the loose-leaf binder containing her half-completed manuscript, and settle into the sofa to read.

  DEAD CERTAIN

  A NOVEL

  BY

  CHARLOTTE BRODEN

  For my sister, Ella, because . . . because

  CHAPTER ONE

  Even in the beginning, I wondered about the end. I could envision only two outcomes, with nothing in between: happily-ever-after with a man I love, or my entire world blown to hell.

  I’ve had half a dozen relationships that have lasted more than a handful of dates, and until recently I never found being monogamous to be any great feat. But in the last few months, I’ve had to compartmentalize my love life. Marco, an artist, is my boyfriend; Jason, a student in the musical-theater class for which I serve as a teaching assistant, loves me with the reckless abandon of someone who has never had his heart broken; and I’ve fallen head over heels for Matthew, a banker, who is married and but for that small detail would be reason enough for me to jettison the others.

  As lovers, my three men could not be more different. Marco has the same selfishness in bed that he carries with him in everyday life. I dare say the loneliest I ever feel is when Marco’s inside me. It’s as if I don’t matter at all as he grunts toward his own pleasure.

  Jason wants to learn, and so he follows my lead in all ways. I can envision some woman in the future thanking me for making Jason the lover he will become, but I don’t see myself ever saying that. He’s a work in progress and won’t be completed until well after we’re over.

  Matthew’s a perfectionist in all things. I imagine he’s dedicated himself to his sexual technique the same way he told me how he worked on his golf swing or his Mandarin. As with everything else he’s attempted, Matthew is a master of his craft.

  Like owning two dogs, two affairs aren’t much more trouble than one. In my case, juggling three men wasn’t difficult at all. All it took to keep Marco in the dark was to tell him that I was in rehearsal. He knows from prior times when I actually was prepping for a
performance that it requires me to be at school until the early hours and unreachable, which means I can be anywhere, at any time, without giving rise to suspicion. And the truth is that MFA vocal students are always in rehearsal, but rarely do we perform for the public, so it’s a perfect alibi.

  Jason doesn’t know there’s anyone else in my life. I told him that I needed to keep our relationship a secret because it violates the school’s policies, which prohibit sexual relations between students and teaching assistants. That was good enough for him.

  Matthew knows about Marco, but he’s hardly in any position to complain that I share my bed with another man, given that he’s married. He doesn’t know about Jason, however. He likes the idea of cuckolding Marco, but if he knew I was comparing his sexual prowess to a twenty-one-year-old’s, I suspect that would be a different kettle of fish.

  My venture, as the Eagles so aptly put it, to the cheating side of town, began in, of all places, a museum. I was at one of these benefits for the arts that the university makes grad students attend, staring at an out-of-focus photo of a topless woman, when Matthew walked up beside me and cocked his head at the blurry picture.

  “I couldn’t already be this drunk, could I?” he said.

  He was wearing torn jeans and a sweater with a leather jacket over it—and sporting a few days of scruff. I thought he might be an associate professor in the theater department, as he had that leading-man, “alpha” vibe about him. He was very handsome. Tall, sharp-featured, with a Roman nose and dark, curly hair.

  “I think it’s the photographer who had a little too much,” I said.

  “Good. For a minute, I thought I might be having a seizure. My name is Matthew.”

  His stare froze me in his orbit. So intense that it blocked out everything else in my line of vision.