Dead Certain: A Novel

by Adam Mitzner

  People have long commented that we look like sisters, but I truthfully don’t see it. I possess my father’s features, which gives my appearance a slightly masculine bent, or so I’ve been told by casting directors. Emily, on the other hand, is the spitting image of our mother—so much so that if it weren’t for the fact that photos of our mother are actually prints, and not in the cloud, I might mistake them for selfies of Emily.

  I’m slightly taller than my older sister. Not by much, half an inch, at most, but as anyone who’s grown up as the baby in the family will tell you, it’s enough that it matters to me. I take every opportunity possible to point out that although I may be younger, she’s shorter. In this case, that amounts to me standing when Emily approaches, and going on my tiptoes to do my best to kiss her on the top of her head as we embrace.

  “I only have forty-five minutes,” Emily announces when we’re both on our sides of the booth. She raises her hand to attract the waiter’s attention.

  “Relax, Em. The city will be safe if you take an hour for lunch.”

  The waiter asks if we’d like anything to drink, but Emily tells him that we’re ready to order. Then she lets me go first.

  “I’ll have . . . I don’t know, grilled cheese, with Swiss and a tomato, on rye. With a . . . coffee, I guess. Oh, and a side of french fries.”

  Emily orders a chef’s salad, balsamic vinegar on the side, and a Diet Coke.

  I smile when the waiter walks away.

  “What?” she says.

  “I can’t remember the last time I was in a diner with you when you didn’t order a chef’s salad, balsamic vinegar on the side, and a Diet Coke.”

  “I like it,” she says, defensively. “Besides, we’re all not in our midtwenties anymore, my dear. French fries are only for stealing off other people’s plates when you cross the big three-oh. But, enough about my figure. What’s going on with you?”

  What’s going on with me? If ever there were a loaded question, that’s it.

  I want to come clean. To tell Emily the truth about myself. But something inside me overrules my best intention.

  “You know me. I’m rehearsing all the time.”

  I sing a lyric from the show I’m rehearsing—Into the Woods. It’s appropriately titled “I Know Things Now.”

  Emily smiles. She always likes to hear me sing and often complains that I don’t do it enough in front of her. There’s a reason I don’t: she’s the one with the talent in the family. My efforts, I fear, are a pale imitation. No matter how good I get or how far my career takes me, I’ll always feel like an imposter next to her.

  She offers up the key lyric, about being prepared.

  In our little duet, she’s hit the nail right on the head. I’m not prepared, and she knows it.

  “I’m thinking of ending things with Marco,” I finally admit. “He’s . . . not going to change.”

  She nods thoughtfully. If this is a surprise, she doesn’t betray it. Then again, she’s seen Marco and me together, so I’m sure she must have thought my seeming epiphany about him has been a long time coming.

  “You approve?”

  Emily nods emphatically. “You deserve to be with someone who appreciates how amazing you are, Clare. I’ve never thought that was Marco. I get that he thinks he’s amazing, but that’s hardly the same thing.”

  “He’s not so bad,” I defend. A reflex that’s highly attuned in me.

  “That’s not what I want you saying about the man you’re living with. I want you to say, “He makes me a better person.” And in your case, that’s a very tall order for any man. Way too tall for the likes of Marco.”

  “What if I told you that there’s a man . . . who might fit that bill?”

  “I’d ask you why you weren’t living with him.”

  “And if the answer was that he’s married?”

  “Oh,” my sister says.

  “Are you disappointed in me?”

  She shakes her head in protest, and I know I’m being too hard on my sister. I don’t need a shrink to tell me that I’m projecting. I’m disappointed in myself.

  “I have no judgment when it comes to you,” says Emily. “But I do know that being involved with a married man normally leads to heartache for everyone . . . except for the man.”

  18.

  I arrive at Mas a few minutes before seven. The hostess tells me that Paul has already been seated, and then she leads me through the restaurant. I follow her between two rows of seating, tables for two against one wall and a communal table that runs the restaurant’s length along the other, and around the wall of wine encased in glass, until we enter the back room. A giant etching of a blue fish dominates the main wall.

  Paul is sitting alone at one of the pair of tables for two directly under the fish. The other table in the space is empty.

  He stands as I approach and kisses me on the cheek. “I hope this is quiet enough,” he says. “Galen was able to give us the entire back room.”

  Galen is Galen Zamarra, one of New York City’s celebrity chefs. I wonder if Paul really knows him, or just paid for the other table too.

  The waiter, a young man clad in all black, approaches with a bottle of wine. He uncorks it, and pours a taste for Paul.

  Paul swirls the white wine in his glass and then takes a sip. “Yes, that’s excellent,” he says to the waiter. Then to me, “I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of chardonnay. This is a Château Génot-Boulanger 2009, and it’s truly excellent.”

  The waiter fills my wineglass. I don’t swirl it, but take a small sip. It’s good, but tastes like any other white wine to my primitive palate.

  Paul orders our appetizers, but allows me to order my own main course. As soon as the waiter leaves us alone, I tell Paul, “We need to talk a little business.”

  “If we must,” he says with a sigh.

  “As I told you over the phone, the police detective running the investigation told me that they found Jennifer’s diary. Obviously, I haven’t seen it, but he said it left no doubt that you and she were lovers.”

  “Would that be a problem?”

  He says this with a smile that I bet he thinks is sexy as hell. I’m in no mood to play his game, however.

  “I’m your lawyer, Paul. No need to charm me. And what you tell me is privileged. So it’s now truth time. Yes or no. Were you?”

  He doesn’t answer right away, which is always a bad sign.

  “Let’s assume, for the sake of this discussion, that’s a yes. Where would that leave us?”

  For Paul, the truth is obviously beside the point. He doesn’t want to commit to a story, even with me.

  “Anybody else in her life, as far as you know?”

  “No. Could be, though. It’s not like . . . well, assuming we were involved, you can also assume it was casual and didn’t go on for very long.”

  Of course it didn’t go on for very long. That poor girl was only employed at Maeve Grant for three months. Paul must have pounced on her like a lion devouring fresh meat. A little initiation ritual to which he undoubtedly subjects all the attractive newbies.

  “As I’m sure you know from your television viewing, the first suspect is always the boyfriend. And no matter how casual you claim it was between you and Jennifer, if there was no one else in her life, you’re the boyfriend in the eyes of law enforcement.”

  He grimaces. I suspect Paul has tried for most of his adult life not to be the boyfriend.

  “What’s my motive?”

  “Only you know that. But it doesn’t matter. Motive isn’t an element of the crime for which the prosecution bears the burden of proof. And that’s because it could be a million things that they could never, ever prove. She could have threatened to break it off, so you killed her in a rage. You could have found out she was cheating on you, so you killed her in a rage. She could have burned dinner, so you killed her in a rage. Or she could have threatened to go to Maeve Grant and sue for sexual harassment, so you killed her in a rage.”


  My words hang in the air as the first of our courses arrives via two waiters, each holding a plate of something I can’t identify, with froth around it. Our main server, the man who took our order, announces, “Fluke tartare with pomegranate marmalade.”

  The waiter leaves us with a “buon appetito,” at which time Paul says, “So, tactics-wise, now what?”

  “That’s up to you. My father will likely advise that the diary proves his point that hunkering down is always the best play in the early stages of any investigation. He’d say that it’s still possible the prosecution won’t be able to prove the affair, and so it’s a good thing you haven’t admitted it. We could fight the diary’s admission on hearsay grounds. And if you’re very lucky, you didn’t leave semen or a pubic hair in her place. Then we claim that the presence of your fingerprints might just be the result of a one-time visit for some totally innocent reason.”

  He smiles, obviously pleased with what he’s hearing. It’s a smug look, and I decide to slap it off his face.

  “Don’t celebrate quite yet, though. The truth of the matter is that, no matter how careful you think you were, the odds are very good that they’re going to be able to prove the affair. Texts or phone messages are usually what clinches it.”

  “There’s nothing in our communications to suggest a sexual relationship,” he says with confidence, as if he always knew to be careful whenever he talked with Jennifer, just in case he later found himself in exactly this situation.

  “The frequency is sometimes enough all by itself. Bosses don’t call their employees multiple times on the weekends.”

  “We usually work weekends. And our phone frequency is not going to appear obsessive. A few times a week, tops.”

  “Trust me, if push comes to shove and someday you’re before a jury on this, by the time the prosecution is finished, every one of those jurors will believe you were sleeping with her. She probably told a friend or a family member. Even if she didn’t, and even if you think you were incredibly discreet, coworkers always know when the boss is involved with an underling, and one of them will testify to something you didn’t think had been observed. You calling her ‘sweetheart’ or just a vibe, even. Or a neighbor will say that she saw Jennifer leaving your building early in the morning. Or they trace your credit cards to a romantic restaurant and the waiter ID’s Jennifer’s photo. Or worse, testifies that the two of you were holding hands or kissing.”

  The waiters arrive again en masse, removing our first course and simultaneously delivering our entrées. For Paul, that’s Long Island duck breast with parsnip puree, while I opted for the wild striped bass with a leek fondue and carrot-turnip stew.

  As soon as they walk away, Paul says, “I think I’m going to continue following your father’s sage legal counsel and hunker down.”

  I knew that would be his decision.

  “Any news about your sister?” Paul asks, changing the subject from his own legal problems.

  My fork has just stabbed some bass, but I put it back down on the plate. I don’t want to engage him about my sister’s plight—seeing that he’s a suspect in Jennifer Barnett’s disappearance. But he asked, so I have to say something. I decide to conjure a happy memory of my sister to share.

  “Remember when Charlotte came to visit me during spring semester of our senior year?” I say. “She was . . . what? Fifteen, I guess? Anyway, we all went to that party at that frat house. You gave her some grain alcohol mixed with Kool-Aid, and I thought she was going to go blind.”

  “I do remember that,” he says, smiling at the memory. “Did Charlotte ever tell you that I saw her a few months ago?”

  The moment’s levity shatters. My guard immediately springs up.

  “No. When?”

  “Earlier this year. No, that’s not right. It was late last year. Christmastime, because the museum still had its Christmas decorations up.”

  “You saw her at a museum?”

  “Yeah, at MoMA. It was some benefit type of thing for NYU. I bought a table on behalf of Maeve Grant and before the dinner there was a cocktail party honoring some photographer. So there I was, staring at this out-of-focus photograph, when who sidles up next to me but your sister.”

  My jaw must have hit the ground. It’s the exact same scenario as when Clare met Matthew the banker in Charlotte’s book.

  Why is Paul telling me this? If he was in any way, shape, or form involved in Charlotte’s disappearance, he’s certainly smart enough to know not to share with me that he’d recently seen her. But maybe it’s like Gabriel said—classic sociopath behavior—and Paul’s version of returning to the scene of the crime is telling me about him and Charlotte.

  “Did you see her after that?”

  “After that night, or later on during the dinner?”

  “Um . . . either I guess.”

  “I said good night to her when I left. She said something about having to stay later, and I had a dinner meeting, if memory serves. And I’m almost certain I told her to give you my regards, which I gather she never did.”

  “No . . . she didn’t say anything about it.”

  “I’m sure she just forgot. In fact, she probably never gave me a second thought. I was actually hoping at the time that she would tell you about our chance meeting and it would cause you to reach out to me. I figured when I never heard from you that it just meant you weren’t interested.”

  I can’t process what I’m hearing. I feel as though I’m literally going to fall out of my chair.

  “I think I need to go home.”

  “I’m sorry, Ella. I didn’t mean to upset you by talking about your sister.”

  “No. It’s not that. I just . . . I just hit the wall. I haven’t been sleeping much lately and today was a long, emotional day. I didn’t mention it earlier, but we held a search for Charlotte in Riverside Park. Obviously, we didn’t find her there, but . . . you know, just going through the ritual was draining.”

  I don’t know if he buys it or is just being polite, but after he pays the check Paul walks me home. Neither of us say much as we travel the few blocks. There’s an awkward moment in front of my building, when I can tell he’s deciding how to say good-bye, and then he leans down to kiss me on the cheek.

  DAY SIX

  SUNDAY

  19.

  I used to love Sundays. I’d wake up whenever and go to the Koffee Klatch around the corner. I could spend hours sitting on one of the outdoor benches, drinking my large skim latte with a double shot and people-watching.

  Today, however, all I can think about is Charlotte. Where is she? Will I ever see her smile again?

  Still, I try to hew to my routine. I go to the Koffee Klatch and sip my coffee on the bench. A woman with a schnauzer sits beside me, but I can’t summon the energy to pet her dog. The rest of the passersby go about their day, blissfully unaware that somewhere out there Charlotte Broden is being held against her will, or that her lifeless body is waiting to be found.

  My childhood home was a limestone-facade townhouse just east of Park Avenue. When Charlotte left for college, my father moved into a classic six—New York real estate jargon for a two-bedroom apartment with a formal dining room and a maid’s quarters—with a view of Central Park, in one of those snooty co-op buildings on Fifth Avenue. The white-gloved doormen always smile when I visit and call me by name, as Ramon, the man on duty today, does when I appear.

  “Sorry about your sister,” Ramon says.

  He looks sincerely distressed. I wonder if Ramon has children of his own and is projecting. Then again, maybe even his limited encounters with Charlotte were enough to make him feel like they had a real connection.

  “Thank you.”

  “Your father said you should go right on up,” he says.

  My father opens the door wearing a pained smile. His eyes look even worse. Bloodshot, with dark circles under them. He obviously hasn’t been sleeping. I know the feeling, as sleep and I haven’t been on good terms as of late either.

&nb
sp; I follow him to the living room. It’s a space I’ve always enjoyed being in. It reminds me of what New York City apartments look like in the movies: high ceilings, intricate decorative moldings, a working wood-burning fireplace, oil paintings covering the walls, and a large Bokhara rug on the hardwood floor.

  He lowers himself into a corner of the sofa. Rather than take a seat in one of the armchairs, as I would normally do, I sit beside him so that I can place my arm around his shoulder. I squeeze him into me in a hug and see what appears to be an effort at a smile.

  I decline the offer of coffee, telling him I’m already fully caffeinated. He declares that he’ll make us some eggs.

  “You don’t have to, Dad.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m going to make you the candy eggs, like you like.”

  I follow him into the kitchen. He’s already prechopped the ingredients for the dish—so named by Charlotte because there’s a sweet taste to them. In fact, they’re just made with caramelized onions and tomatoes.

  “How you holding up?” he says as he stirs the onions, the scent taking over the kitchen.

  “About as good as you, it seems.”

  “I was thinking about your mother.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about Mom a lot too lately.”

  “Even though I miss your mother more now than ever, there’s a part of me that, for the first time, is a little happy that she’s not here. Is that a terrible thing for me to say?”

  “No, I know exactly what you mean. I’m glad Mom didn’t have to go through this. Sometimes when it all gets too hard for me, I think that, if the worst has happened, then at least Charlotte and Mom are together, and that makes me feel better.”

  My reference that Charlotte might be dead is too much for him, and I see a tear break free and roll down his cheek. I kiss him on the forehead, the way he did when I was younger and needed to be comforted.