Dead Certain: A Novel

by Adam Mitzner

  The mass takes place in a large church. My father and I are allowed to sit in a waiting room and enter just as the service is about to begin. When we do, I see far more people than I had expected. A standing-room-only crowd. I take only the briefest scan of the faces, noting some cousins and aunts, scores of Charlotte’s friends—and Zach, who looks away from me when we make eye contact.

  The minister is right out of central casting. An elderly man, tall and thin, with white powder for hair and small, circular, wire-framed eyeglasses. He spares us the effort of pretending he knew Charlotte and immediately leads the congregation through the scriptures that tradition dictates must be recited.

  “In light of the weather,” the old minister says, “I thought we would all be more comfortable if the eulogies were delivered at this time. That way, those who would rather not have to brave the inclement weather can take their leave after this service. And so, at this time, Charlotte’s father, F. Clinton Broden, would like to say a few words.”

  My father once again reminds me of the larger-than-life figure of my childhood. I know he’s not 100 percent yet, but I feel sure that he’ll eventually get there. Charlotte’s death will not break him. He may not throw himself back into work as earnestly as he did after my mother’s death, but he will return to being the man he was before. Even now, he shows signs of the command he held in the courtroom as he addresses the audience.

  His remarks are brief but poignant. He tells a story about Charlotte as a small child that I’ve heard before. We were at the dinner table and Charlotte hit me. My mother told her that if she hit me again she’d have to go to her room. Without missing a beat, Charlotte responded, “Where do I go if I hit Ella when I’m in my room?” When the laughter subsides, my father says he felt sure back then that, with that type of mind, Charlotte would enjoy a prosperous career in the law. This elicits even more laughter, after which he segues to her gift for the written word, which became her true passion.

  “I thought it would be fitting to end my remarks today by reading a short passage that Charlotte wrote, and which was selected by the person who knew Charlotte best—her sister, Ella.” He looks up and smiles at me. “Everyone who ever discussed writing with Charlotte knows all too well that Charlotte was famous for saying that her work was fiction and any resemblance to real people and events was purely coincidental. But in this case, I think, even maybe Charlotte would have conceded that some truth made its way into her prose.”

  He pulls out a single sheet of paper from his breast pocket and smooths the page on the lectern. Then he reaches into his other jacket pocket to retrieve a pair of reading glasses.

  My murderer has deprived me of very little. There are the years I will not live, but set against the vastness of eternity, the time I’ve lost is but a moment. What is forever is the same as if I’d lived another sixty years or more: those I loved will always be a part of me, and I will never cease being a part of those who loved me.

  I did not want to speak at the service. I’ve said my good-byes to Charlotte in private, and I expect to speak to her daily for the rest of my days.

  This means that, after my father’s words, the congregants pour out of the church and into the rain. It’s now coming down in torrents, and a sea of umbrellas burst skyward.

  At the doorway to the chapel, I’m greeted by my old boss and mentor, Lauren Wright. I introduce her to my father, and she offers him the half smile befitting the circumstances.

  “Thank you so much for coming, Lauren,” I say. “And for everything you did to help with the investigation.”

  She nods, but this time doesn’t smile. “Of course. You’re family to me, Ella. I only wish . . .”

  I know what she wishes. I wish it too. It’s the only wish I’ll probably ever have again.

  The downpour is enough to dissuade all but a few from venturing to the gravesite, but approximately twenty people begin the trek to follow Charlotte’s casket, which is being wheeled across the muddy ground. My father holds an umbrella aloft for both of us. My arm is around his waist, both to be sheltered from the rain, but also because I enjoy feeling so connected to him. We walk like that for about a minute when I see the small tent set up at the grave. The ground is open, and men are placing the casket onto the bands that will be used to lower it to the bottom.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  “I’m sorry to accost you like this,” a man says. A boy, really. “You don’t know me, but I was a friend . . . a very good friend of Charlotte’s.”

  I do know him. It’s Josh Walden. It’s funny to think that we’ve never actually met, as all my encounters with him were from a distance. First through Charlotte’s description of his alter ego, Jason, then through the monitor when he was interrogated and polygraphed, and finally off in the distance at the Riverside Park event.

  He looks like he’s wearing his father’s suit. It hangs off him in the shoulders, and the shirt puckers around the neck. His umbrella is one of the cheap ones sold on the street for five bucks. It barely covers him, and his shoulders are wet.

  I turn to my father. “Go sit down. I’ll join you in a minute.”

  When my father steps away, Josh places his umbrella over me. I lean closer to him so it covers at least part of him too.

  “Thank you for coming today. I’m Ella.”

  “Josh Walden,” he says. “I just wanted to say that I’m so very sorry for your loss. Your sister . . . she was the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”

  “Thank you for saying that. She was amazing.”

  “Did she ever say anything to you about me?”

  I consider his question. Of the three men in Charlotte’s life, Josh alone did the right thing. Zach only cared about protecting himself. And Christopher, well, he got what he deserved. Although Charlotte’s fictional Jason was hardly a paragon of virtue, I have to remind myself that Josh is not Jason. I could be wrong, but I want so much to believe that Charlotte was right in letting Josh into her life.

  “She did. She said that she thought you were a gentle soul and an amazingly talented writer. She also told me that she was very happy when she was in your company.”

  He seems pleased by my white lie. He smiles again. “Thank you,” he says and then allows me to seek refuge under the awning.

  The overhang at the gravesite provides shelter only for the two chairs reserved for my father and me. The minister pokes his head under its protection as well, but the rest of the mourners remain in the steady downfall, with only their umbrellas to shield them from the rain.

  It’s only after I’m seated that I see Gabriel. He’s wearing a suit and tie, which I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him in before. His badge is nowhere to be seen. I smile at him and he returns the gesture, following it with a courtly bow of his head.

  The graveside service lasts only a few minutes, and then Charlotte’s coffin is lowered into the hole. As I watch it descend, I can’t help but think about her first burial—in the suitcase in the East River. Although I had been determined not to cry today, I fail in that resolution.

  Finally, it’s over. The minister dismisses us, and I walk out into the rain toward Gabriel. He quickly closes the distance and pushes his umbrella over my head until it’s covering far more of me than him.

  I kiss him on the cheek. In that touch, I remember so vividly when our lips locked those years before.

  “Thank you so much for coming today. It means more to me than I can tell you.”

  “They say that this is the worst day, and it’ll get easier from here.”

  “That is what they say.”

  I nod to my father that he should go on ahead, and Gabriel and I walk together toward the parking lot.

  “I come with good news,” he says after my father has put about ten feet between him and us. “Both investigations have been closed. Christopher Tyler definitely killed your sister. His credit card led us to the W Hotel on the night of the murder, and the security cameras leave no doubt that they both entered, bu
t that he later left wheeling the suitcase.”

  It hurts all over again. I know that’s foolish as there’s no doubt in my mind that’s what happened. Yet, just thinking about Charlotte being imprisoned in that suitcase moves me to tears—even though she’s now encased in a box buried underground.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I thought you’d—”

  “No, I want to hear. You said both investigations are closed. Do you mean Jennifer Barnett?”

  “No. That’s gone to Missing Persons. There’s no evidence that Christopher Tyler knew Jennifer Barnett, so he’s not responsible for that crime. No, I meant that we officially ruled Tyler’s death to be an act of self-defense.”

  I nod. I hadn’t really given much thought to a different outcome. But of course, t’s have to be crossed and i’s dotted whenever someone stabs someone else through the neck.

  “Thank you.”

  “What’s next for you now?” he asks. “Back to work?”

  “No. I need . . . a change of focus, I think. Did I ever tell you that, before law school, I always wanted to be a singer?”

  He smiles in a way that makes me smile back. “No, I would have remembered that.”

  “Yeah. Long story there, but I think I’m going to try to turn back time a little bit and see if I can’t make a go of it.”

  “You’ll have to tell me when you get your first . . . do they still call them gigs?”

  “I actually don’t know. But I’ll do more than tell you because . . . one of the other mistakes of my former life that I’d like to remedy was not returning your phone calls way back then. So, if you’re not seeing anyone at the moment, can I turn back time on that too?”

  He hesitates, and I fear I’m going to get shot down. But then he says, “I’d really like that too. I know this sounds corny, but I’ve always thought of you as the one who got away.”

  It is corny. But I’ve thought about him that way too.

  “Chalk it up to me being an idiot. I like to think I’m much smarter now.”

  “How about if we start again on Saturday night?” Then he quickly adds, “Unless that’s too soon.”

  “No. No, that sounds absolutely perfect.”

  By now we’ve reached the parking lot, and I can see my father leaning against the town car that brought us here. He’s no longer holding an umbrella, and I realize that the rain has stopped.

  “The sun is coming out,” I say.

  Gabriel closes his umbrella and shakes the excess rain onto the ground. “Look,” he says, pointing up.

  It’s a rainbow, filling the sky. The kind that makes you stop and take notice.

  I’m normally the cynic who would say that it’s just a coincidence. That it’s not a sign from God or my sister smiling down on us. But that’s another thing I’m ready to change. Today, I’m certain that it is a sign from God. And my sister is smiling down on us.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you so much for taking the time to read Dead Certain. Please e-mail me at adam@adammitzner.com with your thoughts about the book. I love to hear from readers, and I write back!

  Dead Certain is my fifth book, and the most fun to write. I hope my enjoyment came through on the page, and I hope that you enjoyed it too.

  Writing in my house is a family affair. My wife, Susan Steinthal, is the best editor, sounding board, and critic any writer (or husband) could have. All that and she’s responsible for my being happier than I ever dreamed possible. I dedicated Dead Certain to my daughters, Rebecca and Emily, not only because they are my world but because at the heart of the book is the relationship between two sisters, and that part is modeled on my daughters’ bond, which never ceases to amaze me. My stepson Benjamin gives the best comments of anyone (and is my first reader), and Michael is always willing to explain technology and global politics to me. Finally, I miss my parents, Linda and Milton Mitzner, more with each book that they never got to read.

  I owe an incredible debt to all my friends and family for their enthusiastic support. I’m looking at you: Jessica and Kevin Shacter, Jodi (Shmodie) Siskind, Jane and Gregg Goldman, Lisa and Eric Sheffield, Matt and Deborah Brooks, Beth Miller, Bonnie Rubin, Ellice Schwab, Abby Doft (who lent her name), Leslie Wright, Paolo Amoroso (who lent his name), Kelly Nelson (who lent her name), Margaret Martin, and Ted Quinn.

  I want to single out Clint Broden for thanks. Clint is a real person and a real criminal defense attorney of the first rank in Dallas, and in my fictional universe he is a fictional person and a fictional criminal defense attorney of the first rank in New York.

  This is my first book for Thomas & Mercer, and the experience has been nothing but spectacular. Liz Pearsons has been a joy to work with, and I was thrilled to be reunited with Ed Stackler, my very first editor. Ed made many insightful critiques about Dead Certain that made it far better than it would otherwise have been. Also a big shout-out to everyone on the Thomas & Mercer team, many of whom I sadly never met, but each of your contributions truly makes the book better.

  My agent, Scott Miller of Trident Media, is the man who starts it all going, and without him I’d still be printing my books out for just my family to read. My thanks also go out to Scott’s colleague, Allysin Shindle, and to Jon Cassir of CAA, who I have faith will one of these days bring my books to film or television.

  When I’m not writing, I’m lawyering as a partner at Pavia & Harcourt. Everyone at my firm is enormously supportive, especially Diane Pimentel, Olga Sushko, and George Garcia.

  One of the creative sparks that gave rise to Dead Certain was that people who know me assume that there is a great deal of autobiography in my fiction. Like Charlotte, I disabuse them of that notion, and like Ella, my friends and family roll their eyes when I do. But if readers want to glean anything about me from my writing (and I recommend that they don’t), it’s that my family means everything to me—that and I have pretty good insight into how a sociopath thinks, apparently.

  Again, thank you all so very much for your readership! It means more than words can say.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2016 Matthew Simpkins Photography

  Adam Mitzner is a practicing attorney in a Manhattan law firm and the author of several acclaimed novels. Suspense Magazine named A Conflict of Interest one of the best books of 2012, and in 2014, the American Bar Association nominated A Case of Redemption for a Silver Gavel Award. He and his family live in New York City. Visit him at www.adammitzner.com.