Stephen Phillips’ voice was calm but his eyes were not as he said, “I don't think that's a good idea, Liselle.”
“Please.”
Stephen Phillips’ eyes were hard. “No. And I think it's best that you make your own way home. I'll pay for the flight.”
Liselle raised her chin. “I can pay my own way.”
Stephen Phillips didn't argue. Instead, he nodded once and led his niece outside.
Liselle looked up at me. In the bright lights of the emergency room, her eyes were a startling light green. “Can they do that?” she said.
“Are you married?”
“To Richard? No.”
“Those were his kids, right?”
She nodded.
“Then I'm afraid so.”
Liselle looked over her shoulder down the hall for a moment, then said, “Can I get an Uber here this time of night?”
“I'll drop you off at the hotel.”
“Thank you.”
I offered her my hand. She took it and glided to her feet.
As we walked towards the exit, the doors slid open before we could trigger them and a man in a solid blue suit walked in. We went to go around him, but he shifted slightly and blocked the way, raising one hand. “Excuse me, Ms. Vila?”
Liselle stopped and seemed uncertain.
“Officer Nicovitis of the Carrefour police,” he said. “I need to speak with you for a moment.”
We stepped out of the doorway and Officer Nicovitis looked at Liselle in a way that wasn’t quite lecherous but was too long just the same. Liselle seemed a little stunned, so I stepped forward and said, “How can we help you, Officer Nicovitis?”
He noticed me for the first time, then said, “Were you at the wedding too?”
I realized our clothes made us an odd pair. I nodded. “I’d gone home. What does the Carrefour police need?”
“We had a detail working at the wedding. We need to file a report.”
I pointed a thumb. “The ER doc is back there. His kids and brother are out in the parking lot.”
Officer Nicovitis nodded and turned to Liselle, ignoring me. “Are you related to the vic—to the gentleman who passed as well?”
Liselle's eyes dropped. “I was his date.”
“I'm very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
Officer Nicovitis’s voice was sympathetic but his eyes were calculating. “So what happened at the recep—”
“Officer Nicovitis.”
He stopped and looked at me.
“Her date died tonight. It's four o'clock in the morning.”
“Of course, of course. You have my sympathies Ms. Vila but—”
“Thank you, Officer. I’m sure the ER doc can talk to you now.”
Having failed twice, Officer Nicovitis said, “Do you have a number where I can reach you, Ms. Vila? In case I learn anything that you might be interested in?”
“Do you have a card, Officer?” said Liselle.
“I do.” Officer Nicovitis pulled a card out of an inside pocket and handed it to her.
“Thank you. I'll call if I need anything.” Then Liselle nodded to him and left.
“Night, Officer,” I said and followed her.
It's a tough thing being with someone who's just lost somebody. I've been on both sides of it and it seems like people take one of two approaches—either they ask a lot of questions about it and relate it to similar things that happened in their own life or they make small talk and avoid it completely until the grieving person brings it up. I tend to be in the second category so, as we drove back to the hotel, I asked a couple of questions about where she was staying and whether she wanted to stop at a drive-thru to pick up something to eat. All she told me was the name of the hotel and that she wasn't hungry. The rest of the drive was quiet; I watched the road, which had virtually no traffic on it, and she stared out the window, not crying, not fidgeting, just staring. The quiet was neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. It was just quiet.
As we pulled into the hotel, I said, “Do you need anything?”
“No, thank you.” She got out of the car.
As she did, I realized something. “Did you have a purse with you, Liselle?”
She turned and bent down a little bit so she could look back in. “No, Mr. Shepherd. I’m sorry we bothered you tonight.”
“It’s no bother. Good night.”
She closed the door and I waited to make sure she made it in. As she passed the front desk, the night manager glanced up then watched her walk all the way across the lobby.
When she turned down the hallway, I left.
As I pulled away, I realized I had no idea how Richard Phillips had died.
4
I found out on Sunday afternoon, from my mother of all people.
I slept in for a couple of hours on Sunday morning because of the interruption overnight then drove up to the state recreation area near my parents’ house. It had a series of trails that wound through woods and around lakes that made it a perfect place to run. It was also one of the places where my wife Sarah had done research before she died.
I found that I enjoyed running there very much.
I picked the Pine Way trail, which was a little under five miles, and took off. It was early fall so it was sunny but cool and the leaves were just starting to turn so it was beautiful except for the fact that I was running. The trail was an out and back loop marked, as you might guess, by a series of white pines. I saw two mountain bikers and another runner and that was about it. When I’d finished the loop, I got back into the car and went to my parents’ house.
My parents lived in a small house on Glass Lake, about twenty-five minutes north of Carrefour. A Chrysler mini-van and a Ford Expedition sat in the driveway so I knew my brothers’ families were already there. As I climbed out, my mom was standing on the front porch. She gave me a quick hug and a sniff and said, “Run, dear?”
“I’ll hop in the lake before I come in.”
“That would be nice. You’ve got about fifteen minutes before the game starts.” She gave me a pat on the shoulder and I walked around back.
As I walked down the grass to the lake’s edge, I saw my dad nosing his fishing boat up to the dock. “I got it, Dad,” I said.
“Thanks, Son.” He lined up the bow and gunned the boat up onto the lift. Once it settled on the padded rails, I turned the winch to raise it out of the water.
My dad gathered his things and slipped on a Detroit Lions pullover, the Honolulu blue a vivid contrast to his shock of white hair and skin like a weathered hickory plank. “Did you go to the Branson wedding last night?” he said.
“I did.”
“How’s Matty doing?”
“Good. Said to say hello.”
“Your mom said something happened.”
“How’d she know?”
“Retirees don’t play bingo anymore. They gossip on Facebook.”
“I thought they fished?”
He flashed a white smile. “The smart ones do.”
I finished cranking the winch and locked it and my dad hopped out.
“Does she know what it was?” I asked.
“I’m sure she does.”
“What?”
He smiled again. “I store the Facebook stuff in her head.”
“Seems efficient.”
He checked his watch. “Game’s about to start.” Yes, he still wore a watch because the radio waves from cellphones scare away the fish. Just ask him.
“Be right there.” I went back to the shore, dumped my stuff, and walked into the lake. The water was cool, but there was still plenty of sun during the days and the nights weren’t too cold so it felt pretty great. I took a quick swim to the raft and back, toweled off, and made my way into the house to join my family for our traditional Sunday cook out and the heartbreak that was watching the Detroit Lions.
As I walked in, three kids walked out—my nieces Taylor and Page and my nephew James. “Wher
e you headed, trolls?” I said.
“We’re biking down to the Groves, Uncle Nate,” Taylor said.
“Do your parents know?”
“Of course. Bye.” The three scrambled to the garage where their grandpa kept the bikes. He’d even named them and before long, I saw Taylor, Page, and James, ride off on Xbox, Wii, and Switch.
He’s a wicked man, my dad.
I went into the cottage to a sea of Honolulu blue and silver. The rest of my family was already there—my mom and dad, my older brother Tom and his wife Kate, and my younger brother Mark and his wife Izzy. Tom and Kate had three daughters—Reed, Page, and Taylor—and a son, Charlie, who was three years old and sitting on Kate’s lap. Mark and Izzy had three boys, the three J’s—Justin, James, and Joe. Everyone was there except for Page, Taylor, and James, who were biking to the Groves on the other side of the lake.
A sectional couch, an easy chair, and the chairs from the kitchen were set up around a low coffee table facing a TV screen showing the final stages of the Fox pregame show. A collective lunch spread of sandwiches and chips was laid out on the kitchen table (my contribution was a three-foot sub this week), which my dad would follow up with a dinner of barbecue chicken after the game. I had just picked up a plate when I heard, “Jesus, it’s about time, Nate.” My sister-in-law, Izzy. “We’ve been waiting to get the scoop from you all morning.”
I held up a spoon. “Buffalo dip or French Onion?”
“Funny, asshole. About the wedding.”
Kate was sitting next to Izzy on the couch. Both waved me over. I collected a sandwich, chips, and water and headed over.
Izzy had frizzy blond hair and mischievous green eyes. Kate had athletically cut brown hair and a sense of placid calm that came from corralling four kids and a football coach all day. They separated on the couch and patted the space between them so that they had an equal opportunity for inquisition. I sat.
“Two things,” said Izzy. “Did you take a date and did someone really die?”
“No and yes.” I took a bite of sandwich.
“What happened to Jessica?” said Izzy.
“Who died?” said Kate.
“I didn’t ask Jessica to go and a guy named Richard Phillips.”
“Why not?” said Izzy.
“Who’s he?” said Kate.
“I didn’t know how long I was going to stay and the uncle of the groom.”
“Did you meet someone at the wedding then?” said Izzy.
“What happened?” said Kate.
I looked up at my brothers who were sitting off to the side watching the pregame, munching sandwiches with a contentment that was infuriating. “A little help?” I said.
“We weren’t at the wedding,” said Tom.
“And we’re all dying to know what happened,” said Mark without taking his eyes off the screen.
“Totally,” said Tom.
Mark extended the top of a beer bottle. Tom clinked it with his and went back to munching. Bastards.
I turned to Izzy. “Matty tried to set me up with an accountant from Kalamazoo. She had less interest in me than I had in her.”
I turned to Kate. “I don’t know exactly but I think he died at the end of the night. I’d already left.”
“He died on the dance floor.” We all stopped and turned as my mom “tsk’d,” shook her head, and scooped some French onion dip onto a chip.
“How do you know, Mom?” said Kate.
“Betty Langshied was there. She posted pictures.”
“What?” we all said.
“Not of the body, of the dancing.” My mom pursed her lips. “The woman seemed much younger.”
“You know we’ve been waiting for the scoop all morning!” said Izzy. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
My mom smiled. “You didn’t ask.”
“How’d it happen, Mom?” I asked.
“This Mr. Phillips was making a fool of himself is what happened,” said my mom. “Dancing all night with a woman half his age.”
“That’s it?”
“Apparently, that’s enough,” said Kate.
“Enough chirping, Uncle Nate,” my eight-year-old nephew, Joe said. “The game’s about to start.”
My dad sat behind Joe with a straight face, pretending to chew his sandwich.
“Got it, Joe,” I said. “Is Davis active?”
Joe glanced at my dad, who put his sandwich in front of his mouth. A moment later, Joe shook his head and said, “Game time scratch. They’re starting Tavai. They’ll be okay though.”
So we watched to find out.
I got back home early that evening, full of my dad's barbecue chicken and joy from the Lion's victory over the Vikings. I parked my Jeep next to an empty black rectangle in the driveway that was a little darker than the surrounding asphalt. As I went into the house, I was deciding whether to pull out my tablet and get a jump start on Monday morning’s work or watch the Sunday night game instead. The Sunday night game was winning when my phone buzzed.
I didn't recognize the number. I sighed and answered. “Nate Shepherd.”
“Mr. Shepherd, it's Liselle Vila.”
“Liselle? Is everything okay? Well, I mean I know everything isn't okay. But what's wrong?”
“Detective Pearson has asked to interview me.”
“Makes sense.”
“Why does it make sense, Mr. Shepherd? His card says he's in charge of serious crimes.”
“Call me Nate, please. Pearson is the local officer who deals with the coroner most often. I'm not surprised that he would be investigating.”
“Does he investigate all deaths from natural causes in Carrefour?”
A point. “No.”
“I assume he investigates killings?”
“Sure. And accidental deaths.”
“But not purely medical ones?”
“I suppose it depends on the context. What do you need, Liselle?”
“I think I need a lawyer. Matt suggested I call you.”
“Why would you need a lawyer?”
“You saw Richard's children last night?”
“I did.”
“Then I need you to keep this Pearson honest. And I’d feel better if I have someone looking out for me if he goes too far afield.”
“Okay. When does Pearson want to meet?”
“Tomorrow at ten. He asked me to come down to the police station.”
“Are you at the same hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Then I'll pick you up at nine o'clock and take you down.”
“Thank you.”
“I'm sure he's just dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s, Liselle. You'll be able to give him a statement and go on your way. When were you planning on leaving town?”
“When Rich does.”
I paused, then said, “I understand. I'll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, Mr. Shepherd.”
“Nate.”
“Thank you, Nate.”
“No problem, Liselle.”
I hung up and thought for a moment. It wasn't necessarily unusual that Pearson wanted to interview Liselle, but it wasn't necessarily usual either. Liselle was right: the police didn't get involved in checking on every heart attack that happened in Carrefour. Richard Phillips was a pretty big fish though and ran a multi-billion-dollar company. I suppose in that sort of case, Pearson had to go through the motions even if he didn't believe there was anything wrong. Who knows, there might be insurance or other business reasons that would prompt an investigation. Judging from what I saw of Richard Phillips’ son and daughter last night, Liselle was probably right to be cautious.
I went into the family room and watched the late game. When it was done, I watched a little SportsCenter, then turned off the TV and went to bed.
5
Mitch Pearson strode into the police station waiting room, hand extended. “Thank you for coming down, Ms. Vila. I appreciate you taking the time to…” Pearson stopped when he saw me. �
��What are you doing here, Shepherd?”
I shrugged. “Ms. Vila doesn't know anybody here in town. I gave her a ride.”
“Are you here in an official capacity?”
I shrugged again. “As long as I'm here.”
If that bothered him, he didn't show it. Instead, Pearson waved a hand and said, “Come on back then. This shouldn't take long.”
Liselle and I followed Pearson back to his office. It wasn't much different than the last time I had seen it. It seemed like there were a few more case files on the floor but there was still the same picture of the family on the beach and the same triathlon medals on the wall. Pearson looked the same as the last time I’d seen him too; he was still tall and blonde and square-jawed like a World War II recruiting poster.
Liselle, on the other hand, looked very different. She was dressed in black yoga pants and an oversized Under Armor running pullover. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail that stuck out the back of a St. Louis Cardinals baseball hat and she seemed fragile and tired, which was hardly a surprise.
Pearson indicated the chairs in front of his desk and offered us something to drink, which we both declined. He sat down crisply and said, “Thanks for coming to see me, Ms. Vila. I don't expect to take much of your time. I just need to have a brief report ready to pair with the autopsy results so that we can get Mr. Phillips back to St. Louis for services.”
“I appreciate that, Officer Pearson.”
I smiled behind my hand. Chief Detective Pearson hated being called Officer Pearson.
“Can I see your driver’s license please, Ms. Vila?” Liselle handed it to him. Pearson wrote down her name, some numbers, and then said, “Is this your current address?”
“It is.”
He handed the card back. “Thank you. When did you meet Mr. Phillips?”
“A little over a month ago.”
“Down in St. Louis?”
“Yes.”
“Were you dating?”
“We went out a few times.”
“And were you here at the wedding together? As a date?”
“We were.”
“How did you meet Mr. Phillips?”
True Intent Page 2