by David Carnoy
The mention of “phone” reminded Bell that Fremmer’s was still recording their conversation. The screen had gone dark but Bell knew enough to know it was still going. He went to snatch it but Fremmer got to it first.
That little battle lost, Bell told him to leave again. He pulled Fremmer’s cash from his pocket and handed the bills back to him.
“Here’s your money.”
Fremmer took the money. Why not?
“I’ll go. But not before I have a look around and make sure you aren’t still holding on to your homeless person outfit.”
Fremmer made for the door that looked like it led to the bedroom. He went into the room and headed straight for the closet. Bell was smart enough to have shed any evidence, so Fremmer didn’t expect to find anything; he’d leave that for the police to sort out. His job, like it always had been, was to rile the opposing team.
He began poking around the room.
“What are you doing?” Bell asked. “This is my bedroom. You’re not allowed in here.”
“It’s in the cards, Zander. Isabelle sold you out. She was the one who told me you worked together in the aquarium shop downtown.”
That struck a nerve.
“She told you that?”
“And a lot more. The detectives went to see her last night.”
“You’re lying.”
“You knew Candace’s whole routine,” Fremmer said. “You knew she walked her dog every morning at a certain time. Maybe you even walked the mutt with her a couple of times. You and Candace hooked up. That’s what Isabelle said.”
“Isabelle didn’t know abou—” He caught himself at the last second, but it was too late. Fremmer had given him a tiny length of rope and he just hung himself with it.
“Give me the phone,” he said.
From the look on Bell’s face Fremmer realized it was time to call mayday. With his right hand he double-clicked the call button on his headset. He looked down at the phone in his left hand and thought it was dialing. But before he could confirm it was, Bell came at him full tilt, smashing him backwards into a set of drawers that had a flat-panel TV on top of it. The middle of Fremmer’s back met the top edge of the bureau. His shoulder blades knocked into the TV, toppling it against the wall. It hurt like hell, but he held onto the phone.
Fremmer came right back at Bell and body checked him, sending him sprawling, regrettably, onto the bed, a much more comfortable landing spot than Fremmer had encountered. Soon it was a full on cage match with table lamps and glass shattering, books falling off their shelves, and the shelves themselves falling. Most of the damage was Bell’s doing. Fremmer, still guarding the phone, was mainly trying to evade him and delay.
“You came into my apartment and now I’m defending myself from your vicious attack,” Bell said to Fremmer, circling him in a wrestler’s hunched stance.
“I’m not taping the conversation anymore,” Fremmer replied, struggling to get away from him.
“I’m recording it,” Bell said. “I record every session.”
He suddenly got Fremmer in a chokehold, dragging him toward the front of the living room. He was stronger than Fremmer thought. The dude had moves. He’d trained. He probably wrestled in high school.
Fremmer grabbed onto the table they’d used for the session. The shoebox fell, the postcards scattering onto the carpet. Fremmer thought Bell was trying to get him to the front door. But the window was what he was after.
“Put the knife down,” Zander shouted.
Fremmer didn’t have a knife. He wished he did. Come on, Chu, he thought. Was he hearing this? What was taking him so long? Could he not get in the building?
Fremmer suddenly realized he was in a very bad spot. He still had a hold on the table leg but his head was halfway out the window. He’d fit through the window, but the table wouldn’t. It was the only thing keeping him inside the apartment.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” Zander said.
Fremmer hit him with the phone, trying to gouge his eyes with the corners. Finally, Bell wrestled it out of his hand and chucked it out the window. Fremmer heard it land in the street below. He screamed for help.
Just as he was losing his grip on the table leg he heard someone or something slam up against the door. But breaking down a front door in Manhattan was easier said than done. Finally, on the third try, the lock broke. One more slam and Chu was in the apartment, his gun drawn.
Bell took a step toward the door, allowing Fremmer to get his head—and the rest of his body—safely away from the window.
“On your knees,” Chu said, gasping for breath.
“I didn’t do anything,” Bell said. “We were having a session and this man attacked me. I was just trying to defend myself.”
“You OK?” Chu said to Fremmer.
“Not really,” Fremmer said. “But I’m a lot better than my iPhone lying down in the street. I hope it can be resurrected. I recorded everything.”
“What’s on it?” Chu asked.
“Enough,” Fremmer said.
“Enough for what?”
“Enough to put you on the cover of the Post and the Daily News, Detective,” Fremmer said.
35/ Epilogue
DECEMBER, A LITTLE MORE THAN SEVEN MONTHS AFTER CANDACE had died and Ronald was exonerated, Fremmer was with Denise in the Starbucks on 76th Street and Columbus Avenue. He was working on his laptop when a man in a Yankees hat and glasses approached him. Fremmer didn’t recognize him but the man clearly knew him.
“I’ve been to about every Starbucks on the Upper West Side. I knew I’d find you.” He turned to the woman behind him, who was standing there a little shyly. “I told you he’d be in one of them,” he said to her.
They were both in their forties. She petite, he very tall. Fremmer knew him from somewhere but couldn’t remember where.
“You remember me?” the guy said.
“Yeah,” Fremmer said, searching his memory. Was he from his spinning class? An old client?
“Brian.”
“Hey, good to see you,” Fremmer said, his delivery a little too disingenuous. Brian realized Fremmer didn’t have a clue who he was.
“Brian Tynan,” he said. He took off his hat, revealing his wavy salt-and-pepper hair.
And then it came to Fremmer.
“Brian,” he said. “Your wife ran off with your contractor.”
“Yeah,” Brian said. “I mean no. He was a contractor. Not our contractor.”
“Oh, yeah,” Fremmer said. He stood up and extended a hand. “You look good, man.”
“I feel good,” Brian said. He pulled his companion closer to the table and introduced her. “This is Sylvia, my fiancée.”
Nice dark eyes. Mediterranean complexion. Thin. She was attractive, Fremmer thought, shaking her hand. “Wow, fiancée,” he said to Brian. “You got right back on the horse, didn’t you, you maniac? I had fiancée once. Tell them about her, Denise.”
“She was taller than me,” Denise said. “And had a better sense of humor. Nice to meet you both.”
“We saw you on TV,” Sylvia said to Fremmer. “Brian talks about you all the time and how he was there that day the police came to speak to you.”
Fremmer suddenly remembered Brian was there, he was the prospect he was speaking to when Chu first approached him.
“That was up the street,” Fremmer said. “The 81st and Columbus Starbucks,” he said. “You’d come from work. You were in your suit. That’s why I didn’t recognize you now. Now you’re all like hip and cool.”
Brian wasn’t all that hip and cool. But he was dressed in jeans and a thin ribbed down jacket that were better tailored than his suit.
“That was a pretty amazing story,” Sylvia went on.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Denise said.
“You were the only one who believed that homeless person didn’t push her,” Sylvia said. “No one else did, did they?”
“Well, no,” he said, thinking about it a momen
t. “I guess not.”
“That guy owes you his life,” Brian said. “And so do I, frankly.”
Fremmer looked at him. The guy seemed quite emotional. Were those tears welling up in his eyes? What am I missing here, he thought.
“I sold my book,” Brian announced.
Fremmer blinked. “Really?”
“That’s wonderful,” Denise said.
“I did what you said. I made the main character a woman and I sold it. I gave him a vagina,” Brian explained, letting out a laugh. “A few houses wanted it. There was an auction in the end. Closed bids.”
Fremmer was so shocked he couldn’t say anything. He didn’t even remember what his story was about. He vaguely remembered the villain. Evil Steve Jobs. That was it.
“They sold the movie rights, too,” Brian added. “But it’s not big money unless it gets made.”
This was getting more absurd by the second, Fremmer thought.
“It totally changed my life,” Brian said. “All of a sudden my ex-wife was trying to get back with me. But I’d met Sylvia already, so I wasn’t even tempted. We’re looking to get married this coming summer, or maybe in the spring if we can nail everything down quickly enough.”
“You picked a spot yet?” Fremmer asked.
“We’re thinking maybe Maine. It’s a second marriage for both of us, so we’re probably going to keep it small.”
“Oh, no,” Fremmer said, glancing over at Denise, who knew exactly where he was going. “You gotta go big. You’re doing destination, you gotta do real destination, none of this Maine shit. How ’bout California? We’ve been working for this guy who has a winery out in Sonoma. He just started doing weddings on the property. We can probably get you a deal. Check this out.”
He motioned for the two of them to sit down—there was an extra chair at the small table because Denise wasn’t using it—and then he went off in search of a third chair for himself. When he returned and sat down, he turned his laptop toward the couple and pulled up a link from Madden.
Marcus had posted a slick promotional video on the winery’s website. The wedding he shot took place a couple of months ago, in late October. Fremmer had never met the bride, a lawyer named Carolyn Dupuy, who married Ted Cogan, a doctor who’d been a suspect in a murder case Madden had worked on several years ago. Fremmer didn’t know the full story, nor did he want to, but Madden had arranged an extremely attractive rate for the wedding.
The video was beyond impressive. Almost the entire thing was shot using drones. The opening shot had the bride and groom walking down the aisle with the panoramic views of the hills and valley around. It was magnificent. So, too, were the shots of the guests who’d gathered on the hill.
The reception footage, interspersed with video shot from the ground, was equally compelling. Whoever booked the music was a genius. The first act was a talented Sinatra impersonator. That alone would’ve been enough for any glorious wedding. But act two was J.J. Carradine performing five songs from a new album that hadn’t been released yet.
“Isn’t that J.J. Carradine?” Sylvia said when she saw him appear on the small stage. “Oh, my God, it is. I used to love that guy. I always wondered what happened to him. His band had all those hits. And then he disappeared.”
“Writer’s block,” Fremmer explained. “Musicians get it, too.”
“That looks beautiful,” Brian said, mesmerized by the sweeping closing shot. “But I don’t think I can afford it. The book deal wasn’t that good.”
“Let me see what I can do,” Fremmer said. “It doesn’t have to be as elaborate as that one.”
“You work for the owner?” Sylvia asked.
“They have a small office here. I do real estate marketing and acquisition for him in New York. Denise has been helping me out. They’re really a West Coast operation, but they’re expanding.”
“So you’re not a book doctor anymore?” Brian asked.
“Hung up my cleats on that,” Fremmer said.
“His fans are still distraught,” Denise deadpanned.
“I tried to email you,” Brian said. “But I never heard back. Now I know why.”
“Sorry about that. I kind of started ignoring emails from that address. And a lot of other things for a little while. But I’ve got this new gig now. Better pay, less hustle.”
“Well, you were good,” Brian said. “Your advice paid off for me. I got my advance check last week. Which is why I wanted to find you. I have something for you.”
He stood up, reached into his front pocket, pulled out his wallet, opened it, and took out a check. Fremmer thought for a moment he was going to show him his advance. But the check he placed on the table beside Fremmer’s laptop was made out to Max Fremmer.
For five thousand dollars.
“I want you to have that,” Brian said. “That’s what I was supposed to pay you.”
Fremmer looked at the check, envisioned it briefly in his own wallet, then decided nah, he couldn’t. He picked it up, folded it, then tore it half, not once but three times. He handed the little pieces to Brian.
“You’re an honorable man,” Fremmer said. “But keep your money. I said the advice was free. And I meant it.”
Brian put the pieces in his pocket and shook Fremmer’s hand.
“I’ll never forget what you said, Mr. Fremmer.”
“Max.”
“I’ll never forget what you said, Max. ‘Do whatever you do with conviction. Always.’ I say it all the time now.”
“Words to live by, my friend,” Fremmer said. “Words to live by.”
36/ Acknowledgments
WHILE THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION I HAVE A FEW PEOPLE TO THANK for helping me keep it in the realm of reality. As always, I took advantage of the colorful commentary and bits of inspiration Commander Tony Dixon of the Menlo Park Police Department provided me. I also want to mention Jim Simpson, Detective Sergeant (Ret), who graciously chatted with me about some of his old cases a few years back. For legal counsel I have two fellow soccer dads to thank: Don Rollock, former Nassau County ADA turned criminal defense attorney, and Jason Berland, former New York County ADA turned criminal defense attorney. For the medical portions of the book, I turned to the incomparable Sanford Littwin, MD, who gave me his unvarnished opinions with his usual gusto. Special thanks to my agent John Silbersack and esteemed publisher Peter Mayer for putting up with my delays in writing this novel (I do have a day job, guys, though that’s not an excuse). Big props to Adrienne Friedberg, who went through a draft of the book, tightened a sentence or two, and got me to the end. My father, Martin, and John Falcone, thank you for reading early drafts and making comments. And editors Chelsea Cutchens and Tracy Carns, thanks for your input and shepherding the book to publication. Last but not least, I couldn’t have written this without my wife Lisa, who puts up with my shenanigans, good and bad.
DAVID CARNOY is an executive editor at CNET and is interviewed regularly as a tech expert on radio. He has appeared on CNN, CNBC, MSNBC and other media outlets. He received his MFA in Creative Writing from Columbia University. He is the author of the acclaimed thrillers Knife Music and The Big Exit, both available from The Overlook Press. His novels have sold over 100,000 copies and have been translated into Russian, Turkish, and French. He lives in New York City with his wife and children.
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