The Adored

by Tom Connolly

  “Why isn’t that in your report on Stevens? There is nothing about a discussion, an admission of a crime by Stevens.”

  “Because I didn’t believe the bastard. He was trying to do one good thing before he croaked.”

  “What else isn’t in the report?”

  “That’s all.”

  “What about Parker Barnes.”

  The fear returned. He was so drunk that night two weeks ago he almost forgot. So it was the cops who were there with him who ratted him out. But Barnes, how did that get into the conversation. Stevens never said that. Did I say that? So drunk that I took what Al Paiva had me help him with seven years ago, the cover-up of Augusto Santos murder by Parker Barnes and the framing of Curtis Strong.

  “Where’d you get that name,” Walsh began a new stonewall.

  “This is what was reported you told others. That Stevens first said he killed Santos and then he said Parker Barnes killed Santos.”

  “Well, Stevens never said that. He said he did it. I saw it as a friend trying to help a friend so I dismissed it.”

  “And Barnes?”

  “No part at all in it.”

  “Why’d you bring the name up?”

  “This came from the night at the Colony?”

  “Part of it.”

  “Lieutenant, I was bombed. It was story time. We were laughing and having a good time, and I took it to another level of bullshit.”

  “So you will confirm that Stevens did tell you that Strong was innocent.”

  “What do you mean confirm.”

  “There’s an innocent man in prison.”

  “He’s not innocent; he’s guilty as sin. Stevens was trying to save his ass.”

  “Sergeant Walsh, that’s not up to you to determine. I need you to confirm in writing what Stevens told you, to make it an official part of your police report. Will you do this?”

  “Why, so you can let a killer out?

  “How about we let the judge decide?

  “Do I have a choice?

  “No,” Boriello said firmly.

  With a limited written admission by Walsh of what he omitted in hand, one that Walsh gave up grudgingly, one that confirmed Stevens’ dying confession of guilt and Strong’s innocence, Boriello did two things. He went to the presiding judge of the Stamford Superior Court and got an order for a hearing for Curtis Strong. The second thing he did, and he wasn’t sure how far to push this, is with Chief Brennan’s agreement, he got Walsh placed on administrative duty until the issue was resolved. The administrative duty was on the graveyard shift from 11 p.m. to 7 a.m.; enough to keep Walsh unhinged.

  “What the hell gives, Captain,” Walsh said to Captain Al Paiva, to whom he reported, when the Captain told him of the decision to place him on administrative duty until after the hearing on Strong.

  “Look, Boriello has dug in real deep on this,” Paiva said.

  “Yeah, and it’s my ass he’s hanging out to dry.”

  “Patience, Johnny,” Paiva counseled.

  “Patience my ass,” Walsh replied. He hated it when someone, anyone, called him Johnny, as if he were twelve.

  “Boriello retires in two weeks. They’re setting up a hearing for Strong in the next week. No one cares about you—they just want to get Strong out. Bunch of freaking do-gooders.”

  “Well it looks like his freedom is coming at my expense,” Walsh exhaled.

  “Just take this, suck it up. You’ll enjoy the peace and quiet of the 11-7. They get their hearing, the kid gets out, Vito retires, and I bring you back to your duties.”

  “And what about the Lieutenant’s position when Boriello goes?” the ever ambitious Walsh pushed.

  “One thing at a time, Johnny, one thing at a time,” Pavia said, shaking his head as Walsh left his office. Then Pavia thought to himself, “the fucking gall. Bagged and looks for a promotion.”

  Walsh thought about telling Pavia that he screwed up by opening the murder door on Parker Barnes when he was drunk, but he decided to keep that to himself for the time being. He might need Paiva and an ace in the hole to get Paiva to help him out of this jam. After all he reasoned, it was Paiva in the background who helped him in the CJ Strong case by keeping pressure on the judge to not buy into a hung jury. It was Paiva who would continue to benefit from Barnes’ senior’s largess if they could keep Parker Barnes out of the picture for committing the murder of Augusto Santos. It was their dirty little secret that Paiva and Walsh knew CJ Strong never killed Santos.

  Chapter 63

  Parker Barnes put together Tray Johnson’s “going back to Paki-land” party at England, a Soho style dance club that resided in the quarters of a former hedge fund that went belly up. The building sat on the Connecticut/New York border in Greenwich.

  It was the last time the friends could get together before Tray returned to Kabul and then special operations across the border in Pakistan. Winston Trout’s wedding was later in the week and three of the friends would disperse the day following the wedding so they picked this night. The only problem was Tray could not come—he was insistent on staying with Silvana in Puerto Rico. Sebastian arranged for a hookup through his iPad to bring Tray in, who could also review the festivities on his own iPad. Since Sebastian would be in Arizona the next two days proposing solar farms to the State and its environmental commissioner, Hadley Lane, this was the one day besides the wedding day that they would all be together, except Tray, Parker arranged the party anyway. Parker, for his date, brought a plain but thoughtful and attractive looking young Asian woman.

  Kish Moira had a tall, gracious Indian girl in a rich white dress on his arm that none of the friends had seen before and were frankly surprised; they did not know this beauty. Kish introduced her as Binky Patel.

  Winston Trout came with the girl who would be his bride within the week, Emily Albright.

  And but for the appearance of Sebastian Ball with Santa Alba and Edward Wheelwright with Valerie Samson, the stunning event of the night was Gideon Bridge with a very pretty woman whom he introduced as, “Bridgette Johnson, Tray’s cousin.”

  Sebastian came with Santa as peace between the foursome was restored over dinner earlier in the evening at LaBretagne, a quiet French restaurant on the Post Road on the Stamford/Greenwich border. Edward and Valerie had arrived first at La Bretagne. Jean Daniel, the owner, greeted Edward, whose family were long time customers, and embraced Valerie as if they had known each other for longer than the moment. Mr. Daniel escorted Edward and Valerie to a circular table for four in the middle dining room. As they passed through the front dining room that was fully occupied, Valerie pinched Edward’s arm. He grimaced.

  “How come you never took me here?” she said with a smile as she looked around at the embroidered drapes, framing paned windows. The wallpapered room depicted scenes of a French countryside.

  Other, older couples looked at the young pair and smiled as they passed by their tables. In their late twenties, the couple was easily half the age of the next youngest couple in the restaurant. Edward was clearly the only man in the room with color in his hair, or better yet, who even had hair.

  At LaBretagne there was an air, a sound, a voice of people quietly enjoying each other’s company. The sound had uniformity to it; no one distinct voice could be heard above the others. These people came here for the same reasons.

  The middle dining room had ten tables, symmetrically positioned. There were four corner circular tables with six diners seated at each table, there were two tables on each side of the room that sat four, and but for one with two diners, the other three had four each. There was an empty table for two against the back wall that, on either side of it, had French doors entering the back dining room.

  The round table square in the center of this middle dining room was where Mr. Daniel graciously deposited Edward and Valerie, pulling Valerie’s chair out for her and doing the same for Edward.

  As Mr. Daniel departed, Valerie said to Edward, “I love this place. When did you find
it?”

  “As you can tell, my dear, it’s not mine, it’s my father’s. He loves coming here,” Edward said.

  “I can see why,” Valerie said.

  “Now, when Sebastian and Santa come, don’t be nervous.”

  Valerie leaned forward and in her quiet restaurant voice said to only Edward, “I’m going to rip her fucking heart out.”

  Edward burst out laughing, turning the heads of the other dinners. He kept giggling and both kept laughing, but more quietly, just as Mr. Daniel reappeared from the front dining room with Sebastian and Santa.

  Edward rose to greet them while Valerie remained seated.

  Edward and Sebastian shook hands warmly, then, Edward turned slightly to greet Santa who was looking into Edward’s eyes. Edward took her hand, brought himself to her and kissed her on the cheek, without ever looking into her eyes. Valerie kept her glance on Edward’s eyes and smiled inside herself at the lack of recognition beyond politeness.

  Mr. Daniel returned to the role seating new arrivals, and as the four sat down, Sebastian introduced Santa Alba to Valerie Samson.

  “Nice to meet you,” Santa said with a sincere smile, “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “Thank you, And I you,” Valerie said politely. And it was immediately noticeable. Valerie was the bright worldly woman, and Santa was the striving, although stunning, island girl. There was an enormous difference in composure, in who they were as young women; Valerie was tall, well postured, strong boned, and lovely while Santa was a pretty girl, attractively attired in a print dress more fit for the city. Valerie’s features could be seen forward; she would still be beautiful when she became a grandmother. Santa, a carnal thrill, whose face, in time, would broaden and harden. But not yet.

  The conversation through dinner settled on Tray’s party later that evening and Winston’s wedding until Valerie asked Santa, “I understand you and Tray’s girlfriend are quite close?”

  Edward had hoped the conversations would stay totally topical, not about each other. But he realized Valerie was a very competitive person and would have trouble with that. He would have to gently guide her through the mine fields she had no fear about entering.

  When Valerie decided to prod the young woman from Puerto Rico, first Edward, then Sebastian guided conversations back to light, airy subjects like “Do you think Tray has killed any Taliban,” or “When are the Winston Trouts going to be back from their honeymoon in Hawaii?” and finally, Sebastian let out, “Did Winny tell you I’m buying Trout Solar?” This shocked Edward since Winny did not. It also shocked Valerie who didn’t care if she ever heard the word solar again. It pleased Santa to know that her “Sweetie” could buy anything.

  And when the foursome entered the dance club England, the shock of seeing them all together brought, at first, smiles to the friends, knowing that their lifelong relationships were intact and could overcome even what Sebastian and Santa had put them through. But seeing Eddie and Val together brought pure joy.

  “What a stroke,” Gideon gasped across the table to Winston, “Eddie and Val. The empire strikes back.” Winston smiled, in complete understanding at what Gideon meant. The omniscient Mr. Ball taking whatever he wanted and not looking back, and the striving Mr. Wheelwright realizing where real beauty lay. Those were the two thoughts that went through Winston Trout’s mind. Gideon smiled with quiet satisfaction; his thought, “The world has righted itself as the real lovers we all knew are here with us.”

  The friends rose to greet Valerie, always the sweetheart among them, the longest lasting of any of their paramours, and here she was back in their midst.

  At ten thirty Parker rose to the DJ’s area where they had arranged the large screen, took a mike from the DJ, and introduced himself to the club. “Tonight is a special night—we have a celebrity among us—almost.” And he nodded to Sebastian who brought Tray Johnson onto the large screen through the magic of an iPad and GoPro projector. “Ladies and gentlemen, please meet Navy Seal and Lieutenant Traynor Johnson who is on his way back to Afghanistan.” The club crowd clapped. Parker went on to embarrass Tray, had him get Silvana in front of the remote camera. “And now you can also see why he won’t leave Puerto Rico. We just hope he won’t be going AWOL.” Everyone laughed and joined Parker in a toast to his friend. Tray joined the toast and laughter, thanked them and saluted sharply.

  The club was crowded at 11 p.m. Valerie knew her way around a club. She walked up to the DJ who was still setting up and gave him a note requesting two songs, Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” and Mark Ronson’s “Bang, Bang, Bang.” She requested the first to be played at eleven fifty nine and the second at twelve thirty. She handed him a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Eleven fifty nine, exactly, yes?” she sought confirmation.

  “Sure, honey. Thanks,” the heavy set black man said.

  When she came back to the table, not twenty feet from the DJ and on the edge of the dance floor, Gideon, who always had fun with Val, asked her which songs she requested. “Come on, Val, what do you want to hear?”

  “You’ll see, Gid,” she said with a smile.

  “A hint?” he begged.

  . “You are so funny, Gideon,” Val chided. “OK, here’s your hint—New Year’s eve, 11:59 p.m.”

  The friends sat in a large circle of chairs around two square tables, crowded with drinks in glasses of varying heights and colors, in the center. Until the DJ started playing tunes at eleven thirty, they were able to talk comfortably. The wedding, the Galleon insider trading scheme, Tray returning to duty, the Tsunami in Japan, Tray and Silvana in Puerto Rico, and where Gideon met Tray’s cousin.

  Val kept her eye on her watch, and at eleven fifty nine she looked up at the DJ who nodded to her. She rose, went to Edward and said, “Let’s dance.”

  “Wait, you don’t know what he’s going to play,” Edward said.

  “I do,” Val said, and she gave him a tug up.

  “Oooh,” Gideon chirped, “This might be fun.”

  A guitar started strumming and the voice of Adele began singing, “There’s a fire starting in my heart…”

  Eddie didn’t know the words to “Rolling in the Deep.” It was a new song for him, but he liked the sound of Adele’s voice and the beat as Val led him on the dance floor.

  They bumped and strode as others joined them on the floor. When the singer hit the key words, Val swooned, swung her hips left, grinding, arms pumping right, and the singer shouted the words:

  “We could have had it all,

  You had my heart and soul,

  You could have had it all.”

  The song stomped forward, and Eddie realized the words in the middle of his grind. Val smiled; she was dancing with wild abandon. Her face was soaked with tears.

  Eddie saw the power in the swaying beautiful woman taunting him and calling him back at the same time. He realized the anger in the song over a girl’s lost love. He saw an exorcism taking place in Valerie.

  Lost in the power of the music as the singer approached the refrain, “We could have had it all,” Eddie moved closer to Val and inserted his own words singing, “We will have it all.”

  Val sang the new words as the refrain was repeated over and over.

  They smiled, knowing, building a fire on an older flame, and with new fuel they realized what was almost lost forever.

  Watching this, Gideon thought back to the dance he had witnessed one week prior with Santa Alba and thought, “Poor Eddie is in a quandary.”

  Gideon leaned over to Kish who was now seated next to him, “I could become mono-sexual if I had the choices of young Mr. Wheelwright.”

  Kish laughed at Gideon’s words and said back, “Gideon, don’t tell, don’t ask.”

  Gideon looked at Kish and they laughed and looking at each other laughing, they laughed all the harder.

  “What’s funny, Kish,” Emily, Winston’s fiancée, asked with a smile.

  “Gideon thinks he might like girls after all,” he said, pointing
to the dancing Val.

  And Emily joined the laughter.

  When Val and Edward returned to the table, Gideon whispered to him, “You certainly do attract rather intense women.”

  Eddie looked at him, questioning.

  The very well-dressed Mr. Bridge leaned in again, “Santa’s dance last week and what I just witnessed. You are fortunate beyond words.”

  “Thanks, Gideon, something to think about, huh?” Edward said as the club DJ put on another pounding beat.

  Gideon rose, walked over to the other side of Valerie. He whispered in her ear: “The answer to your New Year’s eve riddle: Out with the old, in with the new!”

  Valerie looked up smiling, then laughing, “The smartest man in the world.”

  “I know,” he said as he continued walking towards the men’s room.

  “What did Gideon say?” Edward asked.

  “He said he liked the way I danced and that you’re a lucky man,” she answered.

  “Funny, he told me the same thing,” Edward said, with a crooked smile.

  Santa Alba watched the dance. Sebastian sat next to her. Without looking at each other, he wondered what Santa was thinking, and she wondered if Eddie missed her.

  Fifteen minutes later Gideon grabbed Winston’s arm, “Oh, Oh. I smell trouble.”

  He was watching Santa Alba walk to the DJ with a note.

  “Sweetie, would you please play, The Cure.”

  “Which, The Cure?” the fully stocked DJ asked.

  “The sexy one with the horn that wails in the night.”

  “You mean Trombone Shorty?” he said with a smile.

  “That’s the one.”

  “You got it,” he told her, surprised at the request for a New Orleans brass band. Didn’t get too many requests for those tunes up here in Greenwich, he thought. In the city, in Harlem, all night long. Here, never had one request before. This should shake them up.

  The rhythmic guitars started up, the drummer kicked in and the guitars foreshadowed the cry of the trombone. Then it came: a beautiful three-note wail, followed by a jazzy call, then a staccato bump joined in by the whole orchestra. But it was the trombone that woke up England. When you heard that sound, you knew why the leader of the band was called Trombone Shorty. It almost wasn’t fair what he could do with music. The beat was infectious, and England was bouncing in place.