Someone Knows

by Lisa Scottoline

  He reached his father’s suite at the end of the hall, stopping at the secretary’s desk. “Hey, Karen, how are you?”

  “Good, thanks, Julian. He’s waiting for you. Go on in.”

  “Thanks.” Julian opened the door to find his father on his phone as he stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, surveying the artificial lake on the north side of the campus. He always wore a pressed shirt with a striped Dunhill tie and a tailored Brioni suit, and his jacket would be hung on a wooden hanger on the back of the door. He’d gained weight, but it only made him look more prosperous. His hair was thick and black, silvering only at the temples, and his eyes remained intensely brown. He had crow’s-feet, but he was always sunburned, so he looked healthy, not old. He’d had his teeth veneered, and his latest wife wanted him to get injections. He hung up the phone, and Julian knew he was up to his usual hijinks, since he was using one of his burner phones, which he called his boner phones.

  “Hi, Dad.” Julian sat down opposite his father’s desk, a polished sheet of glass stacked with papers and a laptop.

  “You’re late.” His father frowned, setting the boner phone on the desk with three other cell phones.

  “Sorry, I was at a funeral.”

  “Explain these T & E expenses from last quarter. Because they’re way out of line.” His father tossed a stack of printouts toward Julian, and on top was a spreadsheet of travel and entertainment deductions from Julian Browne Land Management.

  “How did you get my T & E numbers?” Immediately Julian burned with a familiar resentment.

  “That’s not your business.”

  “Dad, literally, it is my business. Julian Browne Land Management is my company.”

  “Correction. It’s a wholly owned subsidiary of my company. It’s part of the Browne family of companies, and if you think Tim’s not going to give me numbers when I ask for them, you’re out of your mind. I hired him before he had hair on his dick. I practically raised that boy.”

  Julian ignored the irony. His father wasn’t the one who raised him. “Why did you ask him for numbers?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  Julian let it go. He had bigger fish to fry. “Dad, regardless of whether it’s a wholly owned sub, I’m President and CEO. I run the company.”

  His father lifted an eyebrow, standing over him, hands on hips. “If you run it well, I’ll let you continue to run it.”

  “I am running it well.”

  “Not recently. Your sales are down this quarter, twenty-eight percent. Last year overall, down five percent. That’s a bad trendline. Your Sandy bubble has burst.”

  Julian tensed. “Dad, those expenses are legit.”

  “Almost $23,000 last quarter? When your sales are down? What the hell are you doing? What’d you spend the money on?”

  “Travel and entertainment? What do you think?” Julian couldn’t believe he had to explain it to his father, who’d lived and breathed T & E, even more than T & A, as he always said.

  “Gimme the details.”

  “What, are you the IRS now?”

  “If you file a return with a number this far out of whack, the IRS is gonna knock on the door. Your door. Then, my door.”

  “Please, we both know enforcement is at an all-time low.”

  “So says every smartass who gets audited.” His father pressed his fleshy lips together. “How’s it legit?”

  “I take people out to eat. It’s not cheap. I take them on the boat. I get party trays, first-class. Lobster, stone crab claws, shrimp. Booze, top-shelf. The whole nine, like you.”

  His father’s eyes narrowed. “Girls?”

  “No, it’s not that kind of sell.”

  His father sniffed. “My preppy son keeps it classy.”

  “It’s not that, either.” Julian had heard that before, many times. “Building is specialized there after Hurricane Sandy. There’s a lot you don’t know about it.”

  “Oh, I’m a rookie at this real estate stuff.” His father scoffed.

  “Dad, building down the Jersey shore has unique issues, and I’m also flipping foreclosures, which entails remediation. You have to deal with water damage, mold—”

  “Who are you entertaining?”

  “Contractors and their subs, other builders, water-damage guys, mold-removal guys—”

  “Those are your vendors.” His father looked at him like he was crazy. “They’re supposed to blow you. Not the other way around.”

  “Dad, that’s not how it works down there. I need the best contractors, carpenters, and remediators to put my jobs first. The good guys are in high demand. You have to woo them or you can’t get them. Everybody and his brother’s calling himself a contractor. They moved from Delaware and Connecticut for the work. The hotels are full. It’s a gold rush.”

  “It was, but it’s over now.”

  “Not completely. The news stories aren’t on the TV and in Philly newspapers, but some residents are still out of their homes. Others are suing their insurance companies for open claims. The grant payments are a joke. FEMA lowballs the residents. The money gets held up. It’s a nightmare for them, but for me, it’s an opportunity.”

  “One man’s ceiling is another man’s floor.” His father’s forehead eased, so Julian continued.

  “I entertain the insurance guys, the FEMA types, guys from Community Disaster Loan, Individual Assistance guys, DHS, Department of Emergency Management, Community Affairs, Jersey Economic Development, mortgage finance agencies, you name it. It’s a governmental clusterfuck.”

  “And you want to make sure they fuck you.” His father chuckled, and Julian joined him.

  “Exactly, and I have to keep the lawyers happy, too.”

  “What lawyers? Government lawyers?”

  “Yes, and the ones who get the Sandy people paid, who handle the claims. Private lawyers and public interest do-gooders. I need to stay in front of them so they recommend us when the check comes in.”

  “Sandy people? Is that what you call them?”

  “Do you realize that five billion dollars in federal and state funds were disbursed for Sandy relief? Three billion was sent directly to the municipalities to be distributed to the residents. And that doesn’t even consider the payout from insurance companies.”

  “It is a gold rush.” His father eased into his ergonomic chair, a black Aeron.

  “So you see, any T & E is well worth it. I want to parlay my experience with Sandy. I want to build and remediate after hurricanes and floods all across the country. There’s gonna be more, every year, and why not expand into post-disaster building and remediation in five to seven years? It’s a niche, and it’s national.”

  “Okay, son.”

  Son. Julian warmed. “Not so crazy after all?”

  “Not just another pretty face.” His father grinned. “How’d you figure all this out again?”

  “I got lost,” Julian answered, and they both laughed, because they loved the story. He’d gotten lost in Mantoloking, New Jersey, and seen for himself the devastation and chaos after Sandy. He’d jumped on the opportunity, started building and flipping, making a killing. He’d bought a second home and didn’t come to Bakerton unless he was seeing his mother. He’d gotten out from under his father’s thumb, literally and figuratively, by running Julian Browne Land Management, even though it was technically owned by Browne. Hurricane Sandy was the best thing that ever happened to him.

  “So you have a plan.”

  “Yes, for world domination.” Julian smiled, thinking of Sasha. He couldn’t wait to get home. She would be waiting for him. It was a dream come true.

  “Better cut me in, Julian. I knew you when.”

  No, you didn’t, Julian thought. “How so?”

  “We could go into mold removal together, as partners. I have the capital, and we could get into water damage and fire damage. We could package disaster relief.”

  “Maybe.” Julian felt his father’s shadow slip over him, but he didn’t want to
deal now. Sasha was waiting. “Let’s talk about it another time. I have to go.”

  “Sure, no rush.” His father started scrolling through his boner phone.

  “Hey, Dad, let me ask you a question. I’m having a problem with theft on one of the sites. You know anybody I could use down there, with a carry permit?”

  “You mean, like, security?”

  “Yes,” Julian answered, since it was code for dirty work.

  “I’ll ask Mac. He’ll know somebody. Remember him? The PM on Brandywine Hunt? He did Phase IV by the turnpike.”

  “Oh, right.” Julian remembered. Mac was the project manager he’d gotten the bullets from twenty years ago, so they’d come full circle.

  “Julian.” His father set his phone aside, and a new grin spread like melting butter. “I’m wondering if you really think you sold me that bullshit.”

  “What?” Julian asked, his mouth going dry.

  “Do you really expect me to believe that you’re sucking up to these contractors because they’re so good? I know why you’re doing it.”

  “Dad, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t kid a kidder. You know exactly what I mean. You’re cultivating your go-to guys who’ll cut the corners you want. Their work isn’t so shitty it can’t pass inspection, and if it is, the inspector takes a boat ride, too. Nobody’s the wiser, not before the mold starts, and the homeowners can’t afford to sue you.” His father spread his big palms open. “Maybe your guys skirt the OSHA regs on mold. Or ignore the code when you want, and you’ll reward them. Not just a blonde on a boat, but cash. Kickbacks. Am I right?”

  “You’re right,” Julian admitted nervously.

  “I knew it!” His father burst into laughter. “I’m proud of you. You need your own guys. I have my own guys. What do you think Mac is?” He leaned over again. “Come on, tell me, what do you really need Mac for? It’s not theft from a job site. You could handle that yourself, easy. It’s bigger, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Julian had to admit that, too. He’d been worrying about Allie. If she told Kyle’s mother and it got to the cops, Julian would be ruined. The publicity alone would kill his business. He wasn’t about to take any chances.

  “Okay.” His father nodded. “I was thinking of going down the shore tonight anyway. How about I meet you at Mac’s, at seven o’clock?”

  “Sure, thanks.” Julian hadn’t planned on his father being there, but no matter. His father would want to keep a lid on things, too. He wouldn’t want the Browne brand damaged, either. Julian rose to go, and his father started texting.

  “Women,” he said to himself, chuckling.

  CHAPTER 54

  Larry Rucci

  Larry let himself into the house, having missed the flight. He was in no shape to hold the client’s hand, anyway. He felt too down after his call with Allie. He slid out of his damp suit jacket and dumped it on the chair. He dropped his messenger bag by the door and tossed his keys onto the console table, where they landed with a clatter. He had to move out. He’d told Allie he was leaving, though it was killing him. The marriage counselor had said, stand in your own truth. Larry’s truth was he loved her, but she couldn’t love him back the way he needed her to.

  Larry looked around the family room, trying to remember when they’d been happy here. Early on, picking out the furniture, with Allie choosing the patterned fabric for the couches, which he thought was fussy. She’d loved the mahogany end tables because they were antique, though he was never drawn to the colonial vibe. The lamps were crystal, also not his taste, and he realized there was no trace of him in the living room. Not that he’d minded, he’d gone shopping with her and wanted to make her happy. That had been his marriage, trying to make her happy and not succeeding.

  Larry went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and got himself a can of beer. He took a slug, and it tasted terrific, reminding him of days up at the lake, early on with Allie. They would picnic and make out. He loved it, and so did she. Back then, she had been his best friend, but no longer. He was better friends with Kwame, a partner of his. They’d have late-night talks at a conference table cluttered with trial exhibits and empty Styrofoam cups. Kwame had just gotten divorced and had never been happier, which was why Larry had blurted it out today to Allie, on the phone. He had to wise up. Life was too short.

  Larry took another slug of beer. Now they wouldn’t have a baby. They’d been trying for a year, with no luck, and he knew that had made everything harder for her. She was the one who had to take her temperature and do all that happy horseshit, and the doctor thought she was too stressed to get pregnant. They’d even gotten her colitis in remission. He hoped a baby would make them stronger as a couple, and Allie would have been a great mother. He’d seen her with his nieces and nephews. She remembered their birthdays, favorite foods, and the names of their stupid stuffed animals.

  He gulped his beer. Allie was the same way with him. She kept track of his blood pressure, triglycerides, and all that. She accepted him without judgment or demand. She loved him the way he was, even the way he used to be, when he was fat. She took care of him without being loving to him all the time, if that made sense, and it showed him that she was a warm, good person, inside. That she wasn’t cold, just closed, sometimes. That was why he’d fallen in love with her.

  Larry remembered the day he’d decided to marry her. It wasn’t a romantic moment, or a magical night or vacation sex. It was something she had done that touched him so deeply, something important to him. It had happened when he was in law school, and his mother had called the apartment from Pennsylvania Hospital because she’d fallen and broken her collarbone, shopping in Philly. Allie had taken the call, but she hadn’t been able to find Larry or his father. So she’d gone to the hospital herself, stayed with Larry’s mother in the ER, and taken her back to her apartment in Center City. Larry remembered going to Allie’s after class and hearing the two of them laughing in the bathroom, behind a closed door. He couldn’t imagine why his mother was in the bathroom at his girlfriend’s place.

  He’d knocked on the door, mystified. Allie? Mom? What’s going on?

  Don’t come in! his mother had called back, giggling.

  Right! Allie had chimed in. Girls only!

  What are you doing? Larry had asked.

  I’m giving your mom a bath, Allie had called back. Before her painkillers wear off.

  Why? Larry had asked, surprised.

  His mother shot back, Because I wanted one after that dirty hospital, why do you think?

  Larry swallowed hard at the memory, then pushed it away. After that, his mother always said, Allie’s a keeper. It was the only time his mother had been wrong. He wasn’t keeping the keeper. He didn’t relish explaining it to his family, either. All he really wanted was a family of his own, and he didn’t want to think about the family he could have started with Allie.

  He left the kitchen and trudged to the stairway with his beer, ascending on autopilot. He reached the second floor and walked down the hallway with a heavy tread. He couldn’t believe it was really the end. How could he have been in such denial? He was a good lawyer, trained to examine the facts, highlight the relevant ones, then spin them into a narrative. How had he ignored so many relevant facts in his own life?

  He went to his closet, took his suits on their hangers, and laid them on the bed, then rummaged underneath for a garment bag and put them inside. He slid his suitcase from the bottom of the closet and threw in his shoes. He grabbed the tie tree that Allie had given him for Christmas, to organize him. He went to his dresser, pausing at the wedding photo, wondering if he should take it. It was the only one they had, and it struck him as significant that it was on his bureau, not hers. Jesus, he was the dumbest man alive.

  “You’ll miss me when I’m gone,” Larry said, to no wife in particular. He really wondered if she would miss him. She might not have married him in the first place if he hadn’t been so persistent. He grabbed assorted cuff links from his
leather tray, which had also been a gift to organize him. He went into his drawers, took some underwear, socks, and tossed them into the suitcase. He went back into the T-shirt drawer for shirts and jeans, but the suitcase was full, so he zipped it closed.

  He grabbed his backpack from the closet and went to the bathroom to get his toiletries. He grabbed his electric toothbrush and his Dopp kit, then realized he would need some refills for his razor. Using a real razor was Larry’s thing. His father had been the same way, using a mug and a brush. His grandfather had been a barber, and all the Rucci men used real razors.

  Larry opened the cabinet under the sink and started rummaging around, spotting Allie’s boxes of Tampax. Every time she would get her period, she would get them out with the same teary smile. He knew she felt responsible, considering herself the problem they couldn’t get pregnant, even though the doctors hadn’t said that. Larry had tried to make her feel better, just last week.

  It’s both our problem, honey. If we can’t have a baby, it’s our problem.

  Larry didn’t want to think about it now. Maybe it was for the best that they hadn’t gotten pregnant. He rummaged around, felt for the razors, and pulled out his hand, but in his palm wasn’t his razor pack at all. It was a plastic pack of Allie’s birth control pills, probably one of her old ones. He was about to toss it back in the cabinet, then took a second look.

  The prescription label was on the side. The date was current, for this month.

  Larry didn’t understand. He slid the pill pack from the plastic sleeve.

  Allie had taken a pill yesterday.

  CHAPTER 55

  Allie Garvey

  Allie drove along Scattergood Road, her jaw set. She was going to the reception. She would introduce herself, see what she could learn, and play it by ear. She wasn’t going to tell his family, but she was going to find out what she could. What they had done twenty years ago had killed David, as surely as it had killed Kyle.