Outfoxed: An Andy Carpenter Mystery (7 page)

“Is this Mom’s idea?”

“Nope,” I lie. “It’s mine. We have a deal?”

He shrugs. “Okay. But can we still watch football together?”

“Absolutely,” I say, sticking out my hand. He shakes it and the deal is done.

I am not pleased.

I drop Ricky off and head down to my office for our initial case meeting. Laurie arrives as I do, and we walk in together. Everyone is there: Sam Willis, Willie, Edna, Marcus Clark, and Hike, the other lawyer in my firm.

They are sitting at the long table in what serves as my conference room. The way they are situated makes the table look like a park seesaw. Marcus is at one end, and all the others are at the other end. Everyone here is afraid of Marcus, which makes perfect sense, since Marcus is one scary human being.

Hike is in the middle of one of his rants, talking to anyone who will listen, which as far as I can tell is no one. Hike is a complete and total pessimist, as distinguished from a worrier, since a worrier fears the worst but recognizes the possibility that it might not happen. Hike does not allow for the chance that there will ever be a good outcome of anything.

Hike’s discourse today is on alien life and the certainty that it’s out there. “You know how many planets there are? Three trillion. You think they’re all just sitting out there with no one on them? Come on.”

I’m not sure why nobody at the table answers him. It could be one of two things. Either they are not listening at all, or they don’t want to encourage him to continue speaking.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t need any encouragement. “You can be sure they’re coming here,” he says. “And they’re not coming to hang out, you know? Before they even get here, they’ll send a weird virus into our atmosphere. By the time they arrive, we’ll all either be dead or have sores all over our bodies and a body temperature of a hundred and twelve. It’s going to make Independence Day look like a Saturday-morning cartoon.”

On the one hand, I’d like to see how long Hike can go on with absolutely no encouragement from his audience, but I need to interrupt. “On the off chance that the invaders don’t get here before the trial, we probably should prepare,” I say.

I bring everyone up to date on the basics, starting with Brian’s escape, which they already know about from newspaper accounts. When I tell them about Pete’s following Willie and me and capturing Brian, I look over at Marcus expecting disapproval at our carelessness. I don’t find any; he is expressionless, either unconscious or asleep or both.

Willie jumps in to mention that Brian risked his life to save Boomer, and Hike and Edna nod, understanding that this is why we are taking the case.

“I think the answer lies in their business,” I say, “and Sam, we’re going to need your expertise in this area. I know nothing about computers and all that technological stuff … my eyes start to glaze over when I hear it. So you’re going to have to study their company and educate me in a way that I can understand it.”

“I’m on it,” Sam says, though I think he’s disappointed he won’t get to shoot anybody.

“If I’m right, then we are dealing with people capable of framing Brian using computer expertise, and also of stabbing two people to death in cold blood.”

“Denise Atkins worked at Starlight as well, didn’t she?” Laurie asks.

I nod. “According to Brian, she’s been there from the beginning; she was a technology whiz in her own right. Brian says that his being there kept her from advancing too far; the board was concerned about nepotism. She works in the technology area.”

“So you don’t think she was at least one of the targets in these killings?” Laurie asks.

“I don’t, but I don’t want us to take that for granted. My guess is that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I think Brian and Gerald Wright were the two intended victims here, and what they had in common was the business that they ran. Denise was probably collateral damage. But, as always, I could be wrong.”

Nobody jumps in to disagree with my comment that I can always be wrong, so I continue. “The wild card in all this is Dominic Petrone. It’s hard to know where he figures in it, if at all. But Denise mentioned him to Brian, so that certainly points to his involvement.”

“Doesn’t sound like his kind of thing,” Hike points out.

“True,” I say, because dealing with computers and large corporations is not something Petrone has traditionally focused on. “But maybe Petrone is branching out. We need to keep an open mind, while treading very carefully.”

I give out the initial assignments. Sam is going to focus on the business end, learning just what the hell that company does. Hike will attempt to speed up the turning over of discovery documents to us, and will also prepare a change-of-venue motion. I don’t think it has a chance in hell of succeeding, but it’s something we should pursue anyway.

Laurie will head up the investigating team, and Marcus will work for her. He likes her, and she’s the only one of us not petrified to be near him, so that will work fine. Edna will hang around and answer the phones, if she can find the time. Willie has no responsibility at this point, but he usually comes in handy.

When the meeting breaks up and the others leave, Laurie asks me if I talked to Ricky.

“I did,” I say.

“And?”

“And we’re on the same page.”

“Which page might that be?”

“Neither of us is going to gamble anymore,” I say.

“You told him that?”

“We shook on it.”

“Wow,” she says. “You know you have to keep your word, right?”

“I do?”

“He’s your son, Andy.”

“You can’t lie to your son? Who made that rule?”

“I did,” she says. “A while back. I’m surprised I didn’t mention it you.”

Oh.

Sarah Maurer is shaken up. I can tell because when she greets me at the door her eyes are all red and she’s holding a wet ball of tissue, which she uses to dab at those red eyes.

When I had called her she was reluctant to meet with me. I persuaded her with a generous dose of my Andy Carpenter charm, and also by mentioning that if she didn’t agree to have a casual chat with me, we’d have to do a deposition with a roomful of lawyers.

That was a lie; I don’t have the power to force her into a deposition. But I sometimes find that lies and threats help to supplement the aforementioned Andy Carpenter charm. And I’d certainly rather deceive her than head into a trial without having interviewed the main witness against my client.

Her house is simultaneously the closest to Gerald Wright’s and yet almost a quarter mile away. If you’re going to peek into a neighbor’s window in this area, you’ll need to use the Hubble telescope.

“Hello, Ms. Maurer, thank you for seeing me,” I say when she opens the door.

She just nods and says, “Come in.”

Her house is much more traditional and less modern than Wright’s, though the layout isn’t all that different. I can see a swimming pool and tennis court through the glass doors to the back; I hadn’t seen that at the murder scene, but I would assume that there was at least a pool somewhere on the grounds.

She leads me into the den, where a man is waiting. He’s a big guy, dressed in an Oklahoma sweatshirt, sweatpants, and open-toed sandals, which look ridiculous on his very large feet. He is not smiling; it’s more like sneering.

“This is my friend Jack,” she says. I don’t know if “friend” means “boyfriend,” but at least it’s not “husband.”

He doesn’t offer his hand, just says, “Don’t you think she’s been through enough?” The guy is instantly annoying, so I don’t answer him. Instead, I turn to Ms. Maurer and say, “I’ll try not to take too much of your time.”

“You got that right,” Oklahoma Jack says.

“Is it okay if Jack stays while we talk?” she asks.

I smile and say, “No.”

“That’s a lot of crap,” Jack says.

She seems taken aback, while Jack seems positively flabbergasted. “Oh,” she says. “I thought it would be all right.”

I smile again. “It isn’t; Jack needs to leave. Or, we can do this at my office, and Jack won’t even be allowed in the building.” I’m just being obnoxious; the success of this interview does not hinge on Jack’s leaving. I want him gone simply because he wants to stay.

Jack doesn’t seem intent on leaving, so Ms. Maurer says, “Jack, please. I want to get this over with.”

He seems about to argue, then changes his mind and walks out. He does so slowly, as if he has a choice and can stop at any time.

Once he’s gone, and probably has his ear on the door, I say, “Thank you. I just find these conversations are better one on one.”

She nods her understanding, so I continue.

“Can you describe what happened the day of the murders?”

“Well, I was just going for a walk. I do that every day; I prefer being outside to being on the treadmill.”

“You were alone?”

She nods. “Yes, always. Jack doesn’t like to take walks.”

“How far do you walk?” I ask.

“Three miles exactly. A mile and a half out, and then back.”

“How can you be so precise?”

She holds up her wrist and shows me a black band or watch; it might be an Apple watch. I assume it measures distance.

“How long does it take you?”

“Forty-five minutes,” she says. “I’m a fast walker. It’s the only exercise I get.”

I ask her to continue, and she says, “I was on the way back when a car passed me. I didn’t recognize the car, and that’s a little unusual, because this road is so private.”

“Were you coming back when you saw the car, or leaving?”

“Coming back; I was at the first corner. The car turned left onto our road. When I got near Gerry’s house, I saw that the car was parked in his driveway, and the front door was open.”

“Did this worry you?”

“I wouldn’t say worry; it just struck me as unusual.”

“Then what happened?”

“Then I saw Brian Atkins come out the front door. He looked a little strange.”

“Strange? How?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Excited? A little crazy? Scared? It’s really hard to tell.”

Unfortunately, Sarah Maurer is going to make a good witness; she’s believable and appears intelligent and in control. “You recognized him?” I ask.

“Yes. I knew Brian well from back in the day, before he had his problems. I was surprised to see him; I thought he was still in prison. So I called out to him.”

“Did he answer you?”

“No, at least not at first. He looked at me, but it was like he looked through me. All he did was run to his car and drive off.”

“You said he didn’t answer you ‘at first’?”

“Right. He went down the street and turned around so he could leave the way he came. But he stopped when he passed me, and spoke through the open window. He said, ‘Call the police.’ Then he drove off.”

Finally, a piece of good news. “Did you call them?”

“I didn’t have my cell phone with me. I should have gone home and called, but I saw Gerry’s open door so I went to it. I called his name a few times, but nobody answered. I stepped in, just a couple of feet because I was scared, and then I saw what I thought was blood, at the door to the den. So I ran home and called.”

She again starts to dab her eyes with her tissues, an act that will endear her to juries. Even I am feeling bad for her.

“You never saw the bodies?”

She shakes her head. “No. Thank God.”

I ask her a few more questions, but basically I’ve gotten all the information I can from her. Her role in this has been limited. She will testify to it truthfully, and the jury will believe her.

I thank her for her time and open the door to leave. There is Jack, standing a few feet away and not looking pleased.

“You can go in now,” I say.

Joseph Russo saw the towering Vegas hotels through the plane window. Then the plane turned slightly, so that those hotels could only be visible from the opposite side of the plane. That would not represent much of a problem; Russo was on a private plane with two other passengers, both of whom worked for him. So he could have any seat he wanted.

But Russo had no particular interest in seeing Vegas. He didn’t like the place, even though the last time he had been there was twenty years earlier. Actually, were Russo to suddenly develop some introspection, he would realize that he didn’t much like anywhere other than where he had always lived. He was a Jersey boy, through and through.

A white limousine that seemed to Russo to be the length of a basketball court was waiting on the tarmac as the plane slowed to a halt. Russo’s two men walked down the steps first, both as a way of protecting their boss, and possibly to also make sure the steps were sturdy enough. Russo was three hundred and forty pounds, down from a high of three forty-two, before he began dieting. So his two men, weighing five hundred and twenty between them, were a satisfactory test.

The steps held, and the arriving trio was taken in the limousine to the Mandalay Bay Hotel, where their meeting would be held in an enormous suite on the top floor. Russo viewed that fact as a less-than-amusing conceit on the part of Charles Capuano, the man with whom he would be meeting.

Russo knew that Capuano did not have an ownership interest in the hotel, nor did he make it his home. He was using the suite to show off in front of Russo, which meant his money would have been better spent at the blackjack tables. Russo was not easily impressed.

Even if Russo cared about the suite and the trappings, that would not have benefited Capuano. Russo was there as a representative of Dominic Petrone, so regardless of what Capuano said or did, it was Petrone’s instructions that were going to be followed.

Even though they had never met, Capuano greeted Russo with a big hug, as if they were reunited old friends. This was the fourth such meeting that Russo had attended, and in each case the greeting had been the same. It was a sign to Russo that he held the power, and he would use it.

Within minutes, Russo’s and Capuano’s men melted away, leaving the two to talk in private. “So what brings you here?” Capuano asked.

Russo had no doubt that Capuano knew exactly what had prompted the meeting, but he knew he had to play the game. “I’m afraid that things have not been going well here,” Russo said, and then followed up that truism with a lie. “It’s the only city that is not performing up to expectations.”