Promise You Won't Tell? (9 page)

It’s over by the time we get there.

Neighbors are on the perimeter, speaking in hushed tones. Max and Jana are in the front yard, but only one of them is alive.

Max.

“Are you with the police?” he says, as I approach, carrying a flashlight.

“No. Have you called them?”

“Yes.”

I glance down the street where Dillon’s already managed to open Jana’s trunk. We’re lucky she parked a good distance away. But I have no idea what to do about the bug Dillon planted in Max’s car.

Speaking of Max, he’s crying.

“What happened here?” I say.

He points at the shattered glass near the front door and says, “My wife tried to shoot us through the window.”

I look at Jana’s body. “If that’s true, she must be the worst shot in history.”

“She fired twice. The second shot must have ricocheted on something.”

“Wait. You’re claiming she shot
herself
?”

“She
must
have. Darcie and I don’t own guns. But neither does Jana.”

“Where’s the gun she used?”

“Next to her body, I suppose. This is as close as I’ve gotten to her.”

“Because?”

“I was afraid she might be faking, hoping I’d come closer so she could shoot me.”

I shine my flashlight on her body. If there’s a gun, it’s under her.

“You’re sure Jana doesn’t own a gun?”

“We don’t believe in them. But she sure as hell had one. This is crazy. It’s crazy.”

He looks at me. Says, “Who are you, exactly?”

“Dani Ripper. Your wife hired me to find out if you were cheating on her.”

Something bubbles up inside him. His face twists with rage.

“This is
your
fault!” he shouts, and punches my face so fast and hard I fly six feet through the air before my back slams against the ground. He starts coming at me, but thankfully two of the neighbors come running to my rescue.

“Are you all right?” first guy says.

I murmur something.

Second guy asks, “What did she say?”

“She said she hates her job.”

“What’s her job?”

First guy leans closer and says, “What’s your job, hon?”

“From now on? I’m a decoy.”

“You mean like duck hunters use?”

“Yeah. That’s exactly what I mean,” I say, rubbing my jaw.

“What’d she say?” second man yells.

“She says she’s a duck hunter!”

“Dani, hi. Everything okay?”

I’m on the phone with my favorite assassin, Donovan Creed. Yes, I said “favorite.” I actually know more than one assassin.

Impressed?

I say, “Donovan, I’ve got a situation.”

“I love situations,” he says. “How can I help?”

“I need some advice.”

“Oh.”

He sounds disappointed. “Hypothetically, if a friend of yours put a tracking device in a car, and that car is currently part of a crime scene, and your friend didn’t want the cops to find it, what would you do?”

“Hypothetically, where is the car, exactly? On the street, in a driveway, in a garage?”

“Let’s say it’s in a garage that’s attached to a house.”

“In a neighborhood? In Nashville?”

“A ritzy neighborhood in Nashville, where the houses are several hundred feet apart. Hypothetically.”

“Give me a hypothetical address, and within two hours I’ll have my guy blow the garage to hell.”

“Are you serious?”

“Do you really have to ask me that?”

God, I love this guy. It occurs to me to clarify, “No one gets hurt, right?”

He pauses. “Is that how you want it?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll do it anyway.”

Despite the fact she’s a minor, and should be in school, Kelli Underhill’s sitting at the client conference table.

Also present are her mother, Lydia, and their attorney, Allen Roemer.

Roemer motions me to take a seat. I start to, and he says, “Not there.”

I pull out a different chair, and he says, “Not there, either.”

Two chairs remain. I pick one.

“Not that one,” he says.

There are one million two hundred thousand attorneys in this country, which means six hundred thousand of them graduated in the bottom-half of their class. Why do I always wind up with that bunch?

After I sit, Roemer clears his throat and says, “Before I start threatening you, is there anything you’d like to say?”

“Yes.”

“Go ahead, then.”

“On the first day of school, a first-grade teacher tells her class they’re not babies anymore. They have to use grown up words. Then she asks the kids what they did that summer. The first kid says, ‘I got a bad boo boo.” Teacher says, ‘No. You suffered an injury. Use grown up words.’ Second kid says, ‘I rode on a choo choo.’ Teacher says, ‘No. You rode on a train. Use grown up words.’ Third kid says, ‘I read a book.’ Teacher says, ‘Good for you! Which book did you read?’ The kid says, ‘Uh…Winnie the Shit!’”

All three of them stare at me slack-jawed.

Roemer says, “What the hell are you
talking
about?”

“I was telling you a joke.”

“A joke,” he repeats.

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“Because when I told Lydia her daughter and her friends were drinking Saturday night, she said, ‘Obviously, this is a joke.’ When I told her Kelli let boys in the house, she said, ‘Seriously, Ms. Ripper. Is this your idea of a joke?’ And when you called me yesterday afternoon the first thing you said was, ‘Ms. Ripper, is this whole thing some sort of joke?’ I just wanted you to hear what a joke actually sounds like, so you’d know the difference.”

“Don’t give up your day job,” he says.

“Too late.”

Kelli says, “What happened to your face?”

“Let’s just say I lost another client.”

Roemer says, “I saw it on the news. Your client shot herself while trying to kill her husband.”

“That’s what they’re saying.”

“Then he assaulted you in front of numerous witnesses. This morning, he publicly accused you of blowing up his garage. Except that you were being treated at the hospital when the explosion occurred.”

“Is there a question coming my way?”

“Are you planning to file a lawsuit?”

“Why, do you want to represent me?”

“That would be unethical, unless today’s business is quickly resolved.”

“Speaking of which…” I say.

“I want you to stop all this nonsense,” he says. “What were you
thinking
?”

“The same stuff I’m
still
thinking. Lydia? Where’s your husband?”

Roemer says, “Out of town.”

“He’s out of town a lot,” I say.

“Thank God for that,” Kelli says, under her breath.

Lydia places her hand firmly on her daughter’s forearm.

I say, “I’m guessing he’s your stepdad?”

She nods.

Lydia says, “How did you arrive at that conclusion?”

“I’m a student of people,” I say. “A master of logic. A professor of deductive reasoning.”

“You asked around,” Roemer says.

“That, too.”

Roemer clears his throat again and says, “Kelli has admitted a small amount of controlled drinking took place at her home Saturday night, and that she did, in fact, allow a small number of classmates into her home to talk about schoolwork. They were quiet and respectful, and left a few minutes later in an orderly fashion.”

I look at Kelli and say, “See? This is why we need lawyers.”

Roemer says, “Is it true you’re claiming a young lady was molested at the Underhill residence Saturday night?”

“I’m investigating a
possible
molestation.”

“Riley Freeman?”

I decide not to respond.

Roemer says, “Do you have the slightest shred of evidence a crime occurred?”

“That depends on what you call evidence.”

“The courts are quite clear as to what constitutes evidence.”

“I bet thousands of inmates would dispute that claim.”

“Nevertheless, evidence must be credible. And legally obtained.”

I say, “The most common form of evidence is witness testimony, correct?”

“It is,” he says. “Do you have any?”

“Sort of.”

“Then why haven’t you gone to the police?”

“I’m building a case.”

“You’ve been retained by Claire Freeman, Riley’s mother?”

I decide not to answer.

“Reason I’m asking, she doesn’t seem to know anything about it.”

I feel the blood draining from my face. “You told her what happened to
Riley
?”

“Relax. I simply asked if she had retained you, and she said no. I told her I’d been misinformed, and that was that. Which begs the question, for whom are you working?”

“Truth, justice, and the American way,” I say.

We stare at each other until he says, “How much do you know about libel and slander?”

“In layman’s terms?”

“If you must.”

“I must.”

“Go ahead.”

“Libel is defamation in print or pictures. Slander is oral defamation.”

“Spoken like a true layman”

“But generally true?”

“Here’s a better question,” he says. “Are you prepared to defend yourself in court for defaming the Underhills?”

“I haven’t defamed anyone, yet. Certainly not the Underhills.”

“Guess again.”

“I’ve got a girl who says something may have happened to her. I’m trying to find out if it’s true.”

“So your client is Riley Freeman? A minor?”

“Is there a law against it?”

“Probably. I’ll have to check. More importantly, you just admitted your client doesn’t even know if something happened to her.”

To Kelli I say, “Your bedroom’s on the second floor, right? And the master bedroom’s on the main floor?”

She nods and is about to say something, but her mother squeezes her arm.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say.

Roemer sees me fiddling with my cell phone and says, “What have you got there?”

I hand him my phone and say, “How would you interpret this photo?”

He takes a moment to study the picture of Riley that Rick Hooper sent me. Then he says, “A young lady in her pajamas napping peacefully on a bed at an undisclosed location.”

“That’s what I’d say, too, if I were you. Except that this photo was taken at the Underhill home shortly after midnight last Saturday. It was taken by a boy who entered the Underhill home. A boy who created a nickname for Riley, and spread it throughout the school.”

“What nickname is that?”

“Strawberry.”

“I suppose you’re dying to tell me why?”

“Before going to the sleepover, Riley Freeman, for her own personal reasons, affixed a tiny strawberry sticker east of her labia.”

“East?”

“I’m trying to be delicate.”

“Are you also trying to make a point?”

“I am. Riley told no one about the sticker. Not even her best friend. And yet, the boy who took this photo, and other, more revealing photos, gave her that nickname.”

“So?”

“If he never saw her naked, what made him give her that nickname?”

He shakes his head. “That’s all you’ve got? Maybe she likes strawberries. Maybe she hates them. Maybe she has a red birthmark on her elbow.”

“Her elbow?”

“It could mean anything.”

“What about the photos?”

“Do you have any proof they exist?”

“Just hearsay, at this point.”

He shakes his head again. “Dani, you’ve been hoodwinked.”

“Hoodwinked?”

“Duped,” he says. “Deceived. In layman’s terms, you’ve been tricked.”

“How so?”

“An attorney would argue she did, in fact, tell someone. If, as you say, she was inebriated at the time, who’s to say she didn’t have a short conversation with the person who snapped the picture? And why wouldn’t she tell that person about the strawberry sticker? Meanwhile, you’re publicly discussing the possible molestation of a minor at the Underhill’s home. You’re casting my clients in a criminally negligent light.”

“How much better will the light be when a group of photos surface, proving an underage girl was molested at your client’s home?”

“It’s not going to get that far because we don’t believe these photos exist. But your irresponsible public comments that a crime took place in my clients’ home, under Mrs. Underhill’s personal supervision, has already caused irreparable damage to her reputation and standing in the community.”