He nods. “I was back home. My father died.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Eliot’s father was Byron Kendall, an enormously powerful trucking magnate, possibly a billionaire. If I weren’t so consumed with the trial and oblivious to the world, I probably would have learned about his death from the media.
He nods sadly. “Thank you. He was eighty-four and very sick for years, but it still comes as a shock.”
“Is your mother alive?” I ask.
Another sad shake. “No, she died almost fifteen years ago. What about you? Parents alive?”
“No. My mother died four years ago, my father last year,” I say. “Being an orphan, even a middle-aged one, takes some getting used to.”
He nods, and we don’t say anything for a while, each reflecting on what we have lost. He breaks the silence. “How’s the case going?”
I want to tell him the truth, that his friend is in deep, deep shit, but I don’t. “We’re plugging along,” I say. “It’s a struggle.”
“My investigators have drawn a blank,” he says. “I probably should have hired local rather than bringing guys in from Cleveland.” He grins a wry grin. “We don’t have the home-field advantage here.”
A good idea hits me, a rarity these days. Eliot has been offering his help all along, and I’ve been fending him off, but that’s about to change. “Can you come back to my office?” I ask. “There might be a way you can help after all.”
He practically salivates at the opportunity, and ten minutes later we’re back at my office. I get right to the point. “Have you ever heard the name Tommy Lassiter?”
His expression is blank. “No. Who is he?”
“He’s a professional murderer, a hit man. I have reason to believe that he murdered Linda Padilla and the other women.”
“You know that for sure?”
I nod. “Pretty much.”
“This is great. You want me to have my investigators look for him?”
“No, I’m about to let the media do that. Did you know Daniel’s wife?”
“Margaret? I knew her . . . I mean, not very well . . . but I went out to dinner with her and Daniel a few times.” He looks confused. “Why? What does she have to do with this?”
“It’s important that you keep this in confidence,” I say.
“Of course. Sure.”
“I also have reason to believe that Lassiter murdered Margaret.”
“Why? Why would he do that?”
“That’s where you come in. Lassiter works for money; if he killed Margaret, he was hired to do it. What I need to know is who might have done the hiring. Who would have wanted her dead and had the money to make it happen.”
Eliot sits down, lost in thought. “I don’t know . . . I can’t think of anybody that might have done that. I’ve always assumed it was a random murder . . . some psychopath.”
“It’s something you could look into, if you’re so inclined. Since it’s on your turf, you’d have home-field advantage.”
He promises to do so and expresses his appreciation for the opportunity. I lead him into the outer office, where Willie and Sondra are waiting for me. Sondra looks gorgeous and is decked out in even more jewelry than the last time I saw her, having added a ruby bracelet to the gold watch and alexandrite locket. I make a mental note to gently suggest to Willie that he slow down on the expensive gifts, though it is certainly none of my business.
I introduce Willie and Sondra to Eliot, who seems to be more interested in staring at Sondra than Willie. I briefly wonder if Eliot would be more or less interested in Sondra if he knew her employment history, then I wonder if Willie is noticing Eliot staring at her. Because if he is, Eliot could soon be skydiving out the window without a helmet or Pete to take his picture.
Just in case, I rush Eliot out the door, then return to them.
“You see that guy staring at Sondra?” Willie asks me.
“Come on, Willie,” Sondra says. “You think everybody is staring at me.”
“Damn right,” he says.
Willie goes on to say that they stopped by to tell me the foundation was going to be closed on Monday and Tuesday, that they were going to head down to Atlantic City for a couple of days of gambling and relaxation.
I’m hit with a sudden wave of envy. I would like to forget Daniel and Tucker and Calvin and Dominic Petrone and especially Lassiter by planting myself at a blackjack table. Nobody’s life would be at stake, and my toughest decision would be whether to stand, draw, or double down.
But I’m not going to go. I’m going to stay here and be miserable. It’s what I do for a living.
But first I’m going to go on television.
• • • • •
THE MEDIA HAVE CALMED down lately, which has resulted in my receiving fewer death threats and crank calls. Unfortunately, the reason that the furor around the case has lessened is that things have been going so well for the prosecution. The public feels secure that Daniel is going to be convicted and put to death, so there’s much less for them to be upset about.
My plan this evening is to shake things up in media land, and I’ve scheduled an interview on CNN. To do so, I simply had to tell them that I was going to be making news, not simply rehashing my view that my client is innocent.
Laurie accompanies me into the city, and we park at a lot near Penn Plaza. The attendant comes over and says, “Forty-one dollars.” I assume he’s making me an offer for the car, but it turns out that’s the flat rate to park for the evening. New York parking lots are a better investment than coffee.
We leave the lot and start walking toward the CNN offices. It’s a typical early evening in Manhattan, with wall-to-wall people on the streets. I’m about half a block from the building when I look slightly toward the right and see something that jolts me.
Tommy Lassiter.
He’s staring at me, smiling, and then suddenly he’s not there, having melted into the crowds.
“Jesus . . . ,” I say, and take a few steps toward where he was standing. A few steps is all I can take because of the masses of people.
“What’s the matter?” Laurie asks.
“I’d swear I just saw Tommy Lassiter.”
“Where?”
I point in the direction, but of course he’s nowhere to be seen. “He just looked at me and smiled and then disappeared.”
“Are you sure it was him?” she asks.
I was sure in the moment, but I’ve never been one to recognize faces, and I’ve never seen Lassiter in person. “I think so. Especially because of the way he looked at me. Like he was taunting me.”
“You’re under a lot of stress, Andy. It may not have been him. What would he have to gain from following you?”
“Maybe to stop my going public with his name. To scare me off. Which would not be that tough to do.”
She shakes her head. “He’s got more effective ways to scare you than smiling.”
She’s right about that, so I try to forget the encounter and we go into the building. About an hour goes by before they are ready for me, and I’m brought into the studio, hooked up with a microphone through my shirt, and we’re ready to go.
The interviewer is Aaron Brown, an intelligent, soft-spoken man who seems to have thrived in cable news despite those qualities. I’ve chosen him because I want my news to be taken seriously, not dismissed as the sensational ramblings of a desperate defense attorney. Even though that’s what it is.
Two minutes into the interview, he comes straight to the point. “I understand that you have something new to reveal tonight.”
I nod. “Yes. I know the identity of the real killer of Linda Padilla, as well as the others.”
He takes this revelation in stride. “And who might that be?”