She pulled the backdoor closed, leaving Ryan standing alone on the sidewalk. Her face still felt flushed when she gave his driver the only address she had for Jason Gardner.
30
Fifteen years ago, Jason Gardner attended the Raleigh Foundation’s gala at Cipriani as an up-and-coming analyst for one of the largest investment banks in the world. In light of that background, Laurie had expected to find Casey’s ex-boyfriend working today as a billionaire hedge fund manager. Instead, when she appeared at the address listed on his LinkedIn profile, she found a tiny office in a dusty building overlooking the entrance to the Holland Tunnel. The name of the firm was GARDNER EQUITY, but based on the cheap furniture, she suspected Gardner had very little in the way of actual equity.
The receptionist at the front desk was reading a gossip magazine and chewing gum. When Laurie told her that she was looking for Mr. Gardner, the woman tilted her head in the direction of the only other person in the office. “Jason, Ms. Moran’s here.”
Jason’s résumé was not the only thing that had taken a hit in the last fifteen years. The man who rose from the desk in the back corner was only forty-two but had deep lines in his face and bloodshot eyes. He looked nothing like the young, handsome man whose photograph was on the back of his tell-all book, My Days with Crazy Casey. Laurie suspected that the drugs and alcohol his ex-wives had mentioned to police were still taking their toll.
“Can I help you with something?” he asked.
“I have some questions about Casey Carter.”
His face suddenly aged another decade.
“I saw the news that she’s out. Hard to believe how fast fifteen years flew by.” Jason’s gaze was somewhere far away, as if he were watching the years pass.
“I don’t think they were quick for Casey,” Laurie said.
“No, I suppose not.”
Laurie had not had a chance to read Jason’s book in its entirety, but she’d skimmed enough to know that Jason had thrown his ex-girlfriend under the proverbial bus. The book described an ambitious, power-hungry young woman who cast aside her on-again, off-again boyfriend when she set her sights on Hunter Raleigh.
Laurie pulled her copy of the book from her briefcase. “Some people might have been surprised by your decision to write this. From what I’ve heard, you were quite in love with Casey.”
“I did love her,” he said sadly, “that’s true. She was outspoken, energetic, fun. I have no idea what she’s like now, but back then? Being around Casey made me feel more alive. But sometimes a personality like that comes with a price. There’s a fine line between spontaneity and chaos. In some ways, Casey was a one-woman wrecking ball.”
“How so?”
He shrugged. “It’s hard to describe. It’s like she felt everything a little too much. Her interest in art? She couldn’t just appreciate a painting; it would move her to tears. If she got a negative comment at work, she’d be worried about it the rest of the night, wondering what she had done wrong. And so it went with me. When we first met in college, it seemed like we were soul mates. When she moved to New York, I hoped it was to be with me, but she clearly cared more about her job at Sotheby’s. Then she enrolled in classes toward her master’s degree and started talking about plans for her own gallery. Meanwhile, she was questioning why I wasn’t working harder. Why someone got promoted over me. Like I wasn’t good enough for her. When she broke it off with me, she said she wanted a ‘time-out.’ I figured it was another one of our off periods. But two weeks later, I see a picture of her in the society pages with Hunter Raleigh. She broke my heart. I got distracted. The troubles I was having at work snowballed. As you can see, I didn’t exactly wind up in the Taj Mahal.”
He sounded like a man who blamed Casey for his downfall. It wasn’t a stretch to think he blamed Hunter as well.
“Yet I’m told you tried to get her back, even after the engagement was announced.”
“You’ve got good sources. It was only once, and a large amount of whiskey was to blame. I told her that a snob like Hunter would squeeze every ounce of life from her. Little did I know that the situation would be the other way around.”
“You think she killed him?” From what Laurie could tell, Jason’s book never gave a direct opinion as to Casey’s guilt.
“I’ll admit that calling her Crazy Casey in the book title was a little unfair. Frankly, Arden Publishing insisted. But Casey was stubborn as a mule, with the temper to back it up. When we were going around, she would get all riled up if I spoke to another woman. I can only wonder what she would have done if Hunter tried to dump her the way she did me.”
After Laurie left, Jason waited until he heard the elevator in the hallway depart before asking Jennifer-the latest in a long string of incompetent assistants willing to work for what he could pay-to take a short break. Once she was gone, he pulled up a number he had not dialed for years. His agent answered, then placed him on a brief hold. The man who eventually picked up again did not sound happy to hear from him.
“A television producer came to see me, asking about Casey,” Jason explained. “It’s for a show called Under Suspicion. They want to interview me. What do you think?”
“Sign the papers. Do the show. You might sell more books.”
“She won’t make me look good.”
“What else is new? Just sign the papers.”
Jason felt nauseous as he hung up the phone. He had told the truth to Laurie Moran. He really did love Casey. But then the woman he loved had been arrested for murder, and there was nothing he could do to help her. He could only help himself, and so he had. And now he hated himself for it. He opened the top drawer of his desk, popped one of the dwindling number of painkillers he had stored there, and tried not to think about Casey.
31
Tiro A Segno looked nothing like any gun club Laurie had ever seen. Tucked within a series of three nondescript brownstones on MacDougal Street in Greenwich Village, the club seemed more like a private home, noteworthy only for the Italian flag flying proudly at the entrance. Even when she stepped inside, Laurie was greeted by leather furniture, mahogany wood, and a pool table-not a gun in sight. The smells were of garlic and oregano, not gunpowder.
“Not what you pictured, is it?” her host asked. “I never get tired of seeing the look of surprise on the face of a new guest.”
“Thank you so much for letting me pop in like this, Mr. Caruso.” She’d called the club after she left Jason Gardner’s office, just a few blocks away. “As I mentioned, my production team learned that your club was one of Hunter Raleigh’s favorite places to target practice.”
“Please, call me Antonio. And I was happy to help. You tell me, ‘TV show’-my response is ‘aaah, we don’t like cameras so much.’ But then you say you want to know about Hunter Raleigh. He was a good man, a real gentleman. Then to top it off, you are the daughter of Leo Farley. Of course, you are welcome here. Your father is an honorary member for life.”
With the exception of perhaps the perpetrators he arrested throughout his career, everyone who’d met her father considered him a friend.
She’d come here with questions about Hunter and Casey, but now that she was here, she understood why Grace had suggested it as an ideal location for footage. “I can see why your club is so beloved, Antonio.”
“It’s transformed over the years, to be sure. We didn’t used to be quite so elegant. Some of the old-timers still complain about losing the bocce court. These days, it’s more about the food and wine and socializing, but of course we still have the range downstairs. We’re strictly target shooting, as you may know. And no handguns, just rifles.”