Lying With Strangers (19 page)

KEVIN FOUND AN OPEN BAR ON NEWBURY STREET. IT WAS MORE
tony than he’d wanted, offering expensive French wines by the glass and burgers without meat, just a big ol’ portobello mushroom on a rosemary-bread bun. He sat at the end of the bar, ordered a draft, and ate peanuts from the shell to create that hole-in-the-wall feeling he desired. Halfway through his Budweiser, his cell phone rang. The illusion faded. Back to reality.

“Weaver here,” said the caller.

It had been ten years since Walter Weaver had retired from the FBI to form his own private detective agency, but he still had the bureau habit of using last names only. Over the years Kevin had used him countless times for investigative work on behalf of clients. This time, he’d only said it was for “a client.” It was a background check on Gary Varne.

“Do you know it’s after midnight?”

“Did I wake you, Stokes?”

“No.”

“Then don’t bitch. You told me to call as soon as I got anything, and boy did I get it. I want you to know in advance that this is going to be double my normal charge.”

“What do you have?”

“No criminal convictions. Of course, your normal background
search would have stopped right there. But I went the extra mile and found the real goods.”

“I’m listening.”

“Stokes, my old friend. I think you’ve hit the jackpot.”

The alarm woke her at 5:00
A.M.

Peyton rolled over and killed the buzzer, nearly knocking the clock off the nightstand in the darkness. She hadn’t fallen asleep until sometime after 4:18
A.M.
, the last time she’d checked the glowing numbers. She’d lain awake thinking, reacting to every sound in the night. The hum of the refrigerator. The air conditioner clicking on and off. In the stillest moments, her mind had even taken her outside the apartment to investigate curious little noises. Magnolia Street was generally quiet, especially on weeknights after bedtime. Cars would usually pass by unnoticed. Last night, however, Peyton had heard every one of them. She’d probably even imagined a few.

She stayed in bed longer than she should have. She barely had time to shower and get dressed. There was definitely no time to eat. She had to be at the hospital by six o’clock. She grabbed her purse and car keys and headed out the door.

Outside it was still dark but showing signs of brightening. The faint glow from the street lamps waned in anticipation of dawn. The car was still parked across the street, where she’d left it last night. Kevin had obviously walked or taken a cab to wherever he’d gone. This was getting to be a habit, his not coming home at night.

She crossed the street with only a casual check for traffic, no cars in sight. She unlocked the door, opened it, and slid into the driver’s seat. She pitched her purse onto the passenger seat and turned the ignition. She put the car in reverse and checked in the rearview mirror.

Her eyes met a stranger’s. A man in a black ski mask.

She was about to scream, but his hand covered her mouth, and a knife was at her throat.

“Don’t move,” he said.

She froze on command, her eyes wide with fear, her heart racing.

“Listen carefully. I have some questions for you. I’m going to take my hand off your mouth so you can answer. If you scream, I’ll slit your throat. Nod if you understand.”

She nodded once, feeling the blade against her jugular as she did. Slowly his hand slid away from her mouth. The knife remained.

“Do you have the money?” he asked.

“I can get it. Don’t hurt me. Whatever you want.”

“I don’t want you to get it. I asked if you got it.”

“No. But, please, I can get it.”

“Just calm down and answer my question. Did you get my money by midnight?”

“I can get—”

“Hush!” he said, pressing the knife more firmly against her neck. Peyton went rigid.

His voice developed an edge, a sign of agitation. “Keep this very simple. Just answer my questions. No pleading, no explanations. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“You remember our phone call, right?”

“Yes.”

“You heard me say your deadline was midnight, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You heard me say that I’d kill Gary Varne if you didn’t get the money. Yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“Did you get the money?”

Her lips quivered. He grabbed her by the chin, as if to force a response. “Yes or no,” he said firmly. “Did you get the money?”

“No.”

She could hear her own erratic breathing, short panicky breaths. Slowly the tight grasp on her chin released as he said, “Good for you, Peyton. You made the right call.”

Suddenly a rag was over her mouth, a pungent smell. She couldn’t breathe. She struggled to get free and even pounded her fists on the horn, which didn’t blast and had obviously been disconnected—her last coherent thought. She met his eyes once more in the rearview mirror, but her resistance was at an end.

Then something clicked in her brain, a memory—a recognition. The sound of his voice, the look in his eyes. On some level of semiconsciousness, it seemed to register that she’d seen this man before.

With one last whiff from the rag over her mouth, she felt a rush through her body and dizziness in her head. Then everything turned black.

FOR KEVIN IT WAS DÉJÀ VU, RUSHING TO THE HOSPITAL AT SUNRISE,
his wife’s fate in the hands of modern medicine. This time it was Massachusetts General Hospital, thankfully not the intensive care unit. She was in one of the ER’s small, curtained-off recovery areas when Kevin arrived. The slow drip of IV fluids fed into her veins. A nurse was helping her sit up in the bed as a young ER physician checked her heart and breathing with a stethoscope. To Kevin, she looked barely conscious.

He stood frozen for a moment, overcome with concern. He’d never told her that he was checking into Gary’s past, and he hadn’t had the chance to tell her what his investigator had uncovered. It hardly seemed to matter at this point. “I’m so sorry,” he said, as he went to her side.

Peyton almost seemed to recognize him but didn’t really respond. The doctor said, “She’s still pretty out of it.”

“I’m her husband. Is she okay?”

She plucked the stethoscope from her ears and let it hang around her neck. “Your wife was unconscious but breathing when she was presented to the ER. She lost a lot of fluids from the vomiting. Her stomach’s been pumped. She had—”

“I know. I talked to the police outside.”

“Okay, then you know. We’ll keep her here for observation for a little while. Once she’s lucid, a psych counselor will pay
her a visit. Then if everything remains stabilized, she can go home.”

“Are you doing anything to treat her?”

“Right now, just the IV to replace fluids. The nurses have been walking her for the past twenty minutes. They’ll continue to do that every five minutes or so, till she fully regains consciousness.”

“I can do that.”

“Great. Ring the nurse if you need anything.”

The doctor was gone before Kevin could even thank her. The nurse was holding Peyton up in a seated position on the edge of the bed. Kevin took her place, then pulled Peyton close to his side as the nurse disappeared on the other side of the curtain. Peyton buried her head into his shoulder languidly, as if she were drunk. After a minute or so, her body jerked several times in his arms. She was sobbing.

“Peyton. Are you okay?”

“I’m so glad you’re here.” Her voice was weak, her eyes mere slits.

“Me too. I called your folks. They’re cutting their vacation short and will be here just as soon as they can catch a flight.”

“This is awful. The whole thing.”

“I know.” He stroked her head, trying to console. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“Do what?”

“You don’t have to be ashamed. This is my fault more than yours. I’m sorry for the way I treated you last night. I should have realized how much stress you’ve been under, how close you were to the edge.”

Slowly, she became more coherent, as if forcing herself to regain control. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“We all know. The police found the pills.”

“What pills?”

“They found your car parked down by the wharf. You were slumped over the wheel with half a bottle of sleeping pills spilled onto the floor. They assumed you’d taken the rest of them. That’s why they brought you here and pumped your stomach.”

“They think I tried to kill myself?”

“Don’t worry, we’re going to get you help.”

“I don’t need help,” she said, frustrated. “I was abducted. A guy in a ski mask was hiding in the backseat of my car. He put a knife to my throat.”

He tried not to look skeptical. “A ski mask?”

“
Yes
. Yes!”

The curtain was suddenly pulled back. Kevin looked up and saw a police officer standing before them. It was the same tall, African-American guy he’d talked to in the lobby. Another officer was behind him, one he didn’t recognize.

“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Stokes.”

“What is it?”

“I was wondering if you or your wife knows a man named Gary Varne.”

Kevin went cold. “Yes. My wife knows him.”

The officer nodded slowly, exceedingly polite. “I hate to have to ask you this under these circumstances and all. But do you think you and your wife might be up to answering a few questions for me?”

“What kind of questions?”

“Actually, it’s more like one question.”

“Sure.”

His eyes narrowed. “Do you mind telling me what Mr. Varne’s dead body was doing in the trunk of your wife’s vehicle?”

Kevin nearly fell over. His instincts as a lawyer told him not to say a word, but that didn’t matter.

At that moment, he simply couldn’t speak.

PEYTON WAS RELEASED FROM THE MASS GENERAL EMERGENCY ROOM
after the lunch hour. It was standard procedure in any case of attempted suicide for the patient to be referred to counseling, so it took some string-pulling to be discharged without it.

With their car impounded indefinitely by the police, she and Kevin took a cab home. It was a comfortable summer afternoon, shorts and shirtsleeves weather. As the cab headed up Magnolia Street, Peyton noticed several of her neighbors out enjoying the sunshine. Strangely, they were all headed in the same direction—toward Peyton’s apartment.

Then she noticed the squad cars. Two from the Boston Police Department and a third unmarked vehicle were parked in front of her apartment. Their front door was wide open and two uniformed officers were posted on the front porch. A handful of rubbernecking neighbors had wandered by to see what was going on.

The cab stopped directly across the street. “Have we been robbed?” asked Peyton.

“I have no idea,” said Kevin as he paid the fare. Together they slid out of the backseat, crossed the street, and climbed the front stairs. The two police officers didn’t move from their post. Their landlord came out to meet them at the threshold.

“What’s going on?” asked Peyton.

The landlord didn’t have a chance to answer. A large man
dressed in a short-sleeved white dress shirt and a loosely knotted necktie emerged from the foyer and said, “We’re executing a search warrant.”

Peyton did a double take. It was Detective Bolton, whom she hadn’t seen since Andy Johnson’s death last winter. A pair of thin latex gloves covered his pudgy hands, and he was holding a clear plastic bag that contained a gray metal strongbox that Peyton recognized as hers.

“I’d like to see the warrant,” said Kevin.

“Your landlord has your copy.”

“It really wasn’t necessary to make a neighborhood spectacle out of this. If you had just called, we would have let you in.”

“Sure,” said Bolton. “And we would have found what we were looking for in a Dumpster eight blocks from your apartment rather than your bedroom closet.”

“Peyton and I have nothing to hide.”

“No, not anymore you don’t.” With a thin smile he thanked the landlord and headed down the steps. As if on cue, the stoic officers in uniform followed him to the curb. Peyton watched as they got into their cars and pulled away.

The landlord handed Kevin a copy of the warrant. “This better not be about drugs or you’ll be looking for a new apartment faster than you can say eviction.” She glowered, then climbed down the stairs, leaving them alone in the foyer. Kevin closed the door and quickly read the warrant.

“That box he carried out is where I keep my gun,” said Peyton.

“Is that what they were searching for?”

“That’s what the warrant says.”

“So what happens now?”

“I presume they’ll run ballistics tests to see if there’s a match on the bullet that killed Gary Varne.”

“That’s good. Because it won’t match.”

“Let’s hope not.”

“What do you mean, hope? You don’t think I shot him, do you?”

“This is just moving so fast. And it keeps getting weirder. Even this warrant is strange. Warrants are required by law to be specific, but this one seems to have been prepared by someone who’s omniscient. Obviously the cops would know what kind of gun you own from registration records, but it’s beyond me how they were able to identify the metal box you kept it in.”

She thought for a moment, then it clicked. “My civil deposition. The lawyer for that jerk who sued me over that disaster at the Haverhill clinic questioned me about my gun. I said I kept it locked in a strongbox on the top shelf of my bedroom closet. The whole deposition turned out to be four transcribed pages. It would have taken the police about thirty seconds to read it.”

“It’s still weird that they would even have known about your deposition, let alone have a copy of it. Unless someone’s feeding them information.”

“You mean an informant?”

“That’s a very neutral term. I was thinking more along the lines of whoever the son of bitch is who killed Gary Varne and is trying to make it look like you did it.”

They exchanged anxious glances, then Peyton asked, “What do you think we should we do now?”

“You want my advice as a husband or a lawyer?”

“Both.”

“Hire a lawyer. A good one.”

“Got any suggestions?”

“Just one,” he said in a serious tone, then walked to the kitchen and picked up the telephone.

Thirty minutes later they were downtown in the law offices of Falcone & Associates. Tony Falcone was a savvy trial lawyer who’d done only criminal defense his entire twenty-year career, the first five years at the public defender’s office in Boston and the balance in private practice. Peyton had seen his name in the newspaper a
few times on some high-profile cases but had never met him. It had been Kevin’s idea to call him, though the recommendation came with a small caveat: Tony was immensely talented but full of surprises.

His secretary brought them coffee and told them that Tony would be with them just as soon as he got off the phone. They waited in silence in the reception area outside his personal office, seated side by side on the silk-covered couch. Kevin kept glancing sideways every few seconds, as if checking to see if Peyton had any questions. She didn’t feel like talking.

The waiting area was decorated tastefully, an eclectic mix of modern furniture with some antiques for accent. The oil paintings and watercolors were all originals and lit perfectly, which suggested they were admired by their owner and probably of some value. It felt more like a cozy gallery than a law office. No plaques, diplomas, or other badges of honor cluttered the cherry-paneled walls. Peyton took that as a good sign. In her experience, the true leaders in any profession didn’t substitute résumés for wallpaper.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said Tony, emerging from his office.

The introductions were quick. As Peyton rose to shake his hand, she realized that she had seen him interviewed a few months ago on the evening news, where he’d come across as hard and serious. In person he exuded more of a relaxed confidence, casual but stylish, dressed in an Armani jacket, dark blue shirt, and slightly darker blue tie, very unlike the pinstripes, white shirts, and berry ties that seemed to be the required uniform at Kevin’s firm. He was taller than expected and more handsome than she remembered from television. Peyton would have guessed he’d just returned from vacation, the way his perfect white teeth played off the suntan. She returned his smile, though under the circumstances hers was forced.

“How’s the novel coming?” asked Tony.

“That’s a whole ’nother story,” said Kevin.

He glanced at Peyton and said, “Kevin was good enough to
buy me a few lunches in exchange for some insights into criminal lawyering while he was writing his book.”

“I know. He told me what a great help you were.”

“All I did was tell war stories.”

“So I guess that means Kevin knows all your tricks.”

Tony was still smiling, but the ego was showing. “Not by a long shot.”

He stepped aside to let them enter first. Peyton noticed an old brass plaque posted on the office door that read
CONFESSIONS DAILY
7–9.

“Cute,” said Peyton.

“Oh, that. I took my little niece down to St. Anthony’s for confession a few months ago and saw it in the vestibule. I had to have it.”

“You stole from a church?”

He shrugged impishly, as if that were a gray area. “I said two Hail Marys and dropped a hundred bucks in the poor box. It all comes out in the wash.”

“Not where I do my laundry,” she said, only half kidding.

“Peyton,” said Kevin, groaning.

“It’s okay. Your wife’s not a wallflower. I like that. Especially in such an attractive woman.”

The remark seemed innocent but still was out of place. She and Kevin seated themselves in two chrome and leather director’s chairs that faced the lawyer’s desk with an impressive view of Boston harbor in the distance. The desk was an unusual piece, an ultramodern design that consisted only of a kidney-shaped sheet of beveled glass resting on three narrow columns of polished granite. It looked as though it might fall over at the slightest touch, so Peyton didn’t dare get too close or even breathe too heavily.

His secretary appeared in the open doorway. “Excuse me, Mr. Falcone. There’s a reporter on line two.”

All three of them shot a look, as if to ask,
Already
?

“It’s about the police kickback case,” she clarified.

Tony reached for the phone on his desk, then apparently
thought better of talking to the press about a client in front of new ones. “I’ll just be a minute,” he said, then stepped out.

As they waited, Peyton watched a ship pass in the harbor, a tiny toy boat from this high up. Kevin was fiddling with a creepy little thing he’d found on Tony’s desk. It looked like a dried apple with a long wisp of hair, then Peyton realized it was a shrunken head—phony, she hoped. Probably a memento from some exotic vacation. Or his last jury trial.

“Do you really think this guy’s the best?” she asked quietly.

“No.”

“Then why are we here?”

“Because he’s the best we can afford.”

“What are you saying, he’s the trial lawyer equivalent of an HMO?”

“Only if your HMO charges a hundred grand up front, satisfaction not guaranteed.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Welcome to the real world, Doctor. Criminal law is as real as it gets.”

Tony returned and closed the door. “Okay, let’s get started,” he said as he took his place behind the desk. “I want you two to tell me everything. Start at the beginning of the world if you have to.”

“It’s interesting you say that,” said Peyton. “After watching all those courtroom dramas on television, I was under the impression that criminal defense lawyers didn’t want to know everything.”

“Depends on the lawyer. Some do, some don’t.”

Kevin said, “I think there’s a larger, legitimate concern that Peyton is trying to articulate.”

“I understand,” said Tony, speaking more to Peyton now. “Too much knowledge about the facts might make some lawyers feel constrained as to the type of defense they can present at trial. For example, if the client says she was home alone sleeping in her own bed the night of the crime, the lawyer might be nervous about calling an alibi witness to the stand who wants to testify that the defendant was out all night dancing with her at the clubs.”

“Exactly,” said Kevin. “It creates an ethical dilemma.”

“Yes, but only for the lawyer who actually remembers everything his client tells him.”

There was silence, then Tony cracked a smile. “I’m kidding. Lighten up, you two.”

Peyton forced a nervous smile.

“Look,” said Tony. “I’m a straight shooter, totally. It’s my job to put the best spin on the facts if and when we present them to a jury. It’s not your job to filter the information that flows between us in the privacy of my office. So tell me exactly what happened. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. Peyton, why don’t you start?”

“I think I’ll let Kevin tell it. I’ll fill in what he leaves out.”

“Fine with me,” said Tony.

“It really all began last winter,” she heard Kevin say, though she wasn’t fully listening. Tony was taking notes on his legal pad, seeming to get every word. She hoped he had spoken the truth about being a straight shooter, but that earlier crack about his convenient memory was gnawing at her. Maybe it was humorous between lawyers, but for her it was less than reassuring. And what kind of guy steals from a church?

She forced herself to stay focused on Kevin’s narrative, not quite sure what to make of the esteemed Tony Falcone.