Thomas Prescott Superpack (32 page)

Chapter 11

Adam Gray’s office was contemporary extravagant. Simply rich. Or richly simple. He had two paintings. Watercolors. Similar enough that they might have been done by the same guy on the same day. A cherry bookcase stretched the length of the near wall. The far wall was glass, providing a scenic view of a wet downtown Seattle. A long couch was nestled up to the glass. Brown leather. A marble bar stood stoic in a far corner. Next to the bar was a giant aquarium. An elegant ceiling fan slowly oscillated twelve feet above an immense desk. If I ever had an office, this would be it.

I went for the bar first.
A crystal decanter filled with brown liquid sat beside a few ornate highball glasses. I wrestled the top off the bottle and took a sniff. Scotch. I whipped my head away.

There was a minifridge under the bar packed with Perrier, and I snagged one.

I bent down and gazed into the aquarium.
Ten or twelve exotic fish swam within the blue haven. I tapped on the glass next to a bright purple fish with black stripes. He darted to the far end of the aquarium. I think he was a rare weenie-fish.

I popped the top of the Perrier and made my way to the bookcase.
I’d say two thirds of the books were on law, the other third consisting of classics, motivational type books, and legal thrillers. Each book had a small tag on the back and a number. Either Adam Gray was fanatical about order or he was trying to bring back the Dewey Decimal System.

Two black filing cabinets filled the space between the bookcase and the far wall.
I gave a tug on a few drawers but they were locked. Above the filing cabinets were Gray’s diplomas. Undergrad was Seattle Pacific University. Law school was Columbia.

I continued on.

The back wall was filled with photographs of Gray standing with some very important people—Seattle’s elite. Gray with a man in a green apron, both holding what looked to be ventes in front of a Starbucks. I’d read enough tidbit’s off the side of my Pumpkin Spice lattes to know the guy’s name was Howard Shultz. In another picture, Gray was hand in hand with Paul Allen, the cofounder of Microsoft, who I only recognized because he also happened to be the owner of the Seattle Seahawks. He was like the sixth or seventh richest guy on the planet. Another pic had Gray canoodling with
the
richest guy on the planet, Mr. Bill Gates.
 

I continued down the row.

There were a bunch of pictures of Gray getting chummy with some big-name athletes: Shaun Alexander, Ray Allen, Gray on the tee box with Tiger, on the putting green with Lefty, Pete Sampras,
Lance Armstrong. And then a couple with political figures: Bill Clinton was there, so were both the Bushes.

I wondered if any of these people had pictures hanging on their walls of them with Adam Gray.
Probably not. Maybe Bush Jr.

I continued along the wall until I found myself nestled up near the plate glass window.
It was a spectacular view. Straight out was a perfectly framed view of downtown Seattle. The Space Needle was just off center and it dawned on me the photograph flashing across the flat screen had been taken by Gray from this exact spot.

So, Adam was an amateur photographer.
Good to know. 

The white noise of the rain splattering the window sort of put me in a trance and I went away for a long minute.
A rumble of thunder cascaded through the building and I shook myself from the city.

There was a long couch to my right.
I ran my hand across the tight cinnamon leather. I plopped down and kicked my feet up on the small coffee table. A cork coaster sat in each corner of the table.

One of my legs began to cramp and I stood and faced the couch.
I lifted each of the three cushions. The last time I did this at my place in Maine I’d found three dollars in change, two remotes, a CD, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and a hamster. Go figure.

Anyhow, the first cushion was in pristine condition but the undersides of the second and third cushions were covered with dark smears.
I’d seen enough bloodstains to know I was looking at one. But then again, maybe Adam was a messy eater and it was strawberry jelly.

I replaced the cushions.

I made my way to Adam’s desk and plopped down in his black leather chair. I can only assume the chair was custom-built for Adam’s large frame. Nevertheless, I could have slept upright in it. On the side of the chair were three buttons, one of which activated a massage function.

Ahhhhhh.

I turned the massage off and took in the desk. A telephone in one corner. A couple of those kinetic toys in another. A silver rhino paperweight sat on the front center edge. 

I started pulling drawers.
Gray was a neat freak. Tabs, colors, files, everything in perfect order. I peered around the office. I noticed everything was oddly perfect. Either Adam Gray’s interior decorator had autism or Adam Gray had OCD. I put my money on the latter. 

Anyhow, there wasn’t much left to do but wait.
I leaned back in the chair, hit the massage switch, kicked my feet up onto the desk, and closed my eyes. 

Chapter 12

“Excuse me.”

I opened my eyes.

Adam Gray was standing in his doorway.
He was bigger in person. He was wearing a well-cut charcoal suit. With his predominantly white hair and perfectly white goatee, he reminded me of the silver rhino at the edge of his desk.

He said, “Mind telling me what you’re doing?”

“Whaaattttsoooevvvvveeeeeerrrrrrrrrr dooooo youuuuuu meannnnnn?”

He took a couple steps forward.
He grew exponentially larger. He reached the front of his desk, all six feet six, two hundred and thirty pounds. He just stared at me for awhile. Finally, he said, “My receptionist says you claim we went to college together? I don’t remember you.”

“Thaaaaaaatttt’s causssssssssse weeee—”

I reached down and turned off the massage action, took a deep breath, and continued. “That’s because we didn’t go to college together.”

He nodded confidentially to himself and said, “I’m calling security.”

These three words are in the same family as:
Look—a tiger
!
Is that asbestos?
Clamp, please
, and
It turned blue.
They demand your attention.

I wriggled out of the chair, stood, and said, “Actually, I’m with the FBI.”
I walked around the desk, extended my hand, and said, “Agent Todd Gregory.”

He shook my hand and said, “Is this about my wife?”

No, moron, it’s about that parking meter incident in ’93.

I nodded.

“I already told you guys everything I know.”

“We just want to go over the details one more time.”

He nodded.

He made his way to the doors, poked his head out and said a couple words to Sunny.
Then he closed the doors, flipped the lock, and sauntered to the bar. He picked up the decanter of scotch and looked in my direction. I shook my head. He poured himself about three fingers. He took a step past the aquarium, stopped like he’d been hit with an arrow in the chest, and gazed in my direction. He grabbed a cocktail napkin from the bar, dabbed it in his scotch, and cleaned the smudges on the glass.   

I said to his back, “Those are some expensive-looking fish.”

He turned and stared at me for a long second. “Quite expensive.”

I inquired as to the weenie-fish.
Apparently, it was called a
triggerfish.
The irony of this was pending.

I asked, “How much does one of those go for?”

“That one, about fifteen.”

“Thousand?”

He nodded.

I said, “I hope you got three wishes.”

He took a sip of scotch and said, “A better short game, a Seahawks’ Superbowl, and a bigger dick.”

Never to be outdone, I said, “
The Tony Danza Show
box set, Jessica and Nick getting back together, and a smaller dick.”

We both had a good laugh over this.
Maybe we
were
long lost frat brothers. Anyhow, I mentioned the photographs on the flat screen and said, “You snap those?”

He took a sip of scotch and said, “Sort of a hobby of mine.”

“Like when you aren’t defending murderers, rapists, or thugs.” I almost added, “Or killing your wife.”

He dropped the old cliché: “Everyone is entitled to a good defense.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“No.”

I nodded. Maybe he had an ounce of integrity after all.

I made my way to his desk and put half my weight up on it.
I picked up the silver rhino and said, “Nice desk.”

He stared at me.
I think he was a tad uncomfortable that I was sitting on his desk and that I was touching his stuff. He managed, “Thanks.”

“I think there were Viking ships that used less wood.”

“Actually, it’s made from one piece of birch.”

“Pricey?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Actually, I did, but I let it go.
I placed my Perrier on his desk. In my peripheral I could see Gray take a long sip of scotch to cover his apprehension. I was starting to get the impression Adam Gray wasn’t too far off Howard Hughes. Hey, maybe that’s what the filing cabinet was for. To hide his milk and pee. 

Gray made his way to the coffee table and picked up one of the coasters.
He walked towards me, extending the coaster.

I took it from him and said, “So why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

 Good one.

“Were you sick of living in her shadow?
Here you are this big-name lawyer, worth millions and millions of dollars, and you are living in your wife’s shadow. Has to drive a man crazy.”

“Didn’t bother me.”

Right.

It didn’t bother him, just like my smudges on the glass didn’t bother him.
Just like half my ass up on his big birch desk didn’t bother him, or the water ring I left didn’t bother him, or how I was playing slinky with his rhino didn’t bother him. I mean, I could tell I made this guy’s skin itch. The question is,
did his wife make his skin itch
? And if so,
would he go so far as to kill her to stop the itching?

I backed up a little. “So how did you and Ellen meet?”

“We met at a karaoke bar.”

He went on to tell how he was working at some law firm fresh out of college and he and a couple other guys went to some karaoke bar.
He was on stage, hammered, doing a horrific rendition of “Baby Light My Fire,” when Ellen jumped on stage and rescued him. She’d been attending the college nearby. They got hitched four months later.

I put his rhino down and crossed my arms over my chest.
“You’re a lawyer, right?”

He looked at me awkwardly.
I don’t think he knew where I was headed with this line of reasoning. Which would make two of us. My tongue was two seconds ahead of my brain.

“Yes, as an occupation I practice law.”

What a lawyerly response.

My brain caught up and I said, “You have been hired to defend yourself.
I’m the jury. Convince me you didn’t kill your wife.”

“I will not.”

“There is a state of more than five million people who are convinced you killed their governor. Now convince me you didn’t.”

He stared at me for a long second.
Then he walked around the back of his desk, removed his jacket, and set it neatly on his chair. He took a sip of scotch, stared at me, set the scotch down, and made his way to the rug centering his office. I watched as he paced back and forth. Then he turned and said, “Did I like my wife? Not particularly. Would I have been happier without her in my life? Certainly. Did I ever think about killing her? Sure.”

Not exactly the best opening statement I’d ever heard, but I kept an open mind.

He looked at me and said, “That is exactly how one out of ten men answered an online survey last fall. Of over 600,000 men polled, 1 in 10 men hate their wife and have thought about killing her.”

He stared at me with those green eyes and added, “I wasn’t one of those one in ten.”

I fought down a smile.

Gray took a deep breath and said, “Sure, we had our problems.
But what married couple doesn’t? Only ours were sensationalized, magnified by the media. You get in a yelling match with your wife and next thing you know, according to those vultures, you threw her down a flight of stairs. But we put up with it because deep down, at the core, we loved each other.

“I come from the old school, where the man is the breadwinner and the woman stays home with the kids. Cooks, cleans, and that crap.
I know it’s wrong and I know it’s Orwellian 1930s rhetoric, but this is how I was brought up.”

I almost objected on the grounds counsel was an ignorant asshole.

“One day, Ellen tells me she wants to run for city council, that she can do some good for the community. Six years later she was the governor. I think part of me loved her for it and part of me resented her for it.” He paced back and forth for thirty seconds, then stopped. “On October 15, the day Ellen went missing, I was meeting with a client on my yacht more than two hours from the North Cascades where she was rumored to have been hiking. So I hardly had the means. And although our marriage was not perfect, far from it, actually, I did love my wife. And even if I didn’t, I love my daughters, and I would never take their mother from them. So, I certainly lacked the motive. There is not one iota of evidence that ties me to her murder. There is not one iota of evidence that ties me to her murder because I had absolutely nothing to do with her murder.”

I found myself wanting to clap.
But part of me wondered how many times he’d said the same thing to juries when he knew his client was guilty. I mean, who knew if this guy was lying.

I asked, “Do you mind if I cross?”

“Cross?”

“Cross-examine you.”

He reluctantly took up a spot on the couch.
I cracked my knuckles and conjured the image of Atticus Finch in
To Kill a Mockingbird
.

I took a deep breath and said, “You have a registered .32, correct?”

“I do.”

“Where is it presently?”

“It was in the glove compartment of my car.”

“So?”

“I told you guys my car was stolen on the Sunday before Thanksgiving.”

I tried to mask the fact this information was new to me.
I said, “Tell me again.”

“Sunday nights, I always go to this bar across the street from here.
Sunday before Thanksgiving, I had a couple drinks, left around ten. I was walking to my car when something hit me in the leg.”

“What was it?”

“Not sure, but it’s one of the last things I remember.”

“Was it a dart?”

“I have no idea. Could have been.”

“Sorry.
Continue.”

He nodded.
“It’s all sort of fuzzy. I remember something hitting me in the leg, then staggering a couple steps. That’s the last thing I remember. I woke up the next day in my condo. My keys were gone and I was covered in blood.”

“So, your keys were stolen?”

He nodded.

“Keys to where?”

I could see him visualizing his key chain and he said, “The house on Bainbridge, a condo I keep here in town, the Jag, and the yacht.

“What about your office?”

He pointed at the elevator and said, “That’s a private elevator from the parking garage. I’m the only one with access. I have a card key and there’s a keypad.”

“How did you make it inside the condo?”

“I have no idea.”

“Does anybody else have a key?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, not that I know of.”

I smiled.
This was the first time he’d lied. I made a chalk mark. I asked, “You said you were covered in blood when you woke up?”

“Yeah.
I had a cut on my cheek and a large cut on the side of my head. My shirt was covered in blood. It felt like I was thrown down a flight of stairs.”

“Maybe you were.”

“Maybe.”

“Did you contact the police?”

“I reported the car stolen.”

This would be easy to check, so I had to assume he was telling the truth. I backed up a bit and said, “You said that on the day your wife disappeared you were on your yacht with your client.”

“That’s correct.”

“Is there anybody else who saw you?”

“No.
That’s why we decided to meet there.”

“So, other than your client vouching for you, a person whose life you basically have in the palm of your hand, you don’t have an alibi.”

He found this amusing. “Do you know how much an hour of my time costs?”

“I dunno.
Three hundred dollars?”

“Try two thousand.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“We were together ten hours.
If he’s lying, then it’s costing him twenty large.” He added, “Plus, my client hates my guts. He’d kill me before he vouched for me.”

I tried a different strategy.
“So, were you or your wife having any clandestine affairs?” He was. I wasn’t sure about her.

He was taken aback by this and stammered, “No.
Of course not.”

I made another chalk mark.

“Did your wife find out you were fucking someone on the side?”

He stood up.
“I think it’s time you leave.”

I pointed to his couch and said, “Did your wife even know about your condo or was that where you took your mistress? Or hell, maybe it was Sunny.
You know, your receptionist. She’s a real smart one. You get her from a temp agency? Or were you sticking it to her and decided to get her a job when a spot opened up?”