EDDIE
Harry took Harper's arm as we stood on the sidewalk outside the hotel bar, waiting on a cab. Harry's place was just a few blocks away, but he wouldn't leave until he saw us both into a cab. Harper's place was on my way home.
I stepped onto the street, looking straight down 2nd Avenue. While Harry and Harper talked, a dog made its way towards them. A small, mixed-breed mutt with sandy fur darkened in patches by mud and the grime of Manhattan traffic. The dog sat at Harry's feet, facing the street. Harry glanced down, patted the dog and stroked its head.
There were no cabs in sight.
Five minutes later a yellow cab pulled up at the curb. By this time, Harry and the stray were firm friends. Harper kissed Harry goodnight, said her goodbyes to Harry's new canine friend, and got into the cab. I got in the back beside her and as we pulled away we both watched Harry set off for home, the little dog beside him.
'He loves strays,' said Harper, looking right at me.
I suppose she was right. I had been a stray, probably in worse shape than that dog, when Harry took me out for lunch and changed my life from conman to lawyer.
We rode the rest of the way in silence, sitting close to one another, our shoulders touching. When the cab pulled up at Harper's place I looked out the window at the house. Her parents had left her money in their will some years ago, and now that her business was flourishing she had made the jump from an apartment to a townhouse. It was small, by comparison to some brownstones, but it was neat and well kept.
She leaned over and I lost myself in her eyes. My senses were filled with her. 'I had a great night,' she said.
'I did too. We should ...' But I couldn't say anything more. I didn't trust what
would come out of my mouth.
We were friends. I cared for her more than I'd cared for any woman since
Christine. My marriage had failed both because of me and the job. My daughter was growing up in a house with her mom and another man. I was happy for Christine because I couldn't make her happy – but God, I missed my daughter.
Amy was growing up fast. A teenager with a part-time father.
The crux of the matter was fear. I was scared to get into a relationship with
Harper – I couldn't mess up someone else's life again and I loved our friendship. I didn't want to ruin that. It wasn't right. We were working together. If I made her uncomfortable or jeopardized our friendship in any way, I wouldn't be able to forgive myself. Her perfect, oval face was close to mine. She looked into my eyes. The tip of her tongue touched her upper lip. For a moment, I thought she was thinking the same thing as me. I didn't want this to go wrong. It meant too much. Harper had had half a dozen glasses of Scotch – she wasn't drunk but she wasn't sober, either. I couldn't make the first move. Not then. It just wasn't the right moment.
She kissed me on the cheek, said goodnight and got out of the cab. I shuffled over to her side so I could watch her make it to the front door. I wanted to make sure she got inside safely. She did, looking back and waving before closing the door behind her.
The cab didn't move. I looked at the driver and he was still gazing at the spot where Harper had last stood. He must've sensed me staring at him.
'Buddy, that lady has the hots for you. Poor bastard, you've got a lot to learn about women,' said the cab driver.
I couldn't argue with him.
A half-hour later, and after several pieces of advice on picking-up female signals, the cab driver dropped me at West 46th Street. I gave him a bigger tip than usual and thanked him for his advice. I walked the short distance to the steps leading up to my building when I stopped dead.
There was someone sitting on the steps. Dressed all in black.
Street lights weren't good, and it was around one a.m. I couldn't see who it was. It sure didn't look like a homeless person looking for a place to bed down for the night. The shape was darker, smaller.
As I reached the base of the steps I saw a face, framed beneath a black ballcap.
Sofia.
She was dressed in a black Lycra jogging suit, and a black hoodie.
'Hi, Mr. Flynn. I tried calling. I looked you up in the phonebook and this is
your only listed address. I didn't know it was your office. I thought it was your house. I was just sitting here trying to figure out how to reach you as I couldn't wait 'til tomorrow to speak to you.'
'What's wrong, did something happen?'
'It's just all getting too much for me,' she said, and pulled up the sleeve of her top. Below it I saw a dark slash on her forearm – she'd cut herself.
'Let's get you inside.'
We went up to my office, and I showed Sofia into the bathroom in the back. She took off her hoodie, and I saw her bare arms again, but this time her lip trembled, and she hung her head. She was embarrassed. The first time she'd shown me her arms was for a reason – to prove that she wasn't suicidal. Now I was looking at her arms because her compulsion had gotten out of control – and that was where the shame lay.
'It's okay, Sofia,' I said.
There was a new cut on her arm, laced over the multiple white and pink scars, which was still bleeding. It wasn't anything serious – she hadn't nicked an artery – but it looked deeper than most of the others.
I got some gauze and Band-Aids from the bathroom cupboard and cleaned and patched the cut. It bled through the Band-Aid. Her other wrist was still bandaged from the bite she'd taken out of it in the precinct. At that moment, I didn't really know what I should say. I decided she didn't need a lecture.
'Here's a towel. Keep pressure on it,' I said, ripping off the Band-Aid – it was too soon to apply one.
She thanked me and we moved back into my office. She took a seat on the couch and I fixed her a glass of bourbon.
'I don't have coffee. Ran out today. Just sip this, and when you're ready we can talk.'
She nodded and took off her ballcap, letting her dark hair loose. She took half the glass in one mouthful, and I refilled it.
'Take it slower. Just sips,' I said, pouring myself one.
I sat in my client chair, swiveled it around so I was facing her. We sat together, sipping our bourbon in silence.
'So do you live around here?' she said.
'I live here. There's a cot in the back, some books. A bathroom. That's all I need. But I need to get a proper place so my daughter can come and stay weekends.'
'Do you see much of your daughter?' she asked, and as she spoke her eyes took on a faraway glint. It was as if the question wasn't really about me at all.
'We spend time together every weekend. Saturdays in the mall, or Sundays in the park. She's fourteen now. She likes the mall more than the park now, I'm noticing.'
'You buy her things?' she asked, again with a thousand-mile stare.
'I do. Well, I give her an allowance and she spends it. I wouldn't know about make-up, or what magazines she's into these days. I do give her books though. She's a reader. Right now she's working her way through Ross MacDonald and
Patricia Highsmith.'
'Smart kid. I couldn't concentrate on books. Being still, quiet ... I could just
never quite manage it. I was always bouncing off the goddamn walls, you know?'
I nodded.
'My dad put money in an account for me when I was that age. After Mom died I was sent to boarding school. He couldn't get the time to visit. Birthdays, holidays, he sent me money. There was a period when I was growing up when I saw him maybe two or three times a year at most.'
'What about your sister? Did you see her more often?'
'Less. That suited me just fine.'
'What about letters or phone calls?'
'Dad never wrote. Never called,' she said, adopting that faraway stare again.
'Before Mom died, Alexandra and I used to pass each other secret notes – so we could play a match together without Mom noticing. Each note was a chess move. It took months.'
'Who won?' I asked.
Sofia gave her attention back to me, looked into my eyes and said, 'Neither of us. Mom died before we finished the game. Her neck caught in the stair rails ...'
'I know. A horrible accident.'
'Was it an accident? Sometimes I wonder if Alexandra pushed her ...' 'Really?'
'I remember her standing there, frightened. She was clutching her blue rabbit,
crying. But maybe she wasn't crying for Mom? Maybe she was crying because of what she'd done?'
'Did you ever talk about it with the police?'
'No, I didn't see the fall. I couldn't. I'm sorry about this, I shouldn't be burdening you with my family problems—'
'What? Look, I'm your lawyer, Sofia. This is all part of my job. I'm glad you're telling me this. And I'm sorry you couldn't reach me earlier. My cell was turned off. Harper's too, I guess. Did you call us before or after you ...'
'I cut myself? After. It wouldn't stop bleeding. I thought I might need a doctor and Harper said not to call anyone. If something happened I should call her or you. She said there didn't need to be any more entries on my medical records. I know those look bad. I just got to thinking about my dad, about the case, and then it all builds up, you see. Like pressure. Sometimes running helps. When I nick my skin it kind of lets it all out. I didn't want to go to the emergency room, I don't want to make things worse.'
I didn't want to confirm that right now. It wasn't the time. But she was right.
Her mental health history was a weapon for Dreyer to beat her with.
'It's very early days in your case, Sofia. When we have all of the prosecution evidence we'll know more. Right now, they have some forensics to tie you and
your sister to your father's body and the murder weapon – a kitchen knife.'
'But I used that knife to slice chicken and vegetables. We both cooked for him. Well, actually, Alexandra cooked for Dad. I cooked for myself – he was never too keen on eating what I prepared for him. He was a fussy eater. Towards the end he didn't mind though. He was kind of ... fuzzy in his last few months. I
thought he was getting dementia, to tell you the truth.'
'Why did you think that at the time?'
'He was forgetful. Some days he was fine, some days he got my name wrong.
Some days he called out for Jane.'
'Your mother?' She looked at the floor, took another sip, muttered, yeah,
under her breath. Sometimes Sofia was like a kid. If I brought up something painful, she almost reverted to a childlike state – dealing with all that grief through a child's perspective. Even now, a glass of hard liquor in her hand, her fingers slid into the decorative grooves near the base of glass, and she caressed each cut and indentation, feeling the pattern. She brought the glass to her lips, took a long sniff, then a drink, and touched her lips – as if she had to confirm the alcohol would feel sticky and wet to the touch. She caught me looking at her, shook her head and put the drink down.
'Harper told me she talked to you. Said you talked about your dad, how he tried everything to help you. And your mom was a tough lady. I wanted to ask about your sister.'
'What do you want to know?'
'What was it like, growing up with your sister?'
'Hell. Total hell. She made my life a misery. We didn't talk, we didn't play
together. It was kind of a war. After Mom died, Dad sent us away to different boarding schools. I couldn't have cut it in Alexandra's school, and he couldn't deal with two young girls and run the city. We were left alone. In our worlds, you know?'
I didn't know. I couldn't really imagine that.
'That must've made for a tense time growing up,' I said.
'Have you ever lived with your enemy? I have. I hate her. I wish she was
dead. Getting out of that house was a blessing. Apart from that secret chess match, we didn't communicate. Even our notes were just moves, no narrative. I never got to beat her at the game, and I regret that, but I was glad when we parted. I could tell you stories that would make you want to vomit. No, my sister and I were not close. We were as far apart as two people could be. She told me
Mom was dead because of me. That Dad withdrew from us because of me. I knew it wasn't true, of course. I never forgave her for saying that, making me feel that way. Mom was a real piece of work, but she was still my mom. I loved her. I don't know if she loved me back, but that didn't matter. Not really. I think about her a lot. I miss her.'
We talked a little more about the trial. I explained that the DA had forensics linking Sofia and her sister to the crime scene.
'I checked if he was breathing. I held him. Of course I had blood on me. His blood, but I didn't hurt him. I couldn't.'
'I believe you. There's something you should know. I was going to talk to you about it tomorrow, but we may as well talk now. The DA is offering a deal. He's going to try and have a joint trial, with you and your sister both up for murder in front of the same jury. I'm going to try and stop that and have separate trials. I don't know if I can split the trials up, but I'm going to try. I have a former judge helping me with that. The DA is offering a polygraph test to both of you. If you don't take it, he'll try to use that against you. It could go hard against you if your sister takes the test and passes. If you take it and fail, you're in trouble. On top of that, he's offering a plea deal. Plead guilty to the murder, and tell the court you did it with your sister, and you could be out of jail while you're still young. I can't let you plead to a crime you didn't commit, but I have to let you know about the deal.'
'I didn't kill my father. If I'd known that Alexandra was going to kill him, I would've killed her first.'
She spoke confidently and clearly for the first time. She made eye contact, no hesitation in her speech. No wavering up or down in her line of vision. No stumbling on the sentence. Her hands still and easy on her lap. No tells. This was the truth.
'In that case, we just have to think about the polygraph. It's your call. A polygraph is not an exact science. If you decline I can probably minimize some of that damage. If you take it and fail, you could be in trouble. My advice – tell the prosecutor to go to hell. I don't think it's worth the risk,' I said.
'No, tell him I'll do it. I didn't kill my father. I'm telling the truth. He'll see that and they will drop the charges,' said Sofia.
'He won't drop the charges, you should know this. He'll only make a deal for a guilty plea and testimony against your sister in exchange for a reduced sentence.'
'I'll take the test. I have nothing to be afraid of. I didn't do it.'
If she performed like that in the polygraph then she could probably pass. Suddenly, I felt a lot better about this case. Sofia had a well of strength, deep
inside. I just had to mine it, keep it there for the trial.
I offered to get her a cab home, but she declined. Said she felt better. Her arm
had stopped bleeding and she wanted to jog back to her apartment.
Said the run would help clear her head.
The talk with Sofia had cleared my head, for sure. She was innocent. I could
feel it. I knew it. And what's more, I now realized what was wrong with the autopsy report on Frank Avellino.
It was Frank Avellino himself.
Frank was in great condition at the time of his murder. Apart from some signs of stress on the respiratory system, which could have been caused by the attack, he was in perfect shape. His heart, lungs, liver, brain, stomach, intestines – all pristine for a man of his age.
After Sofia left, I found the report at the bottom of the papers on my desk. I'd already made a few copies for Harper and Harry, but I wanted Harry to see it right away. I fed it into the fax machine and dialed Harry's number. After ten minutes, and another shot of bourbon, my phone rang.
'What am I looking for?' said Harry.
'Anything strike you as weird in that report?' I asked.
'Apart from the brutality, the bite, and the surgical skill, nothing.'
'What if I told you Frank Avellino was displaying dementia symptoms for a
few months before he died?' I said.
I heard Harry flicking through pages. He paused. A small, weak bark sounded
on the line.
'You took that dog home, didn't you?'
'What dog?'
'The dog that took you for a sucker on the street tonight.'
'He's my pal. He likes beef jerky and milk. I think we might be friends,' said
Harry.
I gave him some time to read.
Harry said, 'His brain, aside from the injuries that occurred from the blade
being rammed into the ocular cavity, was normal.'
'Frank didn't have dementia,' I said.
'Agreed,' said Harry.
Between the two of us, we'd read more than our fair share of autopsy reports.
Anyone with dementia, or some other type of degenerative disease of the brain, will have signs of that disease visible to the naked eye during autopsy. The brain would look different. The ME said Frank's brain was entirely normal. That was what was bothering me. A dementia sufferer's brain doesn't appear normal – the disease ravages the brain. It's obvious. Frank's brain was not damaged by
disease. Which meant he didn't have dementia.
'His lawyer, Mike Modine, told police Frank had called him to schedule an
appointment to discuss changes to his will,' I said.
'What changes?' said Harry.
'We don't know. Mike Modine has gone AWOL.'
Harry sighed, heavily, and I could hear the squeaking of the old chair in his
study. Then I heard Harry whispering to the dog, calling him a good boy. I had visions of the dog curled at Harry's feet, and I was glad. He needed a companion. And the mutt looked like it needed Harry.
'You know I just retired, right? Two hours ago, for Christ's sake.'
'Come on, Harry. Did you notice there's evidence of stress damage to the respiratory system? That's a strong indicator. You're thinking the same thing as me, right?'
'There are a few possible suspects. We need the toxicology report.'
'Okay, get some sleep, and say goodnight to the dog for me.'
He hung up.
Harry and I were on the same page. As far as I knew, the prosecutor hadn't
noticed this. If Dreyer had noticed, there would be more tests and an amendment to the cause of death conclusion on the death certificate. Alexandra's lawyers might not have noticed it either. They had shown no signs of it anyway.
I knew now that Frank Avellino wasn't just stabbed to death.
For some months prior to his murder, he was being systematically drugged. Something to dull his brain, keep him confused and compliant. The damage to his respiratory system meant the drugging probably had an endpoint. Eventually, Frank would be poisoned to death.
But who was poisoning him?
The answer to the first question had a narrow field of possible answers. To poison a man like Frank over a period of time you would need very close, regular access.
There were two suspects.
Sofia and Alexandra.
I had a feeling whoever had been poisoning him had decided to accelerate the
process of Frank's death with a twelve-inch kitchen knife, before he changed his will.