Last Night, page 16
“Well, we counsel clients about privately held and family businesses. Safeguarding and managing assets is a big part of our work. In cases where there is litigation, we have an excellent department to take care of that aspect.”
“Litigation?” Hadley asked, thinking of Maddie’s court fight with Genevieve.
“Yes,” Jeanne said. “It’s very sad, but sometimes when someone dies, there is dissention within the family regarding distribution of assets. For example, when there is a pending divorce.”
“Things can get ugly,” Kate said. “I saw that when my sister died. Pete—her estranged husband—showed his true colors.”
“Bernard will be difficult,” Hadley said. “He was terrible to Maddie in the divorce. All I care about is protecting CeCe.”
Jeanne was very still, giving away nothing about Maddie’s wishes, and Hadley had no interest in knowing anyway.
“Is Bernard still in the hotel?” Jeanne asked. “I saw him on the news, giving a press conference.”
“I think so,” Hadley said. “But I haven’t seen or heard from him all day. Have you, Kate?”
“No,” Kate said. “Maybe he’s being questioned again.”
“Good,” Jeanne said. “He’s a nasty guy. I hope they get him.”
“‘Get him?’ You think he killed Maddie?” Hadley asked.
Jeanne tilted her head. “I don’t know, Hadley. But Maddie wanted nothing to do with him, and that drove him crazy.”
“He needs a good lawyer,” Kate said.
“Well, we do criminal defense work, although that’s not what we’re known for. However, it would be a conflict of interest for anyone at Cross, Gladding, and White to represent him. Because we are Maddie’s attorneys.”
Kate’s phone buzzed, and she answered it. Hadley glanced at her watch. It was nearly five. “I thought Genevieve would be here by now,” she said.
“Genevieve Dickinson?” Jeanne asked, sounding shocked. “You’re in touch with her?”
“Yes, and I’m surprised, too,” Hadley said. “But she called and left a message that she’s on her way. She said she and Maddie made up. I had no idea. Did Maddie talk to you about her, about the lawsuit?”
“Of course,” Jeanne said. “Obviously the suit was settled a long time ago. Maddie wanted peace, no more animosity. She had such a generous spirit, Hadley. She was able to see goodness and talent in Genevieve.”
That did sound like Maddie, Hadley thought. “I’m sorry, but it’s impossible for me to imagine Maddie being okay with Genevieve, after what she did. The lawsuit took up years of Maddie’s life.”
“If there’s one thing my law practice teaches me,” Jeanne said, “it’s that people’s attitudes change.”
“Did Maddie mention when they last talked?” Hadley asked.
“I believe it was recently,” Jeanne said. “They were talking about new work. Maddie said something about showing a painting to Genevieve. She told me that very day, her last day on earth.”
“And then she was killed,” Hadley said.
Jeanne nodded her head. “It’s terrible, beyond belief. I mean, I do the work I do. I deal with death all the time. People always say, ‘But I just saw her!’ or ‘I just talked to her!’ As if that contact could have somehow protected their loved one, as if it made death impossible. I should know better, but here I am doing it, too. I just can’t believe we’ve lost her—she was so alive that day, so full of hope and plans.”
“I feel the same way,” Hadley said.
“Hadley, I want to talk to you about next steps. It might seem insensitive of me to bring them up now, but these are important matters. Did you know that Maddie made you the executor of her estate?”
“No,” Hadley said. “I had no idea.”
“She did. It will be your responsibility to carry out the wishes she expressed in her will, to settle her financial affairs, to oversee Cecelia’s care.”
“I don’t know anything about financial matters . . .”
“Maddie had sole custody of Cecelia. She named you as her testamentary guardian. In that capacity, if—when—CeCe is found, you will be in charge of seeing to her material needs, as well as making decisions about her education and health care.”
If she is found, Hadley thought, hearing how Jeanne had corrected herself.
“Maddie chose you for these roles not only because she loved you so much but also because she knows you share her values. That was incredibly important to her, especially regarding Cecelia. But, Hadley . . . don’t underestimate the time and effort all of this will take. If you feel the duties will be too demanding, or too emotionally challenging, you can decline.”
“What would happen if I did?”
“She named a contingent executor and an alternate guardian.”
“Who is that?” Hadley asked.
“Me, actually. It’s common for clients to request that their attorneys serve as executors. Especially with estates as complex as Maddie’s.” Jeanne paused. “This is a lot for you to take in. Think about it. You and I can be in touch during the next few days, as much or as little as you want.”
“Thank you,” Hadley said.
“The one thing I believe should be done immediately, or as soon as possible, is an inventory of her storage unit. She kept her paintings there—older ones as well as works in progress. It’s a specialized facility, designed specifically to store fine art. Those paintings represent a fortune—I’m sure you’re aware of that.”
“It’s not something I think about,” Hadley said.
“If you decide to continue as executor, as she wished—and as I hope you will do—you’ll have to think about it. And, on that note, although you haven’t asked for my advice, I would be very careful interacting with Genevieve Dickinson. We can discuss that more deeply, but you mentioned she may be on her way here.”
“I appreciate your telling me that,” Hadley said.
“You have the right to choose an attorney to help you deal with the legal matters connected to Maddie’s will and trusts. I would be happy to continue on, but please do feel free to interview other lawyers and hire anyone you like,” Jeanne said. “I have the combinations and key to the storage facility. I will meet you there when you’re ready.”
I’ll never be ready, Hadley thought.
Kate had ended the call. Jeanne stood to leave. She put on her coat, shook hands with Hadley and Kate. Hadley walked her to the door, and they said goodbye. When she returned to the living room, she noticed an odd expression on Kate’s face.
“What’s wrong?” Hadley asked.
“Nothing,” Kate said. “Just . . . it was interesting to meet her. There’s a story about her firm. About the way they dealt with a certain art collector’s estate.”
Hadley knew she should ask what Kate had heard, but just then she was too overwhelmed. She gave Kate a hug, as if they’d been friends for a long time instead of just the two days since Maddie’s murder and CeCe’s disappearance. Then she walked into the bedroom to close her eyes and shut out the fact that her sister had put her in charge of just about everything that had mattered to Maddie in life.
27
When they finished the tour of Zane Garson’s lobster shack, Tom and Zane walked out the door where Conor had been standing watch, keeping his eyes on the house and vehicles.
“Spot anything suspicious, Mr. Detective?” Zane asked, with what looked to Conor like a taunting grin.
“Nope,” Conor said.
“I tell you what,” Zane said. “If it will set your mind at ease, come on into my humble abode. It ain’t much, but it’s home sweet home. You can look around all you want. I’ll put some coffee on. You can tell me all about the foam key thingie.”
“We’ll take you up on that,” Conor said. “But we don’t need any coffee.”
“My mother always taught me it’s not polite to decline hospitality,” Zane said. “But suit yourself.”
“Let’s go in,” Tom said.
When they approached the house, Zane initially blocked the way. Conor watched him open the front door a crack. He looked around. Seeming satisfied, he stood aside and allowed Conor and Tom to walk into the cold living room. The first thing Conor noticed was that the place seemed empty, and the banging had stopped. He detected a strong smell of vomit that hadn’t been there twenty minutes earlier.
“Where’s Ronnie?” he asked.
“Dunno,” Zane said. “Must’ve gone out.”
How? Conor wondered. He’d been watching the front door, hadn’t seen anyone exit the house. “I didn’t see him leave,” he said.
“Maybe he’s in the bedroom,” Zane said. “Make yourself at home. Look around. I’m going to put on a pot of coffee.”
Without having to speak about it, the Reid brothers split up. Tom stayed with Zane while Conor walked slowly through the cluttered room. He stepped over a pile of oily machine parts beside an oval maple dining table, marked with hazy white moisture rings and a black burn. The room was L shaped, with a small kitchen at one end and two doors at the other. They were hollow core, and one had a jagged hole, as if someone had punched a fist through it.
Conor opened it. Inside was a small bathroom. It had a rust-stained sink, a toilet, and a shower with a cracked glass door. The vomit smell was much stronger here. Conor saw streaks around the toilet’s rim.
He stood there staring. Ronnie hadn’t looked or acted sick when he’d seen him, and this was definitely fresh. He took his phone from his pocket and snapped a photo. The hair on the back of his neck stood up the way it always did when he knew he was on the right track. He made a note to tell Joe to get some crime-scene techs to sample it for DNA. If Zane came toward the bathroom, Conor would block him before he could clean the mess.
The second door, the undamaged one, was shut tight. Conor turned the knob, and although it stuck, he pushed it open. It was a bedroom with two unmade twin beds, a bureau, and a straight-backed chair. At the end of one of the beds was an old wooden sea chest.
There were piles of dirty clothes on the floor. Was there another bedroom somewhere that Conor hadn’t seen yet, or did Zane and Ronnie share this one? Conor’s heart was pounding as he focused on the chest. It was compact but big enough to hold a small child. He wanted but didn’t want to see what was inside. He undid the iron latch, lifted the lid.
The chest was lined with sheets and blankets. He knelt beside it and held his hand inside without actually touching anything. Was it his imagination, or was there warmth rising from the oak planks, the kind of retained body heat that would mean someone had very recently been trapped there? He smelled sharp sweat, the kind he had encountered in many crime scenes over the years. It was the smell of fear.
His gaze traveled slowly and carefully over the chest’s interior. He looked for anything that seemed out of place. A bit of green fuzz was caught in the edge of one splintered plank. He knew it could have come from a blanket or bedspread or flannel sheet, but none that he saw piled inside were green.
Until it was tested, it was evidence of nothing. There were some dark blotches on one of the blankets. They could be blood or stains from another liquid. Like the fuzz, they would have to be tested. But Conor had to wonder: Would Joe have probable cause to search this house, to take the chest to the lab and examine it for evidence that someone had been held captive inside?
Then Conor spotted a hair snagged on a splinter. It was blond, nothing like the dark hair of the two Garsons. It reminded him of the pictures he’d seen of CeCe, the ones that were now splashed on the front pages of newspapers, on billboards up and down I-95, on television stations across the country.
He glanced at the bedroom door. No sign of Zane coming to check on him; he heard him talking with Tom, his voice droning on as he told a story about fishing Georges Bank with his father when he was a boy, back when the water was so thick with cod you could use them as stepping stones, of how the Garson family had grown prosperous selling their catch at the Boston Fish Pier for top dollar.
Conor took a close-up photo of the blond hair. He stood up, continued his tour around the room. It was a total pigsty, with rumpled clothes everywhere, rubber boots glittering with fish scales, an overflowing wastebasket, and a single braided rug bunched up in the corner.
The pine floor was discolored, black in places, as if from water damage. The roof obviously leaked—there were two pans set in the middle of the room. Conor examined the floorboards. When he got to the section that would have been covered by the braided rug, he saw a rectangular outline and a brass pull set flush with the wood. It was a hatchway, and he knew then that this was how Ronnie had gotten out. Maybe he was hiding down below, or maybe he had escaped through an exit in the basement.
Conor had his finger through the brass ring, ready to open the hatch. He steeled himself, in case Ronnie was waiting for him. Perpetrators were more likely to attack when they were cornered. He took a deep breath, and just as he was about to lift the door, he caught sight of a word written on the bedroom wall. It looked as if it had been scrawled in red crayon.
He walked over to it, bent down because it was just about waist height. There were four letters. They were smudged, hard to read. It began to dawn on him that they had not been written in crayon after all. They had been drawn in blood.
As he stared at them, he texted Joe Harrigan. Get here NOW, he wrote, and gave the lobster dock’s location. Bring forensics.
Why, what’s up? Joe texted back.
Conor didn’t bother explaining. He just took a photo of the word, but it wasn’t a word at all—it was a name. He sent the picture to Joe:
CECE
Then he went out to find Zane.
28
Tom Reid had worked several cases with his brother, and he always enjoyed seeing him question suspects. This time it got a little physical.
“Where is she?” Conor asked, walking over to Zane.
Zane must have realized that he was caught, because he turned to run. Conor grabbed him by the back of his coat, and Zane turned and threw a punch. Conor flinched, and it missed him.
It took both Reid brothers to subdue Zane. Conor braced him, trying to hold him still.
“Where is she?” Conor asked again. “Tell me right now.”
Zane didn’t answer, other than trying to spit in Conor’s face. Conor pushed him through the bedroom door.
“She wrote her name in blood,” Conor said, pointing at the wall.
“Who?” Zane asked, trying to yank himself out of Conor’s grip.
“Where is she?” Conor asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Where did he take her?” Conor asked.
“I’m calling the cops; you assaulted me!”
“They’re on their way,” Conor said. “Your son has CeCe. That’s kidnapping. Tell me where they went. He’s going away—that’s a done deal already—but if you help me save her life, he might see the light of day. And you, too.”
Zane stared at Conor with hatred.
“Listen, Zane,” Tom said, “I’ve known you a long time. You’ve had a tough time these last few years. I’ll attest to that.”
“Right, Commander. As if you would.”
“I want to help you make this right,” Tom said. “Your son is just a kid. Just like that little girl. You’ve got the power right now. You can save her life, give him a chance, too. Do the right thing here.”
“I had no idea she was here,” Zane said. “Maybe Ronnie hid her himself. Or maybe she wasn’t here at all. Maybe he wrote that as a prank.” He gestured at CeCe’s name. “You think I’d have let you come inside if I knew anything about my kid holding a girl in here? Give me a break.”
“You didn’t know she’d outsmart your son,” Conor said evenly. “You thought you two had it under control.”
“I don’t know what he’s doing half the time,” Zane said. “He’s a little screwup.”
“You’re going to throw your son under the bus?” Tom asked.
Zane shrugged. “I’m just saying he goes his own way. I had nothing to do with whatever you’re accusing him of.”
Zane’s phone began to buzz. He took it from his pocket and looked at the screen. The screen lit up with the name Grub. Tom grabbed it from his hand and answered the call. He pressed “Mute” so Grub couldn’t hear Zane shouting. Conor held Zane back while Tom went into the other room, holding the phone to his ear and listening.
“Hello? You there?” Grub Garson asked. Tom knew Grub’s voice—he was a lobsterman, just like his younger brother, Zane, part of the Garson fishing dynasty. Tom’s distrust of them was mixed with a grudging respect for how they survived the hardships they faced—they broke plenty of rules, but he couldn’t help rooting for families who made their livings on the water.
Silence from Tom, heavy breathing on the other end.
“Can you hear me?” Grub asked. “Cripes, Zane, I don’t need this bad connection right now. Are you on your way here? Fucking Route 1—worst signal in the world. Zane, this whole thing is going to shit. Not at all what we signed on for. But the more I think, having the kid could work. Pretty little one, right?”
Tom tensed up. Having CeCe could work—how?
“Double our money,” Grub said. “Maybe triple. Hear me?”
Tom didn’t reply.
“I have someone in mind,” Grub said. “Should have thought of it before.”
Tom unmuted the call. “In mind for what?” he asked, and as soon as he did, he knew he’d made a mistake.
“It’s not me. Don’t talk to him!” Zane yelled from the other room.
“Zane?” Grub asked. “Who is this?” When he realized that he wasn’t talking to his brother, he disconnected the call.
Tom’s heart began to pound so hard that he could hear his own blood rushing. He saw the look on Conor’s face.
“I screwed up,” Tom said.
Conor didn’t say anything—he didn’t have to. Tom read the alarm in his eyes. What did this mean for CeCe?
“Pretty sure Ronnie is on his way to Grub’s,” Tom said.
“Get him off me,” Zane said, trying to wrench free from Conor.
