No Returns (4 page)

After pouring a cup of coffee, I scanned my emails, then just as punishment I logged into eBay just to look at the Coach purse I’d lost the night before because of my mother. It ended up selling for less than a hundred dollars. “Damn,” I sighed.

I refilled my cup, grabbed a pen and a legal pad then headed for the fourth floor. The executive floor was quite different from all the others. It was designed like a wagon wheel with the executive secretary stationed in the center. I knew her name was Lucy but that was about it. She wasn’t exactly the friendly type.

“I’m here to see Mr. Caprelli,” I explained.

She buzzed his line, then said, “Go on in.”

I thanked her and that seemed to confuse her a little.

Unfortunately, I’d forgotten a sweater and my bare arms were cold. I reached Tony’s office. He was reading a file so I tapped gently on the door.

He looked up and offered me a smile. He was a stunning man. Dark hair, eyes the color of imported chocolates set against olive skin. Though I was committed to figuring out the Liam and me thing, I wasn’t immune to Tony’s good looks. I had a pulse after all.

I took a seat across from his cluttered mahogany desk and set my cup down. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” he returned as he rifled through the files on his desk. He selected one and reached out to give it to me. “Travis Johnson.”

“The thirteen-year-old who allegedly killed his foster father?” It was a case that would go on for months if not years.

Tony nodded. Behind him on the credenza was a framed photograph of his daughter, Isabelle – Izzy. She was a pretty girl and I enjoyed spending time with her. I had become her unofficial fashion consultant and eBay mentor.

“I got his school records,” Tony said. “A straight A student.”

I looked at the report cards. “This helps, right?”

Tony shrugged. “Maybe. Even though now he claims he’s not guilty, I can’t rule out a battered child defense. I don’t want the jury thinking that things at home couldn’t be bad if his grades were good.”

“So what do you want me to do?” I asked.

“Go talk to his neighbors. The cops did a cursory canvass but I’d like to know more.”

“Wouldn’t they rather talk to you?”

Tony shook his head. “You’re less threatening and a woman. Most people don’t slam doors in a woman’s face. Take a tape recorder with you. Just in case.”

“When do you want me to go?”

“Now is good. Unless you have something else you need to finish first.”

“Now is fine.”

“The addresses are in the file. Let me know when you get back.”

I took the file and went back toward the executive sentry. My friend Becky Jameson was handing her something.

“Hey,” she greeted with a smile.

As always, Becky looked fabulous in a coral colored shift dress and nude pumps. She paired some chunky turquoise jewelry and big hoop earrings with her outfit. She was currently in a phase, dying her dark brown hair auburn. Today her hair was in a messy up do, probably because she was normally at the office before seven.

Becky and I went to Emory together. We were both criminal justice majors with an eye toward law school. Though I’d taken my LSATS, in the end I decided three more years of education was not for me. Becky stuck it out and she was now an associate with the firm, working under the direct supervision of Estrogenless Ellen Lieberman, partner and contracts experts.

Contracts put me in a coma.

“Got a minute?” I asked.

She tilted her head down one of the other spokes of the wheel.

I followed Becky into her office. It was a little larger than mine, and completely beige. Diplomas and other accolades hung on the walls and her teak desk dominated the space. It smelled like green apples, thanks to a candle on a warmer set on top on one of three file cabinets behind the desk.

“What’s up?” she asked as she took her seat.

I closed the door, then told her all about the past twenty-four hours.

She absently twirled the pen in her hand. Her expression was frozen in the vicinity of incredulous. I sat quietly for a moment, letting the information process. I sipped my now-cold coffee and rested the file and my legal pad in my lap.

“This isn’t some sort of hoax?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Liam watched the tape.”

She grimaced. “Your boyfriend watched your mother have sex?”

I groaned. “I know. Major yick factor. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to watch it. I draw the line at mother porn.”

“What does Liam think?”

I shrugged. “Haven’t spoken to him since last night.”

Becky leaned forward. “You have to call the police,” she admonished. “I’m an officer of the court. Technically I’m supposed to report a crime in progress.”

I felt a pang of guilt. “But you’re my best friend. That trumps technically. Say I could get her to go to the cops. Would the tape have to be used as evidence? Would it have to become public?”

“I don’t see how it could
not
be. The tape is the evidence of the crime.”

I sighed and slumped against the chair. “Then she’ll never go for it. She’d rather pay than risk having her friends in the DAR know she had sex with a married man. Or maybe just that she had sex. Who knows how her brain works?”

“What about the guy? Deacon?”

“He’s off tapping some off-shore bank account to get his share of the money.”

“What’s he like?” Becky asked.

“No clue. I didn’t even know about him. I thought she had her sights set on a doctor from the country club. But apparently she met this guy and it was lust at first sight. There’s nothing you can think of?”

Becky put the pen down. “There is the possibility of a closed courtroom. Then no one could actually see the tape.”

I perked up. “Really?”

She nodded. “The jury would see it. Then the judge could clear the gallery so no one but the parties would actually see the tape.”

“That’s great. How do we make that happen?”

“It’s the call of the trial judge,” she explained. “And they don’t do it very often. Unless your mother is classified as a Jane Doe. But that’s usually reserved for sexual assault cases. To protect the identity of the victim.”

I ran my fingers through my hair as I brushed it off my face. “Sounds like a long shot.”

“It is. Lunch today?” she asked.

“Sorry, I have to go out and interview witnesses, then stop by my mom’s place to get some evidence and to see if anything else has been delivered.”

Becky frowned. “Isn’t that a little dangerous?”

“No. My mother has workmen at her place. Some sort of remodel on the penthouse.”

“Keep me in the loop?” Becky asked.

“I
don’t
want to be in the loop.”

“Sounds like you’re stuck.”

“More like I’m screwed.”

M
y GPS announced
that I had reached my destination on the left. I turned into a small community named Fairwinds just off Blue Heron. It was an older neighborhood with quintessential 1950s, single-story, Spanish-style homes. I crept along, watching for house numbers. It seemed like every house had either a boat and trailer or a vehicle up on blocks in the driveway. I could hear the dull thud of bass music and the discomfort of being watched by the few residents out working on lawns or cars or hovering over small children.

I found the first address on the list and parked my car at the curb. I could smell garlic and mojo as I grabbed my briefcase and headed for the door.

I pulled out my file, then stuffed it away before ringing the doorbell. A locked iron gate stood between me and the front door.

A woman in a denim mini skirt and a tight tee shirt opened the door. “Yes?” she asked as she flipped her black hair over her shoulder. She had a heavy Spanish accent. South Florida has a large Hispanic community made up of Cubans, Guatemalans, Dominicans, Mexicans and any number of other variations on the theme. I’m embarrassed to say, I couldn’t place the accent.

I took a business card out of the side compartment of my briefcase. “I’m Finley Tanner from Mr. Caprelli’s office. We represent Travis Johnson.”

Her eyes grew wide. “No. I already talked to the police. I have no more to say.”

She didn’t take the card but she did slam the door in my face. So much for Tony’s theory. And it didn’t get much better as I worked my way down the block. A few of the people weren’t home, the rest either wouldn’t talk to me or took my card and promised – my ass – to call me back because they were in the middle of something.

I’d almost given up hope when I rang the bell of the last house on the street. It was a well-kept home, with a tricycle and some kid’s toys littering the manicured lawn.

“Yes?” she asked through a security door.

She was a pretty African-American woman I put somewhere in her forties. And shock of shocks, she was actually smiling at me.

I introduced myself. “I’d like to talk to you about Travis Johnson.” She was not on the police canvass sheet.

She opened the security door and invited me in. As she walked toward the kitchen, she stopped along the way to pick up toys. She offered me a seat at her glass-topped kitchen table. There were fingerprints and smudges on the table. Middle school and elementary school calendars were pinned to her refrigerator with magnets.

I took out a legal pad and the tape recorder. “I hope you don’t mind, Mrs. . . .”

“Greene,” she supplied. “I don’t care if you tape me. I think it’s awful what they’re putting that boy through. Coffee?”

“Yes, thank you.” Excitement made my heart beat a little faster. After so many slammed doors, I was thrilled to not only have someone talk to me, but someone who apparently believed in Travis and had coffee. “So you knew Travis?”

She shook her head. “He used to tutor my oldest in math. Did it for free, too.”

“How long have you known Travis?”

She rubbed her chin. “About five years. Since he moved in with the family.” She shook her head. “I’ll never know how those people qualified as foster parents. I wouldn’t let them watch my goldfish.”

“You saw something unusual?”

She nodded. “Travis always had some sort of bruise someplace. Then there was the broken arm a year ago. Said he fell off his bike.” She scoffed. “He didn’t own no bike.”

I was writing quickly. “Any other incidents you can think of?”

“Had a black eye a time or two. Said he got it at karate practice but I didn’t believe him.”

“What did you think happened?”

She leaned closer. “I think the dad was polishing his fist and it went off. That man had a nasty temper.”

“How so?”

“He chased down one of the kids riding his bike on the street. Swore the kid scratched his car. That boy was only seven and here was a grown man chasing him with a baseball bat.”

“Did anyone contact the police?”

She nodded. “The kid’s parents. The Henley’s. They live two blocks over.” She pointed in the general direction.

“Did anything happen?”

“Yeah. The dad went to their house and kicked Mr. Henley’s ass. Since then no one had the nerve to go up against him. He was a bully, plain and simple. Beat his wife up, too.”

“She told the police he never hit her.”

“Let me tell you something,” she said as she patted my hand. “She was a prisoner in that house. When the windows were open you could hear him yelling and screaming all the way down here. She wasn’t even allowed to go to the end of the driveway to get the mail out of the box.”

Maybe Tony had a chance at getting the truth out of her now that her husband was dead.

“Anyone else you can think of who might have had a run in with him?”

Her brow furrowed. “There was the block party last year.”

“What happened?”

“Travis was there playing with the younger kids. You know – giving them piggyback rides and such. Dad came down and grabbed him by the arm. I thought he’d take the kid’s arm off. Anyway, he drags him back to the house. You could hear him yelling over the music. The next day Travis had on a homemade sling. Wore it for a couple of weeks. Told me he tripped and hurt his shoulder. More bullshit.”

I wondered why no one came to the aid of this kid but couldn’t ask because I didn’t want Mrs. Greene to think I was judging her. Which I was, but that was beside the point. “Would you be willing to testify?”

“Tell me when and where,” she said with conviction.

“Thank you. I should warn you, the wheels of justice turn slowly. It will probably be six months before this case is set for trial.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

I downed my coffee and got the exact address for the Henley’s, then packed up my stuff. When I got to my car, I checked my phone. Twenty-two messages from Liam. Each one was a different picture. Hopefully my mother would recognize the people who’d serviced her cabaña and maybe one of them was the blackmailer.

The other neighbor, Mrs. Henley was young, maybe my age, late twenties. She had four kids and a husband with two jobs. She confirmed Mrs. Greene’s story.

“Why didn’t you call the police after the assault?” I asked.

“My husband was embarrassed. He’s a proud man.”

“Did he go to the hospital after the incident?”

She nodded. “St. Mary’s. He had three broken ribs and an orbital fracture. The hospital called the police but my husband told them he fell off the roof.”

“And they bought that?”

She tilted her head. “No. They gave him a card and told him to call if he wanted to change his story.”

“Do you remember the officer’s name?”

“I kept his card,” she said, then disappeared into the other room and came back with a card. “Here.”

“Thank you.” I stood and again repacked my stuff. “Would you or your husband consider testifying?”

Her expression changed. “When Travis got arrested I told my husband we should come forward but he doesn’t want to get involved.”

“Just consider it?”

“I’ll talk to him.”

Ignoring the gurgling in my stomach, I drove the short distance to my mother’s place. It was a high-rise on the Intracoastal just south of City Place. A large staircase led up to the equally grand double door. I recognized the doorman and greeted him as he held the glass door open.