“Where are the police on it?”
“I don’t know; I’m going to find out. I waited almost a week to see if they’d make a quick arrest, but since they haven’t, I’m going to nail Kline myself.”
“You sure it was him?”
“No way I can be sure, but he is a scumbag, and he smacked her around. So I’m guessing it’s him. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong. But it will give me a lot of pleasure to hassle him regardless, and I want to catch her killer. I owe her that much.”
“So where do we start?” Laurie asks.
“We don’t start; I start. There’s no client here. This is a freebie.”
She smiles. “That’s okay; money is overrated. Right, Marcus?”
“Yuhhh,” Marcus says, pretty much summing up in one grunt why I like our team.
“Okay, thanks, guys. If you’re sure. For now please just ask Sam Willis to find out what he can about our two main players.” Sam Willis is an accountant who does investigative work for Andy Carpenter. Sam is a genius on a computer; there is virtually nothing he can’t find out.
Andy, when he uses Sam, is unconcerned with whether Sam wanders into websites that are illegal to enter. When we use him, we try to avoid that, though I think he occasionally steps over the line. “Tell him nothing illegal,” I add.
“Will do,” Laurie says, “but Marcus and I are here and ready to do what we can.”
“I know and I appreciate that,” I say. “Let me nose around first.”
BETWEEN us, I think Laurie and I know every cop in New Jersey.
That can come in handy in a number of ways. For example, we’re unlikely to get a speeding ticket. But more important, especially in our line of work, we have access to information. In our business, information is the coin of the realm.
Today we are taking advantage of one of Laurie’s contacts. We’re waiting in the Suburban Diner on Route 17 in Paramus for Lieutenant Stan Battersby of Teaneck PD. Battersby works homicide, so we’re looking for information on the Lisa Yates murder. He and Laurie worked together on a case back in the day, which she tells me resulted in a conviction.
It’s lunchtime so the place is crowded. We have a table near the back, but we can see the entrance. A guy comes in and I immediately know it’s Battersby; cops just carry themselves differently. Battersby might as well have I’M A COP tattooed on his forehead.
Laurie sees him as well and waves him over. They hug hello and she introduces us. He sits down and Laurie asks if he’s hungry.
“Who’s buying?” he asks.
“We are,” I say.
He smiles and smacks his hands together in anticipation. “Let’s get some menus over here.”
We all order, and then I have to sit through ten minutes of them reminiscing about the case they worked on. Cases that end with an arrest and conviction generally lead to greater reflection. Nostalgia works that way.
“You still living with that asshole?” Battersby asks.
“If you’re by chance referring to Andy, we’re married with an eleven-year-old son.”
He laughs. “You married him even though you knew I was available?”
Laurie returns the laugh. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Andy Carpenter is probably New Jersey’s most famous defense attorney. In achieving that prominence, he has pretty much alienated every police officer on the East Coast. That Laurie is his wife doesn’t even matter, and she has to deal with comments like this fairly consistently.
I include myself in that alienation; our history consisted of an unpleasant cross-examination in an otherwise-now-forgotten trial. It did not go well for me, but I only hold grudges until I die, and maybe a couple of years after that.
“We want to talk to you about the Lisa Yates murder,” I say.
He nods. “Tough one.”
“How so?”
“It was likely a professional hit, but there is nothing about her that would seem to warrant that. And the other two that were wounded seem like innocent bystanders as well. Yates was a nine to fiver; she doesn’t fit the profile, but I think she was the target.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Two bullets: one in the head and one in the heart. Perfect placement. The other two people each got it in the leg. My hunch is that they were hit to make it look like a random shooting. Though my captain disagrees.”
“What does he think?”
“That it was just a drive-by. Random violence, anyone could have been the target. My captain is full of shit.”
“What about Gerald Kline?” I ask.
“What about him?”
The waitress comes over to serve the food, so I wait for her to leave before answering. By this time Battersby is deep into his open hot roast beef sandwich, and gravy is dripping from his mouth.
“Gerald Kline is her boyfriend, or at least he was. I was called to her house in Paterson on a DV about a year and a half ago; he had smacked her and drawn blood.”
This gets Battersby to put down his fork. “I know who Kline is. But your DV report wasn’t in the record.”
“I filed it; I’m surprised it didn’t work its way to you. But it never went anywhere. She wouldn’t press charges and they both denied the whole thing. She said she fell.”
He frowns. “Women seem to fall and walk into doors a lot, especially the ones that hang out with asshole men. I’ve checked out Kline, but he has an alibi for that night. He was giving a seminar on something or other on Long Island.”
“That doesn’t mean he didn’t hire someone,” I say.
“No, it doesn’t. But that doesn’t really fit the domestic violence pattern.”
“Do you mind if we get involved?” Laurie asks.
Battersby immediately looks wary. “Define involved.”
“We investigate the case, but we do it without stepping on your toes. Any actionable information we get, we turn over to you.”
“You have a client somewhere in this?”
“No,” I say, “just a desire to see justice done.”
The light goes on in his eyes. “You’re blaming
