Guma shook his head. “Not yet. That’s from an old police report. Clarke Fairbrother is looking for him, as well as the detective originally assigned to the case.”
“Anybody else recall hearing any arguments that night or other sounds that might have seemed out of place, like gunshots?” Karp asked.
Guma shook his head. “No. The neighbors reported that Emil and Teresa argued frequently and sometimes publicly. But no one heard anything unusual that night…then again-it was the middle of August. Most people, especially in that neighborhood, would have the windows closed and the air conditioners cranked. Even if they’d had a window open, traffic noise and city sounds would have muted even a gunshot, especially if the gun had a silencer.”
“Maybe she moved on,” one of the young assistant district attorneys chimed in, trying to look serious and thoughtful.
“Maybe,” Guma conceded. “According to Zachary all this activity-the credit card use, bank withdrawals, plus a few typed Christmas cards and birthday wishes sent to her son-all stopped about the same time, about five years after she disappeared.”
“Well, that makes sense,” the ADA persisted. “She blew through her money or transferred it to other accounts so that Emil couldn’t get at it and then got rid of the personal baggage.”
“Which included a son she was very devoted to,” Guma replied. “She was also a good daughter to her mother, but all contact with her family ceased. She didn’t even attend her mother’s funeral.”
“So she’s good at disappearing and made a complete break,” Murrow said. “Maybe she wasn’t as close to her family as the reports indicate. Or maybe she had some sort of mental breakdown.”
“Or maybe she died,” Kipman noted. “But not here. Maybe she’s been dead for all these years and buried in some other country. Like you said, the husband has an alibi-”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a mistress lied for her sugar daddy,” Guma retorted, his face flushing. “Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. I thought we dealt in common sense. A devoted mother and daughter disappears suddenly; writes to her son until the money runs out and then nothing; plus misses her mother’s funeral.”
“Doesn’t prove Emil Stavros killed her or that she’s even dead,” Karp said. “We’re short on the thing we call hard evidence around here.”
Guma shrugged. “You could be right. But here’s the kicker…at least it was for me. Emil Stavros didn’t file for divorce and remarry for five years…not until her bank accounts were emptied.”
“So?” Murrow asked.
Guma shot Karp a look that Karp had seen plenty of times before in the courtroom when his friend had led a witness into painting himself into a corner. “Teresa was the much wealthier of the two, worth millions from her parents’ trust. Emil made good money as a banker, but rumor had it that around the time of Teresa’s disappearance he’d made some poor financial decisions…and a lot of it involved other people’s money. Other people who don’t bother going to courts to recover their money.”
“Anybody you’re related to?” Newbury asked to general laughter.
Guma laughed with the others, and then did his best imitation of Marlon Brando playing Don Corleone, “If I told you, I’d have to have you whacked.” Then he reverted to his normal voice. “Let’s just say I have a little insider information about Emil’s financial straits. Funny, but after his wife died, he was able to make good on his debts.”
“So maybe he was waiting for his wife to return?” Murrow said.
“First of all, they’d signed a prenup,” Guma said. “He had full access to her accounts so long as they were married. However, if they divorced, he got nothing that wasn’t his from before the wedding or earned in his current employment. Second, her will stated that if she died, all of her money would go immediately into a trust to be held for her son, Zachary, until his twenty-first birthday. Dad would get nothing.”
“So he doesn’t move to have her declared dead, otherwise the kid gets the entire bankroll,” Kipman summed it up.
“And he doesn’t divorce her until the money’s all gone,” Newbury added. “Got to admit, it’s pretty good stuff.”
“I still think it’s weak,” Murrow shot back. “You can’t prove a negative-just because there’s no evidence that she’s alive, doesn’t mean she’s dead…. Without a body you’re toast.”
“There have been successful prosecutions of so-called body-less homicides,” Guma said.
“But they’re rare,” Kipman noted.
“I’m aware of that,” Guma said, “but I’d rather try and fail for the right reasons than regret doing nothing at all.” He looked at Karp, who nodded. “I’ve done something a little different this morning. I knew many of you, rightly so, would have some concerns about my witness’s ‘recovered’ memory. So I’ve invited Zachary Stavros here; you can judge for yourself how you think he’ll do on the witness stand.”
Guma got up and opened the door. “Come on in, Zachary,” he said.
Zachary looked nervous as he entered the room, clutching an old cigar box in front of him as though to ward off an attack. “Don’t let this pack of jackals bother you,” Karp added, “most of them bark but don’t bite.”
Zachary was seated with his box on the table in front of him. Guma stood beside him and said, “Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself. What you do. That sort of thing.”
Zachary smiled. “I’m an Unemployed Vampire,” he said.
“An unemployed vampire?” Guma replied. “You come out at night and suck people’s blood, but you’re out of a job?”
Zachary laughed. “No, sorry,” he said. “It’s an old childish habit, but I like to see people’s reactions when I say that…. I really am an Unemployed Vampire, but that’s the name of my band. We play the club scene, mostly in SoHo and sometimes over in Brooklyn or Jersey. Head-banging, three-chord shit, played real loud…. You ought to come see us sometime.”
“I’m more the blues sort of guy,” Guma said, “but maybe I will. Where do you live?”
“Well, that’s sort of funny,” Zachary replied. “Spanish Harlem. Personally, I dig Latin music. In my secret life, I like to dance salsa. Just don’t tell my fans.”
There was a minute of silence while Guma poured himself a glass of water. Quiet before the storm, Karp thought.
“Okay, well, why don’t you tell us your story?” Guma suggested.
“My story,” Zachary repeated, looking down at the box, his face suddenly haunted. “Yes, I have to admit that it seems more like a story than reality.” He cleared his throat. “My mom’s name was Teresa Aiello Stavros. I don’t really remember much about her, because I was five years old when she…disappeared. I know what she looked like because of photographs and sort of dreamy memories of her face smiling at me. But one thing I do remember distinctly was this blue dress she used to wear-it might have been sort of a housedress or nightgown because she wore it a lot. It was probably satin or silk because I remember how cool it felt against my face when she held me.”
Stopping for a moment to gather himself, Zachary tried to clear his throat again as tears welled in his eyes. He wiped at the tears, which left a streak of makeup on the side of his face. “Sorry I’m being such a baby,” he said. “Anyway, I was about to say, one thing I am sure I remember is that she loved me. I felt it whenever she was near me and knew it was missing when she was gone. That’s why I know she didn’t walk out on me…us, if you include my old man, but that’s what he says. She walked out and abandoned us, like he cared.”
Zachary opened the cigar box he clutched in his hands. “This is the only supposed contact I had with her after she disappeared,” he said, removing a small bundle. “A few Christmas and birthday cards. They never said much, all of them typed, just saying some shit like ‘someday you’ll understand. Love, Mom.’ Don’t even know why I kept them, except I guess I hoped that someday I’d see her again and I could show her these and ask her to explain. But they stopped coming after I was about ten or so-Emil said it was because she wanted to forget about me entirely. But now I think it’s because she was already dead…. I think these, these are fake.”
Placing the bundle back inside the box, which he handed to Guma, Zachary continued. His father had waited for about five years and then married his mistress, the former Rockette dancer named Amarie Bliss. That was about the time the cards and letters stopped, as well as his introduction to boarding schools throughout the Northeast.
“I’ve been kicked out by all the best,” Zachary said. “Fighting, drugs, suicide attempts. They say I’m quite the poster child for manic depression.”
