But even if I wanted to drop it, Vince doesn’t. “If someone else killed Lassiter besides Petrone, you think that person could have killed Daniel as well?”
I shake my head. “No, I think it was Lassiter that shot Daniel.”
“Why?” Vince asks. “I still don’t see what he had against him. I mean, to frame him like that and then kill him . . .”
I don’t know what the indoor record is for quick, embarrassed eye contact, but Pete, Laurie, and I are certainly smashing it. The three of us know about Petrone’s accusations against Daniel, but we’ve left Vince in the dark. Right now that doesn’t feel right, and Laurie seems to agree. Her slight nod tells me she thinks we should come clean with Vince.
“Vince, there’s something I’ve got to tell you, something Dominic Petrone said.”
“What?” asks Vince, and he literally prepares himself for a bombshell by gripping the table with his hands.
“He said that Daniel hired Lassiter to kill Margaret and then reneged on the payment. That’s why Lassiter did what he did; he was getting revenge on Daniel.”
“He’s full of shit.” It’s a knee-jerk reaction, made without thought. A defense of his son.
“I didn’t say he was right,” I say. “I just thought you had a right to know.”
“He’s wrong,” Vince says.
“Of course he is,” says Laurie.
“Did he say why he thought so?” Vince asks.
“No. But he didn’t say it’s what he
Vince takes a drink from his bottle of beer but finds it empty. He looks around for the waitress. “Whose ass do you have to kiss to get a beer around here?” It’s Vince’s way of ending this part of the discussion, and it’s fine with me.
I signal to the waitress that she should bring beers for everyone. Telling a man his son is a murderer is thirsty work.
• • • • •
ANOTHER LONG-STANDING tradition goes down the drain. And in this case, the drain is where it belongs.
For as long as I can remember, at the conclusion of every major case I’ve had, I take Tara and head down to Long Beach Island, where I rent a house and spend two weeks decompressing. It seems like I’ve done this for twenty years, but I realize that it’s actually only seven years since I rescued Tara from the animal shelter.
This time Laurie has come with us, and while I haven’t discussed it with Tara, I can’t believe we didn’t bring her along before. It’s really quite remarkable; Laurie is all plus, no minus. By that I mean that she is great company, terrific to talk to, and I love having her around. At the same time, there are no negatives; she doesn’t intrude, doesn’t make me feel like I have to entertain her or be anything other than myself. When I want to be alone, I can be alone, either literally or just with my thoughts.
And since Tara has twice as many hands petting and giving biscuits to her, I suspect she agrees with me.
At the ten-day mark, I’m trying to figure how to add another week onto the trip. And maybe another decade after that. A phone call from Willie puts an end to such fantasies.
“When are you coming home?” he asks.
“Why?” I evade. “Any problems at the foundation?”
“Nope. We’re doing great. I just wanted to know if you’d be home by Saturday.”
“I will if you need me,” I say.
“Good. I need you.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Sondra and I are getting married Saturday night. You’re the best man.”
“That’s a real honor, Willie. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Laurie walks into the room at that moment. “And neither would Laurie.”
“Good,” Willie says. “’Cause she’s the best woman.” I hear Sondra’s voice correcting him in the background, so he corrects himself. “Maid of something.”
“Maid of honor,” I say.
“Right.”
Willie goes on to tell us the location of the wedding, an Italian restaurant/pizzeria in Paterson. He’s negotiated a private room in the back. I would venture to say that Willie is the wealthiest person ever to get married in a pizzeria, but I think it has a certain panache.
I hang up the phone and turn to Laurie. “Willie and Sondra are getting married Saturday night. We are the best man and maid of honor, respectively.”
“That’s wonderful,” she says.
For a woman who thinks that every marriage is “wonderful,” Laurie makes surprisingly little effort to have one of her own. “Jealous?” I ask, casting my bait and hook into the water.
“For sure,” she says. “I’ve had my eye on Willie for a long time.”
We stay at the house until Saturday morning, trying to make the vacation last as long as possible. Just before we leave, I take Tara for a walk on the beach, a departure tradition that I want to continue. I throw a tennis ball into the water, and she dives in after it, oblivious to the cold and the oncoming waves. It is an act of absolute joy, and I want to watch her do it for years to come.
Weddings for me are high on the list of things that I dread attending. They’re generally fancy and boring, and the fancier they are, the more boring they are. I particularly hate “black-tie affairs,” which is one of the reasons why Willie and Sondra’s wedding is so much fun. It’s not fancy, not boring, and very much a no-tie affair.
The ceremony is nondenominational and relatively brief. Willie and Sondra take their vows, kiss, and the fifty or so guests raise their beer bottles in salute. We are all led into another room, where huge bowls of pasta are on the tables, and buffet tables are set up with every kind of pizza imaginable.
As best man, I am called upon to make a toast after dinner. I’m not at my best in situations like this, but I do the best I can. I toast Willie and Sondra as two wonderful people who have turned their lives around and who deserve each other, and I speak of Willie as a cherished partner and friend.
I’m not much for dancing, so Laurie must find other partners to satisfy her apparent need for public gyration. Fortunately, Vince loses all inhibitions after his fifth beer, so he is able to more than fill in ably for me.
It is while they are dancing that Willie comes over to me and sits down. “Man, I know you don’t like to hear this, but I owe everything to you. Everything.”
“Who said I don’t like to hear it?”
Willie never likes to talk about his time on death row, and we don’t do so now. But we do talk about the other things that have happened since, the money, the foundation, new friends, and finding Sondra.
“It’s weird,” he says, “all these things happenin’, one after another.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” I say. “They’re happening because of who you are and the way you’re living your life.”
“You always say that.”
“What?”
“That you don’t believe in coincidences.”
“That’s because I don’t,” I say.
“Well, I’ve got one for you. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.” His tone is uncharacteristically serious, maybe a little worried.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“In just a few months, Sondra almost got murdered twice.”
His words hit me right between the eyes. Sondra was shot and then almost strangled. I never connected the two; they seemed like isolated events. Coincidences.
“Maybe you should move out of this neighborhood,” I say, but the words have a hollow, foolish ring to them.
