Chapter Fifty-Seven
One killer down, one to go.”
Max held up his glass of red wine and clinked it against Ellie’s Johnnie Walker Black. David Bolt had just entered a plea of guilty to the murder of Julia Whitmire. He wouldn’t be sentenced for another week, but the agreement called for a minimum of thirty years in prison.
In the end, it was his clever attempt to leave behind a suicide note that sealed the case against him. Julia had pressed down on the paper so hard as she was writing the letter that she’d left indentations on the next page in the pad. They found that sheet of paper, now filled with Bolt’s own handwriting, in his notes about the Equivan drug trial.
They were celebrating the closure of at least part of this investigation at their usual after-work spot, the bar at Otto. It was only 5:30 on a Tuesday, so they could actually speak to each other without yelling.
“And to our apartment,” Ellie said, adding in a second clink.
“You mean sort of our apartment.” Max had signed a lease for a large one-bedroom just off Union Square Park. She wasn’t ready to walk away from her rent-controlled apartment, but Jess seemed to think he could take over the rent for now. She’d be moving her things into Max’s new place next week.
Their new place. She’d have to get used to calling it that.
In theory, the decision should have been one of those joyous moments in a relationship, like the wedding- proposal stories people never tire of repeating. But they both knew the dubious origins of the arrangement. His quasi-ultimatum. His insistence that there was a difference between asking her to change and asking her to get to know herself more. Her desire to prove to him that she was trying. His anger at her refusal to relinquish her legal right to occupy another space without him.
Their first shared address had been the result of nights of fighting, not one of those great stories they’d be sharing with friends.
They both took a sip to commemorate the second toast, but she quickly changed the subject. “Anything else we can do on Adrienne Langston’s charges?”
If there was an A-level felony for lying, they’d have Adrienne dead to rights. The DNA tests confirmed that Ramona Langston was the biological daughter of Adrienne Langston and the late James Grisco. Records subpoenaed from Michael Wiles’s law office confirmed that in January 1996, Adrienne Mitchell placed a newborn baby girl in a closed, private adoption. According to the adoption documents, Adrienne had claimed not to know the identity of the biological father.
Within two years, Adrienne was living in New York City, working as a nanny for a family that lived two floors down from the Langstons. Even Adrienne now admitted that the job was no coincidence. She was in no position to raise a child on her own, but she could at least watch the baby she’d given up grow with her new parents. After Gabriella’s car accident, the entire building was abuzz about poor George and his little girl. It was only natural that she volunteered to step in. The way Adrienne told the story, the fact that she, George, and Ramona became a family was nothing but a happy Hollywood ending.
Until, of course, James Grisco resurfaced and threatened to ruin it all.
“I still can’t believe Ramona showed up at your apartment.”
It had been two days earlier. Ellie and Jess were leaving the building for a run, and there was Ramona, sitting on the front stoop.
Ellie took another sip of her whisky, recalling the ugliness of the interaction. Somehow the tale Adrienne had spun sounded better coming from a sad sixteen-year-old girl. Grisco the blackmailer. Grisco who came back for more when the ten grand ran out. Grisco who broke into the house in East Hampton to attack Adrienne after she refused to pay him any more money.
“I swear,” Max said, “if Adrienne sent her kid to beg on her behalf, I should be entitled to tack another couple of years onto the sentence.”
But Ellie could tell that Ramona’s pleas came entirely from her own desire to believe the very best about the only mother she knew.
“You really think a jury will buy self-defense?” she asked.
“I’ve learned never to make predictions. Adrienne’s a proven liar, time and again. And the whole thing with the maggots shows just how far she was willing to go to cast herself in the role of victim. But at the end of the day, she’s a pretty, rich, white lady, and James Grisco was a convicted killer.”
“I hate jurors.”
“You’d rather have judges like Fred Knight make the call? I’m hoping the husband will talk some sense into her. The defense attorney told me George spent all of yesterday poring over the entire trial file. He’s a husband, but he’s also a lawyer. Hopefully he’ll see she should take the deal.” He downed the rest of his wine. “Fuck it. I’d rather try a good case and lose than budge another day with her.”
The current offer was twenty years. Adrienne would barely be fifty when she got out. She could still see Ramona get married. She could be a grandmother to whatever children Ramona might eventually have.
Max’s cell phone rattled against the bar top. He excused himself to take the call on the sidewalk on Eighth Street.
The bar manager, Dennis, reappeared once she was alone. “It’s a dumb man who puts a phone call above his girlfriend.”
“You know us. When duty calls-”
“I do indeed, and as a taxpayer I suppose I should thank you.” He refilled Max’s glass. She held up her half- full rocks glass to show she was still working on the first round. “Watch yourself there. That’s how the power balance gets off in a relationship. You’ve got to match him one for one.”
“Half a Johnnie Walker’s good for at least one glass of his wussy red wine.”
She checked her e-mail on her BlackBerry as she continued to sip. Most of it was junk, but she opened a message from Detective Marci Howard with the Suffolk Police Department.
Hatcher, Last I heard, you two were all set on what you needed from us re Langston shooting in East Hampton. Saw husband (George) coming out of records department today. Checked to make sure no interference with current investigation.
Like a lot of cops, Howard apparently saw no need to use complete sentences in e-mails.
Records clerk told me Langston asked for copies of docs re 2001 accident investigation-fatal on Egypt Lane near Hook Pond involving Gabriella Langston (which is same name on Langston gun registration; first wife etc.). Know you two are sticklers for every last detail (ha ha) so thought I’d give you a heads up. Hope the case goes on the side of justice. Still sounds like a clean shoot to me FWIW.
Great. Even a cop took one look at the rich pretty white lady versus the scumbag ex-con and gave Adrienne a pass.
Ellie hit the reply button on her e-mail system and pecked off a response:
Thanks for keeping us in the loop. To prove that I am in fact the most obsessive-compulsive person you’ve ever met, can you please ask your records department to fax us a copy of the reports George Langston requested? You never know… Don’t forget. We owe you. Thx!
Max looked happy when he returned to the bar. “I was about to say ‘another round to celebrate,’ but I see Dennis already got here.”
“What are we celebrating now?”
“That was Adrienne Langston’s defense attorney. She’s taking the deal. As is.”
“You’re kidding? Just like that? I thought she said she wouldn’t take anything other than Man Two.”
“The attorney was surprised too. She said it was all George’s doing. Plus, they’re in a rush. Adrienne will enter her plea tomorrow at nine a.m., straight into sentencing. So let’s drink to George.”
Ellie still had her phone in her hand.
“Sorry, babe. I hate to tell you this, but I’ve got work to do tonight.”
