The Rule of Three, page 20
“I don’t blame you. I started looking through them, but I had to stop. It was weird to see either of them, especially the ones where they look like they actually liked each other.”
She sighs. “I think I’ve had too much nostalgia for one day,” she says ruefully, and puts the framed photo of Libby to her chest again. “But thank you for this.”
“Do you want me to help you put them together in some kind of display?” I ask, and she responds with a pained expression.
“Or I can do it all myself. Then you don’t have to stress over it,” I add.
“I’ve got some blowups being done by the printer and they’ll be ready tomorrow morning.”
“Great. I’m ready,” I tell her.
“I’m burnt out right now from all of the planning. I’m already regretting planning this memorial so quickly.”
“It’s what Terry would have wanted, I’m sure. Do it while he’s still front-page news, right?” I say in all seriousness.
“I know. It’s terrible, but it’s true,” Vicky says. “I was also just desperate to do something productive. Planning this felt like the best thing to do with my time.”
“It is the right thing to do. No matter what anyone might say,” I say.
“Why? Have you heard something?” she asks, alarmed.
“No. But I’m sure someone has or will. You know how this works. Especially with so much unanswered and all of the goddamn media coverage.”
“I can’t even look at any of it.”
“Same,” I say.
“I’m not sure what I should be doing tomorrow. I mean, I know what to do. I’m not sure how to be, I guess,” she says, showing rare vulnerability.
“Sweetie, you need to be yourself. Nothing more,” I say lovingly.
“I’m preparing myself for all of the questions tomorrow,” Vicky says.
“There’ll be a lot of lips flapping about Gil as well, but I’m happy to tell people to mind their own fucking business,” I crack.
“And poor Monica, she’ll likely get grilled about Spencer. I’m sure people are speculating about a hundred horrible scenarios,” Vicky says sympathetically.
“Has she planned anything for Spencer?” I ask bluntly.
“Monica’s not ready to do anything without his . . . body. And the coroner said he and Terry might not be cleared for release for weeks.”
I pull two glasses from the cabinet and place them on a tray next to the ice bucket.
“Better make it three,” Vicky says nonchalantly, and looks away. “Monica’s on her way over,” she adds.
“I really wish you’d asked me.”
“We should talk about everything that has happened,” she says firmly.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” I say, frustrated. “Talking about things is going to make this situation worse.” I take the bottle from her and aggressively screw the helix into the cork and compress the arms until the sound of the satisfying pop fills the tense silence between us.
“Fine, three glasses,” I say as I pull another goblet from the cabinet and place it on the counter a little too hard for comfort.
“Thank you,” Vicky says.
“I guess I better make it three bottles, then,” I say as I trash the first empty bottle, stick the now open one in the waiting ice bucket, and then fetch another bottle of rosé and place it in the refrigerator.
“It could be a long night. I, for one, would really like to know what, if anything, the detectives have found out. I feel totally in the dark.”
“I am with you.”
“Laur, they came by my house today,” Vicky says, on edge.
Before I can press her for information, the doorbell chimes.
I pour myself a glass and make no move to answer the door.
“I’ll get it,” she says, annoyed.
In the few moments I have before Vicky returns with Monica, I feel an emotional waterfall churning.
Monica looks skittish when she steps into the kitchen. “Hi, Laura,” she says anxiously. It dawns on me that the last time we’d been in person, Spencer hadn’t been found yet. A ripple of pity runs through me.
“Hi,” I say. Vicky is right behind her and shoots me a look of pleading.
“How are you holding up?” I say as I move to hug her. We stand stiffly in a half embrace.
“I don’t think I’ve fully absorbed it. I keep waiting for him to walk through the door.”
The three of us stand in an uncomfortable silence for a second before Vicky breaks through.
“I’m glad we are all together again,” she says heartfully.
“Me too,” Monica replies. “Laura.” She steps toward me, shifting from one foot to the other. “I want to apologize.” She pulls at the skin on her arms and I see red welts forming on her pale skin.
“For what, exactly?” I ask.
“For everything. For what I told you about Gil last month. It was a huge thing to put on you.”
I feel the weight of my misdirected anger and can no longer deny how much of it belongs to Gil, not her.
She continues in my silence. “And for how I handled things with Gil . . . I didn’t keep up my end of the bargain. I can’t really explain what happened. And you told me that you didn’t want details.”
My heart backflips. “I don’t want details.” The thought of Monica confronting Gil makes me nauseous.
“I really fucked things up. But I want to make it right.”
I look up at her and then at my sister, their faces open and hopeful.
“I think this moment calls for a truce. We need to trust each other and forgive any lingering resentments,” Vicky interjects.
“Apology accepted. Let’s move on,” I say.
“Thank you,” Monica replies, her tone grateful.
Vicky clears her throat gently. “Why don’t we go outside and talk? It’s getting dark enough that we can enjoy the fire Laura has started.”
* * *
The first twinkling of starlight is emerging. Our glasses have been filled, bug spray has been passed around and applied, and chairs have been arranged and rearranged. We are finally situated in the three reclining chairs facing one another a few feet from the fire pit.
“How are you doing, Vicky?” Monica asks gently. “It must have been horrible to find Terry that way.”
I watch my sister’s body language, knowing that she is an expert at keeping her emotions locked away, even in the presence of the people closest to her. She was conditioned by our mother, who considered vulnerability low-class.
“It was incredibly gruesome and completely traumatizing. Nothing prepares you for something like that,” she says. “I think the detectives are expecting me to be hysterical.”
“That’s not who you are.”
“Everyone processes grief differently.”
“Finding Terry brought me back to when I found Dad,” Vicky directs to me, and I see Monica’s mouth open slightly.
“I didn’t realize you were the one . . . ,” she trails off mournfully. Vicky looks at her and nods.
“Yes. I went to his house to check on him. He’d . . . fallen . . . and had been dead for a few days,” Vicky says matter-of-factly.
“Oh God,” Monica says.
I don’t tell Monica that Vicky has been the member of our family who has had the dubious task of seeing her loved ones dead not just twice, but three times. When Libby was shot, I couldn’t bring myself to identify her, and Gil was MIA. Vicky stepped in for me. My gratitude and awe for my sister being so strong in the face of each of these horrendous experiences humbles me. But I worry for her emotional health, having seen so much death without falling to pieces like most people would have.
Vicky changes the subject. “The detectives told me today that they’ll be stopping by the memorial service tomorrow. I told them that they were welcome.”
“Really?” I ask. “I guess that’s a good thing. They are doing their jobs.”
“How much more do you think they are going to ask?” Monica asks miserably.
“They’ll be asking questions until they figure out why this happened, I would imagine,” Vicky says, her eyes focused on something in the dark grass.
Fireflies flicker in random patterns around us and beyond into the reaches of the yard where the dark corners make way into the trees.
“It’s their job to find out who did this, and the more we can help them, the sooner this will be over,” I say.
“It would be useful if they shared their leads with us,” Vicky says. “I’d like to know what direction they are leaning in.”
“I’ve been getting a lot of questions, but not very many answers,” I commiserate.
“Same. They came by today and were asking a lot about Gil,” Monica shares.
“What about him?” I ask.
“About what my relationship with him was,” she replies.
I see Vicky shift uncomfortably in her chair. “They are likely trying to figure out why Gil would have hurt Spencer,” she says.
“And what did you tell them?” I ask Monica pointedly, the reflection of the flames dancing alongside her cheek.
She looks at me for a full second without saying anything, and I feel a little surprised by the chilliness of her stare. “I told them the truth,” she says finally.
“Which is?” I ask harshly.
Vicky purses her lips.
“That there was no relationship between us,” Monica says.
Vicky looks at her wine and pulls her feet under her before speaking. “All we can do is tell them about our husbands and let them figure out what happened that night. We have to be patient.”
“I’m still trying to figure out what happened that night!” I say, feeling the wine fast-tracking me through patience to indignation.
“We all are, Laur,” Vicky says, shushing me with her tone. “Clearly, things got out of control. We just need to stick together and not lose our minds right now.”
“I’m trying,” Monica says, barely above a whisper.
“The detectives were asking me about Randall Hemmings today,” Vicky says. “I told them about Palm Springs.”
“Do they think that your trip has something to do with the shootings?” Monica asks.
“I’m not sure. But they asked about a file on Hemmings they found in Terry’s safe.”
The summer night sounds play out around us.
“Is Hemmings a suspect?” I ask.
“Maybe? They didn’t exactly fill me in on their thoughts on the topic,” Vicky answers. “He’s a shady character, but who knows what they’ll actually find on him.”
“Who did Terry keep company with that wasn’t shady?” I say.
“They should be interviewing the whole neighborhood. Given the number of nearly convicted men living in Kingsland—” Vicky says quietly.
“And with grudges against one or all of our husbands—” I agree.
“It could be anyone,” Monica says.
“So, we really have no clue what they think happened that night?”
“They haven’t told me anything,” Monica says.
“Gil is probably the most likely suspect. When he wakes up and is able to talk, this will all be very different.”
“If he wakes up and can talk,” I say bitterly.
Monica looks like she’s about to speak and then stops herself. She takes a gulp of wine and looks off into the fire.
“How is Gil doing?” she finally asks.
“He’s in a coma,” I say coldly. “But he woke up for a few minutes yesterday and spoke.”
Vicky’s and Monica’s eyes double in size. “Oh, Laur, you didn’t tell me that.”
“Oh my God!” Vicky exclaims.
Monica’s eyes are brimming in the flicker of the fire. “What did he say?” she whispers.
“Nothing intelligible,” I lie. “And he was unconscious again before I could get the doctor into the room.”
“I have a feeling that he will wake up again,” Vicky says steadily, and looks at me, her expression filled with so much emotion.
“So do I,” I agree, and begin to cry in spite of my best attempts to keep it inside.
“And when he does,” I continue seriously, “things are only going to get more complicated.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
SILVESTRI
“Straight to voicemail,” I mouth to my partner across the desk as I wait for the outgoing message to wrap up. Captain Evans gives an offhand wave as he passes us, heading in the direction of his office. “Yes, Mr. Hemmings,” I speak into the phone. “This is Detective Dennis Silvestri of the Stony Brook Police Department. We spoke the other day regarding your friend Terry Barnes. Some new information has surfaced in Mr. Barnes’s case that I’d love to speak with you about at your earliest convenience.” I leave my number, as I’m sure he didn’t bother to make a note of it during our previous conversation. “Please get back to me as soon as possible. I’ll await your call.” I drop the cell on top of a stack of folders and lean back in my seat.
“Tone was a bit curt,” Wolcott ribs me, tapping the tip of his pen rapidly against the sole of the shoe he’s crossed over his knee. “You still chafed about him hanging up on you the last time?”
“Nah,” I say dismissively. “I’m not interested in holding grudges, pal. Just interested in shooters.”
“I’m with you on that, Silvestri. We got any other lines to this guy?”
“Well, I dug up some contact info for a personal assistant of his.” I flip a page in the file set open atop my desk and locate what I’m looking for. “Let me give her a shot.” I dial the number and am once again transferred to voicemail, where I proceed to leave a message for the young woman on the other end of the greeting, her youthful tone shaded with ennui. “Let’s see if we have better luck there,” I say before setting the phone back down and returning my attention to my partner.
“I’ll tell you the thing that’s chafing me,” says Wolcott, eyes shifting back and forth as if he’s reading the eye chart at the optometrist’s office. “Something about this whole configuration seems off.”
“How so?” I ask.
“Well, they’ve got this little back-scratch circle going, right? Barnes, Mathers, Nichols, and now Hemmings. One guy’s doing a favor for another guy, who’s doing a favor for the next guy, and so on?”
“Okay,” I say.
“When we spoke with Barnes’s widow earlier about their Palm Springs trip, didn’t you get the impression that Hemmings was putting the clamps on Barnes for the tech from Nichols? Like there was some tension there?”
“Sounded that way,” I agree.
“Which makes me think that Nichols was pushing back some, no? Maybe he didn’t like the idea of sharing. Or he had some issue with Hemmings personally, or with whatever Hemmings intended to do with the technology he’d developed?”
“Sure,” I reason.
“Okay, so bear with me here.” He uncrosses his legs and sets his elbows on the desk, his focus now pointed. “With the way we’re looking at the logistics, we’re thinking that Nichols put Hemmings up to ambushing Mathers and shooting him in the clearing that night.”
“That’s the thought,” I say.
“So assuming that is the case, why would Nichols cozy up with the guy he was trying to keep away from his tech?” he asks. “Seems like one of those head-scratchers to me, no?”
“I see your point.” I turn the thought over in my mind and sift through the strands. “Maybe Nichols used that as the condition for handing it over. A little quid pro quo. Leverage.”
“Hmm,” he ponders. “Okay, so Nichols and Hemmings decided to get slick. Went ahead and cut Barnes out of the equation altogether. Eliminated the middleman, as it were.”
“That could fly.” I nod. “And then Hemmings double-crosses Nichols. Lets him catch a bullet from Mathers before Hemmings puts him down. Walks away from the whole mess assuming that all the loose ends have been tied up.”
Wolcott appears to run the sequence back in his head, feeling around for loose threads. “And he just leaves the cash behind?”
“If he had Nichols’s tech.” I consider. “Maybe he wasn’t that concerned with the money?”
“You think Nichols handed over the goods before Hemmings had even done the deed?” He shakes his head and cracks a grin. “That’s amateur hour right there.”
“Listen,” I say. “It’s not as if we’re dealing with a pool of criminal masterminds here. These are a bunch of entitled rich guys clearly in over their heads. Shit, maybe the guy just panicked and left the cash behind.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he reasons. “I mean, otherwise, if Hemmings isn’t even sweating the prospect of leaving a hundred large just sitting there—if that’s such small potatoes to this cat—then I’d really like to know what the hell he’s got up his sleeve as far as Nichols’s tech goes.”
“That’s you and me both, brother.” My eyes return to the paperwork in the file, but the text is beginning to blur. I’ve looked over these documents so many times that the words have managed to lose their objective coherency.
“The other question I have now is Mathers,” says my partner, coaxing my attention back to our spitballing session. “Even if we get in his ear after he wakes up, how much is he going to be able to give us if he’s been cut out of the loop by these other guys?”
“Right,” I agree.
“Hey.” Wolcott’s now tapping his pen against the surface of the desk, his mind restless. “When are they scheduled to bring Mathers out of the coma, anyway?”
“Sometime over the next few days, I think. I asked the doctor to give us a heads-up whenever they get a time locked down.”
“Okay, good.” He looks past me, his eyes unfocused and floating. After a moment, the pen stops tapping and my partner’s stare finds me. “Do we think Randall Hemmings is gonna show up at Barnes’s memorial service tomorrow?” There’s a trace of glee in his voice, as if he’s daring the very thought to prove itself true.
