“We don’t know yet. Do you?”
“Me? I don’t know anything.”
“Sure you do. You knew him and you were there this morning. What would be best is if you came with me to the station.”
“Why?” I asked, startled, and immediately wary.
“To answer some more questions.”
“I can’t. I have too much work.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist. It’s important. And I could really use your help.”
I looked at him, wondering what I should do. The Wilson estate needed careful sorting, and there were only two days until the auction preview. Sasha, an art-historian-turned-appraiser who worked for me, could handle that, I supposed. I’d remind Eric to be diligent. Or maybe not. I’d made my point earlier. Gretchen would hold the fort as she always did.
“I guess,” I said. “I’d better call my lawyer.”
“Why don’t you have him meet you at the station house,” he suggested.
“I’ll let him decide.”
“Who’s your lawyer?”
I worked with lawyers in my business all the time, but I’d never needed one personally before. I swallowed, trying to focus. Who should I call?
Max Bixby came to mind. He was one of the first people I’d met when I’d moved to Portsmouth. I remembered his friendly welcome at a Chamber of Commerce breakfast, and he’d been pleasant and accessible ever since. “I’m going to call Max Bixby,” I said.
“He’s a good man.”
I turned away, heading for the office to talk to Gretchen. Before I reached the door, I stopped and turned back to him. He hadn’t moved. His eyes were dark and knowing.
“May I ask you something?”
“Sure. Whether I answer, well, that depends.”
I nodded. Tears came again, unexpected and unwanted. I turned away and wiped them away.
“How was he killed?” I asked quietly.
He shook his head. “That’s under investigation.”
I shut my eyes and shook my head. “Was he in the house?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“This morning?”
“Probably.”
I shivered. Murdered and left alone to die in his own home.
After trying his office, I reached Max at home. I could hear a child crying in the background and a woman’s raised voice.
“I’m sorry to disturb you at home,” I said.
“It’s okay, Josie. I’m glad to have an excuse to remove myself from the situation,” he said with a laugh. “What started as a nice family lunch has disintegrated into a temper tantrum.”
“Well, I hate calling you there, but I think I’m in trouble, Max,” I said, getting to the point.
“Tell me,” he ordered, and I told him the whole story.
“It’s good you called,” he said when I’d finished. “I’ll meet you at the station house in a half hour. Wait for me in the parking lot.”
I found Alverez where I’d left him, standing by the crates, scanning the room. I told him what Max said, and he nodded.
“Half hour’s fine,” he said. “I’ll see you there.”
I watched as he walked away, leaving me feeling alone, confused, and frightened.
Max and I stood on the edge of the sand dunes watching the ocean as we spoke. I know that it’s popular not to like lawyers, but it’s impossible not to like Max. He’s paternal without being patronizing, direct but always respectful, and old-fashioned without being stodgy. He’s probably about forty-five, but you think he’s older from the way he dresses and conducts himself. He wears tweed jackets and bow ties, and he’s almost courtly in manner.
“If I tell you not to answer any question, don’t. Stop talking when I tell you. If you’re unsure about an answer talk to me in a whisper first,” he instructed me. “If you know the answer and I haven’t stopped you, answer only what is asked. Don’t give any extra information. The shorter your answer, the better. One-word answers are good.”
“What if I can’t give just a one-word answer? What if he asks for my impressions of something?”
“Assuming I don’t stop you, try to answer it in one short sentence. Don’t expound.”
I nodded my understanding and agreement. The ocean was rough today. The bottle green water was dotted with whitecaps, and the waves were bigger than usual. It was mostly overcast. A storm was brewing.
Max told me his fee and I was glad that I had enough in savings so it wouldn’t pinch to pay it. We crossed the street and entered the station house. The Rocky Point police station was new, built in the last year or two and designed to look like a beach house with a peaked roof and shingles left to weather to a silvery tone just like most of the houses along the shore.
Alverez pushed through the swinging wooden gate to greet us, then held it open for us to pass through.
“Thanks for coming. How you doing, Max?” he asked.
“Fine, thanks,” Max said. “How’ve you been? I haven’t seen you since last summer’s clam bake.”
“That was a good time, wasn’t it?” Alverez asked. “Cathy,” he called, “we’ll be in the back.”
A big blonde hurried out from somewhere on the left. “Did you see my notes?” she asked. “You had calls.” She scooped up old-fashioned pink While You Were Out message sheets from a Formica-topped desk and handed them to him, spotted us, and looked at Alverez, a question in her eyes.
“This is Josie Prescott,” Alverez said to her. “And her lawyer, Max Bixby. We’ll be in room two, Cathy.” To me he added, “Would you like some coffee or an iced tea or anything?”
“No, thanks,” I said.
“You?” he asked Max.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
He led us down a short hall to a cheerless room with a floor-to-ceiling wire-mesh cage partitioned in a corner. “That’s creepy,” I said, nodding toward it.
“Yeah. But necessary sometimes for our unruly guests.”
“I guess,” I said.
“Have a seat. I won’t be long.”
I sat so the holding cell was in back of me, out of sight. The chair was hard and uncomfortable. Max sat across from me and pulled a yellow legal pad from his briefcase. I leaned forward, resting my eyes on the heels of my hands, my elbows perched on the scarred wooden table. Max didn’t speak, but I could hear him turning pages on his pad. Unexpectedly, the door latch clicked home with a sharp snap. I looked up, startled by the sound, feeling as trapped as if I’d been locked in the cage behind me.
Without a watch, which I never wore since it always seemed to get in the way when I was working, I had no way of knowing how long Max and I sat. It seemed a very long time, but I felt a sense of unreality, so maybe it wasn’t long at all.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Alverez said when he came back, businesslike, carrying a collection of papers. “I have the medical examiner’s preliminary report. Before I tell you about it, though, let me get the recorder set up.”
“Recorder?” I asked.
“Tape recorder. So I don’t have to take notes.”
I looked at Max and he nodded.
“That’s fine. I’m assuming we can have a copy of the tape?” Max asked.
“Sure,” Alverez said.
I watched as Alverez positioned the small unit on the table and pushed a button. A red light appeared and I heard a whirring sound. Alverez gave our names, the date, and time.
“I appreciate your coming in to help,” Alverez said. “Just a formality, but I’m going to ask you to sign a form indicating that you’ve been advised of your rights.” Alverez slid a piece of paper across the table to Max and read me my Miranda rights. It felt hard to breathe. I forced myself to listen, and when he asked me if I understood, I answered that I did. Max nodded that it was okay for me to sign the paper.
Never sign something you haven’t read
, my dad had taught me. I read it and signed my name.
“Okay,” Alverez said. “So. The medical examiner. The preliminary report is in.”
“What did he say?” Max asked.
“She. Dr. Young said death occurred this morning.”
“When?”
“Between nine and noon, as best she can figure it.”
“Oh, my God!” I exclaimed. “I had a horrible thought before that it was while I was on the porch that he was dying, and now you’re saying it’s true!” Tears came again, but this time I let them fall.
Max patted my arm gently, and whispered, “Don’t speak.”
“I had an officer check things out,” Alverez said, looking at me, changing the subject. “We found your appointment in Mr. Grant’s diary. It lay open to today’s date on the kitchen table. Apparently, he hadn’t forgotten that you were to meet him.”
I shook my head. “Poor Mr. Grant.”
“And your message was still on the machine—apparently un-played.”
“How did death occur?” Max asked.
“What about it, Josie? Do you know?”
“What?” I asked, horrified as the implications of his question sunk in. He thought I knew something about Mr. Grant’s murder.
“Do you know how Mr. Grant died?” he asked again.
“No. Of course not.”
“Well?” Max prompted, tapping his pen on the table. “Fill us in.”
“Mr. Grant was stabbed.”
“Oh, God,” I exclaimed, and began to cry again. “How awful.” I used the sides of my hands and pushed gently under my eyes. The tears gradually stopped.
Struck by a sudden thought, I turned to Max and in a soft voice asked, “I just thought of something. How did they know he’d been killed?”
Max nodded and repeated the question.
Alverez leaned back in his chair, balancing for a moment on the back two legs, keeping his eyes on mine. “His daughter called from Massachusetts and asked us to check on him.”
“She did?” I asked, looking from Alverez to Max and back again. “I don’t understand. Why?”
“She got a call from his lawyer, Epps his name is. Mr. Epps was concerned that someone was trying to strong-arm Mr. Grant into selling his treasures for a song. The daughter, hearing this, was, of course, concerned, and immediately started calling him, but she couldn’t rouse him. Her messages were on the answering machine, too. She called a neighbor, but the neighbor wasn’t home. She called both her dad and the neighbor a few more times with no luck. So finally she called us.”
“Someone trying to strong-arm Mr. Grant! That’s terrible! Who would do such a thing? Did the lawyer give a name?”
“Yeah, he did. He told Grant’s daughter that it was a shark named Josie Prescott.”
CHAPTER TWO
I
started, speechless. What Alverez said simply didn’t register. I watched as he waited for me to react. But I couldn’t. I felt frozen. I couldn’t think.
A shark
. Epps had called me a shark. I shook my head, my confidence shattered. So much for my hopeful future, I thought, and fought back tears. I should have known not to trust in hope.
In the dark days after the price-fixing scandal hit the news, after I wore the wire that recorded my boss conspiring with his chief competitor to hold commissions steady, I’d learned that hope could be a mirage. Day after day, I’d maintained optimism as I joined thousands of other New Yorkers in expressing shock that such a well-respected executive as the CEO of Frisco’s would participate in such a dastardly crime. I cringed as I remembered going to work the day after the news broke, expecting to be treated as a hero for blowing the lid off the conspiracy. I’d been naive enough to expect my peers to admire me, and even after it became clear that they did not, I persevered in trying to win their acclaim. I’d developed a keen ability to deny facts that, to others who were less emotionally involved, were patently obvious. I’d learned the bitter lesson that, no matter what winning football coaches and inspirational motivational speakers claim, desire isn’t enough. My former colleagues turned their backs on me then, and here, today, I was being called a shark. A shark!
I took a breath, reminding myself of the promise I’d made as I drove my loaded rental van past Frisco’s en route to my new home in New Hampshire—never again would I allow despair to lead to wishful thinking. Paralysis lifted, replaced by righteous rage.
“A shark?” I snapped, outraged.
Max told me to be quiet.
“That’s what Epps said.”
“Britt Epps?” I asked, ignoring Max’s admonition.
“Yes.”
“The son of a bitch.”
“Josie,” Max repeated. “Be quiet.”
“You know him?” Alverez asked me.
“Josie,” Max said quietly, “Don’t speak.”
“I want to answer, Max. Yes, I know him. I thought we were friends. Well, sort of friends. Business friends. I like Britt Epps! Or I thought I did.” I couldn’t believe it. “I can’t believe it!” I said aloud. “A shark? He called me a shark?”
“Yeah,” Alverez said.
I heard compassion in his voice as he spoke that one word, and it made me uncomfortable. I hated the thought that my situation led him to feel sorry for me.
“How well do you know him?” Alverez asked.
I flipped a hand up. “I don’t know. I’ve met him here and there at fund-raisers and Chamber of Commerce breakfasts, things like that. I’ve been trying to get in to see him to pitch my company. I’m new in town, well, a couple of years, now, but that’s still considered new around here. So I’m trying to meet people. Anyway, most of my business comes from referrals from lawyers and he’s one of the most respected in town. So naturally I’ve been trying to get an appointment. He’s always been polite and friendly. I thought we’d never connected because of scheduling snafus. I can’t believe he called me a shark. I just can’t believe it.”
“Why not? With a house full of valuable items up for sale, wouldn’t you expect sleazeball dealers to come out from under rocks? Wouldn’t it make sense for relatives of older people who decide to sell off their possessions to worry on their behalf?”
“Yes, everything you say is true—but I’m not one of those sleazeball dealers and Epps knows it! I have a stellar reputation—one I’ve worked hard to develop—and anyone who knows me knows I’m not a shark!”