The Ex (20 page)

Einer shook his head. “He spent that morning in custody for a probation violation—nonpayment of court fees. And that brings us to miscellaneous: takeout Chinese two blocks from her apartment, a cheap hair salon a few blocks from that. And then three calls, all back-to-back, two weeks before she died, to some hoity-toity shoe store in Soho called Vala. I paid a visit—the shoes were fugly, like made for Little Bo Peep.”

“And—?” I asked.

“And no one there knows anything about Tracy Frankel. One of the salesgirls vaguely remembered someone calling multiple times with the wrong number—like too stupid to realize they’re just dialing the same digits over and over again. So I assume that may have been Tracy.”

I was impressed that Einer had taken the time to make an in-person visit. He was clearly determined not to miss something else. “But Tracy didn’t dial a similar number afterward?” That was the usual response to dialing incorrectly.

“No. And that’s it except for a couple of blocked numbers and a payphone in Prospect Heights. Those are dead ends.”

“Okay, so we still have no idea who she was calling at Sentry.”

Melissa dried her hands with a white kitchen towel and plopped down in the seat next to me. “Consider me on a break.”

“Perfect timing,” I said. Melissa frequently served the role of mock jury. She may have been only a sample size of one, but bartenders have a talent for figuring out how real people think. Melissa could consult fifteen fictional jurors running around in her head anytime she wanted. “Malcolm Neeley had stopped seeing the married woman he was hav
ing an affair with. Maybe Tracy Frankel was the new girlfriend? A jealous boyfriend finds out?”

“Neeley goes from a high-society missus to a twenty-year-old druggie?” Einer said. “Big change in type.”

“Maybe not a girlfriend, exactly,” I said. “It’s not unusual for a woman with drug problems to supplement her income with prostitution.”

Don shook his head. “She’d have more phone calls.”

Melissa raised a hand. “And a trick at seven in the morning? Only married dudes do that. Nope, I don’t buy it.”

Just as Scott Temple said, the Sentry Group housed more than thirty employees. Tracy could have been calling any one of them. Coincidences do happen.

But one particular Sentry Group employee had already been on our radar. “It has to be Max. He’s obviously unhappy that we’re looking for other people with a motive to kill his father. And we know from his ex that he wanted to get out from under his father’s control. He benefits far more from Malcolm’s death than anyone else. He inherits everything, including control at the Sentry Group. And, I’m sorry, I don’t care how drunk he was, you don’t talk about shooting your father in his sleep unless there’s some serious underlying hatred.”

Melissa jumped in without missing a beat. “So if the Tracy girl was calling Max—then . . . what?”

I shrugged. “He’s in love with his ex-girlfriend, Amanda, but can’t be with her because of Daddy. Guy his age still needs to have sex.”

“So Tracy was his no-commitment hookup,” Don said. “But wants more.”

“Maybe,” I said, turning over the possibility in my head. “Tracy gets a little too pushy. Three calls in one week, at the company phone. No other calls between them, meaning they’re not a regular item. Maybe he picked her up at a bar one night. Or off the street. But it wasn’t supposed to be a
thing
. She takes a business card from his wallet, starts calling work. She’s now a problem.”

“Two birds with one stone,” Melissa said. “If Max was planning on taking out his dad anyway—”

I smiled. My jury of one had come to the conclusion all by herself. That meant the story felt real. I’d used people before as alternative suspects, but this one was actually guilty. Two Neeley sons, both of them killers.

I
KNEW FROM
Tracy Frankel’s one interaction with the criminal justice system that she had attended multiple private high schools and then managed to secure an expensive private defense attorney when she got caught as an eighteen-year-old trying to buy heroin from an undercover officer in Washington Square Park. But there’s a difference between rich kids and
rich
kids.

The Frankel family home turned out to be a brick townhouse on East 76th Street. Approximately five thousand square feet on the Upper East Side, complete with an elevator and servants’ quarters.

Given the cotton smock of the woman who answered the door, I took an educated guess that she was not one of Tracy’s family members. “Hi. I’m looking for Joanne Frankel.” Tracy had given her mother’s name as her emergency contact when she was arrested.

The woman closed the door without comment and soon a younger woman took her place. “Tracy’s not around anymore, so you can lose this address—” Looking me up and down, the woman apparently decided that I didn’t fit her expectations for a person inquiring about Tracy. “Wait. Who are you?”

“Olivia Randall. I’m a lawyer. I’m here about Tracy Frankel?” I quickly replayed Einer’s rundown of Tracy’s phone records. “Are you perhaps her sister?”

SHE WAS IN FACT TRACY’S
sister, Laura. Her mother, Joanne, was also home. Her father, Eric, was at work at his commercial real estate management job.

Once I explained who I was, Joanne made it clear that I had
some nerve
showing my face at the family home. I apologized for their loss, knowing how shallow the sentiment sounded. As I had countless times before, I did my best to make it appear that our interests aligned. “I know it seems out of place for me to be here, but there’s some evidence I don’t think the prosecution has brought to your attention. They’ve portrayed Tracy as a random victim caught in the cross fire, but this is what we’ve learned.” I spelled out the phone calls from Tracy’s cell phone to the Sentry Group. “Your daughter wasn’t just . . . collateral damage. I want to find out the truth about why she was killed.”

It was straight out of a Lifetime movie. But I could tell from Joanne’s quick response that it was working.

“When they told me she was at the waterfront at seven in the morning, it didn’t make any sense. I don’t think Tracy has woken up voluntarily at that hour since she stopped believing in Santa Claus.”

“Can you think of any reason why she would have called the Sentry Group?”

Joanne looked away. “My daughter was flawed. She had—problems.”

Laura reached over and grabbed her mother’s hand. “What my mother’s trying to say is that my sister was an addict—a junkie. We don’t know why she was at the waterfront that morning, but assume it was related to her substance abuse.”

“You don’t have to be so harsh,” Joanne said, pulling her hand
away. “Yes, Tee had her issues. That’s what Tracy always wanted us to call her. For reasons I never understood, she decided in the sixth grade that Tracy was too much of a boy’s name. I tried to tell her that Tee sounded too much like tee-tee. She would giggle, but thought the nickname was cute. Sort of street tough, I guess. I never did quite warm to it. One of many, many mistakes, I suppose. But, yes, as I was saying, Tee had her issues, but I always thought they were temporary. She just needed to find the right school. She did really well at one of them, was it Halton Girls’? I don’t remember. Anyway, she had that teacher who got her into her poetry. She even talked about applying to a writing program. But then it became clear that it was all just a crush on an older man. It was always about men for her. She was such a kind soul but so reckless.”

I caught Laura the sister in an eye roll. Time to get the conversation back on track. I changed the subject to Tracy’s phone calls to the Sentry Group. “Forgive me if I’m saying anything to upset you, but this seems too coincidental. We’re worried that perhaps the police have missed an important explanation for the reason your daughter was shot.”

Joanne was shaking her head. “Do you have children?”

“No,” I responded.

“My husband loves Tee as much as I do—
did
, I suppose. More, if I had to say so. But when you have a child consumed by addiction, there are no clear right answers. I wanted to give her the world. To make her so happy that no drug could possibly compete. But Eric was all for tough love after Tracy was arrested. We hired the lawyer to keep her out of prison, but that was pretty much it for him. He cut her off. She moved to some crappy walk-up in Brooklyn.”

“So you have no idea why your daughter may have called the Sentry Group?”

“I wouldn’t say
no
idea.”

“
Some
idea,” I said.

“Yes, if I had to guess. She was—” Joanne reached for her daughter’s hand again. “An addict, as Laura said. Tee had even stolen from us in the past. Once we stopped letting her inside the house, I suspected she’d find other ways of raising money. That’s what drugs can do to a person.”

I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be a mother who suspected that her daughter was turning tricks to support her drug habit. I tried one more time. “You never heard her mention Malcolm or Max Neeley or anyone else at the Sentry Group?”

Joanne Frankel shook her head. “I know I’m too smart to believe your answer to this question, but are you really telling me that someone other than Jack Harris killed my daughter? This isn’t just some stunt you’re pulling for your client? If it is—please, just leave us out of it. It’s not right to put us through this if what you’re saying isn’t true.”

“I’m a hundred percent certain the police don’t have the full story about why your daughter was killed.” I rose from my chair, leaned forward, and placed my hand on her wrist. “You take care of yourself, Mrs. Frankel.”

I was on the sidewalk, using my phone to pull up the app for an Uber car, when Tracy’s sister, Laura, walked outside.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“Not promising more to my mother than you could deliver. I think she’s yearning for some miracle explanation about Tracy’s death. Like she’s not just some random piece of garbage caught in the cross fire.”

“I don’t think any human being is garbage.”

“And I suppose that’s how you’re able to be a criminal defense lawyer. I don’t know why my sister was calling the Sentry Group, but I do know more than my mother. The last time I saw Tracy, I gave her my hundredth lecture about going to rehab. Taking some classes, just to get on a routine. Trying to get her life straight. And she told me that I didn’t need to worry. She had a plan. Some guy was going to take care
of her. I assumed at the time she was full of shit. But now that you’re asking these questions, I have to wonder—she said she had, quote,
a finance guy on the hook
. She talked about going to Costa Rica, then getting a nice apartment in Soho.”

“Did she tell you anything about him? Maybe he was at a hedge fund?”

She shook her head.

I used my phone to pull up a photograph of Max Neeley. “What about this guy? Does he look familiar?”

“Isn’t he the son? The one giving all those interviews?”

Of course she recognized him. “Did you ever see him with your sister?”

“No, but she cut me out years ago. I feel like my sister spent her whole life chasing a new rock bottom.”

I FINISHED UP A PROOFREAD
of my memo about the visit to the Frankel house and e-mailed it to Einer with a request that he add it to the file. At the round table in my office, I was surrounded by stacks of documents and pages and pages of handwritten notes.

It had been nearly a month since Jack was arrested. Thanks to the early document dump from the DA’s office and multiple investigators paid by Charlotte, I had far more information than I’d normally have at this point, but I had no idea what other evidence the prosecution might be sitting on.

I leaned back in my chair and envisioned the trial if it were held today. My expert opinion? Coin toss.

Without eyewitnesses, the case against Jack was circumstantial. I had a strategy to attack every single piece of evidence, but my attacks were jabs, not knockouts. For every challenge I raised, the prosecution would have a rebuttal.

Reasonable doubt or not? Fifty-fifty.

Why was Scott Temple so confident? Was I missing something, or was he holding something back? Tracy Frankel was the wild card. Why in the world had she been calling the Sentry Group?

I stopped turning pages when my office phone rang. It was Einer from the front desk. “Max Neeley’s here. Should I call security?”

EVEN THOUGH I HAD TOLD
Einer that I was sure everything was fine, I took the precaution of meeting Max up front instead of bringing him back to my office.

The second my heels hit the tiled reception area, he walked toward me and jabbed a finger in my face. “Lady, I’m going to sue your ass off. Do you have any idea how much money you’re costing me?”

“Your finances aren’t my first priority, Mr. Neeley. And if you don’t calm down, this conversation is over.”

He took a step back, but his hands remained balled into fists. “You don’t think I know what you’re doing? You told that judge that Tracy Frankel may have been calling someone at the Sentry Group with a
financial motive
to kill my father? It took five seconds for Gothamist to quote anonymous sources that Dad wouldn’t help me start my own fund. I had finally gotten that asshole Frederick Gruber back in line, and now he’s talking about pulling his money again. Our phones have been ringing off the hook. The press has been digging around for details about my father’s will from the probate court. Now they’re starting to ask about that bullshit back in college. Not to mention, you’re accusing me of murdering my own father. What kind of person are you?”

“Are you done?”

“No, you have to stop this.”

“I don’t
have
to do anything except defend my client. Why was Tracy Frankel calling you?”

“The DA tells me Jack Harris is the killer and that your job is
to twist the facts around and confuse people. Leave me out of it, lady, or I will use every last dollar I have to sue the shit out of you for defamation. You think you’re the only one who can dig up some dirt? How would you like it if I started leaking stories about you to the press?”

“Again, Mr. Neeley, are you done?”

“No, I’m definitely not done. You’ll be the first to know when I am.”

He slammed the door so hard on his way out that I thought the glass might break.

“Are you okay?” Einer asked.

I told him I was fine.

I HAD FINALLY REGAINED MY
composure when Einer knocked on my office door again. “Sorry to bug you, but a process server was just here. I think you need to see this.”

THE PEOPLE OF THE STATE OF NEW YORK v. JACKSON HARRIS, defendant.

PEOPLE’s motion for reconsideration of bail.

I knew Scott Temple was angry with me for embarrassing him in court, but I had not anticipated this.

I WAS READY TO CALL
it quits for the day, but felt obligated to tell Jack about the bail motion in person. I had just gotten the all-clear from Nick the doorman when I saw a familiar face heading in my direction in Jack’s lobby. It was Ross Connor, Owen’s former partner on the NYPD.

“The last I heard, you made it pretty clear you wanted nothing to do with my client.”

He held up both palms. “Just here to see an old friend, Olivia.”

“That’s bullshit. He’s on house arrest. He doesn’t let anyone up without police approval. No friends allowed. Just ask Charlotte.”

“Damn. Charlotte, that’s right. Remember that time I tried haunching on her after way too many shots of whatever we were drinking? I thought she might clamp my balls in a vise, but instead she just started laughing. Talk about brutal.”

I wasn’t going to be distracted by humor. “Is this about the bail motion?”

The question appeared to confuse him. “That’s over and done with it. He’s home, so kudos to you.”

“You came here as law enforcement, Ross. Otherwise, you couldn’t have come at all.”

“Fine, you caught me. I thought I might have better luck with Jack than the stranger who questioned him when he was arrested.”

“While he has murder charges pending? I’ll go to the judge.”

“And if you do, I’ll say that ever since you came to see me, I’ve been thinking about him. How close we used to be, when his brother was around. Felt I owed it to him—or maybe just to Owen—to come. How will it look if you rat me out for that?”

“You’re unbelievable. You just admitted to a defense attorney that you’re willing to testi-lie.”

“Just calm down, okay? I gave it a shot, but your boy didn’t even say anything incriminating. No harm, no foul.”

“He didn’t incriminate himself because he’s innocent. Has the job tainted you so badly that you can’t even entertain the possibility that the department screwed up?”

“Do you want to keep yelling at me, or do you want to know why I bothered to come here?”

“We’ve established that you came here to question my client. As for your reasons, you’ve already decided whether to share them with me or not.”

He pretended to mull it over for a few seconds. When he spoke, he
put his hands in his pockets and looked at the ground. “So after you stopped by my office, I kept thinking about when I came here to tell him about Molly. And those condoms fell out of his bag, and he started acting all spooked.”

“I think you said it was awkward. Now it’s
spooked
?”

“I kept going back to that moment where Jack freaked out. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So I called the medical examiner. They autopsied all of the Penn Station victims. Standard procedure for homicides. Turns out Molly had a hysterectomy.”

“So maybe they used condoms for some other reason.”

“Married people don’t use condoms—period. But especially not when they’re done having babies.”

He was right, of course, as a general matter. Not to mention the fact that Jack was carrying the condoms around in his bag. So if Jack was cheating on Molly at the time she was killed, how did that affect the current case against him? It didn’t. I said as much to Ross.