Chapter Forty-Five
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Lincoln / Present
T hree days after the feds stormed the Del Rossi Group, Nikolas’s face is plastered on the front of every newspaper in Middle Point. The red-faced shot of the business mogul being escorted off his property by two police officers makes me want to call Beaugard and ask for the details, but the last time I got ahold of him, he’d told me to go get a life.
I hadn’t taken it personally.
“Large black coffee, no milk or sugar,” the woman behind the counter calls out.
As I grab it, my phone starts ringing. When I glance down at the screen, my brows pinch when I see Estep’s name. “Danforth,” I greet, nudging the front door open with my hip to go outside.
“It’s Jon Estep over at the DA’s office.”
“What can I do for you, Jon?”
He clears his throat. “This is a courtesy call. I thought you’d like to know that Jakob Volley was found dead in his cell early this morning.”
I stop in my tracks in the middle of the sidewalk. “How?”
“He allegedly hung himself using the sheets from his bed,” he answers. “There have been multiple incidents since you met with him that have required infirmary visits, stitches, and overnight stays. My best guess is that he’d had enough.”
I don’t buy that for a second. What was it he said to me? Something about us both knowing he wasn’t getting out of there? “So, you think he committed suicide?”
What he says next makes me clench my coffee cup a little tighter than necessary. “It’s not my position to think anything, Mr. Danforth. I was simply his attorney.”
“So that’s it? There’s not going to be an investigation? He’s just gone when things happen to start heating up with Del Rossi?”
Estep sighs heavily. “Even if I thought his death was under suspicious circumstances, I have no power to do anything about it. Frankly, Rikers Island has already seen nineteen deaths this year. It’s not uncommon for the prisoners to decide they don’t want to continue their sentence, knowing they’ll never get out.”
That’s the politician’s way of saying his death is going to be lumped into the others. The magic number twenty. Unfortunate, but unimportant.
“If Volley was having such a hard time there, why didn’t you try harder to get him moved when I suggested it?” I question. I’d told him we could try getting him transferred if he worked with us, but Estep barely batted an eyelash at the suggestion.
“Do you know how much time that takes?” he counters in exasperation. “That requires a lot of strings to a lot of different connections. And if you’d like me to be blunt, there are some people I’m not willing to waste those favors on. A cop killer is one.”
I can appreciate his honesty, even if I think it’s a little fucked up. But what do I expect? There isn’t one defense attorney that I know who would answer differently. “He could have helped build something big for you, Estep.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I guess we’ll never know,” is his answer. It’s detached. Unaffected.
And I get it. I’ve been the same since I started this job. “I guess not.”
He ends the call, leaving me staring at the blank screen. I go through my contacts to find Beaugard’s name, but he doesn’t pick up.
As I walk toward the building for my six o’clock appointment, I get a text message back from my former boss.
Beaugard: What did I tell you about getting a life?
Me: Hard to do when the body toll goes up
Beaugard: That’s not on you
Me: That’s what they said about Conklin
Bubbles appear and disappear at the bottom of the screen. I stop outside the door of the psychotherapist’s entrance and wait for his reply. He’s not one to beat around the bush or offer me some Pinterest-level advice.
Beaugard: We got the call this morning
Me: And?
Beaugard: Volley already had his trial
Beaugard: You can’t get justice for everyone
That’s not what I want for Volley. It’s because of him that Conklin is dead. But if he was killed so he didn’t talk, then it could risk the case being built against Del Rossi.
Me: Just tell me one thing. Is there enough to get Del Rossi put away without him?
Beaugard: Get a life, Hawk
It’s not the answer I’m looking for, but at least the next hour will preoccupy my mind while I wait for him to tell me what he knows.
The good doctor is waiting for me when I arrive, holding the door open as soon as I walk into the sitting area.
When I step into her office, the newspaper on her desk catches me off guard. It’s open to the continued story of the headline.
Local Business Owner Under FBI Investigation.
The sound of the door closing behind her has me glancing over my shoulder. She steps beside me, following my gaze back to the paper. “It’s everywhere,” she says sheepishly.
She subtly walks over to her desk and closes the paper before grabbing the notepad and pen from beside it.
“Taking notes?” I tease.
Color creeps into her cheeks. “I was curious.”
“Nothing illegal about that.”
We walk over to our usual seats. She doesn’t sit until I do, so I sink into the cushions and stretch my legs out. “Anything else you’re curious about?”
She sets the notepad on her lap. “There are a lot of things, but I’ve accepted some of those I may never know.”
“Why is that?”
“Because everybody deserves to have a secret or two,” she answers easily, a warm smile on her face. “I’ll never know everything about you. That’s life.”
I’m tempted to ask what it is she wants to know, but I don’t. “I found out today that the man who shot me is dead.”
The sudden turn of conversation seems to startle her.
Before she can ask how that makes me feel, I offer her the information. “I’m not sad about it, but I’m also not a total monster. He pulled the trigger, but he didn’t make the call. He was as much a part of the chess game as we were.”
The good doctor wets her lips before leaning back in her chair and glancing down at her notes. “You said once that Georgia might as well have handed him the gun. What exactly did you mean by that?”
One day, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to see what she said about me. “The short answer is that the lies we told ourselves caught up to us until we couldn’t keep lying anymore.”
“And the long answer?”
Taking a deep breath, my eyes go back to the paper she bought that’s laying face down on her desk. “I guess it’s time,” I murmur.