Play Dead

Kevin and I head back to the office, rejuvenated by our triumph and by the certainty that we will now get our day in court. We both know that it will be like starting a six-week marathon; a murder trial takes total concentration and an incredible intensity.

Unfortunately, as soon as we start our meeting we have to face the fact that Judge Gordon’s decision does nothing toward helping us understand what the hell is going on here. If we’re going to tell a jury that Stacy was murdered and Richard was set up by some evil third party, we had better be prepared to credibly advance a theory of why it happened and who that third party might be.

The only two areas that seem to hold potential answers right now are the customs operations at the Port of Newark and the Army connection to Archie Durelle. There is little I can do about the customs area other than hope that Keith Franklin comes up with something, so I decide to focus on the Army and Durelle.

I make a couple of calls to set up meetings for tomorrow and then head for home. I give Tara and Reggie some celebratory biscuits, and then we go out for a long walk.

After I take them home I head for Charlie’s to watch some baseball and drink some beer with Pete and Vince. “Congratulations,” Pete says in a surprising burst of humanity.

“You gonna win?” Vince asks.

“Is this off the record?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

I shrug. “I hope so.”

He frowns his disdain. “You sure I can’t use that? Because that’s the kind of quote that sells newspapers.”

I update Pete on what we learned about the chopper crash, and I give him the names of Mike Carelli, Dr. Gary Winston, and Anthony Banks, the other people on the flight, just in case he has anything on them. He says that certainly nothing comes to mind, but that he’ll check.

“I called a friend in the State Police to see if I could find out any progress they’re making on the highway shooting,” Pete says.

“Thanks.” I had asked him to do that; even though the shooters were dead, a full investigation would certainly take place. “You find out anything?”

He nods. “The case was turned over to the FBI.”

This is a stunning development. “FBI? Are you sure?”

“Am I sure?” he asks with annoyance. “You think I get letters confused? Maybe they said they’re turning over the case to the DMV? Or maybe LBJ?”

His sarcasm doesn’t make a dent on me; I’m too focused on this news. “What the hell could the FBI have to do with an attempted murder on a New Jersey highway?”

“That, counselor, is something you might want to figure out.”

* * * * *

IF YOU WANT to live thirty stories above New Jersey, the place to do it is in Fort Lee at Sunset Towers. It sits on the edge of the Hudson River and offers its upscale tenants spectacular views of the New York skyline. Its lobby and basement areas include a grocery store, cleaners, and drugstore, making running errands an easy jog. The place is so classy that the doorman is called a concierge.

I’ve come here to see Donna Banks, widow of Anthony Banks, the second lieutenant who, the records show, died in the same helicopter crash as Archie Durelle. I called yesterday and explained who I was, though I did not say why I wanted to talk to her about her husband. She agreed to see me this morning, though she did not seem pleased about it.

I left Kevin the job of trying to reach Cynthia Carelli, the widow of Mike Carelli, the chopper pilot listed as killed in the same crash as Durelle and Banks. She lives in Seattle, a rather long trip to make in person, considering the small likelihood that he has anything to do with our case.

I stop at the “concierge” and tell him that I am here to see Ms. Banks. He nods, picks up the phone, and dials her number. There must be hundreds of apartments in this building, and his not having to look up the number is impressive.

He receives confirmation that I am expected and sends me up to her twenty-third-floor apartment. The high-speed elevator has me there within seconds, and Donna Banks answers the door within a few moments of my ringing the bell. She is an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, but dressed and carrying a handbag as if ready to go out. Not a good sign if I’m hoping to have a long interview.

“Ms. Banks, thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Come in, but I don’t have a lot of time. I’m quite busy,” she says.

I nod agreeably as I enter. “We could do this some other time, when you’re not as rushed.”

“I’m afraid I always seem to be rushed.”

“What is it you do?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

I shrug. “I mean your work-what it is that keeps you so busy?”

She seems taken aback by the question. “Volunteer work… and I have many friends… You said you needed to talk about Anthony.”

I sit down without being offered the opportunity and take a glance around the apartment. It is expensively furnished, and neat to the point that it doesn’t even looked lived in. “Are you married, Ms. Banks?”

“No. I’m sorry, but I really am in a hurry, Mr. Carpenter. Can we chitchat a little less and get to why you’re here?”