Eighty
I spoke with Ethan a little while longer. Finally, Mike shut us down.
“I’m sorry, but I have to take Ethan back into custody now. If we wait much longer, we’ll risk a BOLO being issued. Then Ethan will be the star of a Citizen app alert and a citywide manhunt.”
“I don’t want that,” Ethan said, resigned. “You better take me in.”
I paced the shop until Mike returned. When he did, our embrace was long overdue.
“You must be tired,” I said, although he didn’t look it.
“I napped on the plane,” he said, “and now I’ve got so much adrenaline going, I won’t be able to sleep.”
“Then let’s sit down and decompress. I have coffee and your favorite Irish Cream Fudge waiting, unless you’d like pork chops and pan-roasted potatoes. I can warm a plate upstairs.”
“I’ll eat the chops for breakfast,” he said. “Right now, hot coffee and Baileys Fudge sounds like heaven to me.”
I showed him the café table that I’d set up by the hearth, and Mike gave me an appreciative smile. The change in climate from sunny Miami day to freezing New York night had him rubbing his hands near the flames.
“This is nice,” he said, sitting back in his chair.
I poured him a hot cup of my Fireside blend, appropriate enough for our table’s location, but also for the time of evening. The rich, dark roast with its flavor notes of milk chocolate, cinnamon, and smoke was also low in caffeine, and designed for after-dinner service or (in our case) late-night talks.
“I feel sad for Ethan,” I said, filling my own cup. “Did he say anything more to you after you two left?”
“Yes, he did. Enough to make me warn you not to get your hopes up.” Mike took a long sip of the dark roast. “Your professor friend is going down hard.”
“What do you mean? Ethan said he wants to fight the murder charge.”
“Yes, but his aunt is the one paying for that top attorney, and she won’t shoulder the substantial cost of a jury trial. She and the attorney want Ethan to take the plea bargain—plead guilty and serve a reduced prison sentence. Ethan won’t do that, which means he’ll have to rely on a public defender for his jury trial.”
“He has a right to a trial, Mike.”
“Of course, he does. But Ethan intends to present a case of being framed by his cousin and aunt. That’s why he wants your testimony about Van Dyne’s memoir and Joan Gibson’s publishing scheme. Apparently, his aunt told him all about your ‘prying into her affairs,’ as she put it. But his case is weak. He has zero evidence that his cousin—or anyone else—killed Joan Gibson, apart from a paranoid theory.”
“Paranoid? Then you don’t believe any part of his story?”
“The question isn’t whether I believe him, but whether a jury will.”
“You don’t think a public defender will be able to handle the case?”
“It’s David and Goliath, Clare.”
“Are you sure you want to use that metaphor? You know who won that particular battle, don’t you?”
“Come on, you know what I mean. The DA’s office will paint Ethan as a troubled and paranoid drug addict with a record of disorderly conduct and physical evidence that ties him to the murder.” Mike blew out air. “That poor, pathetic guy. He’ll be doing twenty to twenty-five years if he doesn’t take that plea.”
“But if he doesn’t fight the murder charge, he’ll still be slapped in a prison cell for five to seven years.”
“He can make the most of his time,” Mike said gently. “Maybe teach other prisoners. Pursue his art studies. Get clean.”
“Don’t make prison sound like a trip to Paris. You know it’s not, and if he’s distraught and depressed, Ethan’s the kind of lost soul who might take his own life.”
“I can’t argue with that possibility, but the evidence is damning—”
“Not all of it is. What if Ethan is right? What if he’s being framed?”
“Okay.” Mike leaned forward, blue eyes sharp. “Let’s say the man is having a ‘Kafkaesque’ experience, and he’s been made a patsy for some elaborate revenge scheme. Then how did his cousin Blair know that Joan Gibson would be at Van Dyne’s apartment? Answer me that.”
I stared down the lieutenant. “If the plan was to end Joan’s life, then Blair—or someone she or her aunt hired—could have been shadowing Joan, looking for a chance to kill her. They found it when she entered Van Dyne’s place.”
“And where did Joan get the key?”
“If her assistant Kenny put on a ski mask and mugged Esther the night before, then Joan had the keys from Mr. Scrib’s brainstorming notebook.”
“Good answers, counselor, but where is your evidence for any of this? Beyond conjecture, hearsay, and a drug addict’s imagination?”
“I have none.” I sat back. “But I’m not going to dismiss Ethan’s warnings. If he is right, there could be more deaths to come. And Mr. Van Dyne may be in mortal danger.”
“Not as long as he’s in the hospital. He’s under safe watch.”
“What happens when he gets out of the hospital and returns to Addy’s building?”
“If and when Van Dyne is well enough, let’s assume he can tell you where his potentially incriminating notebook is, or give a coherent deposition on its contents. Until then—”
“Until then,” I cut in, “Mr. Scrib’s notebook is the key. Once it’s in the hands of the police, this whole thing is over. There won’t be anything more Addy can do. Now I just have to find it…”
Mike drained his cup. “If Ethan’s warnings have validity, then whoever gets that notebook could be in grave danger. So, if you’re going to keep looking, Clare, do me one favor. No, two. And the first one is vital.”
“What is it?”
“Be careful.”
“I can do that. What’s the second?”
“If you do find anything, call me.”