The Ex Read online

  Dedication

  For Lish Whitson and Joel Summerlin

  Contents

  Dedication

  Transcript

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Alafair Burke

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Transcript

  June 17, 2015

  TRANSCRIPT OF RECORDED

  INTERVIEW WITH JACKSON HARRIS

  10:27 AM—recording starts

  NYPD DET. JIMMY BOYLE

  Boyle: Okay, I’ve turned on the machine, Mr. Harris. Just to make clear, are you here at the First Precinct voluntarily?

  Harris: Yes.

  Boyle: And you’re willing to speak to me of your own accord?

  Harris: Sure.

  Boyle: Terrific. As you know, we’re tracking down folks who were at the waterfront this morning. We’ve spoken already, but if we could just get it down on tape real quick since we’re talking to so many people. Can you tell me in your own words when and why you were there?

  Harris: Sure. About seven AM. I was meeting a woman named Madeline.

  Boyle: And you don’t know Madeline’s last name or phone number.

  Harris: No, just her e-mail address.

  Boyle: You said you’d only seen her in person once, at the Christopher Street Pier two Saturdays ago. Pretty girl, huh?

  Harris: Sure.

  Boyle: But you said it was more than that. You said it was “surreal”—I think that was your word?

  Harris: You need this part?

  Boyle: The more detail, the better chance we have at identifying her. Since she was meeting you, she may have been in the area, too.

  Harris: Okay, yeah. I was on my morning run, and I see this woman in a party dress, sort of a pale pink color, strapless. But she’s sitting right on the damp grass. The sun was just beginning to rise. And she’s barefoot, drinking champagne straight out of the bottle. Yes, the whole thing was sort of surreal.

  Boyle: And you mentioned a basket?

  Harris: She had some kind of package on the ground next to her. When I got closer, I could see it was a picnic basket. I think she noticed me looking at her, because she held up her bottle like a toast when I ran by. Oh, and she was reading.

  Boyle: And you said it was the book that really intrigued you.

  Harris: Well, I’m a writer. So a beautiful woman in last night’s dress, drinking champagne, with a book. What’s not to like?

  Boyle: But you didn’t actually talk to her?

  Harris: Oh, God, no. But then I mentioned this woman to a friend.

  Boyle: Charlotte Caperton?

  Harris: Yeah. I should’ve known she wouldn’t let it drop. Charlotte’s kind of a busybody when it comes to running my life. Anyway, she’s the publisher of this website, like an online magazine all about the city. It’s called the Room.

  Boyle: Oh sure. Can’t call yourself a New Yorker and not know about the Room.

  Harris: So the next thing I know, Charlotte’s posting a missed-moment article online.

  Boyle: And that’s one of those “I saw you on the 6 train” kind of things, right?

  Harris: Or in my case, “I was the out-of-breath middle-aged jogger who saw you on the pier.” But Charlotte made it sound less pathetic.

  Boyle: And is that normal? Does your friend write personal ads every time you see a pretty woman?

  Harris: There’s no every time in my case. My wife—well, she’s gone, and there hasn’t been anyone else. I’ve got a teenage daughter. I’m not exactly a player. So, yeah, Charlotte figured it was a big deal that I even mentioned this woman. That maybe I was finally ready, whatever that means. Anyway, I guess a lot of people read the Room, because a few days later, this woman Madeline responded to the post. Turns out the book she was reading was one of my favorite novels. We started e-mailing back and forth, and last night, she proposed that we meet in person. I feel bad taking your time with this corny story given what’s at stake.

  Boyle: I guess I’m curious. I’m single myself. The whole OkCupid, Match, Tinder game. And you’ve got to admit, this is pretty—

  Harris: Incredible, I know.

  Boyle: And you mentioned you also had a basket with you this morning at the waterfront?

  Harris: Really, I’m not sure why we need to get into this. It’s a little embarrassing.

  Boyle: Look, our conversation here is just one tiny part of figuring out who was where and when. So, you know, if another witness mentions seeing a man with a basket, we’ll know—yeah, that was Jack Harris. Onward.

  Harris: Sure, okay. Yes, Madeline’s e-mail said, you bring the picnic basket, I’ll bring the champagne. So that’s why.

  Boyle: And explain to me again why you were supposed to meet at the football field. Seems like the meet-up spot would be Christopher Street Pier where you first saw her in the grass. It’s only a couple of blocks away.

  Harris: She suggested the sports field. There’s a scene in the book I mentioned that’s set there. Meet at chapter twelve—sort of a puzzle.

  Boyle: Sounds complicated. And then after all that, she didn’t show up?

  Harris: Not that I saw. When I got there, a few people were milling around, but no one who seemed to be looking for me. I left when it started to pour.

  Boyle: Did you e-mail her asking where she was?

  Harris: No. Not yet, at least.

  Boyle: If it were me, I’d want an explanation after such a dramatic lead-in.

  Harris: It’s like reality set in with the rain. The whole thing seemed silly.

  Boyle: What happened to the basket?

  Harris: I left it outside the field with a note.

  Boyle: I see. Where outside the field?

  Harris: On a bench on the path leading to the street. I figured she’d see it if she showed up later.

  Boyle: What exactly was in the basket?

  Harris: Wow, you really want the details. Um, a few croissants and some grapes. And the note.

  Boyle: Where’d you get the paper for the note?

  Harris: I always have a reporter’s pad in my pocket. Tools of the trade, I guess.

  Boyle: When did you hear the shots?

  Harris: I didn’t know they were shots until later, when I got home and heard the news. Other people around me—we were all wondering what the sounds were. Like firecrackers. They seemed distant, so it was hard to tell.

  Boyle: Okay, but where were you when you heard them?

  Harris: Charles Street. On the opposite side of the West Side Highway. I’m surprised the sound carried so far.

  Boyle: Believe it or not, they’ve got acoustic sensors that can pick up gunfire two miles away. So, just to sum up, there’s no reason you went to the football field other than to meet this Madeline woman?

  Harris: No.

  Boyle: You don’t know anyone else who would’ve been at the field this morning?

  Harris: No. Other than Madeline, of course. I can give you her e-mail address.

  Boyle: Okay, so it’s just a coincidence that Malcolm Neeley was one of the shooting victim
s?

  Harris: I’m sorry. What—

  Boyle: You know the name, right? Of course you do. Malcolm Neeley was one of three people shot this morning at the football field, just yards from you and your little picnic basket. Care to explain that, Mr. Harris?

  Harris: Wait, that doesn’t make sense.

  Boyle: You said yourself: The story sounded a little surreal. You even said “incredible” at one point.

  Harris: You don’t . . . you can’t possibly think I did this. [No response]

  Harris: I need a minute to think.

  10:36 AM—recording stopped

  Chapter 1

  WHITE NOISE IS magic, right up there with tinfoil and Bluetooth and Nespresso pods. White noise makes the sounds of the city disappear. The horns, garbage trucks, and sirens all vanish with the touch of an app on my iPhone. When white noise fills my room, I can be anywhere, which means I’m nowhere, which is the only way I can sleep.

  And then the phone rings.

  RELYING ON MUSCLE MEMORY, I managed to answer without opening my eyes because I knew the room would be filled with light I was not ready to face. “Olivia Randall.”

  “Hey.”

  I knew from the voice that it was Einer, our assistant-slash-investigator. A deeper voice behind me murmured something about what time it was, and I felt a heavy forearm drape across my hip. I rolled forward to face my nightstand, away from the voice in my bed. “Hey,” I said in response.

  “Don thinks you’re taking the morning off because of Mindy,” Einer said. “He says you’re resting on your laurels, but I think he’s jealous of all the attention.”

  I forced myself to open my eyes. The clock in front of me told me that it was 11:17 AM, nearly halfway through a normal person’s workday.

  Next to the clock was a half-empty bottle of grappa. Grappa? The odd shape of the bottle triggered a memory: a client—referred by a law school friend who, unlike me, made partner at Preston & Cartwright—handing me a bottle, inexplicably shaped like the Eiffel Tower, to thank me for getting a glove compartment full of parking tickets dismissed in one fell swoop. I told him that a tip wasn’t necessary, but he missed the hint that it was insulting. Into the kitchen cabinet went the bottle. And then another memory: the forearm across my hip reaching into the cabinet last night: “Grappa! I love grappa.”

  I forced myself to focus on Einer’s words. Morning off because of Mindy. Right: Mindy, the twenty-four-year-old former child starlet I saved from prison yesterday by suppressing the cocaine that had been found in her impounded Porsche while she was collecting a ten-thousand-dollar club-promotion fee in the Meatpacking District.

  My fee was more.

  “Tell Don I have no laurels to rest on,” I said, leaning back against the padded headboard of my bed. Don’s my law partner. He’s also my mentor, plus an honorary dad or an uncle or something. Most important, right now he was probably wondering where I was. I could still hear the white noise, even though the app was closed now, as I wracked my brain for a credible story I hadn’t used recently. “A client from a couple of years ago called early this morning. His son got picked up on a DUI coming home from a house party in Brooklyn. He thought he had slept it off but was still drunk from the night before.” The voice next to me muttered, “He’s not the only one.”

  “It took a little longer than I thought to keep him from getting booked.”

  “Good, I think Don will be happy to know you’re not in the neighborhood. He won’t admit it, but that old softie worries about you like crazy.”

  I didn’t get the connection between the two sentences, but here’s the thing about being a liar: you develop an instinct for when you’ve missed a step and need to fake it. “No cause for worry,” I said. “You weren’t calling to check on me, were you?”

  “No, there’s some kid who keeps calling. Won’t leave a name. He or she or whatever is threatening to come to the office if you don’t call back. And when it comes to kids, that’s a serious threat by my standards.”

  “Nice to know we’ve got an iron spine at the front desk, Einer. Just give me the number. And tell Don not to worry. Just a stupid DUI.”

  I opened my nightstand and pulled out a pen and one of the many notebooks I always keep nearby.

  I had half the number entered in my phone when I felt the hand at the end of the forearm across my hip beginning to explore. Really?

  I threw back the blankets, rolled out of bed, and started gathering items of clothing from the floor. “It’s late. Your wife’s flight lands in an hour.”

  THE PHONE RANG ONLY ONCE.

  “Hello?” The voice was eager. Clear, but low. I could tell why Einer had been uncertain about gender. Probably female. Not a little kid, not a woman.

  “This is Olivia Randall. You called my office?”

  “Yeah. I’m worried about my dad. He’s not answering his phone or his texts.”

  Great. Had we reached the point where kids call lawyers the second their helicopter parents go incommunicado? I was tempted to hang up, but if I did, with my luck, her father would turn out to be someone important.

  “I’m sure your father probably just stepped out for a little while, okay?”

  “No, you don’t understand. The police were here. He left with them. He said everything was fine, but then the police returned, like, immediately.” My mind wandered back to Einer’s comment about Don being relieved to hear I wasn’t near the office. “They had the super with them, and they knocked on the door and told me I needed to leave the apartment.”

  “Did they say why?” I asked, beginning to strip the sheets with my free hand.

  “No, but I asked them if I was under arrest. They said no, and then they started being nice to me, calling me sweetie and stuff—asking if they could contact a family member for me to stay with or something. So at that point, I stopped asking questions and told them I had debate team practice and was supposed to spend the night with my aunt.”

  “So you’re calling from your aunt’s house?” This conversation was starting to make my head hurt. Everything was making my head hurt.

  “No, I don’t even have an aunt. But I figured I could do more on my own than if they put me in a foster home or something.”

  “So you’re in foster care?” I tossed the top sheet onto the floor of my closet.

  The girl on the other end of the line made a growling sound. “Oh my God. The police were here talking to my father. Now he’s gone. And there are cops at our apartment who basically kicked me out. I’m pretty sure they have my dad for some reason. In which case, I don’t have anywhere to go, in which case they might throw my ass in foster care. So I made up an aunt and called you instead.”

  If I had to guess, the girl’s father had probably been arrested, and she spotted my name in the euphoric tweets from my latest celebrity client, Mindy Monaghan. I started into my usual blow-off speech, about how I wasn’t taking new clients, etcetera. She responded by demanding that I get down to the First Precinct to help her father.

  “How do you know he’s at the First Precinct?”

  “I don’t, not for sure. But the police cars parked outside our building have a one painted on the side of them.”

  Bingo. That would be the precinct number. “I can e-mail you a list of referrals—”

  “No, you have to help him. It’s the least you can do after the way you treated him.”

  “You’re saying I know your father?” Too many clients think that just because you represent them for one thing, you’re their lawyer for life.

  “My name is Buckley Harris. My father’s Jack Harris.”

  JACK HARRIS. THE NAME HIT me in the gut so hard that I tasted last night’s grappa at the back of my throat.

  Her voice pushed away the competing thoughts—images from the past—working their way into my consciousness. “I heard them talking about gunshots or something. So I assumed it was about my mom. And then I saw the news online, so now I’m totally paranoid, thinking it has something to d
o with that.”

  After what had happened to her mother, I wouldn’t blame the girl for being paranoid. But, once again, I wasn’t getting the connection between one sentence and the next. What news?

  “I’ll go to the First Precinct and find out what’s going on. Do you have somewhere to go in the meantime?” It was June. Were kids still in school? I had no idea.

  “I’m headed to Charlotte’s now.”

  Now there was a name I hadn’t heard in a very long time.

  The second I hung up, I made my way to the living room. My briefcase was on the sofa, exactly where I had let it drop while Ryan was pulling off my suit jacket last night.

  I slid out my laptop, opened it, and Googled “New York City gunshots.”

  Someone had opened fire this morning on the Hudson Parkway. The number of injuries and fatalities was unclear. And my ex-fiancé, Jack Harris, might or might not be at the First Precinct for reasons that might or might not have something to do with it.

  AS I APPROACHED THE FRONT desk at the First Precinct, a uniform nudged his buddy, followed by a quick whisper. Maybe they recognized me, either as a relatively successful defense attorney or perhaps from precinct gossip. (Though I was by no means what the cops would call a “Badge Bunny,” you can’t spend ten years on the criminal court scene as a single woman without a thing or two happening.)

  Or, more likely, I had the look of someone who didn’t belong in a police station. To any half-decent police officer, it would be apparent from my tailored suit and expensive shoes that I was either a prosecutor or a defense lawyer or a reporter or a high-maintenance victim: trouble whatever the story.

  At forty-three, I knew by now that my natural expression when I was thinking—intense, brow furrowed, lips pursed—could be intimidating to most people. The Internet called it RBF: Resting Bitch Face. And, no question, I had it. But lucky for me, I also know how to turn that frown upside down. First impressions, as my mother always warned me.

  “Hi.” As I gave the huddle of officers my best smile, I felt my hungover skin yearning for hydration. I told them I was looking for a Jack Harris.

  I hoped for blank stares. Instead, the desk sergeant asked if I was Harris’s lawyer. I held the smile.