Brutality (4 page)

Fina knocked and pushed the door open to find a small waiting room dominated by a metal desk and a seating area with two chairs. A coffeemaker stood on a trestle table with a mini fridge next to it. There was a fireplace, but rather than crackling flames, a potted plant stood in its hearth. Some people found wood fires messy and too much work, but Fina loved them. There was something sad and bereft about an empty fireplace in the dead of winter.

An open door gave a view into another office where a man sat behind a large wooden desk. Fina tapped on that door before crossing the threshold.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but your secretary seems to be MIA.”

The man looked up at her, small glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. “Shirley’s at the bank. Is there something I can help you with?”

“You can if you’re Thatcher Kinney.”

“I am.”

“I’m your eleven o’clock appointment. Fina Ludlow.”

She crossed the worn Oriental carpet and extended her hand. Thatcher rose partway out of his chair to shake and then gestured for her to sit in one of the wooden chairs in front of his desk. The Roger Williams seal was emblazoned on the back of both. Fina appreciated the school spirit, but doubted there were less comfortable chairs in the world.

“Nice to meet you.”

Fina glanced around the room. The décor was typical single proprietor fare: framed diplomas, nicely matted prints of ducks and outdoor scenes, venetian blinds made homier with curtains. Thatcher’s desk was tidy, with just a couple of piles of folders at the corners. He had a desktop computer that looked like it dated from the late nineties. It spoke volumes about his technical prowess, but maybe some clients found it reassuring; Thatcher Kinney was old-school and wouldn’t be distracted by any newfangled technology.

“Can I offer you some coffee?” he asked, rising from his chair.

“Sure. Cream and sugar, please.”

Thatcher went to the waiting room and returned a minute later with two mugs, one of which he handed to Fina.

“Thanks.”

He took his seat and smoothed down his blue-striped tie before resting his ankle atop the opposite knee. He was wearing khaki pants, a white shirt, and a blue blazer. He looked like he should be attending his private school graduation, not practicing law.

“How can I help you, Ms. Ludlow?”

“Call me Fina, first of all.” She smiled at him. “I’m a private investigator, and Bobbi Barone has hired me to investigate the attack on her daughter Liz. I was hoping you could provide some information.”

“What kind of information?” Thatcher asked. “You must know I’m bound by attorney-client privilege.”

“Of course. I’m not asking you to violate privilege, but if there is anything you can tell me about your work with Liz that might help my investigation, I would appreciate it.”

He sipped his coffee and seemed to contemplate her request. Fina’s calculations had been accurate: Thatcher was probably in his midfifties. He had strawberry blond hair that was cut short, with a hint of wave to it. His skin was freckled, and wrinkles were starting to assert themselves on his forehead and around his eyes.

“Why don’t you tell me what you know,” Thatcher said, “and I’ll fill in the broad strokes where I can.”

“Sure. Liz has been suffering from MCI, possibly a result of her soccer-playing days at NEU, and she wanted to sue the university. Bobbi wonders if the attack is related to the lawsuit.”

Thatcher took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “I wish I had more to add to that, but I don’t.”

“Because of privilege?”

“Because there isn’t much to tell.”

“Well, have you filed a suit yet?” Fina knew the answer to the question already, but she was always interested in hearing things from the horse’s mouth.

“Not yet. I’d reached out to some people at NEU, put out some feelers, but that’s as far as we’ve gotten.”

“How long have you been working the case?”

“A month or so.” Thatcher put his glasses back on.

Fina couldn’t tell if he was dumb or just ignorant, but Bobbi Barone had been right to worry; this guy was completely out of his league.

She sipped her coffee. “If I may ask, what is your practice area?”

“A little of this, a little of that. I’ve had the practice—been in the same office—for twenty-seven years.”

“Imagine that. So does ‘a little of this’ include personal injury cases? Med mal?” Fina asked.

“I’ve had one or two.” Thatcher straightened up in his chair, perhaps deciding that offense should be taken. “My knowledge base is broad. I do some estate planning, real estate transactions, small claims. That sort of thing.”

“Any class action?”

Thatcher studied the space over Fina’s head. “Nope,” he said, shaking his head.

Fina shifted her weight in her seat. “I’m surprised you wanted to represent Liz. Her case seems like a departure from your usual work.”

He adjusted in his chair. “I’ve known Liz’s family for many years, and we have friends in common. They hired me because I’m not a faceless lawyer in some downtown high-rise who’ll bankrupt them. They trust me.”

Not anymore,
Fina thought.

There was a noise out in the waiting room, and a voice carried into the office.

“You would not believe the line at the bank, Thatcher, and then when I finally got to the counter, Rusty Atkins talked my ear off!” A woman stepped into the room. A surprised look crossed her face. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were in a meeting.”

“Not a problem, Shirley. Do you mind pulling the door closed behind you?”

“Of course.” She smiled before stepping out.

“Where were we?” Thatcher asked. He took a long draw of his coffee.

“Is there anyone you can think of who wanted to harm Liz? Either related to the lawsuit or otherwise?”

“Not to my knowledge. It must have been random,” he said. “No one I know would do such a thing.”

Why did people always think that murderers, liars, and thieves were loners with no human contacts? We all knew terrible people; we just didn’t necessarily
know
that they were terrible. This insistence that nobody in one’s universe would do anything wrong belied a real lack of imagination, as well as woeful ignorance. Where did everyone think the bad people were? Marooned on some island in the middle of the ocean, occasionally furloughed to commit bad acts back on the mainland?

“So no one?” Fina asked. “There was no one with whom she had any conflicts?”

Thatcher leaned forward and folded his hands on the desktop. “I don’t know what to tell you, Ms. Ludlow. Do you want me to make something up?” He smiled, but the expression fell short of his eyes.

“Of course not.”

Nobody had
no
conflicts. If they did, they weren’t breathing, which would make any lawsuit moot. A good lawyer ferreted out the conflicts early on, even if they seemed minor. Fina knew that her father and brothers could be ruthless, but when they represented a client, they did due diligence and then some. They didn’t judge or particularly care about their clients’ transgressions, but they understood the best way to represent someone was to make sure there were no secrets or surprises. Being an attorney with high-stakes cases meant you had to ask tough questions; if you didn’t, you could be sure opposing counsel would in open court.

Fina put her coffee cup on the desk and grabbed her bag from the floor. She handed a business card to Thatcher Kinney, who gave her one in return.

“If you think of anything useful, let me know,” she told him.

Thatcher rose and came around his desk. “Come to think of it, Liz did give me some materials that I’m happy to pass along. They’re not of a sensitive nature.”

“Terrific.” Fina wasn’t hopeful. There was nothing promising about Thatcher Kinney.

He opened a file cabinet next to his desk and thumbed through the folders. “Here it is,” he said, pulling out a file folder about an inch thick.

“Do you want to make copies for me?” Fina asked, taking the folder from him.

“Nah. Why don’t you make them when you have a chance and send the originals back to me?”

“Great. Thanks.” A folder of original materials would never make it out of Ludlow and Associates without a comprehensive record of where it was going and with whom. Thatcher wasn’t just practicing law in another town, he was practicing in another decade.

In the waiting room she waved at Shirley, who was on the phone. Shirley smiled and waved back.

Gosh, they were nice.

Everybody knew how far nice got you in the world of personal injury lawsuits.

—

F
ina pulled into a Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru on Route 9 and ordered a hot chocolate and a glazed donut. She was tempted to pull back onto the road and make some calls on her speakerphone, but the prospect of spilling a hot liquid on her lady parts was enough of a deterrent. Instead, she pulled over into a space in the lot and took a sip. Placing the cup in the cup holder, Fina reached into the paper bag and broke off part of the donut. She chewed it slowly, allowing the glazed sugar coating to linger on her tongue for a moment. Man, she loved sugar and fat.

She washed the rest of the donut down with more hot chocolate, then replaced the cup and wiped her hands on a napkin. She made follow-up calls to Bobbi and Jamie, but neither answered, which Fina chalked up to the “no cell phone” rules in the ICU. When leaving messages for them, she tried not to sound too impatient, but she was anxious to conduct more in-depth interviews. Family members were always prime suspects and had the most information about a victim’s other relationships. Many times it was what family members failed to discuss that was most critical; unanswered questions or tactful evasions often pointed Fina in the right direction.

Rather than twiddle her thumbs, she reached into her bag and pulled out the folder that Thatcher Kinney had given her. The top document was a basic intake sheet that he probably gave to all of his clients, requesting personal data like the client’s name, address, spouse, children, place of employment, and any other relevant contact information. Fina glanced over it and shuffled it to the back of the pile. Next was a stack of faded NEU student newspapers. They were all dated from 1994 to 1998. Fina did a cursory examination of each issue, but the only common thread was lengthy articles about the NEU women’s soccer team and accompanying photos. Liz Barone was captioned in a few of the pictures and appeared in some of the group shots.

Beneath the newspapers, there was a sheaf of documents on NEU letterhead. They seemed to be fund-raising appeals, all of them signed by a development officer named Pamela Fordyce. The letters themselves were form letters, standard higher-ed missives begging for money, although a few of them mentioned the women’s athletic program in particular. On the most recent one, someone had scribbled a large question mark and an exclamation point with a black Sharpie.

A question mark alone could be translated as “Huh?” and an exclamation point might be interpreted as “OMG!”

But both?

To Fina, it screamed, “What the hell?”

3.

Bobbi Barone asked to meet her in the hospital cafeteria, which Fina preferred to the ICU. She found Bobbi sitting near a window overlooking Storrow Drive and the river beyond it. The tray in front of her held a turkey sandwich, a dill pickle, an unopened bag of chips, and a can of soda. Contrary to conventional wisdom about institutional cafeterias, the sandwich looked like something you might find in an upscale deli. It was plump with turkey on a brioche-type roll, a leaf of green lettuce peeking out. The tomato slice was the color of salmon, but this was January in New England. One couldn’t expect miracles.

Bobbi’s complexion looked sallow, and her hair was flat.

“I’m sure everyone’s telling you to eat,” Fina said, sitting down across from her with a diet soda, “but it really is important.”

“And I really am trying, but everything tastes like cardboard to me.”

“That’s not surprising. How’s Liz?” Fina popped open the can and took a long drag of soda.

Tears welled in Bobbi’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks. “She’s not good.”

“Bobbi, I’m so sorry.” Fina reached out and squeezed her hand.

“They aren’t going to operate. The doctors think the hematoma is too big and surgery won’t help.”

Fina was silent. It sounded pretty hopeless.

“You know what they told me?” Bobbi asked. “That if Liz had been found sooner, she might have had a better chance at survival. They figure she was on the kitchen floor for an hour or so before Jamie came home, maybe in and out of consciousness.”

“That’s awful.”

“If you get to the ER right away, they can drill a hole or take off part of your skull and relieve the pressure.” She shook her head. “I can’t stand to think about it.”

“There’s nothing I can say that won’t sound trite, but I am truly sorry you and your family are suffering.”

“Well, thank you.” Bobbi took the top off her sandwich and used a fork to pick off some turkey. She put it in her mouth and chewed slowly, then washed it down with some soda. “I realize you only started Saturday, but do you have any news?”

Fina smiled. “Are you kidding? Some of my clients expect the case to be solved in twenty-four hours. A request for an update is perfectly reasonable. I’ve spoken with Detective Menendez and let him know I’m on the case. Obviously, we’ll share information whenever possible.”

Bobbi nodded.

“And I met with Thatcher Kinney this morning,” Fina said.

“Did he have any ideas about who might have done this?”

“No, not really.” He didn’t really have any ideas at all, but Fina didn’t want Bobbi to ruminate about Liz’s choice of attorney. “He gave me some background materials, but it didn’t sound to me like the lawsuit—potential lawsuit—had gotten very far.”

“So how can I help?” Bobbi asked.

“I need some background about your family and any information you can give me about Liz’s friends, contacts, that sort of thing.” Fina pulled her notebook out of her bag. “I don’t want you to feel you’re being cross-examined, but sometimes, when you’re tired, it’s easier to answer questions than provide general information.”