Intent to Kill (26 page)

“
I FEEL LIKE SMASHING CONNIE’S FACE IN
,”
SAID IVAN.

Ryan was dressed in street clothes and seated on a padded bench press watching Ivan peel off sit-ups on the floor mat. The before-work exercise crowd had already showered and left the gym for downtown office buildings. Ryan and Ivan practically had the place to themselves. He’d told Ivan everything, ending with the discovery that “a nicer nose ring” was an anagram for “Connie Garrisen.”

Ivan sat up and toweled off his sweaty face. “Really,” he said. “I could hurt him. Bad.”

“Don’t go there,” said Ryan.

“What are you going to do?”

“Emma Carlisle is still the prosecutor overseeing the investigation.”

“So?”

“She’s working out a strategy as we speak.”

“So?”

“I promised Emma I wouldn’t take matters into my own hands.”

“So?”

“Stop looking at me like that. And why do you keep saying ‘so’?”

Ivan rose and went to the rack of free weights. “Blame it on my Dominican blood,” he said as he grasped the fifty-pound dumbbell, “but I don’t care what you promised Emma. I’m asking the question you need to ask yourself, dude.”

“Which is what?”

Ivan pumped the weight up over his head, speaking to Ryan’s reflection in the mirrored wall. “What’d you promise Chelsea?”

Brandon Lomax drove himself to Louisburg Square—to Connie and Glenda Garrisen’s house on the Hill.

The Beacon Hill neighborhood was Boston of another age. Traffic thinned out, streets narrowed, and even though downtown was just a short walk away, city noises faded. Aside from the vehicles parked along the street, the feel was of a nineteenth-century village of redbrick houses, cobblestone squares, hidden gardens, and graceful bay windows. Flower boxes brimmed with color. A canopy of elms shaded the sidewalks on sunny days, and gas lamps lit the way by night. The tidy rows of Federal houses were by no means ostentatious displays of wealth—their original Brahmin owners were known for their self-restraint, even if they did hire Bulfinch to design them—but no other Boston neighborhood had quite the heritage and pedigree of Beacon Hill. Henry James clearly went too far in calling it “the only respectable street in America,” but it was impossible to stroll down Mount Vernon Street and not imagine yourself passing Oliver Wendell Holmes or Louisa May Alcott, or perhaps even tripping over Edgar Allan Poe after he’d been thrown out of a party for drunkenness. It was a virtual time warp for any visitor.

For Brandon Lomax, it was also a chance to roll back the clock, even if it was just three years.

“I need answers,” said Lomax.

From his car, Lomax had phoned Garrisen at the hospital and told him that they needed to meet in absolute privacy. Lomax didn’t trust the hospital walls. The Garrisens lived about a quarter mile from Massachusetts General—Connie Garrisen was hardly the first chief of staff to reside on Beacon Hill—and Glenda Garrisen was at work in Providence. The two men were alone in the Garrisens’ walnut-paneled study, where in days gone by they had killed off countless bottles of expensive scotch.

“What’s with the hostile tone?” said Garrisen.

“It has finally come back to me. Three years ago. The night of Chelsea James’s accident.”

Garrisen showed little expression, but the silence was telling enough.

Lomax said, “I saw your housekeeper this morning.”

“Are you referring to Claricia?”

“She was at Ryan James’s house. And when I saw her, it was like a light going on. I remembered how you and Claricia rescued me from my own drunkenness, pulled me out from behind the steering wheel, and laid me in the backseat of my car. I also recalled you two arguing with each other the whole time. You told her to drive your car back to Beacon Hill because you were going to drive me to Providence. She was furious with you. Do you remember what she said?”

Garrisen did not respond.

“She said, ‘Sir, you have too much drink in you to drive.’”

“Well, you did,” said Garrisen.

“Don’t mess with me. At the time, I thought she
was
talking about me. But now I know she meant you.”

“Me?”

“Yes.
You
had been drinking, too. But you drove me back to Providence anyway.”

“Then how did your car end up in your own driveway the next morning?”

Lomax flashed a confident smile. “How did you
know
my car was in the driveway the next morning?”

“I just assumed—”

“No, you knew because you parked it there. You drove me home in my car and then took a taxi. But something terrible must have happened while you were driving to Providence.”

Garrisen’s eyes narrowed. “Are you accusing me of killing Chelsea James?”

Lomax drew on every bit of his prosecutorial experience and kicked into his cross-examination mode.

“When did you first hear about the anonymous tip to Emma Carlisle?”

“When the media reported it. Same as everyone else.”

Lomax chuckled. “I don’t think so. The press release was very general.”

“So was my knowledge.”

“Hardly. You’re married to the chief of the Criminal Division, so I’m guessing that you were one of a privileged few who knew that the tip came in the form of an old newspaper clipping. You knew about the underlined words and the number code that the tipster used to construct his message. And when you learned what it said—‘I know who did it’—you panicked.”

“Why would I panic?”

“Because you were afraid that the tipster was about to identify
you
as the driver who ran Chelsea off the road.”

“Have you been drinking again, Brandon?”

“No,” Lomax said. “I’m thinking very clearly now. It was
you
who adopted the tipster’s style and sent Emma my photograph with the second coded message: ‘It’s him.’”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You sent the anonymous e-mail message identifying me as the drunk who vomited at the scene. You knew all those details, because it was actually you who threw up, not me.”

“Right,” said Garrisen. “And I suppose it was me who destroyed the DNA evidence as well.”

Lomax paused, not yet having thought through that part. “It’s only logical that the suspect would be required to submit a DNA sample for comparison once he was identified. Awfully convenient that the three-year-old DNA sample disappeared just as a cold case started to heat up around you. Did Glenda help you with that?”

“Don’t drag my wife into this.”

“You’re right. That was unfair. DNA evidence is maintained by the Department of Health. You’re chief of staff at Mass General. Maybe you had your own way of making it disappear.”

Garrisen’s face was turning red, but he took a deep breath to calm himself. “Even if I were the drunk driver, there was never any reason for me to implicate one of my friends to hide my own guilt.”

“I was an easy target, though, wasn’t I? The press would be eager to nail a guy like me, someone with an even bigger public profile than yours. And you knew I had no alibi for the night of the crash, because I was passed out in the backseat of the car while you were driving.”

“A friend doesn’t do that to another friend.”

“Spare me the friendship angle,” said Lomax. “I’m not buying it. Nobody wants to go to jail for vehicular homicide—especially not the chief of staff at the most storied hospital in the world, the man who has aspirations of being the next U.S. surgeon general. Desperate men do desperate things.”

The two men locked eyes, but it was Garrisen who spoke first.

“For the sake of argument, let’s say it’s true: I pointed the finger at my friend Brandon Lomax, the former attorney general, before Chelsea’s brother could point the finger at me, who happens to be married to Glenda Garrisen, the current chief of the Criminal Division. Wouldn’t that be the perfect way to discredit the anonymous tipster?”

“What are you talking about?”

Garrisen smiled wryly, obviously trying to take some of the edge off of Lomax’s anger. “Anyone who looked at your theory objectively would say it was never Connie Garrisen’s intent to peg Brandon Lomax as the driver.”

“Your tips named
me.
”

“Only to paint the real tipster as a liar with a vendetta against the attorney general’s office. Maybe the angry relative of a convicted defendant. Or perhaps someone like Babes, who thought the prosecutors had let down the victim’s family. In any event,
someone
who acted on a grudge by leveling false accusations first against the former attorney general and then against Glenda Garrisen’s husband. Anyone with such an obvious ax to grind and such a propensity for changing his story would have absolutely zero credibility. No one would ever believe that
either
Brandon Lomax or Connie Garrisen was involved.”

Lomax watched him closely, and then his gaze slowly swept the room. The Garrisens’ old study held plenty of memories, including a recent fund-raiser that produced some of the wealthiest out-of-state contributors to the Lomax Senate campaign.

“You’re expecting an awful lot from a friend,” said Lomax. “Chelsea James’s family has suffered, and you’re asking me to cover up a crime.”

Garrisen flashed a thin smile. “I’m not just doing this for me.”

“Meaning what?”

Garrisen leaned closer to underscore the importance of his words. “You can count on the fact that no one will ever know how you staggered out of that Southie bar. And all that mumbling in the backseat about being up to your eyeballs in gambling debts to the Irish Mafia? Well, that secret is safe with me, too.”

The threat was hardly subtle.

Garrisen settled into his high-back leather desk chair, rocking steadily, his confidence growing. “I’d offer a toast, but I know you don’t drink anymore.”

Part of him wanted to accept the offer just so he could throw the scotch in Garrisen’s face. It was the same feeling that had swelled up inside him three years ago, when those thugs insulted Lomax’s daughter and told him to cough up the money. Back then, however, he didn’t get to throw anything in anyone’s face. He simply drove back to South Boston the next day and handed over the deed to his sailboat—his pride and joy—to cover the gambling debt. This time, it was Garrisen—his so-called friend—who was trying to force reality upon him.

“One thing I don’t understand,” said Lomax. “To drive to my house from Boston, you wouldn’t get off the interstate until the second Providence exit. But the accident happened in Pawtucket.”

“I exited early. I needed to talk to Chelsea.”

“Before the game?”

Garrisen’s expression turned very serious. “Before the bitch destroyed me.”

The answer surprised Lomax. That kind of candor told him that Garrisen’s confidence was at an all-time high, that his grip on Lomax was even more secure than Lomax himself realized.

“Why would Chelsea have wanted to hurt you?”

Garrisen leaned forward, as if he were about to reveal the world’s best-kept secret. And then he told him.

RYAN WAS FEELING SMALL.

The Brookline Academy kindergarteners were in “movement” hour, a fancy-pants term for some combination of physical education, dance, and recess. Ryan was alone with Sloan Walsh in the classroom, seated in wood chairs that were designed for five-year-olds and Lilliputians. Chelsea used to enjoy helping her best friend decorate the preschool classroom, and Ryan could have sworn that some of Chelsea’s touches were still there. Finger-painted self-portraits adorned one wall. A collage of autumn-colored paper leaves covered another. Handmade Styrofoam stars and planets dangled from the ceiling, and at the center of it all was the sun, reminding Ryan of the good advice his daughter had (in her own innocent way) imparted: the answer is closer than you think.

“I’m guessing you didn’t come here to chat about Ainsley,” said Sloan.

Ryan had always liked Sloan, and last year, when she was Ainsley’s teacher, the way she’d stood up to overly competitive parents had cemented Ryan’s respect for her. Birthday celebrations were evolving into a can-you-top-this phenomenon in which parents converted the classroom into shrines to their children. After one mother showed up with live swans, potted palm trees, and a professional event coordinator reminiscent of Martin Short in
Father of the Bride
, Sloan made it her mission to help the headmaster reestablish the kind of preschool environment that Chelsea would have wanted for Ainsley.

“It’s about Connie Garrisen,” said Ryan. “You and I have talked many times about the day Chelsea died, and lately, I’ve had this growing sense that there is something you haven’t told me.”

Sloan crossed her legs and folded her arms. It didn’t take a degree in psychology to see the defensiveness in her posture. “About Dr. Garrisen?”

“Yeah,” said Ryan. “Specifically, about the meeting he had with Chelsea before she died. I was talking with Rachel yesterday, and she mentioned that meeting again—how upset Chelsea was when she came home.” Ryan glanced at the Styrofoam sun hanging from the ceiling like a disco ball. He was so close to the truth he could feel it. “You were Chelsea’s best friend. And I…”

Ryan was suddenly having difficulty.

“It’s okay,” said Sloan. She broke out of her defensive posture, leaned forward, and touched him on the forearm. But Ryan noticed that her hand was shaking.

“We’re friends,” she said. “Go on.”

Ryan looked her in the eye. “I think you know what I’m saying. Something happened that night before Chelsea left Brookline Academy. I
need
to know what.”

“It’s no secret. That was the afternoon Dr. Garrisen met with the entire faculty and announced that tuition remission was being eliminated. No more free rides for children of faculty members. People weren’t happy.”

Ryan’s gaze intensified. He could even hear it in Sloan’s voice now—she was holding something back. “I mean after the meeting,” said Ryan. “I think something happened
after
that meeting.”

She returned his gaze, but Ryan could see her coming around. It was almost as if she wanted to tell him—had wanted to tell him for a long time—but he had never pushed hard enough before.

“Chelsea was really upset about losing free tuition. Ainsley was only a year away from enrolling in the three-year-olds program, and Chelsea planned to teach until she got her law degree and passed the bar exam. That was three, maybe four years of private education for Ainsley, tax free. That’s almost a six-figure benefit. You know all this. Without remission, there was no way Ainsley could go to school here.”

“Did she say that at the meeting?”

“Nobody but Dr. Garrisen spoke at the meeting. It was an announcement, not a discussion. Chelsea and I talked afterward. She told me that she was going to go to Dr. Garrisen and make a plea of hardship.”

“So did she meet with him? That afternoon, I mean?”

Sloan swallowed hard. “I told her that it wasn’t a good idea.”

“Why?”

“I just knew that Dr. Garrisen would misconstrue her message.”

“I don’t follow,” said Ryan.

Sloan averted her eyes, clearly struggling. “Chelsea seemed too desperate, as if she was willing to do anything to get Ainsley into the school.”

“What do you mean, ‘anything’?”

“I mean that Dr. Garrisen might see…an opportunity.”

“You thought he would come on to her?”

“You can just tell about certain men.”

Ryan felt his anger rising. “So did he hit on Chelsea?”

Sloan shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. He never got the chance.”

“What do you mean?”

Sloan breathed in and out. “Chelsea went back to the administrative offices to see him. He doesn’t have an office there—he’s a trustee, not an administrator—but whenever he’s on campus, he makes a point of checking out the administrative side of things. It was after hours, so it was like a ghost town back there, but Chelsea knew he was there somewhere. She tried the headmaster’s office, the assistant headmaster. No one was there. Then she tried the visiting professor’s office.”

“And?”

“The door was closed. Chelsea was about to knock when it suddenly opened. A student wearing one of our high school uniforms walked out. A girl.”

“From the visiting professor’s office?”

Sloan nodded. “Chelsea didn’t really see anything explicit. It was more a feeling she got. It started with the look on the girl’s face. At first she was shocked to see Chelsea. Then it turned into this silly expression that schoolgirls get when they’ve been naughty, if you know what I mean.”

“Who was inside the office?” said Ryan—he wanted to hear it from Sloan’s mouth.

“Dr. Garrisen,” she said quietly. “And the lights were dimmed.”

Ryan was more confused than stunned. “How would he get to know a student well enough to hit on her?”

“He’s never been your usual trustee. Dr. Garrisen volunteers as a guest lecturer in our high-school honors-science classes. The kids love him. He’s very willing to work one on one with students who show an interest in medicine. For lack of a better term, he’s very hands-on, very accessible.”

Most pedophiles are
, thought Ryan, and he was suddenly feeling ill. “What did Chelsea do?”

“She stood in the open doorway, looking at Garrisen, at a total loss for words. I guess she got flustered and left.”

“She didn’t say anything to Connie?”

“Not at that time. She caught up with me and told me everything. She was in a state of disbelief, not really sure if she had seen what she thought she had seen. But from what Chelsea saw, the expression on Dr. Garrisen’s face was even more incriminating than the girl’s.”

“Chelsea may not have caught them in the act, but it sounds like there wasn’t much doubt about what was going on,” Ryan said.

“Still, the evidence was pretty thin.”

“At the very least, legitimate questions come to mind when the chairman of the board and a high-school student are found inside the visiting professor’s office after hours with the lights dimmed. Any school with a legal compliance program would be obligated to investigate the matter. And once Chelsea was able to identify the girl by name, chances are she would confess. Garrisen would stand to lose everything.”

“I’m sure Chelsea realized that. But without a smoking gun, I know she was conflicted.”

“How?”

“As you well know, the man also owns the PawSox. Naturally, Chelsea feared that would be the end of your career.”

“So did she tell Garrisen that she was going to report him or not?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Think hard, Sloan.”

“I think so. Most likely yes. That’s probably why she was still so upset when she got home to Pawtucket.”

The big picture was suddenly becoming clear. Ryan rose from his little chair and said, “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?”

“After Chelsea died, I didn’t see the point.”

“The man was having sex with a high-school student. A teenager.”

“But I had no idea who the girl was,” said Sloan. “Chelsea didn’t tell me her name. I’m sure Chelsea didn’t know it. Over three hundred girls are enrolled in our high school, and they all wear the same uniform. What was I supposed to do—tell our legal counsel that Chelsea may have seen something suspicious before she died and that every girl in the high school should be interviewed to see if she’s ever had sex with Dr. Garrisen? People would say I was starting a witch hunt.”

Ryan didn’t like the answer, but he did see her point.

“Believe me,” said Sloan, “I kept my eyes and ears open. If Dr. Garrisen was going to step out of line again, I wanted to be the one to nail him.”

“Well, now you can leave that to me.”

Ryan began to pace, the pieces of the puzzle finally coming together. The turning point had been Chelsea telling Garrisen that she was going to contact legal counsel. Garrisen saw his world crumbling—fired from the Board of Trustees at Boston’s most prestigious academy, relieved of duty as chief of staff at Mass General, and probably facing a divorce. Possibly even statutory rape charges if the girl was under the age of consent. Possibly even
rape
charges if he’d used his position of power to coerce her consent.

“The guy must have freaked,” said Ryan, speaking to himself, completely unaware of how confusing his words were to Sloan.

Ryan was deep in thought, and in his mind’s eye he could see Garrisen steadying his nerves with a scotch or several, trying to figure out how to stop Chelsea. What other choice did the man have? He drove to Pawtucket to make one last desperate attempt to persuade her to keep the matter quiet. Before reaching the house, he saw her car approaching and ran her off the road. Maybe it was intentional. Maybe he was trying to flag her down and get her to stop and talk to him. Either way, at the crash site he found a badly injured Chelsea with her cell phone in her hand. As a renowned medical doctor, he must have understood that Chelsea would die if she did not get immediate medical attention. He took her phone—and in a very bad state of mind, out of fear of losing everything he had worked his entire life to achieve, he made a terrible decision: instead of dialing 911, he stuffed her phone in his pocket and left her there to die.

“Ryan, are you okay?”

He stopped pacing, oblivious to the path of anger he’d nearly scorched onto the classroom floor. “I’m fine,” he said. “But I really have to go now.”

“Where?” she said.

In the back of his mind echoed Ivan’s words:
What did you promise Chelsea?

“There’s something I need to do,” he said.