Kristmas Collins (15 page)

“So he hasn’t been arrested?”

“Not yet.”

It seemed that Alex had mixed up the legal terms, which gave me hope that one of our children would break the bad family history of becoming lawyers.

Libby looked to her client, who was sitting stoically at a metal table. “What really happened, Zee?”

I could tell that he’d completely shut down—he wasn’t talking to anybody. Libby knew the drill, and asked for a piece of paper and a pen. When she was obliged, Zee wrote down his account. Not only did he explain his side of the story, but he counter-charged that the FBI had stolen his necklace.

Libby again glared at Falcone. “Why did you take his necklace?”

“We had to be sure it wasn’t the stolen item.”

“I can assure you it’s not, now please return it to my client.”

“He’ll get it back when we’re done here.”

“No, you’ll give it back now, or we
are
done.”

We all knew how sacred that necklace was to Zee. Falcone finally figured out that it was a deal-killer and relented. But before he handed it over, he made another error … he opened the locket.

His face crinkled in surprise. “You keep a photo of the family you were accused of murdering? You’re not hooked up right, Thomas.”

Libby grabbed the locket away from Falcone and handed it back to Zee, which seemed to calm him.

But Falcone wouldn’t let up, “I guess it shouldn’t surprise me—breaking into homes seems to be your thing. I guess it’s a good thing that it was only a necklace this time.”

“So does the FBI normally investigate local thefts?” Libby asked.

“We have reason to believe that this case might be connected to another one we’re investigating.”

“What you don’t have is a shred of evidence that my client took a necklace from the Reed house. And for the record, he didn’t break in, he was invited in.”

The similarities from our earlier confrontation popped into my head, but since I was suspended I decided to keep my mouth shut.

Falcone leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples. He appeared to be tired of the gamesmanship. “Don’t you find it interesting that the Reeds are a Kerstman family? The ones who had their money stolen by your glorified assistant over there.” He pointed at me. “And his best friend just happens to end up inside their house, and accused of stealing. This is all connected, and you know it, Collins.”

Libby was also my lawyer, and spoke for me, “Many Kerstman families were hurt financially. How do you know that once Mrs. Reed found out that her son had brought Zee Thomas home, she didn’t devise a plan to help their financial situation?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“No, you’re making a desperate attempt to connect me to some grand conspiracy, and you’re holding my friend on some bullshit charge as leverage,” I chimed in, and Libby didn’t look happy about it. A chatty client is the worst kind.

“I’m glad you’ve got your energy back after your apparent illness this morning,” he retorted, and as a friendly reminder that they were following me, he added, “They must have some magical cures up in Vermont.”

“I smoked some pot with a bunch of elves. I’m surprised you couldn’t get Boersch in, he did such an elfy good job at the Wainwright party.”

“The smell had already given you away,” Boersch asserted.

Libby nodded. “He’s right, you do smell like marijuana, Kris.”

If she was the one representing me, I’d hate to see the lawyer who was against me.

“Which puts you in violation of your parole, Collins,” Falcone said.

“Don’t answer that,” my lawyer said, back on my side.

I chose not to take her advice. “I would love to go back to jail—it would keep me safe from the FBI. But to clear things up, I’d be willing to take a drug test right here, right now. All I need is the cup to pee into.” I grabbed his coffee mug and began to unzip my pants.

“Kris!” Libby called out. Her look said:
if you thought the kick to the ribs was painful, wait until I kick the next thing that comes out of your pants.

A knock on the door saved me. A Tarrytown police officer entered. He brought with him a man about my age and a young boy.

“This is Stu Reed, and I think he can shed some light on this situation,” the police officer stated.

Mr. Reed cleared his throat and said, “Our family has gone through some tough financial times the last few years. So I’m the one who took my wife’s necklace—I sold it to make the mortgage payment this month. I never told her, which is why she assumed that Zee Thomas was responsible for it being gone.”

He looked like a beaten man, as did Falcone.

Mr. Reed looked at Zee. “I’m sorry about all of this—I’ve always been a big fan of yours, and Bailey told me about signing the glove … I appreciate it. Can I do anything to make it up to you?”

“Yes,” Zee surprisingly spoke up. “I want you to use that glove to have a catch with your son every morning before he goes to school.”

The pounding on her bedroom door startled Hope Roberts awake. Before she had a chance to respond her mother had barged in with her angry face, waving a piece of paper at her.

“What is this!?”

“Oh, crap,” Hope muttered. She’d left the flyer for the
Candy Stripers
audition on the kitchen table.

“Don’t oh crap me—answer my question, young lady.”

She took out her earbud headphones, even if she was tempted to turn up the volume.

“I think it’s a flyer for tomorrow’s audition for the new
Candi Kane & the Candy Stripers
show. It says it right on there.”

“You better not be planning on going to this.”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“It wasn’t a question—you’re not going. And where did you get this money?” Now she was waving two crisp hundred-dollar bills.

“What do you think, I stole it?”

“You don’t make that kind of money at the Christmas tree lot. And I know Santa certainly didn’t come early this year.”

“I got it from his wife.”

Her mother looked confused. “Whose wife?”

“Santa Claus.”

“I’m not messing around, Hope.”

“I told you,” her voice raised. “I got it from Mrs. Claus!”

Her mother shook her head in disgust. “Then I’m going to need a phone number so I can validate that this person gave you the money.”

“I guess she’s from the North Pole, so you can try there. But she also looked like Rihanna, so maybe try calling MTV or something.”

Her mother glared at her. Hope knew she’d pushed as far as she could. “Fine, I was in the mall today and looking at an ad for the auditions. And the woman who was helping out the mall Santa convinced me that I should go for it. I told her that I couldn’t afford the entrance fee, but her and Santa were giving out mall vouchers for Kerstman people, since they feel sorry for us or something, and she was able to turn it in for me and get the money. End of story.”

Her mother’s face reddened. “You skipped school today!?”

“Oh, crap,” Hope muttered again. She got suckered into that one. “It’s not like we do anything on the last day before Christmas break, anyway.”

“That’s not the point. You have to stop living in this fantasy world. You need to focus on things that are realistic. College is a reachable goal.” She held up the flyer. “This isn’t.”

“Like we can afford college. Talk about unrealistic. And since I have no friends in Elmsford, it’s not like I won’t have plenty of time for studying on the weekend.”

“Your father says the military offers a lot of plans to pay for college.”

“But then I’d have to be in the military and spend Christmas in Afghanistan like Dad. No thanks.”

“Honey, your father and I learned stuff the hard way, in hopes that you wouldn’t have to. We’ve always been at the mercy of others. I started out in the warehouse at Kerstman, and had to bust my rear to make it up to bookseller. But when they took that away, I had nothing to fall back on. And your father—do you think he really likes spending his Christmases so far away?”

“I don’t know, he’s never here for me to ask him.”

“You Skype a couple times a week.”

“Yeah, that’s totally the same.”

“I understand your frustration Hope. But we’re all frustrated—you, me, your dad. It’s just very important that we pull together as a family right now, and that you listen to me. I’m not trying to hurt you, I’m doing what I think is best.”

“Maybe you should have done what was best for yourself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You wanted to be a singer and you never did it. I think you wish you would’ve gone to some audition when your mother told you not to. I think you regret it.”

“I made my choices—I have no regrets.”

“You probably weren’t good enough. I think your just jealous because I’m more talented than you ever were.”

“I was plenty good enough, I just …” she caught herself.

“Go ahead, say it … you had me.”

“That’s not what I meant, Hope.”

“You mean it’s not what you
meant
to come out.”

“I said it’s not what I meant. When I mean something you’ll know it.” She held up the flyer and money. “And if you defy me on this, you’re going to find out the hard way.”

After her mother slammed her door shut, Hope put her earbuds back in and Beyonce sung her to sleep. She dreamed that she was on stage at the base in Afghanistan, performing with
Candi Kane & the Candy Stripers.
Her father was in the audience, smiling proudly at her. She smiled back at him, and mouthed, “Merry Christmas, Dad … I miss you.”

And he mouthed back, “Never give up on your dreams, baby girl.”

I did a double-take when Libby suggested that the car service drop me and Zee off at Temple of Duma’s. Especially when she added that Zee “deserved some fun” after his tumultuous experience at the police station.

But then I remembered that tonight was Duma’s annual hunger drive, which was more along Libby’s idea of fun—a black-tie party and helping poor people. She gave me a sealed envelope that included a donation from the Wainwright family. If she had a sense of humor, she would have warned me not to sail off with it.

I did agree with her on one thing—today’s events had shaken Zee. He might not show much emotion, but his comment to Stu Reed about having a catch with his son was Zee’s version of wailing in pain.

After Libby dropped us off, we stopped at a Food Emporium in Times Square to obtain the admission to the party, as listed on the invitation—ten cans of food. Of course, most of the high rollers at the party dropped much more than that at the auction that’s held during the event. Last year they raised over three million dollars to fight hunger.

Before we entered the club, Zee slipped me a key. He didn’t say anything, but I knew it was the key to the Reed home.

We stepped inside, looking very under-dressed. I was still in my sport-coat and khakis, while Zee was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans with a leather jacket. I’d grown quite paranoid about my recent entrance music, and it just happened that the house band was rocking out a version of The Ramones’ “Merry Christmas (I Don’t Want to Fight Tonight)”. I could only hope that this would be a more peaceful visit than my last trip here.

It was always strange for me to see Temple of Duma’s transform each year from a strip club, albeit a high-end one, into something along the lines of the ballroom at Wainwright Manor. But while there were no naked pole dancers present, there was certainly plenty of eye candy. It was a who’s who of celebrities, most looking out of place as they mixed with the many homeless folks that Duma invited to the event each year.

We made our way through the crowd, and I kept running into former clients. I had maintained good relationships with most of them over the years—mainly because I had kept them out of jail—and I never took offense that not one of them supported me during my own troubles. I understood that being linked to me at that time would not be perceived well by the public. If I was still their lawyer, I would have advised them to stay a couple states away from me at all times.

The first one to greet me was Hollywood bad boy Brett Modino. His penchant for bar fights had kept me gainfully employed for many years. I could tell that his publicist was working with tennis star Natasha Kushka’s people to keep the former explosive couple nicknamed Bretasha, away from each other.

The room was also full of many famous athletes like Yankees second baseman Juan Azocar, along with many of the New York Jets, past and present, including the other members of the feared defensive line that Duma anchored, called “Dume & Gloom.”

But some of the brightest stars in the room came from the music world. I was introduced to my daughter’s favorite pop star, Natalie Gold, who didn’t seem to care that her music mogul husband Nick Zellen appeared more interested in her arch rival in the pop world, Maria DeMaio. I got a picture taken with Natalie to give to Taylor. How cool was Dad now?