Bryan Gruley - The Hanging Tree

“It is hard to get to know someone who won’t talk to you.”

“Don’t take it personally.”

“If you say so.”

“I know, I know. For all of his many talents, my husband hasn’t handled things so well of late. I mean, why not just tell your story? Tell the truth, you have nothing to hide. Why let the critics and the naysayers get all the ink?”

“I’m all ears.”

“I know what you think. You know Laird Haskell the plaintiff’s attorney, the guy who makes the tear-jerker speech to the jury, who gets up at the press conference and works up the crowd. But you know what? When he’s not on stage, he’s actually quite shy. He doesn’t talk about the good things he quietly does for people less fortunate than him. I’m reading in your paper about how he doesn’t have the money to build the rink and I’m looking at our checkbook and seeing thousands of dollars going to charities. Especially for women.”

Especially for women. She wanted me to know that. Why? I was feeling good about my hunch about Felicia Haskell. When I had seen the bouquet at Mom’s, I’d had a gut feeling that she felt somehow guilty, maybe because she knew Gracie had been turned down for that job at the new rink. Or maybe not. But Felicia Haskell had reached out, and when people reach out, they want to be heard. So I was there to give her a chance. But women? Laird Haskell had a soft spot for women? It would have been funny if it wasn’t so sad. Especially if that prenuptial agreement was as much of a straitjacket as Jason had said.

“Why women?” I said.

“His mother. She married a jerk. Heavy drinker. Liked to smack her around in front of Laird and his sister.”

“Did she ever get away from the guy?”

“Yes. When she died. Anyway, I wish I could read about that Laird in the paper once in a while. Something positive. I guess you people have to emphasize the negative to sell newspapers.”

She couldn’t possibly have been talking about the Pilot. “Could be that people like to read those stories. I will do my best. But Mrs. Haskell-”

“Felicia.”

“Felicia. I suppose the Free Press story is, as you say, negative. But would you know if it’s at all true that your husband’s assets have been frozen and he might be looking at bankruptcy?”

She pursed her lips, then said, “I know Laird’s been under a lot of pressure. I try not to pile any more on by asking him a lot of questions. As I said, someone who does what he does tends to make a few enemies.”

“I’m sure that’s true.”

“That’s not for you to quote.”

“I understand.” I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the photocopy of Gracie’s letter to Haskell. I’d stopped at a shop in Traverse City and made a second copy, which was back in my truck. “Got something here I wanted to show you. Might be bull. Might upset you.”

“I’m a big girl.”

I handed it to her. She unfolded it. Her eyes scanned it once, twice. Then they slid up to me. “What is this?”

“I can’t be absolutely sure. But it looks like a note my second cousin might have sent to your husband.”

Felicia didn’t move. She read the letter again. “Why?” she said. “Because it says ‘L’? That could be Larry or Lenny or Louie or a million other people.”

Or it could have been Laurie or Linda or Lucinda. But Felicia Haskell chose not to even consider a woman’s name.

“We’re thinking it’s your husband,” I said.

The paper was trembling in her hand.

“Who’s we, Gus? Where did you get this?”

“I got it.”

“What are you trying to say, that my husband was…” Her voice caught. “That my husband was sleeping with her? That little white-trash slut? Who slept at the rink and drove the damn Zamboni?”

“No,” I said. “I just thought maybe you could-”

“How dare you show me this. How dare you walk into my home with your ugly insinuations.” She tore the paper in two. I watched. She tore it again. And again. She flung the pieces in my face. “Get out,” she said.

“So it wasn’t your husband?”

“Get out of my house. I’m calling the police.”

I looked around as I walked to my truck, hoping no one had heard her outburst. Not a chance. I hopped in and backed between the snowy walls of pines and out onto North Shore Road. I figured I had the confirmation I’d come for.

Hey there, did you try to call me?”

“Call you? You hung up on me and I’m supposed to call you?”

I had called Nova Patterson from the parking lot behind the pizzeria that only the day before had been called Riccardo’s. A red, white, and green banner that said “ ROSELLI’S-UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT ” now covered the Riccardo’s sign stuck in the ground. A corner had come loose and was snapping in the noon breeze.

“I’m sorry. Got myself in a little trouble. I’m OK now.”

“I was worried,” she said. “But you didn’t give me your number. And I’m not allowed to make long-distance calls anyway.”

“That’s OK. Got anything for me?”

“Hang on.”

From my pickup I could see down the hill and over the river to Main Street. A snowplow rumbled down the south side of the street, steering around Mrs. B’s Mercury in front of the Pilot. Had she been ordered to call the cops if I walked in the door? Soupy leaned out of Enright’s and flung a bag of trash at his Dumpster.

A teenaged boy wearing a River Rats jacket came out of the dentist’s office, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and hunched his shoulders against the cold. It was Dougie Baker, the Rats’ backup goalie. Decent with his gloves, still figuring out how to use his feet. Taylor Haskell’s teammate would not be playing in the NHL or anything remotely close. He went to the dentist, not balance training.

My gaze drifted toward the lake. A blue Suburban with tinted windows emerged from behind the marina and turned onto Main.

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“Something wrong?” Nova was back.

“No,” I said, keeping my eyes on the Suburban as it moved slowly down Main then turned up Estelle Street into the neighborhoods behind. “What do you have?”

“All right,” Nova said. “Where were we? I told you the one house, the one on Harman owned by that one guy.”

“Mr. Vend,” I said. I reached into a jacket pocket for a pen and notebook and felt something else there: the brush. I kept forgetting I had it. “And the taxes were paid by?”

“Something-I’ll spell it out: KNB LLC.”

“KNB?” I said, writing it on the notebook cover. “‘K’ as in kitten?”

“‘N’ Nancy, ‘B’ boy, yeah.”

Short for Knob. Or Knobbo.

“Brother.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. What about the other house-the one in foreclosure?”

“Got that right here. The old owner was a company called… not sure how to say this… fee-liss…?”

“Felicity?”

“Tuss.”

“Felicitous,” I said.

“Felicitous Holdings.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“You’ve heard of them?”

“I think so.”

“Good, because I did a little extra checking for you.”

Nova told me that over the past few months, Felicitous-it had to be Laird Haskell-had sold thirteen properties in Melvindale, Dearborn, and River Rouge. KNB had bought each of them for a dollar. Except the one where Gracie had lived.

I added it up in my head: Whenever his money problems had started, Haskell must have tried to avail himself of some of the cash in that lush niche business he and Vend ran, the one Gracie had been so good at. Now he was trying to get square with Jarek Vend. I had my doubts that cheap bungalows in downriver Detroit were going to do it.

No wonder that blue Suburban was trolling Starvation Lake.