Page 47 of The Wedding Party

“And you tried to bring them back together?”

“I did. And it worked. They made peace. I guess I can have some peace myself that I made that happen.”

“What exactly was the falling-out about?”

“Brody pulled him into a wild-card investment with a hedge fund, and Oliver lost a shit ton of money. In the end, that was Oliver’s decision to participate, which I know he was mature enough to know, but they had words. I wasn’t there, but it was bad.”

“Do you know what the context was?”

“Aside from Oliver saying he was done with him, no.”

“But they were close?”

“Yeah. The three of us were inseparable.”

“Did you remain friends with Brody?” I ask.

“I did, and before you ask—all Brody said was that Oliver was being unreasonable and had his panties in a wad. I went from meeting them both for lunch or cigars to meeting them separately. It took months, but I could see them both wearing down, wanting to make amends.”

“So you invited Brody here,” I assume.

“I did,” he says. “And I don’t regret that. They got past that shit, whatever it was.”

“Did you make the same mistake?” I ask. “Did you invest?”

“Hell no. I told Oliver not to invest. The hedge fund involved made me nervous.”

I hand him my card. “Can you email me the hedge fund info and manager?”

“Uh, yeah, but what does that have to do with Carrie stabbing Oliver to death?”

“Is that what you think happened?”

“Lana told me she was covered in blood in the attic,” he says. “Of course she did it.”

“You’re not going to tell me how much she loved him and how sweet she is?”

“Did she appear sweet? Yes. Did she make him happy? Yes. Did she love him? I don’t know her heart, but I believe she did, and most importantly, he did. And that’s the bitch of this. I’ve seen a lot of things. People are not always what they seem.”

Truth, I think. “Anyone else you think might have wanted to hurt Oliver?”

“I know you have to do a complete investigation, but let’s just be clear. No one else hurt Oliver. She killed him.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

I don’t have to track down Brody.

I exit the bar and he’s about to enter. “If it’s not the boss bitch herself,” he says. “Agent Castle. I had no idea I was talking to an FBI agent last night. Or maybe I did. I was drunk. But whatever the case, I fucked up. A pretty badass move, and I definitely didn’t even make the moves on you.”

He looks like shit, and I mean truly like death warmed over. He’s in sweats, a thick stubble hugging his jaw, his eyes bloodshot. And while his words are in jest, his tone is rough and raw, and it’s pretty obvious that he’s sheltering in place, hiding beneath his flippant attitude.

“Good thing I can see through you,” I say, “or I might think hitting on me makes you coldhearted, even callous enough to kill.”

His expression tightens but he doesn’t blanch. He’s not fazed by a potential accusation one little bit, but he’s trouble in another way. He motions to the bar. “I don’t suppose you could go get me a drink so I don’t have to see those assholes just to get drunk?”

“Why are they assholes?” I ask, seizing on this little tidbit.

“Ask after I get that drink.”