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Of course, I gave him the money I’d been left, and we bought the co-op he wanted. He almost didn’t take it.
“Where did it come from?”
“An old friend of mine passed away, quite a while ago actually. His attorney finally found me.” Truthful, if not very specific.
“Why did he leave it to you?”
“We were involved for a little while,” I said, also true. “But not long enough for him to leave me this much money. Honestly, I really don’t know for sure why he wanted me to have it.”
“You know when people start sentences with the word ‘honestly’ it generally means they’re anything but,” he said pointedly.
I wanted to say he’d been reading too many books on sales. That wouldn’t have helped things though. Instead, I said, “I’m telling you the truth,” as sincerely as possible.
He must have believed me, because he said, “I’ll take the money on one condition. Your name goes on the deed.”
“Okay,” I agreed, still a bit reluctant. But the reality was, no one was looking for Dom Reilly. They were only looking for Nick Nowak. If they knew to do a property search for Dominick Reilly, then I was already sunk.
****
Lydia had to do several interviews with the police, but it was quickly obvious it wasn’t going anywhere. No one wanted to prosecute an attorney for killing a rapist who was holding her assistant at knife point. And when Candy Van Dyke came forward and identified Stu Whatley as her rapist, well, that was the end of it.
It made the papers and then talk radio. Certain hosts believed that anyone arrested by the police should spend the rest of their lives in prison. They made it seem like Stu Whatley was evidence that Lydia’s work was invalid, and she was doing little more than getting guilty men out of prison on a technicality.
Larry Wilkes’ case was moving forward slowly. I’d gone back up to see him again, having reversed our decision. I also explained that it was Sammy Blanchard who’d killed Pete and not Coach Carrier.
“But, she was like sixteen,” he said.
“I know. But you were all doing pretty adult things.”
“But… do you think she’s some kind of bad seed?”
“I don’t know,” I said. Of course, that made me wonder what might have happened to her that made her set her sights on an old man and then kill to get him. But I had no idea what that might be.
A month or so later, Ronnie dragged me to a fundraiser for the Long Beach Historical Association, a group which was fifty percent realtors. Candy Van Dyke was there. She looked fabulous. She saw me but didn’t come right over. About halfway through the event—which was appetizers and booze—she came over and said hello.
“Hello Candy. You look well.”
“I am well, thank you. Of course, most people are on three glasses of wine, aren’t they?” She reached out and grabbed my wrist. “I want to say thank you.”
“For?”
“Killing Stu Whatley.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with that,” I replied.
“I don’t think too many people believe that cockamamie story your boss is telling.”
“It’s true.”
“Whatever you say. I just wanted thank you personally for what you did.”
I had no choice but to say you’re welcome.
EPILOGUE
August 1976
The two naked boys lay crushed together in Pete’s tiny twin bed. Arms and legs entangled, sweating, sticking to each other. The room was small, on the opposite wall his brother’s twin bed. Pete had tucked a chair under the doorknob, just in case.
