The Ex(67)

I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be a mother who suspected that her daughter was turning tricks to support her drug habit. I tried one more time. “You never heard her mention Malcolm or Max Neeley or anyone else at the Sentry Group?”

Joanne Frankel shook her head. “I know I’m too smart to believe your answer to this question, but are you really telling me that someone other than Jack Harris killed my daughter? This isn’t just some stunt you’re pulling for your client? If it is—please, just leave us out of it. It’s not right to put us through this if what you’re saying isn’t true.”

“I’m a hundred percent certain the police don’t have the full story about why your daughter was killed.” I rose from my chair, leaned forward, and placed my hand on her wrist. “You take care of yourself, Mrs. Frankel.”

I was on the sidewalk, using my phone to pull up the app for an Uber car, when Tracy’s sister, Laura, walked outside.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“Not promising more to my mother than you could deliver. I think she’s yearning for some miracle explanation about Tracy’s death. Like she’s not just some random piece of garbage caught in the cross fire.”

“I don’t think any human being is garbage.”

“And I suppose that’s how you’re able to be a criminal defense lawyer. I don’t know why my sister was calling the Sentry Group, but I do know more than my mother. The last time I saw Tracy, I gave her my hundredth lecture about going to rehab. Taking some classes, just to get on a routine. Trying to get her life straight. And she told me that I didn’t need to worry. She had a plan. Some guy was going to take care of her. I assumed at the time she was full of shit. But now that you’re asking these questions, I have to wonder—she said she had, quote, a finance guy on the hook. She talked about going to Costa Rica, then getting a nice apartment in Soho.”

“Did she tell you anything about him? Maybe he was at a hedge fund?”

She shook her head.

I used my phone to pull up a photograph of Max Neeley. “What about this guy? Does he look familiar?”

“Isn’t he the son? The one giving all those interviews?”

Of course she recognized him. “Did you ever see him with your sister?”

“No, but she cut me out years ago. I feel like my sister spent her whole life chasing a new rock bottom.”


I FINISHED UP A PROOFREAD of my memo about the visit to the Frankel house and e-mailed it to Einer with a request that he add it to the file. At the round table in my office, I was surrounded by stacks of documents and pages and pages of handwritten notes.

It had been nearly a month since Jack was arrested. Thanks to the early document dump from the DA’s office and multiple investigators paid by Charlotte, I had far more information than I’d normally have at this point, but I had no idea what other evidence the prosecution might be sitting on.

I leaned back in my chair and envisioned the trial if it were held today. My expert opinion? Coin toss.

Without eyewitnesses, the case against Jack was circumstantial. I had a strategy to attack every single piece of evidence, but my attacks were jabs, not knockouts. For every challenge I raised, the prosecution would have a rebuttal.

Reasonable doubt or not? Fifty-fifty.

Why was Scott Temple so confident? Was I missing something, or was he holding something back? Tracy Frankel was the wild card. Why in the world had she been calling the Sentry Group?

I stopped turning pages when my office phone rang. It was Einer from the front desk. “Max Neeley’s here. Should I call security?”


EVEN THOUGH I HAD TOLD Einer that I was sure everything was fine, I took the precaution of meeting Max up front instead of bringing him back to my office.

The second my heels hit the tiled reception area, he walked toward me and jabbed a finger in my face. “Lady, I’m going to sue your ass off. Do you have any idea how much money you’re costing me?”

“Your finances aren’t my first priority, Mr. Neeley. And if you don’t calm down, this conversation is over.”

He took a step back, but his hands remained balled into fists. “You don’t think I know what you’re doing? You told that judge that Tracy Frankel may have been calling someone at the Sentry Group with a financial motive to kill my father? It took five seconds for Gothamist to quote anonymous sources that Dad wouldn’t help me start my own fund. I had finally gotten that * Frederick Gruber back in line, and now he’s talking about pulling his money again. Our phones have been ringing off the hook. The press has been digging around for details about my father’s will from the probate court. Now they’re starting to ask about that bullshit back in college. Not to mention, you’re accusing me of murdering my own father. What kind of person are you?”

“Are you done?”

“No, you have to stop this.”

“I don’t have to do anything except defend my client. Why was Tracy Frankel calling you?”

“The DA tells me Jack Harris is the killer and that your job is to twist the facts around and confuse people. Leave me out of it, lady, or I will use every last dollar I have to sue the shit out of you for defamation. You think you’re the only one who can dig up some dirt? How would you like it if I started leaking stories about you to the press?”