The Ex(76)

The headmaster at the Stinson Academy sounded nothing like a headmaster. No snoot or toot. In a heavy Bronx accent, John DeLongi confirmed that he’d been what he preferred to call the “head coach” at Stinson Academy for eleven years.

“Oh good. That means you’ll probably be able to help me. My name is Olivia Randall, and I’m one of the lawyers representing Jackson Harris.”

“Oh my. Well, that’s certainly been in the news.”

“Yes, that always makes our job interesting. We’re gathering background information in the event we decide to put on character evidence. Of course one aspect of Mr. Harris’s good character is the volunteer work he’s done discussing literature and writing with kids.”

“I’m no lawyer, but is that really the kind of thing a court will look at in a murder trial?”

I flipped the bird at my phone. Just give the information! “Well, as I said, we’re just collecting background for now. I assume that if the time came for it, someone there could tell the court about the work Mr. Harris did at the Stinson Academy?”

“Yeah, sure, no problem. I mean, he hasn’t come around for—I don’t know—two or three years, I guess, but, yeah, he was very generous with his time. Our students need modes of teaching that go beyond the traditional. With creative outlets, they can see that not everyone has the same cookie-cutter, billion-dollar jobs as their parents, and that’s okay.”

“So, just to confirm, Jack Harris volunteered with his writing workshops during the 2011 to 2012 academic year?”

“Well, that’s quite specific. Just one second and I can check this fancy machine here. Yep, sure enough, that was his last visit.”

I now knew for certain how Jack had met Tracy Frankel. I hung up the phone and took the seat next to Don in the conference room.

“I’m still completely confused,” he said. “Jack knew Tracy? How does this fit into his case?”

“Jack and Tracy weren’t the only people at that high school.” I found a copy of Malcolm Neeley’s transcript from the Penn Station civil suit on the table. I flipped to page forty-two. “Look. Right there.”

Don followed my finger to the critical sentence: Let’s talk next about your son’s move from the Dutton School to the Stinson Academy.


I REMEMBERED THAT AMANDA TURNER worked at a high-end PR firm in the Flatiron District. I took the liberty of showing up unannounced.

The security guard at the front desk made a quick call, and minutes later, Amanda—perfect hair and makeup—stepped from the elevator.

“Max has made it perfectly clear that I’m not supposed to talk to you,” she said.

“Please,” I said, “I can call you to the stand if necessary—Max, too—but something has come up in our investigation. It’s important. Doesn’t Max want to know the truth about his father’s murder?”

Amanda let out a sigh. “Do you know what it’s like for him to be the crazy shooter kid’s brother, the one with the stupid * father? But Malcolm being a bad person doesn’t justify what Jack Harris did—”

“Please, just one question about Max’s brother, okay? You told me that Todd was pining over a girl before the shooting at the train station. Was that another student at the Stinson Academy?”

“Seriously? This is what you’re worried about?”

“I think it matters, yes.”

Amanda waved at an attractive blonde who whisked through the lobby toward the elevator, then stepped toward me and lowered her voice. “Yes, it was some girl he knew from the Stinson Academy. We never actually met her. Todd would talk about how beautiful she was, and—this is mean—but no beauty was going to give Todd the time of day. Max and I called her his imaginary girlfriend.”

“Did Todd at least say what she looked like?”

“Um, a little, but again, we’d sort of goof on it. He said she had dark hair and pale skin and looked like something out of a fairy tale. She was a couple of years older, I think.”

“Do you remember anything else about her?”

“Not really. But I remember he called her Tee. That’s all I know.”


I WAS DISAPPOINTED WHEN BUCKLEY answered the door at Jack’s apartment.

“Is something wrong?”

For a teenager, the girl’s people-reading skills weren’t too shabby. “Just need to run something by your dad. Sorry for not calling.”

“He told me the DA’s trying to put him back in jail until trial?”

“It’s typical bluster,” I said. “The legal equivalent of trash talk. The DA is just trying to panic us into a plea deal.”

I was lying through my teeth but didn’t know what else to tell her. She walked me into the living room, and Jack emerged from the back of the apartment, his hair still damp from a shower.

“Guess all pop-ins are unannounced when you’re on electronic monitoring.”

I wasn’t about to apologize. “Can we talk for a second?”

He gave Buckley a look that had become shorthand for “beat it.” She couldn’t be within earshot if we were going to preserve attorney-client privilege.

The second we were alone, I said two words: Tracy Frankel.

“I don’t know why she tried to call my old number.”