PART ONE
* * *
CLINT BRODEN
January–June 1986
1.
Twenty-seven-year-old women are not supposed to drown in the bathtub.
And yet that was what Nicky told me happened. At least that’s what I thought he was saying. His words came haltingly, interrupted by sobs, so it was difficult to be sure. But not many things sound like “Carolyn drowned in the bathtub.”
I had come to the office early that morning, although God only knew why. I had no clients requiring my legal services. Prior to Nicky’s call, I was doing little beyond trying to will the phone to ring.
I think he asked me to come to his house, but after all this time, I can’t be certain. It would have been a natural reflex for me to rush to my best friend in his moment of need.
After hanging up with Nicky, I considered calling my wife to share the news before heading up to Mount Vernon, but I thought better of it. Anne was likely still asleep, having been out late the previous evening filling the midnight slot at an open mic night somewhere in the Village, where she sang a few songs in the hope that an agent, record executive, or casting director would be in the audience. The death of my closest friend’s wife justified waking her, but I decided instead to allow Anne to live a few more hours in ignorance so that I could break the news to her in person.
When I arrived at Grand Central, the big board told me that the next train heading to Mount Vernon had already begun boarding. I ran toward the track without even buying a ticket. It didn’t occur to me until the train had left the station that I didn’t know Nicky’s address. He’d moved out of Manhattan only a month before, and the one time Anne and I had visited, Nicky picked us up at the train station. But I remembered it being walking distance from the Mount Vernon stop—one of the house’s selling points, Nicky had said.
The train was nearly empty, which wasn’t surprising considering I was doing the reverse commute slightly after the morning rush hour. It wasn’t until we emerged from the Manhattan tunnels and bright sunlight streamed through the window that the magnitude of what had happened began to take hold. Nicky’s new bride was dead.
Nearly an hour later, the train stopped at Mount Vernon. That was about twenty minutes longer than how Nicky had represented the trip when I teased him about being a suburbanite.
At the pay phone outside the station, the 411 operator gave me Nicky’s street address: 116 Cahill Road. I recalled that their street was off the main drag, but to make sure, I asked the woman behind the ticket counter for directions.
“Straight along Main Street and about three blocks up it’ll intersect with Cahill,” she said.
It was actually five blocks away, but the streets were short. After I made the turn down Cahill, I didn’t need to check the numbers to ascertain which house among the nearly identical white split-levels was Nicky’s. It was the one with the police vehicles in front and an ambulance in the driveway.
A few neighbors had gathered on the sidewalk to gawk. I walked past them with purpose. A young police officer in uniform greeted me at the front door. He must have recognized me from court, because he asked, “Are you a lawyer?”
“Yes,” I said with a smile that was inconsistent with the reason for my presence; back in those days, it wasn’t often I was recognized as a lawyer. “Where is Mr. Zamora?”
The cop pointed into the house. As soon as I stepped into the foyer, I spotted Nicky. He was in the corner of the living room, his back to me. His attention was taken by two plainclothes police officers: big, burly men with thick heads of hair in sports jackets and slacks.
I made my way straight to my friend. Before I could intervene, one of the cops intercepted me with his body. “I’m Detective Lynch,” he said. “And your name is?”
“Clint Broden.”
“Mr. Broden, we’re going to have to ask you to wait in the other room while we take Mr. McDermott’s statement.”
Nicky’s surname is Zamora, not McDermott, which was Carolyn’s family name. She had retained it for professional reasons. Nicky didn’t react to the misidentification. He also hadn’t acknowledged my presence. When I caught his eye, all I got back was a blank stare.
“Nicky,” I said, hoping to break him out of his trance.
He blinked a few times, as if he’d just awakened. “Clinton,” he said, almost like a question. It was then I noticed that his shirt was still damp. He must have found Carolyn in the bathtub and pulled her out.
Nicky and I weren’t huggers. Even at our weddings, where we’d each stood up for the other as best man, neither of us engaged in any greater expression of intimacy than a pat on the back.
The one exception to our mutual disdain of physical affection occurred when we were twenty and both juniors in college. My parents had been killed by a drunk driver the night before, but word had reached me only that morning. I had returned home in a daze, unable to fathom the sea change in my life that had come without warning and left me alone in the world. That reality came painfully to the fore when I reached my house and realized that there was no reason to enter. Instead, I went to the Zamoras’ home, which was across the street.
Nicky and I were both only children, and we’d moved in and out of each other’s homes in our childhood with such regularity that we were more like brothers than most actual brothers I knew. I was sitting in their living room when Nicky entered. He must have hightailed it down from Vermont the moment his parents told him the news.
He ran right up to me and pulled me in, holding on tight. I think he even kissed my cheek. I know he said, “I love you, Clinton. We’re your family now.”
That memory was front and center when I saw Nicky on the day Carolyn died. As he had with me, I embraced him and held on tight.
“I’m sorry, Nicky,” I said. “You know I love you.”
The police allowed us a moment but not much more than that. “Excuse me,” one of the detectives said. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave.”
Nicky and I separated. “I’d like to have a minute to talk with Nicky, alone, please,” I said.
Detective Lynch didn’t give my request a moment’s thought. “No,” he said flatly. “We’ll be done very soon, and then you can talk with Mr. McDermott. But until then, I’m going to need for you to step into the other room.”
To emphasize that my presence was no longer welcome, Detective Lynch’s partner put his hand on my elbow. Their dismissal made my blood run hot. I yanked my arm away from him.
“His name is Zamora,” I said sharply.
“What?” the detective said.
“Carolyn—his wife—her last name is McDermott. His name is Nicky . . . Nicholas Zamora.”
Detective Lynch tried to put things back on track. He turned to Nicky and said, “Our apologies, Mr. Zamora.”
Nicky made eye contact but didn’t seem present. He gave no verbal response, and his expression remained unchanged.
Detective Lynch stared at me until I met his gaze. “You’re still going to have to leave, sir.”
I took another look at Nicky, who was obviously in shock. I played the only card I had.
“I’m Mr. Zamora’s lawyer. So I’m going to have to ask the two of you to give my client and me a few moments to confer. After we talk, then he can continue with you.”