It was a picture that Cecilia wanted desperately to believe was true and that Montaro knew without question was false. Nick told the chief that he was certain Priscilla was innocent of any wrongdoing and was willing to sign any document attesting to that assertion.
“Sure, there are drugs on campus, Chief,” he said. “People pass joints around fairly openly. I have heard of the selling and buying of marijuana on and around campus all the years I’ve been a student there, and I know more than a handful of people who have occasionally indulged. But, to the best of my knowledge, Priscilla is not one of them.”
Whitcombe twisted uneasily in his chair, regretting that he would not have a crack at questioning this slick pretty boy. There was something dangerous about this kid, the lawyer thought, something too cool and smooth, something that someday could cause harm to Priscilla and her family. But for the moment, Nick seemed to be winning over Chief Masterson, and as the Caines’ lawyer, that was precisely what Gordon Whitcombe needed the kid to do.
When the chief stopped questioning Nick and turned his attention to Priscilla and her parents, Nick Corcell smiled, proud of himself. He felt suddenly flushed with a sense of his own power. It was the second time that day he’d felt that way. In fact, as far as he was concerned, the most dramatic events of the day had already played out hours earlier. First thing in the morning, he had been cruising west along the Massachusetts Turnpike in his Volkswagen Beetle convertible, gusts of summer wind warm against his bare, suntanned torso. His mind was in high gear, too, moving methodically over the few remaining points that needed to be smoothed out before the business transaction awaiting him could close.
Nick’s Volkswagen exited the turnpike and picked up US-20. His left hand was draped lightly on the wheel while his right hand rested on the overnight canvas bag on the passenger seat. He checked the car’s clock and saw that he was running ahead of schedule, so he relaxed his speed as a Bruce Springsteen song came blasting from the speakers. Nick changed the station before he could even identify the song; the Boss was his stepfather’s favorite, and the only time Nick ever listened to Springsteen music was when he was trying to impress naïve, upper-crust Connecticut girls like Priscilla Caine with his blue-collar street cred. For the remaining fifteen miles of his drive, Nick blasted Eminem.
Nick had grown up in South Boston in a small two-bedroom apartment. He had lived there with his mother, Angeline Corcell, and her husband, Nick’s stepfather, Anthony Stavros, who every weekday evening brought home with him the nauseating stench of the fish market where he worked. One time, long before he had begun to shave, Nick spent his entire weekly allowance on aftershave lotion, which he’d splashed around his room to chase away that smell he hated so much.
Nick had been only six when his father left for reasons that Nick still couldn’t understand. Piero Corcell had worked in the fish factory, too, but his smell was different; Nick had associated it with a time his family had been together long before Stavros entered the picture. Even now, Nick wore a healthy splash of aftershave lotion every day, even on days when he didn’t shave.
When Nick arrived in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn in Great Barrington, Massachusetts, the hotel was busy. A weekend convention of manufacturing associations was being held there, a fact that Nick had taken into account when he had chosen this date and location. The parking lot was nearly full. Nick paid close attention to every vehicle in the lot, making sure that there wasn’t a gray Mercedes in sight, eventually guiding his car into one of the few available slots before turning off the motor.
Nick reached into his overnight bag, fished out a T-shirt, and slipped it on before he exited the car, overnight bag in hand. Upon entering the air-conditioned lobby, he checked out everything and everyone. Looking behind the hotel’s front desk, he made sure that there was a small white envelope in the key box for Room 371. Then he casually altered his course in the direction of the coffee shop. The place was packed with an early lunch crowd, but he found a seat at a vacant window table, which afforded a perfect view of both the lobby and the lot. When the waitress