Mary sat opposite Jack in the tiny interview room, not six feet by six feet, with no partition between them. The walls were of cinderblock painted an institutional sea green and contained windows of bulletproof glass with a view of the guard station. A large button of bright red protruded from the wall, and Mary, who had never been in a prison before, knew it had to be the proverbial panic button. If it had been any other prisoner, it would have made her edgy, but with Jack she felt completely safe, if not completely professional. 'We need to talk,' she said.
'Sure, what is it? Is it about the preliminary hearing?' He smiled in a friendly way, despite the strain evident on his face. His color was pale and he seemed restless, his long legs crossed at the ankle, in dark blue pants with sneakers. A light blue shirt sat loosely on his shoulders, its V-neck deep enough to reveal a light tangle of chest hair and its sleeves short enough to show off sinewy biceps. To Mary's eye, he did more for a prison uniform and steel handcuffs than most felons.
'No, it's about the case. We need to start over. I don't think you killed your wife.'
His smile vanished. 'Are you serious?'
'Yes. I think Paige did it, with her boyfriend Trevor. You were supposed to be at dinner that night, but I think that when you came in, your wife was already dead. You made it look like you killed her, but you didn't. You're innocent.'
'This is silly, Mary. I did do it.'
'No, Paige did, and you're protecting her. If you tell me the truth, we can help her. They'll give her the deal they won't give you.'
'I did it. You just don't want to believe it.'
'I'd believe it if it were true, but it's a lie. All of it, from the outset.'
'No it isn't. I did it. I confessed to it.' Jack pursed his lips. 'I even had blood on my hands, and you still don't believe it?'
'Not at all.'
'Face it, Mary. You're not seeing me clearly.'
'Of course I am. Why wouldn't I?'
'You know why. You tell me.' Jack didn't bat an eye, and Mary's face flushed crimson. So he knew. She couldn't deny it, so she didn't try. She fumbled for words.
'You're right… about that. I have a crush, I plead guilty. And I may be embarrassed and humiliated, but I'm not wrong.' Mary set her jaw, her neck still aflame. 'You didn't kill your wife, and I know it. I can distinguish between the murder case and my personal feelings.'
'No you can't. You can't separate those things. You're emotional and new at criminal law. You don't want to think I'm capable of murder, but you're kidding yourself. Is this why you don't want to negotiate my guilty plea?'
'Jack, give it up.' Mary leaned forward urgently. She had to convince him. 'I can tell you now, there won't be a deal in this case, not for you. It's all over the papers today. Masterson announced there will be no deals in this case. No plea bargains, understand? If they ask for the death penalty, you're headed straight to Death Row. Dwight Davis has put ten men there, and you'll be the eleventh. Tell me the truth and I can help you, before it's too late.'
'I can't believe this.' Jack's face colored with growing anger. 'I shouldn't have hired someone with so little experience.'
'I have enough experience to know that you're lying to protect Paige. Paige and your wife fought all the time, and your wife put enormous pressure on her, emotionally abusing her for years, as her manager, too. You ignored it,
maybe denied it, for too long, and when you finally came to, it was almost too late.'
'That's not true.' Jack's brow darkened and his mouth grew tight.
'You supported Paige's emancipation but your wife didn't. You drafted the papers, but Honor wouldn't even let Paige back into her room. Honor kept everything that kid owned, stole it like a common thief. She even kept Paige's diary. I found it in her room.'
'What?' Jack exploded. 'You had no business doing that!'
'My guess is your marriage started coming apart a year ago, when you took Paige's side. You've been over-compensating since then, that's why you're protecting her now. I know guilt when I see it. It's my favorite emotion.'
'Mary, what are you saying? Why are you doing this to Paige? Investigating her, reading her diary, accusing her of murder. You'll ruin her life!'
'Taking responsibility for a crime she committed isn't helping her. I understand that now. It's wrong for you and wrong for her. Let her take responsibility for herself. Otherwise, you raise a kid who expects her way paved her whole life, and the world doesn't work that way. She's like an orchid, Jack. She can live in a hot-house, but it's cold outside.'
'Paige is not your business!'
'Then what about Trevor? You're protecting him, too. Paige lied about him, to you and to me.'
'No she didn't!' Jack shouted.
'Bullshit!' Mary shouted back. She plunged a hand into her briefcase and thrust the newspaper at him. 'A Roundhouse Divided,' read the headline. 'Did you see this morning's paper yet? Kovich and Brinkley having a fight in front of Colonial Hill Towers. Why do you think they were there?'
Jack grabbed the paper in handcuffed hands, his eyes scanning the article, his brow creasing as he read.
They were investigating Paige and Trevor. I figured it out and so did the cops. You can't keep the wheels on this thing, Jack. They're gonna come after her, so why don't you give it up?'
'You're destroying my daughter, is that what you want?' Jack threw down the paper and jumped to his feet, and Mary stood up, too. They stood eye-to-eye in the cell, an instant and volatile intimacy.
'Listen to me, Jack. I know why you're doing this. I know Paige is pregnant.'
'Stop it with Paige!' Jack erupted. 'Stay away from my daughter! Stay away from me. You and your law firm are fired!'
Trevor is already running around with another girl. Is that what you want to leave Paige with? How can you help her if you're in here? Or if you're dead? And don't you have your own life to think about? Aren't you entitled to that?'
That's it!' Jack yelled. Suddenly he turned and slammed his handcuffed hands into the red panic button in the cinderblock wall. The alarm went off instantly, reverberating in the tiny interview room.
'What are you doing?' Mary shouted, bewildered, but the din drowned out her voice.
That's it! I'll kill you!' Jack bellowed and reached for her throat, despite his handcuffs. His hands encircled her neck loosely and ersatz rage contorted his face. Mary realized instantly what he was doing. He was making it look like he was strangling her. Through the window she could see black-shirted guards sprinting from the security desk in alarm. 'I'll fucking kill you!' Jack shouted again, his touch harmless. Up close his eyes were filled with pain.
'Jack, no!' Mary yelled, pulling his hands from her, but all hell had broken loose. The guards were at the cell window with their guns drawn. A huge guard burst through the door and brought his gun butt down onto the back of Jack's head. The sound was sickening. The blow
stilled Jack's eyes. For a split second, he stared unseeing at Mary, unconscious on his feet. She caught him in her arms but he was too heavy and collapsed to the floor.
'Jack!' she screamed, but the sound was lost in the clamor of the alarm. Four armed guards swarmed over him and dragged him out the door, banging his cheekbone into the doorjamb on the way.
A young guard rushed to Mary and grabbed her arms, his eyes searching her face with concern. 'Are you okay?' he asked, anxious.
'Yes, of course.' Her eyes brimmed with tears of frustration. 'I'm fine. He didn't really -'
'That asshole's goin' straight to ad seg.'
'Ad seg, what's that?'
'Administrative segregation, isolation. Twenty-three hours in a cage. We'll call the cops for you. You can press charges for assault.'
'No, I don't want to press charges. He was just pretending,' she said, her voice thick, but the guard released her in disbelief.
'Lady, get real. He was trying to kill you.'
'No, he wasn't. It was an act. He didn't mean it.'
A look of disgust crossed the guard's features. 'I don't get what you broads see in these cons,' he said, but Mary didn't try to set him straight. She wiped her tears, straightened her clothes, and picked up her bag and briefcase.
She had to get going before it was too late.
Brinkley didn't touch the newspaper Captain Walsh threw across the desk at him and Kovich. He'd been shown it by the old man at his newsstand, the uniform at the desk downstairs, and the guys on the squad, who taped the photo to the wall in the coffee room. Somebody had drawn a mustache on him and had given Kovich a kielbasa dick.
'Explain this to me, you idiots!' Captain Walsh shouted, over the tabloid tenting his desk, where it had landed. The Cap was so pissed he could barely keep his seat. Dwight Davis, freshly shaved and suited, leaned against the credenza behind him. His expression was grave, and even though he was in the right, Brinkley still wished he could pop him one.
'I'm very sorry about this, Cap,' Brinkley said, and met his boss's eye. Captain Derrick Walsh was a big man with curly black hair. A merlot-colored birthmark crept across his right cheek and bled into his right eye, but Brinkley always figured the Cap owed his toughness to growing up with that birthmark. 'I take full responsibility for it, sir. It's my fault.'
'It's my fault, too,' Kovich added, but the Cap exploded.
'Goddamn right it's your fault! Who else's fault could it be? Mine?" The Cap's barrel chest heaved in his starchy white shirt, which bore the stripes of his rank and an ornate gold badge. It was the only decoration in the office, which was bare of the citations, awards, and honors the Cap had received on the job. Brinkley had always respected Walsh for not being a show-off, so his criticism landed hard. It didn't help that Brinkley was completely ashamed of his conduct.
'I lost control,' he admitted. 'It won't happen again.'
'Goddamn right it won't! You think we got the wrong guy, Reg? Article says so, somebody overheard you. But your girlfriend here thinks we got the right guy. Ain't that fuckin' terrific? First off, how can you be so stupid as to discuss an open case on the goddamn street?'
'Sorry, Cap.' Brinkley wanted to hang his head, but he'd be damned if he'd do that in front of Davis. It was police business, and the lawyer had no right being here anyway.
'And on this, of all cases? What are you, stupid?'
'It was my mistake. I started it. I'm sorry.'
'Not good enough, Reg. You know an investigation is completely confidential. Not only are you broadcasting it, you're fighting about it. In public!'
'It's my fault, Cap.'
'So then this scumjob of a reporter goes and talks to the security guard at the desk, and he finds out that you roughed him up over who signs the logbook at the daughter's apartment. Now they're callin' you -' The Cap grabbed the newspaper and flipped the pages madly.
'A hothead,' Davis supplied.
Brinkley sighed inwardly. He had to hear it from the Lone Ranger now. He could tell Walsh didn't like it either. He had embarrassed the department in front of the D.A.'s office. Half those lawyers thought cops were stupid anyway. Shit.
Kovich cleared his throat. 'Just for the record, the security guard wasn't roughed up, Cap.'
'I don't give a fuck!' Walsh arched a furry eyebrow that lay beside the birthmark like a wooded border. This never should have happened! None of it! We got elements of our investigation, whatever this logbook shit is, out in the open!'
Behind him, Davis crossed his arms. The reporter called me to verify. Of course I didn't give him anything, but I know this guy. He covers the Criminal Justice Center. He
told me off the record that he's got more than he reported, he just couldn't get the second source to confirm.' Davis hesitated before telling more, but Brinkley knew it was just for show. 'Said specifically that the two detectives were fighting about whether Trevor was involved, with the daughter.'
'Jesus H. Christ, Reg!' Walsh yelled. 'You're killin' me here! You're killin' me! What the fuck were you thinkin'
'It's me, too, Cap,' Kovich interrupted, but Brinkley waved him into silence. He had to defend himself. It was now or never and it couldn't get any worse.
'Cap, I'll tell you, I'm worried that Newlin's setting himself up. I think he's covering for the daughter or the boyfriend, or both.'
The Cap's eyebrows flew heavenward. 'What the fuck is goin' on here, Reg? I read this file, I saw the lab work! The prints, the blood work, the whole shebang. We charged the father. What are you talking about?'
'The boyfriend had some trouble in juvy and we were about to follow up on that. We found an earring back near the body that may belong to him. We were about to check his whereabouts the night of the murder.'
'You're tellin' me you're runnin' down another suspect, when you already got one in custody – who confessed?'
'He's the wrong man,' Brinkley said, and the more he said it the stronger he felt.
The Cap turned to Kovich. 'Stanislas. You don't think we got the wrong man, do you?'
'I'm willin' to check it out with Mick, Cap. I trust his judgment.' Kovich nodded, and Brinkley kept his face front. If Brinkley weren't Brinkley he would have hugged his partner.
'That's very touching,' the captain said. 'Now what do you think?'
'It doesn't matter what I think. Brinkley is the assigned. It's his case.'
'Christ, you people!' Walsh jumped to his feet. 'Kovich, answer me! Did Newlin kill his wife or not?'
'Yes,' Kovich said, after a minute.
'Good! Now you're the assigned, and that's an order!' Walsh shouted, and both detectives looked up. The assigned was chosen by wheel; it was whoever's number was up when the job came in. You couldn't start mickeying with that. Most of the detectives thought it was magic or fate whose number was up when the call came in.
'Cap, it was my call, and it's my case.' Brinkley kept a civil tone, but Dwight Davis frowned and folded his arms.
'Reg, no disrespect, but you know what you're doin' here? Masterson's on record saying we make no deals, the case is so airtight. I'm on record saying it's a lock. It's in the same goddamn paper as this story.' Davis gestured to the messy tabloid. 'Then you come along and make us look like smacked asses. I gotta explain to Masterson, he's gotta explain to the mayor, the mayor's gotta explain to the public and the media. You know, Reg. The thighbone's connected to the hipbone.'
'I know/ Brinkley said, only because he was in the wrong.
'I got a prelim in Newlin today, in case you forgot. I gotta make out a prima facie case of murder, which in this case I could have done with my eyes closed, until today. If you're the assigned, how am I gonna put you up there? What are you gonna say? The defendant is innocent? Or is this gonna be the only case in history where the assigned does not testify at the prelim?'
Brinkley had considered it. 'I'll have it sorted out by the prelim, one way or the other. You can count on me.'
Davis raised a palm. 'Not- since this article. Now you're gonna get crossed like nobody's business. Now even DiNunzio will know what to ask you. You're fucked, Reg. You can't testify.'
Brinkley felt it slipping suddenly away. His case. His life. His wife. Forget the D.A.; he faced Walsh. 'Cap, listen to
me. I'm not about to do anything that would hurt the department.'
'You already did,' the captain said sternly. 'This is the problem. You shoulda come to me before.'
Brinkley knew it wouldn't have helped. It was just something to say later, at times like this. He couldn't say anything that wouldn't get him in deeper, so he didn't say anything. He knew the way this was going, the way it had to go.
'I know you were only doin' what you think was right, Reg, but you're on suspension. You're off for a week, no pay, and you're off the Newlin case, too. I'll take whatever heat the union gives me, grieve it if you want to, but I can't have this, in the papers.' Walsh pointed a thick finger at Kovich. 'I'd suspend you, too, if I didn't need you at the prelim.'
Neither Brinkley nor Kovich replied, but stood up in unison without a word. Brinkley flipped open his jacket for his badge, slid his gun from his shoulder holster, and set both down on the tabloid, covering his own photo. The department was taking guns ever since a suspended cop shot his wife two months ago, and he didn't want to make the Cap ask for it. It was bad enough.
This should go without saying, but don't talk to the press, Reg,' Walsh ordered. 'You neither, Stan. Got it?'
'No comment,' Kovich said, with a weak smile, but Brinkley wasn't about to make jokes.
He wasn't about to be stopped, either.
'I need some answers about your father's case, Paige,' Mary said, sitting on the chair across the coffee table from the young woman. A bouquet of white silk freesia in a glass vase sat atop the oak table, and the morning sun streamed though the windows, suffusing the living room with light. Mary didn't mention that she wasn't Jack's lawyer anymore. It was only a sin of omission, anyway.
'So early?' Paige blinked against the brightness, dressed in her blue chenille robe and slippers. Her hair fell loose to her shoulders, in a sleepy tangle, but grey circles ringed her blue eyes. 'I'm not a morning person.'
'Sorry about that.' Mary felt a momentary twinge. If Paige were pregnant, she wouldn't be feeling so well in the mornings. She wondered if Paige had gotten an abortion, but she couldn't be distracted now. 'It's important.'
'All right, if you say.' Paige sat before a cup of take-out coffee that Mary had brought her, for which she still hadn't been thanked, but she found herself less bothered by Paige's rudeness than before. Mary was seeing her differently, more fully. This was a girl who had been raised with both privilege and cruelty, and Mary felt she had less and less right to judge her. She just wanted to save her father's life.
'By the way, you're alone this morning, aren't you?'
That's kind of personal, but yes.'
'Sorry. I wanted to make sure that Trevor wasn't here. I thought you guys might have gone out last night,' Mary lied. Okay, so it was a sin of commission. Drastic measures were called for.
'No, he couldn't meet me last night. He had to study.'
So Trevor had lied to her, of course. Mary would save it for later. 'Here are my questions. First, I was in your old bedroom, at your parents' house, and there's a lot I didn't understand.' She pulled a pen, a legal pad, and a large manila envelope from her briefcase. The envelope held the diary, which puffed out its middle in a clear, square outline. She sat the envelope with the diary down between them like bait, but didn't refer to it. 'Wonder if you can help me out.'
'Sure,' Paige said. If she noticed the puffy envelope, it didn't show. 'I can help you, but why were you in my room?'
'As defense lawyer, I have to check out the crime scene. That's what we do, to help your father. You want to help your father, don't you?'
'Sure, yes.'
'I figured as much.' Mary glanced at her legal pad as if there were notes there. 'Let's see, I saw your CD player and a whole bunch of CDs. How come you left that stuff?'
'I didn't need it. I got a new one.'
'But this was a new one, and so were the CDs.'
'I wanted an even newer one.'
Mary checked the blank pad again. 'Your driver's license was in your room, too.'
'Oh? I thought I lost it.'
'But it was right in the middle of your desk. I'm surprised you didn't see it there if you were looking for it.'
'Well, I didn't.' Paige shifted in her plush robe. 'What's the difference?'
'Don't get attitudinal, I was just asking. It seemed like there were lots of things in that room that you would have taken with you if you could. I got the feeling that you didn't go back once you moved out, and you left things that mean something to you. Like your Madame Alexander dolls.'
'My dolls?'
'Yes.' Mary leaned back in the soft couch and watched Paige carefully. 'I loved your collection. The doll from Africa, and from Italy. Take it from me, though. Italians don't wear red and green ribbons in their hair anymore. That is so last season.'
Paige forced a smile, then her eyes fell on the manila envelope on the coffee table.
'You had the little I Love Lucy set, too. Lucy and Ethel, dressed for the chocolate factory. Do they give you the chocolates or not? Bonbons not supplied?'
'Uh, no.' Paige eyed the envelope, guileless enough to betray herself. Mary could see her wanting to grab it and run.
'You have the doll in the black lace dress, with the French hat. I love that one. But my favorite was the big doll with the blue dress, from a fairy tale. Who was she? Cinderella?'
'Yes, it was Cinderella.' Paige's eyes shifted from the envelope and met Mary's with resignation. 'So. You found my diary.'
'I did. I wasn't looking for it, but I found it. And I know your mother was horrible to you, growing up. I know that she was mean and abusive to you. I know that she put enormous pressure on you to succeed as a model and that you thought about leaving home for years until you finally moved out. She was furious at you for that, wasn't she? And your dad took your side, which caused even more problems than before.'
Paige's lips parted in sad recognition.
'I know that she wouldn't let you back into your room and that's why everything was left behind. Everything you owned or had been given. All your stuff.'
Wetness welled in Paige's eyes.
'I know that you two fought at the Bonner shoot. I know, too, that you're pregnant and thinking about an abortion. How'm I doin'?' Mary slid the envelope
gently across the coffee table, and Paige reached out and picked it up.
'You read my diary.' Her tone was hushed and she picked up the envelope only slowly, as if in shock.
'Open it,' Mary said, and Paige fumbled with the brass clasp, opened the manila envelope, and reached inside. The diary came out with its latch hanging apart, and the teenager started at the sight.
'You broke it!' she cried.
'No, I didn't. Somebody else did.'
Paige opened the diary and gasped. The first page was charred from a burn at the center, as if someone had burned it with a cigarette. The charring spread almost to the end of the page, obliterating the handwriting beneath. Paige turned the page carefully. The second page was burnt the same way, gone at the center and black around the edges. The only writing still visible was blackened. She flipped the pages frantically but they began to crumble in her hand. 'Oh my God,' she said, but it sounded like a moan.
'Your mother did this, didn't she?' Mary asked, and Paige nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on the cinders where the diary's pages used to be.
'Of course she did. She'd wanted to hurt me. She loved to hurt me. She knew I wrote in it when I was upset. She knew how much it meant to me. She must have done it when I told her I was leaving. She went crazy. Dad couldn't stop her.' Paige looked at Mary with wet eyes. 'You didn't read my diary. You couldn't have.'
'No, I found it that way.'
Then how did you know everything?'
'I put it together. I tried to figure out what would make a smart little girl grow up into a very troubled young woman. You wanna tell me? I can help.'
Tell you about my mother, how it was with us? I mean, you've probably heard it all before, like on Jerry Springer or something.' Page tried to smile but it quivered into a
downturn. 'But, you know, when bad things happen to you, it's like they never happen to anyone else in the world, ever. Even though they do, you know?'
'Yes.' Mary thought instantly of her husband's death. 'Well put.'
'Urn, you see, I think my mother, she hated me. No matter what I did, she hated me. I was never good enough. And you know what? I hated her. I don't even miss her. I'm glad she's dead. Glad. That's the whole story, that's all I want to say.' Paige tossed her head, her red hair falling back. 'At her memorial service today, I should get up and dance around. She's history. It's all history. I don't want to talk about it anymore.' Her eyes welled up again, but Mary ignored the waterworks.
'I understand, but we do have to talk about the truth. You have to tell me what happened the night your mother was murdered. Because I know your father didn't kill your mother, and I don't want to see him convicted for a crime he didn't commit. I have to believe that in your heart you don't want that, either. It's time for you to take responsibility for yourself.'
Paige blinked back her tears.
'Nothing that your mother did to you justifies what you are doing to your father. You are letting your father take responsibility for your crime. And that's wrong, no excuses. So stop crying and talk to me, like an adult. Like a woman.'
Paige swallowed hard. Mary could see her tiny dimple of an Adam's apple travel down her reddening throat.
'Did you kill your mother, Paige?'
She didn't say anything, and Mary resisted the urge to beat the truth out of her. •
'Was Trevor involved in it?'
She still didn't answer, setting Mary's teeth on edge. If Paige had been on a witness stand, Mary would have torn into her, but that wouldn't work here.
'Look, Paige, I know you lied to me and that Trevor was
with you that night. Why are you protecting him? Because he fathered your baby?'
'How do you know -'
'I know more than that, more than you. He's no good, believe me. You don't know everything about him.'
'What do you know?' she asked, and Mary hesitated. The girl didn't need another shock, but Mary wouldn't get a second chance.
'After he left you yesterday, Trevor met someone else. Another woman. He went with her to New York last night. I saw them together at Thirtieth Street station.'
'I don't believe you!' Paige shouted. Anger tinged her cheeks. 'Trevor was home studying.'
'No, he wasn't.'
'He was, too!'
'How do you know? Did you call? Did he answer? I doubt it. Would you put your own father in prison to save a jerk like that?'
'He's not a jerk! You don't know him at all! I think it's time for you to go.' Paige rose to her feet as quickly as Jack had, and Mary was getting used to being rejected by the members of the Newlin family. She reached down for her briefcase and legal pad.
Think about what I'm saying, Paige. The longer you wait, the worse it is, for your father and for you. And Trevor, too. Read the newspaper today. The cops are on to you and Trevor.'
'Get out! I won't hear this!' Paige hustled to the door and opened it wide, but Mary stopped at the threshold.
'Your father fired me this morning, for saying to him what I said to you. He is giving his life for you. And Trevor won't even return your calls. Is that the kind of man you choose? For you and your baby?'
Paige's only response was to look away, and Mary should have tried to convince her, if not throttle her. But instead she simply walked out on her, not wanting to be in her presence a moment longer.
Jack regained consciousness, lying alone in a small cell. Unlike his other cell, the door was solid except for a slit for food, and the sound of the other inmates was muffled. Ad seg; isolation. A stainless steel toilet, a bed, and twenty-three hours a day of alone; it didn't matter to Jack anyway. His cheekbone throbbed and he touched the warm wetness there with handcuffed hands. Blood covered his finger pads when he withdrew his hand.
His ribs ached and he fought to keep his breathing even. They must have whacked him around because he felt broken and his jumpsuit was ripped and dirtied. His head thundered but his thoughts were like lifting fog. Mary. The newspaper. The police were getting closer to finding out about Paige. And Trevor.
Jack felt his chest constrict. His plan was threatening to unravel. Mary was yanking hard on the string and it was corning undone. He had to keep it together. If Trevor was guilty, then he would find a way to deal with it, but not until he was sure. He wouldn't put Paige on the line, no matter what. It was the newspaper story that worried him now. If Trevor was in oh Honor's murder, he would be starting to worry about his own vulnerability. And if Trevor started to worry, Paige was in jeopardy.
Jack struggled to a sitting position against the wall. His sides ached and he slumped forward, stretching out his feet slowly. He had to get out of prison, to protect Paige. He'd be freed after his preliminary hearing today, if he got bail. He'd need a new lawyer. A real criminal lawyer. One who would take direction. Mary was gone. He winced and shifted his weight to the other side. He wouldn't see her again.
Good, right? Right. Mary had been confusing him. Last night, in a moment before sleep, he'd caught himself hoping that the police would find out he was innocent, so he could go free. In one awful moment, he'd let himself realize that he had sacrificed his life when it had little value to him. Mary could have made it worth getting out of here. Now the prosecution was talking no deals. Jack would be going to trial, where he would lose. He had to; he'd rigged it that way. He froze at the thought, but he had no way out. The alternative would kill Paige. Even if Trevor were involved, Paige would be lost, too.
He was better off without Mary, he knew. She would have been his salvation. And his undoing.
'Miss DiNunzio, what happened at the prison?' 'Miss DiNunzio, why did Newlin try to kill you?' 'Mary, any comment?' 'Mary, did you quit?' 'Over here! Just one picture!'
It was overcast, gusty, and freezing, but for once the windchill wasn't the big news. The press thronged around the small brick chapel of colonial vintage, in the heart of Society Hill. Reporters spilled off the narrow brick sidewalk, and news vans clogged a cobblestone street meant to support only horse-drawn carriages. Mary and Judy fought their way though the media, which snapped their photos and shoved microphones in their faces. The news that Jack Newlin had attacked his lawyer at the prison was breaking, and Mary was the quarry.
She kept her head down and barreled through the crowd with the larger Judy running interference. They made it to the white wood entrance, grabbed a black-bordered program from a wooden stand, and ducked inside the chapel. Mary stalled at the sight; the pews were virtually empty. 'Where is everybody?' she whispered, and Judy shook her head.
'I guess nobody but reporters liked Honor.'
'At least Communion will be short.' Mary entered the chapel, which looked more like a school than a church. The interior was small, bright white, and austere. The walls contained only a tasteful number of stained-glass windows, remarkably free of the crucifixion, cross-bearing, and bloody crowns of thorns that made Mary feel so at home. She supposed you could have a religion without suffering, but she didn't know how.
She wouldn't have recognized the dais except that it was at the front. Instead of an elaborate altar that bore chalices, wafers, and wine, there was only a plain mahogany podium, an organ, and several polished wood chairs. The floor and pews had been milled from colonial walnut and were completely vacant except for Paige, her head bent in the front row, and a row of corporate lawyers that Mary was guessing were from Tribe amp; Wright. At the end of the row sat Dwight Davis.
Trevor's not here,' Mary observed. 'But Davis came. Accept no substitutes.'
'Maybe Paige confronted Trevor.'
'Possible.' Mary looked down the row and spotted the thick neck of Detective Kovich. Brinkley wasn't here, and she wondered if he'd been fired. The story in the newspaper couldn't have helped his career.
The service is starting, Mare. Let's sit down.'
'Go close to the front,' Mary said, and they seated themselves in a pew several behind Paige and the lawyers. Mary wanted Paige to see her so she'd keep in mind what they'd said in the apartment. Maybe Mary's appeal would sink in. She could only hope, but she couldn't possibly pray. There was no ball of smoking incense, no cup of magic wine, and none of the other equipment essential to talk to God.
Paige sat in the front row of the service. The pastor was saying something but it didn't matter. She didn't know where Trevor was and she was worried that what Mary had told her was true. She'd left two messages for him but he still hadn't called. It was weird. This had been happening a lot lately.
She bit her lip and thought back to when it started. She had to admit it had been since she told him she was pregnant. She felt nauseous again but it wasn't the baby. She'd been going back and forth on the decision, but still couldn't make up her mind. She was running out of time. Trevor wanted to get married, and so did she. She hoped
they would make good parents, not like the ones they had. She had even started to read about raising babies and she hadn't taken any drugs since the crystal.
The pastor was saying something else about her mother, even though he had never met her. Her mother didn't have any friends at all; supposedly a society lady, she had no society. Paige felt sorry for her until she realized that she was alone here, too. She didn't have any girlfriends either. Once Trevor had given her a button that said, I'M BECOMING MY MOTHER! She couldn't bring herself to wear it. She thought about that for a while, her head bent, her eyes dry. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Mary, but looked away. She couldn't think about that now.
The service ended and Paige went with her mother's lawyers to the cemetery. When they slid her mother's polished casket out of the shiny hearse, Paige decided she wasn't going to pay attention anymore. The wind gusted, blowing her hair around, and she kept her head down and her lips tight. Men from the funeral home were the pallbearers, and for a while, it was easy to ignore everything, even at the graveside service. The short little pastor, the boring hymn, the rectangular hole, the important lawyer, Mr Whittier, checking his watch; she didn't notice a thing.
The casket was lowered into the grave, and she became aware of the press photographers, kept at a distance. She turned to the cameras automatically and smoothed her hair, then caught herself. She didn't want to pose at her mother's funeral. She didn't want to pose at all anymore. She turned back just in time to see her mother disappearing into the earth forever, and the sight of it caught her by the throat. The harder Paige tried not to think about that, the harder she did think about.it. The more she tried not to feel guilty, the guiltier she felt. The more she tried not to love her mother, the more she did.
And she started to cry and didn't stop until long after her mother was gone.
'The next matter is Commonwealth v. Newlin,' the court crier called. 'Defendant Jack Newlin is represented by Mr Isaac Roberts, and Mr Dwight Davis is here for the Commonwealth.'
Thank you and good afternoon, counsel,' said Judge Angel Silveria from the dais. He flashed a brief smile, like a waning moon, and Mary, watching from her seat in the packed gallery, knew that it would be the last smile they'd see from him. A chubby, compact judge, Silveria was a former prosecutor who enjoyed his reputation as the most conservative on the Municipal Court bench. It didn't matter so much at this preliminary proceeding, but Jack couldn't have drawn a tougher judge for trial if he'd tried, and Mary wondered with dismay if he had.
'Good afternoon to you, Your Honor,' Isaac Roberts said with a flourish.
Mary craned her neck to get a better look at her replacement, patron saint of sleazeballs. Roberts was one of the best-known criminal lawyers in town, although he had never tried a murder case. He plea-bargained for upper-echelon coke dealers, a specialty for lawyers wishing their fees in cash and their eternity in hell. Roberts wore the best clothes that cocaine could buy; a dark Armani suit, Gucci loafers, and a Jerry Garcia tie to complement his Jerry Garcia ponytail. Mary assumed that Roberts was confusing crackhead with Deadhead and began to simmer. He wouldn't care if Jack was innocent or guilty.
'Good day, Your Honor,' Davis said, shooting up like an arrow at counsel table. 'The Commonwealth is ready to begin.'
Judge Silveria gestured to the sheriff. 'Please bring in the defendant.'
Mary suppressed a pang when Jack was brought in, in an orange prison jumpsuit, handcuffs, and leg manacles, and escorted to his seat by two sheriffs. A red swelling over his right cheek distorted his handsome features, and he walked with obvious pain.
'If I may proceed, Your Honor,' Davis began, 'the Commonwealth calls Detective Stan Kovich to the stand.'
Mary watched as the beefy detective rose, punched up his glasses, and lumbered to the witness stand where he was sworn in. Kovich looked so earnest on the stand, four-square and forthright, that she knew he'd be a terrific witness for the Commonwealth. She wondered again about Brinkley and twisted around in her seat. He was nowhere in sight, and she wasn't surprised. She'd called the Roundhouse and left messages for him, but he hadn't returned her calls. No surprise there either.
'Good morning, Detective Kovich/ Davis said. 'I would like to direct your attention to January eleventh of this year. Did your duties as detective cause you to interview the defendant Jack Newlin at approximately nine o'clock in the evening?'
'Yes, they did,' Kovich began, and Davis nodded.
'Please tell the judge, first, what you observed about defendant's appearance.'
'I observed what appeared to be human blood on Mr Newlin's hands and clothes.'
The testimony continued with Davis taking Kovich through the high points of the videotaped confession, and Mary listened with increasing dismay. She counted only two objections by Roberts and a lame cross-examination, but nothing would have made a difference. At a preliminary hearing, the Commonwealth had only to make out a prima facie case of murder, the barest minimum, and they had that easy. The reporters scribbled and the courtroom sketch artists drew madly when Judge Silveria ruled:
'I find the Commonwealth has borne its burden of proving a prima facie case on all counts of the charge of general murder, and I order the defendant Jack Newlin bound over for trial.' The judge banged his gavel. 'Shall we set bail?'
Davis rose quickly. 'Your Honor, the Commonwealth opposes bail in this matter. We believe Mr Newlin poses a substantial risk of flight, especially in view of the fact that the Commonwealth has made a determination to prosecute Mr Newlin to the fullest extent of the law in this matter. We have announced today that we are seeking the death penalty in this case.'
In the gallery, Mary felt her heart tighten in her chest. So there truly would be no deals. The prospect horrified her. She looked for Jack at counsel table but all she could see was his profile, his bruised chin held high. His lawyer rose beside him in far too relaxed a manner.
'Your Honor,' Roberts said, 'regardless of the Commonwealth's scare tactics, Mr Newlin poses no real flight risk. It is one thing to deny bail at the arraignment, but another to deny it after the preliminary hearing, Your Honor. I cannot recall the last case in which bail was denied at this juncture.'
Judge Silveria banged the gavel again. 'That much is correct, Mr Roberts. Your client is hereby released on bail. Bail shall be set at $250,000. Next matter, please.'
Mary felt relieved, despite the high number. She knew Jack could make the ten percent he needed to get free, and bail should have been granted, as a legal matter. She could use another crack at changing Jack's mind. Maybe a taste of freedom would influence him.
The gallery rose almost as one, with the reporters, sketch artists, and spectators filing out, but Mary remained behind. Roberts was packing his briefcase, but Jack had turned and was scanning the gallery. Mary didn't know why; Paige wasn't in the crowd, probably he'd told her not to come. She found herself rising to her feet as
the gallery cleared completely and she realized Jack was staring at her.
Her heart lodged in her throat, a place it had no business being, and she didn't know what to do. He was looking right at her, his eyes betraying a tacit connection. Then they became guarded again, and he turned away. But Mary hadn't imagined it; it had happened. He had been looking for her.
She stood her ground in silence, which in itself made a statement. Jack was lying and he knew it, and if there was any justice in this city, all she had to do was keep standing up for the truth. She had to bear witness. She vowed never to give up and never to sit down and never to let down until she had brought the truth to light.
She remained standing in the empty gallery long after Jack had been led from the courtroom, and her eyes wandered over the judicial dais, the nylon flag, and the golden seal of the Commonwealth; the objects and symbols she took for granted in courtrooms and had never really looked at until now. She found herself believing in the objects in a way she had never believed in the chalices, wafers, and rosaries of her childhood, and she wondered if she believed in the gavel because she didn't believe in the crucifix. It might have been true; she wasn't sure. Mary knew she didn't have all the answers and wasn't better than anyone else. But for the first time in her life, she came to the conclusion that she wasn't any worse.
Fifteen minutes later, she was hurrying from the Criminal Justice Center and past City Hall, the cold wind pushing her along. The press thronged behind her in front of the courthouse; she had managed to duck most of them. She had to get back to the office to try to find Brinkley. He must know something that was making him investigate Paige and Trevor. Mary had to find out what it was.
The sidewalks were crowded and she threaded her way along, but when she got to the corner was surprised to see an attractive man approaching her with a plainly lustful
look. She put her head down and hustled past him, but when she looked up again there was another man looking at her with naked interest. Mary didn't get it. Men never looked at her like that and they wouldn't be starting now. Her hair was messy, her coat was wrinkled, and her eyes were red from her contacts.
'Mary,' said a voice behind her, and she turned. Standing right behind her, plainly out of breath, was Paige. 'Do you have a minute?' the teenager asked.
There were worse things than being suspended, Brinkley was finding out. In truth it didn't feel so different, except for the money. He'd never felt a part of Two Squad anyway and had been on the outside looking in most of the time on the job. Now it was just official. Also it gave him more time to freelance. On the Newlin case. He stayed in the loop, thanks to the reporters who had gotten him suspended. The newspapers had the blow-by-blow of Newlin attacking his lawyer, and Brinkley knew instantly it was a scam. The man just did not have it in him. Brinkley had also heard that the prelim had gone down with new counsel, and that the judge had ruled for the Commonwealth and also set bail.
He was driving downtown in his black '68 Beetle, rotted at the doorjambs and chassis. The cold wind whistled through the rust holes, and he had to keep his leather jacket buttoned. Someday the Beetle's floor would fall out, but that was part of the fun. It ran great and the vinyl seats were still free of duct tape. Sheree had been too ashamed of the car to drive around in it and had dubbed it Shit Car. Brinkley used to call it that, too. Until today.
He cruised forward with the aftermarket C D player loud in the midday traffic, feeling like a kid playing hooky. Beside him on the seat was the FedEx package in a soft envelope. He stopped at the red light on Broad Street, where a brother pulled up in a cherry red 'Vette. Brinkley kept his eyes straight ahead. Just let him say something. A man can drive any damn car he wants to.
The traffic light turned green, and Brinkley hit the gas. The Corvette wouldn't approve of his music either. It
wasn't rap or jazz; it was Elvis. Brinkley had a collection of over a hundred CDs and had been to Graceland three times. Each time he had been the only black detective from Philly in line, but he didn't care. Sheree hadn't gone with him on any of the trips. She didn't appreciate the King, which bugged him, and Brinkley clung to that thought. It was good to be having some bad memories of her. Maybe he could string them along, one after the other like keys on a ring, and not want her back.
He turned the corner, spotted the building up on his left, and slowed to a stop in front of it. Then he flicked on faint blinkers, grabbed the FedEx package, and climbed out of the Beetle.
Mary and Paige entered Captain Walsh's office, which was surprisingly bare for such top brass. She introduced herself and Paige, then took a seat in front of his regulation-issue desk and gestured to Paige to take the other. Mary had decided to go straight to the top with Paige's confession. The old Mary would have been intimidated, but the new Mary didn't think twice about the asking to see the manager. Thank you for meeting with us, Captain,' she said, and Paige nodded stiffly.
'Certainly.' Captain Walsh nodded, his thick neck folding into the starchy collar on his white uniform. He wore a dark tie and gold badge and his hair looked permanently uncombed. Mary avoided staring at his birthmark, which matched the blotches on her neck. Captain Walsh gestured to the door, opening behind her. 'Here's Detective Kovich. I think you know him.'
'Yes, sure.' Mary twisted around. Kovich entered the office in a short-sleeved shirt and spongy brown pants that revealed he hadn't cut down on portion size. Following him was a young man with spiky black hair moussed straight up and a black tweed jacket with baggy black slacks. Mary figured him for the Young amp; Hip version of detective.
The good-lookin' one is Detective Donovan,' Captain Walsh said, and Mary smiled politely.
'I also remember a Detective Brinkley, from our interview at Paige's apartment. Will he be coming?'
'No, Detective Donovan has replaced him on the case.' Walsh addressed the young detective. 'Say hello to the nice lawyer, Danny.'
'Hello, Ms DiNunzio,' he said, with a mock half-bow, and Mary hated him instantly.
'Where's Detective Brinkley, Captain?' she asked.
'Detective Brinkley is no longer on this case. I'm holding a press conference later today about the matter. He was put on suspension for improper conduct.'
Mary knew it was code for disagreeing with the boss and wondered how Walsh and Kovich would react when Brinkley turned out to be right. She paused until Kovich took a position at the right side of Captain Walsh, leaning against a credenza in the back. Donovan stood next to him, slipped his hands in his pockets, and looked skeptically at them. Mary ignored the boys-against-the-girls vibe and cleared her throat.
'Captain, as you know, I represented Jack Newlin in the early stage of his murder case, and after investigation I came to believe that he was innocent of the crime and that he confessed falsely, to protect his daughter. It turns out to be the truth, and Paige has decided to come forward.'
Captain Walsh frowned so deeply his birthmark folded in two and he addressed Paige. 'Is this true, young lady?'
'Yes, it is,' she said. Her voice sounded soft and young, and Mary's heart went out to her. Mary could only guess at how frightened she must feel, turning herself in to face a murder charge. She had warned Paige that she might not be tried as a juvenile. 'I'm very sorry for what I did, and I'm very sorry I let my father do what he's doing. I shouldn't have. He's innocent. I did it. I… killed my mother.'
'Well, now. That's quite a mouthful.' Captain Walsh's lips set like concrete. 'I think at this point I should tell you your rights under Miranda. I think I still remember how.' He went through the litany as Mary's stomach tightened. As bad as it felt for Jack to be in jail, it would feel equally lousy to have Paige there. It was a no-win situation, and Mary could almost understand why Jack had done what he did. Walsh finished, then asked, 'Do you understand your rights, Ms Newlin?'
'Yes,' Paige said, her voice trembling, and Mary took her hand and squeezed it.
'Kovich, why don't you get us some waiver forms?' Walsh said, and the burly detective straightened and hustled out of the room. 'Ms DiNunzio, are you representing Ms Newlin?'
'Yes, I am.'
'Good, fine.' Walsh clenched and unclenched his fist, as if he had a hand exerciser, until Kovich returned with a flurry of papers and handed them to Mary. 'Ah, here are the forms,' he said, as she read them and nodded for Paige to sign. She did, with a pen handed to her by the captain. 'Now, Ms Newlin, why don't you tell us what happened,' he said.
'Sure. Right. Okay.' Paige ran her tongue over dry lips. 'I was going home to talk to my mother, to tell her I was pregnant. I told my dad on the phone that day, and he said he would be home to help me tell her. I brought my boyfriend over, but I told my dad I didn't.' She paused. 'My mother went nuts when I told her, like she went crazy. She was drunk and she hit me so hard I fell off the chair. Then she started kicking me in the stomach really hard, saying she was going to kick my baby out of me.'
Walsh's dark eyes flared. 'She said what?'
'She started yelling, "You kill it or I'll kill it!" And then I just went crazy, too. I think it was the drugs.' Paige halted and looked at Mary. They had been over this at Mary's office, and Mary had advised her to tell the whole truth, drugs and all. It had to come out, and Mary was hoping it could provide a diminished capacity defense or maybe reduce the charge.
'Drugs.' Walsh sighed,-his frown undisguised. 'What were you high on?'
'Crystal meth.'
Mary leaned toward the captain. 'It was given to her by her boyfriend, Trevor Olanski. He was present at the crime and can substantiate everything she says. We've
been trying to locate him but we can't. I have reason to believe he was in New York last night.'
Walsh turned to Paige. 'Please go on.'
'Well, I never took meth before and I was so mad, like raging. It's hard to remember. I grabbed the knife off the table and I… I… stabbed her.' Tears of guilt sprang to Paige's eyes but she didn't cry, and Mary felt proud of her. 'I didn't even know I was so angry inside, but I got out of control and I stabbed her. I finally stopped and calmed down, and I dropped the knife. My mother was… on the floor, so my boyfriend picked me up and got me out of there. Well, then my dad came home and he must have found my mother and figured out what happened. He confessed, but he didn't do it. He didn't.' Paige managed to hold back her tears, and Mary squeezed her hand. It was over. Paige had come through. Jack would be set free.
But Walsh still looked grim. 'You know, Ms Newlin, it's not unusual for a family member to come to us and try to cover for one of their own, especially in a homicide case.'
Mary nodded. 'We know that. That's why her father did it.'
Walsh raised a palm like a traffic cop. 'I'm talking to Ms Newlin, Ms DiNunzio.'
'I understand that.'
'So let me talk to her without interfering. If there's anything you don't want her to answer, you can tell her. But don't answer for her, understand? I muzzled my boy Donovan here, and if you think that was easy, you're nuts.'
'It's not the same thing. Captain.' Mary remained unintimidated, an act of will. 'Detective Donovan isn't exposed to criminal liability. Paige is, and I'm her lawyer.'
'And you were also Mr Newlin's. Now, I don't know a lot about legal ethics, but I don't get how you can be his lawyer and her lawyer when their interests are in conflict.'
'I'm no longer Mr Newlin's lawyer and I know from my investigation on this case that what Paige is saying is true.' Mary glanced at Kovich, against the credenza. 'And before you question my ethics, look to the department's. It's all over the newspapers that you've broken ranks over this case. Yet your only response has been to punish Brinkley, not to release an innocent man.'
'We haven't established that Newlin's innocent, Ms DiNunzio. Maybe if you let me talk to his daughter, we can make some progress.'
'Go right ahead,' Mary said. She found herself respecting Captain Walsh, even as they fought.
'I'm so glad.' Walsh hunched over his desk, closer to Paige. 'Ms Newlin, as you know, your father confessed to this crime and that's why we charged him. He confessed to nine-one-one, he confessed to the detectives, and we have it all on videotape. Nobody beat it out of him or made him say anything. He came in and told us what happened. You understand that?'
Paige nodded. 'But he was lying, to protect me.'
'You may not know that there was a substantial amount of physical evidence against your father. He had your mother's blood on his hands and clothes. We just received the coroner's report and he says it took a substantial amount of force to make those knife wounds. I wonder if a skinny girl like you could have done it.'
'I did do it. I stabbed her,' Paige protested, but Mary was getting a sinking feeling.
There were a number of stab wounds, too. Do you know how many?'
'I think maybe two or three. I remember… two or three.'
Captain Walsh shook his head. There were five.'
'Okay, whatever, there were five/ Paige said, testy in a teenage way. 'I don't know how many I did. I was high, I told you.'
'I understand that.' Walsh paused. 'But five stab wounds
into a chest takes time and effort. It's work. You wouldn't forget something like that.'
'I was high, I told you.' Paige was getting frustrated, and, standing behind Walsh, Donovan folded his arms.
'What about the cut on the hand, Cap?' he asked.
Walsh glanced back in annoyance, then returned to Paige. 'You know, typically when a knife is used in a murder, the person doing the stabbing gets a cut or two on their hand, because the knife is so slippery. It almost always happens that way. Your father had a cut on his hand. Do you have any cuts on your hands?'
Paige looked down at her hands, spreading her fingers. They were pink and lovely, with not a scratch on them, and Mary felt stricken. She knew where this was heading. They weren't going to believe Paige. She wondered briefly if she should take Paige to confront Jack, but he would just deny it.
'But I did it, I'm telling you,' Paige protested. The softness had vanished from her voice in her determination to be believed. 'Do you honestly think I would make this up? Pretend I killed my own mother when I didn't?'
'Yes, of course.' Captain Walsh nodded, his expression somber. That's what you're telling us your father did.'
Kovich shifted uneasily against the credenza. 'I'm wondering about something, Captain. May I?'
'Can I stop you?' Walsh asked, with a stern smile, but Kovich wasn't taking no for an answer.
'Paige said her mother was kicking her stomach, hard. You saw the coroner's report, Cap. The mother's toe was broken, on the right foot. She could have done that kicking someone. We thought it was a defensive wound, but maybe it wasn't.' Kovich's eyes sharpened behind his gold-rimmed glasses. 'If Paige is telling the truth, she should have bruises on her stomach.'
'Yes, she should,' Mary said, eagerly. Kovich was helping them, obviously at some professional cost, and she nodded to him gratefully.
Walsh turned to face Paige. 'Ms Newlin, do you have any bruises on you?'
'I guess so, sure. My stomach hurt the next day. I was worried about the baby and I called Planned Parenthood. They said it should be fine, since it was so early.'
'You understand, we can't take your word for it,' Walsh said, his tone still heavy with doubt. 'We'll have to see the bruises. Photograph them, too.'
'Fine,' Mary said. She wished she'd thought of it in her office, but she hadn't known about the broken toe. The prosecution hadn't had to disclose the coroner's report yet. 'If you gentlemen will clear out of the room, maybe I can take a look at Paige's stomach.'
The captain and the detectives rose and left. Kovich shot them a backward glance as he went out the door, which Mary read as encouragement. He must have realized that Brinkley had been right. With his information and Mary's, Jack would be exonerated. Mary jumped to her feet as soon as the police had closed the door behind them. 'Paige, let me see your bruises.'
'Sure.' Paige began to unbutton her blouse, her long red hair tumbling forward. 'I do have them. I mean, I didn't think to look, but I know I do. My stomach was killing me.' Her fingers fumbled to open the middle button, then the next and finally the third and fourth. She parted her blouse. A lacy white bra peeked out and below it lay one of the flattest, prettiest stomachs Mary had ever seen. There wasn't a bruise or a blotch on her.
Mary's mouth went dry. 'There's nothing,' she said, stricken, and Paige looked down in confusion.
'I don't get it. Where are the bruises? She was kicking me and kicking me. I know it. I remember it.'
Then how could they not be there? How could you not know?' Mary tried not to sound accusatory, but it dashed her hopes for Jack's release. 'Don't you look at your own body?'
'Not since that night, I guess. I've barely had time to
shower. But she kicked me, I remember. I was worried she was going to kill the baby. She said she was going to kill the baby!'
Mary didn't know what to say or do. What was going on here? The captain would never believe Paige now, but she had been telling the truth. Her account was exactly the way she'd told it in Mary's office and all of it made sense. But Kovich, who had been trying to help them, had also been right. If Paige had been kicked with enough force to break a toe, she would have bruises to show for it. So the only logical conclusion was that she hadn't been kicked.
There was a soft rapping at the closed door. 'Can we come in, Ms DiNunzio?' asked Captain Walsh, and Mary felt panicky.
'In a minute,' she answered, and Paige buttoned her shirt hastily.
Captain Walsh entered with Detective Donovan, and Kovich followed on their heels, holding a Polaroid camera. After him came a woman and he seemed excited as he introduced her to Mary and Paige. 'This is Detective Andersson and she'll take photos of the bruises,' he said, but Mary thought fast.
'We'll take the photos after we talk with her boyfriend. He can substantiate everything she says.'
'What? What about the bruises?' Kovich asked, his shoulders slumping visibly, as Captain Walsh scowled.
'Are there bruises or not, Ms DiNunzio?'
'No,' Mary admitted, and she ignored the knowing look that spread over Donovan's face. 'But maybe they haven't appeared yet, or something. The boyfriend was there, I know it. When we find him, he can corroborate what she says.'
'I doubt it.' Donovan folded his arms. 'Paige is obviously trying to protect her father. She's lost one parent and she doesn't want to lose the other.' He looked at Paige with sympathy. 'I'm very sorry for your losses, Paige. But you are the victim of this crime, the same as your
mother. Your father has to answer for her murder, not you.'
I'll handle this, Donovan,' Walsh said. He returned to his chair and sat down heavily, looking up at all of them. 'Tell you what, Ms DiNunzio. You take Ms Newlin out of here immediately and I won't press charges against her for filing a false police report and attempting to obstruct justice. Nor will I mention to the bar association that you're playing fast and loose with the truth. And mark my words, if either of you go to the press with this, I'll have her head.' Walsh pointed at Paige. 'Capisce?'
'Captain, as soon as we find the boyfriend, we'll come back.' Mary couldn't give up. 'Then he can tell you exactly what happened.'
'I know where the boyfriend is, and he can't help you.'
'What? Where?' Mary asked, in surprise.
'He's in federal custody,' Captain Walsh answered, and Paige gasped.
Jack left prison in a cab, feeling strange in the grey sweatshirt and jeans they'd issued him for departure. His face hurt from the beating he'd gotten and his eye was tender when he squinted against the sun, but his thoughts were filled with Paige. Now that he was free, he would protect her from Trevor and find out what the hell had happened.
The cab sped down the elevated strip of 1-95, above abandoned rowhouses and graffitied warehouses, and he ignored the driver's cold eye in the rearview mirror. The driver had to know who Jack was, because he picked him up at the prison. Jack took his hostility in stride. He understood that people outside the prison wouldn't be quite so eager to shake his hand. Life as a confessed murderer wouldn't be easy, nor should it be.
The cab reached the city in an hour, and Jack directed the driver to his town house. He didn't know why but he was drawn to it. He didn't open the car door when the cab paused at the curb, as if he had just left a funeral service and was driving past the home of the deceased. It was apropos. Jack felt dead in a way; at least that part of his life was dead. Honor was dead, and he hadn't even gone to her memorial service. Ashamed of himself, he bent his head in a moment of silence.
The cab engine thrummed in the background as he thought about her. He mourned her, but he didn't mourn the life they had. He could only mourn the life they pretended they had, but there was no point to that. He looked out the cab window at the house, its front door crisscrossed with yellow crime-scene tape. He didn't have to be told he couldn't go inside, much less live there anymore. Everything he owned was there, but he owned
none of it anymore. He had never wanted any of it in the first place. Sun bathed the colonial house in a million-dollar glow and though it shone like a sales brochure, Jack didn't want to see it ever again.
He asked the driver to take him to the hotel. He'd chosen a medium-priced one frequented by tourists because he knew no press would be there. The cabbie steered in its direction without responding and they arrived in fifteen minutes. He left the cab, entered the hotel, and pushed his American Express card across the wood counter, but again, the young woman at the reception desk didn't have to read Jack's credit card to know who he was. The newspapers stacked next to her bore a blowup of his photo, his face divided by the fold, his nose repeated twenty-five times. The young woman couldn't help but look horrified at the wounds on his face, not yet captured in news photos. He ignored it; he had to get going. Paige.
He quickly accepted his room key and card, hurried to the elevator, and punched the button, experiencing the same odd sensation his house had evoked. He felt disconnected from everything, as if he'd been unplugged from his own life. His home, his family. Mary. He tried to forget seeing her in court at his preliminary hearing. She had been there for him, to remind him to tell the truth, but there was no way he could ever do that, death penalty or no. He tried not to think about it.
Jack rode up in the elevator, spacious compared with ad seg. How could it be that in the same day he could be confined to solitary and later check into a tourist hotel? How could he so easily exchange prison blues for a sweatshirt? The disconnect Jack experienced extended even to himself, as if his body had become a hanger and he could change identities as easily as clothes. Father. Lawyer. Murderer. The elevator doors slid open and he stepped out.
He didn't know who he was any longer, but it was high time he found out.
Jack knocked at the door of the squat brick rowhouse, but there was no answer. It was cold outside but he felt warm enough in the football jacket he'd bought in the hotel gift shop, I LOVE PHILADELPHIA, it said across the chest. Still he didn't think his absurd jacket was the reason a little black boy stood on the sidewalk, staring at him. His silent gaze told Jack that few white people came to this section of the city.
Jack knocked again, then checked the address: 639 Beck Street. It was Brinkley's house; the address had been in the phone book. He had called and it had been Brinkley's voice on the machine, but he hadn't left a message. He didn't want to leave any evidence suggesting that he wasn't the killer.
He knocked again. He had to talk to Brinkley, face-to-face. It was a risk but he would take it if Paige were in danger. He'd been calling her but there had been no answer. He'd left a message with the name of his hotel and had told her to call there as soon as possible. He was worried about where she could be and who she was with. He. hoped it wasn't Trevor.
Jack pounded hard on the door as the little boy wandered up to him. About seven years old, he wore a black knit cap pulled low over his eyes and his hands were shoved into a hand-me-down jacket. 'He ain't home,' the boy said. 'I seen him go.'
'Oh, thanks.'
'He a cop.'
'I know.' Jack turned from the door, scanned the block, and walked back down the stoop. 'I think I'll wait for him. Mind if I stay?'
"S all right with me.' The boy shrugged, staring frankly at Jack's battered face. 'You get in a tussle, mister?'
'In a way.' Jack smiled, then eased onto his haunches to strike up a conversation with the only person in Philadelphia who hadn't read today's newspaper.
'It's you!' Mary said, amazed. She took one look at the blonde with the nose job and recognized her instantly. 'You're the woman who was at the train station with Trevor.'
'Do I know you?' The blonde looked politely puzzled as she greeted them at the glass door of the bustling, modern offices of the FBI in the federal courthouse downtown. 'I'm Special Agent Reppetto,' she said, extending a hand, which Mary shook.
'Special Agent? Mary couldn't help repeating. The woman looked more professional wearing a shiny FBI badge on the pocket of her blue blazer. Or maybe it was because her tongue wasn't buried in Trevor's mouth. 'No, you don't know me. I saw you meet Trevor at the train station. I didn't know you were an FBI agent.'
'You're not supposed to. I was undercover.' Agent Reppetto grinned, apparently guiltless about her public make-out session, and Mary wondered if she were some new breed of Italian. 'We've had our eye on Olanski a long time. He moves a significant amount of drugs out of New York and is distributing to a network of dealers here. Mostly he sells to dealers in private school. He sold to the wrong kid a few months ago, the son of a United States Attorney.'
'Not a smart move. What will happen to him?'
'We'll charge him, but he'll make bail. We're gonna try our best to put him out of business, keep him away from other kids. It's mandatory sentencing and we'll prosecute him as an adult.'
Paige groaned softly. 'Does that mean he'll go to jail?'
Agent Reppetto nodded. 'I can't discuss that with you. In any event, he should be out on bail tonight.'
'I see,' Mary said, but noticed that Paige's face fell. The teenager was going through so much and she was probably remembering Trevor's cheating on her. The least Mary could do was to clear up the confusion, however awkwardly. 'Agent Reppetto, did you have some sort of affair with Trevor, to bust him?'
'No, I'm not a spy,' Reppetto answered, with a laugh. 'He wanted to make a buy in New York, then take me to Petrossian to celebrate. We never got to the caviar. I just wanted to go to the buy.' She clapped her hands together. 'Now, we've briefed the interrogating agent on your facts. Shall we go watch the interview?'
Ten minutes later, Mary and Paige gathered at one side of the two-way mirror into the interview room, and Detectives Kovich and Donovan stood on the other side. Mary had cautioned Paige not to say anything in their earshot as the FBI agents conducted the questioning. The agents had arrested Trevor on the 'buy-and-bust,' as they called it, but had been willing to cooperate with the Philadelphia police on investigating the Newlin murder. Trevor had agreed to talk with them, hoping for leniency. He slumped at the table in his brown leather jacket and white shirt, sullen as he fiddled with a can of Mountain Dew.
'I told you, I don't know anything about it,' Trevor said, and the FBI agent sitting across from him nodded. The agent was a middle-aged man with dark hair, who looked fit in his dark suit. In front of him sat a can of diet Coke.
'You don't know anything about the Newlin murder?'
'No.' Next to Trevor sat a white-haired man in a three-piece suit, whom Mary pegged instantly as his lawyer. She couldn't tell an undercover agent, but she could smell a lawyer through glass. The lawyer stayed quiet during the interrogation, taking occasional notes.
'Were you at the Newlin house that night?'
'No.'
'Have you ever been in the Newlin house?'
'A coupla times.'
'Why?'
To meet the 'rents.'
'Where were you the night Honor Newlin was killed?'
Trevor paused. 'What night was that again?'
'Monday.'
'I was home studying. I had a French final the next day, and you can check it.'
'So you weren't there, with the daughter, Paige Newlin.'
'No.'
'Do you know if the daughter was at her parents' house that night?'
'She wasn't. She was at home. She gets migraines and shit.'
'So you weren't there that night, but you were dating the daughter.'
'Yes.'
'The daughter is pregnant by you.'
'So she says,' Trevor said, and at the window Paige winced. Mary gave her a warning nudge.
The agent sipped his soda. 'What do you know about the Newlin murder?'
'Nothing but what I read in the paper. That the father killed her.'
'Did you give Paige any drugs that night?'
'No, I was home studying that night.'
'Did you ever give Paige drugs?'
'Sometimes. It got her goin',' Trevor said, and it sounded so ugly that this time Mary winced.
'Did you help her calm down after the murder?'
'No.'
'Didn't give her any drugs to calm down?'
'No.'
'Did you tell her to tell the cops that you weren't together that night?'
'No.'
'Did Paige kill her mother?'
'I don't know. Her father did, as far as I know.'
'Did you?'
'Objection,' said the lawyer, but Mary had heard all she had to. She took Paige's arm and led her away. When she left. Detective Donovan was smiling.
But Kovich wasn't.
It was a gloomy cab ride back to the office, with Mary kicking herself for not asking about Paige's bruises before they'd gone to Walsh. She'd been too eager to get Paige to the police and now Trevor was lying, doing his best not to implicate himself. She looked out the window at the chilly city, speeding by. She felt sick at heart. She had screwed up her only chance to help Jack. How could she have been so dumb?
Paige shifted in the seat next to her, looking out her window on the other side, and Mary could only guess how she must be feeling. Her father, in jail because of her, and her lover, betraying them both. Her perfect profile faced the city, but her eyes remained remarkably dry. And this on the day she had buried her mother. Mary couldn't fathom it. She reached over and patted Paige's hand, resting loosely on her coat. 'I'm sorry I goofed up, with Captain Walsh.'
Paige smiled sadly. 'Don't worry about it. It was my fault, too, and I'm sorry.'
'We're gonna figure this thing out, you and me. We have to.'
'I know we are,' Paige said, and Mary heard a new determination strengthen her tone.
'How are you feeling, Paige? I mean, I'm surprised you're not a mess after what Trevor just said.'
'Not at all.' Paige shook her head. Trevor lied to save his own ass. I think I'm finally seeing him for what he really is.'
'I was wrong about him cheating on you, and I'm sorry.'
Paige waved her off. 'You apologize too much, you know that?'
'Do I? Let's make a deal. I'll apologize less, and you say "thank you" more. Fair enough?'
'Fair enough.' Paige smiled. 'And Trevor did cheat on me. He left me and went to New York with another woman. He didn't know she was with the FBI. That's cheating, isn't it?'
'Technically it's attempted cheating, but I won't bore you with the legalities.'
Paige smiled. 'So it's over with him. I want nothing to do with him.'
'Good for you.' Mary wondered what it meant for the baby, but decided this wasn't the time or place. Paige had enough to think about. The girl was growing up in only a few days, and Mary wasn't completely surprised.
Adulthood never had anything to do with age anyway.
Mary sat behind the conference room table like a judge while Paige stood up and told what had happened the night her mother was killed, and by the time she was finished Mary had almost succeeded in visualizing the scene. 'Tell it again,' she said anyway. 'I want to see if there's anything inconsistent, telling to telling.'
'Mary, I'm not making this up. It's the truth, I swear it.'
'I believe you, but something's wrong. You have no bruises on you and you should, if what you're saying is true. Start over. You and Trevor go to your parents' house…'
Paige sighed without further complaint. 'My mother started to fight with me, right off. Told me I looked fat and I shouldn't be eating. She started in on the Bonner shoot. How I looked like I was gaining. How I had to watch what I ate to get over.'
'Get over?'
'You know, make it,' Paige answered, and Mary flashed on the sweating kids under the hot lights, all hopeful but none with The Face. 'I felt like who was she to tell me, I'm not a child, and now I was having a child. I'm going to be a mother, a way better mother than she ever was. So I said, "I'm pregnant, that's why I'm so hungry," and she hit me. I fell off the chair onto the floor.'
Then what happened?'
'I got up from the floor and I started to cry. Then she grabbed me and threw me down and started kicking me in my stomach. At least I thought she did.' Paige paused, her forehead a knot of confusion. 'I remember that happening.
I swear, I remember she was trying to kick the baby out of me. She said so.'
Mary shook her head, confounded. It rang completely true, especially the way Paige recounted it, but it couldn't have been. 'What was Trevor doing?'
'He was trying to pull her off of me, I think. I don't really know.'
'But he was in there, fighting?'
'Yes, I think. She was yelling, "You kill it or I'll kill it!" I hurt, so much, and I rolled away, trying to protect the baby from her. But she kept coming at me, kicking.' Paige looked like she wanted to cry but didn't. 'I was so scared. Trevor said I was just crying and rolling on the ground.'
Mary's ears pricked up. 'Last time you didn't say, "Trevor said."'
'What?'
'Is it Trevor said, or you remember?'
'I remember. I remembered. Later. I mean, I remember crouching and rolling, trying to keep her away from the baby.'
Mary frowned. 'Do you remember really, or did he tell you? And when did he tell you?'
'I do remember, but we discussed it later, over and over. I couldn't get it out of my mind. I needed to talk about it. We talked after it happened, a lot. Until you came over. I was so upset, and he calmed me down.'
'By talking about what happened?'
'Partly.' Paige brushed a strand of hair from her troubled brow. 'I think I remember. I needed to talk about it. Parts of what happened I couldn't remember. It happened so fast and I was so high. So crazy.'
'What do you mean you couldn't remember parts of what happened?' Mary straightened, intrigued. 'You didn't tell me that before.'
'I didn't?' Paige's hand fluttered to her forehead. 'Let me think. There were things I wasn't sure about, I think. Details. It was just so awful, the whole scene.'
'You know it was awful or Trevor told you that?'
'I know that. I remember. It happened. Didn't it?' Paige's eyes flickered with bewilderment, and Mary dug in.
'You were high.'
'Not so high that I don't know what happened to me.'
'But think about it.' Mary stood up, wondering aloud. 'You go to dinner, you take a drug you never took before, and it makes you feel crazy. You and Trevor are together later and you go over what happened when you were high. How do you know what happened and what didn't?'
'I know because I remember.'
'But how can you be sure you remember correctly? Memory isn't always reliable. It's like recovered memory. Those cases with the kids at nursery schools. They question the kids so much they forget what they remember and what they were told. The kids want to please the questioner. They remember what they're told to remember.' Mary leaned forward. 'Consider that there are drugs in this scenario. You were on drugs at the time of the murder and you told me that Trevor gave you a drug to calm you down after, right?'
'Yes. Special K. Ketamine, like a tranquilizer.'
Mary thought about it. 'How do you know it was Special K?'
'It looked like it. A pile of white powder.'
Mary had never taken a drug in her life, except for Midol. 'But aren't lots of drugs white powder?'
'It made me feel relaxed, like K does.'
'I would think lots of drugs do that, too. Maybe it wasn't Ketamine, Paige. Maybe it was some other kind of drug, to make you more suggestible.'
'What?' Paige cocked her head, her hair falling to one skinny shoulder.
'Trevor gives you the crystal, or what he says is crystal, before you go over to your parents' house. By the way, why did you take it, if you had never taken it before? You knew you were going to an important dinner.'
'I knew it would be hard. I didn't think I could go through with it straight.' Paige flushed with regret. 'I know it was stupid, but Trevor said the crystal would make me stronger.'
'So he gives you the crystal, and you feel strong. Your memory is spotty. You feel out of control. You come home and he gives you another drug, then he tells you what happened. You said you two went over and over it.' Mary's excitement grew. 'What if you don't really remember what happened, you just remember what he tells you? In time it becomes the truth, but it's only in your mind.'
Paige looked dumbfounded. 'Is that possible?'
'Of course, given what you're telling me.'
'So what really happened, with my mother?'
'Anything could have happened, but only one thing is the most likely. Trevor killed your mother and made you think you did it.'
'What?' Paige's eyes widened. 'Trevor killed my mother?'
'It makes sense, doesn't it? We have only your word that he didn't. No one else was there.'
'I remember picking up the knife.'
'But do you remember stabbing her, actually stabbing her?'
'I don't know.' Paige raked her hair with her fingers, a gesture of Jack's. 'I don't remember. I don't know what I remember.'
'You heard what Walsh said. It takes force to kill somebody that way. Trevor is a big, strong guy. You'd have to remember stabbing your mother, actually bringing a knife down, five times. Do you? What were her reactions and yours? Did she fight you? Rip your clothes? How did you fight her back? Do you remember it?'
'I think -'
'Don't answer so fast.' Mary held up a palm. 'Concentrate. Think about it, every detail. Do you really remember? Can you tell it to me?'
Paige's eyes fluttered closed, then, after a moment, open. 'I can't. I really don't remember what happened between when I grabbed the knife and when I found it in my hand, later, all bloody. I thought I had gone into like a trance or something.' Paige shook her head. 'But I would know if Trevor did it, wouldn't I? I mean, I would have seen him do it.'
'But who knows what you perceived, under the influence of whatever drug he gave you? And who knows what you remember or what you saw?'
Paige blinked. 'But why? Why would he do it?'
'You tell me.' Mary's thoughts raced ahead. 'He had to know your mother had money, didn't he?'
'Yes, and he knew I'd inherit it. Even as pissed as she got at me, she'd never disown me.' Paige's blue eyes lost their focus as her thoughts slipped elsewhere. 'He used to ask me about it, and I told him what I knew about my trust fund and all, and about the Foundation. His parents have money, but not that much.'
'And you said he wanted to marry you.'
'He talked about it all the time. He really wanted us to get engaged, but I wanted to go slower. I wasn't sure. I had just moved out and all. So I said we should wait.'
'What did he say?'
Paige's face darkened. Then we got pregnant.' Her eyes glittered with a revelation, and Mary didn't have to ask what it was.
'You think he got you pregnant, on purpose.'
'I always made him use the condom, for safe sex. I knew he got around before we started dating. The time we got pregnant, he said the condom broke.'
'My God.' Mary leaned back in her chair, recoiling from the knowledge. Trevor's been playing you all along. He gave you drugs before you went over knowing they'd screw up your perceptions, maybe even put you out of it. I don't know enough about drugs, but I bet they have 'em. You may have heard your mother yelling, but it was
him she was kicking. He killed your mother, then he told you that you did it.'
'He planned on my father confessing?'
'I doubt it. Trevor couldn't have known your father would take the rap, but he took advantage of the opportunity. Either way, he gets your money. And if he's the killer, he's got the bruises to prove it. Did you notice any bruises on him later?'
'No, but I wasn't looking. How can we find out? Can we get the police to examine him, like with me?'
'No. You were volunteered, and I doubt very much he'll chirp right up. The cops can examine Trevor if he's under investigation for the crime, but he's not, so far.' Mary kicked herself again. 'I should have thought of it at the FBI, when they were questioning him. I'm sorry.'
'Don't say that, remember?' Paige smiled. 'You didn't suspect him then.'
'I should have.'
'He would have explained the bruises another way, Mary. He's a liar.'
Suddenly the conference room door opened, and Judy walked in carrying a FedEx package. She was a welcome sight, even in a black corduroy jumper, white turtleneck, and red clogs. 'News update, Mare,' she said. 'I ordered you both lo mein for dinner, I told our boss you're too sick to come to work, and most important, I brought you a present.'
'What a woman.'
'I'm more nurturing now that I have a dog.' Judy handed over the FedEx package, and Mary opened it. Out slid a piece of white paper with a Polaroid paper clipped to it.
'Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,' Mary said, amazed. CRIMINAL-ISTICS LABORATORY REPORT, Philadelphia Police Department, read the top. She might have gotten it later, in discovery, but somebody wasn't making her wait. Brinkley. He was trying to help her, even if he wasn't returning her calls. She scanned the report, technical but understandable.
This says the DNA on something, Item B, was from a white male.'
'Yowsa!' Judy squinted at the Polaroid. 'Could this be Item B?'
Mary looked. It was a photo of an earring back against the field of an Oriental rug. What was this about? Where had she seen that rug? 'Paige, isn't that the rug at your parent's house?'
Paige stood up and took the photo from Mary's outstretched hand. 'That's our dining room rug.'
'I thought so.' It was where Honor Newlin had been killed. Mary scrutinized the photo. 'If Brinkley sent this to us, it means it's a police photo. They take photos of the evidence at the crime scene. This must be an earring back they found there. And the lab report is saying it's from a male.'
Paige pointed at the photo. 'I know! I bet this is Trevor's. He didn't have his earring on later.'
'What do you mean, later?' Mary asked.
'Later that night, after my mother was killed. I'd given him a new earring earlier that day, for a present. It was a gold cross with a post back. But when we got back to my place, it wasn't in his ear anymore. Somebody, I guess the police, must have found this back part.'
Mary thought about it. 'Brinkley found it in the dining room.'
That must be right,' Paige said eagerly. Trevor was freaked that he lost it. I thought he was upset because it was eighteen carat, but he must have been worried the police would find it at my parents' house.'
Mary nodded grimly. 'Maybe he lost it fighting with your mother, when he killed her.'
'Does this prove anything?'
The earring back? No. It's a given Trevor has been at your parents' house. He said so to the FBI, remember? That's probably why they asked. If he were confronted with it, he could say he dropped it some other time.'
'No, he couldn't. He has been there before, but he never had that earring before. I gave it to him that day.'
'But they didn't find the earring, they found the back of it. The earring we could identify, but the backs are all alike. It could be an earring back Trevor lost another time, even if it is his DNA on it. It doesn't prove anything except that there are good cops in the world.'
Judy touched Mary's arm. 'Cheer up. You'll think of something else.'
'I will?' Mary said, but to her surprise, she already had.
Davis was at the office working on his laptop, outlining the Newlin case. He'd already gotten two calls from that scumsucker Roberts, but hadn't returned them yet. Let him waste his own time. Roberts had yet to defend a murder case in an actual courtroom. He'd be even easier than DiNunzio. The phone rang and Davis picked up.
'Go away,' Davis said, but it was the Chief. 'What? They went to Walsh? Why didn't he call me, Chief? Doesn't he know we're on the same team? Left hand, meet the right hand.' Davis laughed it off, but the news caught him by surprise. Newlin's daughter, trying to confess to Walsh. This was one wacky family. Newlin must have figured she'd do something like this. That's why he wanted to notify her himself. He wanted to play her, too.
'No bruises? I like that in a woman. Did they take Polaroids anyway?'
Davis reached for his Gatorade, almost buried in documents from Newlin's office. The wife's will was on top because he'd been studying it when the phone rang. Under the will, documents lay thick as the earth's strata; financials from Newlin's firm and partnership compensation, and the other documents they had seized. It was late but Davis would read through them before he went for a run.
'What? Then where? To the feds?' Davis's mood darkened. Those idiots! They got a tag on the boyfriend. You think they could let me in on it? They're worse than the cops, Chief! Fuck no! I don't have time to call 'em and suck up!'
Davis didn't like his plans interrupted. On his computer screen was a list of witnesses they'd need to subpoena
from the firm; Whittier, Field, Videon. He'd planned to have Whittier explain the compensation structure, then use Videon to take them through the prenup and his conversation with Honor Newlin. Davis hated to use the Necessary Evil, but he'd have to. If Davis spent the day preparing him, maybe he wouldn't mouth off on the stand.
'Of course the boyfriend said she didn't do it. She didn't do it! The father did, like I told you. Now let me work. Keep this up and I'll ask for a raise!' Davis said, and hung up.
Maybe it was time for that run.
Jack stood in Detective Brinkley's galley kitchen, his hand resting lightly on a chair of light wood at a round table. A fake Tiffany lamp over the table was the only light in the room and it cast long shadows on Brinkley's already long face. The kitchen was attached to the living room and, like it, was spare and uncluttered, with mismatched furniture. A black IKEA entertainment center dominated the area, with only a small TV above a stereo with tall, thin speakers and shelves of CDs. Jack was too intent to focus on decor for long. He had a plan for getting the information he needed about Trevor. 'I have a beef with you. Detective,' he said.
'Nice face.' Brinkley was crossing to the refrigerator. 'You run into a truck?'
Jack ignored it. 'You're been saying things in the press, things that are hurting my family. The paper says you think my daughter and her boyfriend were involved in the murder. You have it all wrong. I did it.'
That why you came here? To tell me what a bad guy you are?' Brinkley retrieved two bottles of Michelob from the refrigerator and two jelly glasses from a wood cabinet above the sink, then set everything on the table with a clatter. 'Have a seat,' he said, sitting down and eyeing Jack as critically as he had at their Roundhouse interview.
Jack remained standing. The press is all over my daughter because of you. She can't go anywhere. I came here to
tell you that you're ruining my kid's life. You keep this up, I'll file suit against you and the police. You don't have any evidence for what you're saying. It's not true, none of it.'
'You know, you are a bad guy, Newlin. Even though you didn't kill your wife, you're a bad guy.' Brinkley uncapped the beer with a church key that was already on the table. 'You filed a false confession. You played my department for fools. You took public resources for your own personal use. Got everybody running in the wrong direction. And got me suspended, for doing my job.'
'You didn't answer my question. You have any evidence for what you're saying?' Jack demanded. He knew what Brinkley was saying was true, but he couldn't admit it. The detective could report him to get his job back.
'You took the rap for your kid and her boyfriend, but that wasn't right. It was easy but it wasn't right. The right thing woulda been to let these kids answer for what they did.' Brinkley took a sip of one of the Michelobs and slid the other one toward Newlin. 'And you're a bad liar, pal. I'm thinkin' you're just about the worst liar I've ever seen, and I've seen some real morons. I picked up a guy, long time ago. He's standing on the street, talkin' to his buddies, holding a TV.' Brinkley spread his arms wide, the brown bottle in one hand. 'Like this big. I mean, holding the friggin' TV, right on the street. So me and my old partner, we're beat cops, we come walkin' around the corner just by chance, the worst luck of this guy's life.' Brinkley started to laugh. 'And we say, "Hey, what are you doin' with that TV?' And the dude says, "What TV?" I mean, "What TV?"' Brinkley burst into laughter.
Standing there, Jack didn't know what to do. He was trying to talk tough, but the detective was in hysterics. He felt like a complete idiot in his I LOVE PHILADELPHIA jacket, with a face that a truck hit, and he knew that Brinkley was right. Jack wasn't a good lair; he'd worried about that from the beginning. And he was so tired, and
so worried, and so sick at heart, that he could do only one thing. What TV? He started to laugh. He laughed so hard that he had to sit down behind his untouched beer and glass. And when he finally stopped and wiped his eyes, Brinkley was wiping his, too, with a napkin from a stack on the table.
'Well, Newlin,' the detective said, still smiling. 'Let's get down to it. You got your tit in a wringer and you came to me for help. You're worried I'm gonna turn you in, but I won't. Anything we say is off the record.'
'How do I know that?'
'You have my word.'
Jack considered it. If he told the truth, Paige was on the hook for murder. If he didn't, she could be killed by Trevor. Momentarily stalled, he reached for his beer and took a swig.
'Let me make this easy, as my partner would say. We'll skip over how we got here and go straight to what happens next. I agree with you, your daughter is in deep shit. She's at least an accessory to murder, but I think the boyfriend is the doer.'
Jack's gut tightened at hearing his suspicion confirmed. Trevor had killed Honor, not Paige. All this time. 'If that's true, then Paige is in danger, from Trevor.'
'Not yet. He's been in custody all day, on a drug charge.'
'Drug charge? Jack said, astounded. Paige's boyfriend? How had this happened? Had he been blind?
The feds should be letting him go about now.' Brinkley checked his watch. 'Where's your daughter?'
'I don't know.' Jack stood up in alarm. 'I called but she's not home.'
'She was at the FBI today with the lawyer, DiNunzio,' Brinkley said, rising.
'Paige, at the FBI with Mary? That's not possible. How do you know that?'
'Friends in high places.'
'Oh, no.' Jack pieced it together in a flash. Paige must have decided to tell the truth, gone to Mary, and then to the police and the FBI. 'We've got to get going,' he said, but Brinkley was already reaching for his coat.
Cold air blasted Mary and Paige the moment they pushed through the revolving door of the office building and hit Locust Street. Mary felt her nose turn instantly red and her cheeks chap on impact. She finger combed her hair into place, knowing it was useless. She shouldn't have been worrying about how she looked anyway. Here she was, going to visit a client. Well, not a client anymore. Did that make it okay to have a crush on him? 'Let's get a cab,' she said anyway. 'It's too cold to walk.'
The hotel is only ten blocks or so. Dad left the name of it on my machine.' Paige flipped up the collar of her black jacket and squinted against the harsh wind. 'We can walk.'
'Of course we can, but we don't have to.' Mary squinted up and down the street but there were no cabs. The street was dark, and traffic heading toward Broad Street was sparse. A man walked by in a wool topcoat and a knit cap, his muffler flying at his neck. At this time of night he'd be heading toward Suburban Station. Not a cab in sight. 'Why are there more lawyers than cabs in the world? Cabs are more useful and often smell better.'
'Come on, Mary,' Paige said, buttoning a latch at the top of her coat. 'Walking is good exercise.'
'All right.' Mary turned reluctantly toward Market and the hotel. Tm not the type who cares if my hair looks like shit.'
'Me neither.' Paige fell into step beside Mary. 'I've wasted too much time worrying about my hair. And my weight. And my eyes. And my hips.'
Mary caught a faceful of city wind that would drive soot
into her contacts and redden her eyes, for that Cujo look. 'I never worry about what I look like.'
'Kind of weird to think you've spent your whole life on all the wrong things. With the wrong people.'
'You're only sixteen.' Mary put her head down against the wind. If this kept up, she'd have bugs on her teeth. 'Your whole life hasn't started yet.'
'And I've screwed it up already,' Paige said, her tone quiet, and Mary looked over, since it sounded strangely like something she would say. Paige's head was down, and her hair blew back in a silky sheet of red, as if she were standing in front of a photographer's fan. But she didn't look like a model anymore, with her hand carried protectively in front of her tummy. Behind her was a dark, closed-up store, and Paige seemed so alone that Mary took her arm impulsively.
'You know, I don't agree with you.'
'No?' Paige didn't remove her arm.
'Not in the least.' Mary kept walking with Paige's arm in hers, enjoying the chumminess of it. She missed working with Judy on this case, but this was almost as good, and for once, Mary was the smart one. 'I think you have made a rather large mistake and are trying like hell to correct it. You walked into a police station today and begged them to arrest you for a murder that it turns out you didn't commit. That takes guts.'
'Like father, like daughter/ Paige said, and Mary laughed.
'You think it's genetic? You Newlins run around confessing to major felonies? Have excessive guilt complexes?' Mary's teeth chattered against the cold, and a crumpled newspaper blew down the sidewalk like urban tumbleweed. Another man hurried by on the street, his tartan scarf wrapped up to his nose. The cold and wind seemed suddenly hostile to Mary. She decided she didn't like the city in winter after all, and squeezed Paige's arm protectively. 'You sure you're not Catholic?'
Paige smiled. 'Can I ask you a question? It's kind of personal.'
'That's the only kind I answer. The rest is all small talk, and who cares about that?'
'It's about abortion.'
'Okay, I'm all ears.' So much for feeling smart. Mary had her own views, but it was so personal. The wind blew harder on the other side of the street, making it rough going, or maybe it was the conversation. They reached the corner and crossed against the traffic light, since there were no cars. Tire away.'
'Well, you know I'm pregnant. What do you think I should do?' Paige looked over just as a gust of cold air hit them, and Mary couldn't take the cold anymore. She turned reflexively to put her back to the wind, which was when she saw him. A tall figure in a black ski mask and parka stood halfway down the block, aiming a gun at them.
'Get down!' Mary screamed. She didn't have time to think, only to react. She threw an arm around Paige, who was turning to her in confusion, and yanked her down to the sidewalk just as a gunshot rang out. Mary's chest slammed into the sidewalk and the heel of her palm skidded against the cold concrete. The explosive crak reverberated down the street, and she covered Paige's head with her arm.
'Mary!' Paige shouted in panic. 'What's happening?'
'Stay down!' Mary raised her head to look back. Another shot sounded, echoing with a sickening report, and flame spit from the gun. Mary ducked reflexively. She had no idea where the bullets flew. Fear gripped her. She couldn't think. It was so sudden. The figure began to run toward them. There was no one else on the street. He would kill them. They couldn't stay here.
'Get up! Run!' Mary shouted and scrambled to her feet, yanking Paige up by her arm. 'Help!' she kept screaming, and so did Paige, terrified, but there was no one around. They tore down the block, their coats flying.
Mary's chest heaved with effort. Her pumps slipped on
the frigid sidewalk. Ahead lay the lights of the city center. She looked frantically around for escape routes. There were none. It was a straight line and they couldn't outrun a bullet. He'd hit them for sure.
She bolted down the street with Paige. Ahead lay an alley on the right. It had to go through to the street. Most of them did.
Mary glanced over her shoulder. The figure was running full tilt, holding his gun stiff at his side. He covered ground fast, his stride long. He was big and strong. His eyes were black holes. Who was it? Trevor, had to be. She should have known. Paige had blown his cover and now he was after her. Them both.
Mary streaked ahead with Paige running beside her. Trevor was gaining on them, a half a block away. The alley was steps ahead.
'Faster!' she screamed to Paige, who was lagging. They were at the alley. 'Go!' she shouted. She grabbed Paige's sleeve and shoved her into it. Another crak sounded, closer this time, and she almost jumped out of her skin. She prayed the alley was the right move. It was too dark to see if it had an end. Had she steered them wrong?
It was dark inside and Dumpsters overflowed on either side. They ran through trash and frozen garbage. Mary didn't hear footsteps or gunshots behind her. Were they safe? She could see lights at the end of the alley. People!
'Help!' she screamed and so did Paige. The people at the end of the alley looked up, two young men in white uniforms. They were smoking outside the screen door of a restaurant kitchen. Golden light shone through the screen and the aroma of roasting lamb wafted into the night. Mary ran closer and heard voices inside. They were safe! Trevor couldn't shoot them in front of witnesses. She ran flat out, and even Paige put on the afterburners.
'Let us in!' Mary shouted to the uniformed men, but they turned and ran off down the other end of the alley. In the City of Brotherly Love, you're on your own. She ran
straight for the door with Paige, threw open the screen, and darted inside, fumbling for the main door and slamming it closed behind them.
'Quoi?’ said a startled sous-chef, from behind a glistening stainless steel counter, but Mary was bolting the door locked.
'Call nine-one-one!' she called out, but Paige had snatched her cell phone from her handbag and was flipping it open.
Mary sagged against the door, her chest heaving. Relief flooded over her so powerfully it brought tears to her eyes. She was never so happy to see such a scummy metal door. Trevor couldn't shoot through it even if he tried. The kitchen was warm and safe, filled with pungent smells and snotty cooks. She was alive. Paige was alive.
Mary didn't know how she had picked the right alley, but she whispered a silent thanks to anybody who was listening.
Jack and Brinkley rushed into the lobby of the office building, and Jack knew from the security guard's terrified expression that she recognized him. A young woman, she seemed to age on the spot.
'I know you two,' she said. She backed away, her hand hovering at the gun holstered to her hip. 'You're that lawyer who killed his wife.' Her frightened eyes shifted to Brinkley. 'And you're that cop who pushed that guard around. I read about you in the newspaper. Either of you give me any trouble, I'll shoot you down.'
'Don't worry,' Jack said, grabbing the edge of the desk. 'We won't hurt you. We won't hurt anyone. We need to see Mary DiNunzio.'
'She's not here.' The guard looked nervously from Jack to Brinkley and back again. 'She's gone.'
'When?'
'None of your business.'
'She may be in danger. Tell me when she left.'
The guard got more nervous. 'About ten minutes ago. What kind of danger?'
Brinkley was already backing up to go. 'Was she alone? Or was she with a young girl?'
'A girl. They left together.'
'You know where they went?' Jack asked, heading out with Brinkley.
'No, and if I did, I wouldn't tell either of you. That's for damn sure.'
It wasn't long before three squad cars arrived at the restaurant kitchen and Mary gave the cops a brief statement, then insisted on Paige and her being taken down to the Roundhouse. Mary wanted to see Captain Walsh and bring the whole case to light. En route she called Jack on Paige's cell phone, at the hotel number he'd left on Paige's answering machine. She couldn't reach him but left a message telling him to meet them at Captain Walsh's office. This time she didn't care how she looked. Okay, maybe she did.
She pressed the END button, stumped. She wasn't sure she should go to Walsh without Jack, but they were in the back of the squad car. She couldn't wait any longer anyway. Trevor was trying to kill her and Paige. She let the cruiser whisk them to the Roundhouse, where she was ushered in to see Captain Walsh for the second time that day. He greeted her with 'long time, no see,' and their meeting went downhill from there. She'd told him the whole story, from Paige's drugged memories to Trevor shooting at them, but he wasn't having any.
'Look,' Captain Walsh said, from behind his bare desk. He looked more exasperated than he had earlier that day, if that were possible. 'We'll do for you what we'd do for anybody, Ms DiNunzio. Somebody chases you down the street with a gun, that's attempted murder, and we're on it.'
'Not somebody. It was Trevor.'
'You're not listening.' Captain Walsh looked at Mary, his dark eyes frank and concerned. 'We'll investigate, question witnesses, canvass the neighborhood, and see if anybody
saw anything. We'll tell you as soon as we know anything about the shooter.'
'But it was Trevor. It had to be.'
'How the hell do you know? The shooter was wearing a ski mask, you said.'
'Who else would it be? It's not like he tried to rob us. It was target practice, for God's sake. Right out in the open.'
'Like I said, we're on it, but that's no proof it was Olanski. You know how many knuckleheads run around this city with guns? Did you see the last amnesty day? They turned in enough weapons to arm a small country.'
'But he was shooting at us. It was directed, not random.'
'We get that once a month. Guy takes a shot for no reason, drunk or high. In summer, it's the fish and gun club. Last week we had a guy, you must've read about it, takin' shots at people he thinks are Hispanic. We got him on ethnic intimidation.'
'This wasn't a hate crime, take my word,' Mary said angrily, and the captain's eyes hardened.
'I took your word once already, Ms DiNunzio, when you told me Paige here killed her mother. But she didn't. Now you're tellin' me the boyfriend did it and she just thought she did it.' Walsh hunched over the desk, his shoulders powerful beneath his shirt, which had lost its starch. 'How the hell do you expect me to believe you? You can't tell a straight story one minute to the next. You think this is some kind of game?'
Mary took it on the chin. 'Look, I was wrong, I'm sorry. I thought Paige knew the truth, but she didn't. Now she does. We both do.'
Paige raised a hand like a schoolgirl. 'Captain, it was Trevor. He had a body like Trevor. The way he ran was like Trevor, too. I've seen him play lacrosse.'
'Thank you, Ms Newlin, but we can't rely on that. This is what I have to go on.' The captain held up the police
incident reports, shaped like common traffic tickets. 'All it says here is that the shooter was around six feet tall. We don't know if he was white or black. We don't even know if he is a he or a she. I can't pick up anybody because he plays lacrosse.'
'Why not?' Mary broke in. 'Not to arrest, just to question/
'Ms DiNunzio, you of all people should know that. You're a criminal lawyer, right?'
'Of course.' Mary figured she qualified by now. Not only had she studied, she'd been shot at.
'This kid has one of the highest-priced lawyers in the city, after you. The lawyer got him bail when they had him redhanded, pushing powder. You think he's gonna let me talk to the boy on this evidence? No way.'
'You won't even try? He just tried to kill us. He did kill her mother.'
Walsh's gaze shifted from Mary to Paige and back again. 'With respect, we have the man who we believe committed that crime. He's Jack Newlin and he's going to trial for it.'
'He didn't do it!' Mary cried, fighting the urge to pound the desk. She was in danger, Paige was in danger, and it was all her fault. 'He'll explain it to you. I phoned him and he should be here any minute.'
'Well, he isn't, and I have real work to do.' Walsh squared the incident reports at the corners. 'I think we've talked enough for one day, Ms DiNunzio.'
'You won't wait?'
'No.' Walsh stood up behind his desk. Thank you very much for your time. It's always a pleasure to talk with you. You have any more theories, feel free to call.'
'Are we being thrown out?'
'Don't take it personal,' the captain said, as he came around and showed them the door.
A sea of reporters surged toward Mary and Paige the moment they set foot outside the Roundhouse. They had
undoubtedly picked up the news of the attempted shooting on police scanners and were waiting in force. 'Ms DiNunzio, any comment?' Paige, Paige over here!' 'Were there any injuries?' 'What did he look like?' 'Come on, gimme a break, Mary!'
There were TV cameras, microphones, steno pads, and handheld Dictaphones hoisted high above the crowd. Strobe lights seared through the darkness, temporarily blinding Mary. She felt paranoid, unsteady, and her eyes swept the crowd. Could Trevor be out there in the throng? Was he pointing a gun at them even now? He wouldn't be that bold, would he?
Mary grabbed Paige's arm and pushed their way through the parking lot to the curb on Seventh Street, where they ran into a wall of parked news vans. WPVI-TV. KYW. WCAU-TV. She couldn't see the street and shoved between two vans to reach it. She waved her arm frantically. They had no hope of getting a cab in this part of town and the buses ran few and far between this late.
'Mary, do they have a suspect?' 'Mary, who do you think it was?' 'Paige, does this mean the end of your career?'
Mary pumped her hand wildly in case a cab appeared in the traffic trickling onto the expressway. Suddenly a small dark car shot from the line and sped right toward them. Mary's breath stopped and she jumped back in fear. The car skidded to a stop right in front of her, and just when she was about to scream, she saw that it was a black man at the wheel. She wasn't afraid of black men, only white preppies. Then she recognized the driver, despite his cowboy hat and sunglasses, behind the wheel of an ancient black VW Beetle.
'Get in!' Brinkley called out. 'Now!'
Mary grabbed Paige and they ran around to the passenger side and practically leapt inside, with Paige hopping into Mary's lap. Strobes flashed as they slammed the door and sped off, with a news van giving chase. Reporters rushed to their vans and cars, taking off after them into the night.
'All right!' Brinkley shouted. The Beetle accelerated toward the expressway. 'Now where to, Newlin?'
'Let me think,' Jack answered, popping out of the backseat. 'The press is probably at my hotel and they staked out your house and Mary's office.'
'Dad! You're here! Hey, what happened to your face?' Paige turned around, grinding her back into Mary's nose, and Jack leaned forward in the speeding car to give his daughter a quick kiss. Mary hid her shock at his being there and tried to look attractive with a sideways nose. She couldn't see his face because of his daughter's back but she knew he was the handsomest beat-up guy ever.
'I'm okay. Had a small problem at the prison, but I'm fine now. I'm so glad you're safe, honey,' Jack said, but Mary figured he was talking to Paige.
'Thanks to Mary, Dad. She saved my life.'
Mary flushed, glad of the plug, then struggled for breath. Models were heavier than they looked. All that Evian weight.
'Hold the lovefest, people!' Brinkley said, as the VW tore up Callowhill. 'Where we goin'? Any ideas?'
'How about Jersey?' Jack offered. 'We can lose ' em in Cherry Hill. '
'Too far. I know where they won't find us/ Mary said, with difficulty, since her mouth was buried in Paige's leather coat.
'Where?' Brinkley asked, and Mary pointed around Paige.
'Turn left at the next light.'
'Yeehah!' Brinkley shouted, and the Beetle bucked forward.
Davis, still in running clothes, stared open-mouthed at the TV in his office, over his messy desk of documents and notes. The Chief had called him from a union dinner and told him about it. On the screen was a reporter with a perky hairdo, holding a microphone. In the background was the curved shape of the Roundhouse and the reporter was saying, 'A man in a ski mask reportedly chased the two women, Paige Newlin, daughter of the slain Honor Newlin, and her attorney, Mary DiNunzio, for several blocks, firing at them. Police are currently investigating to determine the reason for the shooting. Back to you, Larry.'
Davis switched the channels with the remote, catching as many reports as he could. Then he flicked off the TV with the remote, eased back into his chair, and downed the last of his Gatorade. What the fuck? Who could be shooting at the daughter? Davis thought about it logically, his brain humming since his run. It had helped him to plan the Newlin case and he'd returned to the office to go through the documents from Tribe 6- Wright. He had almost finished reading them when he'd gotten the call about the shooting.
He tossed the empty Gatorade jug at the wastebasket, but it missed. Who was the guy in the ski mask? It led to the next question. Well, who would want the daughter dead? Answer: whoever benefits from her death. Well, who benefits? Then Davis remembered something he had read before his run. It hadn't seemed significant at the time but it certainly was now.
He flipped through the papers on his desk, looking for it. There it was, at the bottom. The document describing the
trust fund that Honor Newlin had set up for her daughter. He yanked it out and flopped it on top of the stack. It wasn't long, maybe five pages, and its terms reiterated the fifty million Paige was set to receive, in scheduled increments. But there was one sentence that had caught his attention. Davis ran a finger down the smooth page until he found it: 'In the event that Paige Newlin shall die before receipt of any portion of her inheritance under the terms of this trust, the remaining amount shall revert to her surviving parents
Davis read it over and over. It was too good to be true. Follow the money, stupid! Under the mother's will, when the mother dies, the kid inherits. But under the terms of the trust, if the daughter died before she could inherit, the fifty million went to the surviving parent. In this scenario, that would be Jack Newlin. It didn't sound like the Honor Newlin that Videon had described, but she must never have thought it would happen.
Davis sat up in his chair, his foot wiggling with nervous energy. So the only way Newlin could get the wife's money was to kill the wife, then the kid. Then all of it, read all of it, comes to him. Davis clapped a palm to his forehead at the thought. Could Newlin have planned it this way? He'd have to! You'd have to be an estates expert to rig this result, will-to-trust. Fifty mil! God, this case was fun!
Davis grabbed the phone and his thoughts didn't break stride. Newlin was out on bail at the time the shooting occurred. Perfect! Motive plus opportunity! It had to be Newlin in the ski mask!
The phone rang on the other end and as soon as a voice picked up, Davis said, 'Gimme the Chief.'
'Oh Deo! Oh Deo!' Vita DiNunzio sobbed. She reached for her daughter the moment she got in the door, and Mary regretted instantly that she'd brought everybody here. The DiNunzio kitchen couldn't fit Mary, Paige, Jack, and Brinkley, in addition to her parents, shamelessly hysterical that their daughter had been shot at. Having a weeping mother wrapped around her waist wasn't a good look for Mary.
'Let's all calm down,' Mary said, giving her mother a final hug and gentling her into a chair. Fresh coffee percolated on the stove and its aroma filled the kitchen. The table had been set with two mismatched cups and saucers. Her parents were just about to down their thirty-fifth cup of coffee before her mother went to bed. In the morning they would discuss why they couldn't sleep. 'Everything's fine now. We're safe.'
'Completely safe,' Jack added, but her mother's lips trembled at the sight of Jack's swollen cheekbone.
'Oh Deo,' her mother moaned. She took off her thick glasses, set them on the table, and dropped her small face into a knobby hand. Even her silver hair, teased into curls, swoops, and swishes, drooped sideways, listing like the top of a souffle. Mary wondered if they had smelling salts. For hair.
'Mom, it's fine' she said, patting her mother's hand. 'We're all fine. Me and Paige, we're fine. Fine, fine, fine. We even have a detective here to protect us.' Mary handed her mother her thick glasses and made her slip them on, then gestured to Brinkley. 'Look. See. Exhibit A. A real detective.'
'A detective?' her mother said. She wiped her eyes with a napkin, leaving a reddish streak on her parchment-thin skin. Her eyes were as round as milky brown marbles behind the lenses, emphasizing their utter lack of guile, and Mary had to smile. If her mother was surprised at having a black man in her kitchen, it didn't show. They used to have her father's black crew home for lunch all the time, to the neighbors' disapproval. 'You a detective, with the police?'
'Yes,' Brinkley answered succinctly, from against the wall, and Mary's eyes flared at him with significance.
'Maybe you could elaborate. Detective,' she prodded.
Jack laughed. 'Reg, tell Mrs DiNunzio how safe we all are because you're here.'
'Yes, well.' Brinkley's head bent to fit under the low ceiling and his arm cracked the Easter palm behind the switch plates. 'You don't have anything to worry about, Mrs DiNunzio. I have a gun.'
'A gun? Oh Dear her mother wailed, and her father hovered. He kneaded her shoulders through her housedress until she got used to the notion of a Clock in a house with twenty-five crucifixes, two statues of the Virgin Mary, and a candle for emergency novenas. 'A gun!'
'Coffee anyone?' Mary asked airily, and bustled over to the stove and grabbed the pot. She was just about to go for the cups when Jack opened the cabinet, grabbed a bunch, and began setting them on the table with a happy clatter. How could she have ever thought him a murderer? He reminded her so much of her father, who was still consoling her mother as she segued into Act III of La Traviata. Soon the wheezing would start. 'Dad, I'm sorry about this, but would you mind going up-and taking Mom with you?' Before her hair explodes. 'We need to talk some business, and it might upset her.' Call me crazy.
'Yes, good, no problem, Maria,' her father said, his own tears subsiding.
'Thanks, really, Dad. Here, Mom.' Mary set the coffee
down and helped her father ease her mother up from the chair. Everyone said their good-byes as Mary and her father walked her mother out of the kitchen, through the dining room, and to the stairwell in the living room, with only slightly less effort than Christ bearing the Cross through the streets of Jerusalem. And after Vita DiNunzio was safely tucked in bed, with her husband at her side, Mary gave them both a kiss good night and fetched them their bedtime cup of coffee.
When Mary came back downstairs, Jack was enveloping Paige in a huge hug in the warm kitchen, his face buried in her glossy hair. 'Thank God,' he said, and Paige broke the embrace, standing away from him.
Thank Mary, too. Dad. She really did save my life.'
Jack looked over Paige's shoulder. He grinned with relief, his blue eyes frankly grateful. 'Thank you, Mary,' he said, advancing a step.
Mary stiffened, though there was a table between them. She didn't want him to hug her, did she? Yes. No. Of course not. In the kitchen, where her husband used to? She picked up the coffee and poured a cup for Brinkley, then went around the table until there were four steaming cups and nobody could ever sleep again. 'No problem. I saved myself, too. So it wasn't so unselfish. Why don't you sit down?'
Paige looked between them. That's not true, Dad.'
'Everybody sit down,' Mary said, waving her off, and pulled out a chair. Installed behind her aromatic cup of coffee, she felt safe and happy again and decided to attribute it to land memory and not Jack Newlin, who she was happy/sad to want to hug/not hug. It confused her. 'We have a lot of catching up to do. Jack, let's begin at the beginning. You did not kill your wife.'
'No, I didn't.' Jack looked relieved to say it aloud, and Mary warmed to finally hear her suspicion confirmed. 'I confessed because I thought Paige had killed her.'
Paige looked grave behind her untouched cup. 'I'm sorry, Dad. I shouldn't have lied to you about Trevor.'
'Let's not talk about that now,' Jack said quickly. 'Let's hold the tears and I'm sorrys and get to the facts. Trevor killed your mother, didn't he?'
'Yes, we were high, at least I was. He told me I did it, so I thought I did it. I do remember picking up the knife, but I don't think I did anything with it. What I remember next was that it was in my hand, all bloody, and she was dead. But I don't think I killed her. I was angry at her, but I don't think I could ever do that.' Paige told the story about her confession to Captain Walsh and the discovery that she had no bruising.
'And Trevor was arrested on drug charges,' Mary said, but Brinkley was nodding as if he knew it. 'Captain Walsh told us he was free on bail, so we think that it was him in the ski mask.' Mary looked at Brinkley. Thank you for the hint about the earring back and DNA test, by the way. It helped us figure out that Trevor was the one.'
'Knew you'd put them to use.'
'Trevor's trying to kill Paige because she knows what happened that night and he's still at large. Is that it?'
'I think so,' Brinkley answered, but Jack, at his elbow, stirred and touched Paige's hand gently.
'Paige, why would Trevor kill your mother?' he asked, and Mary noticed he was sitting in Mike's chair to her right. She tried not to feel guilty, which was like not breathing.
The money, Dad. He's wanted to get married a long time, like since we met. He's been pushing it. When I got pregnant, it got definite. I wasn't in love with it, but when I told Mom she freaked out.'
'You should know why.' Jack fingered his coffee cup. 'Your mother got upset because that's what happened to her and me. She married me (3nly because she got pregnant with you. I wanted to marry her. She was a prize to me, but she felt like she threw her life away when she married me. "Married down," as her family said.'
Paige was silent, listening, her pretty features soft and sad.
'Now, here's the truth. You're not sixteen, you're seventeen. Your birthday is March 18, a year before. We took a trip, like rich people did in those days, and we didn't introduce you around until you were about five. It was easy to pass you off as younger then. It was tricky, but doable since we didn't socialize much anyway. You know how your mom was. That's why you were born in Switzerland and why you were always more mature than your peers. They're not your peers.'
Paige was stunned. 'You're kidding.'
'No, not at all.'
'Dad, why didn't you just tell me that? It explains so much. About you, and her.'
'Your mother didn't want to, and I went along with it. We're both to blame. Me, more so, because she was sick, at some level. I wasn't.'
Paige shook her head. 'I don't get it. Mom could have had an abortion, couldn't she? I mean, with her money, it would have been easy.'
'She wanted the baby, and I did, too.'
Paige laughed abruptly. 'She didn't want the baby, Dad. I should know, I was the baby. What she wanted was to be miserable, and blame you for ruining her life. I heard her all the time, growing up. She always said she would have had a great career, if it wasn't for you. And me.' Paige looked bitter. 'Career as what? A professional victim?'
Jack winced. 'Paige, that's not right -'
'But it is, Dad. She always blamed everybody else, for everything. She never took responsibility for anything. You should have seen her at shoots. It was the photographer's fault, or the clothes were wrong, or my lighting. Or at home. It was the maid, the accountant, my tutor. It was never her fault. Nothing was ever her fault.' Paige fell quiet, and Mary let it lie, remembering what the photographer had said about dealing with Honor and about kids being the ones who see the truth. The two of them, father and daughter, would have to sort it out someday.
The question is what do we do now,' Mary said, after a minute. 'Trevor is out there looking for Paige and maybe me. He knows he doesn't have much time. He's not going to give up, and the police don't believe that he's the killer.'
Brinkley cleared his throat, clearly uneasy. I'll cover you and Paige. Tonight we can all get some rest. Here, if that's okay. We can sleep downstairs on the floor.'
'Sure.'
Then first thing in the morning I take all of you to the Roundhouse.'
Mary shook her head. 'It won't do any good. I screwed that up so bad, the police won't believe anything I say now.'
'Anything we say,' Paige corrected. 'I'm the one who doesn't know what's on my own tummy.'
Brinkley shook his head. They'll believe us this time because we'll be bringing in Jack. And Trevor.'
Trevor? How are you gonna do that?' Mary asked, and Brinkley hunched over the table.
'Listen up,' he said, and they huddled around. 'We got the earring back but not the earring. Now, we know from Paige that Trevor lost the earring and he doesn't know where. I didn't know that before. So we use that fact. We tell him we got the earring, that I found it at the crime scene. And does he want it, come and get it.'
Jack looked doubtful. 'Why would you do that? You need a credible reason.'
'How about revenge?' Mary edged forward, certain that this was the first time a sting had been plotted at the DiNunzios' kitchen table. 'And money. You offer to sell the earring back to him. You want to get back at the police department for suspending you. But how do we catch him?'
Brinkley shrugged easily. 'I wear a wire. I get him to say what I need, then we take him in. No muss, no fuss.'
'A wire,' Mary repeated, because it sounded so cool, and Paige clapped in delight.
Only Jack looked worried. 'It sounds simple, but things can go wrong. This kid's not that stable. He's a killer.'
'I can't handle a preppie, I got no business in the business,' Brinkley said with a smile, and Mary thought he should smile more often.
'Why don't we do it tonight?' she asked. 'End this thing already?'
Brinkley shook his head. 'Can't. Take me some time to get the wire. I have to figure a way to get court approval or any admission the kid makes won't come into evidence. I should have the wire by late morning, then we'll try to get hold of our boy.'
'How do we do that?' Mary asked, and Brinkley smiled again.
'We start calling around. The boy's got to be pretty panicky right now. He reads the papers and he knows I'm on to him. If he hears my name, he'll come in.' The detective reached for the coffeepot. 'But first, we have some more of this fine coffee.'
After they made the requisite telephone calls, Mary scrounged up four blankets and pillows for everybody and arranged them carefully on the living room rug, making sure Jack was farthest from her, then Brinkley and Paige. They all lay down, exhausted, and when Mary turned out the living room lamp she thought it looked like four sausages in a frying pan. In the morning they would hatch their scheme, catch the bad guy, and be home in time for breakfast.
Paige conked out first, then Brinkley, but Mary felt safe enough even with the detective asleep. Trevor wouldn't think to look for her at her parents' house and neither would the press. She was way too old to run home, and everybody but her knew it. What Mary knew was that she loved her parents more as she got older, not less, and appreciated them in a way she hadn't when she was young and time stretched ahead of her like a shiny sliding board. There was a limit now, an end point; Mike's death
had taught Mary that. She didn't need her mother's thin skin or her father's ruptured spine to remind her. There would come a time when she couldn't go home again, not because the C bus had been rerouted, but because her parents would be gone. And when they were gone, home would be gone, too.
Mary shifted uncomfortably under her old blanket. It was a child's fear, she knew, the fear of her parents' death, and lying there she understood that every lesson her parents had taught her would be tested in surviving their passing. She didn't know how she would live after they were gone, but she knew she would, and only because they had taught her to. It would be their final, and their greatest, gift, and she thanked them for it in her dreams.
Jack heard Mary fall asleep, as he tossed and turned under the blanket. It wasn't the hardness of the floor that was keeping him awake. It was how everything had gone so wrong, not only from the night he took the blame for Honor's murder, but from the very beginning. From the moment he married Honor and started lying about their daughter, and to her.
Honor always thought it was a detail, what age the child was, but Jack was never convinced. He knew all along, even as he prevented himself from knowing, that it was profoundly wrong to lie to Paige about the circumstances of her own birth. He had taught her to lie from the cradle; she was swaddled in lies. How could he expect anything but a lie when she grew up?
Was Trevor with you, Paige?
Of course not, Daddy.
But all along, at some level, Jack had known that she was lying about Trevor. He had sensed that Trevor had been there and was responsible for Honor's murder, at least in part. In fact, if he were being completely honest with himself, it hadn't mattered to him whether Trevor was there or not. The truth was that he'd known it that
night, when he asked Paige to lie to him and she did, and when he made the deal that he would protect her fiction, even serve it. As he had with her pregnancy.
Jack faced the darkness and found the truth. He hadn't been completely surprised when Paige told him she was pregnant, over the telephone at the office. He knew she was on a collision course with her mother, acting out against her from the day she'd declared she wanted to be emancipated. He knew that somehow, someday, Paige would figure out how to hurt her mother the most. Get pregnant, like her mother, replaying a past she didn't know existed, but perhaps suspected. So it wasn't Trevor's plan that got her pregnant at all. Paige was lying to herself about that, and to all of them.
Jack shifted on the hard floor. The more he thought about Trevor, the less likely it seemed that the boy could kill Honor as part of a long-range plan to get Paige's money. Trevor was a rash, spoiled, rich boy. A fuckup; the kind of kid who sold drugs and picked up blondes who turned out to be narcs. Something didn't fit; something just smelled.
In his mind Jack went over the day Honor was killed. He had gotten the call from Paige at work, then had been on pins and needles the remainder of the afternoon. He had packed his briefcase, by habit, and left in plenty of time to get home for his usual seven o'clock, but the rain and the traffic had stymied him.
Well, wait a minute.
He had been stopped in the hall. Whittier, wanting to talk about the Florrman bill. Jack had tried to get away, but it had made him late. And in that time period Trevor had killed Honor. Whittier's delay had given Trevor the time to murder Honor.
Jack sat bolt upright. Could it be? Had Whittier stalled him so Trevor could kill Honor? Not possible. There was no connection between Trevor and Whittier, was there? Jack thought about it, every sense alert and awake. It was
at least plausible, and he had to find out. The responsibility for catching Trevor was his; it was his wife the boy murdered and his daughter he tried to kill. Jack's heartbeat quickened. He had a responsibility, not to a lie, as before. But to the truth. It might have been rash, but he had no choice.
He rose silently, slipped into his I LOVE PHILADELPHIA jacket and his shoes, and left the house, closing the door softly behind him.
Jack approached the glistening skyscraper that housed Tribe amp; Wright with anticipation. It felt so good to be taking action himself, free from prison. If Whittier was behind this, he would find out. He eyed the building. If there had been press around the building, there wasn't anymore; the eleven o'clock news was over and the reporters had crawled back under their rocks. It was dark, the street was empty. He hurried down the sidewalk and entered the marble lobby.
The security guard at the desk came to a nervous wake-fulness when he recognized Jack. It had to be from the news; Jack didn't know the security guards on this late a shift. 'Sign in, please, sir,' asked the guard, righting his cap, his eyes glued to Jack's wounded cheek.
'Ran into a truck,' Jack said, and walked to the elevator. His shoes echoed in the cavernous lobby and he stepped into an open elevator and hit the button for thirty. The elevator doors closed behind him with an expensive swoosh.
As soon as Jack was out of sight, the security guard reached for the telephone and punched in a number, as he had been instructed.
Jack had walked through the halls of Tribe amp; Wright a hundred times, even after hours, and the firm used to be as familiar to him as his home. But tonight it felt as foreign and unforgiving as the moon's surface and almost as lifeless. The lights were on but the reception area was empty, the front desk bare and unstaffed, and the offices vacant. Though his floor looked the way it always did, he couldn't shake the feeling that he didn't know where
he was. Either the firm had changed or he had changed. Or both.
He walked by the foxhunting prints on the wall and scrutinized them as he never had before. He passed a side table made of tiger maple and wondered what it was doing in the hallway. It was just in the way. He passed the two large offices off the hall, one was Rossman's, but they weren't in, of course. He could do what he needed to do.
Jack's office was just down the hall and as he walked toward it, he sensed it would be his last time. He wouldn't be coming back to Tribe and he wouldn't miss the place. All he wanted from it now was answers. He was going to sit in his chair and use his correspondence, notes, and time records to reconstruct everything that happened the day of Honor's murder.
Jack's pace quickened. The police would have confiscated some files, but he hoped not all of them. Then he remembered. His laptop, with the single ticket to London. The prosecution would use it against him, but he had arranged the trip to give himself some time alone, to consider what was happening in his marriage since Paige's emancipation. It had all come apart before he had the chance. Jack arrived at his office, opened the door, and froze on the spot.
It was completely empty. Even the furniture wasn't there anymore. How could that be? The police would have seized flies and computers, but not every file, cabinet, book, and law review. Where was his stuff? Photos of Paige and Honor? His personal papers? Diplomas, a citation from Girard? Then he thought about it. Only the firm could take these things and only with the approval of the managing partner. Whittier.
Jack felt his jaw clench in anger. What was going on? Was Whittier really involved in this? A man he had known and worked with all his life? And why would Whittier want Honor dead? It was unthinkable. She had chosen him to be her executor, she had trusted him so much.
Whittier's office was around the corner and down the hall. If Jack wanted answers, that's where he'd find them. He turned and strode down the corridor, more determined with every step. He'd tear the place apart. Ransack every drawer. Jack was halfway there when he heard voices. Strange. It was too late for the cleaning people. The voices grew louder as he got closer to Whittier's office. It sounded like shouting. The door was open. Jack broke into a run, and when he reached the office door, he got the surprise of his life.
Whittier and Trevor stood staring at him. Trevor looked disheveled, his eyes sunken and glassy. He was high, but Whittier surely wasn't. The managing partner, still in shirt and suit pants, stood open-mouthed. He looked merely startled, but completely in command.
'What the fuck?' Jack said, enraged, and suddenly everybody was in motion.
Trevor bolted in panic for the door, pushing Whittier out of the way. Jack lunged for Trevor but the teenager had enormous momentum and knocked him backward. He darted out the door, and Jack recovered and ran after him, his heart pounding. Jack wasn't about to let Trevor get away. He'd catch up with Whittier later.
Trevor thundered down the hall, a strapping kid in sneakers, but Jack ran quicker, fueled by a father's rage. He heard shouting from the reception area at the hall's end. He couldn't explain it and didn't try. Trevor bounded for the reception area with Jack right behind him, panting heavily.
'Stop, Trevor!' Jack shouted. He narrowed the gap between them, reaching for Trevor's sweatshirt, then veered around the corner. The sweatshirt was almost within Jack's fingertips when the elevator doors opened and a cadre of Philadelphia police flooded the reception area. Cops? Where had cops come from? What the hell was going on? Jack skidded to a bewildered stop but Trevor ran practically into the arms of the cops.
'He's got a gun!' Trevor screamed. 'He's trying to kill me!'
'Freeze!' one of the cops ordered, drawing his gun on Jack.
I'm unarmed!' Jack shouted, but in the next instant a crazed Trevor grabbed the gun from the cop's hand.
'No!' yelled the cop, jumping for his weapon. The cop flanking Trevor grappled for it, too, and they were wrestling for the gun when it went off, the sound reverberating hideously in the tony corporate setting. Jack held his breath and didn't know if anyone had been hit. Neither did the cops. And for a final split second, neither did Trevor.
'Shit!' said one of the cops, pained and angry, when the gun dropped to the plush Oriental.
Jack watched in horror as a strange smile appeared on Trevor's face, then went suddenly slack. Bright red blood spurted from a round hole in his neck, under his chin. His eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed silently against the cops, who sprang instantly into action, trying to save his life. One palmed a radio while another ran to the reception desk for a phone. Two knelt over him, checking for a pulse and trying to staunch the flow of blood.
Jack, aghast, rushed to Trevor's side and knelt down beside the cops. Blood was everywhere, spurting regularly with each heartbeat, and they couldn't seem to stop it. They fell silent, their drawn faces acknowledging what they couldn't say. Even Jack could see how much blood Trevor was losing and hung his head over the boy's body.
'Shit, it's arterial,' said the cop at Trevor's neck. Blood gushed through his fingers despite his grip. Trevor's face was ashen and his blue eyes still.
The carotid,' the other cop said, his voice heavy with regret. 'Oh, jeez. Oh, jeez.'
Jack couldn't believe it was happening. The kid was dying. He shook his head over his body, then spotted something. Trevor's shirt had been pushed up in the struggle and a purplish bruise peeked from the elastic bottom.
Jack reached out and pressed his shirt to the side. My God. Bruises blanketed Trevor's stomach. It had to be the bruises Mary had told him about, that hadn't been on Paige. Jack was looking at the man who murdered Honor.
'No,' he said, remembering Whittier, in a horrified daze. He had to make him account for this. And for Honor, and Paige. He rose to his feet but when he stood up his arms were grabbed from behind, wrenched together, and slapped into tight handcuffs. 'What are you doing?' Jack demanded, twisting around in anger.
'Take it easy, Newlin,' a cop ordered, shoving him to the elevator.
'I didn't do anything! I don't have a gun -'
'We've been looking for you. We're taking you down for questioning in the attempted murder of your daughter.'
'What? Me, kill Paige! Are you insane?' Jack struggled against the handcuffs but more cops appeared. This was a nightmare. Him suspected of trying to kill Paige. Trevor bleeding on the floor. Whittier getting away with murder. 'You can't stop me, you have no right! Get Whittier, would you? Arrest him! He's behind this and the murder of my wife!'
The cops shoved him toward the elevator. 'Tell the detectives about it when you get there,' one said.
'How dare you. Jack!' came Whittier's voice, from the entrance to the reception area. Jack twisted around in the cops' grasp, but Whittier remained composed, slipping into the pinstriped jacket he'd been carrying. 'That's libel, and if you repeat it I'll sue you and the paper that prints it.'
'Sue me, you asshole!' Fury constricted Jack's throat and he lunged for Whittier. The cops yanked him back and the handcuffs dug into his forearms. They shoved him toward the elevator but he stood his ground. 'This boy's dying because of you! My wife died because of you! And my daughter -'
'Enough!' Whittier shouted. 'As I told the officers, this boy, as you call him, has been blackmailing me over you.
He told me you have been trafficking in cocaine, with his assistance -'
That's a lie!' Jack shouted. He resisted the cops but they edged him to the elevator bank.
'- he was threatening to go to the press with it, destroying my law firm.' Whittier tone quieted in the face of Jack's rage. 'You must have known he'd be meeting me tonight, here, and that's why you -'
'Bullshit! You and Trevor killed my wife! You tried to kill my daughter!' Hearing himself raging, even Jack knew Whittier looked and sounded the more believable of the two. And he didn't have a murder charge hanging over his head. It infuriated Jack all the more. 'I'm on to you, you asshole!'
'- came to my office, to kill him. You've lost control, Jack. You need help. Counseling. Are you an addict, too? You're not the man I knew.'
'He's lying!' Jack erupted, lunging again for Whittier. He almost slipped free but the police tackled him to the rug, grunting and shouting. The wound on his cheek erupted and pain shot through his ribs. He thrashed and fought back to get to Whittier, but the cops subdued him.
'Get the fuck down!' they shouted. 'On the floor! Get down!' They rained blows on his arms and legs. His ribs exploded in renewed agony.
Jack torqued his body right and left to get free, screaming Whittier's guilt until his ranting ended with a blow to the head and everything went black.
Mary peeked through the wired window of the interview room at the Roundhouse and felt her heart wrench in her chest. Jack sat cuffed to a steel chair that was bolted to the floor. A goose egg with broken skin swelled over his right eye and the wound on his cheek gaped. Blood dotted his tourist jacket and he slumped in the chair, in obvious fatigue and pain. Only his eyes had any life in them and they brightened the moment she opened the door.
'Jack!' she said, rushing into the grimy room. She didn't throw her arms around him, but knelt to be eye-level with him and touch his shoulder. She'd given up any pretense of sounding lawyerly, and his expression told her he had decided that he wasn't only a client anymore.
'Can I hire you back?' he asked, with a smile that reached her almost as deeply as a hug. A cut on his lip cracked when he grinned. 'Now that I know you're from a nice family and all.'
'You got it,' she said, flushing with pleasure, then recovered her wits. They were alone in the interview room but it had a two-way mirror with a video camera. The cops and maybe even Davis were on the other side. Mary leaned closer to Jack so they couldn't be overheard. They want to question you. The D.A. is convinced you were the one shooting at Paige. He had the cops looking for you. Let's just lay it out, okay? The whole truth and nothing but.'
'It's about time,' Jack whispered. 'The inheritance has to be why they think I tried to kill Paige. I don't benefit under Honor's will but I do under the trust, if Honor is dead. Get to Whittier. He's the executor in both and the fees are worth millions to him and the firm. That's all I've got to go on.'
'Don't worry.' Mary stood up and faced the mirror, her hand on Jack's shoulder. It was warm and strong beneath her fingertips, or maybe it felt good to acknowledge her feelings for him. 'Olley, olley, oxen free,' she called out, and in the next minute, the door to the interview room opened and in came Detectives Kovich and Donovan.
Kovich took the chair across from Jack, and Donovan stood against the wall. Mary didn't wait for a Q amp; A and laid out the truth about Jack falsely confessing to the murder and about Trevor killing Honor and telling Paige she did it. Jack picked up the story about Trevor's being the one in the ski mask and his theory about Whittier being behind the murder. Mary noticed they both omitted Brinkley, to keep him out of trouble.
Kovich listened intently, but Donovan scowled throughout the account. 'So, Mr Newlin, you want us to believe that one of your partners, William Whittier, was in a conspiracy with Trevor Olanski to kill your wife and daughter?'
'Yes,' Jack said, straightening in his chair with obvious discomfort. 'That's what's going on.'
'Sir, why would a partner in an important law firm conspire with a high school drug dealer?'
'I don't know that, I can't explain that myself. I was going to find out when I was brought here and I still can. Why don't you ask Whittier that question?'
Kovich looked concerned behind his overlarge aviators, but Donovan pursed thin lips. 'We did question Mr Whittier, and the story he told us is very different from yours.'
'What did he say?' Jack's tone turned angry. 'More crap about this supposed blackmail and cocaine scheme?'
'I'm not at liberty to discuss it with you, but we're investigating it. It conflicts directly with what you just told us.'
Tm not surprised, but what I've told you is true.'
'That's what you said at your confession, as I recall. I saw the video.' Donovan shoved his hands deep in the pocket
of his fashionable black pants. 'You said you were telling the truth then, but now you tell me it was all a lie. And your daughter, who went to Captain Walsh and said she was telling the truth, then later said she was lying, too. You put your own daughter up to protect you?'
'Of course not,' Jack snapped. 'We've explained it to you. You don't want to believe us, there's no way we can convince you. Trevor is dead now, so we can't ask him.' He edged forward on the steel chair, his handcuffs pulled tight. 'Let me go and I'll prove it to you.'
'I don't think so. You're here to answer our questions,' Donovan said, though Kovich appeared not to have any. 'Where were you when Paige was shot at? We place the time of the incident at about six o'clock.'
'I was trying to find her. I knew she was in danger from Trevor.'
'Where exactly did you go to find her?' Donovan asked skeptically. 'I assume we can verify who you talked to.'
Mary knew the detective was getting into the time period when Jack was with Brinkley. She wondered if Jack would tell the detectives about him. It would help Jack's cause but put Brinkley on the hook. Taking evidence from a crime scene; interfering with a police investigation. They could charge Brinkley with obstruction of justice.
'Mostly I called around, from my hotel,' Jack answered, and Donovan snorted in derision.
'You were so worried about your daughter that you picked up the phone and made a few calls?'
'It was my only option. I would have gone to look for her but I didn't know where to start, and I wasn't free to walk around the city, not with the press after me everywhere I went.'
'Got it.' Donovan nodded, and if a nod could be sarcastic, this one was. 'So you sat in your hotel room and called people. Who did you call?'
'Her apartment. A few photographers.'
Jack was making it up as he went along, and even Mary
could see it. He wouldn't betray Brinkley, and though she admired him for it, she considered doing it herself. The choice between Jack and Brinkley wasn't an easy one, but there was no way Donovan would believe them now anyway. Exposing Brinkley wouldn't accomplish anything but hurting him.
'So you made some calls to photographers,' Donovan was saying. 'What did you find out?'
'Nothing. I didn't reach anybody. I left messages everywhere I could.'
'Did you call nine-one-one, like you did after you killed your wife?' Donovan shot back, but Jack kept his cool.
'I told you, I didn't kill my wife. And no, I didn't call nine-one-one about Paige.'
'Why not, if you thought she was in mortal danger?'
'There wasn't time and I thought I could handle it myself.'
'Why would you think that, Mr Newlin? You have police training? Firearms, self-defense, and whatnot?' Donovan cocked a thin eyebrow, and Mary guessed he was trying to learn if Brinkley was involved.
'No training, but she's my daughter. I was the one who put her in jeopardy. I was the one who was going to get her out of it.'
'By making phone calls?' Donovan half smiled. 'That means your phone records at the hotel would back you up.'
'Yes they will,' Jack answered quickly, though Mary knew they wouldn't. It was time to interrupt.
'Detective,' she said, 'you've asked enough questions to make it clear you have no evidence to support a charge of attempted murder against Mr Newlin. It's the middle of the night, and Mr Newlin is exhausted and in need of medical attention. This fishing expedition is over. Release my client.' Mary rose to her feet, but Donovan stepped forward.
'Ms DiNunzio, you don't tell us when we're done, we tell
you. Your client is on bail for a murder charge. Now he's a suspect in an attempted murder of someone who may be a witness at his trial. So we got him on the attempt, obstruction charges, and witness tampering. We can hold him until we check his phone records and we will.'
Mary and Jack exchanged looks. They both knew it was true, and in the morning the D.A. would probably have Jack's bail revoked. He'd be in prison until the trial, unless she could free him. Mary was on her own again, without him. She had come full circle. But it was different now, for lots of reasons. Not the least of which was that she was certain of his innocence and that her attraction to him had become undeniable, maybe even mutual.
'So I agree with you, the interview is over. But you're the one who's leaving, Ms DiNunzio.'
Mary rose to her feet. 'You want to question Mr Newlin further, you call me first. Nobody goes near him without me there. You get him the medical attention he needs. In the morning I'm filing a motion with the court complaining of police harassment.'
'Somehow I knew you would say that,' Donovan shot back, and Kovich got up and opened the door.
Mary noticed he avoided her eye when she walked out.
Dwight Davis stood with Captain Walsh on the other side of the two-way mirror. Davis felt fresh despite the late hour, but Walsh rested an arm wearily against the molding around the mirror, which looked onto the interview room like a window. 'This case is gonna kill me,' the captain said wearily, watching Kovich recuff Newlin through the window. 'I don't work this shift anymore.'
'Lighten up. Cap.' Davis grinned, his legal pad hugged to his chest. He watched the two-way mirror as if it were great TV. 'We caught Newlin in another lie, and as soon as I talk to the Chief, he'll pick up an attempted murder charge. I gotta find a way to get this before a jury. This man is going down big-time.'
'Newlin's not the problem,' Walsh said under his breath, but Davis picked it up.
'Who then?'
'What?'
'Who is the problem?'
Walsh sighed. 'Brinkley.'
'Brinkley?' Davis's neat head snapped from the window. 'You think he's helping them?'
'I can handle it.'
'Shit!' Davis was pissed. The fuckin' cops. From time to time he had to remind them who ran the show. Unlike lots of D.A.s, he didn't kiss up to the department. 'Cap, I'll be straight with you -'
'Hold the lecture, counselor.'
'No. If I find out that Brinkley had anything to do with Newlin or DiNunzio, I'll charge him with aiding and abetting, accessory after the fact, anything I can find. I will not have a rogue cop undermining my prosecution.'
'Brinkley's not a rogue cop, for Christ's sake,' Walsh shot back.
'Get him in line, or I will/ Davis said, and walked out.
It was early morning when Mary hit the sidewalk outside the Roundhouse and waded into the throng of media. Despite the cold, their numbers had swelled from the night before. Trevor's death and Jack's arrest had whipped them into a frenzy. They mobbed her, clicking motor drive cameras, screaming questions, and thrusting videocams and bubble microphones into her face. They fogged the air with steam and filled it with noise and action.
Mary put her head down and barreled ahead, remembering TV footage she'd seen of her boss, Bennie, running the same gauntlet. Odd to think she was doing it now, too. Was this really her? And was it progress? Wasn't she really better off whining about her job? Reading the classifieds? Daydreaming about the life of a manicurist? At least on this case, she knew the answer.
She ran to the corner. She knew she couldn't get another cab and she hadn't convinced the one that had brought her here to wait. Brinkley couldn't risk coming out in daylight to pick her up, and so she'd had to plan ahead. She had, by checking the schedule. The white SEPTA bus rumbled by, this one spray-painted all over with DEGAS AT THE ART MUSEUM, and she ran for it, her briefcase bumping at her side.
The bus genuflected at the bus stop, a misnomer if there ever was one, but the pause did give her time to be seen in the driver's rearview mirror. The sight of a passenger running flat out usually cued SEPTA buses to zoom away, but this one stayed put. Either it took pity on her because of the media after her like a swarm of killer bees, or the driver didn't know the rules. She caught up with the bus, her
chest heaving in the cold air. Its doors folded apart with a familiar rattle-and-slap, and she grabbed the steel handrail and leapt aboard. In Philly, real lawyers rode buses.
Mary watched two of the news vans take off after the bus, but the morning rush had started and in time one got lost in it. She slipped into a knit cap she had in her pocket, picked up a transfer slip, and got off the bus at the stop, then transferred to the C to get home. Nobody would suspect she was on the C. Nobody would bother with the C. It was the least suspicious bus route in Philadelphia. She watched the remaining news van get stuck in traffic, following the wrong bus, and she headed home. It would take her a little longer by bus, but it gave her time to think.
Jack had said that Paige's inheritance was the reason the cops thought he had tried to kill her. Mary had been pretty good at wills and estates in law school, and unlike criminal law, remembered it well. So the effect of Honor's will and Paige's trust must have been to have the Buxton money revert back to Jack. Mary knew that was almost boilerplate in wills. Whittier was the executor of both estates, a service generally performed for two percent of the total estate yearly, as Mary recalled. If it were a large estate, even two percent could amount to several million dollars, but it obviously wouldn't be collectable until after the deaths.
The bus chugged ahead, as did her thoughts. So Whittier would have wanted Honor and Paige dead for two reasons; either Honor was changing executors and he was in danger of losing the fees, or he simply wanted to hasten the day of collection, by killing them both. She shuddered. The bus hissed to a stop, taking on passengers as it approached the business district, and a young man in a tan baseball cap climbed on and wedged into the seat next to her. He let a heavy book bag slip from his shoulders and set it on his lap.
Mary returned to her thoughts. Only one thing didn't make any sense; Donovan's question. How were Whittier
and Trevor connected? One was an important law partner, the other was a high school kid. Like the one next to her on the bus. Mary glanced over at him, for field research. Close-up, he reminded her of Trevor, either that or the outlandish possibility that all teenagers were dressing alike. His baseball cap had a bright red A on it, which she assumed stood for Abercrombie and not Adultery. He wore a hoop earring in one ear, and she speculated that they issued the earring at Abercrombie's. He was about sixteen or seventeen and he wore jeans, a T-shirt, and only a light jacket, to prove he wasn't cold.
She smiled. Boys hadn't changed much. He had clear blue eyes, looked clean-cut, and was obviously on his way to school in town. Maybe he even went to Trevor's school. 'Excuse me,' she said, 'which school do you go to?'
'Pierce,' he answered.
She nodded. Or not Trevor's school. But maybe he knew him. Philly was a small town. 'You know anybody named Trevor Olanski? He goes to Philadelphia Select.'
'No.'
Of course not. So much for coincidences that broke the case. Mary had bad karma. She hadn't been to confession in eighty-five years. She gave up, looking out the window.
'What's your name?' the teenager asked, and she turned back to discover he was smiling at her.
'Uh, Mary,' she told him, and he nodded as if she had said something incredibly interesting.
That's a nice name.'
'It is?'
'What's your last name?'
'DiNunzio.'
'Mary DiNunzio. That sounds good together.'
'I had nothing to do with it,' she said, and he laughed warmly. She suppressed her smile. Was he trying to pick her up? The only time men looked at her like that was when a model was walking behind her. And he wasn't even a man, he was a man-child.
'Where do you go to school, Mary?' he said, and maybe it was her fatigue, but the first thought that popped into her mind was:
I'm old enough to be your mother. In fact, she wasn't, but she felt old enough to be his mother. And it gave her an idea about Trevor and Whittier, even though the kid didn't go to Trevor's school. She remembered something she'd heard in the last crazy days. Where had she heard it? Who had said it? We've had our eye on Olanski… He moves lots of drugs to kids in private school… He sold to the wrong kid a few months ago…
Could that be it? Mary had found a connection between Whittier and Trevor, at least a possible connection, if it panned out. It shook her from her reverie. The bus was almost at her stop. She had to go. She couldn't wait to tell Brinkley. She could be right. She could break the case, all by herself. Anything was possible. It was America. She picked up her briefcase from the bus floor and jumped to her pumps.
'Mary?' asked the teenager, whom she'd forgotten. His face was flushed with embarrassment, and his eyes looked hurt. She couldn't do that to him. Scarred at such a tender age, he could turn into a lawyer. She bent down and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
'I'm taken, but thanks for asking,' she told him, and made her way to the front of the aisle, where the driver steered the bus to a slow and safe stop. She didn't even have to hold on to the pole to avoid mortal injury. Definitely a rookie, she thought, and thanked him before she got off. It was the first time she meant it.
Mary hustled down Broad Street and when she turned the corner onto her block, broke into a run. She was so excited. She had figured it out. All they had to do was see if it was true. Brinkley could help.
She ran by brick stoops and marble stairs, past front windows with leftover plastic creches and porcelain Christmas trees. Christmas lights were still strung across the street,
rooftop to rooftop; they swayed in the stiff wind and glowed faintly against the morning sky, making a crayon canopy of red, blue, green, and yellow. Mary loved the lights. She loved life. She ran toward her house.
I'm old enough to be your mother. It was possible. She would find out if Whittier had a teenage son or a daughter. They would be roughly the right age. If Whittier had a kid, then maybe Trevor, drug dealer to preppies, had sold the kid drugs. And maybe that was the connection. It was possible, distinctly possible, especially in Philly". It was such a small town in many ways, and in her experience, the rich kids hung together and knew each other, even if they went to different schools. They went to the same exclusive camps, parties, even cotillions. This was Philadelphia, still.
Mary was going to free Jack, once and for all, and the certainty powered her to her front door. She reached the stoop panting, unlocked the door, and hurried inside. But she did a double take when she hit the kitchen.
She hadn't counted on the extra guest.
Mary dropped her briefcase in surprise at the sight. 'Is the bus that slow?' she said, and laughed.
Detective Stan Kovich smiled sheepishly from behind the tiny kitchen table. His large frame barely fit the rickety chair. 'I could have given you a ride, but then I would have been fired.'
Mary slipped out of her coat. 'Somebody want to fill me in?'
That would be me.' Brinkley gestured over a rather large plate of fried green peppers and soft scrambled eggs. She couldn't help noticing he'd been served first, so her mother and the Clock had made a truce. 'Siddown, we got something to tell you.'
'Yes, si.' Vita DiNunzio came over in her flowered housedress, with crisscrossed bobby pins holding the pin curls in front of each ear. She took Mary by the arm. 'Maria, you sit and eat. Your friend Jack, he okay?'
'He's fine, thanks,' Mary said, giving her mother a quick kiss before she sat down.
'You want coffee?' her father asked, but he was already scuffing over in his plaid bathrobe and slip-on slippers, bearing the steel pot. He poured her a cup, an arc of steaming brown.
'Thanks, Dad.' Mary looked at Brinkley. 'Okay, Reg, you go first, then I do.'
Brinkley nodded. 'We know that our boy Trevor deals coke to lots of rich kids at area schools. He was picked up for it last week, with a kid named Rubenstone. One of the kids he sold to was Whittier's son, who goes to a private school in the subs. Kovich found out from a buddy
of ours in juvy. That's the connection between Whittier and Trevor.'
'Jesus, I knew it!' Mary launched into the story about the kid on the bus to show she had figured it out herself, but her mother kept glaring at her from the stove for taking the Lord's name in vain.
'Well, you were right. Here's proof.' Brinkley passed a piece of paper over the table. It looked like an official form with redacted portions in the typed narrative. 'Kovich had to wait 'til his buddy got back to find the papers, because the complaint was withdrawn. The next day, in fact. Christian Whittier was one of the kids Trevor sold to, and a William Whittier picked him up. We think Whittier paid to bury the complaint. It can't be an accident that the arresting officer's on vacation.'
Mary frowned. 'So let's think about this. Trevor and Whittier met last week? That doesn't give us anything.'
'No, last week is the only time we know about, probably the most recent. But it isn't the first time Whittier's son makes a buy from Trevor, I guarantee it. Once a junkie makes a connection, they stay with it, especially these kids. They don't want to go a bad neighborhood to make a buy. They might get their hands dirty.'
Mary glanced at Paige, silent behind an empty plate. The teenager had been beside herself when she heard Trevor had been killed and looked like she hadn't slept at all. Still, Mary had to press her. 'Paige, do you know anything about this?'
'No,' Paige said. She brushed a strand of red hair from weary eyes, trying to rally. 'I didn't know Trevor was so into drugs and I didn't know anybody he sold it to. I just knew he had it all the time.'
'It's okay,' Mary said, patting her hand. The kid was going through hell, and judging from the empty plate, maybe having morning sickness. No matter what, Vita DiNunzio would force-feed her. Food equaled love in this household. Mary turned to Brinkley. 'So, go on, Reg.'
'We figure that Trevor and Whittier's kid were at least acquaintances, maybe even friends, Assume. Trevor sells to Whittier's kid from time to time. Whittier finds out. He knows that Trevor is the boyfriend of Paige Newlin, Honor and Jack's daughter, and he blackmails Trevor into killing Honor.'
'Where do you get the blackmail?' Mary asked, and Kovich raised his hand like a kid in school.
'That's from me. When me and Donovan interviewed Whittier, he told us that Trevor was blackmailing him over Newlin's drug use. It was the same thing he said at the scene, when Trevor got shot, the uniforms told me. Whittier had to have made that shit up on the spot, to explain what he was doin' at the office so late at night. And he ain't the sharpest tool in the shed, was my impression.'
Brinkley nodded, picking up the story like a relay team. 'People, when they lie, they make it up from something they knew. We see it every day. Like there's a grain of truth in it. Somebody was blackmailing somebody, it's just the other way around. If Whittier is behind this, like we think, that's how he gets Trevor to do the murder. He says, Kill her or I'll turn you in for the drugs you sell my kid. You can't pull strings forever, even in this town. Maybe Whittier pays Trevor, too, to sweeten the deal.'
That sounds like Trevor,' Paige added sadly. 'Sorry to say it, but he liked money.'
Mary thought about it. 'So now all we have to do is catch Whittier. That's up to me.' Her mother glared at her again as she ladled scrambled eggs onto a flowered plate, and Mary recognized it not as the watch-your-language glare, but the if-you-get-yourself-killed-I'll-kill-you glare. Only a few Italian mothers had perfected it, all members of well-known crime families. Her mother said nothing as she carried a plate of peppers and eggs over and set it in front of Mary with more clatter than necessary.
'Eat,' her mother commanded, but Mary knew she wanted to say. Choke.
'Mom, of course, I'll be very, very careful,' she said, and her father smiled. 'Now, as I was saying. I think it's up to me because I'm the lawyer in the group and I can go over to Tribe without suspicion.'
'It's a start.' Brinkley said. He finished the last of his eggs and turned to her mother at the stove. 'Vita, this was terrific. Best breakfast I ever had.'
'You deserve,' her mother said warmly.
Mary smiled, mystified. Brinkley was getting along with her mother better than she was. 'When did you two become such good friends, Mr I Have A Gun?'
'Since I fixed the pilot light,' Brinkley explained, and Mary laughed, as the doorbell rang and six heads looked at the front door in alarm.
Mary stood stricken at the silhouette of the police officers and Detective Donovan on her parents' marble stoop and felt instantly angry at herself for bringing this into her parents' home. 'What are you doing here?' she demanded, though she suspected the answer.
'We're here for Detective Brinkley,' Donovan answered, self-satisfied in his black wool topcoat. 'May we come in?'
'Not unless you have a warrant,' Mary told him, but his hard eyes widened when not only Brinkley but Kovich appeared behind Mary.
'Figured I'd find you here, Reg, but I didn't figure on you, too, partner.' Donovan sounded sterner than his years. 'I bought that dentist story.'
Right behind Kovich and Brinkley hobbled Vita DiNunzio, flushed with anger and brandishing a wooden spoon clotted with scrambled eggs. 'Whatta you doin' inna my house?' her mother demanded, but Mary held her back.
'Ma, relax, it's okay,' she soothed, feeling the balance of power shift to the flying DiNunzios. It meant trouble when
her mother had The Spoon. The cops had only guns. It was no contest.
Brinkley touched her mother's shoulder, dismay marking his thin features. 'It's okay, Vita's all right,' he said. 'Sorry this happened here, at your house. I'm going along with these gentlemen and I'll be fine.'
'Excuse me, Mrs DiNunzio, is it?' Donovan said, with smile that would get him nowhere. 'We'll be gone in a sec. If Detective Brinkley doesn't resist us, we can avoid cuffing him.'
'Cuffing?' Mary's mother repeated, making the g ring out like truth, waving the eggy spoon. 'I cuffa you one! You no touch Reggie Brinkley. No touch!'
'Don't worry, Vita,' Brinkley said again, as he grabbed his coat from the couch. On the way out, he gave Mary a hug close enough to slip something into her jacket pocket. She'd had a guess as to what it was, but would check later.
'I'll have a lawyer down there in an hour,' she told him. In front of her parent's house idled five police cruisers, exhaust pouring from their tailpipes and turning to steam in the cold air. Uniformed cops hustled Brinkley and Kovich into the backseat of the closest car.
Donovan flashed a smile at the DiNunzios. Thank you very much, and sorry about the intrusion.'
Mary's mother snorted in a way you didn't have to be Abruzzese to understand. 'You!' She waved the spoon. 'You wanna good smack?
Mary sat at the parents' ancient telephone table, holding the receiver of a black rotary phone that could qualify as a blunt instrument in most jurisdictions. She would be nagging her parents to replace it with a cordless if they weren't already so upset, huddling together on the sofa like a soft mountain of bathrobe, the wooden spoon back in its scabbard.
'Jude,' Mary said into the receiver, when her best friend picked up. 'Have I got a client for you.'
The morning stayed clear and brisk, and Mary flowed with the foot traffic in the business district. Men hurried by with their heads cocked to cell phones, and women hustled along in conversation. She remembered when she had been one of them; an inexperienced associate dressed in her most conservative clothes, hands gripped around a briefcase that contained a legal pad, a Bic, and photocopied antitrust cases. Okay, so it wasn't all that different now. She was still inexperienced, her clothes remained conservative, and she had the same briefcase, legal pad, and Bic, though the antitrust cases had been replaced by something distinctly illegal:
The Clock that Brinkley had slipped her when he and Kovich had been taken away.
She tightened her grip on her briefcase handle, its shape and heft second nature. The gun had felt far less so when she tried to aim it in her parents' kitchen, where she pointed prudently away from any religious paraphernalia. Of course she hadn't fired the gun; the shot would have brought the neighborhood, the police – or worse, her mother – running. As much as Mary hated guns, she had to admit it felt better to have it along, even if it smelled faintly of oregano.
She stopped at the corner, keeping her head down in case anyone recognized her. The Newlin saga was all over the papers; the Daily News had run a small photo of her with Jack. It was a strange feeling, seeing yourself in the paper next to a man you had fallen for. The juxtaposition was more appropriate to engagement announcements than murder stories, but she was getting way ahead of herself.
Must be the gun. It got a girl crazy.
The traffic light changed and she allowed herself to be carried off the curb and across the street, her thoughts focusing on Jack, in jail again, and what she had to do to get him out. It wouldn't be easy, but it was clear she had to question Whittier. She would be meeting with him as Jack's lawyer and start with the easy questions. Ask him about his talk with Jack the day of Honor's murder. Avoid mention of what happened with Trevor; don't put him on the defensive. If Whittier wouldn't cooperate, which was likely given that he hadn't returned any of her messages left with his secretary, she would confront him.
She sighted the glass spike that housed Tribe amp; Wright, a block away. Moussed heads bobbed on the sidewalk ahead of her, and the air was filled with the fog from cold breath and late-breakfast cigarettes. The crowd thickened as she approached the building, and her pace quickened, hurrying unaccountably to keep an appointment she didn't have. She hated the thought of Jack, battered, in prison. She worried what Davis would do next. Two men in front of her stalled. What was the holdup?
She craned her neck, apologizing as she jostled someone's cup of Starbucks. She was too short to see the base of the building. In the street, uniformed police were waving traffic away from the lane nearest the building, their squad cars parked haphazardly behind them. Lights flashed atop the hoods of the cruisers but the sirens weren't on. There seemed no immediacy; it was probably the aftermath of a traffic accident.
Mary threaded her way to the front, heedless about drawing attention to herself. Nobody was looking at her; they were worrying about being late for appointments. The crowd grew denser as she got closer to the building, brought to a standstill by whatever was going on. Over their heads she could hear their chatter and the shouting of the police. The block was suddenly buzzing with activity as two more squad cars pulled down the street, their roof lights flashing,
followed by a news van. If it was an accident, it must have been a serious one.
She wedged herself between wool-clad shoulders but couldn't go forward, the crowd was too packed. She didn't know how much time she had. Whittier had been in when she called, but he might have gone out. He'd certainly want to avoid her, knowing the questions she'd have. She had to get going. She stood up on tiptoe and looked around. One way out. The street.
Mary broke free and headed for the street, then ran along the gutter beside an ambulance that was moving slowly, despite the lane evidently cleared for it. Its driver waved her off in alarm but she sprinted ahead, trying to forget she was bounding along with a concealed deadly weapon. She was out of breath by the time she reached the cop directing traffic.
'How can I get into the building?' she asked him. Behind him was a sea of uniformed cops in caps and black leather jackets. They clustered on the sidewalk on the near side of the building. The ambulance stood parked a few feet away, its back doors flung open and its powerful engine idling.
'Lady, get out of the street!' the cop directing traffic shouted. 'Can't you see we got a situation here?'
'But I have to get into the building.'
'You can't. Now get outta here!' The cop turned his back at the sudden blare of a horn, and Mary sprinted behind him and pushed her way toward the building, just in time to see the cluster of cops breaking up. From the center of the group emerged two paramedics in blue uniforms, carrying a stretcher between them. On the stretcher lay a black body bag, zipped to the top.
Mary stood appalled at the sight. The paramedics loaded the body into the van and the doors slammed closed with a final cathunk. Someone had died here, right on the street. A heart attack maybe. 'What happened?' she heard herself say, and one of the older cops turned around.
'A suicide,' the cop said. His expression was somber and
his eyes strayed skyward. 'A man jumped out a window.'
'My God.' Mary looked up, too, squinting against the searing blue of the sky, or maybe to soften the impact of the sight.
An empty pane of jagged glass marred the shiny, mirrored surface of the building, and the sky reflected in its mirrors looked like someone had torn a hole in heaven itself. A few business papers floated from the shattered window, caught crazily on the crosscurrents of city air, and fluttered to the crowd. She watched them fall, drawing her gaze down to the sidewalk, visible now that the cops were moving away. A large white tarp had been thrown over the pavement but blood still soaked through the material. 'How terrible,' she said, horrified, and the cop nodded.
'Not a pretty sight. He was a big deal, too.'
She looked over, suddenly stricken. Something was very wrong here. She thought of her phone calls to Whittier. 'Who died? Who was he?'
'Don't think we've notified next of kin yet, miss,' the cop answered, with a quick glance over his shoulder. Behind him the cops had begun redirecting the pedestrians around the tarp, now that the body had been removed. But Mary wasn't thinking about getting inside the building any longer. She had a terrible hunch.
'From what company, what firm?' she asked, urgent. She couldn't explain how she knew, but she did. 'Was the man from Tribe amp; Wright?'
'Can't say, Miss. Now please, move along.' One of the officers behind him was listening, and in the next minute she understood why. Captain Walsh, standing out from the uniforms in his bright white cap, navy dress jacket, and dark tie, was eyeing her warily from the center of the group.
'But I'm supposed to see somebody at Tribe. His name is Whittier, William Whittier,' Mary said.
The cop didn't answer but his eye registered a reluctant, but unmistakable, recognition just as Captain Walsh strode toward her.
Mary felt Captain Walsh grip her arm and steer her toward an empty white-and-blue police cruiser. 'Step into my office, DiNunzio,' he said under his breath.
'It was Whittier who committed suicide, is that right, Captain?' she asked, as he placed her bodily into the passenger seat, slammed the door closed after her, and went around to the driver's seat. The legal term 'custodial interrogation' popped into her mind, but she shooed it away. Everything was happening too fast for her to process, but the suicide only confirmed Whittier's culpability. And it might have been the final key to Jack's freedom.
'DiNunzio, you are one royal pain, you know that?' Walsh climbed into the cold car and tore his hat off. 'First you get two of my best detectives in hot water, then you show up here. What were you doing with Reg? Did he help you?'
'Reg who? Now tell me about Whittier.'
'Reg who?' The Reg we tagged in your parents' house. That Reg.'
'Tall, black guy? Likes peppers and eggs?'
'That's the one.'
'Don't know him.' Mary would be damned if she'd incriminate Brinkley. 'Talk to me about Whittier. I need to know what happened.'
'No you don't. We got Brinkley and Kovich in custody because of you. You think that's good for the people of this city? You think it's easy to run a homicide squad with two detectives out? We're understaffed as it is.'
'I'm not talking to you about Brinkley or Kovich. I'm talking to you about Whittier. You don't want to talk about
him, I'm on my way.' Mary put a hand on the door handle and hoped she was convincing.
'You wanna talk about Whittier? Okay, explain to me what you're doing here and why you been calling him all morning.'
'How did you know that?'
'We interviewed the secretary.' Walsh glared at her from the driver's seat, which barely accommodated his burly frame. 'In fact, a big cheese like Whittier was, I came down and questioned her in person. What did you want him for? She said you told her it was important. You had to see him about Honor Newlin.'
'I was coming to confront him. Whittier was responsible for Honor Newlin's death. He blackmailed Trevor to do it. That's what the fight was about last night, in Whittier's office. The one Jack broke in on.'
'What? This a new theory? And it's Jack now?'
'Look, I swear it. Trevor sold drugs to Whittier's kid and Whittier must have known that I knew that.' Mary checked her urgency to convince him, but his eyes narrowed with trained skepticism. 'I was onto him, and he knew it was only a matter of time before it all came apart. It must be why he -'
Walsh cut her off with a chop. 'DiNunzio, don't give yourself so much credit. Whittier killed himself because you were on to him? Get real.'
Mary felt an undeniable pang of guilt. 'Not that I'm proud of it. But it proves that what I was telling you is true. Whittier knew it was over and he couldn't face it. This proves Jack Newlin is innocent.'
'Newlin confessed!'
'He recanted!'
They all recant when they realize they can get out of it! As soon as they find a lawyer young and gullible enough to buy their rap. I saw you two in the interview room, makin' eyes.'
Mary ignored the slight. You get a crush on your client,
you have to take the heat. 'It's the truth, Captain. Honor Newlin's murder just got solved.'
'Oh please! You don't know what you're doing. You're pingin' around like a Ping-Pong ball, and in the end good people get hurt. Don't you get it? You're an amateur!' Walsh looked away, obviously trying to keep his temper, but Mary couldn't let his words hit home.
'Captain, I know this seems crazy to you. I know I haven't had it figured out from the beginning. I'm not a professional detective, I know that, too. But I'm right. I'm really right this time, and this suicide confirms it.'
'Please.' Walsh harrumphed audibly and his eyes scanned the scene around the squad car. Police officers milled around, controlling traffic and ushering in a snub-nose yellow truck with hoses to wash down the sidewalk. Walsh appraised their progress, then turned to Mary. 'You honestly think we're gonna let Newlin go, because this lawyer committed suicide?'
'It's proof! Didn't Whittier know I was coming?'
'Yeah, he got the messages, but so what?'
'How soon after my last message did he kill himself?'
'Fifteen minutes, okay?'
'So there. Not much time, is it? What happened?'
'He sent his secretary down to the cafeteria for doughnuts. When she came back, he had jumped. A lawyer down the hall heard the crash. He broke the window with a chair first.'
'What did the note say?'
'No note.'
'So we don't know the reason for sure.'
'Wrong again.' Walsh laughed, without humor. 'You think he's gonna write, "I'm a bad guy, I'm scared of DiNunzio, this is me jumping"?' Walsh shook his head, eyes focused again on the scene through the windshield. 'And we do know the reason for sure. The secretary told us Whittier came in late this morning and she smelled booze on his breath. He looked so low she asked him what was
the matter and he told her he was ashamed of being all over the newspapers. He thought he embarrassed himself and the firm. She said that Whittier had already lost four of his biggest clients. I'd jump outta the building, too!'
'But that's not the reason. He knew it was going to get worse, when I proved he killed his own client.'
'Come off it! You got proof of nothing! You can't have! Whittier didn't kill the wife, Newlin did.'
'Captain, hear me out,' Mary said, and told him the whole story, omitting the aid of Brinkley and Kovich. As she spoke, she experienced a sinking sense of deja vu. She had no credibility with Walsh and she knew, even as she tried to convince him to the contrary, that she had no hard evidence against Whittier. It sounded like supposition, especially without Trevor's record in juvenile. She knew it was true, she just couldn't prove it. 'Captain, you're holding an innocent man.'
'According to you. I'll pass it along to Davis. I hear he liked the one about the daughter and the bruises, too.'
'You want evidence, I'll get it.' Mary opened the passenger side door. 'I'll make you let him go.'
'Not with your track record, kiddo,' Walsh said, but Mary was leaving.
She hurried from the squad car and broke into a light jog, running upstream against the swarm of businesspeople, some of whom stared at her curiously as she ran by. She didn't know where she was running. She let her feet carry her away from the bloody tarp on the sidewalk and Walsh's words. Not with your track record, kiddo.
Her pumps clattered on the cold concrete. The sun was cold on her back. The chill stung her nose and made her eyes water, but still she kept running, her bag and briefcase flying at her side. Her emotions churned within her. Her chest felt bound with cold and fear, making it hard to breathe.
She had felt so close to the solution, right at Whittier's door, and now he was dead. She had succeeded in nothing
except forcing the man's hand. Driving him to end his own life. Fresh tears sprang to her eyes and she didn't pretend they were from the cold. As dreadful a man as Whittier was, he didn't deserve to die. She had wanted to bring him to justice, not suicide. And not that way. Not with your track record, kiddo.
She kept running, blinking wetness from her eyes. A woman hurrying toward the business district looked at her with a flash of recognition. Mary didn't care. Jack was back in jail, and with Whittier's suicide, his fate could be sealed. She didn't have the proof to free him, and with Whittier dead she was no closer to getting him out, but farther away. Now both conspirators, Whittier and Trevor, were gone. How could she prove dead men guilty of murder?
It made her run faster. Brinkley and Kovich were in custody, too. Could Judy keep them out of jail? Mary kept running, the gun in her briefcase. Would the police find out about that, too? Would that make it worse for Brinkley? Was Walsh right? Was Mary just an amateur, doing damage?
The crowd thinned as she fled the business district. The pavement grew emptier the farther south she went. She didn't know where she was going at first. She had nowhere to go. She couldn't go home and upset her parents. It wouldn't serve any purpose to go to the office or even to see Jack.
Her heels rang out swift and certain on the concrete. Her ears were filled with the sound of her own breathing. She was on her own. She couldn't call on Judy or Lou; she didn't want to. Mary was meant to get to the bottom of this, it would have to be her. She had to think, she had to plan. She had to keep moving and not give up. Most of all, she had to succeed.
And when she finally stopped running, she was only partly surprised at where she found herself.
Atheists never feel completely comfortable in church, and Mary was no exception. She had returned to the city church of her childhood and thirteen years of schooling, coming back even to the same pew. She wasn't sure exactly why she had come to Our Lady of Perpetual Help. She was praying, if anything, to figure out what the hell she was doing there, much less on her knees.
She couldn't puzzle it out. She didn't believe in the perpetual help part and she knew it didn't do any good to put her hands together in prayer, thumbs crossed like a staged Communion picture. But she did these things in this place, her feet having followed routes only they remembered and her hands obeying messages of their own. Mary was a Catholic on autopilot.
The church was completely quiet, as it would be during a weekday afternoon, if there wasn't a funeral. She knew the schedule and rhythms of the church as well as her own. Only a few older people sat in the front pews, and Mary knew they would be standins for the same older people who prayed every day when she was little, who most often now were her parents and their friends, like Tony-from-down-the-block. She squinted at the outline of the silvery heads, but none of them was related to her, which was good considering the gun in her briefcase, by the padded knee rest.
Mary breathed easier. The church was as gloomy as it always was, Our Lady of Perpetual Darkness, because the overhead lights were so dim, the light from their ancient fixtures squandered in the vaulted arches of the ceiling. The darkness emphasized the votive candles that flickered
blood red on either side of the altar and the vivid blues, greens, and golds in the stained-glass windows, depicting the Stations of the Cross. Bright lights over the white marble altar set it glowing, and no stage was ever lit to more dramatic effect. The brightest spot in the church, illuminated by a white spotlight, focused on a singular, martyred image.
He hung from an immense gold crucifix at the front and center of the church; a life-size, lifelike statue of Jesus Christ. His blue eyes were lifted heavenward in fruitless appeal. Painted blood dripped from the crown of thorns on his head. Even now, an adult and a lawyer, she had a hard time looking at it. As a child, she used to obsess about what it must feel like to have a crowd of thorns forced down onto your forehead and nails driven clear through your ankles and wrists. But as she gazed at the statue, her hands folded against the smooth back of the pew in front of her, Mary realized why she had come.
Because the church was the same as it had always been, since as long as she could remember. The cool, slippery wood of the "pew. The hollow echoes of someone's cough. The splotches of dense color. The white-hot image at center stage. Everything outside the church's stone walls had changed – Mary had lost a husband, seen her parents age, changed jobs, ducked bullets, and met an interesting man – but this city church had remained the same.
And that everything stayed the same implied that it would always stay the same. Why? Because it always had been. As a lawyer, Mary recognized that the logic was circular as a Moebius strip and the exemption from change applied only under this roof, but she found herself comforted nonetheless.
As it was, is, and ever shall be, world without end, were the words of the prayer, and she found herself murmuring them quietly, and then, after them, other prayers. The words summoned themselves from a place in her brain she didn't know existed, the useless information lobe, where
she kept the lyrics to 'Good King Wenceslas' and the commercial paper provisions of the Uniform Commercial Code. And though it was sunny and busy and bustling outside the church, inside it was dark and still and familiar. The words were the same as they always had been, as were their rhythms, falling softly on her ears.
In time Mary could feel her heartbeat slow and her muscles relax. She eased back onto the pew, linked her hands in her lap, and let her thoughts run free. She said the words that came to her lips and breathed in the smells and sounds of the world without end, and that world was good and generous enough, even after all this time, to give her peace and room to think. And when she opened her eyes it was growing dark outside the church as well as in and afternoon had faded to dusk. And though it was still strange and new beyond the walls, Mary was no longer afraid.
Tears she couldn't quite explain came to her eyes and as she brushed them away she realized what they were. Exhibits A, B, and C. Mary had been looking for evidence all this time, but it was streaming down her face. A lawyer naturally wanted proof, was trained that way, and now she had finally found it. Evidence that she had been lying to herself for quite some time. And it wasn't a time for lies anymore; it was a time for truth.
So Mary spent one last moment whispering a thank-you to someone she always had believed in, and when she got up to go, with her briefcase and her gun, she knew exactly what to do.
Streetlights and lighted offices illuminated the street corner where Tribe amp; Wright rose from the concrete, and Mary was relieved to see that the crowd had gone, so her waiting had paid off. No police, no press, not even a sawhorse to mark the spot where Whittier had died. She looked up to the broken window and found the bright square of plywood. She gripped her briefcase and strode to the building in the chill night air. She felt refreshed and
determined, with Walsh's words a faint memory. She might have been an amateur detective, but she was a professional lawyer. And this was lawyer's work.
She conceptualized her task as a legal case, about to be tried. The case she had to prove was that Whittier had made Trevor kill Honor Newlin and that he had done so to get the money from the Buxton estate. She needed exhibits to make her case and there had to be a paper trail in Whittier's office, some document, accounting records, or something in the wills. Anticipation quickened her pace. The paper trail had to begin, or end, with Whittier.
She checked her watch as she hurried along. Eight o'clock. Late enough. She hoped everybody would be gone and she couldn't wait any longer. She would search all night if that's what it took. She wouldn't stop until she made her case, piece by piece. Paper by paper. As she approached the building, she reached into her handbag and popped on her sunglasses in case anybody recognized her. She had already pulled her hair back into a low ponytail to complete a sketchy disguise, which was all she needed. The rest she would accomplish with sheer attitude.
Mary drew herself up to her full five feet two inches, reminded herself she had attended an Ivy League law institution, and pushed open the glistening door to the lobby like a self-important lawyer, which was redundant. The lobby was opulent and the young security guard decorated with gold epaulets, but Mary hurried past him to the elevator with her newfound professionalism.
'Miss? Miss,' he called after her. 'You have to show building ID after hours.'
'Oh, no. Sorry.' Mary hustled halfway toward the desk, then stopped in fraudulent agitation. 'I don't work here, my sister does.'
'I knew you weren't a lawyer.'
Mary forced a hasty smile. So much for professionalism. 'Listen, you gotta help me! Call nine-one-one!' She hurried back toward the last elevator bank, which serviced the
twenty-third to the thirtieth floors. Tribe amp; Wright was on twenty-five to thirty. 'Hurry!'
'What?' The guard looked alarmed. 'Why?'
'My sister's on the twenty-third floor, in labor! She's having her baby! She just called me on the cell phone!' Mary slammed the button for the elevator and the doors slid open. 'Call nine-one-one! See you on twenty-three! Don't forget! Twenty-three!' She leapt into the elevator and hit the button to close its doors. 'Hurry!'
'Okay! Tell her don't push!' called the guard, and she heard him pick up the phone as the doors slid closed.
Mary hit the button for thirty, the top floor of Tribe's six floors. If Tribe were like the other big firms, Whittier's office would be on the top floor. Nearer my God, to thee. The elevator whisked her skyward, and she leaned against the cab wall with relief. The security guard would go to twenty-three; she would go to thirty. Sufficiently far apart to give her time to search Whittier's office and run. As relieved as she was that her plan was working, she felt a prick of conscience that she had lied, and so effectively, right after church. What turned a good Catholic into a good liar?
Law school.
TRIBE amp; WRIGHT, read the gilt Roman letters on the paneled wall. Mary knew she had the right floor as soon as the elevator doors opened. The smell of fresh paint and the newness of the rug tipped her off; the aftermath of Trevor's shooting. The firm would have wanted to put that incident behind it quickly and overnight repairs would be in order.
She hurried off the elevator. The reception area was elegant, and the overhead lights in the common areas had been left on. Under glass on the reception desk was a map of the floor layout, and she crossed to it quickly. She didn't have much time before the security guard and paramedics came looking for her and her allegedly pregnant sister.
In the meantime, she'd grab any documents that looked relevant and get the hell out of there.
Mary checked the floor map, running a finger down the row of partners' offices, past Jack's name to Whittier's. It was right down the hall. She paused, listening. It was silent and looked empty; no sound on the Power Floor. Of course, nobody at this level would be working this late; those lawyers worked on the Loser Floor. She hustled down the hall straight ahead and passed one huge office and the next until she reached the one in the corner. Whittier's.
She flicked on the lights. The office was well-appointed, with a huge mahogany desk and end tables, brass lamps rubbed to a soft finish, family photographs in heavy sterling silver frames. Though she didn't have time to assess decor, there was something visually incongruous about the tasteful mahogany desk in front of the rough-hewn plywood expanse over the broken window.
It stopped Mary in her tracks, wordlessly posing an excellent question. Was Whittier the kind of a man who jumped out a window when the shit hit the fan? It didn't fit the picture. If he had known Mary, or the law, was closing in, why didn't he take off to Brazil? Get lost in Europe or the Caymans? He had the money. Mary blinked, pondering it. She recalled what the D.A. had said about Jack at his arraignment. A wealthy partner in a major law firm, the defendant possesses financial resources far beyond the average person and poses a significant risk of flight. He can use his resources to flee not only the jurisdiction but the country. The argument had the force of common sense. It was the reason she had lost the bail petition. So why didn't it apply here, as well?
Mary stared at the clash of mahogany and plywood in the still office. Had Whittier really jumped from the window? She recalled what Walsh had told her: Whittier had sent his secretary down to the cafeteria, and when she came back, he had jumped. A lawyer down the hall had heard the crash of the chair against the window. A suicide would be
a logical conclusion. But now Mary had seen the layout of the hall. Somebody could have come into Whittier's office from one side of the hall, knocked him out and pushed him out the window, then kept walking down the other side and never have been detected. Was that possible? Was Whittier pushed out the window? But who would have killed him, and why?
'Turn around, very slowly,' came a commanding voice from the door.
'Hello,' said the short man standing on the threshold of Whittier's office. He aimed a black gun at Mary's chest. 'My name is Marc Videon and I'll be your lawyer tonight.'
Mary stiffened with terror. She couldn't speak. She didn't know who he was. She didn't know what to do. She couldn't believe it was happening. She didn't want to die.
'You must be Mary DiNunzio behind those Foster-Grants.' Videon smiled, his thin lips curling unpleasantly. 'You're practically famous. Got a talk show yet?'
The sunglasses. She had forgotten she was wearing them. For some reason she snatched them off her face and saw him better. His eyes were small and slitted, his hair dark, and his goatee came to a waxed point. He reminded Mary of the Devil himself, but she had just come from church. Or maybe it was his gun. Her stomach felt cold and tight.
'Congratulations. You have found your way to my partner's office, having identified him as the malefactor. You were half-right. Or is it half-wrong? Is the glass half-full or half-empty?' Videon cocked his head as if he were actually considering the question. 'I say half-empty, but you look like one of those relentlessly perky, half-full types to me.'
Panic told Mary to bolt, but she knew she wouldn't make it. He'd fire as soon as she moved. She had to think of something. Brinkley's gun was still in her briefcase. The security guards and paramedics would be here soon. Stall him. 'I thought Whittier was the bad guy,' she said.
'Of course you did. I planned it that way. Big Bill Whittier had the stature and the pedigree but he didn't have the brains or the balls. I'm the one who drafted the prenup, wills, and trust documents.' Videon licked his thin lips with
amusement. 'I made Whittier rich. As Honor kept sending him more matters, he collected from the Foundation as billing partner, as managing partner, and soon as executor of Honor's personal estate. He kicked back half to me, and I fed him what he needed to know about Honor. Surprised? You're in good company. The firm thinks I'm the skanky divorce troll with the office under the bridge. I'm not one of the Tribe, you know.'
Mary could see Videon wanted to brag, and she needed time. 'Did you kill Whittier?'
'Of course not. The fall did. All I did was push.' Videon smiled. 'Aw, don't look at me like that. Big Bill had to go. He got all worked up when he found out that I had the boy kill Honor. He said he'd steal, but not kill. A lawyer with scruples, no?' Videon's smile vanished. 'Dumb fuck. He actually thought Jack did it. That's what the boy – Trevor – was doing in the office last night. Tattling on me.'
'But Whittier told the police Jack did it -'
'He lied. Thought the truth would make the firm look even worse in the newspapers. Nobody could malign Tribe when Big Bill Whittier was around. Not to mention that his livelihood – and pension – would vanish if the firm went under.' Videon laughed, an audience of one. 'And your meddling got to him, my dear. He was actually worried about you. I couldn't rely on his discretion. I had to make sure he never went to the police.'
Mary felt a stab of guilt. 'How did you get Trevor to kill Honor?'
'I bought him out of his first drug charge, for a criminally high sum, for dealing to Big Bill's kid. Told him to get there before Jack got home. But why did I have Honor done away with? That's a better question than how, isn't it? Aren't you curious?'
Mary nodded. Where were the paramedics? Where was security? She could have had a baby by now.
'I knew that when Honor divorced Jack, she'd take the Foundation business elsewhere eventually, and I couldn't
lose that cash cow. She was pushing for those divorce papers, and I had to stall her by having typos in the draft. Sure, we'd shifted a lot of the Buxton business to Whittier, but why would she stay with her ex-husband's firm? Where's your Tribe spirit?'
Mary gathered it was rhetorical. The gun was pointed right at her chest. He stood only four feet away. Even a lawyer couldn't miss. Especially a lawyer couldn't miss. How could she get to Brinkley's gun?
'I can see I'm boring you, even at gunpoint. You've been reviewing your options, but you have none. I gotcha. I was coming up to gather a single loose end and I ran into you. Had to go back for my gun.' Videon took a step closer, raising his gun point-blank over Mary's heart and she could swear she felt it stop beating.
'You can't kill me here. You can't explain another body.'
That's why you're coming with me.'
'No!' she shouted suddenly, and threw her briefcase at Videon's gun with all her might. The gun exploded with an earsplitting sound but Mary sprinted out of the office, running for her life.
'Help!' She started screaming as soon as she hit the hall. Where to run? She flashed on running from Trevor that night, but it was close quarters this time and Videon was smarter. He hadn't missed a trick and he wouldn't start now. His footsteps pounded the soft carpet behind her as she turned the corner. He was waiting for his shot.
'Help!' she shouted. She raced past the reception area, breathing hard from fear. The security guard and the paramedics had to be searching for her by now, didn't they?
Where was the fire stair? She tried to remember the layout she'd seen at the reception desk. Where had the stair been? Left? Right? She took a chance. Right. Yes!
Ahead lay the red exit sign for the fire stair, past a lineup of secretaries' desks with lawyers' offices behind them. The hall was a long, straight line. It would give Videon a clear
shot. She glanced back. A squat figure, he stood at the end of the hall, aiming at her with a two-handed grip.
'No!' she screamed. She hurtled forward, zigzagging to throw him off, tears of fright in her eyes. She was at the fourth desk when she heard the gun go off, an explosive crak.
The pain arrived before the sound. Jesus God, she heard herself say. Heat shot through her right calf, stalling her in mid-stride, but she pitched forward and didn't stop running. She banged through the fire door and hit the concrete stairs. She couldn't die now. She had the bad guy. She had Jack. Her parents needed her. She had to take her father to the doctor and her mother to church. She grabbed the banister and slid her hand down it as she half stumbled and half ran down the stairs.
30TH FLOOR, read the stenciled paint on the fire wall. A caged bulb threw dim light on her stair, and she spotted bright red spurting from her leg. She grabbed it reflexively and felt its slick wetness. Her own blood. She felt faint. She broke out in a sweat. Her stomach turned over as she ran around the landing and kept going.
She hit the next stair and saw a red fire alarm with a lever. She yanked the lever on the fly. The siren sound was instantaneous, screaming in her ears, but she kept running downstairs. It would tell security where she was. But it would tell Videon, too.
29TH FLOOR. He would be after her. Down the stairs in a minute to finish her off. There was a red door on each floor but she decided not to take it. She had to get closer to twenty-three to help. Where was Videon? She couldn't hear the closing of the exit door over the siren.
28TH FLOOR. Would he take the elevator? Meet her from the bottom up? She suppressed her scream. Her leg gushed blood. Each movement brought agony. She didn't know if she could go on. She had to. Where was security? Where were the paramedics? Didn't the fire alarm matter?
27TH FLOOR. Suddenly a shot rang out. Mary flinched
and stumbled down the stair and past the red door. She didn't know at first if she'd been hit. She didn't know where the shot had come from or where it had gone.
26TH FLOOR. She glanced at her arms, whole in an intact suit. She was fine. He had missed. She felt herself laugh, hysterical with relief and terror as she flew down the stairs. Out of breath, in pain. Weeping with fright.
25TH FLOOR. She was almost there! She pitched down the stair and stumbled as her bloodied leg buckled under her.
'Help!' she shouted as she went down, but the siren swallowed her cry. She hung on the steel banister and almost swooned when she saw fresh blood staining her suit on her right side, near her hip. Videon had shot her in the side. He hadn't missed; she'd been too adrenalized to feel it. Jesus, God.
She looked up in the dim stairwell. Videon was scurrying down the stair, only a floor up. Terror paralyzed her but she hoisted herself to her feet. Dots popped before her eyes. She couldn't see but she started to run. She must be losing blood pressure. She kept her bloodied hand on the banister as she ran past the fire door and down, down, down.
24™ FLOOR. It was getting darker. Was it getting darker? Was she going the right way? She was in such pain. Was it worth it? She ran down the stairs, at least she thought she was running.
'Help!' she screamed, but even she couldn't hear it over the din. She fell again, in the dark, and her hand slipped free of the banister. She didn't have the strength to get up. The red door was right there but she couldn't make it. Everything hurt so much. She was drowning in the sound of a siren that hadn't brought help.
Her eyes fluttered closed as a dark figure stood above her. The last sound Mary heard was the sickening crak of a gunshot.
Brinkley stood on the concrete landing of the fire stair, behind a smoking gun. He'd taken a single shot at the man about to shoot Mary, and Brinkley's bullet had found its target.
'Oh!' the man screamed, as his hand exploded. He doubled over, howling, and his gun clattered to the concrete stair.
'Freeze!' Brinkley shouted. He ran the few steps between them, collared the man by the scruff of his neck, and kicked his gun over the stairwell. 'Get your face on the floor!' he ordered, and the man obeyed, moaning like a little girl.
Brinkley didn't know who the asshole was but he kept his aim on him as he rushed to Mary's side and felt her neck for a pulse. Blood soaked her suit and blanketed her leg. Her eyes were closed. Her skin was too pale.
'Mary, wake up!' he called to her, desperate to keep her conscious. He couldn't let her die. He couldn't do that to her parents. He couldn't explain why, but the DiNunzio family mattered to him. He counted his blessings that he'd guessed she'd go to Tribe, following the connection from Trevor to Whittier, and that her friend Judy had bailed him out in time.
'Mary! Wake up, Mary!' he called again, his fingertips on her neck, trembling too much to feel a pulse. He was about to lift her when a security guard burst through the fire door, followed by a group of uniformed paramedics. He couldn't explain that either and he didn't try. 'She needs help!' Brinkley shouted.
But the paramedics took one look at Mary and didn't need to be told.
It was the wee hours and the hospital cafeteria was practically empty. Brinkley slid his too-small turquoise tray along the stainless steel runners and went through the line, numb with fatigue and tension. He picked up four triangles of prepackaged tuna sandwiches for himself and the DiNunzio family, who were upstairs in the intensive care waiting room. He grabbed four Styrofoam cups and filled them with hot coffee from a black-handled spout. By the fourth cup he was yanking hard on the handle to drain the last of the coffee, which trickled through dotted with grinds.
'You got more coffee?' he shouted, even though there was nobody behind the counter except posters of dancing apples, happy peas ringing a carrot maypole, and a fluffy head of lettuce with a manic grin. None of the healthy food bore any resemblance to the processed crap for sale, and if Brinkley had been in any kind of mood, he would have laughed at the irony. But he couldn't, not with Mary still in surgery and the DiNunzios so upset. Brinkley couldn't figure out if they had adopted him or it was the other way around, but as unlikely as it was being a tall black detective in a short Italian family, Brinkley found himself liking it. Even tonight, with Mary.
He grabbed a handful of Half-and-Half cups from a bowl of melted ice and sugar packets from a basket, then played mix-and-match with the coffee lids, wondering how smart you had to be to distinguish a large lid from a medium. Shit. He eventually lucked out and pressed the plastic lids onto the coffee cups, then got to the end of the line and handed a twenty to the girl who finally showed up to take his
money, then left with only her attitude. Brinkley packed the stuff into bags himself and wedged the cups carefully into a cardboard carrier, and when he was leaving, stopped, because he recognized a man in a suit, hunched over his own cup of coffee.
Dwight Davis. Boy Wonder. The D.A.'s rep tie was undone and his oxford shirt wrinkled under his suit jacket. There was no fresh legal pad in sight, and Davis's head was bent, his eyes bloodshot and his gaunt runner's cheeks even more sunken than usual. The man struck Brinkley instantly as a burnout case, though the detective couldn't scrape together any sympathy for the prosecutor.
'What are you doin' here?' Brinkley demanded, standing over the turquoise table, and Davis finally looked up.
'Reg. She the same?'
Brinkley was so surprised, he couldn't answer. Was Davis asking about Mary? Was that why he was here?
That's two hours she's been in surgery,' Davis said, and Brinkley felt a knot of anger tighten in his chest.
'Who told you that?'
'How do I know? I keep calling the desk, different nurses answer, and they tell me.'
They not supposed to do that.' Brinkley's tone stayed calm but he was shouting inside.
'Huh?'
They're not supposed to tell you.' Brinkley wanted to deck the man, but he tried to remember himself. He was a professional. They needed him upstairs. He had the tuna sandwiches, cream cups, and the cardboard carrier.
'You're right, Reg. They're not supposed to tell. I stipulate to that. Okay?'
'No. Why do they?'
'Jesus, Reg!' Davis voice sounded hoarse. 'I tell 'em Masterson wants to know and they tell me. What's the friggin' difference?'
'It makes a difference. You're not immediate family.'
'I'm the D.A.'
'So what? That don't matter. They shouldn't tell you.' Brinkley could barely control himself. Why did it bother him so much? Then he knew. 'Because you don't have a right to know.'
Davis leaned back in his plastic bucket chair. 'You're wrong, Reg. I have more of a right to know than anybody.'
'How the fuck is that?'
'I put her there.'
Since Brinkley could neither deny Davis's guilt nor take pleasure in it, he left the man with it and walked away.
A somber-faced Brinkley shifted uncomfortably on the wooden dais, his arms linked behind his back, standing next to Kovich. He blinked against the harsh flashes from the Hasselblads and avoided the black lenses of the video cameras pointed at him. He hadn't slept the rest of last night and had barely had enough time to change clothes for this morning press conference, which was a total waste of time. He'd much rather be with the DiNunzios, who needed him, but he was on orders.
Microphones sprouted from the podium at the center of the dais, their thick black stems craned toward Captain Walsh. The Cap was wearing his dress uniform, since this was official, and to his left stood Dwight Davis. Davis wouldn't even look at Brinkley, which was fine with him.
Captain Walsh raised his hands to settle the reporters packing the large press room. 'Okay, people,' he said, when they had quieted, 'we'd like to make a short statement about recent events in the Newlin case. Bottom line, we've dropped all charges against Jack Newlin. We have charged Mr Marc Videon for the murder of Honor Newlin and the murder of Mr William Whittier.' Walsh nodded once, as if to punctuate his speech. 'We'll take a few quick questions at this time.' The reporters shouted and waved at once, but the Cap pointed at a woman reporter in the front row. 'You,' he said.
'Captain Walsh, did the police department really charge the wrong man? And if so, how did that happen?'
'No two ways about it, we made a horrendous mistake. We accepted Newlin's confession and we shouldn't have.
The credit for correcting this mistake goes to our own Detective Reginald Brinkley, of Homicide,' Walsh gestured to Brinkley, who looked immediately down at his loafers. He had changed them at home. His sneakers had been stained with Mary's blood. Mary. He bit his lip.
Walsh continued, 'I would also like to give credit to someone who is not here with us tonight, Mary DiNunzio, Mr Newlin's attorney. Next question?' He pointed again. 'You, John.'
'This is for Dwight Davis,' the older reporter said. 'Mr Davis, you thought the Commonwealth's case was so strong that you announced earlier this week you would not offer Mr Newlin a plea bargain. How do you square that with his ultimate innocence?'
Davis edged forward to take the podium. 'John, I have to agree with Captain Walsh,' he began, and Brinkley looked up, listening. He'd never heard a D.A. admit he was wrong and couldn't believe he was about to hear it from Davis, in front of everyone. It was one thing to fess up in a hospital cafeteria and another to do it in public. 'My prosecution of Mr Newlin was a complete miscarriage of justice, and the fault is entirely mine. I am announcing effective today my resignation from the Office of the District Attorney.'
Brinkley looked over, stunned. Davis had changed his view of lawyers in one shot. Almost.
'I was overzealous in this case and I think it's time for me to take a breather. Beyond that, I have no further comment.' Davis stepped away from the podium, as strobe lights flashed like gunfire.
The reporters immediately began shouting again, and Captain Walsh picked one in the back of the room. 'You have the last question, Bill;'
'Thank you, sir,' the reporter said. 'What's the latest on DiNunzio's condition?'