by Ann McMan
“Ben?” Evan asked.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think we need that ladder in here with us. How about you leave it outside?”
Ben took umbrage at her tone. “Hey, wiseass? What if we need to look at shit on the top shelf?”
“Then we bring it in?”
He grumbled, hauling the ladder back out into the hallway.
“What are we looking for?” Ben asked when he rejoined her.
“Anything with the acronym ‘PAC,’ the words ‘Political Action Committee,’ or ‘Citizens for Integrity in Government.’ Also look for anything from 1992. Incorporation papers, tax records, anything like that. Arthur Squires was the attorney who managed this, so his name would probably be tagged, too.”
“Roger.”
They both worked in silence. The only sounds came from the opening and closing of metal file drawers. After twenty minutes, Evan gave up.
“Okay.” She closed the drawer she’d been looking through. “There’s nothing in here.”
“Yeah,” Ben pushed another drawer shut. “All I am seeing is run-of-the-mill probate shit—and most of it dates back before 1992.”
Evan nodded. “Let’s check these boxes over here and then be done with this. I hope to god Ping can find what we’re looking for.”
“Trust me. If anybody can, she will. That woman never gives up.”
“Lucky for you.”
Ben scratched behind his collar. “These fucking jumpsuits really gig you on the back of the neck.”
“I don’t think they’re supposed to be comfortable.”
“Yeah. The assholes who probably order them have no fucking clue how it feels to put in an honest day’s work.”
Evan laughed. “You mean like we’re doing right now?”
He shrugged. “Why not? It sure as shit pays my bills.”
They rotated and faced the phalanx of brown boxes that filled the shelves. In some sections, the boxes were stacked two deep. The front of each container was tidily labeled with a card that detailed its contents and inclusive dates.
“At least this is easier to search.” Evan ran her finger along a lower shelf. It seemed to her that the older stuff would be stored higher, in the harder to reach areas.
“Yeah. Imagine the potential for blackmail with all this shit.”
“Don’t even go there, Ben.”
“Hey, I can dream, can’t I?”
Evan took a second to muse about Ben’s dreams, and quickly regretted it.
Something else occurred to her.
“Hey,” she asked him, “do you know anything about Soviet-era pistols?”
Ben didn’t seem to think her question was random. But then, nothing ever seemed random to Ben. It was part of what made him good at his job.
“Some,” he said. “Which one in particular?”
“The Tokarev TT30. How common are they around here?”
“You tell me.” He snickered.
Evan was confused. “What do you mean by that?”
“It was a Tokarev round they dug outta your shoulder the night Townsend was murdered.”
“What?” Evan was astonished.
“Yeah,” he said, “I shoulda kept that damn piece after I knocked that bitch out. I thought about it. Those fuckers are hard to come by—especially the Russian-made models. If I hadn’t been sure it was hot, I’d have taken it from her.”
“You mean Maya Jindal used a Tokarev to kill Andy?”
“Yeah.” Ben shrugged. “Makes sense, if you think about it. They’re noisy and high-powered . . . just like her.” He chuckled at his own simile.
Evan’s head was reeling. Maya Jindal had a Tokarev?
What were the fucking odds?
“J.C. Ortiz told me Joey Mazzetta was shot with a Tokarev.”
“No shit?” Ben seemed impressed by that. “She must be branching out.”
“Wait a minute. You think she killed Joey? We don’t even know where the hell she is.”
“I dunno. Seems like her calling card. Didn’t you say some ‘anonymous’ person was sending you Signal shit about Cawley?”
“Yes. But . . .” Holy Christ. Was Ben right? Could Maya Jindal be masquerading as the all-knowing Moxie?
That made no sense. Why would Maya Jindal be involved in any of this?
Unless . . .
“You know,” she said. “Dan admitted to me that the first photo of Cawley—the one taken at the private club with the bishop—was given to him by Marcus Goldman.”
Ben lowered a couple of document boxes so he could read the labels on the ones stacked behind them. “I thought you said you’d never work for that scumbag again?”
“I’m not working for him. He’s just the one who gave Dan that image.”
“Out of the goodness of his nonexistent heart?” Ben asked.
Evan couldn’t explain it, but it seemed like all of the disconnected puzzle pieces of this mystery were starting to fall into place. All but one: a motive.
“The end of everything.” That’s how Edwin Miller had described the single puzzle piece he held clenched in his hand during her visit with him. Evan had no doubt that this was the same piece they removed from his intestine during his autopsy.
“Moxie is the one who sent me the second photo of Cawley—the one with the basketball team from St. Rita’s.”
“Who the fuck is Moxie?”
“Sorry. That’s the name of my anonymous Signal ‘helper.’”
Ben laughed. “Somebody is fucking with you.”
“That’s hardly breaking news. But why do you say that now?”
“Because,” he restored the boxes he’d lowered back into place, “the Signal app was invented by some dude who went by the name Moxie Marlinspike.”
Evan sagged against a filing cabinet. She felt like a moron for missing so many obvious clues.
“Hey,” Ben added in an upbeat tone. “Don’t be depressed. If that Jindal bitch is your pal Moxie, then at least you know what you’re up against.”
“Great. Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No.” Ben shifted some more boxes. “Just smarter—and a lot more careful.” He halted his search and abruptly stepped backward, which wasn’t easy to do in the cramped space. “Well, I’ll be goddamned.”
“What?”
He pointed to a slim box. “Take a gander at this.”
Evan walked over and peered at the label.
Ganymede Irrevocable Trust: Estate of J. Lewis Donne.
“Oh, holy shit.” Evan stared at the box like it contained a bunch of angry cobras.
“Well?” Ben asked. “Aren’t you gonna take a look at it?”
“I honestly do not know.”
“Well, if you won’t,” Ben reached out and grabbed the box, “I sure as shit will.”
“Wait.” Evan touched his arm. “I don’t know about this. It’s Julia’s damn father, Ben.”
“So what? Isn’t it a little late for you to get religion?”
“We don’t even know if this has anything to do with Cawley.”
“That’s right,” he pointed out. “And we won’t know until we open it.”
Evan continued to deliberate. Once they opened this, there’d be no way to put Pandora back inside. And what if they found something incriminating to link Lewis Donne to Cawley and Bishop Szymanski?
Something more than the photograph she already had . . .
What then? How could she go forward with something that might have the potential to ensnare Julia’s family—and her business—in what was beginning to smell like an eerie offshoot of the grand jury investigation into sex abuse scandals in the Catholic Church?
She couldn’t. Not if she wanted to protect Julia.
She thought about Tim. And Joey Mazzetta. And the thousands of other innocent kids who had been victimized in these scandals. None of them had a choice. None of them had the wherewithal or the resources to protect their good names—or even to salvage what was left of
their shattered lives.
She looked up at Ben with resignation.
“You’re right. Let’s make copies of this and I’ll go through it later.”
Ping appeared in the doorway to the file room. “I got what we need. Are you finished?”
“Yeah.” Evan said. She pushed past Ping and headed for the photocopier. “I’m finished.”
◊ ◊ ◊
After they’d stashed their props back in the storage closet and returned the key card to its hiding place in the potted plant, they left the building and headed for the City Diner & Cocktail Bar on South Broad Street.
Ben was hungry—again—and Evan confessed that she could use a stiff drink . . . or three.
While they waited on their orders, Ping filled them in on what’d she’d been able to glean from Dumbass’s computer.
It seemed her home phishing expedition had paid off. Once she used Dumbass’s password to log in to the second computer—the one that functioned as the firm’s de facto Intranet—she found a treasure trove of juicy data related to all of the firm’s top clients. She connected her laptop to the free-range computer in Dumbass’s office, and set about ghosting the server. Once it finished copying, all of the data was compressed and backed up on her destination drive.
“What about you two?” Ping asked. “What’d you find?”
Ben answered for Evan. “We found some shit, but we don’t know how useful it is yet.”
Ping nodded. “It’s gonna take me some time to sift through everything I got, too. I’ll use whatever set of search criteria you give me to narrow it down.”
“Got a sheet of paper?” Evan asked. “I’ll make you a list right now.”
Ping dug a notepad out of her messenger bag and handed it to Evan.
“I’m gonna ask you to do the impossible, Ping.” Evan began jotting down the list of search terms and names.
“Why should tonight be different? I’m guessing you want my report by tomorrow morning?”
Evan nodded.
“It’s going to cost you plenty,” Ping cautioned.
“Money we have,” Evan clarified “It’s time we’re running out of.”
“Where are those fucking cocktails?” Ben got up from their table. “I’m gonna go ask what the holdup is.” He strode off toward the bar.
Ping watched Evan make her list. “You wanna tell me what’s on your mind?” she asked. “And don’t say this timetable, because that’s no different than it was two hours ago.”
“It’s nothing.” Evan tried to avoid meeting her eyes. “I’m just tired.”
“Tired?”
Evan didn’t reply.
“So whatever has you looking like somebody just told you there was no Santa Claus wouldn’t have anything to do with whatever was inside that brown box?”
“Ping . . .”
“Listen up, little girl,” Ping lowered her voice, “before that fool, Ben Rush gets back. Your life is gonna go on a lot longer than anything related to whatever happens or doesn’t happen with this damn judge.”
Evan put her pen down and looked up at her. “Meaning?”
“Meaning, you don’t have to pay for stopping this man’s nomination by sacrificing your own peace of mind. This right here,” she tapped the black bag that contained her laptop, “is just a job—not a quest for some holy grail. And there ain’t gonna be no happy endings in this—for anybody. Sure . . . we might manage to blow this one up—but none of these guys are gonna lose anything. They never do. They just keep getting reborn. So, you take my advice. If what was inside that box is gonna damage something you care about—then you just let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Can I do that?” The question wasn’t rhetorical.
“You can,” Ping nodded. “But you probably won’t.”
Over Ping’s shoulder, Evan saw Ben returning with a tray containing their drinks.
She met Ping’s brown eyes. “You’re right,” she said. “I probably won’t.”
◊ ◊ ◊
It was just a few minutes after nine when Evan got back to Chadds Ford.
The house smelled great when she opened the front door and stopped to shake snow off her coat before hanging it up. It had started spitting flurries when she’d left Center City. By the time she made the turn onto US 322, it was snowing steadily enough that she had to use the wipers to keep the windshield clear. She was glad when she saw Julia’s Audi in their driveway—but concluded it would be a good idea to leave the folder containing the photocopies of the trust documents in her car until morning. She’d go through those records after Julia left for work. Then she’d be able to figure out whether or not she needed to share any of the information with Julia—or could just burn it all in the fireplace.
Finding those documents had been a complete shock. Lewis Donne’s name was literally the last one she’d hoped to see. In retrospect, it made sense that Julia’s father would retain an attorney with offices in the same damn building as his own company. It was also probable that, as her father’s executrix, Julia already knew about the Ganymede bequest. If so, that surely meant the fund had no relationship to anything involving Cawley or the club, and could be forgotten.
That was her hope, anyway.
Scents of warm vanilla and nutmeg met her as she headed toward the living room. Julia sat on the sofa reading something—probably a manuscript, judging by the pages she had spread out on the cushion beside her. She had music playing. It sounded like a Bach partita.
Clearly, she’d won the Pandora debate with Stevie.
Evan heard sounds coming from the kitchen—water running and cookie sheets clattering against the sink.
Stevie must’ve been baking. Evan was gratified that she also appeared to be cleaning up.
It was amazing how the simple scent of hot cookies could supersede anything else. She allowed herself to stand in the doorway and enjoy inhaling the intoxicating aromas.
Julia smiled at her from the couch. “Good timing.” She nodded her head toward the kitchen. “Stevie promised samples when she finished.”
Evan crossed the room and flopped down onto the end of the sofa. She leaned across the pile of discarded pages to give Julia a kiss. Julia smelled great, too. But that wasn’t unusual. Evan wished sometimes that she could bottle Julia’s scent and carry it around in her pocket like an inhaler.
“I missed you tonight.” Julia cupped the side of Evan’s face. “Where were you?”
Evan debated about how to answer. “I had a little . . . business to take care of in town.”
“Oh? That sounds ominous.”
“It wasn’t,” she lied. “What have you been up to?”
Julia held up her stack of pages. “In a rare moment of weakness, I consented to read an unsolicited manuscript one of our agents sent my way.”
“Did you say a moment of ‘rare’ weakness?” Evan teased.
“You don’t count.”
“Good to know.” Evan propped her sock-clad feet up on the coffee table. “So how is it?”
“The book?”
Evan nodded.
“It’s—interesting. A cross between fantasy and cli-fi. Not the kind of thing we normally publish.”
“Cli-fi? What the hell is that?”
Julia showed Evan the cover. “Climate fiction. It’s an up-and-coming genre.”
“Oh. For a minute there, I thought you were reading porn.”
“Don’t get your hopes up, Kemosabe.”
“When there is no hope, the people perish.”
Julia squinted her eyes. “Is that a quote?”
“Yes.”
“What from?”
“I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think it’s from that great literary classic, Sweet Savage Love.”
Julia swatted her. “Can you be serious?”
“Not when you’re sitting here looking all soft and snuggly.”
“I did mention that Stevie is going to be bringing us some cookies, right?”
“Uh huh
. Last time I checked, they traveled pretty well.”
“Wait a minute.” Julia gave it another shot. “Before we get too distracted, I need to ask if you’re free tomorrow evening.”
“Tomorrow?” Evan thought about it. “Sure. What do you have in mind?”
“I made us a dinner reservation.”
“Oh? Are we celebrating?”
“Not really. But you said you needed a way to get into the Galileo Club to ask questions about Tim’s friend, Joey.”
Evan nodded.
“I neglected to tell you that since my father was a member in good standing, I have lifetime access to the club and its facilities. So if you’re game, we’re all set to go tomorrow night at seven.”
“For real?” Evan was unprepared for this windfall. “That’s great. You never cease to amaze me.”
“Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?”
Evan ran a hand along her leg. “Let’s take some cookies upstairs and I’ll explain it to you.”
“I get the upstairs part, but what do cookies have to do with this process?”
Evan didn’t get a chance to elucidate, because Stevie appeared bearing a tray containing a plate of the hot confections—along with a bottle of wine and three glasses.
“Hey, Mama Uno. Good timing. I baked these to take to Dad and Kayla’s, but I saved a few out for us.” She set the tray down on the other end of the coffee table.
“How thoughtful,” Evan observed. “Why are there three wineglasses?”
“Oh, come on, Mom,” Stevie whined in her best, most exasperated tone. “We’ve already been through this.”
“Define ‘this’ for me, please,” Evan said. “I tend to get confused when we do these little recaps of everything we’ve already discussed.”
Stevie plopped down on an ottoman. “I think I’ve already demonstrated my ability to manage a glass of wine now and then.”
“I suppose that’s true.” Evan conceded the point. “Although I’d have to argue that yesterday is hardly remote enough in time to qualify as a ‘then.’ So that just leaves us with a ‘now.’ Wouldn’t you agree, Julia?”
