by Marcia Clark
Alex heaved a sigh and stood up. “I assume you want to start tomorrow.”
I would’ve said I wanted to start right now, but Dale was coming by for dinner. I glanced at my computer. It was already after six o’clock. I had to get home fast if I wanted to clean up the place enough for my neat-freak father. Seriously, his kitchen looks like an operating room. I always tell him it’s compensatory behavior for the dirty job of being a cop. His typical response has something to do with dirty defense lawyers, but I can never remember what it is because I never listen.
I stood up and grabbed my coat and purse. “Yeah. Check out the ’hood and let me know how early we can get going.” We had to time the canvass for when the maximum number of residents was likely to be home.
Michy pushed her body off the couch as though it hurt. “I’d better get going, too. Don’t want to keep the ’rents waiting.”
I had to smile. “Buck up, sunshine. The ’rents won’t want to hang out that late. Brad might actually manage to stay awake long enough to go back to your place.”
She headed for the door. “Please stop. It only makes it worse to get my hopes up.”
Alex put an arm around her as they moved toward the reception area. “If he crashes and burns, you can come over and hang with Paul and me.”
Michy gave him a wan semismile. “Paul does make a great martini. I might just do that. Thanks, Alex.”
He patted her shoulder. “We’ve got your back.”
And on that note of sad camaraderie, we locked up and left. Just another day in paradise at Brinkman and Associates.
I stopped to buy a couple of bottles of pinot noir and a jumbo-size bottle of Patrón Silver. Alcohol was a must for this particular dinner, given what we’d be talking about. When I got home, I surveyed my apartment. It was pretty neat by normal standards. I don’t love to clean, but I do it once a week. And I’m not one to leave things lying around. But I had to admit, the place wasn’t up to Dale’s standards. I dropped my purse on the kitchen table and pulled out the mop.
By the time Dale arrived, I’d vacuumed the living room, used the hose to vacuum the couch and wing chair, dusted the coffee table and end tables, and scrubbed down the kitchen. But I hadn’t had time to freshen up.
When I opened the door, he glanced at my flushed, sweaty face. “I feel bad about putting you to all this trouble.” His tone was sarcastic.
I gave him a flat look. “What trouble? I was just doing yoga.”
His lip curled in a half smile as he held up the bag of food and a bottle of what I recognized as a very good cabernet. “Where do you want these?”
I gestured for him to put it all on the kitchen counter. “You know, if you weren’t such an OCD screwball, I wouldn’t have to sanitize every inch of the apartment just so you’d sit down.”
He ignored that and went to the cupboard to survey the glassware. “What are you drinking?”
I started unpacking the bag and saw that he’d gone for a simple dinner of steaks, baked potatoes, and steamed garlic spinach. The cabernet was a perfect choice. “I’ll start with a Patrón Silver on the rocks.”
Dale opened the cabernet to let it breathe and poured us each a shot of tequila on ice. We took our drinks to the living room, and he sat on the wingback chair—as usual—and I sat down on the couch—as usual. I held up my glass for a toast. “Here’s to us catching up.”
He raised his but said, “I don’t think you’re going to want to toast to that.”
Shit. I gave him a dour look, but we clinked and drank. “Okay, hit me.”
He set down his glass. “Kingsford and O’Malley have been talking to all Tanner’s friends and acquaintances about that jacket the man in the surveillance video wore.”
“Figures.” Dale had warned me they were lasered in on that footage.
“None of Tanner’s friends or business contacts has ever seen him in a jacket like that.”
I was relieved. It wasn’t good news, but it was nowhere near as bad as it could’ve been. “How would they know? That video was so dark, you can’t even make out the color.”
Dale spread his hands. “Apparently, they zeroed in on the style and fit.”
I raised my glass again. “Well, here’s to you giving me not such bad news.”
This time, he shook his head. “Not done. They got Tanner’s and Bryan’s cell phone records.”
My mouth went dry. “And?”
“Bryan’s last call was to his mother,” he said. “No surprise—everyone talked about how close they were. She said he’d sounded depressed but hadn’t mentioned being threatened by anyone.”
So far, so good. I forced myself to ask, “Did he say he was expecting any company that night?”
“No,” Dale said. “The thing they’re focused on is Tanner’s last call. It was to someone at a company called Voltech. Sound familiar?”
I shook my head. “Not even remotely.”
Dale picked up his drink. “You might want to ask Niko about it.”
We both knew that was exactly what I planned to do. “Have they found Tanner’s cell phone?”
“Not yet,” he said. “But the cell records show there was no activity after the night he disappeared.”
That might—or might not—be an ominous sign. “I know Kingsford’s thinking that means someone killed him. But if Tanner’s in hiding, there’s no way he’d keep using that phone.”
Dale cradled his drink in his lap. “I don’t disagree.” He regarded me with a steady gaze. “But let’s be honest. Things are starting to stack up in a way that’s not great for Niko. I have a feeling you’ve been doing a little . . . background checking on your own. Care to share?” He saw my hesitation. “Look, Sam. This is one case I wouldn’t mind letting go unsolved. I think you know that. Whatever you tell me stays between us. I swear.”
I had a choice to make, and it wasn’t an easy one. Because if I confirmed that I’d dug up new information on Niko—even though what I’d learned didn’t prove he’d killed anyone—Dale would know I wasn’t about to stop until I’d found some real answers. And he’d keep asking me what I had. Eventually, I knew I’d come up with something—and it might well be the nail in Niko’s coffin. If Dale decided he couldn’t keep that to himself, Niko would spend the rest of his life in prison, and I’d be to blame. So if I told him what I’d learned, this might be the beginning of a very slippery slope.
On the other hand, if I confided in Dale now, I’d be in a better position to get his help with whatever I did come up with—even if that only meant his advice and support. But most likely, it’d be much more than that. Dale’s help had been instrumental in the past. It could be what saved Niko now. I’d been going through this mental tug-of-war ever since Tanner had disappeared. It was time to make a decision. I either trusted Dale or I didn’t. I took a deep breath and told him what I’d learned—both from Ivan and from Alex’s investigation.
Dale took an occasional sip of his drink as I talked, but he listened without comment until I’d finished. He took a beat before answering. “None of this proves he killed anyone. But you already know that. My take? You’re more bothered by the fact that he didn’t tell you than what you’ve learned.”
I’d long since accepted that possibility. “But that shot caller who fell off the face of the earth without explanation . . .”
Dale nodded. “Is—and isn’t—a worry. The asshole might not have personally killed his sister, but he was certainly responsible for it. We both know that no one would’ve made a move like that without his say-so. Whether Niko killed him is neither here nor there. You have no proof and neither does anyone else. And since when do we care about a punk like that shuffling off this mortal coil?”
His matter-of-fact tone was just what I’d needed to hear. “So it doesn’t bother you that he basically hid a possible murder, an attempted murder, and his whole childhood from me?”
Dale sat up and rolled his shoulders back. “The attempted murder—I assume you mean that
bar fight in Chicago?” I nodded. “That was a bullshit rap, and you know it.” He gave me an amused look. “Have you never heard the old saying about people in glass houses? I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you haven’t exactly been forthcoming with him, have you?”
I’d known that was coming. I tossed my head. “It’s not the same.”
“It’s exactly the same. So let me know when you decide to tell him all about your childhood—and what you’ve been up to since Michy got attacked. Then you can get upset about what he hasn’t told you.” He rattled the cubes in his glass. “Now we can either have dinner or have another drink. Your choice. But I’m warning you, if I have another drink on this empty stomach, I’ll probably get drunk.”
I stood up. “God knows I don’t need to see that.”
Dale followed me into the kitchen and took my elbow. “Listen, Sam. I don’t mean to make light of it. If Kingsford and O’Malley catch wind of Niko’s past, it’ll be trouble. But it’s hardly a smoking gun. I just think your personal feelings about Niko kind of . . . skew your judgment.” He paused. “And I’m sure it would do the same to me.”
Although it helped to hear that he didn’t consider Niko’s secrets as ominous as I did, I still thought my fears about his legal jeopardy might be well justified. But maybe I was too close to the situation. Dale probably had a more balanced perspective. “Are you getting worried about what else Kingsford will come up with?”
Dale emptied his glass in the sink and put it in the dishwasher. “Honestly? Yeah. I’m worried as hell.”
I wished I hadn’t asked.
THIRTY-EIGHT
I was tired and depressed by the time Dale left, but I was too keyed up to sleep. What I needed to do was take a hot shower, calm down, and try to get some rest.
Instead, I went to the kitchen and opened my laptop. Niko had told me about a personal Facebook page he kept under another name. We’d used it to share photos and links. But since Bryan’s death and Tanner’s disappearance, I’d been surfing around on it whenever I got the chance. I hadn’t told Alex about it, because it was meant to be a private page, and there was only so much guilt I could handle.
The funny thing is, surfing that Facebook page had turned out to be a kind of self-soothing behavior. As I read one innocuous posting after another, I could reassure myself that I had nothing to worry about. And now, as I read Niko’s funny postings about the taping in New York, I felt myself relax. A half hour later, I was yawning and ready for bed.
For a change, I had a peaceful night’s sleep and didn’t wake up until eight thirty—a real coup for me. I stretched and enjoyed the luxury of feeling rested . . . then had a full-on panic attack. I was supposed to be in court today—wasn’t I? Heart thumping, I grabbed my phone and checked my calendar . . . and sagged with relief. My day was clear. I didn’t even have any office meetings scheduled. I got myself a cup of coffee—love those automatic coffee makers—and took it back to bed. I watched a home makeover show until nine a.m., then called Michy. I wanted to get an update on her evening with Brad and his parents. “So how’d it go last night?”
She spoke softly. “Actually, it’s still last night—if you know what I mean.”
I chuckled. “I think your pet iguana knows what you mean. But that’s awesome. See? What’d I tell you?”
She sighed. “Okay, let the I-told-you-sos begin. How’d it go with Dale? Was he helpful?”
It was hard to know how to answer that. “Sort of. I’ll tell you about it when we have some ‘us’ time.”
“I’m free tonight,” she said. “You?”
“Yeah.” Which was pretty out of the norm. Niko and I usually spent at least one weeknight together. “I know he’s got his hands full, what with work and his mom, but it’s starting to feel kind of . . . deliberate. You know?”
Michy took a beat before answering. “I don’t necessarily agree with you, but I get why you’d feel that way. Let’s talk about it over dinner. Want to go out? Or order in?”
I never liked to talk about personal things in public, so we agreed to hang at her place—a great little condo on Westmount Drive, just seven minutes away from my apartment—and order in.
I did some errands on my way to the office, then spent the day catching up on the usual boring stuff of daily lawyer life, i.e., emails, paperwork, time sheets, and letters to clients who were in custody. Michy wanted to take off early so she could clean up before I got there. I gave her an incredulous look. “Clean up what? A stray hair that fell out when you left this morning?” Michy is the only neat freak I know who might actually give Dale a run for his money. “You know you really might be on the spectrum.”
Michy held up a middle finger. “I’ve got your spectrum right here.”
I laughed and told her to get going, then put my head down and forced myself to finish the time sheets. By the time I got out, it was almost six o’clock. I called the Bao Dim Sum House and placed our orders, then got dressed and headed out. No makeup and I barely brushed my hair. It was the beauty of a girls’ night in.
I picked up our dinner and a bottle of pinot grigio at a liquor store nearby and got to Michy’s condo right on time at seven o’clock. She answered the door looking freshly scrubbed, with her hair piled up in a topknot. “God, that smells good. I’ve been craving Bao’s and dim sum for weeks.”
I entered and put the bags on the kitchen table. “Where’re we sitting?”
She pointed to the low-slung coffee table in the living room, where she’d laid out two place settings. Her living room opened onto a balcony that offered a view of the west side. It was a full moon, and its silvery glow bathed the city in a soft white light.
We talked about Brad, his crazy work schedule, and what a great night they’d had. She refilled our glasses as she said, “I think he might actually be ready to leave that torture chamber.”
I held up my glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
Michy raised hers, and we clinked. “Amen.” She took a sip of wine. “Your turn. When we left off, you said you felt like Niko’s avoiding you. Here’s what I wanted to say about that. One: sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. He might just be thrashed. He’s definitely got good reason. But two: let’s assume he is avoiding you. Are you worried that it’s because he killed Bryan or Tanner?”
That was pretty direct—even for Michy. “I, uh . . . I guess so.”
She gave me a shrewd look. “And if he did, that’d be the end for you?”
Was she actually asking—or rather, outright saying—what I thought she was? “You think I’d stay with him even if he killed one of them—or both?”
She put down her glass. “Sam, don’t you think it’s time we stopped pretending I don’t know what you did for me?” She put her hand on mine. “Because I do. I know you killed him.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. “Wh-what are you talking about?” She couldn’t possibly know I’d killed the man—my former client—who’d stalked and attacked her. Not for sure anyway.
She studied my face for a moment. “I’m talking about your reaction when the police told me he’d been killed in a hit-and-run.” She let go of my hand and smiled. “You’re a good actress, but you can’t fool me. Never could.”
For a moment, the world seemed to tilt. It made me a little dizzy. But now I knew she had no hard proof. I had a decision to make. If I admitted she was right, she’d have to live with the knowledge that she’d been complicit in the cover-up. I didn’t think that’d sit well with her. It was one thing for her to live with an educated guess about what I’d done. That still left room for doubt. But it’d be a whole different world if I told her she was right—and removed all doubt. I lived with what I’d done—to her attacker and many others—very comfortably. But Michy wasn’t me. I knew she’d suffer if I confirmed her suspicion. I couldn’t do that to her. I owed her the peace of mind of uncertainty.
I smiled and gave her hand a squeeze. “I’m flattered that you think I’d do that for you. I�
�d like to think I would, too. But the truth is, I didn’t. That hit-and-run . . .” I shrugged. “We just got lucky. Sometimes the universe does the right thing and coughs up some justice.”
She gave me a skeptical look. “I don’t know, Sam. I remember the look on your face when the police told us. You weren’t surprised. You were so calm.”
“I was so happy.” I gave her a meaningful look. “And you seemed pretty okay with it, too, as I recall.” Her expression told me the seeds of self-doubt were starting to take root. Perfect. Now I just needed to play it cool and let them grow. I decided to segue back to the matter at hand. “But what made you bring that up now?”
Michy had been staring off. It took her a moment to shift gears. “Because . . . well, even if you didn’t kill that guy, I think eventually you might have. And it’d be a shame to let go of a great guy for doing something you—well, maybe you wouldn’t do yourself, but you sure wouldn’t blame him for it.”
I couldn’t really argue. “In other words, you’re calling me a hypocrite.”
She frowned. “Actually, no. I don’t think you’d dump him for killing those con artists. I think you’d dump him for not being up-front with you.” She gave me a frank look. “Because you know how you get.”
I did. It was a matter of trust—as in, I didn’t have much to spare. And being with someone who held out on me tweaked the hell out of me. “It’s starting to look dicey for Niko.” I told her what Dale had reported—and what he’d thought.
Michy stared down at her wineglass for a moment. “I don’t know, Sam. The police may get closer, but I’m not sure they’ll ever solve this one. The question is, if they don’t—and they can’t clear him—what will you do?”
I’d been thinking about that. “I don’t know.” But I had another question. “What if the cops can’t solve it, but I do? Then what?”
