Moment of Truth

by Lisa Scottoline

  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 ca-thunk. 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 & 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 eyes registered a reluctant, but unmistakable, recognition just as Captain Walsh strode toward her.

  57

  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 onto 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 déjà 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 business-people, 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.

  58

  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 stand-ins 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 bloodred 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 crown 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 reme
mber. 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 Möbius 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.