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 & 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 & 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 & 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 décor, 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.
59
“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 h
alf-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.
24TH 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 brough
t help.
Her eyes fluttered closed as a dark figure stood above her. The last sound Mary heard was the sickening crak of a gunshot.
60
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.
61
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.
Moment of Truth Page 32
