In the Company of Liars

by David Ellis

  No. No time for legal niceties. This is what is known as an “exigent circumstance,” meaning action must be taken immediately to prevent something irreversible from happening, be it destruction of evidence, grave bodily harm, or death. The courts, in their roles as guardians of the constitution and as law-enforcement tutors, have pronounced that warrants are not required in such instances. The exigent circumstance is an FBI agent’s best friend, right up there with plain view.

  Anyone listening to the voice mail Allison Pagone left on McCoy’s cell phone last night would find these circumstances to be plenty exigent.

  Standing on the back patio, Jane McCoy flicks her Mag-Lite against the glass window of the back door. The glass shatters and falls into the small curtain covering it. McCoy scrapes the edges of the window clean of glass and carefully reaches through to unlock the back door.

  She opens it and waits. No alarm. She had noticed an intruder alarm last time she was here. Allison Pagone would be foolish not to have one. McCoy finds the alarm pad on the wall. Nothing. No silent, or audible, alarm. It is disarmed. She walks through the kitchen into the den. She sees the burgundy couch where Allison Pagone was sitting the last time they spoke.

  “Allison Pagone!” she calls out. “Federal agents in the house!”

  McCoy listens but hears nothing.

  “Special Agents McCoy and Harrick, FBI,” she calls.

  “Maybe she’s not home,” Harrick offers.

  McCoy shakes her head. “No. Her car’s here. She’s here. You didn’t hear that phone message. You didn’t—I didn’t mean to—to—”

  “Nothing’s even happened yet, Jane. There’s nothing to worry about until there’s something to worry about.” Harrick looks around, calls out Allison Pagone’s name.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling.” McCoy walks through the downstairs, then meets Harrick back in the den. “I’m going upstairs.”

  McCoy calls out the name Allison Pagone several times as she takes the stairs. Jane McCoy, FBI. Federal agents in the house. No response. The lights are on, all the lights you would expect to be on if someone were home.

  She walks into the master bedroom. The bed is made. The overhead light is off. The bedside lamp is off. But there is illumination from the master bathroom.

  “Allison Pagone.” Jane McCoy braces herself. “Special Agent McCoy, FBI,” she says with increased urgency. “Are you in there?”

  She takes a few steps toward the bathroom and pauses. She looks around. Then she sticks her head into the bathroom. Allison Pagone is lying motionless in the bathtub, her head tucked into her chest, wearing her pajamas. A handgun dangles from Allison’s left hand, resting on her chest precariously. Behind Pagone’s head the tile on the wall is covered with a splatter of crimson.

  “Oh, no.” McCoy stumbles several steps back and sits on the bed. “What did I do?”

  Her partner, Owen Harrick, makes his way in and makes eye contact with McCoy.

  “She’s in there.” McCoy’s voice is lifeless. She nods in the direction of the master bath. She watches Harrick walk up to the bathroom, then in. She hears his reaction, similar to hers. He stays in there a while, presumably checking the body.

  McCoy looks around the room, at the bedside table holding an oversized, antique brass telephone, an alarm clock, and a lamp. The room has a ceiling like a cathedral’s, about twenty feet high. The walk-in closet is about the size of McCoy’s bedroom. She thinks of the voice mail Allison Pagone left on her cell phone last night—about nine hours ago.

  Harrick walks back out and looks at McCoy. For a moment he is silent. “She’s been dead for hours,” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  “Revolver in her hand.” Harrick looks back at the bathroom. “No footprints on the tile. Towels are neatly hung. There’s a bandage on her right hand but it looks a few days old. Far as I can see, there’s no sign of struggle or force—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Owen, she shot herself.” McCoy shakes her head. “There’s no mystery here.” She throws up a hand helplessly. “I screwed up, Owen. I fucked this up.”

  Harrick blows out a breath, takes a seat on the bed next to McCoy. “She killed a guy,” he says. “And she was covering up, too. We know that. She did this to herself.”

  “Literally, maybe.”

  “Not just literally. In every way. She put herself in the soup. You were doing your job, Jane. She killed a man. You and I both know it.”

  McCoy goes to the window opposite the bed, opens it, and takes in some fresh air.

  “They were going to convict her and give her the needle,” Harrick adds. “Don’t make this your fault.”

  “You didn’t hear her message,” McCoy says. She looks out through the window at the backyard. For living in the city, Allison has a relatively big lot. This is a neighborhood on the northwest side, which is more residential, more kids running in the streets, lawnmowers and barbecues. More like a suburb. You could probably hit a baseball from her backyard to the nearest suburb. This is where people come who need to stay in the city—teachers, cops, firemen, civil servants with residency requirements. No one would confuse the color of the Pagones’ collars for blue, but the ex-husband, Mat, is on a couple of municipal boards that require him to stay within city limits. McCoy has heard that it was Allison who wanted this neighborhood, who simply thought the people were nicer than in some of the trendier parts of the city or than the old money by the lake. The Pagones had purchased two adjacent lots and built a large house, but what they really wanted was the backyard. There’s a huge garden, a fancy play area with slides and jungle gyms for their daughter, who probably hasn’t touched it for ten years.

  You look at someone’s possessions, her family, her background, you look at her as a person. Some of McCoy’s colleagues don’t dig so deep, just focus on the misdeeds and don’t judge, don’t want to see the human side because it gets in the way. Jane McCoy has never understood that. You focus only on the black, ignore the white, you miss the gray.

  “She was going to die one way or the other,” she hears Harrick call to her. “She spared herself eight to ten on death row, then a public execution. She did it on her terms.”

  McCoy moans, turns back from the window. “You find anything else upstairs, Owen?”

  “I found the trophy.”

  “The tro—”

  “The murder weapon, Jane. That statuette. It’s sitting in her office.”

  “That statuette—from that association? Dillon’s award?”

  Harrick nods. “Looks like it had been buried. She went and brought it back. She wanted us to find it. You get it? You see what happened? She wanted it settled. She confessed her sins before she killed herself. She’s telling us she killed Sam Dillon.”

  McCoy sighs. “Call this in, Owen?”

  “Sure.”

  Her team shows up quietly, parking their dark sedans the next street over and coming through the backyard. This kind of crime scene isn’t their typical protocol; the feds don’t often investigate homicides. But this one doesn’t require much detail, anyway. They photograph the scene, dust for prints, gather hairs and fibers, test for residue on Allison’s gun hand, finally carry the body out in a covered stretcher. McCoy holds off on calling the locals for an hour, because with the local cops comes the local media. She knows they’ll make it here eventually but she wants to give it some time.

  She stands outside two hours later, at nine in the morning. The air is cool and crisp; she prefers spring mornings to any other, even under these circumstances. By now the reporters have arrived and are lining the crime-scene tape, shouting questions to anyone who appears to resemble law enforcement. Was this a suicide? Where was she found? Did she leave a note?

  McCoy peers at them, silent, through her sunglasses. Something like that, she does not say to them.

  Four sedans are lined up along the curb now. Neighbors have gathered around the home as well. This is not the first news of something amiss at the Pagone residence, but ther
e’s been nothing this public, at least not since the search warrant was executed months ago.

  Jane McCoy appreciates her anonymity. Like many agents, she is relatively unknown to reporters. She is unaccustomed to scenes like this. Most of what the agents do is under the radar, and here she is, being photographed and taped standing outside the home. It is a matter of courtesy more than anything. She is waiting for someone.

  She sees a steel-blue Mercedes pull up quickly to the curb. Roger Ogren, an assistant county attorney, pops out. From what she knows of him, which isn’t much, she wouldn’t expect the flashy ride. Not his personality and quite the fat price tag for his government salary. But every boy needs a toy.

  Ogren uses the remote on his keychain to lock up the car and walks up toward the house. He walks under the tape, stops on the front lawn, looks around, finally focuses on Jane.

  “Agent McCoy,” he says.

  “It’s Jane, Roger.”

  He puts his hands on his hips, wets his lips. “Suicide?”

  She nods. “Bullet in the mouth.”

  He sighs deeply, seems to deflate. Hurry up and stop—he was in the full heat of trial mode, and now the defendant is dead.

  “No sign of forced entry,” McCoy elaborates. “No sign of foul play at all. GSR on her hand and wrist.”

  Ogren does not take the news well. The woman he was prosecuting, driven to suicide.

  “You were going for the death penalty, anyway,” McCoy says.

  He runs his hands through his hair. “She was a killer. I was about two trial days away from proving that.”

  “I know. I was following it. You were doing very well.”

  “Suicide.” Roger Ogren stands helplessly a moment. He is in a suit, but his shirt is open at the neck. He got ready in a hurry. He sighs and seems to deflate.

  “It’s not your fault,” McCoy offers, in case he needs to hear it. “If anything, it’s mine. This lady was up to some bad stuff. Not just this murder.”

  “Not just this murder,” Ogren repeats. “But you won’t tell me what.”

  “You know I can’t.”

  She tries to read his expression. Really, how upset can he be? Like she said, he was seeking the death penalty, after all. If the defendant killed herself because she couldn’t face prison, and ultimately a lethal injection, she just saved everyone the trouble.

  He wanted the conviction, she assumes. He’s not feeling guilt. He wanted the “w,” the pats on the back, the victory lap at the prosecutor’s office, the press coverage.

  “Everyone knew she was going down,” McCoy adds. “Everyone knew you had her.”

  Ogren stretches, arches his back, extends his arms. Full trial mode, probably hasn’t had much sleep. And now this. Like the whole prosecution was just a false start.

  “She’s not up there anymore,” McCoy says. “You want to go see the body?”

  Ogren looks over the house wistfully. He is suddenly a man without a place. This is not his crime scene.

  “As long as you’re sure she’s dead,” he deadpans, an attempt at dark humor that falls flat.

  She smiles at him. “You want to see the statuette?”

  Ogren does a double-take, suddenly perks up. “The—what are you talking about?”

  “The statuette,” she says. “The little trophy. The award from the manufacturers’ association. You always thought she used it to kill Sam Dil—”

  Ogren steps toward her. “You have it? It was here in her house?”

  Jane McCoy gestures behind her. “She had it in her office upstairs.”

  “That’s not possible.” The prosecutor squints. “She moved it there, maybe.”

  “Exactly,” Jane agrees. “She had buried it somewhere initially. You can tell because there’s some dirt on it. But there’s some blood on it, too, and we’re getting prints off it. I assume it’s the murder weapon. We’ve inventoried it. We’ll make it available to you guys.”

  Roger Ogren is speechless. It is confirmation that he never had. A murder weapon that had never been found. McCoy wonders if there was any residual doubt in the prosecutor’s mind, any lingering question of whether he was accusing the right person. If so, the murder weapon, in the home of the accused, should erase that doubt.

  “This was her way of pleading guilty,” McCoy tells him. “Before she went, she wanted the record clear, I guess.”

  Ogren nods aimlessly, his eyes unfocused. “And what about the gun?”

  “A revolver. Serial numbers scratched. She must have bought it on the street.”

  Ogren stares at her. Weird, he must be thinking. “Okay. I’ll give you a call,” he says. “I think we would like that statuette, actually.”

  “Sure. Call me.”

  He turns to leave but stops, looks back at the federal agent. “Why did you say it’s your fault? Her killing herself?”

  She makes a face. “I was squeezing her. Maybe too hard.”

  Ogren gives her a look of compromise. Squeezing is something any prosecutor can understand. No one ever knows how much pressure is just right.

  “You got what you wanted, Roger. Justice was served.”

  He laughs. A bitter chuckle. “This wouldn’t have happened if she weren’t out on bail,” he says. “She couldn’t have gotten a gun and she couldn’t have killed herself.”

  McCoy lifts her shoulders. “Hey, you wanted her dead, she’s dead.”

  The prosecutor glares at McCoy, then turns and walks to his car. He can’t deny that he was seeking the death penalty, of course, which means he cannot deny that he wanted death for Allison Pagone. But he doesn’t appreciate the bluntness of McCoy’s comment. As if Roger Ogren were a killer, too.

  “I’ll bet he’s pissed,” Harrick says, walking up, watching Ogren leave.

  “Something like that.”

  They walk to their car and drive away. Once in the vehicle, Harrick, driving, casts a look at McCoy. “Something bothering you? Talk to me, Janey.”

  “It looked too clean,” she says. “There’s such a thing as looking too much like a suicide.”

  “Oh, come on.” Owen Harrick shrugs. He was a city cop for eight years. He’s witnessed a lot more suicide scenes than Jane McCoy.

  “A bathtub?” McCoy asks.

  “It’s private,” Harrick answers. “She wanted intimacy. It’s also easier to clean up.”

  “Oh, she didn’t want to mess up the house?” McCoy looks at her partner. “She’s worried about resale value?”

  “It’s the house she raised her daughter in. She cares about how it looks. You’re thinking way too hard on this. It’s a suicide, Jane. She thought about it first, is all. People do plan suicides.”

  McCoy is silent.

  “She killed Sam Dillon,” Harrick continues, turning a corner and leaving the sight line of Allison Pagone’s home. “She killed him and she felt remorse. That works for me.”

  “I hope so.” McCoy’s head falls back against the head cushion. It will be another sleepless night for her.

  ONE DAY EARLIER

  TUESDAY, MAY 11

  The small turn of his head, as if his attention were diverted. The set of his jaw, the clenching of his teeth. The line of his mouth turned, ever so slightly, from a smile to something more primitive, almost a snarl but not so prominent. A stolen moment, an entirely private moment in public, a stolen glance among a roomful of people, intended for private consumption.

  Thursday, February fifth of this year. A cocktail party thrown by Dillon & Becker, Sam’s lobbying firm, an annual party for clients in the city’s offices. Hors d’oeuvres passed by servants in tuxedos, soft classical music playing from speakers in the corners.

  The Look, Allison calls it, though she has never spoken of such things aloud, except to Sam. A look of pure, unadulterated lust, a passion that drives men to do things they should not do, the most primitive of emotions. She watches everything about Sam—how he holds his breath, moves his eyes up and down her body—trying to imagine exactly what it is tha
t Sam is imagining, because Allison has no experience with such things, has never seen this look from her husband in the twenty years they were married.

  She freezes that image in her mind. She is not sure why. Maybe because it was one of the last pictures that she has of Sam—he was dead two days later—or maybe because it is so staggering to think how far things have fallen.

  Allison Pagone sits on the wine-colored couch in the den. The memories always flood back, no matter how fleetingly, when she sits here. Memories of her childhood. She remembers when she was fifteen, when she had a party while her parents were out, a bottle of red wine spilled on the couch, her enormous relief when the wine blended in with the color. Another memory: She was six, sleeping on the couch because she had wet her bed, worrying about her parents’ reaction, then her mother’s soothing hand running through her hair as she woke up the next morning.

  She thinks of her daughter, Jessica, and the torment she must be feeling right now, her mother standing trial for murder. And she will not be acquitted. Jessica has read the stories, watched the television coverage, despite the judge’s instructions to the contrary. Regardless of whether she is a witness, nobody is going to tell a young woman she cannot read the cold accounts of her mother’s crime in the paper.

  Allison has watched her daughter age over the last three months. Twenty years old, she is in many ways still a girl, but these events have changed that. Allison is to blame, and she can do nothing about it.

  She picks up the phone on the coffee table. She dials Mat Pagone’s office. She checks her watch. It is past nine o’clock in the evening.

  She gets his voice mail. She holds her breath and waits for the beep. She looks at the piece of paper in front of her. They spelled his name wrong. It should be Mat with one t, short for Mateo.

  “Mat, I know you’re not going to get this until tomorrow morning. I’m sorry. For everything. I also want you to listen carefully. Jessica is going to need you now more than ever. You are going to have to love her for both of us. You have to be strong for her. You have to do whatever you can to be there for her. You—you have to—promise—”