by David Ellis
Larry reaches for her hand. “Allison, tell me. Maybe I can help.”
“I can’t tell you.” She withdraws her hand. “I—I can’t.”
She goes home, the only place she is allowed to go. The dry cleaner’s is a permissible stop as well, but it’s closed on Sundays, and she has no cleaning there, anyway. She sits outside on her patio, looking over her garden, at the rusted play-set where Jessica used to swing and slide and climb with such energy and unmitigated delight, and remembers the vicarious enjoyment she derived from her daughter’s simplest acts.
She thinks of Sam Dillon. One evening in particular, mid-January of this year. Dinner, his idea, at a little Italian place, a real hole in the wall with the most perfect garlic bread she’d ever tasted. A small room with ten tables, a red-checkered tablecloth, the smells of olive oil and sausage and garlic mingling. She remembers the way he looked at her.
There are things you don’t know, he said to her.
She leaves the patio and takes the phone in the living room. She drops onto the couch and dials the numbers.
“Mat, it’s me.”
“What’s going on? How are you?”
“I’ll tell you how I am,” she says. “I got a visit yesterday from the FBI. That’s how I am.”
“The FBI? They came to your—”
“Listen to me, Mat. Okay? Just listen, don’t talk.”
They didn’t used to speak to each other like this, but it’s one of the few perks of being charged with capital murder, lots of freedom with your emotions.
“Do not talk to them under any circumstances,” she says. “If they try to make a deal with you, don’t do it. Do not even say hello to them. Don’t even let them in. Just yell ‘Fifth Amendment’ from behind the door.”
“With me?” Mat asks. “They’re going to talk to me?”
“They wanted to talk about you. They wanted to talk about Divalpro. Just let me take care of this. Don’t you dare talk to them.”
“Ally?” Mat Pagone, her ex-husband, sounds out of breath. “Did you talk to them? About—that?”
“No, and I’m not going to. And neither are you. Just keep your mouth shut and remember one thing, okay?”
“What’s that?”
“Your daughter needs at least one parent.” She hangs up the phone and holds her breath.
ONE DAY EARLIER
SATURDAY, MAY 8
Allison is awake, in the fetal position, when the alarm surprises her at six in the morning. She probably managed a few fitful hours in there somewhere, but it feels like she hasn’t slept at all. It’s not the lack of rest but the sense that time has accelerated from last night to this morning. Everything seems to have quickened these last few weeks. Time flies when you want it to stop.
Yes, she did sleep, because she dreamt. She spoke to Sam. They were in his bed. Allison was saying to him, Can you believe they think I killed you?
She stretches, considers going for a jog but opts for coffee instead. She makes her own, with an antique percolator she bought a year ago that reminded her of the coffee in Tuscany. There was a time when she waited anxiously for the brew to be ready, when she was eager to move on with her day. These days, there is little to look forward to. She will drink her coffee, listen to classical music, go on the internet later. Sometimes she even reads the stuff about herself. Sometimes she will check out the website devoted to her case, freeallison.com, not for the support—they have no reason to think she’s innocent, they’re simply capitalizing on a media event—but out of idle curiosity. Much heavier on the idleness than the curiosity.
They had planned to go to Italy, Sam and Allison. A trip this spring, before heavy tourism, to less-traveled places like Poggi del Sasso and Gaiole in Chianti. She had already made plans for it, already booked romantic rooms in renovated castles with verandas where they could sit with wine and cheese and watch the sun go down over the breathtaking countryside.
“Oh, God.” She wipes the moisture from her cheeks. “Oh, shit.” The percolator has been whistling for too long. She pulls it off the stove, burning herself on the handle, spilling the entire thing onto the floor, the coffee that she had burned, anyway. She picks up the percolator and slams it against the refrigerator, breaking the lid off.
She lets out a loud moan, a deep sound she doesn’t recognize, and covers her face with her hands. She is woozy but unwilling to correct the sensation, unwilling to open her eyes.
“They think I killed you,” she says to him, and actually laughs, a release of nervous tension. “They actually think I killed you.”
The doorbell rings just after nine in the morning. She hasn’t showered or even brushed her teeth, but she is far beyond appearances. She goes to the door and stares through the peephole. She sees a woman, an attractive woman with a tiny face, expressive brown eyes, cropped dark hair. A woman who is holding her credentials up for Allison to see.
“My name is Special Agent Jane McCoy,” the woman says. “I’m with the FBI.”
“What do you want?” Allison calls out, her heartbeat kicking into overdrive.
“A minute of your time, please.”
“What does the FBI have to do with me?”
“Let me in and I’ll tell you.”
Allison takes a breath, opens the door. “What do you want?”
“May I come in?”
Allison leads the federal agent into the den. She takes a seat on the couch. She remembers her father, interrogating her as she sat on this very couch, about her whereabouts the prior evening, when she blew her midnight curfew. She remembers, in fact, that it was Mat Pagone with whom she had spent that evening.
Her parents didn’t approve of Mat. She had been quick to accuse them of racism, a strapping Latino boy entering a white, middle-class home to date a younger white girl. Mother said it was a matter of age—Mat was a college freshman at the state university, the starting middle linebacker, and Allison was a high school sophomore. As a freshman a year earlier, she had worshipped Mat, a senior and an all-state player. As a sophomore, she had caught his eye at a postgame party one Saturday night, a party that Allison certainly was not supposed to attend, but which many of her friends did. The kids from both the public and Catholic schools on the northwest side caught all the football games at the state university, only miles away, and managed to get into the parties, too—especially the pretty female students.
Yes, she once was pretty. She had stopped believing that a long time ago.
You’re so beautiful, Sam had said to her, I lose my breath.
The FBI agent sits across from Allison on the ottoman of a leather recliner. The agent is a petite woman. Soft brown hair cut short, a tiny curved face, the wide innocent eyes of a doe. She is immediately likable, Allison thinks, regardless of the circumstances. That has probably been an asset in her job. The good cop in the routine.
“We can help each other,” the agent says to Allison.
“Before you tell me how you plan to help me,” Allison starts, “why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here?”
“Well, Mrs. Pagone—or is it Ms. Quincy now?”
Allison chews on her lip. “Is this the part where you tell me that you know all about me?” she asks. “I hate to burst your bubble, Agent Whatever-your-name-is, but you aren’t the first to try that stunt. And if you hadn’t noticed, my life is hardly a secret these days.”
McCoy smiles at Allison. “It’s McCoy. Jane McCoy. You’ve heard of Operation Public Trust. I’m one of the case agents on that investigation.”
“Okay,” says Allison. “Thank you. Now, please tell me how you intend to ‘help’ me.”
“I think you know, ma’am.”
Allison doesn’t respond. She thinks of what her lawyer would advise her to do, which is precisely that.
“I’ve been following your trial,” McCoy says. “You know a lot of what we know, quite honestly.”
“I’m sure I don’t know as much as the federal government.”
McC
oy watches Allison a moment. She leans forward, her elbows on her knees.
“I think you know more,” McCoy says.
Allison looks away. “You’ve got five minutes. You can spend that time baiting me, or you can get to the point.”
“Very good.” McCoy claps her hands together. “You are out of options, Mrs. Pagone. You’re going to lose your case, from what I can see. Maybe you’ll beat the death penalty. I don’t know. I’m saying, you can help yourself. I can help you. Take some years off that sentence. Keep you close to home so your daughter can visit. But you have to help me first.”
Allison steels herself.
You want Mat.
“You have to give me your husband,” McCoy concludes.
Allison counts to ten before she answers.
“Ex-husband.”
McCoy opens her hands. “Exactly.”
“Get out.”
“You’d be helping him as well, Mrs. Pagone. Mat was the one. He was the one passing the money to the senators. I know it.”
“Mat wasn’t even representing Flanagan-Maxx. Not at the time.”
“Not on the books,” McCoy agrees. “We know he was lobbying for MAAHC. Same difference.”
Allison plays with her hands. She inhales deeply.
“Ollie Strickland,” McCoy says. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“We’ll get Ollie to roll, Allison. In time. He’s not there yet. Someone always gives in, and it’s usually the one who has less to lose. The ones with mud on their shoes, they’re always the last to fall, and they fall farthest.”
“Get out, Agent McCoy.”
“I know that you know.” McCoy fixes on Allison. “I think Sam Dillon knew, too. I think Sam Dillon found out what Flanagan-Maxx was doing, subsidizing a nonprofit group to push their prescription-drug legislation for them. And not just advocating. Bribing lawmakers. That’s the illegal part. That’s the part your ex-husband was doing.”
“You can’t prove that.”
“No, not yet. But I will.”
Allison stands up. “My answer is no.”
McCoy rises as well. “Your ex-husband will say yes.”
Allison’s chin rises; she stares into McCoy’s eyes. “What does that mean?”
Drop the 311 if Mat sings.
McCoy stares back with confidence, as if she enjoys having the ball in her court. “It means I’ll go to Mat,” she says. “I’ll make him a deal. I’ll get the county attorney to spare you the death penalty if he’ll give me the information I need.” She raises a hand, as Allison begins to protest. “You two may be divorced, but he’s no monster. He’ll be more than happy to admit his involvement, if it means sparing the mother of his daughter a death sentence.”
“You can’t do that,” Allison says. “You can’t. I have to be part of a plea agreement.”
“C’mon, Mrs. Pagone, you were a public defender once.” McCoy shrugs. “I’ll get the county attorney to drop the 311 request. He doesn’t need a plea from you. He’ll just tell the court that he no longer wishes to seek the death penalty. He has total discretion on that. He’ll give his word to your husband—sorry, your ex-husband—and I’m sure Mat will sing like a canary for me.”
Allison looks around the room, flaps her arms nervously so they smack against her legs.
Nothing on Mat.
“You don’t have any proof against Mat, or you wouldn’t be here.”
McCoy sighs. “I don’t have enough to put him away,” she concedes. “And that’s only because Sam Dillon is dead. So I figure, Mat owes you one for that. He bribed a bunch of senators and you killed the only person who could put him away. Really, he’s getting a pretty good deal here. You kill the guy who was going to roll on him, the least he can do is keep you off death row.”
Allison sits back down on the couch. “How can you do this to people?”
“How can I do this to people who commit murder and bribe politicians? It’s not that hard, frankly.” She claps her hands together again. “I’ll give you a couple of days to think about it. Your trial’s in recess until Wednesday, right? So how’s Wednesday night for you?” she asks, as if she’s scheduling a dinner. “Okay. Wednesday. I’ll come by after court. But I’m telling you, Allison. If you think you can stonewall me, you’re not as smart as you seem to be. Mat will take my deal whether you want him to or not.”
McCoy gathers her bag and nods at Allison.
“I have a daughter,” Allison says. “She’s already going to lose her mother.”
McCoy deflates. Allison can imagine what the agent is thinking. This is what criminals always do. They rob, cheat, steal, maim, and kill, but as soon as the hand of justice grabs the back of their necks, they’re begging for mercy.
“Wednesday night,” McCoy repeats, on her way out.
ONE DAY EARLIER
FRIDAY, MAY 7
They just got this last night,” says Special Agent Owen Harrick. He pops a stick of cinnamon gum into his mouth and offers one to Jane McCoy.
McCoy refuses the gum and works on her milkshake. There’s fast food all around the federal building downtown, irresistible temptations to Jane. Harrick is more of a health-food nut, but he’s also junior to her. Choice of restaurants, when they’re working late—which is most of the time—is one of the few arenas in which Jane McCoy pulls rank. Harrick had settled for a chicken sandwich and a side salad. Jane, in a halfhearted nod to dietary considerations, skipped the entrees altogether and just got a large chocolate milkshake.
Harrick lifts the remote and points it at the VCR in the corner of the conference room. “Ready?”
McCoy sucks the last of the shake, then slurps through the empty straw. Harrick looks at her with bemusement.
“Relax,” she says. “So I’ve had my dinner, gimme my movie.”
“Dinner,” he chides. “Two scoops of ice cream with milk.” He points the remote at the screen. “Lights, camera . . . action.”
The picture is grainy black-and-white. No surprise there. The Bureau has always focused more on discretion than quality in their surveillance equipment. You want a camcorder that fits into your pocket with a zoom lens that can pick up the wink of an eye from a hundred yards away, no problem. But you want a picture that could compete with the quality of a summer vacation video by grandpa, call Miramax, not the federal government.
“The Countryside Grocery Store,” McCoy says. “Corner of Riordan and—what’s that?”
“Apple,” Harrick says. “Riordan and Apple.”
The running time in the corner of the video shows that it was taken last night, just before midnight. The video shows a car parking at a bank, across the street from the grocery store, and the trunk popping. A man emerges from the car, goes to the trunk, then walks up to the store carrying a gym bag. The man on the screen leaves the camera’s vision, disappearing into the back of the store.
McCoy blows out a nervous sigh.
Owen Harrick fast-forwards through a good amount of dead space. Jane watches the seconds then minutes fly by in the corner of the screen.
“Here,” says Harrick, returning the tape to “play” mode. The tape shows the man reemerging from behind the grocery store with his gym bag and walking quickly back to his car. “That’s it. He was out there for less than fifteen minutes.”
Jane stares at the empty screen, feels the adrenaline pump through her. She rubs her hands together nervously. “Okay,” she murmurs. She tosses the empty milkshake container into the trash. “I’m going to go see Allison Pagone,” she says. “Tomorrow morning. A nice, early Saturday-morning meeting.”
“You think she’s in danger?”
McCoy shrugs. She will no longer give predictions on that subject.
ONE DAY EARLIER
THURSDAY, MAY 6
Countryside. Apple. Riordan. Yellow.
Countryside Grocery Store. Corner of Apple and Riordan. Delivery entrance in back. Yellow post.
Ram Haroo
n is vaguely aware of this grocery chain in the Midwest, and he knows Riordan Avenue. But he doesn’t know Apple Street. He has to stop and ask for directions. He would prefer not to make a point of asking anyone, but he’s out of options. Riordan Avenue extends from the lake to the suburbs. Apple Street could intersect anywhere along that route. The store is probably close to Allison Pagone’s home but he simply doesn’t know. He thought of going on the internet to find all the Countryside locations, or even to use MapQuest, but that leaves a trail. Sloppy. There is not even a single piece of paper with this information, because he has memorized it.
Countryside. Apple. Riordan. Yellow.
But now, having avoided all paper trails, he is forced to ask a convenience-store clerk for the information. Not ideal, especially when it turns out he’s only a couple of blocks away from his destination.
So he finds it, finally. There is a small bank across the street from it. He chooses to park in that empty lot, in a position where he is facing the grocery store. He takes a while, a good five minutes, and looks over the store. The lights are out. The parking lot is empty. It’s half past eleven, and the store has presumably long been closed.
After another five minutes have passed, he pops the trunk and gets out of the car. Inside the trunk, in a gym bag, are a small hand-shovel and two plastic freezer bags. He puts on his brown gardening gloves, which will serve a dual purpose here.
Delivery entrance. Yellow.
Haroon goes to the back of the store, the delivery entrance as promised. Large double doors, a metal ramp running up to an elevated dock, level with the back doors. The rear of the building is spacious and well lit, two characteristics that he would prefer were otherwise. An old wire fence runs along the border of the property, propped up by several posts.
One of them, not far from the ramp, is the only one painted yellow.
He walks over to that spot and feels around with his hands to no avail. He places his shovel cautiously into the ground and digs softly until he hits something solid.
And then he smiles.
