by David Ellis
“I’ll put you in handcuffs.”
Raycroft comes forward in his chair. Probably isn’t spoken to like that every day. But he’s reading Shiels, who is not budging an inch, and his air seems to deflate. He’s imagining his perp walk before the cameras on the eve of the general election.
“If you’d like to speak with the attorney general of the United States, I can arrange that call,” Shiels adds.
McCoy pipes up. She wouldn’t, normally, but the game of who’s-got-the-biggest-dick-in-the-room is getting a little heated. “We should be clear, gentlemen,” she says. “What we are looking at with Allison Pagone is unrelated to the reason you are looking at her. We don’t know who murdered Sam Dillon and it’s not a part of our case. We bugged Pagone’s house after Sam Dillon’s murder, and we had no idea that she was going to be implicated for that murder.”
A silence now. Wounds being licked. The feds have come to the county office and pissed all over it.
“And you won’t tell us what’s going on,” Raycroft manages.
“We can tell you this much,” says Irv Shiels, who raises a hand and adjusts the volume of his voice. “We can tell you that it’s big enough that I overreacted at the slightest hint of this leaking out. It’s big enough that our policy of cooperation with your office has to be a one-way street this time. It’s big enough that the attorney general really is expecting your call, to personally thank you for your cooperation.”
Good recovery. A slip-up with the handcuffs comment, she thought, but he reeled him back.
Shiels sighs. “We’d never ask you to pass on the prosecution. In fact, we’ll help you, if we get anything from the wire.”
This is a point worth making. A high-profile murder trial before the general election in November could be a significant advantage for Raycroft. If they told him not to prosecute, he’d hit the ceiling and demand more information.
“When this is over, Mr. County Attorney,” Shiels adds, “we’d be grateful if you’d join us at the press conference. We’ll be explaining that this was a multi-jurisdictional effort between a number of federal agencies and, of course, your office.”
Oh, and he nailed the landing. Talk about finding Raycroft’s G-spot.
“Well.” The tone in Raycroft’s voice has grown merrier. “It sounds like your investigation is exceptionally important, so of course my office will respect that. Roger will be more than happy to cooperate. When do you think this operation is going to be completed?” he throws in, like an afterthought.
What he’s really asking, she realizes, is, When can I have that press conference?
“Summer,” says Shiels, who realizes as much as anyone that this is a good answer.
“Fine. Very good.” Raycroft nods.
“And we’d like to ask a favor, sir,” Shiels adds. “Assuming that you’re going to indict Pagone, which it sounds like you are—”
“A fair assumption.”
“—we’d like you to agree to bail.”
“Bail?” Ogren cries. “For a capital murder? Agree to it?”
“We need her out. She goes inside and we can’t use her.”
“Oh.” Ogren clams up, looks at his boss.
“I think,” Raycroft says, “that there are shades of gray here. ‘Agreeing,’ I’m afraid, is out of the question. But ‘not opposing’ is a different matter. Not opposing very vigorously is still another approach.”
“Put restrictions on it,” McCoy suggests.
“She’s not going to flee,” Shiels adds. “We’re on her. And if by some chance she does, I take the heat. I’ll make a point of it.”
“But she won’t flee,” McCoy repeats. “She’d never get past us. Never.”
They rub and stroke the county attorney a little longer and he agrees to “not oppose” the request for bail. This is so out of Shiels’s character, this coddling, that McCoy considers razzing him about it when they reach the elevators. She considers, also, being out of a job five minutes later.
“Thanks,” he says to her, as they walk back to the federal plaza. “I dropped the ball there.” He grunts. “ ‘ Handcuffs.’ Anyway, nice save.”
A compliment. She wishes she had a witness. Harrick will never believe it.
“Keep those boys in line, McCoy,” he adds.
ONE DAY EARLIER
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 11
You were home all night,” Detective Czerwonka confirms.
“Yes,” Allison says. “I was home all night.”
“And to be clear, here. We’re talking about last Saturday, the seventh of February.”
“Yes. I was home all night.” Allison gives an exaggerated sigh. “Are we going to be much longer?”
“We’ve told you all along, you’re free to go if you want,” says Czerwonka’s partner, Jack Aiken. He looks to be a little younger, and fitter, than Czerwonka, and he’s let his partner take the lead.
Yes, they have repeatedly informed her of her right to leave, because if she is free to leave, then this conversation cannot technically constitute an “interrogation,” and therefore no Miranda warnings are required. What, they forgot she practiced criminal law for almost three years?
“I’ll answer whatever you’d like,” she says.
Joe Czerwonka is a large, weathered man who seems to have a gentle side, too, which makes her think he’s a grandfather. Or maybe it’s just dealing with females. If she were a man, this guy might be breathing down her neck. Instead, he turns away from Allison, talks to his partner as if she weren’t in the room. “It’s just—confusing to me,” he says. “See, Mrs. Pagone’s daughter, Jessica, told us that Allison came home about two in the morning on Sunday.”
“Yeah,” Detective Aiken confirms, referring to his notes. “Yep, she said, ‘Two in the morning.’ She said she got to Mrs. Pagone’s house at about eight-thirty, Saturday night, and her mom wasn’t there. She said Mom didn’t get home until two.”
“That’s almost six hours unaccounted for,” Czerwonka says to Aiken.
“You talked to Jessica?” Allison looks at them sharply. “You didn’t notify us.”
“She’s twenty years old, Mrs. Pagone. She doesn’t need parental notification.”
“What did Jessica tell you?” Allison pounds the table. “Tell me what she said.”
Aiken looks at his partner. This is Czerwonka’s call. “Well,” the senior detective says, “your daughter seems to remember you coming home and not looking so hot. Upset. And dirty, I guess. Mud on you. And she says you threw up when you got home.”
“Jessica said that?” Allison asks, feigning surprise.
“Yeah, she did. And she said the next day, you told her you’d been dating Mr. Dillon. The two of you were having a romantic, shall we say, relationship.”
“That is confusing,” Aiken says to Czerwonka. “Mrs. Pagone here says she was home all night and she wasn’t sleeping with Mr. Dillon. Her daughter says just the opposite.”
“Maybe it’s a mixup,” Czerwonka says to his partner. “Maybe we misunderstood what Mrs. Pagone here has been telling us.”
Allison says nothing.
“Well,” Czerwonka continues with Aiken, “when you talked to Jessica, did she give any indication she was confused?”
“No,” Aiken says. “No, she was crystal clear on it. We went over that point over and over again. Mom came home about two, looking all out of sorts. And then she spilled it—that she was having an affair with Sam Dillon.”
“Well, did she know it’s a crime to lie to a police detective?” Czerwonka asks.
“That’s enough,” Allison says.
“Yeah,” says Aiken. “She knew she had to tell the truth. Otherwise, it’s obstruction of justice. Yeah, Jessica understood that she could get in all kinds of trouble for lying to me.”
“I want you to stop this.” Allison stands up.
“It’s no act, Mrs. Pagone.” Czerwonka laces his hands together. “One of you is lying about this. You or Jessica. Should we pick her
up for lying to a police officer?”
“Leave her out of this. She has nothing to do—” Allison looks away.
“Nothing to do with what?” Aiken asks.
“Nothing.”
“Look, Mrs. Pagone. Take your seat if you would,” Czerwonka says. “Let me make this easier for you. We know you went to Sam Dillon’s office downstate last Friday—the day before he was murdered. We know you were upset.”
Allison holds her breath. Something she can’t control, what happened at Sam’s office.
“You went to his offices up here, first, then you drove all the way down to the capital to find Sam Dillon. You already told us, when we started this interview, that you didn’t have business with Dillon. You said that already. So why the rush to go down there? It’s personal. Of course, it’s personal. Okay.”
Allison sits down, as previously requested.
“You rush into Sam’s office and close the door. Okay, you want privacy. But you didn’t quite get privacy, Mrs. Pagone.”
The words pierce her heart. Her body accelerates. She is ready to say it right now, if necessary. Something in her—caution, perhaps, or simply the inability to speak—forces her to keep quiet for the moment.
Somebody heard her conversation with Sam?
“There was an aide at the office,” Czerwonka continues. “You may not have noticed him in your haste. He heard what was going on in there.”
“You don’t understand,” she says.
“Then help me out here.”
No. No. Let him take the lead. She closes her eyes. They know, she thinks with a mounting horror. They know I made Sam fire Jessica. They know Jessica had a thing for Sam and he rebuffed her. They probably know Jessica was upset, upset enough to—
“ ‘This isn’t working out.’ ‘Mat’s a friend.’ ‘This is crazy.’ ”
Allison opens her eyes to a satisfied Detective Czerwonka.
“Sound familiar, Mrs. Pagone?”
Something’s not right. Those were the words Sam used, on the phone with Jessica, but the look on the detective’s face tells her he is misreading it.
“He dumped you, Mrs. Pagone,” Czerwonka concludes. “You’re not the first. I can say that from personal experience.”
He dumped—me. Me, not Jessica. Allison’s heart leaps. The office aide heard the words but didn’t know the context. He didn’t know Sam was on the phone, talking to Jessica.
Sam dumped me. Yes!
“But then you deny you were involved with Sam,” the detective says. “And it looks bad for you. Because it’s so obvious to us that you two were an item.”
“And that means, score one for Jessica,” Aiken adds. “She was telling the truth. Which means she was probably also telling the truth about you coming home at two in the morning on the night Sam Dillon was murdered.”
“We need you to explain this to us, Mrs. Pagone. You’ve lied to us twice. There’s an innocent explanation for that? Great. I’m ready to believe it. But you’ve given me nothing to believe, so far.”
Allison brings her hand to her forehead. “It’s—complicated,” she says.
“Life is complicated,” Czerwonka responds. “Explain this to us.”
Allison gets back to her feet. “You said I’m free to leave.”
Czerwonka freezes. His partner looks at him.
“Yes,” Czerwonka says, to keep the record clear on this point. A good detective is always thinking about keeping a confession legal. “But this is not the time. Right now, you should be putting our minds at ease.”
“I’m leaving, then.”
“Mrs. Pagone.” Czerwonka stands, along with his partner. “I’d advise you not to leave town any time soon.”
“I’d advise you to get a law degree, Detective.” Allison hikes her purse over her shoulder. “You can’t make me do anything.”
There will be a time,” Father said, “when they will want you to risk your life. That,” he added, “is when your true dedication shows.”
Ram Haroon drinks his beer slowly. He is the only non-Caucasian at this place on the west side. It is close to midnight. The dozen or so people inside are getting louder, growing more boisterous in their inebriation. This was an asinine choice, this spot. Haroon sticks out, as the Americans say, like a sore thumb. And it could well be only a matter of time before one of these drunken idiots decides to tap him on the shoulder and tell him to go back to his own fucking country.
Ram drains his beer at ten to midnight. He walks toward the bathroom, ignoring any stares that might be coming his way. He turns down the small corridor where the restrooms are located but passes them, goes to the exit door and pushes it, steps out into the alley.
Larry Evans is standing there, awaiting him.
“I assume there is an excellent explanation,” Haroon says, “for what I have been reading in the newspapers and seeing on television.”
“Everything’s fine,” Evans says.
Haroon approaches him, partly so he can keep his voice down but more to make his point clearly. “Last week, you tell me there is a man, Sam Dillon. You tell me your scientist is nervous. You tell me you’re going to keep an eye on this man Dillon.”
“And I did.” Larry Evans is immediately defensive. “I listened to him. Watched him.”
“ ‘Keep an eye on him,’ you said. You said nothing about killing him.”
Larry Evans takes a moment with that. He will neither admit nor deny killing Sam Dillon, obviously. “I think all the worry was for nothing,” he says instead. “I don’t think Dillon knew and so I don’t think she knows, either. The woman. Allison Pagone.”
“And how does your scientist feel about this?”
“He’s upset. He wants me to watch Pagone, so I will. But I think we’re okay.”
“You think.” Haroon runs a hand over his mouth, paces in a small circle. “Her home is still bugged?”
“Yes. And it’s been interesting. She looks like she’s going down for the murder.”
Haroon nods. “I saw on television. She was questioned today.”
“She’s going to be arrested.” Evans stuffs his hands in his pockets. “She thinks so. It’s like she wants to go down for it.”
“Why would she want to be arrested for murder?” Haroon turns to Evans.
He shrugs in response. “I think she’s protecting her daughter.”
“But why?”
“Here’s the thing.” Evans steps closer. “They were both there that night. The night he was murdered.”
“Allison Pagone and her daughter?”
Evans nods. “Both of them. And Allison told her daughter she killed Sam. She confessed, that night.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Why would she do that? Confess to a murder she did not commit?”
Larry Evans laughs.
“You killed Sam Dillon,” Haroon says. “Correct?”
“I never said that, Mr. Haroon. I never said that. All you need to know is that I would never be connected to it.”
A man stumbles by, a drunk, singing to himself, oblivious to the two men standing in the darkness of the alley.
“We’ve been out here too long,” Haroon says. “The police won’t find your surveillance equipment in Allison Pagone’s house?”
“No. City cops? They’ll have no idea. I promise you. And worst case, they’d never be able to trace it to me or anyone else.”
“All right. And what, exactly, do you propose we do?”
“We sit tight, for now. I’ll keep an eye on Allison Pagone. I promised the scientist I would, anyway. We watch her. We do nothing for a couple of weeks. You and I don’t speak. My scientist does nothing. I’ll listen and watch and see what happens.”
“All right. Now listen to me carefully.” Haroon stands within inches of Larry Evans. “Nobody else dies unless I say so. I will decide when and how, and I will do it. There will be no more mistakes.”
The perceived criticism does not seem to sit well with Larry Evans, but it is clear
who has the upper hand here. Haroon could abort this operation at any time, and Evans says good-bye to twenty-five million dollars.
“That’s the way the doctor wants it, too,” Evans says. “Nobody else dies. So don’t worry. No one’s killing her.”
“Unless and until I say so.” Ram Haroon straightens his coat and walks down the alley.
ONE DAY EARLIER
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 10
Allison stands outside her daughter’s dorm room, or what she believes to be Jessica’s dorm room. The divorce has separated Allison more fully from her daughter than from Mat. This spring semester, she knows virtually nothing about what classes her daughter is taking, or even where she lives.
“Yeah, that’s Jessica’s room,” says a student.
Allison looks at her watch. She has been loitering in the hallway for over an hour. Jess must be at class. Hopefully, she’ll come back here soon. Allison has other engagements.
Just after one in the afternoon, Jessica walks down the hall, a backpack slung over her shoulder, her eyes down. Her daughter is wearing a deep frown. She looks up and sees Allison, turns ghostly white. She is immediately aware of her surroundings, manages a perfunctory smile to two students who pass her. When they’re gone, she lowers her head and moves quickly toward her mother. She unlocks the door to her dormitory room and walks in first. Allison follows.
Jessica closes the door and locks it.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
Allison takes her daughter by the shoulders. “I wanted to be sure you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” she says, though she does not look it. Her hair is flat, her eyes bloodshot and weary.
“Everything is going to be fine, Jessica. This is all going to work out.”
This statement, naturally, is of little comfort to Jessica. She looks at her mother with a combination of distrust, fear, and resentment. “What did you do?” she asks. She wiggles out of her mother’s grasp, takes a step back, so that now her back is to the door.
“I can’t tell you, Jess. For your own protection. I can’t.” She puts her hands together as in prayer. “But you have to believe me. Something is going on. Something bigger than all of this, bigger than all of us. All you have to know is that, whatever happens, I’m going to be fine. And so is your father. You have to believe—”
