CHAPTER 6
The phone rang while Sasha was changing into her running clothes. She’d decided not to go back to the office after she’d left Greg’s house but to go for a run instead. She hoped a long, hard run would bring her clarity. She didn’t recognize the number that flashed across the display, but she picked up the call and squeezed the Blackberry between her neck and shoulder.
“Sasha McCandless,” she said as she tied her shoes.
“Hi, Sasha. My name’s Erika Morrison. I’m at Feldman, Morrison & Berger. I represent Greg Lang in his divorce.”
The woman on the other end had a soft, cheerful voice.
Sasha checked that her double knots were tight and stood up.
“Hi, Erika.”
“Is this a good time to talk? I should tell you, I only have about twenty minutes. My kid’s in the elementary school play tonight, and I have to get out of here and get dinner on the table before we go.”
“That sounds like fun. What’s the play?” Sasha asked.
“Some propaganda piece about eating a healthful diet. Kieran is a stalk of broccoli.” Erika gave a gentle laugh.
“I guess dinner needs to be in keeping with the theme.”
They both laughed this time. Avoiding the topic at hand.
Sasha glanced at the time display on her microwave. It was almost four. She could hear what Erika had to say and still have plenty of time for a run and a shower before Connelly showed up.
Erika said, “Let me start by saying I don’t believe Greg killed his wife. I don’t know for sure that he didn’t, but I just can’t see it.”
Sasha took out a notepad and pen from her bag and sat at the kitchen island.
“Do you mind if I put you on speaker?”
“No, of course not, but I do have to ask you not to take any notes.”
Sasha looked at the pen in her hand. “Really?”
Lawyers take notes. That’s what they do.
“Sorry. Ellen’s divorce attorney is a real piece of work. If you end up not representing Greg, I don’t want that jerk making a play for your notes, and, trust me, he will.” Erika’s tone was apologetic but made it clear the issue wasn’t open to negotiation.
Sasha capped her pen and tossed it and the pad onto the kitchen island.
“Okay. Well, I don’t practice family law, so here’s a stupid question: isn’t the divorce moot? Ellen’s dead.”
Erika sighed. “It should be. But yesterday, Ellen’s attorney filed a motion to finalize the terms of the divorce, saying he represents the estate. Greg, of course, is the executor, because Ellen never revised her will. So, we’re opposing that, but, long story short, it’s just a mess.”
It sounded ugly. And confirmed Sasha’s belief that divorce law was a practice area to be avoided.
Erika’s next statement made Sasha wonder if she was a mind reader.
“Let me step back, since you don’t do family law. Divorce isn’t usually like this. Not anymore. There’s a serious movement toward collaborative divorce. Ever heard of it?”
“No.”
“Okay. It’s about twenty years old now. Collaborative divorce is an alternative to litigation. The parties and their attorneys work together to create a peaceful resolution to the marriage. Sometimes, especially if there are children, counselors or other professionals are on the team. It’s intended to take away the nasty, vengeful piece of the experience.”
“Does it work?”
“When the parties both want it. And when they both retain lawyers who are trained collaborative divorce facilitators, yes, it does.”
“But not with Ellen and Greg?”
Erika barked out a short, bitter chuckle. “Oh, hell, no. I mean, Greg wanted to go the collaborative route. That’s why he hired me. It’s the bulk of my practice these days. So much more dignified for everyone involved than getting into a red-faced screaming match over who gets to keep the hutch, you know? As soon as I heard who was representing Ellen, I knew we were in for a fight.”
“Why?”
“Ellen retained Andy Pulaski.”
“Never heard of him,” Sasha said.
“No reason why you would have, unless you practice family law or know someone who went through a bitter, messy divorce. Andy specializes in war. He actually advertises that way. Calls himself ‘Big Gun,’ and says something like, if you’re going to go to war, make sure you have the Big Gun.”
“Sounds delightful.”
“He’s something, all right. But it was strange, his taking Ellen’s case. I’ve only known him to represent men. Usually, some rich guy who wants to trade in the old wife for a new model. That kind of guy would retain Andy to help him avoid having to pay alimony to the woman who helped him build his business from the ground up for forty years. That’s the sort of thing Andy does.”
“Why do you think he took Ellen on as a client?” Sasha asked.
“No idea. I mean, old Big Gun has rent and salaries to pay just like everybody else. Maybe Ellen came around when funds were running a little bit light. It surprised me. I had him pegged as a woman-hater.”
Sasha considered what she knew about Ellen. A scorched earth divorce didn’t seem like her style.
“Why would Ellen hire him? I didn’t know her that well, but I knew her. She didn’t strike me as a vindictive person.”
“I can’t answer that of, course,” Erika said. “But Greg felt the same way. Even when it became clear this wasn’t going to be a collaborative process, he kept saying she’d be fair to him. And, he was open about his desire to reconcile with her. He couldn’t see how hopeless that dream was. I mean, Pulaski filed a fault divorce, for chrissakes.”
Sasha summoned up from the recesses of her brain the little she knew about Pennsylvania’s divorce laws. A couple could get a no-fault divorce by consent in as little as three months if both parties agreed that the marriage was irretrievably broken. Even without one party’s consent, a court could find the marriage to be irretrievably broken after the couple had lived separately for at least two years. Fault divorce required proof of some horrible behavior on one spouse’s part: adultery; extreme cruelty; abandonment—that sort of thing. It was harder to establish, messier, and more expensive.
Maybe Greg had refused to sign the affidavit for a divorce on mutual consent and Ellen hadn’t wanted to wait two years. Under that scenario, Pulaski might have filed the fault complaint to force Greg’s hand. It wasn’t completely irrational.
“Was Greg not willing to consent to a quick no-fault?”
Erika sighed and answered carefully. “He was willing to. He didn’t want to, of course, but after he lost his job, he decided a fresh start might be in order. Ellen did let him stay in the house—although they lived separate lives—and he was grateful for that. If she had come around on the no-fault issue, Greg would have signed the affidavit. But she, or at least Pulaski, wouldn’t budge.”
“What were the alleged grounds?”
If Ellen had alleged that Greg had abused her, he might as well plead guilty to murder charges now.
Erika rattled off the boilerplate language. “She alleged he imposed such indignities on her as to render her condition intolerable and life burdensome.”
“Did she specify what these alleged ‘indignities’ were?”
“Not in the complaint, but Greg knew, of course. She was talking about the pictures.”
“What pictures?”
CHAPTER 7
The pictures, Erika had explained, before hurrying off the call to get home to her little broccoli stalk, had arrived in Ellen’s office mail the Friday before Labor Day weekend.
Greg told Erika that Ellen had been waiting for him when he got home from work. It was so unusual for her to be home first that he knew something was wrong as soon as he saw her car in the driveway.
Ellen had been sitting at the dining room table. Six eight-by-ten glossies were fanned out in a half circle. Six photographs of Greg at The Rivers Casino. All time- and date-stam
ped. Six different weekday mornings when he should have been at work, but there he was, sitting at a poker table with a stack of chips in front of him.
According to Erika, Ellen had gone online and combed through their bank records while she’d been waiting for Greg to come home. So, in addition to the photos, she greeted him with bank statements detailing the tens of thousands of dollars he’d been slowly siphoning out of one of their savings accounts.
Sasha considered this information as she ran. The rain had stopped, and she headed up Fifth Avenue to Shady Avenue and its long hill. She pounded upward and thought about Greg Lang.
The fact that he hadn’t told her about the pictures irritated her. It didn’t surprise her, though. In Sasha’s experience, clients never told their lawyers everything right out of the gate. It didn’t matter how many times an attorney explained how important it was to know all the facts—good and bad—in order to provide the best advice, clients would withhold the embarrassing stuff in the misguided belief that it would never come out.
It always came out. And, most of the time, the effect was much worse than if they had just been upfront about it. But her clients were civil litigants. A criminal defendant who held out on his attorney was a different animal entirely.
She powered up the steep incline, looking forward to the plateau and the gentle decline as she looped around to Forbes Avenue. She wondered what else Greg had neglected to tell her.
She’d probed the divorce attorney about Greg’s whereabouts the night of his wife’s murder, but he’d told Erika the same story that he’d tried to feed Sasha—that he’d been walking around alone for hours.
She puffed out a breath in frustration that a man accused of murder would play the games Greg Lang seemed to be playing.
Her left elbow suddenly was jerked hard to the side, and she stumbled. She flew sideways, into the hedges that fronted a well-maintained, red brick house. Two arms encircled her waist from behind and tugged her backward into the bushes.
Her stomach lurched.
Stay on your feet, she told herself. The worst position for a street fight was on the ground. A street fight wasn’t choreographed like a wrestling match. Grappling from a prone position was an excellent way to get killed.
Base out. She bent her knees and planted her feet wide.
Being attacked from behind meant she didn’t know what, if any, weapons her assailant had. She went deeper into her crouch. Behind her, her unseen opponent tightened his grip around her middle with one hand and wrapped his other hand around her neck, squeezing.
She struggled to breathe.
Connect. She lifted her left elbow over her head and swung it behind her, smashing it into the side of his neck under his jaw. Twisted and swung her right elbow into the other side of the attacker’s neck. Left elbow. Right elbow. Again.
His grip loosened just enough for her to maneuver, and she turned to face him, panting, fingers ready to jab him in the eyes.
“Not bad,” Daniel said, dropping his hands from her waist and rubbing his neck.
She leaned against the elm tree in his parents’ front yard to catch her breath.
“You went a little easy on me, don’t you think?”
Her Krav Maga instructor smiled. “A little. Didn’t want a repeat of last time.”
The last time Sasha had been the subject of a surprise takedown, she had ended up with a cluster of large, dark bruises on her forearms that made her skin look like rotting fruit and had prompted her primary care doctor to ask a series of embarrassing questions about her fledgling relationship with Connelly.
Sasha should have realized that running past Daniel’s parents’ home was an invitation for him to ambush her. Ambush wasn’t quite the right word, considering she had paid a nice sum for the out-of-class simulated attacks. She’d been taking Krav Maga classes for years and was proficient at the self-defense system. Her training had saved her life during the Hemisphere Air fiasco and had earned an oversized goon a trip to the hospital for reconstructive surgery. She had also fended off an attacker in Clear Brook County back in the spring. More typically, though, she used her skills to put a stop to her brothers’ favorite pastime of picking her up and putting her on top of their parents’ refrigerator. After the year she’d had, she figured keeping her hand-to-hand combat skills was at least as important as fulfilling her continuing legal education requirement.
Daniel’s father stepped out onto his porch and yelled down to her, “Did you kick his behind, girlie?”
Sasha smiled and gave him a thumbs up sign.
He waved and made his way over to the glider on his porch, leaning heavily on his cane.
Sasha turned back to Daniel. “What’s your dad up to these days?”
Daniel shrugged. “Driving my mother crazy, I guess.”
Larry Steinfeld, now in his early seventies, had finally retired from the practice of the law. He’d worked for years in the Federal Public Defender’s Office, before moving over to the ACLU. Sasha had heard him speak at several conferences before realizing he was Daniel’s father.
Sasha checked her watch. “I gotta go.”
“See you in class tomorrow?”
“Yep.”
She gave Mr. Steinfeld a wave and jogged away to tackle the rest of the hill.
CHAPTER 8
Sasha stepped out of her steamy shower, wrapped herself in a thick, oversized towel, and reflexively checked her Blackberry, while she was still dripping wet.
Prescott & Talbott required its attorneys to respond to e-mails and voicemails within sixty minutes of receipt. The policy held true in the middle of the night, on holidays, and during natural disasters and championship sporting events. Exceptions were made only for travel to remote areas.
It was no coincidence that the firm’s attorneys had begun to opt for rugged, off-the-beaten track vacations in unheard-of locales. Their out of office memos began with sentences like, “At the Buddhist monastery where I will be on retreat, I can be reached via air mail, which is delivered once per week to the village at the base of the mountain and held for the monks until they visit the village to barter goods.”
Although Sasha had removed her electronic leash nearly a year earlier, she had not yet broken the habit of checking her Blackberry. She was like one of those dogs that wouldn’t cross the bounds of an invisible fence even when the power was out.
She looked down at the display: no e-mails; no voicemails; one missed call from the Prescott & Talbott main switchboard; and a text from Connelly: Running late. Meet you @ Girasole.
As she toweled off, Sasha wondered if Connelly had stopped by his apartment. Although he’d been working out of the Pittsburgh Field Office for about a year, as far as the Federal Air Marshal Service was concerned, it remained a temporary placement. So, in its customary fashion, the federal government was still paying for corporate housing in a complex out by the airport, even though Connelly was more or less living with her. She shook her head at herself in the mirror. A live-in boyfriend, practically, whom she’d been dating for eleven months.
Before Connelly, her longest relationship had expired in less time than a half-gallon of milk. She knew this for a fact, because on the way home from her first date with that guy—Vann, a surprisingly funny butcher who worked at Whole Foods—they’d stopped by his workplace so she could pick up some milk. And, for almost a week after they’d called it quits, she’d continued to drink that milk with no need to even sniff the carton first.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Connelly was waiting when she walked into the restaurant. He leaned across the cramped space in front of the hostess station and kissed the side of her head by her ear.
“Our table’s ready,” he said.
The friendly redhead who served as the hostess and fill-in bartender gave a nod from the center of the restaurant. One of the benefits of being regulars was that Paula always seemed to be able to find them a table in the tiny dining room.
Sasha turned back to Connelly. The tight exp
ression stretching across his face reminded her of Will.
“Everything okay? You look a little tense.”
“It’s just ... work. We can talk over dinner.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Paula squeezed past a couple walking arm-in-arm toward the door and plucked a pair of menus off her station.
“Sorry, guys. Busy night,” she breathed over her shoulder.
They followed her to a two-top squeezed into a dark corner. They hadn’t yet spread their napkins on their laps when a waiter appeared to take their drink order.
Connelly, who usually limited his drinking to a glass of wine or two with his meal or a beer while he watched SportsCenter, ordered a vodka tonic.
“What’s the occasion?”
Connelly didn’t answer. Instead, he told the waiter, “She’ll have the same.”
Hungry after her run, Sasha turned her attention away from Connelly’s odd behavior and to the menu. She debated between the squid ink linguine and the fish of the day.
She looked up to ask Connelly what he was having and found him staring at her.
“What?”
“Nothing. Sorry.” He dropped his eyes to his menu.
She opened her mouth to tell him about Greg Lang, but he spoke first.
“No, that’s not true. I’ve been offered a job in D.C.,” he said, lifting his eyes and searching her face for a reaction.
Sasha tried to make sense of the words.
When she didn’t say anything, he continued, “It’s a pretty good offer. I’d be the chief security officer for a pharmaceutical company.”
Sasha’s heart hammered in her chest.
“D.C.?” she managed.
“Just outside, actually. In Silver Spring.”
“You’d leave the government?” she asked, confused.
That didn’t sound like Connelly at all. He was always going on about law and order, duty, and, well, other stuff that she generally tuned out. But still.
9 More Killer Thrillers Page 30
