by Adam Mitzner
His secretary lets us in, but McKenney doesn’t move from behind his desk to greet us. Not to open the door or even to stand to shake our hands.
I don’t have a strong opinion about the District Attorney. I know I should, as seemingly everyone does. Lauren certainly wasn’t a fan, often complaining that McKenney prioritized chasing headlines over the real work of the office. But I’ve always treated our DA like the weather—something in my life that I have no control over. So complaining when it’s bad seems like a waste of time. Besides, like the weather, he’s not always bad.
I suspect Gabriel doesn’t agree. Most cops loathe McKenney on account of the fact that he has not shied away from prosecuting them. On top of which, McKenney comes across as an asshole most of the time. His little power play of not getting up to greet us is a case in point.
“Thank you for seeing us, sir,” I say.
“Of course,” he says with a politician’s smile. “I don’t have much time, though. I’ve got to meet Judge Lawson in about ten minutes. I meant what I said before, though. This investigation takes top priority over everything else, so you have my undivided attention until I have to leave.”
This is Drake McKenney’s way of limiting our discussion. It’s likely something he does with everyone, to make sure he isn’t trapped in a meeting. I know that Gabriel is going to assume that it means McKenney has something to hide.
“How’d it go with Richard Trofino?” McKenney asks.
Another power-play move. We only have a few minutes with the man, and McKenney’s selected the first topic of discussion.
“Not too much there,” I say. “He says that everything was good between him and Lauren. No third parties involved. No money problems. And he claims that he never heard of Gregory Papamichael.”
“Who?”
“The murder weapon was registered to him,” I say. “Dead now, but a former detective over in the one six. He never reported it stolen. It’s possible it was and wound up in the murderer’s hands that way, but we think it’s more likely that Papamichael gave his gun to Lauren for protection—and then Richard used it to kill her.”
McKenney nods to confirm that he believes that this is definitely a plausible scenario.
“On the other hand,” says Gabriel, “we don’t have anything that links him to the murder scene. No evidence of motive either. On top of which, Richard is cooperating with us fully and without lawyering up, even though he’s got half a dozen high-priced sharks on speed dial.”
“The lack of evidence is evidence,” McKenney says. “Husbands don’t need motives to kill their wives.”
Gabriel doesn’t seem put off by McKenney’s tone. I’m not sure if that’s because McKenney isn’t his boss or because Gabriel doesn’t sweat anybody.
“Even so, the primary reason we’re here is to get more evidence,” Gabriel says. “Specifically, we’d like authorization to turn Lauren’s iPhone over to an outside group and see if they can open it.”
When Syed Farook made national headlines in 2015 by killing fourteen people in San Bernardino, California, he probably had no idea he’d also change law enforcement. Before the attack, Farook completely destroyed his two personal phones. No one even attempted to access the information he had stored on them because they knew it was a lost cause. But for some reason, Farook left in pristine condition the iPhone issued to him by his employer. Because the iPhone was passcode protected, the FBI had to seek a court order to compel Apple to unlock it, but Apple resisted, claiming it didn’t have that ability. Ultimately, the FBI used a third-party vendor to crack it. The FBI has never detailed publicly how they did it, but there are private security firms who claim to be able to hack their way in. For a price tag that runs into six figures, of course.
“Trofino is claiming he doesn’t know the passcode?” McKenney asks.
“That’s right,” Gabriel says.
McKenney chuckles. “Fucking Richard Trofino,” he says to neither of us in particular. I’m sure Gabriel understands, as I do, that McKenney thinks Richard is hoping her phone never gets opened. “Lauren primarily used a BlackBerry, right?” he asks, this time looking at me.
“Yes,” I confirm.
“So cracking her iPhone will cost about a hundred grand,” McKenney says, “and it’s still not likely to yield much information beyond her taste in music.”
I don’t say anything, but I know Gabriel is not going to let McKenney off the hook so easily. “We won’t know that until we crack it,” he says.
“All right,” McKenney says with sigh. “Let me think about that. I’ve got a drawer full of cell phones that we haven’t cracked because I don’t want to spend the money. I’ve got to consider the optics of spending the money here and not there.”
Gabriel gives me a sidelong glance. I know what he’s thinking. That this is part of a cover-up. Before I can silently signal him not to go there, he does.
“We’ve heard that Lauren was going to throw her hat into the ring for District Attorney.”
Drake McKenney may not be a real lawyer anymore, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know the tricks of the trade. I can almost see the wheels spinning in his head.
“Is that so? I hadn’t heard that. Then, again, I’m usually the last to know about potential political challengers.”
I need to show Gabriel that I’m on the team, even if the game we’re playing places me adverse to my boss. “Richard Trofino said he discussed it with you. More than that, actually. He claimed you two had a screaming fight about it.”
McKenney puts on a confused expression. Even though I think it’s sincere, it looks false. It’s almost as if McKenney has perfected the most common facial reactions he needs in public office—confidence, honesty, sincerity—but he hasn’t learned how to look surprised, even when the sentiment is authentic.
“Richard said that he told me she was running?”
Every lawyer knows that when the witness repeats your question, he’s stalling. Trying to think through an answer to a question that was unanticipated.
“That’s what he said,” I confirm. “And that you were angry about it and chewed him out.”
“More than that,” Gabriel adds. “He said that you threatened to bury her. That’s a direct quote.”
McKenney smiles as if now he finally understands. “That never happened. I mean, I talk to Richard from time to time. Every elected official in this city does that. Even before he became the mayor’s asshole buddy. He has the kind of juice that when he calls, you answer the phone. But he never discussed Lauren with me. I think even a guy with his reputation would know that’s something that would cross the line.”
“So he’s lying?” I ask.
“He’s lying. Not too hard to figure out why, right?”
Neither Gabriel nor I answer, even though we both know that McKenney is suggesting that Trofino made the entire encounter up to throw suspicion on a political rival.
McKenney takes the momentary lull to mean we’re finished. He gets up from behind his desk and makes his way to his closet. As he’s putting on his overcoat, he says, “Appreciate the update. I’m sorry that I need to run, but I really can’t keep Judge Lawson waiting.”
Gabriel and I follow him out of his office and into the hallway. I think we’re done, but then Gabriel decides to spell out for McKenney what I’m certain the DA has already surmised: that we consider him a suspect in the murder of Lauren Wright.
“Just so no one accuses us later of not doing our jobs . . . where were you the night of the murder?”
McKenney stops in his tracks. After a beat, he turns to face us. He’s still all smiles. But this time I can see rage behind the grin.
“With my wife,” he says. Then he turns on his heels and walks away.
24.
ELLA BRODEN
Before Allison can officially begin our session with her customary “How are you?” I blurt out my news about my getting a Saturday-night gig at Lava.
“What a difference a da
y makes. Yesterday you thought you were cursed,” she says with a smile.
And just like that, the guilt crashes over me again. “I’m still cursed,” I say. “I mean, the Saturday-night thing is nice, but I’d turn it down in a heartbeat if it would bring Lauren back. And let’s be real about it. Nobody is declaring me Beyoncé just yet. All that’s really happened is that I’ve been given a better night to sing five songs in front of a hundred people.”
“Don’t do that, Ella,” Allison says, sounding a lot the way I imagine my mother would say those words. “Diminish your accomplishment. You’ve worked hard, and now it’s being rewarded. What I find interesting is that you were excited about it too—that is until I connected it to Lauren’s death. Once I did that, you sought to minimize it. Why do you think that is?”
“Her murder,” I say. “I hate when people use the term death or passing or whatever as a synonym for murder. It’s not the same thing.”
Allison nods at my rebuke. “Fair enough, but my question still stands.”
“I guess it’s because . . . I felt like you were trying to balance out Lauren’s murder with something positive. I just can’t go through life thinking like that. How could every good thing that happens to me make my mother’s death, and Charlotte’s and Lauren’s murders somehow less tragic?”
After a moment’s reflection, she says, “I understand your point, but I’m not sure you fully understand mine. I don’t want to patronize you, but I think some things require being said, even though I know that you, probably more than most people, already know the truth of what I’m about to say. You’re a fortunate person, Ella. You’re intelligent, attractive, and talented. You’re financially secure, and you have people in your life who love you. Many, many people do not have even one of those things, and you have them all. Now, I know, there’s much more to your life than that. You’ve also experienced suffering that is extreme. You lost your mother at a young age and then your sister in the most horrible circumstance imaginable. And to top it all off, you experienced something extremely traumatic: having to fight for your life and taking a life to save your own. Now a mother figure—Lauren—has been murdered. So, no, I’m not going to tell you that any of that was normal. Like the blessings you have, the . . . curses, as you call them, also seem to be abundant. And I’m also not going to tell you that they balance themselves out. Life doesn’t work that way. Some people get many more blessings than curses, others get the opposite. You’re still young. That means I’m both delighted, and sorry, to say that many more blessings and curses will come your way. And there’s no way of knowing whether, when you take your last breath, you’ll have accumulated more of one than the other. All you can do, all any of us can do, is be happy when happiness is to be had, and suffer through the tragedies as best we can.”
I’ve given myself this little speech before too. All those starving people all over the world, or those in chronic pain or who are blind or refugees . . . the list of those who have it much worse than I do is endless.
The counterargument is that I only experience my own life. So while others most certainly have it worse than I do, that reality is true of everyone on the planet except one person. Should the second-most-tragic figure on earth not complain because another person is suffering more? And when a billionaire or movie star loses a child, isn’t his or her loss just as wrenching as anyone else’s?
“Gabriel has been asking about the apartment,” I say.
The segue to a different topic is sharp enough that I expect Allison to call me on it, but she lets its slide. She likes it when we discuss Gabriel, so I shouldn’t be surprised.
“Tell me more about that,” she says.
I recount our discussion from a week or so ago, struggling to remember if we had it before or after Lauren’s murder. I think I impart it faithfully, although perhaps Gabriel would disagree.
“What do you want to do?” Allison asks, getting right to the point without the usual detour into why I might have said whatever I said.
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me how you feel about the decision, then.”
“That I’d rather not have to make it.”
She looks at me with comfort in her eyes. It’s a maternal look if ever there was one. “What’s holding you back?”
“It makes me feel . . . I know this is silly, but like I’m being disloyal to Charlotte.”
“Tell me more about that,” she says in her therapist tone.
“It’s a simple equation, really. I’d never be with Gabriel if Charlotte hadn’t been murdered, so I’m directly benefitting from her death. You know the way couples have these great meeting stories? ‘We were both on line at the bakery and fighting over the last black-and-white cookie when we decided to share it. He wanted to give me the chocolate side, but I said we should each get half of each . . .’” Allison finds this amusing, perhaps because I said it in a whiny voice. “My origin story with Gabriel is that my sister was murdered and he was in charge of the investigation.”
“To me, that’s far more compelling than sharing a cookie. Gabriel was there for you at the worst time of your life. You saw how he could be nurturing and compassionate and a true partner for you. What’s wrong with that?”
“If Charlotte were still alive, I wouldn’t have any of it. I told you, didn’t I, that I dated Gabriel briefly a few years ago?” Allison nods to affirm that this is not new information. “So, I had a chance with Gabriel earlier, but I threw it away because I was too . . . high and mighty to date a cop. It took Charlotte being murdered for me to come to my senses.”
“Ella, you’re not the same person after Charlotte’s murder. Every way you see the world is different now. That includes how you deal with men and what you’re looking for in a partner. But I’m curious as to why you view this as some type of betrayal. As I see it, it’s a wonderful gift Charlotte has bestowed on you.”
I don’t have an answer at the ready. That’s not for lack of trying, as I’ve considered the issue many times before. I know Charlotte would be happy for me. In fact, the very last thing I can imagine is that she’d want her death to deny me anything.
“I just do” is all I can think to say.
25.
DANA GOODWIN
After our tête-à-tête with Drake McKenney, I accept Gabriel’s invitation to lunch. He selects a place two blocks away from his office. It’s packed when we arrive. Gabriel apologizes, as if it’s his fault he didn’t call weeks ago for a reservation. He offers to go somewhere else, and I think it’s cute that he feels responsible.
“Not after you built up the pie so much,” I say. “I’m willing to wait until rapture.”
“I can set you up at the bar,” the hostess says. “It’s the same menu.”
Gabriel looks at me to confirm that this is acceptable.
“Sure,” I say.
The diner’s bar is as 1950s middle America as you can imagine. At least to my imagination, having never actually set foot in middle America. I’m assuming Chicago doesn’t count. The stools are vinyl upholstered, each in a different primary color. I take red, and Gabriel opts for the yellow to my left rather than the blue to my right. In front of us, in a glass case, waits a single slice of apple pie bigger than my head.
“Hey there,” the woman behind the bar says to Gabriel. She’s in her early twenties, probably a wannabe model or actress. She clearly likes what she sees in Gabriel. “What can I do you for?”
“I’m going to have some coffee,” he says. Then, looking at me, he adds, “And for the lady . . .”
“The lady would like an iced tea,” I say.
“Alrighty then,” the waitress says. “Be right back with those, and then I’ll take your food orders.”
When she makes her way to the coffee pot, I lean closer to Gabriel. “Alrighty then?” I whisper. “Are you a regular here or something?”
“Nah. They’re friendly to everyone.”
“Right,” I say with the utmost sarcasm.
“About what?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. “Whether the waitress thinks you’re cute isn’t much in doubt. I was asking about McKenney.”
“McKenney definitely doesn’t think I’m cute,” he says.
Our waitress returns, a coffee in one hand, an iced tea in the other. For the first time it occurs to me that she looks like she’s dressed for a dude ranch—blue jeans, a rope belt, cowboy boots, and a chambray shirt under a fringed leather vest. She gives Gabriel his coffee first, then sets the tea in front of me.
“And what can I get you for lunch?” she asks, looking only at Gabriel.
At least he knows the woman should order first. He nods in my direction. Still, it takes a second for the waitress to break her focus from Gabriel’s smile. For this, I can’t blame her. It’s a heck of a smile.
“I’ll have the chef salad, Russian dressing on the side,” I tell her.
Gabriel gives me a look.
“What?”
“Nothing. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a chef-salad-dressing-on-the-side type of woman.”
The waitress laughs, but it comes out as a bit of a snort. “Sorry,” she says. “And for you?”
“Grilled Swiss and bacon.”
“Fries with that?” she asks.
“Yes, please,” Gabriel says.
“Coming right on up,” she says as she walks away. Struts away would be more accurate.
“I think I’m impressed,” he says.
“With Miss Rodeo here?”
He chuckles. “No. You asked what I think about McKenney, and I said that I think I’m impressed. With you, I mean. It’s not easy to take on your boss in that way, and you did it well.”
“Thanks . . . I think.”
“You think?”
“Well, I know you meant it as a compliment, but it’s a bit condescending. Lauren was my friend, and I’m after the son of a bitch who murdered her. If that’s Drake McKenney, then God help him.”
