Mystery Writers of America Presents the Prosecution Rests

by Inc. Mystery Writers of America

  Dana Fallon had dragged the silent, self-effacing Sophie into what was to be their first shared dorm room and drilled for information, a deadly interviewer even then. She pulled out of Sophie the barren details of her existence. Dana then explained to Sophie that she, on the other hand, had a massive family, enormously wealthy—which had disowned her, appalled by Dana’s future plans. “We’re both orphans,” she concluded.

  Sophie’s stricken sympathy caused Dana to laugh and grab her in a fierce hug. “Silly thing! We’ll just be orphans together!” Sophie had blinked awake under Dana’s fierce grip. She became, mysteriously, no longer a burden to herself. Both were anthropology majors, but on widely diverse tracks. Sophie craved to understand the development of past civilizations, but Dana was determined to shape the development of future civilizations, using her flair for public media.

  Dana captured Sophie with her noise, toughness, hilarity, and confidence. And touch. Dana literally dragged Sophie to class, to parties, on double-dates, to meet influential people. The relief of having her existence confirmed by someone outside herself was almost painful. They entered and left Michigan, Columbia, and then Mortensen University together, always at the top of their class. Separate but inseparable. Or, as Dana always said, “moon and sun.” Never a doubt that Dana was the burning, brilliant sun.

  Eisner’s words echoed in Sophie’s mind: “Lucky your best friend died according to your schedule.”

  Sophie walked to the elevator, thinking of nothing else.

  ____

  AT FIVE P.M. the same day, the lowering dusk had already made Sophie’s car invisible where she’d backed it beneath a canopy of drooping pine tree branches far out east on Long Island. She’d rented something generic and dull green, deciding against Dana’s flashy Jag. Despite Dana’s coat, the cold had worked its way into Sophie’s bones. Once in a while, she touched her hair or her face, absently irritated by the cloying stickiness of makeup and hairspray. But the Fremont nuclear power plant held all her attention.

  After this morning’s events, she’d split into two distinct parts—a physical body unable to feel and a mind unable to gather a thousand shards of thoughts into a plan. Shock, she supposed. Didn’t care. She passed the afternoon huddled close to the roaring fireplace in Dana’s luxurious apartment, studying Dana’s research, mentally replaying Eisner’s comment: “Lucky your best friend died according to your schedule.”

  A plan would come. Whenever she entered a site—a possible future dig, an unremarkable spot to other eyes—each time she knew that beneath her feet waited clues to direct her next steps. Her best tool was patience. Today Fremont was her site.

  As minutes passed, Sophie sat motionless in the shadows.

  Every fifteen minutes Sophie started the car to rewarm the engine. She feared no heat scanners, which Dana had recommended to the nuclear plant in several speeches. No dogs, either, according to Dana’s research.

  Snow was coming. Soon and heavy, she judged by the crackling dryness of the air and rapidly failing light.

  Beyond the grove of pines, thirty feet of cleared ground fronted a ten-foot-high chain-link fence topped with rolls of barbed wire. An incongruously ungated gap in the fence allowed employees to drive inside and park, then disappear to work among a cluster of pale yellow buildings. On the left side of the entrance a guard sat, booted feet propped on a small desk, cozy in a glassed-in booth, which was obviously sealed to retain heat—she doubted he would hear her if she screamed. He was absorbed in a magazine. Sophie saw the long body of a semiautomatic rifle racked up on the wall behind his head. She recognized the type and wondered if he regularly cleaned it; it tended to jam from dust.

  A massive windowless tower behind the office buildings dominated the compound.

  The icy, pine-drenched air emphasized the silence.

  Finally, the guard sat up and muttered into a portable radio. She couldn’t hear what he said, but could guess. He’d been drinking from a massive thermos. He probably wanted a toilet break and a refill. He shrugged himself into his coat, tucked his magazine and thermos under one arm, locked the small door behind him, and strolled toward a side building. No replacement appeared.

  Sophie glanced at her watch—six thirty—and moved. She estimated fifteen minutes. She ducked under the metal chain which laughably barred the entrance. Under her coat she wore a navy jumpsuit she’d found in Dana’s closet. It closely approximated the uniform of plant workers she’d seen in Dana’s photos. Sophie wondered what Dana had discovered while wearing it.

  She slipped through the door of the largest building and walked into a veritable cocoon of heat. A hallway confronted her. She had to choose, left or right. She opened her coat to the heat and sauntered down the left-hand passage. Swinging from her neck was another token from Dana—a press pass issued by this plant, granted a year ago when Dana’s investigations began and she’d still been welcome here. Sophie had thought it might bolster her disguise. Or bring luck.

  Pushing her lipsticked lips into a smile, she cracked open each door she passed, glancing swiftly inside. The fourth door revealed a large room full of people sitting and moving around long tables, mostly eating, talking loudly. She considered entering—maybe she would overhear something helpful—when across the room a man sitting at a crowded table looked up, then stood, staring straight at her. An unexpectedly familiar face. He darted toward her. In a panic, she stumbled backward, blundering into two people trying to enter the room behind her. They exclaimed loudly in annoyance. Several people looked her way. Quickly she turned and ducked her head, pushing out between the two, muttering, “Sorry. Sorry.”

  In the hall, she broke into a trot, back to where she’d entered. Outside, she bolted. In the still cold air she could hear feet pounding after her. His feet? No time to turn and look. All she could hope for now was escape.

  Her rental instantly started, and ignoring the circular exit road, she cut straight uphill and across the lumpy frozen ground, threading between tree trunks until she lurched up onto the access road to the highway. She cursed the inadequate engine, but blessed her habitual preference for four-wheel-drive vehicles. The highway appeared empty of traffic, with two lanes on each side of a low cement divider that forced a right turn. The wrong way. She shot across the divider. At the car’s first bounce, she wrenched the wheel left to ease the impact of her tire rims when they hit the concrete edge. She pulled into the inner, fast lane. No streetlamps on this back-country road. Only the information signs were illuminated, green islands of light.

  Suddenly she became aware of a car behind her. She glanced into her rearview mirror. The darkness had swallowed all but a pair of headlights, maybe fifty yards behind and approaching fast. Why no other cars? Surely this place shouldn’t be so deserted at—she glanced at her watch—seven o’clock. Long Island overflowed with communities, and she was even close to the beaches! Damn it. Beaches in December. Stupid, stupid, and obvious. Dana would’ve thought of it.

  Wishing desperately for inspiration, she jammed the accelerator to the floor, but could get no more speed. The headlights behind her crept closer. She heard the power in the engine following. Something heavy and expensive. Fast.

  She stared up into the rearview mirror at the headlights behind her. Maybe she’d panicked over nothing. The following car could be a coincidence. Maybe she’d come out onto the highway ahead of someone else, a stranger. She’d seen him for only a second. And he had no business here. The man she saw had fit in among the employees… No. She’d made a mistake. It was probably a mistake.

  Another well-lit sign flashed by. The chassis of her car shook and its engine rattled like a tin box full of cans. Sophie had been stranded in every terrain, in every type of vehicle. She could tell by listening, this one would soon quit unless she slowed down. If her follower was a stranger… she took a deep breath and twitched her shoulders to loosen her neck muscles. Snowflakes began to show in her headlights. The storm had arrived.

  Suddenly the other car pas
sed her on her right, bursting out of the darkness and startling her. It pulled in ahead of her too swiftly for her to see the driver. A dark Mercedes sedan, she noted. Reflected lights flashed painfully from its high-gloss paint, obscuring its color and damaging her night vision. Then the Mercedes braked hard. The cars slammed together.

  Sophie reflexively braked. “Bastard!” She twisted the wheel right, fishtailing in her haste to get to the outer lane.

  She exhaled in relief as she saw only crumpled metal at the end of her hood. No real damage, but now she sat so rigidly her back no longer touched the seat.

  The Mercedes also switched lanes and hovered close behind. Too close.

  Okay. No stranger. No mistake.

  The two cars sped down the lonely highway as if connected, only a few feet apart. Darkness was now complete except for the bright white sheet of falling snow illuminated by their headlights.

  Sophie twisted the wheel again, skidding in her haste to get back to the left inside lane. Again the other car followed. Then Sophie, gauging the strengthening snowstorm, decided she wanted to get off the highway. She had no speed, but she had experience.

  Sophie swerved right, lunging across the lanes. Captured by its own momentum, the heavier Mercedes shot straight on.

  She tapped her brakes. In seconds, her car was bouncing easily on the sloped graveled shoulder. As she slowed, she pulled deeper into the grass verge, tucking close to the overshadowing pines. She stopped, shifted into Park. Snow surrounded her like a white wall. She killed her headlights.

  Far ahead, she watched the Mercedes brake. Moving too fast to handle the thickening layer of fresh snow, the car skated diagonally across the road. When the tires grabbed the rough gravel, the car lifted and rolled gracefully, onto the passenger side, onto the roof, then onto the driver’s side. The abused metal moaned as it ground against the gravel for the last few yards, then came to rest upright. Sophie screamed, her fists covering her mouth.

  Something in the Mercedes made a hissing sound. Then a figure, a man, crawled out through the passenger-side window. Leaning on the battered car, he groped his way around it until he reached the pavement. He dropped to his knees. Sophie shifted into gear and let her car roll forward. She stared, trying to identify her attacker. About thirty feet away, she braked and flipped her lights back on. In the sudden glare, the man held up an arm to shade his eyes.

  In that moment Sophie knew him for certain. Victor Rubinski, director of the Jones-Formen Foundation, the doorway institution that screened scientists like her to allow her access to grants. The man who’d persuaded Mortensen to fire her from her own project—after which she’d run to Dana, whining about her troubles. Dana, who always covered Sophie’s back. And now here was Rubinski, at a nuclear plant. As if he belonged. Dana. He must’ve murdered Dana. And now he’d tried to run her down on a deserted highway. How had he known she would come here? Sophie’s thoughts whirled in confusion.

  He pulled himself upright and staggered toward her. He raised the arm not shielding his eyes and stretched his hand toward her, as if offering her something. A blinding flash burst from his hand. Simultaneously she heard a loud thunk and her headrest jolted. She punched her lights off again and dove sideways, below the dashboard.

  Sophie listened, shivering, but heard only the faint tapping of snowflakes on her windshield. She wondered what to do. Then it came to her. She, Sophie, was meek, quiet, confident only in jungles and deserts. Dana was powerful, clever, combative, like a trumpet in war. She would be Dana.

  Straightening in her seat, she stamped on her car’s accelerator.

  With a loud thump, as loud as the thumping of her own heart, she rammed him.

  He flung out his arms as his body flipped backward. Then he was gone.

  She braked, then twisted in her seat to look. In the red glow of her taillights, she saw him in a bundle on the ground. The bundle moved. She shuddered, and the image of Dana’s last seconds of agony, her ravaged body, flooded her mind. She rammed her gearshift into reverse. This time she felt the hump of each set of wheels. She braked. Panting, she huddled over the steering wheel, head down. Dana would make sure he was dead, wouldn’t she? A bolt of fear shot through her. Dana would look.

  Seconds passed, minutes, marked by the ticking of her cooling engine. Finally, still unable to look up, she eased shakily out of her car, leaving the door open. The interior light beamed a snowy shaft across the white highway. The only sounds were the shush of snowflakes as they filtered through pine boughs and the thin rumble of her car’s idling engine.

  When she reached where she thought he’d be, she saw nothing. In a haze of shock, she circled the Mercedes. Looked underneath. Searched among the tree trunks in the woods. No body. An object lay at the edge of the highway, not yet covered by snow. She walked up to it. A gun: a .38 revolver.

  “Rubinski!” she screamed, whirling where she stood. The falling snow muffled her voice. Again she looked at the handgun.

  Using a pen from the pocket of Dana’s coat, she did as she’d seen detectives do on television—slid the pen into the trigger guard to lift it untouched. Before reentering her car, she placed the gun and pen onto the floor of the backseat. Gasping to catch her breath, she slammed her door, put the car into gear, and drove.

  It was nearly nine when she reached Manhattan. She slipped Moore’s card from her pocket. An address had been scribbled on the back. Soon she parked on a side street near Fifth Avenue, in the East Seventies. She entered the apartment building and asked for Ms. Moore. The doorman called upstairs, then nodded her toward the elevator. “Press forty,” he said.

  Ms. Moore stood waiting in her open doorway, wrapped in a padded silky housecoat.

  Without a word, Sophie walked past her, then plopped herself uninvited in the middle of a sofa. They looked at each other for a long moment. Finally, Ms. Moore closed the door and sat in a chair opposite the couch. She asked, “Have you had dinner? Would you like some coffee? You look frozen.”

  Sophie didn’t answer. Ms. Moore slipped her hand into her robe pocket, pulled out a pager, pushed buttons. She leaned back into the soft cushions and waited.

  After a pause, Sophie asked, “If a person… did nothing wrong herself… but knew of a crime. And for personal reasons said nothing—”

  Ms. Moore interrupted. “Maybe an accessory. Depends on circumstances. Coercion, if it can be proved, might exonerate—”

  “I knowingly profited from… doing nothing.”

  “Still depends.”

  Two loud thuds were heard at the door.

  Sophie, trembling, met her eyes. Ms. Moore admitted Eisner, who, one step inside the apartment, stopped short. He examined Sophie on the couch. “I was already on my way up.” He peeled off his wet coat and draped it on a coatrack behind the door. He glared at Sophie. “You’re getting Georgie’s couch all wet.”

  Sophie looked at him, taken aback. “Oh. Sorry.” She removed her wet coat, but rolled it into a big ball and kept it on her lap. She stared down at it.

  Eisner collapsed into a chair. “Now you’re getting yourself all wet. What the hell are you wearing?”

  Sophie didn’t move or speak. Looking at Ms. Moore, Eisner held up his hands as if to ask, What?

  Ms. Moore sat again in her chair. “She says she might be an accessory to a crime.”

  Eisner looked at Sophie. “What crime?”

  Ms. Moore, slightly exasperated, said, “We hadn’t gotten there yet.”

  Eisner pulled out his notebook, now damp and tattered, then sat back. “Shouldn’t you be home packing?”

  Sophie’s head jerked up. She stared at him wide-eyed. Finally: “Oh. Nicaragua.” She looked away again. “That’s over.”

  Eisner frowned, puzzled. “Okay.” Then he leaned forward. “What crime, Dr. Black?”

  “Theft.”

  “Theft of what?” asked Ms. Moore.

  “Of artifacts. Stolen from… Dana called them my ‘dog and pony shows.’ I’d do one every few months,
or when I found something special. The university would invite wealthy supporters, serve wine and cheese. Slides and a speech from me, as project leader. The interruptions to my work were annoying, but—that’s why they funded me, after all, for publicity.” She paled and looked away. “Dana wrote my speeches. She said I have poor communication skills.”

  Eisner rubbed his eyes. “She’s right. Okay, believe it or not, I’m with you. Somebody stole artifacts you brought to D.C. for exhibitions to impress the moneymen.”

  Sophie looked relieved. “Yes. Months ago somebody complained that a statue had never returned from Mortensen. I mean, the only reason I’m allowed to borrow these things is because the countries trust me to bring them back. So… I looked into it. I tracked through the bills of lading. The statue had never even been listed for transport. When I examined earlier shipments, I discovered other items had vanished. I’m guessing, but I’m sure the thief is selling to collectors. Some collectors can be ruthless.”

  “Were the missing artifacts valuable?” Eisner asked while making notes.

  “You mean, like gold? Sometimes. But technically, all antiquities are irreplaceable, and thus priceless.”

  “And you figured out who the thief was.”

  Sophie exhaled. “Yes.”

  Eisner said, “With proof?”

  “Is his blackmailing me proof?”

  “In my book. What hold did he have over you?”

  Sophie said weakly, “Obvious, isn’t it? My work. When I confronted him, he laughed. He reminded me of his power over my funding. I’d never destroy my life’s work just to stop him from making a little profit, he said. And—he was right. I was arrogant. I thought what I was doing was so important that the thefts didn’t matter in comparison. So I did nothing. At my next dig, though, I couldn’t continue. Those people trust me. And their antiquities, their histories, are important to them, as important as my work was to me. I realized I’d made a terrible mistake. I told him he had to stop. That’s when he cut off my funding. Then he told me Interpol would be interested in my activities. He’d set me up to look like the thief.”