“Her office is across the hall. I’ll walk you over.”
“You want to me go right now?”
“No time like the present.”
“Okay, I guess. There were just some things I was planning to talk out with Peyton and you at this meeting. Things I learned through this investigator I hired, and some other things.”
Said Tony, “My advice is that from here on out you consult your own lawyer before you talk to me or my client about anything that relates to the case.”
His client, thought Peyton. Client first, wife second. Their world was surely turning upside down.
Kevin glanced at Peyton, as if to ask if the new arrangement was okay with her. She didn’t respond. He rose slowly and said, “I’m not sure how long this will take. I guess I’ll meet you back at home.”
Peyton didn’t answer. Tony said, “That’s best. Peyton and I have a lot of work to do.”
Kevin waited for her to look up at him, but she didn’t. “Well, good luck,” he said with a shrug.
“You too,” she said, and finally she did look at him. “I think I’m going to have dinner with my parents tonight. They’re concerned about me, and I haven’t had much of a chance to talk to them since they rushed back from their vacation. You’re welcome to join us, but…”
“No, that’s all right. You be the good daughter. I’m fine on my own.”
She nodded. Tony directed him out the door, then stopped in the doorway for some parting advice to his remaining client. “Don’t look at this as divisive, Peyton. Think of it as the only sane way to protect your common interest.”
“Sure,” she said, watching him lead her husband away. “I’m all for the common interest.”
Whatever’s left of it.
41
PEYTON’S PICTURE WAS IN THE NEWSPAPER. NOT A VERY GOOD LIKEness. Rudy had much prettier ones. Dozens of them, all taken from a distance with a telephoto lens, all without her even knowing it.
He was lying on the bed, the newspaper spread across his pillow. He’d read the story at least a dozen times, but he kept going back to the printed photograph of her walking into her apartment, a profile shot with Kevin in the background. Rudy stared at her face so hard that he could actually count the grainy dots in the ink. If only the picture had been taken head-on with her staring directly into the lens. He needed to see right into her eyes to get inside her head. One good look into those eyes and he could always tell what was on her mind.
He tossed the newspaper on the floor and rolled onto his back, thinking. He knew Peyton had to be suffering. Things weren’t looking good. The body in the trunk. The sleeping pills in the car. The salacious hints of some kind of “relationship” between her and Gary Varne. Anyone who read today’s paper would have pegged her for an emotional wreck. But not Rudy. Even in that cloudy photograph, he didn’t see a murderer and adulteress, and certainly not a woman on the brink of suicide. He saw a woman in need. Just like that woman in her car after the accident, the woman he’d pulled from the icy waters of Jamaica Pond.
I’ve always helped you, Peyton. I can help you again.
All she had to do was send him a sign. He’d be there in a minute.
He sat up in bed, suddenly inspired. It was five minutes past eleven. He thought it worth a try. Maybe tonight was the night. She had to be feeling lower than ever before. Maybe she’d reach out to him, her friend from the past.
He slipped out of bed and walked over to his computer workstation. The screen saver was glowing. He went online, straight to where they’d met, that chat room on old Hollywood movies.
Eleven people were in the room. On the screen, right before his eyes, meaningless conversations were unfolding in various colors and fonts. He jumped right in and typed his own message in chat room-ese.
“r u there?”
He’d used his familiar old screen name, “RG.” If she was in the chat room, the initials before the message would tell her that it was him. He waited, then typed another message.
“please b there.”
A few moments passed, then he couldn’t believe his eyes. One joyous letter at a time, the response emerged on screen.
“i’m back.”
The screen name before the response nearly stopped his heart:
“Ladydoc.” His hands shook as he typed the follow-up.
“is it really u?”
“yes.”
“prove it.”
He held his breath and waited. Finally, Ladydoc typed,
“Rodolfo Guglielmi.”
Rudy smiled. She remembered. He’d told her months ago in a private chat room, just the two of them. She was the only person on the planet who knew what the “RG” in his screen name stood for. “Rodolfo Guglielmi.” Rudolph Valentino’s real name.
“i’m so happy it’s u.”
“private chat?”
His skin actually tingled. He’d been waiting months for that invitation. He used to love it when they’d break away from the group, the things she’d say in the privacy of their own chat room. He couldn’t believe they were going back.
“can’t wait,” he wrote.
Together they exited the crowded public chat, just the two of them.
42
IT WAS THE LONGEST WALK OF HER LIFE. PEYTON HAD BEEN DETER- mined to go back to work at the hospital and restore some sense of normalcy to her life. Her plan didn’t work. She was almost immediately summoned to administration.
The director of the residency program was housed in the old wing of Children’s Hospital. Getting there was a hike through a twisted path of hallways that connected the old wing to the newer buildings, and then a lonely climb up three flights of a grand nineteenth-century stairwell. It was a cavernous atrium-style building, suitable for administrative offices. Peyton could hear her own footsteps reverberating off the walls as she climbed one step at a time. On the third tier, lining the hallway that led to the director’s office, were portraits of some of the people who had made Children’s Hospital the best in the world. The first surgeon to perform a pediatric heart transplant. The first woman chief of staff. Not likely that Peyton’s mug would be there anytime soon: First pediatric resident to be plucked from Jamaica Pond, stalked by a clown, blackmailed by a lovesick old boyfriend, and—her most recent achievement—targeted as a murder suspect. Too many firsts for her blood, though she was well aware that this wasn’t the first time she’d been called on the carpet. It was almost déjà vu, eerily reminiscent of the fallout from the Andy Johnson stalking incident.
There were two people in line to see the director, but the secretary didn’t make Peyton wait. Paradoxically, that wasn’t a good sign.
Miles Landau rose as she entered, though it was hardly a greeting. Craig Sheffield, the chief resident, was the only other person in the room. He didn’t make eye contact with Peyton. Another bad sign.
“Please sit down, Peyton.”
She took the chair facing Dr. Landau. He addressed her in his most serious voice, though his words seemed rehearsed. “As director of the residency program, I have a keen interest in the well-being of all our residents.”
So far so good, she thought.
“But there comes a point at which the interest of the hospital is paramount.”
Her heart sank. “I see.”
Dr. Sheffield jumped in. “We’re not prejudging your guilt or innocence.”
“But you read the newspapers,” said Peyton, “and you don’t like the bad publicity.”
“This is not about publicity,” said Landau. “It’s a patient care issue.”
“Patient care?” she said.
“We’ve discussed your situation with our legal counsel. From the hospital’s standpoint, there are basically two possible explanations for your predicament, neither of them good. One, you were somehow connected to the death of Gary Varne, you drove his body to the wharf, and you tried to kill yourself by eating a bottle of sleeping pills. If that’s the case, you shouldn’t be seeing patients.”
“That’s not the case,” she said, nearly bursting. “My lawyer won’t let me go into details, but I’m being framed.”
“That’s the second possible explanation,” said Dr. Sheffield.
“Believe me, we haven’t ruled that out.”
Dr. Landau said, “But the truth is, if you are being framed, you should be devoting your every waking hour toward figuring out who’s behind it. You can’t lead the life of a junior resident at this hospital.”
The words cut to her very core. “Am I being kicked out of the program?”
Landau lowered his eyes. “We would prefer it if you would just defer a year. Come back next year, once this is all cleared up.”
She sat for a moment, stunned. It wasn’t that they’d surprised her. She was simply less prepared than she’d thought. Once upon a time, she’d dreamed of the day when she’d be sitting in this room with these two men, smiles all around, Dr. Landau congratulating her on being selected as chief resident at Children’s Hospital, the best of the best. Today, there were no smiles.
“I’ll do what I have to do,” she said.
They seemed relieved to avoid a fight. They shook hands, and the men wished her well.
She left in silence, alone completely.
Her beeper rang as she was cleaning out her locker. She recognized the number as Tony Falcone’s. She used the phone in the on-call suite for privacy.
“What’s up?” she said.
“Got a little tip from one of my sources over at the police station.”
“Good or bad?”
“A little of both. Detective Bolton’s search warrant turned up an interesting twist.”
“A twist? All he took was my metal box with the gun in it.”
“Right. Except there was no gun in it.”
She lowered herself into the chair. “That’s not possible. I don’t even use that gun. I bought it when I thought I was being stalked. It stays locked in the box on the top shelf of my bedroom closet.”
“The box was there, but the gun wasn’t.”
“Then somebody stole it.”
“I suppose that will be our story.”
“It’s not a story. It makes sense that it would be stolen. It proves I was framed. If they’d found my gun, they could have done a ballistics test, right?”
“Definitely.”
“Well, a ballistics test would have proved that it wasn’t my Smith and Wesson thirty-eight-caliber that killed Gary Varne.”
“That’s true. But how would this person who framed you know that you kept a gun in a metal box on the top shelf?”
“The same way the police knew. I testified about it in that lawsuit I was involved in from Haverhill clinic.”
“I suppose that’s possible. Or maybe you told someone about the gun.”
“The only other person who knew about it was Kevin.”
“That’s kind of my point.”
Peyton gripped the phone. “I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“Really? I was reviewing my notes from our joint conversation. Let me double-check some facts with you. Where was Kevin on the night Varne was kidnapped?”
She thought for a minute. “We had a fight. He was out.”
“How about the night Varne was killed?”
“Out again.”
“You know where?”
“Honestly, I have no idea.” There was silence, and she could easily imagine him making a little note on his pad.
“Let’s go back in time,” he said. “How about the night that guy Andy Johnson fell or jumped and somehow ended up on the tracks in front of the subway? Where was Kevin on that night?”
“He was in New York at a seminar.”
“You sure?”
“Actually, no. Now that I think about it, he came home early from his seminar. I’m not exactly sure when he got back to Boston.”
Silence again. She sensed he was making yet another note. “What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I’m thinking that it’s a good thing you and Kevin retained separate counsel when you did. Your husband may have even bigger problems than I thought.”
“Still not as big as mine.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Just because I don’t know where Kevin was on those nights doesn’t mean there isn’t someone out there who does.”
“You think he has an alibi?”
“I don’t know. What I’m really saying is that I don’t.”
She felt butterflies in her stomach. It wasn’t the first time she’d thought that through, but it was the first time she’d said it out loud.
She didn’t like the sound of it.
43
AT NINE O’CLOCK FRIDAY MORNING, TWENTY-THREE GRAND JURORS sat in a windowless room in the basement of the old state courthouse, waiting for the show to begin. Expectations were high. They’d seen the flock of reporters perched outside the grand jury room.
By law, grand jury proceedings were secret, with no one allowed in the room but the jurors and the prosecutor. The constitutional theory was that the grand jury would serve as a check on the prosecutor’s power. In reality, the prosecutor almost always got the indictment he wanted. Today, Charles Ohn wanted Peyton Shields.
“Good morning,” he said, greeting his captive audience.
Ohn was smiling this morning, and it was genuine. This case had stardom written all over it. A beautiful, smart doctor and her lawyer husband as suspects. A former boyfriend and possible lover as victim. This case could be his breakout, his ticket to the talk-show circuit, and he’d been waiting a long time. Ohn was a twenty-year veteran of major crimes who had plenty of ability, hundreds of victories, and not much publicity. He worked for a district attorney who was a veritable media hound. Ohn had brought the office some of its most impressive wins, but at the press conferences he somehow always found himself positioned just far enough away from the D.A. to be offscreen on the evening news. He did the work, the district attorney took the bows. This time, he vowed it would be different.
That wasn’t to say that the D.A. had given him free rein. Ohn had his marching orders: full speed ahead. That was fine by him. At 9:05 he had his first witness on the stand, sworn and ready to testify.
“Your name, sir,” said Ohn.
“Steven Beasley.”
“Where do you work?”
“I’m an associate attorney at the law firm of Marston and Wheeler.”
With just a few well-rehearsed questions he led Beasley toward pay dirt, establishing him as a friend of Kevin Stokes, someone the grand jurors could believe. He conveyed just the right amount of reluctance as he described the awkward phone call he received from Peyton Shields and the voice in the background.
“What did you hear?” asked Ohn.
“A man’s voice.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Don’t be shy, I’ve already seen you naked.’”
Ohn stopped him. That was the beauty of the grand jury. No restrictions on hearsay evidence, and he could stop and explain things at any moment. “At this time,” said Ohn, “I bring to the grand jury’s attention state’s exhibit one. These are copies of long-distance bills from Gary Varne’s apartment. I’ve highlighted the entry which shows that a phone call was made from Gary Varne’s apartment to the Waldorf-Astoria in Manhattan, exactly as Mr. Beasley has just testified.”
He gave the jurors a moment to review the records. An old woman in the front row raised her hand, and Ohn braced himself. It was legally permissible for grand jurors to ask questions, unlike in a trial, though the prosecutor never knew what was going to come out of their mouths.
“Excuse me,” she said. “But is Mr. Beasley saying that Peyton Shields was cheating on her husband with Gary Varne?”
Ohn smiled. Nothing like a friendly question to move things along. “That’s for you to decide.”
“Well, you convinced me. What else you got?”
The prosecutor struggled to
contain his excitement. Too bad there wasn’t a way to put this woman on the real jury.
“Maybe we should move right to the photographs of Gary Varne’s body stuffed into the trunk of Peyton Shields’s car.”
He dismissed the witness and moved to his box of exhibits.
Kevin spent most of the day trying to find a quiet place to think. Jennifer had given him the task of coming up with a list of possible witnesses who could build his anticipated defense. All morning, the phone in the apartment had not stopped ringing. Even a few newspapers outside Boston were beginning to take interest in the case. He ended up escaping to the park just to have time to himself.
His lawyer had told him that the case was moving fast. Secrecy was yet another myth about grand juries. Leaks were common. One day into the proceedings and newspapers were already reporting that the prosecutor had presented enough evidence to secure indictments. Kevin wondered what he was waiting for.
At six-thirty he went home. Peyton was out. It wasn’t planned, but they seemed to be avoiding each other ever since their meeting with Tony Falcone. Kevin changed into his jogging shorts and headed out for a run. He got only as far as the bottom step of his front porch. A man was standing on the sidewalk, blocking his way.
“How are you, Kevin?”
He figured it was a reporter, then did a double take. He’d never met Charles Ohn, but his face was familiar from the newspapers.
“Since when do prosecutors track down suspects at their home?”
“I hear you have your own lawyer,” he said, not really responding.
“That’s true. And you should be talking to her, not me.”
“You’re a lawyer. We can talk.”
Kevin was tempted to keep right on going, but curiosity grabbed him. “What about?”
“Your future.”
“That’s pretty vague.”
“Grim was what I was thinking,” said Ohn. “Unless you do something to change it.”
“Spare me the veiled threats. If you have something to say, tell it to my lawyer.”
Just as Kevin started away, the prosecutor said, “I’m offering you a deal.”
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