“Yes. I thought he was going to kill me right there. After he got fixed up by the doctor.”
“Maybe he would have. Luckily for you, I volunteered to be his hostage instead.”
Treva moved closer to me. The gun shaking.
“Look, I…I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to get away. Far away. You know yourself I didn’t mean for all these bad things to happen…”
“Maybe not. Not at first. But then why keep helping Roarke? Unless he contacted you after he’d escaped from the hospital. Threatened you again…”
Her face paled. “How did you know…?”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense. It was Roarke who told you to leave your apartment the next day. To get out of there before the Victims’ Services people came to call. It was Roarke who told you to fly to Harville. Hell, maybe you flew together. Took the same flight early that day. Arriving just before I did.”
Treva was shaking her head.
“No…that’s…that’s wrong. You know that. It was even on the news. Roarke and his friend Ronny Baxter were at that farmhouse in Harville. It was Ronny who—”
“Stop it, Treva!”
I pushed off from the wall. Anger rising in my throat.
“It was you at Stubbs’ place. While Roarke and I were in the barn, you were in the farm house, looking for the CD. When you finally found it, you called and told him. I saw him take the call myself.”
I risked another step.
“Just as it was you who helped Roarke get the drugged Henry Stubbs up into that noose. With his wounded arm, I knew he needed help doing it. ”
“How could I have helped? I’m not strong enough to—”
“You didn’t have to be. I saw that block-and-tackle set under the tool rack. All you and Roarke had to do was loop it over the rafter, and use the pulleys to hoist Stubbs up. It compensates for the weight.”
She bit her lip. Blinking.
I pressed on. “When I was running away, after Roarke died, I looked back and saw a small figure moving toward the barn. In the darkness, I couldn’t make out who it was. I just assumed it was Ronny Baxter. Running toward the barn, carrying a gun.” My tone sharpened. “Tell me, Treva. If you had found me there, would you have used it?”
Her voice rose. “I swear to you, that wasn’t me. It was Ronny Baxter. He—”
“Goddammit, it wasn’t Baxter and you know it. Ronny Baxter is dead! The FBI found him in the county morgue in El Paso, Texas. He’d been dead over a week. Killed in some drunken bar fight. Days before the bank robbery. Before any of this.”
I moved closer, crowding her. “No, Treva, it was you with Roarke in Harville. You who ran in the barn after I got out. Who found Roarke’s body and torched the place.”
She was blinking furiously now. Hands shaking more noticeably, as she tried to steady the gun.
“No…I wasn’t there. I was here, in town. At my apartment, remember? You called me there. I even asked you to meet. To get together someplace and talk.”
“Yes, you did. And that threw me at first. Till I realized that you’d set your phone to take incoming calls and reroute them to your cell. When I called you from that restaurant outside Harrisburg, I thought I’d reached you at home. On your home line. But that whole time, you were talking to me on your cell. Probably from that rented Range Rover near Stubbs’ farm.
“Which is also why Victims’ Services got no answer when they went to your place that day. You weren’t there.”
She pressed her lips together. A thin, tight line. I could tell she was trying to focus. To keep the gun straight and level. Trained on me.
“You are very good, Treva. You knew I was in Harville. So when I called you, you came up with the idea of inviting me to meet you somewhere, establishing your alibi. That you were still in town, at your apartment. Knowing full well I couldn’t accept the invitation.”
I took a long breath.
“I’m right, aren’t I? For once, Treva, tell me the goddam truth—”
“Yes!” A sudden shout. Choked, as though wrenched from her. “Yes. I…everything you said. I did it. I…”
I nodded. “After that, all you had to do was book a late flight back to Pittsburgh—as I did—and go home. And continue playing the distraught, emotionally needy victim. Or, in my opinion, actually being the distraught, emotionally needy victim. Traumatized by everything she’d seen. And done.”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
“It’s true, isn’t it, Treva? You’re feeling it right now. Fragmented, lost. Terrified. And yet some part of you, some self-protective part, keeps pushing you on. It’s why you followed Fletcher and me out of the conference hall. You needed to know what we were talking about. Whether I’d guessed the truth and was confronting Fletcher. Whether he’d reveal that you and he had been working together. That after all you’d been through, it would still come out.”
Again that slow, glassy-eyed nod. Panic giving way to shock. Disorientation.
“And now it will, Treva. All of it.”
I reached into my pocket and withdrew a small digital recorder. With wireless transmitter attached.
“That was the plan all along. To get Fletcher alone, get him to admit his guilt. Before Sinclair’s victory became a done deal.” I nodded at the sleek device in my hand. “With what’s on this, McCloskey’s hold on the campaign is over. At least I hope so.”
At last, she found her voice.
“You…you were recording Fletcher…?”
“And transmitting to the cops. Which means I have your admission, too.”
She just stared at the recorder, numb.
I pocketed it again and approached her, my palm outstretched. “Give me the gun, okay, Treva? You aren’t going to shoot me. You know you aren’t.”
She grew agitated. Conflicted.
“I…I can’t…”
Suddenly, another voice—sharp, commanding—filled the narrow space between us.
“Then give it to me, Treva! Now!”
As though slapped, Treva jerked her head back. Stared in the direction of this new voice.
I turned as well, just as Eleanor Lowrey stepped into view, bathed in harsh light from the ceiling lamps. Coming quickly toward us from the mouth of the tunnel. Service weapon upraised.
“I said, give me the gun!”
I faded back as Eleanor approached, her eyes narrowed with purpose. And visible pain.
Treva stood frozen, rooted to the spot. Until slowly, reluctantly, she made a half-turn and faced her former lover. For the first time in many years.
Then, without a word, without a sound, Treva handed the revolver over to Eleanor. She pocketed it.
Without taking her eyes from the younger woman, Eleanor spoke to me.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. How much did you hear?”
“Enough.” She tapped the receiver hooked behind her left ear. “Fletcher and Treva.”
“But where the hell were you? I thought the plan was to give me five minutes alone with Fletcher, then the cavalry comes in—”
“Right. Till Treva followed you out the service door, and Fletcher brought you two down here. Then we just hauled ass after you, but—”
“But we got lost in a crap-load of steam foggin’ the whole place up.” It was a flustered Harry Polk, lumbering toward us. Breathing hard. “Plus we went down the wrong goddam tunnel. Regular fun-house, this place.”
With his trademark scowl, he surveyed the scene. Took in the two women, the dead body on the ground. Me.
“What is it with you, anyway?” he said at last. “Every goddam crime scene in town, you’re there.”
“It’s a gift.”
He snorted. “Look, not that I give a shit, but our two candidates upstairs wanna get things started. Crowd’s gettin’ restless, too. They want their show.”
I smiled over at Eleanor. “Late or not, I’m glad you guys made it.”
But she was looking at Treva. “Me, I’m not so gl
ad.”
A long, uncomfortable silence.
Harry gave me a puzzled look, but I merely shrugged. Then we both watched as Eleanor drew a pair of cuffs from her jeans pocket. Went briskly over to where Treva Williams slumped, forlorn, against the wall. Fingers twisting in front of her.
“I’ll need you to turn around, Ms. Williams.”
Treva peered up at Eleanor with a child’s countenance.
“If I confess, will that make things easier for me? I mean, since you already heard—”
“I can’t promise anything.”
“Damn right, you can’t.” Polk shuffled over and read Treva her rights. But she barely seemed to listen. Her gaze was riveted on Eleanor’s taut face.
“I’m so sorry, Ell. I really am. About everything.”
Eleanor paused. But only for a moment.
“I know.”
Their eyes locked. Something unreadable passed between them, something private and unfathomable.
And then, her hand on Treva’s shoulder, Eleanor Lowrey turned the younger woman around and brusquely snapped on the cuffs.
Chapter Sixty-two
On Sunday, the heat broke.
It wasn’t exactly a cold snap, but as the afternoon unspooled into evening—with the thermometer never getting above eighty—most people felt a palpable relief.
At least, that’s what the TV reporter claimed, as he walked along Walnut Street in Shadyside, mike in hand, canvassing the passers-by. Couples and families happy to be out for the day, sipping cold drinks and licking ice cream cones. Walking big long-haired dogs who, for the first time in weeks, didn’t seem about to fall prostrate in the street from the unremitting heat.
“God knows I’m ready for winter.” Noah’s gaze was riveted to the TV screen as he casually slid my Iron City across the bar. He looked pretty good today. Relaxed.
“Me, too.” Taking a long, grateful pull.
“Besides, Charlene says she can’t wait to get me up on the slopes. She thinks I’ll really dig skiing. Personally, I think she’s hopin’ I’ll crash into some big-ass tree so she can collect the insurance money.”
“What insurance money?” Charlene’s cheerful bellow came from behind the kitchen doors.
Noah grinned, gave me an exaggerated wink, and shuffled off to serve another customer. As he did, I caught sight of Thelonius, leaning against the cash register, cleaning his paws. Still a member of the family.
I took my beer and slid off the bar stool. Walked through the rear door onto the outdoor patio where the wooden floor slats smelled of brine and fish oil. The sun was just going down, its waning rays riding the slow-moving crests of the dark river. Sending off sparkling divots of light.
There were only a few Happy Hour regulars out here on the deck, so I easily found a quiet table and pulled up a chair. Sat breathing in the Monongahela’s particularly pungent aroma, sipping my beer, and watching some river birds scavenging the bank below.
I’d had enough of the news for one day. And there’d been a lot of it, especially for a Sunday.
Naturally, the lead story was the death of Brian Fletcher, and the revelations about his orchestrating the fake attempts on Sinclair’s life. These were easily confirmed when Jimmy Gordon, not an hour after learning of the campaign manager’s death, hastily confessed to his part in the ruse. Of course, he was adamant that he never really planned to kill the district attorney. He was just supposed to shoot wildly and miss. All part of Fletcher’s plan to help Sinclair in the polls. When asked why he agreed to work for Fletcher, Gordon was quoted as saying he needed the money.
I took another swallow of my beer and smiled to myself. Recalling what philosopher Hannah Arendt had said about the banality of evil. How guys like Jimmy Gordon proved her point every day of the week.
Even bigger than the Fletcher story was the sudden announcement, just this morning, that Leland Sinclair was pulling out of the gubernatorial race. Though police were confident he’d had no knowledge of, nor any participation in, Brian Fletcher’s criminal activities, it seemed obvious that a win in November was unlikely.
In his short press conference, Sinclair took no questions. Instead, he read a prepared statement expressing his dismay at how his campaign manager had duped him—and the public—and that he felt it was in the best interests of the state that he withdraw from the race. Moreover, since he had two more years to serve in office as district attorney, he’d have plenty to keep him busy. Safeguarding the lives and property of the great citizens of Pittsburgh. At the end, he wished John Garrity—his only serious rival in the campaign—all the best of luck.
Poor Sinclair, I thought. This had to be a stunning blow. Especially since most pundits agreed that he looked to be the probable victor in the election. Which, these same commentators agreed, also practically guaranteed he’d make another run for the governor’s mansion in four years. Knowing Lee Sinclair, I didn’t doubt it.
As the sun dipped further behind the old hills, and shadows lengthened across the sluggish waters below me, I finished my beer and got up. Stretched.
It had been another long day, beginning with the three hours spent this morning giving my statement about the previous night’s events to the cops.
I’d sat with Harry Polk in one of the interview rooms at the Old County Building, nearly deserted on a Sunday morning, and gone over everything. Twice.
Until, apparently satisfied, Harry leaned across the table between us and shut off the tape recorder. Which meant I could finally ask the only question I cared about.
“What’s going to happen to Treva Williams?”
Polk grimaced. “Well, for starters, nothin’ she confessed to you is admissible. Though I don’t think she knew that. Not that it matters, since she was Mirandized right after. Sang like a bird to Lowrey all the way down to the station.”
“Guilt can do that to a person.”
“On the other hand, she’s already lawyered up. The guy’s sayin’ she was a helpless victim of powerful men. Terrified of both Fletcher and Roarke. According to him, she had no knowledge of Bobby Marks’ criminal activities at the bank. She and Marks were just lovers, and she was traumatized by his murder. Not in her right mind when she helped Roarke at the Stubbs place.”
He gave me a thin, dark smile. “Geez, Doc, looks like he’s workin’ your line.”
“And he could be right. About all of it.”
Polk gathered some papers up from the table.
“Won’t do him any good, though. ADA Parnelli says he’s willin’ to take a plea, but not for less than eight to ten years.”
“That’s hard time.”
“My heart bleeds. Hell, she’s lucky. Given her crimes, I’m kinda surprised Parnelli’s settlin’ for a deal.”
“I’m not. He probably figures she’ll look like a deer in the headlights to a jury. They might go easy on her.”
I ought to know, I thought.
Polk clambered to his feet.
“Now get the hell outta here, will ya? I talked to Angie Villanova this morning and you’ve been released from your obligations to the Department. For now, at least. Go back to stealin’ your patients’ money.”
I rose, too. Held out my hand.
“Looking forward to it. See you around, Harry.”
“Christ, I hope not.”
But he was grinning.
***
As previously arranged, Sam Weiss and I grabbed a quick lunch at Primanti Brothers on the Strip. Usual weekend crowd. Blue collars and white. All big eaters.
The reporter spoke above the din, chewing on his double-stacked steak sandwich. “You realize, of course, that with Fletcher dead, there’s nothing to connect any of this with Evan McCloskey. And I mean nothing.”
“Yeah. That’s why the cops agreed to let me confront him at the Burgoyne. I felt sure I could rattle him enough to admit what he did. We knew that even if I got Fletcher’s confession, it wouldn’t be admissible, but they figured they could use it to get him to roll on McC
loskey. But, now, without Fletcher’s testimony…”
Sam groaned. “Tell me about it.”
“But what about Stubbs’ story? And the CD?”
“No way to substantiate anything Stubbs said, either. Even if Howard Gould was his mole in McCloskey’s firm, he’s no longer around to verify it. As for the CD…” He took another generous bite of his sandwich. “If it existed, I’m guessing Treva Williams destroyed it. Threw it on the fire she set at the barn.”
I mulled this over. “Well, I understand they’re still sifting through the ashes over there. Maybe it’ll turn up.”
“If it does, it’ll be too fried to do us any good.” Sam tossed the scant remains of his sandwich on his plate. “Face it, Danny. We got nothin’.”
Then, as if to emphasize the point, he pulled his laptop up onto the table. Booted it up and found the video he was looking for. Turned the screen toward me.
“Here. Check this out.”
It was a news story—covered by a local TV station in upstate New York—about the home-town funeral of Howard Gould, junior attorney at McCloskey, Singer, and Ganz. Standing at the gravesite, next to the lawyer’s grieving family, were the senior partners at the firm.
I leaned in for a closer look. Saw Evan McCloskey’s bland, sober face. Watched as he gingerly squeezed the hand of Gould’s widow, weeping at his side.
I was struck, as I’d been before, at how ordinary he looked. How almost indistinguishable he was from the other lawyers. The other middle-aged white men in suits.
I sat back in my seat. “So that’s that, eh, Sam?”
“Not necessarily.” He mustered that familiar, crooked smile. “Remember what Stubbs told you? He made a copy of that CD and stashed it somewhere. Maybe it’s with some friend or colleague back in New York. Or in a locked safe in some other out-of-state law firm. With Stubbs dead, the damn thing may just turn up…”
He stood up, stretched. “Meanwhile, I still got all my notes. So, hell, maybe someday…I mean, ya never know. Right?”
***
“You hear what happened with Biegler and his wife?”
It was Eleanor Lowrey. I’d just pulled away from the Strip, heading toward Noah’s Ark, when my cell rang. She’d blurted out the question before I could even say hello.
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