“The stories in the papers keep saying Keeley had a drinking problem.”
Jessie nodded. “I meant to ask you about that.”
“According to the toxicology report, Keeley’s blood alcohol concentration was zero. He may have had a drinking problem, but he wasn’t drinking at all on the night of his death.”
“Did you tell Detective Fulco about the tox report?”
“Of course.”
“What did he say?”
Dale shrugged. “By the time we got the tox results in, the case was already closed. He said it wasn’t relevant.”
“He said that?”
Dale nodded. “You know what they call him, right? Fulco?”
Jessie nodded. “Yeah, I’m familiar with his nickname. I guess he’s not the city’s most dedicated employee.”
“It’s not my call, obviously,” Dale said with a shrug, “but if you want my opinion? You should reopen the case.”
9
Mark Leary sat in front of his computer monitor, ensconced in his cubicle on the outer edge of the cubicle farm of the fifth floor of the Acacia headquarters building. All around him, he could hear people typing, talking to each other, talking into phones. He didn’t mind the cube farm, though. He knew some people complained that the noise and lack of privacy made concentration difficult, but he had no problem focusing. After years in the bullpen—the open-floor squad room that the detectives of the Philly PD Homicide Division used as their workspace—the cube farm felt almost familiar.
His environment wasn’t stopping him from concentrating, but his mind was. Instead of keeping his attention on the task at hand—studying a compilation of shoplifting reports that he needed to review and analyze—he kept thinking about the case Jessie had told him about. The Keeley shooting.
The daughter’s conspiracy theory, that the self-defense claim was actually a cover for murder, was a novel—almost silly—idea. And yet, the possibility intrigued him. He could see how an intelligent murderer could pull it off. In fact, he could see how it could be pulled off pretty easily, especially with an unsympathetic victim like Corbin Keeley, with his ugly history of domestic abuse. A victim like Keeley was unlikely to generate much sympathy in a court of law or in the court of public opinion. Yeah, people would think, he’d been shot in the head, but by whom? A woman half his size, and half his age, who feared for her life. Or claimed she did.
It could be done. It could easily be done. And what really captured his attention was that he was pretty sure he’d seen it done before.
His gaze ticked to the work he should be doing—a PDF document open on his screen—but instead of reading about the wild and crazy adventures of America’s shoplifters as told through statistics and the driest corporate jargon imaginable, he minimized the document and opened his web browser.
He typed in a name he hadn’t thought about in years. Lydia Wax.
Google returned a list of search results that was longer than he would have anticipated given what he’d assumed to be a fairly uncommon name. He scrolled down the page of links—LinkedIn and Facebook profiles, a few random websites and blogs, people directories, some of which would charge a fee to conduct a public records search. His pointer hovered over one of the LinkedIn hits.
He wanted to click, but he knew he would be starting down a rabbit hole that could occupy him for the rest of the day. And that wasn’t a good idea. He should be doing his job—his real job, the one that issued his paychecks—not dwelling on his former one.
He clicked anyway. A LinkedIn page opened and he saw immediately that the Lydia Wax in the photograph was not the Lydia Wax he was looking for. An image of his Lydia Wax appeared in crystal clear detail in his mind, and he was surprised that his brain had committed her face so thoroughly to memory. It’s because I knew she was lying. I always knew, even when we closed the case.
He could still recall the night vividly. Three years ago. He and his partner at the time, Paul Strickland, were sent to a suburban house where a man had just been stabbed. They arrived to find uniformed officers securing the scene and a woman sitting at the kitchen table staring at her own blood-covered hands.
The woman had perked up when they arrived, as if she’d been waiting for them. She told them right away that she’d stabbed the man, Terence Resta, the owner of the house. The woman didn’t want a lawyer. She didn’t want to remain silent. She wanted to make a full confession. Leary and Strickland accommodated her, right there in the kitchen.
It was self-defense, she claimed. Resta, whom she’d been seeing for only a few months, had a horrible temper. He was jealous, irrational, and violent. That night, she had summoned her courage and told him she didn’t want to see him anymore. He’d exploded, told her he was going to kill her, and pursued her through the house. Desperate, she’d grabbed the biggest knife in the block on the kitchen counter and buried it in his chest.
There had been something about Lydia Wax that made Leary suspicious. Nothing concrete. Nothing he could pinpoint in an intelligible way. But he had sensed, on an instinctual level, that she was lying to them. When Leary had shared this feeling with Strickland, his partner had shrugged it off. “It’s in your head.”
And her story had been plausible—even more so after Leary and Strickland did some digging and learned that a previous girlfriend of Resta’s had sought a restraining order against him. And there were no witnesses. No evidence to contradict her version of events.
They had spoken to Resta’s surviving family members. A brother, Leary remembered, named Chance Resta, and a mother. Both had vigorously denied that Terry Resta would ever threaten someone’s life, but of course that’s what they would say. They were kin, the opposite of unbiased character witnesses.
Leary had kept the investigation open as long as he could justify it, talking to everyone he could find who’d known Resta or Wax. In the end, he had found nothing to support his intangible feeling that the woman’s story was false. In fact, after hearing more about Resta’s temper and Wax’s sweet disposition, he’d begun to doubt his initial feelings and wonder if Strickland had been right, that it had all been in his head.
They had closed the case. No charges were brought against Lydia Wax. Leary and Strickland moved on to their next dead body. Back then, there had always been a next dead body.
Three years ago. Where are you now, Lydia?
He clicked on the second search result on the Google page, another LinkedIn profile. Then on the third, a Facebook profile.
No picture—apparently the privacy settings attached to the account limited the display of photos to friends only—but some information was visible, including Education, which listed a high school in Plymouth Meeting, Pennsylvania—a Philly suburb—and a year of graduation—2009—which would put her at around the right age for his Lydia Wax.
“Mark, I’m gonna run downstairs and grab a coffee. You want to come?”
Leary jumped at the sudden interruption, then turned with what was probably a guilty expression to look at the man standing at the side of his cubicle. He forced a smile. “Thanks, but I’m too busy,” he said. “Next time, okay?”
Once he was alone again, he returned his attention to his computer screen and let his mind go to work. How likely was it that there was more than one woman named Lydia Wax of the same age and who’d grown up in the Philly area? He supposed it was possible that he was looking at someone else’s Facebook profile, but he didn’t think so.
Great. Congratulations, No-Longer-A-Detective Mark Leary. Now get back to work before you get fired. Someone in IT is probably monitoring everything you’re doing on this computer.
He knew he should listen to the voice in his head. It was the voice of reason, and ignoring it had led to the loss of his career with the PPD. On the other hand, ignoring that voice had also led to saving Jessie’s life. So, that was one point in the voice’s favor.
Screw it—what’s a few more minutes?
He opened a new window on his desktop and ran a sec
ond Google search. Then he picked up his phone and called the phone number on his screen.
A woman answered. “Plymouth-Whitemarsh High School, how may I direct your call?”
“My name is Mark Leary,” he said. “I’m hoping you can help me track down one of your alums.”
10
After his disturbing confrontation with Luther Goyle, Dave Whittaker managed to put Corbin Keeley’s death out of his mind—almost. The dead politician had a bad tendency to pop into his head at random times—distracting him in the middle of a meeting, turning the taste of a sandwich sour seconds after biting into it, tempting him to turn around rather than park at the glass and steel tower of his own company, CBL Capital Partners, where Goyle squatted like a fat spider.
I won’t run away from that bastard.
The lawyer’s creepy words bothered him, as did his barely-veiled threats against Dave’s family. But what bothered him even more was the fat man’s insinuation that Dave’s best friend and original business partner, Jack Woodside, was part of the conspiracy. Could Goyle really have corrupted Jack so quickly and completely?
Dave parked in the lot at CBL’s tower. He killed his Jaguar’s engine, and sat listening to the quiet ticking of the engine coming to rest. He couldn’t stop the thoughts that were swirling in his mind.
I’m part of a criminal conspiracy. I’m a criminal. Jesus, I’m worse than that. I’m a murderer.
He popped the door and climbed out of the car. He needed to find Jack.
“Freezing,” Jack said, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. He was a man with a skinny frame—except for a paunch at his gut—and for as long as Dave had known him, he’d been sensitive to the cold. “Whatever you want to talk about, make it quick.”
Dave had suggested they take a walk. This conversation wasn’t one he wanted to have inside their office building. But watching his friend suffer made him question his decision. “We could take a drive. Turn on the heat.”
Jack turned to study him with his clear, penetrating stare. “I don’t have a lot of time. What’s this about, Dave?”
“I want to talk about Luther.”
Dave watched his old friend closely for a reaction. He saw none. The expression on Jack’s face remained constant. He shivered, but didn’t break his stride. “What about him?”
“I think—” Dave shook his head, frustrated with his own hesitancy. “I know he’s engaged in illegal activities. And I’m not talking about playing games with the IRS or the SEC. I’m talking about—”
“I know what you’re talking about.” Jack’s voice sounded unconcerned. Could Goyle have been telling the truth about him knowing everything and being on board with it? No. Not Jack. No way.
Dave stopped walking. “I don’t think you do, Jack.”
Jack also stopped. The two men faced each other. They had the sidewalk to themselves. The street was quiet except for a wind that whipped around their heads, making Jack lower his chin toward the warmth of his coat.
Dave took a deep breath. “I’m talking about murder. I know it sounds insane. But it’s true. Luther is killing people. Arranging it, I mean.”
He expected a reaction from his old friend and partner—surprise, shock, horror—but the one he received was unexpected. It was anger. “That’s an outrageous accusation. And it’s a disgusting thing to say about Luther.”
“Jack, you need to listen to me. It’s true. Corbin Keeley—”
“Was killed by a woman acting in self-defense.”
“Luther set it up.”
“You can’t prove that,” Jack said, “and no one else can either.”
Dave felt like he’d been punched in the gut. For a moment, his thoughts scrambled and he couldn’t speak.
“Dave, business is a rough game. You know that.”
“I bet Bill Gates orders hits all the time,” he responded sarcastically.
“No one ordered a hit. An abused woman defended herself, and we happened to benefit. End of story.”
“Maybe for you. It’s not the end of the story for me.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Jack said. “Don’t you enjoy being wealthy? Don’t you take pride in being an owner of a successful company?”
“Do you take pride in being a criminal?” Dave said.
Jack dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. “What’s the expression? You’re only a criminal if you get caught.”
“I know that expression, Jack. I know all of them. Don’t forget where I grew up. I had plenty of chances to be a criminal when I was a kid. Gangs were everywhere, and they were always recruiting. You think it was easy for me to turn my back on that money? I was a kid who had nothing. You think I didn’t want a Nintendo? A good pair of Nikes? A gold chain? You think I didn’t want to surprise my mother with a beautiful gift on her birthday? I did without those things because I knew the difference between right and wrong.”
Jack shook his head. “You were a kid. Kids see the world in black and white. You’re a man, now, Dave. The world is gray—especially the business world. Calm down. Stay focused on your job. Let Luther do his job. There’s a lot of money on the horizon for us. A lot of money.”
“Blood money.”
Jack brought his hands to his face, blew on his palms, and rubbed them together. “We’ve been friends a long time, Dave. Please don’t do something you’ll regret.”
Dave laughed, but it came out mirthless and choked. “So you’re threatening me now, too? Are you going to remind me about my wife and kids, like Luther did? Some friend.”
“I am your friend. And I’m not threatening you. I’m talking to you.”
Dave shook his head. “Well thanks for the talk, Jack.”
11
Warren Williams called, demanding to see her. He said it was about Corbin Keeley. And he sounded angry. Damn it. She wasn’t sure how the head of the DA’s Homicide Unit had found out about her little off-the-books investigation. Maybe the owner of Bistro Cannata had complained, or Andrew Dale had made a comment about her visit to the morgue. Fulco seemed the most likely suspect. The more questions she’d asked the detective, the more pissed off he’d become. But she knew Fulco’s annoyance at her refusal to leave the case alone would pale compared to Warren’s. She should have told him about it the other day, when she’d had a chance to give her side of the story. Too late now.
Outside the door of his office, Jessie paused to steel herself for a confrontation. She took a deep, calming breath, then opened his door and entered his office. There was an explanation on her lips, but she never spoke it. She stopped abruptly, staring into the face of Jesus Rivera, the district attorney of Philadelphia.
Warren saw behind his desk with an exhausted look on his face. Rivera, looking livelier but no happier to see her, stood in front of the desk, leaning a hip against its edge. An assortment of posters and campaign flyers had been fanned across the desk’s surface.
“Hi, Jessie,” the DA said. “Come in, and close the door, please.”
He didn’t suggest she take a seat, so she remained standing, facing the man across Warren’s cramped and messy office. “What, uh....” Jessie struggled to find her voice. “I didn’t realize you—”
“I like you, Jessie. I respect you. You know that. We’ve been through some critical cases together. You’re a fantastic prosecutor and your success reflects well on the DA’s office. You’re a valued member of my team.”
“Thank you—”
“So what the hell are you doing poking around the Corbin Keeley shooting?” If Rivera had only been angry, or indignant, she could have accepted that. But there was something more disturbing in the pinched lines of his face. He looked disappointed. That was harder to take.
“I can explain.”
“I hope so. That’s why Warren and I called you here.”
“Carrie Keeley approached me the other day. Corbin Keeley’s daughter. She doesn’t believe that her father was killed in self-defense. She’s convinced Keeley
wasn’t abusing his girlfriend and that the self-defense claim is a cover for murder. Her mother—Keeley’s ex-wife—agrees. They’re certain.”
“A cover for murder?” Warren said from behind his desk. His voice was laden with sarcasm. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I didn’t say I agreed with them,” Jessie said. “But, well, I felt bad for them. So I agreed to take another look at the police report and the evidence, just to assure them.”
“You shouldn’t have agreed to that,” Rivera said. He sighed. “But I suppose the harm is minimal. Just tell the women that the noble detectives of the Philadelphia Police Department did their job with the utmost professionalism and excellence, and we can hopefully put this behind us.”
She saw Warren watching her with a wary expression. “Something tells me that’s not what Jessie has in mind.”
Rivera’s eyes widened. “Is that right? You just said you don’t agree with them.”
Jessie took a breath. She knew this was a critical moment. She could back down, follow Rivera’s direction, and put her questions about Corbin Keeley’s death behind her. Or, she could jeopardize her job to do what she believed was right. She rolled back her shoulders. “I think the police missed some critical inconsistencies in Brooke Raines’s story. I’m not saying this is an elaborate conspiracy, but I don’t think it’s self-defense, either. I think Keeley beat Raines, and, whether to get away from him, or to vent her rage, or both, she killed him. But that’s vigilante justice. It’s murder.”
Rivera’s gaze shot to the closed door, as if people might be listening through the wood. “The Corbin Keeley case is closed. The police department and this office made a joint decision, based on the evidence and certain other circumstances, not to charge Brooke Raines.”
“The facts don’t support self-defense.”
Rivera’s jaw clenched. “Jessie—”
“Jesus,” she said, surprising herself by talking over him. “You said you like and respect me. I like and respect you, too, and one of the reasons I hold you in such … esteem … is because you’ve shown yourself again and again to be a man of integrity. Most politicians don’t care about right or wrong, or justice. You do.”
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