by David Ellis
“You were—” Evans leans into him. “You were at the grocery store?”
“I was. Not close enough to hear, of course, but I can see from her expression that she’s at ease around you. She believes you are the trusted journalist you claim to be.”
Evans shrugs, falling back in his seat. “The fuck did I tell you?”
“You are still confident that Allison Pagone knows nothing?”
“Yeah.” He looks at Haroon. “Yeah. This ‘ethical dilemma’ that Dillon had? At this point, she’s assuming it had something to do with that bribery thing. The prescription drug.”
“Divalpro,” Haroon says.
“Right. She figures that Dillon was on to this bribery thing but didn’t want to involve Allison in it. Probably because her ex-husband was in on it. That was his dilemma. He knew if he turned in Mat Pagone, he’d be hurting Allison.”
“So Dillon wasn’t talking about our operation.” Haroon trains a scolding look on Evans. “When he told Ms. Pagone he had an ‘ethical dilemma,’ he wasn’t talking about us.”
“Hard to say,” Evans says. “Likely, no. But how can we be sure?”
“So Sam Dillon was killed for nothing. Without my authorization, and for nothing.”
Larry Evans wets his lips. He does not like the topic.
“I never said I killed Sam Dillon,” he says. “I never said that.”
No, of course he didn’t. He’s too smart to reveal such things to Haroon. It’s part of his training, no doubt. Haroon’s training was no different. Admit nothing unless you have no choice. Co-conspirators can be caught and made to turn on each other. The less known, the better. Yes, there is a trust here, between Haroon and Evans, but it only goes so far. From Evans’s perspective, why admit he killed Sam Dillon? Dillon is dead. Whether he knew about their operation or not, he is dead, and now Allison Pagone may know something.
“When is this formula going to be ready?” Haroon asks.
“April, May,” Evans says. “We lost some time after Dillon died. The doctor flipped out. But he’s back in line now. He’s working on it. You understand, he can only develop it when no one’s looking. But he’s close, he said.”
“How hard can it be?” Haroon asks.
“The hard part is the detection. Anyone could taint children’s aspirin. The hard part is getting it past the regulators.”
“Fine. Well, I promised this formula in April or May. Am I going to be wrong about that?”
Evans raises a hand. “You know, as well as I, that the doctor is worried about Pagone. Her trial. He wants her situation resolved first.”
“Her ‘situation resolved.’ ” Haroon chuckles. “I like that.”
“She’s going to be convicted,” Evans continues. “She seems to want it. She’s protecting someone. Her ex-husband, I think, or maybe her daughter, or both. I don’t really get it. But she’s going to let them convict her, Mr. Haroon.”
“And she thinks you believe in her innocence.”
“Oh, yeah.” Evans lightens up. “She thinks I’m a crusader. I’m doing like we said. I’m piling fact upon fact against her ex-husband and her daughter. The more I push, the more she resists. By the time I’m done with her, she’ll be begging them to convict her.”
“Fine.” Haroon thinks things over, clears his throat. “This other thing. About Mrs. Pagone’s ‘situation’ being ‘resolved.’ We are clear that I will handle that. Not you.”
“Crystal,” Evans says.
Haroon looks at him.
“We’re clear, Mr. Haroon.”
“All right. Good. It’s not time yet. It will be soon. With any luck, we can make the transfer before the trial. Then, by the time anything happens to Mrs. Pagone, you and the doctor will be on a beach somewhere.”
“Okay.” Evans looks like he has something more to say. Haroon raises his eyebrows.
“Mr. Haroon,” he says, “I really don’t think Allison Pagone knows anything. I really don’t think she needs to die. It’s too risky. She’s high-profile. And the doctor will have a coronary if someone else dies. He’s not in our business. We need him to keep working for us.”
Haroon waits out the impassioned plea, then immediately says, “It’s my decision. It’s my money and my decision.”
Evans raises his hands.
“You will let me know when things are looking darkest for her,” Haroon says. “That will be when we do it.”
ONE DAY EARLIER
SATURDAY, MARCH 20
I killed Sam.
You want to protect me, but you can’t.
Pointing at you is pointing at Jessica.
Mat parks his Mercedes in Allison’s driveway. It’s like old times, a tradition for them. The city is crawling with great weekend breakfast spots, and Allison needed the time out. The place where they went is well within the confines of her conditional bond. It’s a place they’ve been many times, in fact. Mat, true to his nature, stuck with his favorites, in this case an omelet with chorizo and goat cheese. She could make a short list of his favorite foods and would bet her mortgage that Mat would not stray from those few items, regardless of the restaurant. Veal piccata. New York strip, medium-rare with crumbled blue cheese. Cheese ravioli. Carne asada. Omelette with chorizo and goat cheese. Or a good old cheeseburger.
“Thanks,” she says, and this part is new. Thanking him for breakfast. It’s one of those subtle changes that comes with divorce. Nothing is taken for granted now.
“It was fun,” he responds without looking at her. He has that same sensation, she imagines. It’s still weird, their relationship since the divorce last year.
“We should go in.” Allison looks at Mat. Neither of them is particularly excited.
I killed him. I killed Sam.
We have to protect Jessica. Pointing at you is pointing at her.
Inside, she offers Mat coffee but he declines. He sits on the burgundy couch that is no longer his, although if anything in this house should go to Allison, it is this old piece. Mat never really cared for the couch, anyway. Objectively, Allison wouldn’t disagree. A dark purple couch in a room that was otherwise black-and-white. But it was the only piece of furniture from her old house where she grew up, and she would never consider getting rid of it.
“So—what we were saying at brunch.” Mat is calling to Allison, who is in the kitchen. “I want you to think hard about this.”
Allison comes into the living room and sits across from him in the leather chair. Mat looks at her briefly but his eyes wander. This is not his strong suit here, his attempts to help her. She will have to carry the ball, a phrase he often used.
“You want me to think hard,” Allison says, “about my lawyer claiming that you killed Sam? And framed me? And he puts you on the stand, and you refuse to answer? So that you look guilty, not me?”
“Yes,” Mat says. “It could be enough.”
“The judge wouldn’t buy it.” Allison shakes her head.
It’s worth a shot.
“We should at least consider it,” Mat says.
“It would ruin your career.”
I don’t have a career. Not anymore.
“My career.” Mat has already suffered considerably from the allegations surrounding the Divalpro legislation. There are at least three state senators who would never speak to him again, would feel threatened if they did. That kind of thing spreads like cancer in the capital. Mat’s career as a lobbyist is effectively over. “Tell me that’s not the only reason.”
“It’s not the only reason.”
Mat is silent. He is working this through in his head, trying to keep everything straight.
He is older now in so many ways. He has lost so much in so short a time. He has maintained his composure publicly but she can see it all over him. He has lost his wife’s love. He has lost much of his career. And he must know, he must have some sense of self-incrimination for all of this.
I killed Sam.
“I killed Sam, Mat,” Allison says. “I suppose you already kn
ow that.”
Allison rubs her hands together. She is feeling a chill. Mat cannot look at her at all now.
“That’s not the point,” he says.
“No, here’s the point.” Allison walks over to the mantel and takes a photograph of Jessica. “She is the point, Mat. Jessica.”
Mat looks again at the mantel, past the photo of Jessica. Their wedding candle, their unity candle, used to sit here. It is now in a box in the basement. The pictures of Mat are gone, as well, which surely has not escaped his notice. The mantel is now little more than a shrine to their daughter.
“If they start looking at you,” Allison says, “they might start looking at Jess, too.”
He turns his head to the side, not facing her but acknowledging her. There is no answer to that comment. If they have nothing else, they have the love of their daughter in common.
Mat looks at his watch. “You’re going to be late for your little ‘meeting.’ ”
He’s talking about her weekly visit with Larry Evans at the grocery store. “Larry’s been a help,” Allison says. “He believes in me.”
“He’s really going to write the book?”
Mat is being shut out from her writing career, is the point of all this. He’s playing the jealous ex-husband.
“He’s a good writer,” she says. “He’s shown me some stuff. And he has sources. It’s been very helpful.”
Mat shakes his head. “Fine.”
“I need someone on my side,” she says. “I need someone I can count on.”
Mat shoots her a look.
“You can go now, Mat. Thanks for breakfast.” Allison walks into the kitchen and places a hand, for balance, on the sink, before she runs the water and splashes it on her face.
I killed Sam. I won’t point at you because it would point at Jessica.
Okay.
Allison looks at her watch. Time to meet Larry.
THREE DAYS EARLIER
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 17
Paul Riley sits with Allison in a conference room at Paul’s office. It’s jut the two of them, yet an assistant has brought in pastry and pots of coffee. It has been standard fare at the law firm of Shaker, Riley & Flemming. They make an impressive show for clientele. An oak-finished courtroom stands to the side of the reception on the main floor, for mock trials and training for associates, lest anyone doubt that this is a preeminent trial law firm. And Paul, himself, is very good at what he does.
“I think I know why you want to talk,” Allison says.
Paul smiles. He has an incredible ease about him. She can see how he comforts people. No matter how much they may want to deny it, defense attorneys have to play some kind of psychiatric role. Allison, in the few years she worked as a public defender, did not have the same polish.
“I can’t try this case, Allison. I can’t represent you. I want you to understand.” Paul places a hand down on the table, a smooth green marble. “I don’t suggest—I understand what you’re doing. But I’m an attorney. I can’t be a part of it.”
He could be a part of it, Allison thinks. He doesn’t want to be. And that is understandable.
“I want you to think about this, Paul. I can’t do this without you.”
“I think you’re underestimating yourself, Allison.” Paul struggles with this a bit. “Look. I realize there is more than one way to look at this. But frankly, I look at this as a fraud on the court. And I don’t want to be a part of it. It’s that simple.”
A fraud on the court. Well, sure, in a general sense. Surely, Paul has represented people who have lied to him. A lot of defenses are lies, themselves, although the difference is that the defense attorney doesn’t actually know it, not for certain.
Yes, that is the difference. In this case, Paul Riley knows it’s a lie. For certain.
“Any new lawyer I get is going to have the same problem,” she notes.
Paul stares at her, traces of amusement supplying his answer.
“Unless I don’t tell him,” Allison concludes.
Paul shrugs. He is not going to give an answer. He can’t advise her to do something unethical, though the ethics, in this instance, are a bit muddy.
“Any new lawyer I get,” Allison says, “is going to ask you why you quit.”
“Is that what I did?” Paul’s look is something between cocky and happy.
Oh. Okay. Allison chuckles. “Paul?” she says. “You’re fired.”
Paul snaps his fingers. “Darn the luck.”
“Then do this for me,” she says. “I’d like you to represent my daughter, Jessica. She, obviously, is a witness. She’s going to need guidance.”
“There could be the issue of a conflict,” he says cautiously.
“I waive it, Paul. She will, too.”
The waiver of any conflict of interest does not appear to mollify Paul. “Allison, I know things that you don’t want Jessica to know. If I’m her lawyer, I’m going to be withholding information from my own client.”
“Not relevant information, Paul. You know that. You know that.”
“But that doesn’t—”
“Listen, just talk to Jessica. Tell her that you’re keeping information from her. If she demands that you tell her things, then she can get another lawyer. Just talk to her. I’m only talking about her testimony in my trial. All that matters is that she sticks to what she told the police. I just don’t want her falling into a perjury trap.”
Paul thinks it over. He shoots a cuff, works on his tie.
“Double your fee,” Allison says. “I’ll pay anything.”
“It’s not that, obviously—”
“Just talk to her, Paul. If the arrangement doesn’t work to your satisfaction, I won’t say another word.”
Paul sighs, finally nods. “I’ll meet with her,” he agrees.
“Thank you. Thank you, Paul. I’ll tell her to call you.” She gets up and offers a hand. “I understand your position, by the way. I might do the same thing, if I were you.”
Paul takes her hand and looks into her eyes. “Allison, promise me one thing,” he asks. “Promise me you will be very careful.”
THREE DAYS EARLIER
SUNDAY, MARCH 14
This isn’t going to work out, Sam said, sitting behind his desk at the capital, a hand on his forehead, looking into Allison’s eyes.
Mat—Mat’s a friend. You know this is crazy. It always was.
Allison stops her run a half-mile from her house. She can’t shake Sam from her thoughts. When she goes blank during the runs, he visits her. When she tries to sleep, he comes to her in dreams, leaving her breathless with hope before she awakens and crashes even harder.
She ran nine miles today, give or take. She doesn’t time herself or measure the mileage specifically. She doesn’t want to be caught in the trap of wanting to run faster or farther. She wants the freedom of just running for its own sake, releasing the nervous energy that threatens to consume her.
She grabs a large water and Sunday paper and sits outside at a small café. She reads quickly through a story on the front page about Flanagan-Maxx. The Watch has been trickling information about it for around a week now. House Bill 1551, the controversial Divalpro legislation, which garnered plenty of attention and criticism when it was passed last November, is now the focus of a federal investigation. The news first leaked a few days ago, when the clerks of the state House and Senate confirmed that federal agents had subpoenaed the roll calls on the legislation—the lists of who voted how. Once the reporters sunk their teeth in that, it was obvious what the feds were looking at—the three senators who suddenly changed their votes to “aye,” allowing the bill to squeak by and pass to the desk of a supportive governor.
Now, today, the Watch is finally beginning to connect the dots. The principal lobbyist behind the bill was Sam Dillon, and another lobbyist pushing the bill was the ex-husband of Allison Pagone, accused of murdering Sam.
So it’s out now. Her heartbeat kicks up, as much as she tells herself th
at she knew this was going to happen, sooner or later. It’s going to be tougher now, for Mat and for Jessica.
She looks out at the street, at the cars passing by, the people walking arm-in-arm to brunch. An old man with two schnauzers pretends not to notice when one of his dogs urinates on a parking meter.
Jessica used to beg for a dog, but they never got one. Maybe they should have. Maybe Allison should have been stricter with Jess, should have watched her more closely in high school. Or maybe they should have been more like buddies than mother-daughter. She can’t shake the feeling that she should have known that a high school teacher was preying on her daughter. And more recently, she should have known that Jessica was carrying a torch for Sam Dillon, even if nothing came of that but a girlish crush.
“Allison, I’m not sleeping with Jessica,” Sam swore to her.
She leafs through the newspaper, scanning the headlines, her mind filled with regret. She wishes, so desperately, that she could turn back time and change what happened.
Her eye catches on a headline in the editorial section. An article by Monica Madley, something of a fire-breathing liberal feminist to most, but Allison enjoys her columns. She assumes that Madley puts on her overly provocative persona for its own sake.
THE “WOMAN SCORNED”?
OLD THEORIES DIE HARD
IN PAGONE MURDER CASE
Oh, I can see it now. County Attorney Elliot Raycroft and his assistants, sitting in a posh office rich with cigar smoke, pondering the theories surrounding the death of Sam Dillon. “Oh, I know!” Raycroft says, snapping his fingers. “I know why Allison Pagone killed Sam Dillon. She was a ‘woman scorned.’ ”
Now, for those of you living in a cave, Allison Pagone is a best-selling novelist indicted last week for the murder of capital big-shot Samuel Dillon. Anyone watching the preliminary hearing last week was treated to the picture of Allison Pagone as a hysterical woman bent on killing a man who had recently rejected her advances. He dumped her, so she killed him.
Or maybe not. Remember last year, when our legislative leaders ramrodded a bill through both chambers in a single day, allowing pharmaceutical giant Flanagan-Maxx to market its blood-pressure drug Divalpro along with the generics? Well, turns out that the architect of that legislation was none other than Sam Dillon, who was assisted in his efforts by none other than Mateo Pagone, who until recently was Allison Pagone’s husband.