by David Ellis
“I’m going to do it,” she says.
“Against my advice.”
“Against your advice.” Allison walks over and touches Paul’s arm. “I can make this work,” she assures him.
ONE DAY EARLIER
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 16
The gate opens, and Allison walks out of the detention center. Paul Riley is waiting for her, leaning against his car, his arms crossed.
Allison breathes in the fresh air, however cold it may be. A weekend in a holding cell does wonders for appreciation.
“They agreed?” she asks, referring to the prosecution.
“They agreed,” he says. “One million dollars bond, and you can’t go outside a five-mile radius of your house.”
“I can live with that.” She walks around to Paul’s side of the car. “Mat put it up?”
“Mat put it up.” Her ex-husband put up a hundred thousand dollars in bond, one-tenth of the million, as the law requires. He knows she’s good for it. And she’s not going to flee, regardless.
They drive in silence. With Paul’s blessing, not his approval, Allison rolls down the window and lets the frigid air lick her face. The sun is setting, coloring the clouds a pale orange. The city isn’t known for its sunsets, but she finds it beautiful. One weekend is all she needs to know that she does not want to do even harder time in a maximum-security prison.
Allison is beyond exhaustion. She hardly slept the entire weekend, any momentary drifts into unconsciousness clouded by the image of Sam lying still and bludgeoned on the floor of his living room.
In the relative solitude of Paul’s car, Allison closes her eyes and thinks of Sam. The smell of his hair, the touch of his lips, the warmth of his smile. It is all so staggering. She does not look forward to what will come next because she will have, for the first time since his murder, the chance to mourn, and that will be harder than everything else she must do.
They drive to an underground garage, where Paul gives his name to an attendant and shows his driver’s license. They head down the ramp, park, and take the elevators up. When the doors open, they are met by a young man, who escorts them down a long hallway.
The office door is closed. As the young man reaches for the knob, Paul whispers into Allison’s ear. “Remember, I do the talking.”
When they walk in, a man and a woman, seated on a couch, get to their feet.
“Hello, Agent McCoy,” Allison says. “Agent Harrick.”
“It’s Jane. Nice being out?” McCoy asks.
“Very. Thank you.” She looks at Paul. She has already violated his command. She is sure that he isn’t surprised by this.
Harrick moves the two chairs by the desk so they face the couch. It looks like a talk show in the office.
“We have a deal?” McCoy asks.
“We haven’t seen the final documents,” Paul says.
“You have. We’ll have the signatures tomorrow.”
“It seems like my client is taking all the risks,” Paul says. “And getting very little in return.”
McCoy recoils. “ ‘Very little in return’? I think absolute, complete immunity for her ex-husband is quite a lot, Counselor.”
“More than just immunity,” Allison says. “He doesn’t even have to talk to you about it.”
“That’s right, Mrs. Pagone, which means, in effect, that we can’t investigate this bribery at all.” McCoy frowns. “We’re not exactly happy about that. There are three state senators who are going to walk away from this. Your husband—your ex-husband—doled out thirty grand to them, and they’re going to walk.”
“You can still go after them in other ways.”
“With what?” McCoy asks. “Sam Dillon is dead, Mrs. Pagone. And your husband doesn’t have to so much as smile at us. The senators aren’t dumb enough to talk. We can’t prove anything.”
“Then leak your investigation,” Allison suggests. “Name them. Give someone some ammo to run against them. That’ll hurt them more than a jail term.”
“It’s not our problem, obviously,” Paul says, trying to reassert himself.
“So”—McCoy opens her hands—“we have a deal?”
“We’ll give you an affirmative response after everything’s signed,” Paul says. “The agreement, the affidavits, everything.”
“That will be tomorrow,” McCoy promises. “This is warp-speed for Washington.”
Paul laughs.
“We have a deal,” Allison says.
A look of relief washes over Jane McCoy’s face. She puts her hand out to her partner, who hands her a photograph. “Have you ever seen this man?”
Allison looks at the picture. “No,” she says.
“You will soon, I’d expect. He will introduce himself to you.”
“This is Larry Evans, I assume?” Allison asks.
“Yes.” McCoy smiles. “That’s the name he’ll use, I expect.”
“And what is Larry Evans going to do?” Paul asks.
McCoy shrugs. “He’s not going to hurt you,” she says to Allison, anticipating the obvious concern. “He’s going to watch you. He might try to strike up a friendship. We’re not sure, exactly. We assume he’ll approach you but we don’t know how. The point is—”
“The point is,” Paul says, “you can’t guarantee that he won’t try to hurt her.”
“No, I can’t. I can’t guarantee that.” McCoy stops on that point. She’s being straightforward, at least, Allison thinks to herself. “But this much I can say to you: He has no reason to hurt you. You’re a celebrity now. It would be a big deal. He’d have to be desperate to do that. And you can put him at ease about that. You can make him feel safe.”
“How does she do that?” Paul asks. “Make him feel safe?”
“She—” McCoy turns from Paul to Allison. “Mrs. Pagone, let him know that the only thing you know about is the bribery. That’s what the ‘ethical dilemma’ was. That’s what Sam was talking about to you on the phone. Or this thing about Sam dumping you, which the cops seem to be buying. Whichever. It could be either of those, as long as it’s not the thing he’s worried about.”
She remembers her conversations with Sam, remembers the quiver in his voice immediately. Something was different, wrong.
Sam sighed through the phone. “It’s something I’m going to have to—I guess you could say I’m having an ethical dilemma.”
And the next call, a week later, the Wednesday before his death, the day before the cocktail party his firm threw. Her caller identification told her that he was calling from the city.
“I—I can’t explain what’s going on, Allison.”
“This is that ‘ethical dilemma’ you were talking about?” she asked.
“I really—I can’t talk to you about it.”
“Something’s going on,” she said.
“Yes. You’re right. And when the time comes, I’ll tell you. Not now.”
“I’m worried about you,” she told him.
What is the thing Larry Evans is worried about?” Allison asks. “What is this all about? What was the ‘ethical dilemma’ Sam was talking about?”
“I don’t think Sam Dillon knew anything,” McCoy answers. “I don’t see how he could have known. I think Sam Dillon was talking about the bribes.”
Allison doesn’t comment, but she agrees with that assessment.
“Okay,” Allison says, “but what is Larry Evans worried about? What was he afraid that Sam knew about?”
“That, I can’t tell you, Mrs. Pagone. And if you think about it, it’s in your best interest that you not know. It removes any possibility that you could slip up.”
Allison has to concede the logic. It’s something big, she knows that much—big enough that the federal government will guarantee immunity for Mat Pagone if she helps them. Whatever it is, it can’t be what Sam was referring to over the phone. If a crime of that proportion—whatever it is—were going on, it wouldn’t cause Sam any ‘dilemma’ whatsoever. He would report it. Sam was talking
about the bribes, about his unconfirmed suspicions about Mat and his prize client, Flanagan-Maxx. Now, that would be an ethical dilemma.
But Larry Evans didn’t know about bribes or House Bill 1551 or the prescription drug Divalpro. All he knew was that, some way, somehow, Sam Dillon appeared to have some damaging information that threatened Evans.
This thing must be a high priority, to receive this kind of treatment from the feds. National security, she assumes with a shudder. The kind of thing where the government would be willing to bend all sorts of rules to get a job accomplished. Neither she nor Paul has ever heard of the federal government promising not to prosecute, or even interrogate, a suspect in exchange for someone else—in this case, his ex-wife—doing something for them in an unrelated case. Nor is it technically enforceable, as a legal matter, but the feds would have a hard time going forward against Mateo Pagone when the attorney general of the United States and the local U.S. attorney have signed letters agreeing to this plan.
“Mrs. Pagone,” McCoy says again, “if it helps you to know this, I don’t think Sam knew anything about what’s going on. It wouldn’t fit.”
“It has something to do with Flanagan-Maxx,” Allison guesses. “Sam was worried about this information he had just discovered about bribery. That’s what the ‘ethical dilemma’ was.”
“We think so, yes—”
“But they were taping his conversations. They thought maybe he was talking about this other thing, this crime you’re investigating. They thought the ‘ethical dilemma’ referred to whatever this is, when really he was talking about bribery.”
“Yes. Exactly,” McCoy says. “Someone—someone—” McCoy freezes. She seems to be pondering what she can reveal. “Listen, Mrs. Pagone, we are confident that what you just said is correct. Sam was seen with people at Flanagan-Maxx at a time when other people were doing things they shouldn’t be doing. Okay? And they got nervous, bugged Sam’s phone, and they heard him talking to you about an ‘ethical dilemma’ and going to the U.S. attorney. Which made them even more nervous.”
“And so Larry Evans killed Sam,” Allison says, “just in case he did know. Before he could talk to the feds.”
McCoy sighs. She will let the empty air fill her response.
Say it, Allison silently pleads. Say that Larry Evans killed Sam.
But McCoy just stares at Allison.
“So,” Allison says, “you want me to lead this guy—Larry Evans—to believe that this is all related to the bribery scandal? You want me to make him think that the ‘ethical dilemma’ was that Sam had found out about the bribes.”
“Yes,” says McCoy. “Which we think is true. But what’s true is beside the point. What matters is what this guy Larry Evans believes.”
Allison nods. “And he needs to believe that I know nothing about his crime. Which happens to be true.”
“Make sure he believes that.” McCoy frames her hands. “If you start talking about bribery, or Sam breaking up with you—well, Larry Evans will be very relieved to hear either one of those scenarios. I don’t think Sam Dillon knew what Evans was involved in. I don’t think Evans thinks he did, either. He’s inclined to believe that you know nothing. He’s just not sure, and the people he’s working with aren’t sure, either. So, make him sure. If he believes you know nothing, he’ll have no reason to hurt you. My guess is, he’ll just wait around, making sure, until this is all over. Until he gets what he wants. And then you’ll never see him again.”
Allison sighs. “Maybe I can satisfy him up front, and he’ll just go away.”
“That would be great,” says Harrick. “But I wouldn’t expect it. You’ve made some people nervous, Mrs. Pagone. And we understand that they’re insistent that you be watched, just to be sure. No, I think Larry Evans will stick around until this thing is over.”
“When the topic of Mat or Jessica is raised,” McCoy adds, “be very defensive. Be protective. I suppose, Mrs. Pagone, that that will not be very difficult for you.”
Allison glares at McCoy.
“And you will swear,” Allison says, “that Larry Evans is the one who killed Sam.”
“Yes. We will swear to that. You saw our affidavits. Your daughter’s in the clear, Mrs. Pagone. And so are you.”
“My daughter didn’t kill Sam.”
“And our affidavits agree with you,” McCoy says, which is not the same thing as agreeing with Allison’s statement.
Allison looks at her lawyer, Paul Riley. Paul does not seem satisfied, and she can sympathize, from his perspective. He is representing Allison, not the rest of her family. Worrying about the fate of Mat or Jessica Pagone is not in his job description. But it is in the job description of a mother and ex-wife. The FBI clearly understands that. Allison is not getting much for herself in this deal. Yes, the affidavits from several agents of the FBI, identifying Larry Evans as the killer of Sam Dillon, will clear Allison as well as Jessica. But they also have figured, correctly so, that Allison could beat this charge if she were so inclined. There are two people at whom Allison could point to establish reasonable doubt. They just happen to be Mat and Jessica.
“My problem here,” Paul says, “is there’s little guarantee of safety for my client. You can’t predict what this man, Larry Evans, will do. You can tell us he probably wouldn’t want to kill Allison. You can give us odds. Odds aren’t a guarantee. This guy Evans will never be sure about Allison.”
“What do you want us to say, Counselor?” McCoy asks. “I acknowledge that your client is taking a risk here. She’s doing it for her country. And,” she adds, “to keep her family out of jail.”
Paul shakes his head.
“Look,” McCoy says to Allison. “You studied to be an actress, right?”
“I was a theater major, yes,” Allison confirms with embarrassment.
“So—this is the role of a lifetime.”
It is, Allison realizes, a role that she has played before. Nora Helmer, she thinks to herself, a prisoner in her own home, underappreciated even after she saves her husband. A role that, in many ways, Allison has played her entire married life.
“Be protective of Mat and Jessica,” McCoy advises. “If anyone brings either of them up, mentions their potential involvement—whether it’s this guy Evans, or Mat, or Mr. Riley here—be defensive. Insist on their innocence. Say you’ll ‘never let anything happen to them.’ Stuff like that. Just be sure you say it in the parts of the home where Larry Evans can hear you.”
“And you’re sure he’ll be listening?” Allison asks.
“As sure as I’m sitting here,” McCoy says. “Your place is bugged, Mrs. Pagone. We’ll confirm that for you.”
“How are you going to confirm it? You can’t very well waltz in.”
McCoy looks at her partner. Allison senses that Harrick has a thing for McCoy.
“Did you clean up your house after they searched it?” McCoy asks.
“Of course I did. Right away.”
“Okay. Here’s what we’ll do. I’ve been talking to the county prosecutors. I’ll give them a reason to want to search your house again.”
“What reason?”
“I’ll mention the statuette,” McCoy says. “The murder weapon. I’ll tell them it was on Sam’s mantel, which is true, and now it’s missing, which is also true. They’ll want to do another search. They’ll take your place apart and you’ll need it cleaned up afterward. This time, you’ll call one of those companies that specializes in that sort of thing. I’ll give a name and number to Mr. Riley here, and a specific time for you to call, and it will be our guys who take that call and do the cleanup. FBI technicians. They know what they’re doing. They’ll confirm it. And they’ll tell you where, in the house, he can hear you best.”
“Sounds like you already know,” Paul Riley says.
McCoy shrugs. “I would imagine it’s the area around your telephones. Where are your phones?”
“One in my bedroom,” Allison says, “and one in my living room.”
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“Okay. He’ll have your phones tapped and he’ll have the ability to hear around there as well. So if you want him to hear something, sit in the living room. Or the bedroom.”
“Will the FBI be eavesdropping, too?” Paul asks.
McCoy shakes her head. “We can’t bug Allison’s home. We can’t run the risk that Evans would detect it. He’s good, this guy. He has top-of-the-line industrial espionage equipment. We put something inside her house, we can’t be sure he won’t know about it. That would blow everything. So no, we just have to rely on our other surveillance.”
“And if they become the wiser?” Paul asks.
“They won’t.” McCoy deflects her eyes.
“You mean you hope they won’t.”
“That’s what I mean, yes.” McCoy opens her hands. “I’ll say it for the tenth time. She’s taking a risk. We’re grateful. You’ll probably know what this is about someday, and you’ll be a hero, Mrs. Pagone.”
“Until then,” she says, “I’m a black sheep.”
“Mrs. Pagone,” Owen Harrick chimes in, “you’re only a black sheep because you wanted to be. We’d be more than happy to put this bribery scandal front and center. We’d be more than happy to feed all kinds of information on Operation Public Trust to the county attorney. Roger Ogren would definitely take that bait, because it’s an obvious motive. He might even drop the charges against you, eventually.”
“No—”
“He charged you because you fell into his lap, Mrs. Pagone. And you fell into his lap because you wanted to.”
“We could tell him about your daughter, too,” McCoy adds, squeezing the pressure point. “We’re doing what you want us to do here.”
“No, you’re right, I understand that,” Allison says. “I don’t want you mentioning this to the county attorney. Nothing about Mat, nothing about Jessica. That’s”—she looks at Paul, then at McCoy—“that’s part of this deal, I thought.”
“It is,” McCoy assures her. “We won’t say a word about Jessica. I’ll handle those conversations personally with Roger Ogren. We’ll keep the AUSAs off of your ex-husband, too. That won’t be fun, but we’ll do it.”