Sasha knew that partnership decisions were made primarily by men who had stay-at-home wives to raise their kids and run their households. But she wasn’t interested in discussing gender equality and the glass ceiling with Greg.
“Sure. Okay, so, let’s talk about what happened the night Ellen died.”
Greg was still in the doorway, unwilling or unable to come into the room where his wife died.
He cleared his throat. “Uh, I came home around ten—“
Sasha looked up at him, surprised. “You were both living here? I thought Ellen had initiated divorce proceedings.”
He reddened.
“She had, but yes, we were both still in the house. I was hoping we could reconcile. And, well, to be frank, I had been let go at work. Renting an apartment seemed silly until I found a new job. This place is huge,” he said, sweeping his arms wide. “We more or less divided the house. I stayed on the third floor when she was home. But you know Ellen—she was always at work, anyway.”
Sasha nodded. Ellen had probably been at the office from eight-thirty or nine every morning until well after eight at night. They wouldn’t have had to interact much. In fact, she wondered if they’d interacted much before their marriage had hit the skids, given the realities of Ellen’s work life.
“Okay, so you came home at ten in the evening?”
“Yes.”
“From where?”
“Excuse me?”
“Where were you?”
Sasha walked over and sat on the cushioned window bench. She didn’t really want to sit behind Ellen’s desk, but she hoped moving to the far side of the room would draw Greg in from the doorway so she could see him better while he spoke.
Behind her, the rain continued to beat against the glass.
Greg came in and perched on the edge of a nubby, light green chair that had been pushed against the bookshelves at an odd angle. Probably by the police, she thought.
“I was out. Alone.”
“Where? Maybe someone saw you.”
“No one saw me. I was just out walking.”
“At ten o’clock at night?”
Greg met her eyes and held her gaze. “Yes.”
“Do you have a dog?” Maybe he was walking a dog.
“No, I was just taking a walk.”
He crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair.
His body language told her everything. He was lying. She dropped it. For now.
“What happened when you came into the house?”
“I came in the front door,” he said, pointing out into the hallway at the door. “It wasn’t locked. But I had locked it when I left.”
“When did you leave?”
“Around six. I had dinner at the Fajita Grill on Ellsworth, alone, at six-thirty. I finished up just before eight and then took a walk.”
A two-hour walk.
He looked at her, waiting. She said nothing.
He continued. “The door was unlocked, so I knew Ellen was home. The office doors were closed, but I saw the light coming out from under the doors. I knocked. I wanted to say good night. Just, you know, out of courtesy.”
Sasha wasn’t familiar with proper etiquette for estranged spouses who lived together, so she assumed that was reasonable. “Go on,” she said.
“Ellen didn’t answer, which was annoying. I thought we could at least be civil, so I pushed the door open and ...” he trailed off, staring down at the bare wood floor in the center of the room.
He closed his eyes and gave his head one quick shake, then he looked up at Sasha, but she knew he was seeing Ellen. His eyes were dull and distant.
“She was lying there, on the floor. Well, she was on the rug, but the police took it. Evidence. It was covered in blood. She was covered in blood. Her face and neck were just … red. She wasn’t moving. I stood there for a long time. I don’t know how long. Then I went to her. I felt for a pulse. She was warm; blood was still pouring out of her. It was pooling on the rug. I used the desk phone and called 911. Then I sat there, where you are. And waited.”
“Did you touch anything?”
“No, just Ellen. And the phone.”
Sasha shifted on the window bench. She wanted to leave. To get out of this room and think through Greg’s story, away from him.
He was pale and shaking.
“Okay, let’s get out of here.”
They walked out of the office. He banged the pocket doors shut.
She led him back to the pair of chairs by the fireplace. He lowered himself into a chair and reached for the decanter with still-shaking hands. She took the other seat.
“How about a cup of tea? Or some water?” Sasha said.
So far, Greg wasn’t the most likable person, and she was certain he wasn’t telling her the whole truth. But she wasn’t convinced he’d killed his wife, and there was no denying he was shaken by having to relive finding her body.
He responded with a snort and poured himself another glass of scotch.
He kept his eyes on his drink and said, “Are you going to take my case?”
She ignored the question. “Who do you think killed your wife?”
“I don’t know, a random intruder?”
“With your straight razor? Which was where—in the second floor bathroom?”
“Actually, third floor. But I don’t know that it was my straight razor. It was a straight razor.”
He narrowed his eyes and threw back his head. He drained his glass in one long gulp.
Sasha’s throat burned just from watching.
“Your razor was missing, though, when the police searched?”
“Yes.”
“So, a random intruder killed your wife with a straight razor he brought to the scene, left it in the trash, and then took yours from the third floor bathroom?”
Greg stared at her for a long moment, started to speak, and then shrugged.
“Anything else missing?”
“No.”
“Were either of you seeing anyone else?”
Sasha hadn’t heard anything about an affair, but she was a step removed from the gossip. Maybe Ellen had had a boyfriend who wasn’t wild about the fact that Greg was still living in the house.
“No.”
“Are you sure she wasn’t?”
He moved forward and put his thin face up to hers. “I’m sure.”
She leaned back. “Why did Ellen want a divorce?”
He answered her with a question. “Why is that relevant?”
“It’s relevant because the prosecution will paint you as enraged because your wife wanted to end your marriage. I’d like to know why it was ending.”
He pursed his lips but said nothing.
Sasha stood. She didn’t intend to play this game; if Greg wouldn’t talk to her, he could find a different attorney. She dug around in her bag until she found her small, black umbrella. Then she slung the bag across her chest and turned to Greg, who remained in the chair.
“Thank you for meeting with me. I know it wasn’t easy talking about what happened to Ellen,” she said.
He looked up at her, no emotion on his face. “Will you talk to my divorce attorney if I ask her to call you?”
“What can she add?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. But I think she believes me.”
“Will you authorize her to talk to me about the divorce?”
He narrowed his eyes but nodded yes.
“Okay, then have her call my cell phone. The number’s on my card.” She plucked a business card from her bag and placed it on the table beside his booze.
He nodded, glanced at the card, and then eyed the scotch again.
She let herself out.
CHAPTER 4
Cinco stared out the window. The rain had stopped, and he could see clear to the top of Mount Washington, where a vibrant red and orange home had been built into the side of the hill. He didn’t know who had built the post-modern house or who lived in it, but he loved it. He loved it
because it so clearly didn’t fit in with the surrounding homes. They were all dignified, well-built family homes that signaled stability, a degree of prosperity, and good roots. Not the red and orange house. It screamed of whimsy and individualism. Cinco often thought he was that house.
He sighed and looked around the table at the three staid and serious Victorians looking back at him, unblinking, waiting to follow his lead.
“Who are we waiting for?” he asked.
“John Porter. He’s debriefing Volmer. He’ll be right up.”
Cinco frowned, the smallest downturn of his mouth, to make sure the assembled men knew he was not happy about having to wait. The truth was Cinco didn’t care how long they waited. He spent his days—every day—going to meetings at the law firm his great-great-grandfather had built. They just blended, one into the next, into one interminable meeting.
He wished his father, or at least his grandfather, had been as smart as the Talbott heirs, who had not followed their patriarch into the family business. Instead, they had used his money to fund ventures ranging from a decent Mediterranean restaurant to a Jeep dealership to a discreet, high-quality escort service. Instead, here he was, a lawyer, surrounded by a bunch of lawyers and all their endless “on the one hand, on the other hand” discussions.
The door opened, and John Porter hurried in, his open suit jacket flapping behind him like a tail.
“Sorry, gentleman,” he said as he pulled out the last available chair.
Cinco’s personal secretary uncapped her pen, ready to begin her note-taking duties, but Porter shook his head at her.
“Cinco, I don’t think we need Caroline for this, do we?”
Cinco scowled. It wasn’t Porter’s place to dismiss his assistant.
He turned to her. “Mrs. Masters, there’s no need to transcribe our first order of business, but you should stay, as I am sure other business will arise, and we will want a record of our discussion.”
He turned back to Porter and eyeballed him hard, daring him to object. Porter said nothing.
Marco DeAngeles broke the tension. “So, tell us, John. What did Volmer say?”
The five men assembled in the room were the firm’s power hitters. They pulled down seven figures a year, regardless of how their own client billables shook out. As the top of the pyramid, they reaped the rewards and dealt with the headaches. And this business with Ellen Mortenson’s husband was a headache they did not need. Not after the mess with Hemisphere Air.
Porter glanced at Caroline before he spoke, then he said, “Volmer gave her the check, but she hasn’t agreed to do it. She wants to talk to Greg herself, then she’ll let Volmer know.”
DeAngeles slapped his hand down on the table, “I told you we should have sent someone other than Volmer! He’s too wishy-washy. We should have sent someone convincing.”
Cinco held up a hand. “Volmer was the right choice. We need a soft sell with Sasha. For crissakes, Marco, she turned down partnership.”
That one still stung. It just didn’t happen. Some lawyer wastes her twenties working twenty-five hundred hours a year, nights, weekends, holidays. No husband, no kids, no meaningful vacations. And then she says “no thanks” when they try to hand her the prize?
Sasha McCandless had not had a rational reaction. And Cinco was worried that they were pinning all their hopes on her. What if she said she wouldn’t do it?
Kevin Marcus must have read his mind. “Gentlemen, do we have a plan B?”
He was answered by silence.
“Clearly not,” Fred Jennings laughed.
The rest of them turned to him. At sixty-four, Fred was knocking on the door of the firm’s mandatory retirement age. He was winding down his practice, offloading his clients onto junior partners, and, although he still showed up to every Management Committee meeting, he rarely spoke. Cinco had taken to calling him Justice Thomas in private.
Fred went on. “We best come up with one, fellas.” Then he folded his hands over his belly and leaned back.
“Thanks for contributing to the discussion, Fred.” Cinco worked to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
“What about Clarissa?” Porter said.
“What about her?” Cinco answered.
It was Porter’s turn to frown. Clarissa Costopolous was a partner in the antitrust department—Porter’s fiefdom—and he felt some responsibility toward her.
“Do we tell her?” Porter said.
“Tell her what? There’s nothing to tell her!” Across the table, Marco grew agitated again.
Cinco held up a hand. Sometimes he felt like a crossing guard. He said, “He’s right, John. It’d be premature. Let’s just wait and see what Sasha says.”
Fred chuckled, “You guys sure seem certain you can control that girl. Not sure why.”
Cinco decided he preferred it when Fred played the role of the silent justice.
Marco spoke up. “Maybe we can’t control her, but we can control what information she has access to. We need someone resourceful enough to get Lang off without sniffing around the firm’s private business. Our job will be to protect the firm’s reputation; hers will be to defend her client.”
Marco shrugged when he finished, as if the success of this harebrained scheme were a foregone conclusion.
Cinco scanned the others’ faces; his gaze landed back on Kevin.
“She was in your group, Kevin. Will she do it?”
Kevin considered the question. “It’s hard to say. If she believes he didn’t kill Ellen, I think she will. If she’s not convinced ... I don’t know. Frankly, I’m doubtful she’s the right choice.”
Cinco didn’t like that answer. But then, he didn’t like any of this.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Three floors below, Clarissa Costopolous sat behind her desk, a tower of paper threatening to shift and bury her, and hissed into the phone at her divorce attorney.
“Yes, I’m sure! Andy, we’ve been over this. I want to put it in the damn papers.”
Andy Pulaski took his time answering.
Finally, he said in a gentle voice, “Clarissa, I know you’re upset, okay? I get it. And trust me, your scumbag husband will get it, too. I just don’t see the need to make such an inflammatory allegation in a court document. Do you understand?”
“No, Andy, I don’t understand!” Clarissa tried to keep her voice down. “It’s not an allegation, I saw the pictures. That girl cannot be eighteen! He’s screwing a high school student!”
“Clarissa, we don’t know how old she is. She could be in college. And the picture just shows them kissing.”
“That doesn’t make it better!” Clarissa screamed, her grip on the phone so tight that her knuckles turned white.
She drew in her breath. When she spoke again, her voice was strained but calm. “I have a client meeting to prepare for. Can we talk about this later?”
Her attorney spoke soothingly. “Of course. Whenever’s good for you, Clarissa. Trust me, once you officially file, you’ll feel like a weight has been lifted from your shoulders. Don’t worry, I’m going to nail the bastard to the wall.”
“You’d better, Andy.”
Clarissa carefully returned the handset to its cradle, moved aside an article she’d been reading about the Lanham Act, then put her head down on her desk, and sobbed. Her best friend was dead, her marriage was over, she felt like crap, and Porter was hovering around her office nonstop, like he was going to fire her or something. What more could possibly go wrong?
CHAPTER 5
Rich stared at the picture of Clarissa’s beaming face. She looked so young and vibrant. Out of the three whores, she came across as the warmest. Nice, even. Not at all like someone who would ruin his life like it was some kind of game.
But she had; there was no denying it. He could never get back all those lost years. And she had to pay for the damage she’d caused. Justice required it.
The photograph shook in his hands.
Cool it, he told himself. Stick with the pla
n.
The plan would work. He’d spent the better part of a year developing it, perfecting it, tweaking it. He’d been so patient for so long. Plotting. Watching. Waiting. He had put all his trust in his plan.
The plan had worked with Ellen. It would work with Clarissa. And, after that, Martine.
He just had to stay the course he’d set.
He took one last look at the picture, drinking in the joy and confidence that shone in Clarissa’s eyes. Soon enough, he’d replace that joy: first, with despair and terror; then, with the blank-eyed stare of death. Soon enough.
Not that he relished the killing, because he didn’t. But the only way to make them pay for what they had done was to ruin their marriages and then take their lives. He wasn’t some kind of freak who got off on that sort of thing. He’d considered other ways to punish them for what they’d done, but nothing else seemed fitting. This plan was elegant.
In fact, the only small drawback of his plan was the fact that it set up their husbands to take the fall for their wives’ deaths. That was an unanticipated, but understandable, result of destroying their marriages. After all, Rich had watched enough cop shows to know that it was always the husband. The estranged husband? Even better.
A twinge of guilt smacked him in the gut. His dad wouldn’t like that part, and Rich was doing all this as much to honor his dad’s memory as he was for his own satisfaction. But it was unavoidable. The husbands would have to take the blame. He told himself they were better off—even if they went to prison, at least they’d be rid of the heartless shrews they’d married.
He slid the photograph back into the envelope and fastened the clasp. Then he placed the envelope in its gallon-sized Ziploc bag, pressed down to force the air out of the bag, and zipped it closed. He returned it to its spot in the freezer, right under the bag of frozen peas. Everything in its proper place.
He checked the clock on the stove. Time to get back to work. His job was a critical component of the plan. He couldn’t risk arousing any suspicion at the office. That could ruin everything.
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