The Murder List

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  I settle into the black leather front seat, pull the seat belt across my chest. Gardiner’s still texting. The district attorney’s office handles thousands of cases a year. If prosecutors sunk into existential despair over each one, none of them would get out of bed in the morning.

  They move on. And I will, too. Back to law school and the rest of my life. Ten years from now, will I wonder what happened to Jeffrey Baltrim? Trying to calculate how many lives will be forever altered after today’s session, I turn, taking one last look at the courthouse facade.

  There’s a lone figure at the top of the courthouse steps. Wearing a khaki suit and yellow tie.

  Jack.

  BEFORE

  It might have been the good news. It might have been that the universe, broadcasting into my kitchen by way of Clea Rourke, had come to my rescue. The red-haired anchor was using TV phrases like “Snowmageddon Tuesday” as she talked over pictures of white-out squalls in Newton and a slush-covered Mass Turnpike. Since I walked to work, traffic jams were no problem for me.

  I took a bite of almost-not-stale toast, the crumbles falling into the folds of my bathrobe. I brushed them onto the tiled floor as I contemplated another reality. What if Logan Concannon hadn’t even been talking about me? Eavesdropped conversations are notoriously misunderstood. We used to play drunk-telephone at the dorm, I remembered, touching the faded crest on my Georgetown coffee mug. That was the whole pitfall about eavesdropping. It was unreliable.

  I’d avoided Logan since she’d told me “we need to discuss” blah-blah in the coffee room yesterday. And Tom had not contacted me, not at all. But even if they were about to fire me—because his wife was jealous of us, or somehow found out about the necklace?—I still had to go to work. They didn’t know what I’d heard.

  “And repeating now…” Clea, sitting behind a space-age blue anchor desk, continues reading the prompter. “… the governor says it’s an ‘essential-travel only’ situation. All state government employees, except those who have been designated indispensable, are requested to stay home.” Clea looks down at the paper, then back into the camera, twinkling like she’s revealed the secret to happiness. “Snow day folks! So…”

  I tuned her out as I padded to the front window, yanked open the curtains. I’m living in a snow globe. Outside it was fairy-tale lovely as Beacon Hill could be, especially seeing it from a cozy inside. The gas-lamp-shaped streetlights were illuminated this time of the morning and added a muted persimmon glimmer to the pristine snow. Brownstones were white, bare-branched trees were white, the cobblestoned sidewalks, white.

  The snow had granted me a reprieve. I could spend the day figuring out what to do.

  My landline rang.

  I stood motionless, hearing the phone jangle from the kitchen, the living room, downstairs in my bedroom. “Call from … private number,” the caller ID announced. It was never anybody real on the landline—vinyl-siding salespeople, medical alerts, robocalls, scammy fund-raisers. “Private number,” the computer-voice repeated.

  “No thanks,” I told it.

  And then my bathrobe pocket rang.

  The caller ID on my cell showed a number. A number I knew. I let it ring one more time, attempting to prove I had control of the situation.

  “This is Ra—” That was as far as I got.

  “Rachel.” Tom Rafferty finished my sentence.

  “Good morning, Senator,” I said, hoping my voice did not betray me. “I saw the nonessential edict. Are we—”

  “Rachel?” He interrupted my attempt at normal. “We need to talk.”

  I flattened my hand against the wall so my knees wouldn’t collapse. The world outside had come to a halt, and now my emotions stalled to an equal standstill. I could not admit I’d overheard Logan’s phone call. But maybe this wasn’t about that. Tom Rafferty had given me a necklace, after all. A Tiffany necklace. A necklace with stars. You don’t fire that person.

  “It’s best if we do it in private,” Senator Rafferty went on. “And I was hoping to discuss it in the office today. So much for that idea.” I heard him chuckle, which somehow felt inappropriately intimate. Or maybe not.

  “Right.” I paused, waiting. Then I thought—What the hell? I’d ask. What can they do, fire me? “What’s it about? So I can prepare?”

  The worst possible scenario is haunting me now. What if Nina found out about the necklace, went ballistic, and as a result, I was going to get fired? I take the fall? For Tom Rafferty? That would be—beyond unfair.

  “It’s delicate,” he said. “The statehouse is closed, so we can’t talk there. Mind if I stop by? Maybe in an hour? It won’t take long.”

  When I was little, and when my mom was out, my dad and I would sneak-watch the old black-and-white ’50s TV show The Twilight Zone. I was maybe six and didn’t understand it, but I was riveted because I was with my dad, and by the black-and-white, and by the scary stuff. Especially the theme music. Until the day he died, Dad and I would hum that theme music to each other when we needed to communicate that something was bizarrely inexplicable. It was all I could do to stop myself from humming it now.

  I had a gold-starred necklace from my boss adorning my neck. Encircling it, possessing it. He couldn’t be about to fire me. He wouldn’t dare.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Relax, Rachel, I instruct myself. Out the wide windows of Salamanca, kayakers and rafters skim the Charles River, spending a carefree day on the water. I try to remember the last time I was carefree. I can’t.

  “How about over there, Sal?” Martha points to a table for four in the corner.

  “It’s all yours, my friend, as always. As you see.” The man in the starched white chef’s jacket gestures across the deserted dining room, curvy padded chairs in a mini-spectrum of watery blues and greens, each linen-clothed table centered with a spray of tiny green-edged lilies in a crystal vase. He looks at me. “We’re closed until dinner on Fridays. Martha knows.”

  Sal pulls out a chair for Gardiner, and as she sits, he waves me to the aquamarine one across from her. She flips open her briefcase and unpacks a pile of legal pads and three-ring binders. Moving aside the pepper grinder and the lilies, she lays the paperwork out in a grid, appropriating all the empty space on the tabletop.

  Sal is still hovering. “The usual?” he asks.

  Martha nods. And Sal trots away.

  “Alone at last,” Gardiner says. “Now. Let me organize this so we can assess it.” She pauses, looks at me with a smile. “And you should call me Martha.”

  What’s she doing? This is scaring me, her cutting me out of the intern herd for an afternoon tête-á-tête. But maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe this is the best thing that’s happened. I’d planned to get close to her. And now “call me Martha” is making that easy.

  What the hell was Jack doing at the courthouse? He saw me with Clea. And then in Martha’s car. But I was exactly where I was supposed to be. He wasn’t.

  Outside, the Charles River glistens in the afternoon sun. A fraternity of mallards, like aquatic entertainment, dives and splashes, then all turning at exactly the same time and at exactly the same speed, glide past us to their next stop. I wonder if these are the same ducks Jack and I see on our lake. I wonder where Jack is. If I could get one moment alone, I’d text him. My phone, nestled in my jacket pocket, is set on vibrate. But it stays silent.

  “Okay. Police reports, Baltrim’s record, such as it is, employment histories.” Martha points to one black binder, then lays another one next to it. “Police reports, crime-scene evidence. Interviews with Lyle’s hospital colleagues, Facebook-page screen grabs, a few Instagram postings.” She looks at me, all business. “You do Instagram?”

  “No,” I say. “But I could—”

  “Okay, no need, I’ll put Nick on that,” she says. “Moving along. Phillip Ong and CJ, the crime tech, are expediting the DNA evidence—God knows how long that’ll take. Murder cases don’t always proceed as quickly as we’d like, as you may be aware. Questio
ns, Rachel?”

  As I’m wondering what she means, Sal appears table-side balancing a silver tray holding two sweating ice-filled glasses. Beside them are two turkey sandwiches, cut on the diagonal, pale-green lettuce fluttering out of the edges of the whole-wheat toast.

  “Buon appetito,” Sal says. He chooses one of the glasses. “Lemonade. Ms. North, this one is yours.”

  “Rachel.” Martha takes a sip of lemonade, puts down her glass, and looks at me. Sal has disappeared. “Listen, I didn’t quite tell you the truth. I don’t bring all my interns here for lunch.”

  “But wh—”

  “I’m sorry.” She puts up both palms, stopping me. “But I simply…”

  She looks flustered. That’s a new one. Though I am utterly baffled, I keep quiet.

  “I see something in you, you know? A potential. But—”

  “But?” Potential is good. “But” is not good.

  Martha presses her fingertips to her lips, almost sighs. “Look. It’s your husband.”

  My heart flares. “Is something wrong? About Jack?”

  “I’m not handling this well,” she says, shaking her head a fraction. Her sleek hair swings over one cheek, and she swipes it away. “No, no, certainly not. But you’ve hitched your wagon to him, haven’t you, Rachel? Harvard, and his law firm, his status in the defense bar?”

  “Well, no. Not really.” I have to stand up for myself here. “I worked for the state senate—”

  “You know I’m aware of that.”

  “And then got into law school on my own.”

  “After you met Jack. And married him. Funny how you met, isn’t it?”

  “Well, I suppose…” I begin.

  “And come to think about it, you know what else is so odd?” She keeps talking. “I’ve known your husband longer than you have. Worked with him longer. Heard about more of his cases. From the inside.”

  “I suppose so.” I look at my lemonade, bits of yellow pulp drifting downward.

  Martha takes a bite of her turkey sandwich, but I’m not hungry anymore.

  “Martha? What’s this about?”

  “I had a rough road.” She leans forward, conspiratorial. “Getting where I am. And I did it—despite being a woman. I’m willing to bet you understand exactly how hard that is. As you reminded me, you worked on Beacon Hill. Wasn’t there a lot of”—she rolls her eyes—“good old boys’ club? Treating women like possessions or objects or stenographers? And certain women using men to get what they wanted? I know I sound second-wave, but good lord, Rachel, we need to get past that.”

  “Yeah, it was pretty bad,” I venture. “But I managed.”

  “I guess you did,” she said. “But you got out of one men’s club and into another. Now your protector is Jack Kirkland. And Rachel? I assume you’re planning to go into business with him. Maybe he’s told you he’ll make you a partner?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but Martha continues, shaking her head.

  “Don’t be stupid, Rachel. If he takes a professional hit, if he—you know how defense attorneys are—if he gets disciplined, or even disbarred, you think you’re going to get a pass?”

  “What are you talking about, Martha? What do you mean, I ‘know how defense attorneys are’?” I scan the room. We’re entirely alone. “Is Jack in trouble?”

  “Where do you think you’ll wind up? If your husband’s law practice, such as it is, crashes? And you were little wifey? Do you think people will give you credit for anything on your own? I know it sounds harsh, Rachel. But that’s why I’m telling you. Straight talk. Succeeding doesn’t mean using your husband to get to the top. But that’s what it looks like. Like he’s your meal ticket. No matter how good a lawyer you’d turn out to be.”

  “Martha.” My voice goes a little louder than it maybe should. I lower my volume. But I can’t lower my concern. “Is something going on? Is that why we’re here?”

  But she’d never be able to divulge that. Unless she can. “You’re not … prosecuting Jack?”

  “Oh! No. Don’t misunderstand. Not at the moment.” She touches one fingertip to her lips, then takes it away. Leans forward with a half smile. “Unless there’s something you think I should know?”

  “What?” I think about getting up, walking away. Jack was so right. This woman is a spider. I need to escape from her web while the getting’s good. “Is that why you—?

  “Kidding, Rachel.” Martha waves me off, then extracts the lettuce from her sandwich with two fingers and deposits it on the edge of her bright-blue plate. “Sort of kidding. But in all seriousness. This is about you. I said you had potential. That’s what matters.”

  I blink, waiting.

  “I want you to understand. To be prepared. To be your own person. Not Jack’s underling or his wannabe or forever his subordinate. Listen, he came to court today to make sure you didn’t embarrass him. Can there be any other reason?”

  I’d been wondering that, too. “If I asked, he’d probably give me one,” I had to admit.

  She jabs a forefinger at me. “Exactly. Men like that always have an answer for everything. Don’t they? Look. I see you as you. As Rachel. As a tough woman who knows how to get what she wants. Without some man always telling her what to do. I like that. Women have power, Rachel, if they work together. You and I can do that this summer. You’ll be on the inside. I chose you, Rachel. Despite him, I chose you.”

  BEFORE

  “Screw it,” I told the mirror. My bare feet freezing on my bedroom floor, I hurried, yanking on thick black leggings and a black turtleneck sweater and black boots. Added a scarf. Took off the scarf.

  When the buzzer rang, I didn’t even use the intercom to confirm who it was. When I opened the door, I saw a black turtleneck, like mine, under the senator’s navy peacoat. His black knit cap was coated with snow, and a bright red plaid scarf, also snow-covered, dangled from around his neck, the fringe hanging past his waist. His laced duck boots were snowy, too. I scanned his cold-flushed face for some intent, some hint of what was to come, but there was none. The remnants of outdoors, cold, harsh, unrelenting, lingered in the air around him. His demeanor was more leading man than executioner. But he was a politician. I was not fooled by his exterior.

  “Senator,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

  “You want to talk out here?” He smiled. “Let all the heat out? Besides…” He yanked off one black leather glove, reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out what looked like a stack of mail, five or six pieces. Held it out to me. “You’ve got mail. This was in the entryway. Neither rain nor snow, it seems.”

  I could hear Dad humming our Twilight Zone theme song. We’d also watched Candid Camera, which right now seemed equally appropriate. Senator Rafferty was bringing me my mail? I stepped aside, let him walk past me into my little foyer. I put the letters, random and damp, on the side table. Rafferty had stuffed his gloves into his jacket pockets, and as I watched, unbuttoned his coat and stuffed his scarf into one sleeve. Held the whole thing out to me. “Where’s the best place to put this?”

  “Let me hang it to dry,” I said, as if acting my role in a drama or farce. Hang it to dry, ha-ha. Like me. “Have a seat.” Reciting my lines, I pointed him to the living room.

  Had I misunderstood? Stampeded myself into—I didn’t even know what? I grabbed a hanger from the front hall closet and toted his damp outerwear into the bathroom. Hung it over the shower rod. But I did overhear Logan—Nina, ballistic—and I knew she’d been talking to him, so something was going on. Did poor Nina know about the necklace? And I was going to take the blame? So insanely unfair.

  “So. Rachel. Getting to the point.” Rafferty was seated in the center of my couch. He’d taken off his boots at the door and wore thick wool socks under his jeans. “And, as I said on the phone, I had wanted to discuss it with you at the office.” He cocked his head toward outside. “But weather notwithstanding, I felt—strongly—this thing couldn’t wait.”

  Am I supposed to know whi
ch thing? I almost said it out loud. Job? Or necklace? Instead, I tucked my hands under my thighs. Felt my shoulders tighten.

  “Laying it on the table,” he said. “We’re having to make some changes in the staff. Logan Concannon is no longer with our office. She’s leaving for, let’s characterize it at this point as ‘other opportunities.’”

  I blinked at him, my lines being rewritten by the second. “Oh,” I said.

  I thought for a beat, Rafferty waiting for my reaction. My political instincts kicked in, assessing how much Logan knew, which was a lot. I rewound the overheard phone conversation in my head, trying to rehear it, re-parse the exact words, but it was too difficult with Rafferty right there.

  “Is everything okay?”

  Rafferty shrugged, flipped a palm. “You know the statehouse is a revolving door. She had to revolve right out of it.”

  Had to? I swiped through my mental contacts list, trying to predict the players. See where the chess pieces might be positioned. If Rafferty were the king, then Logan, certainly, had been the queen. And was now deposed. I knew who I’d been in the game, and stopped myself from pursuing the pawn comparison.

  “So, onward.” Rafferty dusted his hands, twice, as if dismissing the entire situation. Then, plopping one hand on each of his knees, he leaned forward, looked me square in the eye. “And that means, Rachel, I’ll need a new chief of staff. Acting chief of staff. You’ve been on my team for what, three years? You know your stuff. Everyone respects you. Your reputation is beyond reproach. I can’t imagine anyone more ready for the job than you are. Or more capable.”

  I could hear the silence in my little living room, the splat of the unceasing snow, nature’s insulation encasing the two of us in this urban cave. Soon, outside, the sky would grow even darker as the storm increased, the roads become even more impassable. Fifteen minutes ago I was steeled for the executioner. Now I had been offered stature and influence and power. Was the necklace the precursor to that? Or was he going to take it back and offer me the job instead? To shut me up?