The Murder List

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

“Did you…” The younger woman looked at the ground, then at the ceiling. Then at her, a frown creasing her forehead. “Martha? I thought you—you said at lunch you chose me to work with you because I had potential. Because of my personal skills. Not because I knew a murder victim.”

  Martha loved this, how people’s insecurities inevitably rose to the surface. How valuable they could be. How useful. She tried to look offended.

  “Oh, Rachel. Don’t take everything personally. I meant exactly what I said. We can work together. That’s my goal. So. As a member of the good-guy team?” Martha smiled, letting her know they were sisters and confidantes. “Is there anything, maybe now seen through the filter of your legal training—anything new that leaps to mind? Any suspicions? Any suspects?”

  Rachel had picked up Nick’s black marker and now rolled it between her palms. “Well? I’ve thought and thought about who the police suspected might have done it, and I don’t know if—I don’t want to speculate.”

  “Oh, do. Go ahead.” Martha held the file in her lap. Leaned closer to Rachel, briefly, forging a connection. “And it’s not speculating. It’s brainstorming. Only between us. It’s what partners do.”

  “Do you still believe it was Nina Rafferty?” Rachel pulled off the top of the marker, clicked it back on. Did it again. “I mean—I’m sorry, Martha. I know that was a defeat for you.”

  “Guess you know that firsthand.” Martha couldn’t help it, though she knew it was unworthy. She reached over, gave Rachel a quick pat on her forearm. “Sorry, Rachel. Yes, I’m a tiny bit bitter. I’m only human. But I hate to lose. And I’m sure your husband feels the same way. Does he think Nina did it? Have you ever asked him? You can tell me. And keep going. Who else? You said you’d thought about it. I have, too.”

  “I mean, who would it be?” Rachel said, her eyes widening. “Rafferty himself? I mean, that’s impossible. Isn’t it? Or do you suspect him? It has to be—her lover? Or some deviant stranger? But that person is out there. Do you or the police have any clues?”

  Martha fiddled with the file strings, retying them slowly, considering Rachel’s questions. She placed the fat folder on the table beside her, rested one elbow on it. She could hear the buzz of the fluorescent lights, smell the sugar from the leftover doughnuts and the harsh aroma of the coffee dregs.

  Places we never expected to be, Martha thought. If Nina Rafferty had been found guilty, or if she, Martha, had won that damn case, she’d never been sitting in this cramped office. As it was, that one loss had ripped Martha’s career out from under her. How could she have been so quick on the trigger, so supremely confident? How could she have let a killer go? She was older now, more experienced. Sometimes, she knew, a devastating loss was all one needed to insure a spectacular win. But it took time. And it took the correct puzzle pieces placed in the correct positions. On this bleak Sunday afternoon in a second-tier DA’s office, she was sitting across from one of those pieces.

  “I’ve never forgotten this case,” Martha finally said. “Have you?”

  Rachel fidgeted in her chair, winced when the wheels squeaked again. “Of course not.”

  “That poor young woman. She was a public servant. Trying to make the world a fairer place, a safer place. Exactly as we are. If we don’t stand up for the victims, who will?”

  “I know,” Rachel said.

  “I need you to work on this with me.” Martha decided to lay it on the line. No reason to be coy. Justice had a peculiar persistence, and part of law enforcement was understanding the flow. “I can’t let this go. It’s my job to resolve this. That young woman’s death haunts my conscience. Her murderer is out there. It has almost—possessed me.”

  “Me, too.” Rachel leaned forward, clasped her hands under her chin. “But Martha, why are you looking into this now? Are you reopening the case? Did something happen? How did you get Suffolk to hand this over?”

  “Yes, Nick did a fine job organizing the files from over there.” One step at a time, Martha warned herself. She needed to be sure how trustworthy Rachel could be. How much she’d told her husband, and how much he’d told her. Or warned her. “The files were mine, after all. My case. I needed Nick to make sure everything was intact. Who knows who went through this stuff or who manhandled it. But Nick’s not the one best equipped to work on the case. You are.”

  Rachel nodded, as if she were pondering this. Martha let her think she had a choice. Although as an intern, she didn’t, in reality, have much choice at all. Martha was her boss, and Martha controlled her future. And she knew it. Rachel certainly understood this was a chess game, as all cases were. She was a particularly interesting piece of it, Martha thought. Jack, too. She kept wondering if one was the pawn. Or if they both were.

  “But, and forgive me, Martha—”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. And I know you need to get up to speed. Of course. I’ll fill you in on details when the proper time comes.”

  Rachel looked nervous, as if she was deciding whether to say something.

  “You can ask me anything,” Martha said. She slid the file into her briefcase, then looked up. Pleasant and encouraging. Whatever Rachel wanted to say, it might be helpful.

  “Ethically…”

  Martha’s eyebrows went up, she could feel them. Okay, this surprised her. “Ethically what?”

  “Is it ethically appropriate for me to work on this?”

  “Appropriate.” Martha couldn’t believe this woman was taking this tack. She’d accepted this job. If she had any qualms, it would have been more appropriate to face them sooner.

  “Well, yeah, I mean, you know. I mean, since I worked with Danielle. And all.”

  “Did you kill Danielle Zander?” Martha asked. “Do you know who did?”

  Deer in headlights was too clichéd. Rachel clearly wasn’t expecting that question, which is why Martha asked it.

  “Do I know?” Rachel blinked, then again. “Why could you possibly think I would know? How?”

  “Kidding.” Martha flipped a hand. “To make a point. Since you didn’t and you don’t know who did—you don’t, is that correct? Or you certainly would have mentioned that in your interview with Lewis Millin.” She flattened her palms on the tabletop. Her Harvard signet ring tapped on the surface, the red stone glistening under the lights. “Which, as I know, you did not. So, in reality, you’re the most valuable person we could have. You know the geography, you know the system, you know the players, you know the relationships. You know her lawyer, too, don’t you? And soon enough you’ll know everything in the file.”

  “I didn’t know her, though, Ms.—Martha. Not well.”

  “Then in that way you are precisely like the rest of us. And all the more reason why it’s ‘appropriate.’” Martha raised an eyebrow, to telegraph she wasn’t letting Rachel off the hook. “That you should be involved.”

  “Okay. But.” Rachel gulped. “Could I ask if Nina Rafferty is still a suspect? Since my husband—”

  “Who was not your husband at the time of her arraignment years ago, correct?”

  “Well, no.” Rachel ducked her head, as if acknowledging the logic. “But what if, say, what if it turns out the evidence shows Nina Rafferty is guilty? I know we can bring charges again, if such new information is brought to light. But since Jack—”

  “Forget Jack.” Martha Gardiner stood, picked up her briefcase with the red-tied file inside. “For once. Rachel, this is about you, not him. And it’s about justice for Danielle Zander. Try to remember that. It’s what I’m trying to teach you. Now I’m asking you. If Nina Rafferty is guilty, is that a problem for you?”

  “Of course not,” Rachel said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  RACHEL NORTH

  “Hey you. What was that all about?” Jack is sprawled in his den chair, legs across one upholstered arm, cell phone in hand, as I come in through the back door. He keeps it plugged in while he sits there, afraid to use up even a tiny percent of the battery if he doesn’t have to. He stashes
the phone between two fringed throw pillows. A wineglass, half full of white, is on the end table beside him. “What was so crucial that Gardiner called you in on a Sunday? And kept you this late? Pretty disrespectful, if you ask me. Which I am well aware you did not. Did someone die?”

  “Hey you,” I say. It was no surprise he’d asked me, simply a husband wondering why his wife was unexpectedly summoned to work. He was participating in my life, and that was appropriate.

  Appropriate. The word almost made me laugh. It hadn’t mattered, far as I could tell, that Jack was the one who’d made me late. Maybe he honestly did forget.

  “Or did someone crack a big case?” Jack goes on, luckily for me, not waiting for me to continue. He picks up his wine, toasts me, takes a sip. What cases he’s working on, or whatever, he’s not saying. Since I’ve been working with Gardiner, Jack has decided—he told me one night just before we went to sleep—it’s not fair to tell me, not fair to tempt me, because I might reveal some tactic to the enemy.

  It’s weird to hear the DA’s office called “the enemy,” but I suppose a guilty person might consider it so. Or a defense attorney.

  “Funniest thing.” I dump my shoulder bag under the kitchen table, unwrap the filmy scarf from around my neck, leaving the ends dangling. I pull open the fridge and stare at the contents, stalling, finalizing my tactics while choosing between water and wine. Jack has wine. “Gardiner wants to…”

  I’d decided, on my solitary drive home, to tell him the whole truth about everything. What Gardiner assigned me to work on. Because Jack’s a lawyer, not to mention my husband, which makes it double-super-confidential. He wouldn’t be involved, anyway, unless Nina was under suspicion, which, right now, I could honestly say I didn’t know. If Nina Rafferty is a suspect again, which Gardiner hadn’t revealed—just like she hadn’t revealed anything, saying we’d start planning our strategy on Monday—we’d go from there.

  By the time I’d turned onto Crystal Lake Ave., I’d changed my mind. I wasn’t going to tell Jack. Because if Nina Rafferty was a suspect, then it would only be destructive and hurtful to dangle that possibility in front of the person who was—is?—her lawyer. And to whom I couldn’t possibly divulge any of our investigation. So better for me not to tell him.

  I’d stopped at the red light. Outside, a candy-colored sunset streaked the sky, as if nature, encouraging our optimism, was revealing the promise of the gentle summer to come. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, calculating. Gardiner was right. I knew a lot about this case, and, yes, probably as much as anyone did. Who better to work on it? If I could crack the Zander case, and get Nina convicted, that would make me a rock star.

  Not to Jack, however. And that would leave me in an untenable marital situation. If Martha Gardiner does think Nina killed Danielle Zander, it would be my stated goal to prove my own husband was wrong. And that would never fly.

  Of maybe … it would. Maybe it would help everyone. After all, if Nina was found guilty the case would be closed forever and all the loose ends tied up. Jack’s goal was simply trying to make sure the system was fair. Everyone simply had to play by the rules.

  The light turned green.

  But maybe I could figure out another way to deal with it. Solve the case, get a conviction, be a legal rock star, and make my husband happy. I’ll get all the case notes and lists and records. I’ll do my very best, totally go for it, totally prove myself. And maybe in the end, it wouldn’t be Nina who’d get convicted. Maybe no one would, the Danielle Zander murder case would stay unsolved, and I’d have just worried unnecessarily.

  By the time I’d pulled up in our driveway, with motion-sensor lights spotting the last of our stalwart white tulips, I’d decided. I wasn’t going to say a word. It was too preliminary. Too iffy. Too soon to make a move. I had to see what Martha Gardiner was planning. What cards she held. And then I’d play mine.

  “Gardiner wants to what? Earth to Rachel? You just stopped in the middle of a sentence.” Jack taps one finger to his temple. “What happened—your brain give out?”

  “Funny,” I say, refusing to be bullied by him. I pull out the wine, close the refrigerator door. “Sorry, honey, more like my brain’s full. Of lawyer stuff. You know the feeling, right? And I was looking in here for the wine. I’ll join you.”

  Jack digs out his phone again, starts texting or something, while I’m pouring my sauvignon blanc. I’m not gonna make a big deal of this. He works, I work, it’s all in a day’s.

  “Nothing. Gardiner wants to assign us to teams, something like that, to learn about, I don’t know, how the system works. How the office works with the staties. She mostly told stories about her big cases, you know her, and we all had to sit there and pretend to be mesmerized by how she wins all the time.” I pretend to wince. “Sorry.”

  “I see,” Jack says. Puts his phone away. “And for that she dragged you all in on Sunday?”

  “‘Team building’ she called it. She brought coffee and doughnuts.” I plop down in “my” chair on the other side of the middle table, toe off my flats, and prop my legs up on the suede ottoman. The wine is exactly what I need. “So, no big deal, right? Teams are good.”

  “Depends on which side you’re on,” Jack says.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  RACHEL NORTH

  Holy crap. Logan Concannon.

  I’m in the backseat of a maroon Crown Vic again, same as I was a week or so ago when we approached killer pizzaman Jeffrey Baltrim’s house. But this Monday morning, with one of Martha Gardiner’s laconic staties behind the wheel and Martha beside him in the passenger seat, we pull up to a modest shrub-encircled Cape in the unfancy part of Brookline. Moss blooms between the flagstones that lead to a pristine front porch, and terra-cotta pots of orange and white impatiens flank the front door. We’re about to go in.

  Martha had only told me we were doing a re-interview of “a potential person of interest” in the Zander matter, and said she wanted me to assess what this person said without prejudice, so she wasn’t going to tell me who it was. “Better not to prepare,” she’d said. Which made no sense.

  But fine, I’d thought, play your games. I’m curious, but it’s simple enough to keep quiet and find out in due time. It’s amazing that I get to be on the inside of this case at all, and I keep marveling at how the world works. But not so strange, really. There are only so many murders, and so many people working in the DA’s office to investigate them. It’s only because I went to law school that this all happened. My father would have been proud. I guess.

  As we’d turned onto Sitttamore Road, I’d thought at first it was a coincidence, because I knew full well who lived here. And I even had a fleeting fantasy that we’d drive by her, out walking with her pet spider or whatever companion Gollum would have. I’d never been able to unearth precisely what had befallen Logan Concannon, but like everything else in the world, the quest for answers eventually lost its urgency and toppled from the top of my mind, replaced by more compelling fires to extinguish. Then we pulled to the curb. Parked. And I thought—Dumb me. This is no coincidence. We’re about to interview Logan Concannon. The chief of staff I’d replaced. The one who’d vanished from the face of the statehouse, and I’d thought, from my life. And Tom Rafferty’s.

  Danielle Zander had told me herself it was Logan who’d hired her, so no wonder she’s “of interest.”

  Do they think Logan killed Danielle? That’d be interesting. Karmic, even. And not difficult to imagine. She’d kill anyone who got in her way. Probably wouldn’t even need a weapon, just her razor-sharp words or vicious criticism. She’s certainly committed political murder. In fact, in that universe, she’s a serial killer. Happy to hop on to the convict-Logan bandwagon.

  The whole scenario rewound, in an instant, and our history played back through my head. How we’d left it. How she’d broached the topic of that Friday night. The night Tom Rafferty came to my apartment. How, even though I never found out if it was true, I’d imagined her that sa
me night waiting outside in that black car. How that long-ago Monday—with me wearing the necklace under my sweater!—she’d said we needed to talk. And then, before we could have that conversation, I’d heard her saying my name to someone on the phone. What a novice I’d been back then. Thirty and dumb. Well, thirty and inexperienced. Thirty and still discovering my goals. And my skills.

  And then I was offered her job. And now I’m interviewing her about a murder. Today, I’m the one in charge. More than she is, at any rate.

  I almost burst out laughing as I clicked open the car’s back door to follow Martha Gardiner, picking my way along the patches of flagstone, trying not to slip on the dewy moss. Dear Miss Manners, I mentally compose a letter, How do you handle this one?

  By the time we’d tiptoed our way to the front door, I’d retained my composure. It’s been six years. Now, with my blond hair and newly acquired smart-girl glasses, I wondered how long it would take her to recognize me.

  By the time we were seated in her living room, a shabby-chic mishmash of low-slung couch, gloomily flowered Victorian wing chairs, and a glass coffee table stacked with copies of The New Yorker, I saw her Gollum eyes suss out my identity. She had it down pat, though, the mask of the seasoned politico. Her face betrayed not one reaction. And even knowing I knew she knew, she waited for Martha to introduce me.

  “Rachel North,” she says in response. “A law student.” She takes a moment of silence, apparently digesting this complicated morsel. She smiles at Martha, smooths her light wool slacks, crosses her legs, and leans back in the biggest wing chair, as if she’s summoned us to an audience. Her icy expression of understood knowledge, or perceived power, triggers a landslide of emotional memories for me.

  “Ms. Gardiner,” she says, “I hope I’m not presuming. But you are certainly aware that Ms. North—”

  “Indeed.” Martha, sitting on the left end of the awkward must-be-Marimekko couch, raises a palm to stop her, then sweeps her own pantomimed instruction away. “Of course, if it makes you uncomfortable for some reason, we can certainly ask Ms. North to give us the room?”