The Murder List

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Time to put Rafferty through his paces.

  “Senator?” She took the formal approach. He’d sat in a cordovan leather wing chair, surrounded by saddle leather, its curved arms studded with brass decorations. She took the chair opposite.

  “First. Did Danielle Zander ever come to your home in Cambridge?” Martha asked. “Was your wife with you in Middlesex County at the time?”

  “Of course not,” Rafferty answered.

  “Are you getting this, Rachel? Cambridge? Middlesex?”

  “Yes.” Rachel looked up from her pad, an expression of understanding on her face.

  Good. “Tom? Did you know Danielle Zander before she came to work in your office?”

  “No.”

  “Her family?”

  “No.”

  “And where were you on that Saturday night? The weekend of her murder?”

  Martha glanced at Rachel, who was frowning as she wrote.

  “At home, of course.”

  “And your wife?”

  “This is already on the record, Martha.” Tom leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest. “And at the hearing, didn’t you tell the court the murder was on Sunday?”

  Good, Martha thought. Perfect. Exactly why she’d said that.

  “And you well understand the boundaries of spousal privilege, Senator, just to clarify,” she continued. “Speaking of what’s on the record. If either of you chose to testify against the other, you understand you could do that.”

  Martha could hear the sound of Rachel’s pen scratching on the pad. Was she grasping Martha’s point? Nina could rat out her husband. Even trade his freedom for hers. Or the other way around—he could rat Nina out. That a husband and wife had leverage, for better or for worse. Till death did them part.

  “Martha? Have you lost your mind?” Tom had crossed one leg over the other, and one boat-shoed foot was twitching. “Why are you reopening the case now?”

  “Because Danielle Zander is still dead.” Martha kept her voice icier than the air-conditioning. “And we haven’t convicted her killer.”

  She paused. They all paused. Martha wished she could read Rachel’s thoughts, know how she felt about this man Martha more than suspected she’d once pursued. Not that Tom wasn’t equally culpable. Maybe more so. He should have known better. She almost laughed out loud with her fleeting moment of naïveté. When was the last time someone like Tom knew better?

  “We have your interview notes, Senator, such as they were, from the initial investigation.”

  “Where you attempted to railroad not only my wife’s life, but my life, trashing my reputation and career.”

  Martha let him take the jab. Then went on. “But there were a few things we didn’t cover back then.”

  “Like what?”

  “I was interested, for instance,” she continued, “in the information the police gave me about your so-called illicit relationships with certain members of your staff.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Martha saw Rachel look up from her pad. Tom did not acknowledge her.

  “I don’t know where the hell you got that.” Tom’s foot jiggled as if possessed. “Or who the hell people you’re talking about. And while we’re at it, who the hell this ‘interviewee’ you ‘quoted’ at the hearing was. Listen, I’m a lawyer, too, Martha. Don’t float this spousal privilege junk at me. And if you all were using some phony informant, or—”

  “Did you and your wife have a loving relationship?” Martha asked.

  Rachel turned a page, the paper crackling as she flapped the pad back onto her lap.

  “None of your business. And I’m about to be finished with this improper—”

  “You gave Danielle Zander that gold necklace.” Martha ignored his bluster, put her question in the form of a statement.

  Silence.

  “Your wife’s earring was found at the scene.”

  Silence.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  RACHEL NORTH

  “Did you give any jewelry or gifts to any other of your female staffers?”

  Martha, poised on the edge of Tom’s wing chair, is now asking another thing I’d sure like to know. Staffers, plural, she’s saying. There were only so many female staffers. I’ve thought about them, cataloged them in my head, making lists of them, over and over, trying to figure it out. Even though it was long ago, every face is photograph-clear. I also wonder how long Tom’s going to put up with this before he calls his lawyer. And I almost burst out laughing, as it crosses my mind that he might call my husband, Jack.

  But there’s only silence.

  I hate taking these damn notes, and I hate the subservience, but it does let me decide when I want to look at Tom. And when I don’t. It’s been … so long. A lifetime. Or two. He’s older, and the sun’s done him no favors. A drinking nose, my father once called it. That paunch. I bet Dani Zander would not be so attracted to him now. An unworthy thought, Rachel. Which I tamp down with all the others. I wonder how his wife feels about him these days.

  And I wonder, too, what he thinks of me, the new me, no longer that workaholic, dutiful staffer, the reliable dependable Rachel, who came in early and stayed late and was good enough for everything—except him. I changed my entire life, my entire future, my entire self, all because of Tom. But I’m fine now. Better now. Much better.

  “The interviewee reported that you were having liaisons with current staffers,” Martha persists. “Back then. Was that true? And if so, did your wife know about it?”

  “Why don’t you ask her?”

  I flinch, for a moment, thinking Tom is referring to me, wondering why doesn’t Martha ask me. Does she think I slept with him? Slept my way to the top? I stifle a gasp, and luckily, too, because he’s going on, and he didn’t mean me.

  “Why don’t you ask Nina?”

  “Good idea,” Martha says. “Where is she?”

  Tom shakes his head. “No idea.”

  “I see.” Martha clearly doesn’t believe him.

  “If there’s nothing else?” Tom stands.

  “There is, indeed.” Martha makes no move. “I asked you about Saturday, but now I’d like to hear where you were the entire weekend of the murder. And Tom? You might want to sit. I’m going to need to hear that hour by hour.”

  I do, too, I think. I need it hour by hour. And Tom hadn’t answered the illicit-relationships question. Why doesn’t Martha push him on that? I need her to understand I’m not … that kind of a person. She sees potential in me, she told me that. I cannot let her picture a manipulating opportunist who sleeps her way to power. She’d never trust me, or respect me, or protect me, if she thought I had done that.

  Tom stays standing. Forces Martha to look up at him. “I told your investigators six damn years ago.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “Here’s what I’ll tell you.” Tom backs up, positions himself behind his chair, an upholstered barricade. Gestures toward the doorway with a stabbing forefinger. “We’re done. I want a lawyer.”

  “Good for you.” Martha leans back against a throw pillow, the pale fringe sticking out behind her gray suit jacket. “But as even Rachel here knows, you’re not in custody. Did you hear any Miranda rights, Rachel?”

  I don’t enjoy being used as a prop for her sarcasm, but I have no choice. “No,” I say.

  “So, Tom?” Martha goes on, her voice hardening. “If you insist you’re finished talking to me, I’ll not force you to continue. But as you well know, it may inure to your favor if you tell us the truth. You can have no doubt that once you’re on the stand, I’ll elicit from you that you refused to answer my questions.”

  “On the stand? What imaginary world do you inhabit? Ms. North, do you know anything about a trial?”

  “No,” I say again.

  “And we’re done,” Tom says. He stalks to the front door. Opens it. “Right now.”

  Martha and I are in the hallway, the sound of the slammed door echoing in the long empty
corridor.

  “Oh,” Martha says. “Oh, no.”

  “What? Are you okay?”

  “I left my briefcase inside.” She looks at the carpet, then at the apartment door. “And it’ll be awkward for me to retrieve it. Could you get it for me, please? I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  She turns on her heel and glances at me over her shoulder as she strides away. “Don’t be long. We need to get back.”

  Staring at Tom’s front door, I count to five. Slowly. Silently. Terrified. Listening. The elevator arrives, and departs, with Martha inside.

  I lift my hand to knock. But the door swings open before I make a sound.

  “Clever,” Tom says.

  Clever? I am, but what’s he talking about?

  “Martha left her briefcase,” I say, using her first name so he knows we’re equals. “Sorry to bother you.”

  Tom blocks my exit through the still-open doorway. “I meant, do you think this is clever? Barging in here with that woman. Trying to ruin my life, after all this time. Gloating over me.”

  I shake my head, almost sad. He never understood. I take a deep breath. Martha is waiting for me in the lobby. I don’t have long.

  “I’m not trying to ruin your life, Tom. You ruined it, quite on your own, didn’t you?”

  Tom’s about to dismiss me. I know that imperious look. Better yank him into reality, fast.

  “Did you do it?” I hear the strange tone in my voice, and try to tamp down the menace. “Did you kill Danielle?”

  “What?” Tom does a credible startle.

  Most people would have instantly believed he was sincere.

  “I-I never—” He’s actually sputtering. “Of all the insane—”

  “Good.” I nod, approving. “Say that. Keep saying that. No one’s accused you yet, have they? Whatever your alibi to the police was, it worked. I’ve read the transcripts. I know everything. And I completely know what’s true. So. Keep saying that.”

  “I am not ‘saying that.’” He shakes his head as if he’s trying to think of what to do next. “Ms. North, I most certainly would never…” He narrows his eyes again, laser-focused. “Is there something I should know?”

  Probably, but that’s hardly my goal.

  “Maybe the police think you did it with Nina. Both of you. And was that why you were so stressed at the arraignment? I mean, not only was your wife’s future in the balance, yours was, too. And mine. All of ours.”

  I can almost hear the seconds ticking by. Envision Martha in the lobby, looking at her watch, eyeing the elevator, becoming more and more aggravated. How long can it take to retrieve a briefcase? But if I can get Tom to implicate himself, confess to his—whatever—with Danielle, or change his original story somehow so he’s caught in a lie, my life and career are set. I’ll win.

  “With? Nina? No. That’s craziness. Besides, Nina had nothing to do with this. You know that. She wasn’t prosecuted, they dropped the charges. They know she didn’t—”

  “That alibi of hers, where did that come from? You? Very convenient.”

  “Not from me! Nina was away. We were having—this is none of your business, I have to say, Rachel. I’m surprised.”

  Surprised. And now I’m “Rachel.” So very Tom.

  “The necklace, remember?” I set Martha’s briefcase on the carpet.

  Tom turns and in one motion closes the door behind him. Stands in front of it, a body-language barricade. He always takes up all the room. “Rachel, you need to tell me. If you ever cared about—Is this why Gardiner’s questioning me? Are you trying to threaten me? Or warn me? Why would she—or you—possibly think I—”

  “Poor Danielle. You gave her that necklace.”

  “I did not. I did not.”

  And there’s the lie. I had the necklace. For an entire weekend. Thinking it was mine. But he doesn’t know I knew what it was. We’re on equal ground now.

  “You did.” I point to him, chin high, reveling in my secret knowledge. “The jewelry store has indisputable records. You bought it. You went to Tiffany, and you bought it.”

  “For Nina.” He spits the name. “But the necklace was stolen. From my desk.”

  “Uh-huh.” I nod, scornful. “Tom? That is such—forgive me—total preposterous bullshit. Did you report it to the insurance company? Or the credit card company?” See if he has such a fast answer to that one.

  “I was going to.”

  I widen my eyes, the light dawning.

  “So you could say Danielle took it? And that’s what you’d tell Nina? You are such a selfish, self-centered—I cannot believe I ever—” I draw in a breath. Stop, Rachel. Not now. “And you—Oh. I see. That’s what you’re afraid of. That they’ll think you confronted her about it. In the parking lot. And you didn’t mean to push her, maybe.”

  “Rachel, what the hell is this about? Is this you talking? Or is this Gardiner?” Tom swoops open the front door. The length of the hall, the part I can see, is empty.

  “Out,” he says.

  I stand my ground, the seconds ticking away. I’ll tell Martha I had to use the bathroom.

  “Here’s the thing, Senator.” I step farther into the apartment. Farther into his life. Farther into his soul. I trusted him—but he tricked me, deceived me, ruined me. Look who I am now. “Martha’s reopening the case. Why do you think that is?”

  “I have no idea! That’s what I’m asking you. I know you, Rachel.”

  “And I know she’s after you. Maybe even you and Nina. If she’s the guilty one, why not help them find her? Because Martha Gardiner is relentless, she’s—”

  “That’s ludicrous. Are you wearing a wire?”

  “You had nothing, a flimsy alibi. They know that. And Martha is on the hunt, believe me. But that ‘interviewee’—whoever that informant was—laid your sleazy cards on the courtroom table. After Gardiner’s statement at the arraignment? Your career was over. You were hounded from the senate. Your wife left you. You had nowhere to turn. Better than prison, though. Because what if you got away with murder?”

  “You should go, Rachel.”

  I don’t budge. Now that I’ve gone this far. “Whose apartment is this, anyway? Yours?”

  “It’s a friend’s.”

  “Nice,” I say. “But what’re you going to do when Martha Gardiner lowers the legal boom on you? Or Nina? You going to call Jack? My husband? And remember, you’re the bigger fish. When Martha Gardiner gets enough ammunition to prove it—if she hasn’t already—how are you going to prove you didn’t do it?”

  “Are you wearing a wire? Rachel? I mean it.”

  “Of course not.” I pat my chest, pretend to fiddle with a blouse button. “Want me to prove it?”

  “I didn’t kill her,” Tom says, eyeing me. “That’s … beyond any comprehension.”

  “You’re a liar,” I say. “You know why?”

  I picture Gardiner, down in the marble-walled lobby, texting or pacing or fuming. Or leaving. I have to go. “You know why?”

  “Rachel.” Tom takes a step toward me.

  I step away. I have the power now. “Here’s why. I opened that box, Tom.” I feel my heart racing again, and this time I don’t try to stop it. I try to keep up with it. It’s time for me to say this, after all these years. Now, or never. And it’s now.

  “That Tiffany box. Oh, right, you’re shocked. Please. You gave me that necklace, Tom. And then you took it back! You took it back! Like I wasn’t good enough for you. But when you told me it was for your wife…” I take a deep breath, remembering. Confessing. “I even—can you believe it?—admired you. Decided you were a faithful husband. Decided I was silly, and you were a professional, and it was so, so embarrassing, and I was so glad you had no idea.…”

  “No, Rachel, oh, I am so sorry.”

  Tom reaches out a hand, but I push it away.

  “I never thought you’d open—” he begins.

  “Of course you didn’t. Because little Rachel, little pitiful Rachel, wasn’t good e
nough for a necklace. Or for you. You used me. And, hmm. Let’s think about that.” I tap one forefinger to my cheek. Tap tap tap. “You told me it was for your wife. Which I’d have to reveal, if Martha asks, because that’s what you told me. So. Either you were lying about it being for your wife, which makes you an immoral, unethical sleaze who thinks the women in his office are not only his subordinates but his personal harem—”

  “Rachel!”

  “Or—” I’m enjoying this now. “It truly was for your wife. In which case, how did it wind up on Danielle? Are you going to try out your “she stole it” story? Turn a poor murder victim into a thief? Lovely. But, Tom? Why, oh, why was your wife’s earring at the murder scene?”

  I touch my neck, caressing, as if the necklace were there. He’s transfixed, I can tell. Got you, you bastard. “The necklace I had for one brief shining moment? Only the two of us know about that.”

  He grabs my arm with one hand, holds it, tight. “Not. One. Word.” Puts his face close to mine. “Hear me, Rachel? Not one word.”

  “Oh, now you want me to help you? Now I’m good enough?” I whisper back. I’ve won, I’ve won, I’ve finally won. “So interesting, Tom. And here’s why. Because, now? Now, I have the power. Right? Now you’re the potential victim. And you’re gonna wonder, every moment, what I’m going to do.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  RACHEL NORTH

  I’d told Jack I had to work late, which is essentially true. And although I was working on the Zander case, my other investigation had to stay under the radar. For now.

  Roni Wollaskay is driving. I’m in the front seat of her buzzy little car, eating a granola bar. We’re on our way to see Momo Peretz. To find out if Martha Gardiner, my new boss, tampered with the Deacon Davis jury.

  Sure, Deacon Davis is dead. But jury tampering is a crime. A big, bad, embarrassing, career-ruining crime. If it’s true, Jack would be thrilled to know about Martha’s shocking transgression. Roni and I are on the way to dig up the past.

  Speaking of the past, I think, as Roni maneuvers us through Kenmore Square traffic. When I’d finally gotten downstairs from seeing Tom, Tom, my skin was tingling. My heart out of control. And my brain on fire.