“Someone from your old office,” she’d promised. My mental Rolodex spins as we walk toward the sweet little yellow house, name after name, but no one comes to mind. Though this house clearly belongs to a woman—frilly front curtains. All those tulips. A wreath of white-painted pinecones on the white front door. Nina, maybe? My heart twists. My brain rushes down that path, then skids to a halt. It was pretty enough, but she wouldn’t be in a tiny place like this.
Who? There’s no one and everyone. The statehouse is an employment way station, employees election-bound and nomadic, dozens of warrened offices and fluctuating interns and serial rivals.
And now Martha is lifting the brass knocker, a shiny pineapple.
I stand two steps behind her, on the wood front porch, the leaves of a spindly potted fern in a terra-cotta pot tickling the backs of my bare legs. A dog, a yappy one, barks at the top of its lungs. I hear a voice from inside, a woman.
“Don’t mind Henry David,” a woman’s voice says. A voice I’ve heard before, for sure, but the opening door blocks her face. I take a step back, needing to see but trying not to be obvious about it. She bends down, scooping up the button-eyed dog, her face hidden. My statehouse job ended six years ago. People change. “I never should have named him after Thoreau,” she says, “because he’s hardly…”
And she keeps talking, but I have no idea what she’s saying as she shakes Martha’s hand with the one that’s not encircling the squirmy dog. It’s Annabella Rigalosa. Grayer now, heavier makeup, tighter messy bun and brighter red fingernails. She was the statehouse Human Resources director, and I am—possibly—screwed.
I meet Annabella’s eyes, waiting a beat to see if she recognizes me. There’s no widened eyes, no smile of welcome, but also no pursed lips of disapproval. Or apprehension. I’m also baffled by Martha’s game. She’d been so chatty and receptive in the car, but she kept this from me.
She clearly knows Annabella and I are acquainted. The unanswered question is does she know how. What do I do if Martha is about to find out?
But maybe that’s me being paranoid. Annabella works—worked?—at the statehouse. As did I. As did Danielle Zander. Martha knows they knew each other, because Logan Concannon told us yesterday that Danielle’s name came from the applicants in Annabella’s Human Resources office. Time for me to pull out my yellow pad and be an observer. Another living room, another minefield.
“You know Rachel North,” Martha is saying, pleasant in her non-introduction.
“I do,” she says, nodding at me. No emotion, no judgment. “I thought that was you.”
“Long time,” I say. “I’m at Harvard Law School now. Working at the DA’s office.”
“Indeed.”
Martha and Annabella begin with weather small talk. Our hostess pours tea, a white ceramic pot and thin white cups, almost translucent. If she had tea and sugar cookies prepared, she knew we were coming. And she didn’t greet us with questions—Who are you? And what’s all this about? Plus, a guilty person doesn’t make tea for the prosecutor. Do they? Annabella’s home is like a pristine dollhouse, perfect and miniature. Henry David, another miniature, curls up at her feet, his—I suppose—eyes bulging and protective. I’m worried he’ll growl at me. Dogs don’t like me, which has always been embarrassing.
“Are you still at the statehouse?” What’s Martha going to do, fire me for asking a question? I’m an intern.
“Yes,” she says. “Plus ça change.”
She must have stayed home from work today. Must have wanted to talk to Martha here, not in her office. I accept the tea, balancing as I sit on her couch. Another couch. The amber tea is lemony, pungent and strong.
“Cookie?” she says. “And there are napkins.”
Martha, perched in a flowered side chair, rifles through her briefcase, ignoring me.
What’s this about? I can’t decide what to do until I know. I take a napkin and then a mini-cookie, but I couldn’t possibly eat it.
“So. As we discussed,” Martha begins, in medias res. As if I’m not here and they’re simply continuing a conversation they began another time. Which, clearly, they did. “As the HR person for the statehouse, you’re involved with employment, including hiring—”
“And firing.” Annabella says. “For more than ten years.”
“I see. And you also handle employee complaints, perceived unfair firing, or vacation disputes, employee interaction, complaints about working conditions? Things of that nature?”
“The statehouse is a petri dish.” Annabella breaks an already tiny cookie in half and places both halves on a lacy square napkin. “A hothouse. Things grow. And sometimes fester. Someone has to oversee it all. Make sure the ecosystem is not toxic. Part of my job is that people tell me things. I look—‘unthreatening’? I suppose is the word.”
“Hiring and firing,” Martha repeats. Checks to see if I’m taking notes, which, obedient me, I am. “Harassment claims.”
“The people who come to the statehouse to work are self-selectedly competitive.” Annabella almost talks over her. “It’s always about winning and losing. That’s politics. That’s the game on Beacon Hill. It’s high pressure. The power structure is precarious. People can be toppled by words. It’s my job to make sure those weapons—words as well as actions—are used appropriately.”
“That’s my job, too,” Martha says.
Of course, I’m invisible. She didn’t say “our” job.
“You investigate harassment claims.”
Annabella nods. I see her face change. Under all that makeup, she’s maybe mid-fifties, chic, petite, self-assured. But something is going on here.
“Tell me about that, Ms. Rigalosa. Specifically in regard to Senator Tom Rafferty.”
My stupid felt-tip pen chooses this moment to run out of ink. My notes are faint as shadows, like disappearing ink.
“My pen.” I hold it up, as if they can tell it’s dry simply by looking. I flip open my briefcase, scramble on the bottom for a new one. “I’m so sorry.”
“You’ll catch up.” Martha doesn’t look at me. “As I was saying, Ms. Rigalosa. About Senator Rafferty.”
“No.” Her voice goes so tough that the lemony tea and cookies seem incongruous. “As I was saying.”
I jam the plastic cover onto the end of my replacement pen and look back and forth between the two, pen poised, wondering what “no” means. No, she’s never had a complaint about Tom Rafferty? I know that’s not true. Not that I’m gonna say anything. Is that what she means by “no”?
If so, I know she’s lying, and I’ll have to figure out how to deal with that. But I have to see where Martha is going with this.
“No, you’ve never heard complaints about him? Not from anyone?”
“That’s not what I said,” the woman replies. The dog opens its poppy eyes, maybe reacting to the harsh tone of her voice.
“So—you did.” Martha pushes her. “Have complaints against Senator Rafferty.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“I see. Let me ask you this. Did you have any complaints about anyone else in Senator Rafferty’s office? Or—from anyone in Senator Rafferty’s office? Not necessarily about the senator himself?”
If this is the chase, Martha is cutting to it, fast. I try to keep the surprise from my expression, and look down at the pad.
“Ms. Gardiner,” Annabella’s voice is honey again, “as I have told you. I am a Human Resources professional. Not a gossip, not a source of information, not a disseminator of chitchat or fantasy or human frailty. The code of conduct for my profession might as well be that of a medical doctor—first do no harm. Yes, my job is to encourage people to trust me. And part of that is to make sure those who come to me understand, with their fullest hearts, that I will never inappropriately reveal what they divulged to me.” She stands, smiling, adjusts her skirt. The dog scrambles to his feet, plasters himself to his mistress’s leg, rumbles a tiny growl. “If those are the types of questions you plan to pursue
in your investigation of Thomas Rafferty, this is a waste of all of our time.”
She raises her eyebrows, almost challenging. She catches my eye, a tiny fraction of a second, but long enough that we connect. I wonder what she’s trying to tell me.
Martha stays seated. Takes a sip of tea. Her phone buzzes, and she taps it off.
“Please sit down, Ms. Rigalosa,” she says. “And why are you calling it an investigation of Thomas Rafferty?”
A beat of silence. And then—and this time I’m sure my surprise is evident, I can’t help it—Annabella sits, her back rigid and shoulders square. Now I see her clip-on earrings. She couldn’t have known what I was thinking, but she reaches up and touches the one on her left ear.
She says nothing.
“I understand your reluctance.” Martha crumples a tiny napkin, places it on an end table. “But as I am sure you’re aware, in Massachusetts there is no shield for your profession. You are not a medical doctor or a psychologist or even a licensed social worker. You are merely—and I say this with all due respect—the person who is tasked with handling personnel issues in a public office. I am a representative of the justice system. That—perhaps I need to remind you—is not an even playing field. But it is a fair one.”
Martha stops, maybe assessing. If Annabella could growl like her dog does, she’d be doing it, too. Martha just dissed her, taunted her, and essentially threatened her.
“And here’s what I did not tell you on the phone yesterday morning.” Martha’s using her predatory tone. I’ve heard it in court. Jack uses the same tactics. When, after leading the witness step-by-step, question-by-question, he finally has his quarry in reach. About to pounce. “We’re investigating the death of Danielle Zander.”
Even Annabella’s experienced poker face disintegrates at this. She leans forward, places her teacup onto the coffee table in front of her. The room is so quiet, I can hear the china cup rattle in its gold-rimmed saucer. “Thank goodness. But why?”
“If you are willing to help us, here and now, I’d be grateful. And, let me add, it would be easier. If you’re not?” Martha clears her throat, whether of necessity or to increase the dramatic tension, I have no idea.
“Then we’ll call you to testify,” she continues. “In a grand jury. In a courtroom. Wherever we need. If you refuse to answer … well. I’m sure I don’t need to advise you that before a judge? Your otherwise commendable ethics will hold no sway.”
Silence. This is a tug-of-war with no rope, a battle of resolve and will. But Martha knows the rules. And I’m sure her adversary—is she an adversary?—does too.
Martha lets out a breath, then smooths the air in front of her, palms down, maybe trying to soften the moment. “I know I sound harsh, Ms. Rigalosa. And I know no one likes lawyers.”
Annabella gives half a shrug, agreeing, but seemingly reluctant to fully accept Martha’s self-deprecating olive branch.
“Right,” Martha goes on. Her phone buzzes again, and again she taps it off. “And that’s what Rachel here is learning, too.”
I flinch at the sound of my name. I’ve felt so invisible, even I almost forgot I was here.
“They won’t teach her that at Harvard, but the cultural animosity—lawyer jokes and instant derision—is what we all accept as part of our lives. We have difficult jobs, difficult realities, difficult conversations. Difficult decisions. But that’s why the system works, doesn’t it? Because. Exactly as in your job at the statehouse, someone has to make sure the ecosystem, as you put it, is not toxic. And we do that by the rule of law.”
Annabella nods.
“So.” Martha wears a different expression now. Victory. “I don’t enjoy threatening you with jail for contempt. I’m merely stating a difficult reality. And that unpleasantness can easily be avoided. Let’s start again. Have you had harassment complaints about Tom Rafferty? In connection with whom? From whom? I have to believe you are the informant who reported his indiscretions to the police. If you told them, you can tell me.”
Martha’s phone buzzes again. This time when she ignores it, the buzzing seems to get louder as Annabella’s silence continues.
The phone stops.
Annabella stands. The dog stands. They’re both statues, motionless. Ice, or stone.
“See you in court,” she finally says.
This time Martha stands, too.
She picks up her briefcase, snaps it closed. Pockets her phone. Signals at me with a cock of her head, as if I’m a dog, too.
“I see.” Martha brushes past me as she strides to the front door, leaving two women and a dog behind her. I see her pull out her cell again as she opens the door. “Rachel?” she says. And she’s gone.
I put my pad away, and Annabella comes closer. Stands so close to me that I’m startled, but I hold my ground.
She leans in, one manicured hand briefly touching the shoulder of my linen blazer.
“I won’t tell,” she whispers. “Not unless I have to.”
CHAPTER FORTY
RACHEL NORTH
Martha is already in the front seat as I open the back door to the cruiser. She’s on her cell, head down, one ear covered with the black phone, the other ear covered with her hand, as if to block out the extraneous noise.
Fine. She can talk, the statie can drive us back to the office, and I can finally eat the rest of my blueberry muffin. And think. Figure out what to do. About what Annabelle said, and a whole lot of other stuff.
I pull out my own phone. Martha’s mumbling into hers as the car backs up and swerves out of our parking space. With a little more speed than I might have expected, but then Martha always has an agenda. Which she eventually tells me.
No message from Tom. What could he have meant yesterday at the apartment, when he’d said “Not one word?” Doesn’t he need to explain that? Or am I supposed to make the next move? I’d already looked up the records on which “friend” of his owned that immaculately impersonal apartment. But it’s a real estate trust, so no public way to discover identities of the people involved. Unless I risk using some DA clout to pursue it.
No message from Jack, either. I need to fill him in on today’s interview, let him know what Martha’s up to. See if there’s anything manipulative or unethical about her current tactics. And why is she investigating Tom? Annabella picked up on that, too.
What if the whole Danielle investigation is a cover-up for something else? Maybe that’s why Tom asked Martha if he needed a lawyer.
That’d be legally questionable, Martha pretending to be asking about one thing when she’s really asking about another. I’ll see what Jack thinks. Maybe that gives us more ammunition.
I also need to see if Jack has contacted the Board of Bar Overseers or someone who can take Martha out. Jack was right from day one. She’s using me. It makes my skin crawl, how I almost fell for it. All that coddling and praise. She’s duplicitous. Predatory.
It’s comical. Here I was thinking I was the spy, when in reality, Martha’s spying on me. Because of Jack. She hates him, hates that she lost the Nina Rafferty case, and probably hates me, too. Lucky I figured it out. Now I can fight back.
And I wonder how the powers that be will react to her milking me for information. I’m supposed to be learning from her. I guess I am.
I’ve learned she’s a menace, and we have to stop her. It’s almost empowering that she’s making me part of her investigation of Danielle Zander’s murder, when in truth, I’m investigating Martha. Guilt is a complicated thing. Maybe Jack and I can make things right. Help the world see it’s Martha who’s the guilty one.
Half my muffin is left, so I peel back the wrapping and break off some cakey sections, making sure not to dribble crumbs on the statie’s black upholstery. Which makes me think of Roni. And Momo. They’re waiting, too, to hear what I find out. Were we all manipulated? Was justice manipulated? All because Martha Gardiner needed to win a case? If Deacon Davis didn’t kill that woman, that’s beyond horrifying.
A
nd I keep thinking about my fellow interns, Eli and Nick and Andrew. What are they working on while I’m out here with Gardiner? Maybe the pizza-guy case? They were all in the conference room that Sunday when Nick made his whiteboard presentation about Danielle Zander. But they’ve not been involved since.
I’d seen all three of them around the office. “Whatcha working on?” I’d asked, honestly curious. “Document search,” Andrew had reported. “Busywork,” Eli had said.
“Danielle Zander?” I’d pushed, gently, asking each one separately. “Working on that at all?” Maybe they knew more about Martha’s theory of the case than I did. Which was almost nothing. But Nick had rolled his eyes and pretended to shoot himself in the head with a forefinger. “Bor-ing,” he’d said. “I live for five o’clock.”
Clearly Martha was doing something different with me. Why?
I look out the window. Today’s driver is taking side streets, to avoid the notorious traffic, I suppose. Martha’s still on the phone. I can’t see her face, and I can’t hear her. Plus, annoyingly, the statie is listening to NPR.
Crumbling the muffin-wrapper plastic into a tiny ball, I worry it between my fingers.
I wish I could remember that Sunday meeting in Martha’s conference room more clearly. What precisely was said about Danielle Zander? I was so flummoxed that my brain wasn’t running on all cylinders, and now that’s a problem. Some train has left the station, and I’m on it, but why?
Well, why is because of Jack. And my connection to him.
This morning, though, the train arrived at Annabella Rigalosa. That’s another dilemma.
Back in my statehouse days, I’d called her, talked to her several times. Including after that nasty phone call my first day on the job. When an anonymous caller says, “Screw you,” it was my responsibility to report it. I’d told her I was sure it was Logan.
What if she’s done it before, to someone else? That’s what I’d said. If something bad happened, I’d said, and I hadn’t put it on the record, no one would believe me. I’d contemplated a mental list of other caller possibilities, but no one bore me as much animosity back then than Logan Concannon. I’d taken her job.
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