But before that, before everything, I’d also mentioned to Annabella—just coffee room chitchat—that I’d thought I’d seen Tom and Logan, looking cozy, pulling out of the statehouse parking lot together a few times. Late night. It was completely true, I thought I had.
Annabella could investigate on her own, I’d assured her back then. I would step out of the picture.
I stare at the floor of the backseat, at a paper clip, a broken pencil, a few escaped muffin crumbs.
My theory was that Annabella had told Logan someone had reported their late-night “coziness”—I think that’s how I’d put it, I never said “affair”—with Tom. If Annabella had pursued it, interviewing other people, the controversy would’ve spread through the statehouse in a blue minute. No one could unhear it. Or unbelieve it. No one would care what was true. That’s how the statehouse worked. I imagine Logan offered to quit if Annabella would drop it. Logan, promised confidentiality for her own transgressions, had fallen on her sword to protect her boss.
Annabella had kept my secrets, too, as well she should. Still, it would not be pretty to see her go up against Gardiner in court. Could I let her go to jail for contempt to protect me? It was such a long time ago. We both thought, I venture to imagine, that part of our lives was over.
But why did Martha care? All that had nothing to do with Danielle Zander’s murder.
“Shawn? Now,” Martha says to the statie. I look up, startled out of my woolgathering. She’s pointing at the dashboard.
“Okay,” the statie says. I see Shawn lower one hand and flip a metal toggle switch attached under the dashboard clock. A siren sputters, then revs into a keening wail. I’m thrown back against the seat as he accelerates, screaming through a stop sign and then a red light, careening around a corner. I lean forward, straining my seat belt, one hand clutching the back of the front seat.
“Martha?” She can’t think I’ll simply sit back and wait to see what this is about. I raise my voice over the siren. “What’s going on?”
“Nina Rafferty,” she says.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
RACHEL NORTH
“Stay in the car, you two,” Martha says. “Shawn, five minutes.”
We’ve pulled up at the back-door entrance of the DA’s office, not at some yellow-tape festooned crime scene. I’d imagined, instantly playing out a whole dramatic scenario, that Nina Rafferty was dead. Although that still might be true. Maybe Martha’s here to pick up paperwork or something. Maybe a warrant for Tom’s arrest.
If I had known, would I have warned him?
Shawn shifts into park, turns off the siren, and leaves the motor running. I’d taken off my seat belt in preparation for going inside with Martha, but now I’ve been told to stay. Good dog, Rachel.
“What’s up?” I ask Shawn, after Martha’s door slams behind her.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” he says into the rearview mirror.
Doubtful, I want to say. Because I have no guesses. What couldn’t Martha do by phone or text? Why do I have to stay in the car? Shawn’s only the driver, so no biggie. Waiting is what state troopers are paid to do. But I’m almost Martha’s equal.
I frown, watching out my window. Martha jabs a code onto a backdoor keypad, disappears inside. I make a futile attempt to see through the frosted glass door. But there’s only the softened reflection of our car, black, shiny, generally the carrier of bad news. I reassure myself. I’m on the inside now.
This rear parking lot is surrounded on three sides by a grassy field, clogged with parched weeds and occasional purple wildflowers, unkempt, uncared for, forgotten. My phone buzzes in my tote bag, and I leap to retrieve it. Maybe Martha needs me.
It’s Jack.
“Hey you.” I wonder if he’s calling to tell me what happened with the Board of Bar Overseers. But he wouldn’t have contacted them without clearing it with me. We’re a team again.
“Listen, I don’t have long. Have you gotten any phone calls this morning?” He’s not saying, “Hey you” back, and he’s not sounding affectionate anymore. Maybe someone’s with him. Listening. Monitoring.
“From who?”
“So you did, get a call,” he says. “From who?”
“No, no. I didn’t.” I was only fast-forwarding him to get to the point. “Who’s going to call me?”
“Rachel?” His voice is softer now, so soft I have to squint my ears to hear him. I bend down, thinking I can muffle out the parking-lot sounds. But Shawn has turned the AC on full blast, so all I get is a cold face. I sit up again.
“Yeah?”
I hear him sigh on the other end of the line. Martha’s been gone several minutes now, and when she comes back I don’t want to be chitchatting with Jack. But no sign of her yet. Shawn is changing the stations on the radio, turning the dial, so I hear jagged shards of voices and music, not enough to recognize, but enough to be annoying.
“Don’t answer any calls,” he says. “Especially ones that come through as ‘private caller.’”
“What? And did you say do answer? Or don’t?” I think he said don’t answer the call, but Shawn has shifted into drive and revved the engine. I look up, no sign of Martha. It’s certainly been five minutes.
“Rachel. Listen. Don’t. Do not. It might be, um, Clea Rourke. She’s—on a mission. To punish me. She’s…” I know Jack, can almost picture him, trying to choose exactly the right words. He’s such a stickler. “She was pissed when we broke up, and apparently she still wants to ruin me. She’s vowed to. If people do that these days. Vow.”
“Jack?”
“Honey. Just don’t answer the phone.”
“Jack?” I have to interrupt. Maybe I can help him. “I bet Roni and Momo went to her, told her that you didn’t bring Deacon Davis to those stupid hearings. And Clea had interviewed the sister on TV. So listen—go on the offense. You call Clea. Tell her you’re not the problem.”
I remember where I am and who might be listening, so I lean over again, face to knees, and whisper as softly as I can. Fast as I can. “Tell her about you-know-who and the jury. Tell her the court officers were feeding her info about Momo and Roni. Tell her about the ICE guys, too, how they snatched your pivotal slasher witness. Tell her what you ‘heard’ about the intimidation of Jeff Baltrim. Clea Rourke only wants the best story. Get her off your back. Sic her on…” I pause. Shawn is sitting up straighter. Listening to me? “You-know-who. Remember? Like I’ve been telling you. We have to stop her.”
The back door opens. You-know-who is returning.
“Where are you?” I whisper. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Do not say anything to anyone about anything,” Jack says. “Promise me. Not anyone. Not anything. Not until I get out there.”
“Get out there—where?” I say.
But Jack has hung up. And my passenger-side door has opened.
Martha.
I hang up.
“Hi,” I say, looking up at her. She’s taken off her sunglasses, but I cannot read her expression. “What’s up?”
Shawn shifts into park.
The office back door opens again.
Jack?
Jack stops. He’s framed in the doorway.
“Jack?” I say out loud.
In the otherwise empty parking lot, Martha Gardiner stands between us.
I look left to right, trying to figure out what’s going on. On either side of us, the glaring sun intensifies the purple wildflowers. Then the parking lot’s yellow stripes, sharp-edged on hot black asphalt. Past that, Jack is a motionless silhouette. A butterfly, white and ordinary, escapes from the meadow and dances over us, and for a second, I think about the black-and-gold one that little Jonah and I saw that morning. The one I urged him not to capture. Shawn clicks off the ignition, and I feel the car settle under me, then die. Time seems to stop.
“Rachel,” Martha says. “Get out of the car, please.”
PART
FOUR
EARLIER THAT DAY
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
MARTHA GARDINER
“You’ll stay here,” Martha Gardiner told them. Andrew DiPrado and Eli Lansberry sat in the backseat of the tan four-door sedan, a lidded cardboard evidence box of files balanced between them. Nick Soderberg was beside her in the front seat. Martha hadn’t chosen this summer’s interns at random. Andrew was an ROTC MP, Eli a criminal research prodigy, and Nick—with his mother on the Suffolk County DA’s staff—her eyes and ears.
She’d kept Rachel back at the office this morning, doing busywork filing. This was no place for her. Not this time. “This may take a while,” she told her guys. “You wanted to be here, fine, but you can’t come in. You okay with that?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Of course they were okay.
The white-painted house across the suburban street—front bay window curtains drawn, porch empty, driveway with mailbox at the end, mown grass and a strip of pink peonies and geraniums at curbside—looked serene. Their Chevy was unmarked, though it wouldn’t fool anyone with half a brain. But their target might not be looking. Not that it would matter.
Most people had already left for work this time of the morning, or for school. The entire neighborhood seemed quiet. Empty. Good thing. Better this way.
Lieutenant Oscar Saldono was driving the state police white Crown Vic that would soon arrive and park behind them. Oz would do backup for Martha. Or Martha for him. Another car was on the way.
Martha twisted off the ignition. Powered down her car window. Almost time. She turned to face her team, one arm draped over the steering wheel.
“You’ve handled this matter like pros,” she said. “It’s complicated. And unusual. But you did it. Bravo.” She’d always believed in offering praise where praise was due—especially to interns. It conveyed a message to young people about how leadership worked. How the prosecution worked. With a mission. A goal. A search—no matter how disturbing—for justice. Evidence was evidence. The law was the law. The law doesn’t care who you are or who you know. And especially not what you want.
“It’s fair that you’re part of this now,” Martha went on. “Be patient a little longer. You’ll see how your hard work, your teamwork, is about to pay off.”
“Is anyone home?” Nick looked at the front door. They all did. “Should we make a call?”
Martha saw the calculation in his expression. The analysis. Exactly like his mother, who was waiting for word across town. This was the end—she hoped—of six shitty years. Of the case that got away. Almost. She lost this case once. She wasn’t about to lose it again.
“Well, how would you assess the situation?” Martha didn’t take her eyes off the house as she asked the three of them, but she put a smile in her voice. “A car is in the driveway. The newspaper—good thing some people never change—is also in the driveway.”
The three didn’t respond. They knew when to keep quiet. And they’d worked hard on this case. She’d taught them well. That’s one reason this had been successful. So far.
“What’s more, a no-knock warrant means?” she continued.
“If no one is there, we can go in,” Eli said. “However we have to do it.”
“Correct. However we have to do it.” Martha nodded, confirming. She often wondered what would happen to each summer’s crop of wannabes after they left. Her ducklings. Some would wind up on her side. Others, lured by the potential four-figure hourly rates and mahogany desks, would opt for the soul-crushing indentureship of a big firm. Others, “true believers” they’d call themselves, would descend into the double-talking legal underworld of the defense bar, congregating in moth-eaten walk-ups, foraging for clients, grateful when they became experienced enough at working the system to be appointed to the murder list, an opportunity to try to defend the dregs of society.
True believers. She’d once tried out the phrase on a murder-list lawyer. “What is it you believe in?” she’d asked. “Setting criminals free? That’s not what the law is about.”
But whoever it was had walked away. “We’ll find the bad guys, and convict them, in spite of you!” Martha had actually called it out after the guy. Embarrassing, maybe, but it mattered. Someone had to stand up for the victims, offer justice to mourners left behind. Martha would do whatever she could to even the score.
Jack Kirkland was an exception. He believed as much in his justice as Martha believed in hers. Now, though, he had a choice. He could either remain as part of the problem, or realize he’d be better off as part of the solution.
A car engine rumbled behind them. A glance in the rearview confirmed Oz Saldono had pulled up at the curb, the trooper’s front bumper a foot from their rear. The vehicles would get no closer to the house. If there were trouble, Martha didn’t want them stuck in the driveway. Even though it’d trap their target inside.
Oz appeared outside her door. “We a go?” His eyes stayed on the house across the street. “Think we’re expected?”
“You never know.” Martha Gardiner hadn’t seen a movement from inside, but that didn’t mean anything. “Maybe.”
“That’s why I have this.” Oz patted his weapon, holstered now, at his side.
“And that’s why I have this.” Martha, patting the papers in her jacket pocket, could not resist the gibe.
She did not slam the car door on the way out. Nodded at the three left behind. Andrew, eager for the collar, gave a thumbs-up, then stopped, looking embarrassed. They all fell silent. Watching.
In fifteen seconds, Martha and the trooper were on the front porch. Oz took a position behind her at five o’clock, an unnecessary precaution, but like everything they did, it had a purpose. Serving a search warrant, nothing was predictable.
Martha heard the doorbell echo down the hall. Exchanged an affirmative nod with Oz, who’d also heard the footsteps approaching. No need to say anything. Only two people lived here. They knew where the other one was.
She took out the warrant. Unfolded it. Three pages. The morning sun, slanting through some kind of trellised vine, spackled stripes on the white paper. Those pages meant that after all those years, Danielle Zander was about to be Martha’s case again. And hers to win.
The door opened. Halfway.
Martha watched Jack Kirkland’s face go pale, his eyes narrow, his mind working. He took in Oz, then Martha herself, then Oz again, and then the papers in Martha’s hand.
“Martha?” Kirkland’s hand stayed on the doorknob, the door not quite open. He was dressed for work, apparently, shirt and tie, suit jacket open. “What’s wrong? Is Rachel okay?”
“Jack Kirkland?” Martha had wondered how he’d deal with this. Was it out of the clear blue, a devastating gut punch? Or was he expecting it? Dreading it? Already prepared to fight it? No matter now. These wheels were in motion. “Your wife is fine. But we have a warrant to search the premises, and we will provide you a copy if you so desire.”
Martha held out the folded warrant, offering it to him as protocol required. Kirkland’s reaction would be a key. Would he ask why? Or simply take the thing?
“What’s this about?” He snatched the papers from her hand, flapped the pages open, and read them, his eyes skimming down the pages. “You’re sure Rachel is…”
His voice trailed off as he read the warrant. Martha knew precisely what Jack was reading. In an abundance of caution, she’d typed it herself. And gotten her pal Judge Saunders to sign it.
There is cause to believe that on the premises there is now concealed property described herein, to wit, notes from Thomas A. Rafferty, as well and including letters, emails, diaries, photographs, and possessions, including jewelry, connected with him or referring to him and others on his staff or related to him during his term in office as the senate president, clothing, computer data, thumb drives, telephone, cell phones, answering machine results, files, or any other personal effects of Rachel Minifee North and/or Jack Morgan Kirkland that could be used as evidence in a criminal prosecution regarding the death of Danielle Zander.
/> “My possessions?” Kirkland took a step forward, away from the door and out onto the porch.
“You gonna let us in, sir?” Oz had stepped up behind Gardiner, now standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her as he inquired, effectively blocking Jack’s exit.
But Martha had the next move.
“So that’s a surprise?” she asked. “Our interest in you? But our interest in Rachel is not?”
“Bullshit,” Kirkland said. “Where is she?”
“We can talk all you want,” she replied. “But inside. While Lieutenant Saldono is executing.”
“Bull.” But Kirkland, scowling, stepped back, allowing the two into the dim hallway of the house.
Martha took in hardwood floors, a modest chandelier, a carpeted stairway going up, silver-framed photographs lining one wall. Kirkland had entered the living room, where he sat, radiating anger, on a brown leather armchair.
She stood in the entryway, facing a photo-covered baby grand, as Kirkland’s eyes followed the statie tramp up the stairway and go out of sight.
“Martha? What the hell are you thinking?” Kirkland had pulled his cell phone from his suit jacket pocket. “I’m calling her.”
“Put that away,” she said. Kirkland put it on the coffee table instead. He’s screwing with me, Martha thought. But if Rachel called him, she’d see the caller ID. So all good.
“Martha. Tell me. Does Rachel know about this?”
“About what?” As always, Martha had to admit, Kirkland had asked the pivotal question. She was surprised Jack was talking at all. Most lawyers would have shut the hell up. “About the warrant? Or about the murder of Danielle Zander?”
“Bull.” Kirkland shook his head.
Both lawyers looked up at the same time. Upstairs, a door had slammed. Then neither spoke as the noise from above continued, footsteps, drawers opening, and closet doors. Eli Lansberry had pulled the home’s layout for her from the town assessor’s records—three bedrooms upstairs, a bath, a hallway. Downstairs, it was living room, dining room, kitchen, den, and another bathroom. Only two residents. This wouldn’t take long, Martha predicted. Unless it did.
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