The Murder List

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Kirkland had steepled his palms, silently tapping one forefinger against the other. Head down, he stared at his own fingertips. Muffled footsteps moved across the ceiling above them. Kirkland’s shoulders rose and fell. He took a long breath, then looked Martha straight in the eye. “Is she in on this?”

  Martha needed to keep him talking. Even slippery Jack Kirkland could make a mistake, especially juggling a fraught situation like this. Now was the time to play husband and wife against each other.

  “‘In’ on what? On helping me get this warrant? Or in on the murder? What—are you afraid she’s throwing you under the bus? And waiting back at the office to take you into custody? Rachel North, accusing her own husband of murder. Is that what you mean? Is she right?”

  Martha read the apparent confusion on Kirkland’s face and needed to decide whether he was genuinely angry. Or genuinely complicit.

  According to Detective Lewis Millin’s notes, Kirkland and Rachel had been together when the body was found. Very convenient.

  And gotten married soon after. Again. Convenient.

  Whatever Kirkland knew, he could not be compelled to tell. Convenient.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  JACK KIRKLAND

  Jack had almost lost it on his own front porch, gut-punched with worry that Rachel was dead or in the hospital, something so unthinkable it had to be said in person.

  He was almost right. The unthinkable part was true. Martha Gardiner thought they—he and Rachel—had something to do with Danielle Zander’s murder.

  That woman had been obsessed with this case since I beat her ass, Jack thought. But he’d never imagined she’d sink to such depths. Standing in his living room, offering this load of bull. She was delusional. Possibly insane. Definitely dangerous.

  He leaned back in his chair, crossed arms over his chest. Tried to pretend he was amused about this, not enraged. Rage could come later. Now he needed information. This whole thing was spurious. A tactic. Starting with that warrant.

  He could tell it was bogus the moment he read it. No sane judge would have signed such a generic piece of crap. Unless Gardiner had Saunders in her pocket, which, of course, she might. Was this another corner she’d cut? Another rule she’d manipulated? Gardiner was arrogant, had always been, but she’d plummeted over the edge.

  “How’d you even get this case, Gardiner?” That’d bothered him ever since Rachel divulged she was working on it. “You think Danielle Zander was killed in Middlesex? In your new jurisdiction? And then, let’s see. You think Rachel and I toted her, maybe in my car, to the statehouse parking lot and dumped her body there? When, why, how? And while we’re at it. How do you think I knew Rachel back then—that we’d hooked up while she was on my jury?”

  “You two got married at City Hall?” Gardiner pointed toward the framed photos on the piano. She crossed in front of him. Picked one up.

  Jack held himself back, had to, from leaping up and snatching it from her hand.

  “Happy couple,” she said. “How much younger is she than you are?”

  “What?”

  “Ever wonder—why she picked you?”

  “Picked?” Jack tried to ignore his impulse to pick up the fireplace poker and bash the hell out of the woman. “Give me a break, Gardiner. This is beneath you. Even you.”

  Gardiner put the photo back on the piano. Something thudded on the floor upstairs. Then again. Jack imagined their mattresses flipped over, landing on the crazy white rugs Rachel chose. A door slammed. What the hell were they looking for? Or was Gardiner, relishing her power, simply screwing with him?

  “Where is she, anyway?” Jack imagined the worst. In a cell or custody. But if she’d been arrested, she would have called him. Rachel knew the rules.

  “Like I said. Rachel’s fine.” Gardiner returned to her spot in the entryway, glanced upstairs, then glanced at her watch. Recrossed her arms as if to demonstrate she was in charge. “You can be in touch with her soon.”

  “Let me ask you…” Jack stood, mimicking her crossed arms and her supercilious attitude. “While we wait for your thug upstairs to finish whatever goose chase he’s on, let me get your take on something. It’s about the Marcus Dorn case.”

  “Your pillar of the community? Your security-guard slasher?”

  “Be that as it may. Off the record, tell me what happened to my disappearing witness. Remember? The one the feds suddenly ‘detained’? Out of the clear frigging blue?”

  A shadow passed over Gardiner’s face. “Why should I?”

  “Yeah, well.” Jack sat on the arm of the chair. Supercasual. “You might be hearing from my people about it. Working on the appeal. You know?”

  Jack waited a beat, then walked to the bay window, yanked open the curtains. Saw the cruiser and the unmarked Chevy. He waved at whoever was out there waiting for Gardiner’s exit. Another car was paused at the stop sign. He turned back to Gardiner, who was leaning against the wall, watching him. “And while we’re at it. Deacon Davis?”

  “Another in your loss column, Jack, if I remember correctly.”

  “Back then,” Jack went on, ignoring her sarcasm, “your court-officer lackeys told you about the two ‘not guilty’ jurors, didn’t they? And you got them excused. But hey—did you know they’re all getting together again? To nail you and your cronies? They’re getting ready to drop a dime to Clea Rourke—did you know that?”

  Gardiner’s face changed. “Clea Rourke?”

  She was worried. Good. Time to push.

  “What other inside information have your courthouse rats divulged?” Jack returned to his perch on the arm of the leather chair, refusing to sit on the couch like a suspect. Or stand like a combatant. “Did Deacon Davis somehow figure out he’d been railroaded? And then—before he could contact me—he got killed in prison. Pretty damn odd. You know, his sister’s convinced you made it happen.” Jack shook his head. “Yeah, wacky. But the sister’s talking to Clea, too. And you know our Clea. Murder for hire, with you bankrolling it? That’s a big damn headline.”

  Gardiner pressed her lips together. Jack could tell she was considering. If she’s smart, Jack thought, she won’t react.

  “What’ll that do to your career, Martha? Everyone knows you’re gunning to be the next AG. Jury tampering, witness tampering, and murder?” Jack pushed even harder. Until he calculated his next move, he needed to keep this playing field level. Sure, this was all Gardiner’s obsession. Her revenge. But she had power, and knew how to use it. She could ruin his life. And Rachel’s. He would not let that happen. “And what do you think the bar overseers will say about that?”

  More sounds from upstairs. The warrant was open on the coffee table, an instrument of prosecutorial power.

  “They’ll laugh,” Gardiner said, waving him off. “They know as well as you do that court officers always talk. Am I supposed to tell them to keep quiet? I’m sure you’ve never gotten information from them.” She raised a dismissive eyebrow. “Besides. Your clients were guilty as sin.”

  “You threw those cases, Gardiner.” Jack leaned forward, stabbed a forefinger at her. “You engineered those jurors’ dismissals with the help of a complicit judge. The same one who signed this ridiculous warrant.”

  “You’re watching too much TV, Jack.”

  “Possibly. Possibly.” He tried to not smile. His accusations were pretty much right out of Rachel’s imagination, but from Martha’s reaction, they might not be far off the mark. Plus, Deacon Davis. This was for him, too. “But when Clea Rourke gets her teeth into a story, well. You know those TV types.”

  Gardiner gestured toward the wedding photo. “Jack? I know a different story your Clea—oh, yes, I know about you and her—might be interested in.” She walked toward it, touched the silver frame with one finger. “What if your beloved Rachel has forgotten about her vow of ‘for better, for worse’? And has decided to do what’s better—for her?”

  “What?”

  “Just throwing this out to you. She came to
work this morning as usual. But have you heard from her? No? So, say we confronted her with our evidence. Say we offered her a deal. She gives you up for the murder—or else we take her in. She’s no dummy, Jack. You or her? You know her better than I do. What do you think she’d do?”

  That was Gardiner’s fantasy. Her attempt to distract him from her own transgressions. To take the heat off herself and put it back on him. They were playing courtroom in his living room. Prosecution and defense. But here they didn’t have to play by any rules.

  “What evidence?” he asked.

  Her phone rang, a nasty trill.

  “Yes?” She held up a palm, turned away from him.

  Jack stared at the wedding photo. Gardiner was right, it had been Rachel who—he supposed, thinking about it now—had pushed to get married. But wasn’t that what women did? She hadn’t even bought a new dress for the occasion, though he’d urged her to. “It’s not about a dress,” she’d told him one night when she wasn’t wearing anything at all. “It’s about you and me, together forever no matter what.”

  Now Gardiner was suggesting Rachel sent her here. To rat him out? Or frame him? Did Martha think Rachel killed Danielle Zander?

  The first to talk is the first to walk, that was a law school cliché. Which by now in Rachel’s classes, she’d heard more than once.

  But if the other person in the equation knew nothing about the crime, it was not about the first to talk. It was about the first to lie.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  MARTHA GARDINER

  Martha clicked off her phone, her eyes on Jack and her mind on tactics. Reinforcements were on the way.

  But right now? Negotiations.

  Jack had gone on the attack. Instantly. Like defense attorneys always did. Questioning, pushing, demanding answers. He was almost certainly bluffing. But about which parts?

  Now Jack glared at her, waiting. She listened for Oz, who was still upstairs. Today was a fishing expedition, she knew it. Judge Saunders, always helpful and especially so after a sip or two from her “water” glass, had given Martha some leeway on the required specificity of the warrant. But if Kirkland was tarring Saunders with jury conspiracy, that judge’s signature on the warrant might taint this whole operation. Martha was not about to lose this case a second time.

  Kirkland had forced her hand. So let the negotiations begin. Martha looked at her watch. Almost time.

  “Okay, listen, Jack.” She’d move to first names, change the dynamic. “Give me that warrant.”

  Jack looked at her, suspicious. Handed it over. She could feel his anger.

  Mustering her inner calm, she sat on the couch, opposite Jack’s chair. She set her phone on the glass-topped coffee table. Pulled a fountain pen from her jacket pocket. Unfolded the warrant. Crossed out Jack’s name. Initialed the change, MLG. Capped the pen and handed the warrant back.

  “What the hell is this?” Jack looked appropriately confused. “You can’t do that, as you well know.”

  “Yeah. I can. Look. We know you didn’t do it. And I’ve got to believe that you—even you—would not be complicit in a murder. You might defend a killer, but you wouldn’t stay married to one. There’s a difference.”

  She picked up her cell phone again, clicked to the photo section. Handed the phone to Jack.

  “Hit play on this,” Martha instructed. “The audio is low, but that won’t matter.”

  The room was silent for a beat or two, muffled sounds coming from her phone. She knew what Jack was seeing, but it would take him a moment to grasp it. She saw him look bewildered, hold the phone closer, push a button on the phone, watch again.

  “The Deacon Davis jury?” he finally said. “How’d you get video of that? Someone took cell phone video of the jury? There’s not supposed to be—”

  Here’s where it got dicey. Dicier.

  “Let’s not go into that now, okay?” Martha needed to move on. “But sometimes reporters shoot surreptitious video of jurors, since their colleagues outside the courtroom have to try to follow them when the trial’s over. It’s sleazy—what else is new?—but it never gets on TV. It’s a simple way to identify them. So. I had an acquaintance covering that trial…”

  “Clea Rourke,” Jack said. He kept looking at the cell phone.

  “And when I needed video of Rachel from back then to show a few potential witnesses—because she looks so different now—I asked that reporter if there was one of this jury. There was. She knows where her bread is buttered. She gave it to me.”

  Silence again.

  “My father always taught me you should never look at a picture only once,” Martha went on. “That later, the second time or the third time, you’d see something that hadn’t mattered before. And you know what? I did. And look. Zoom in to a close-up. Rachel’s wearing them. The clip-on earrings.”

  “Are you freaking kidding me? So are probably dozens of other women.” Jack rolled his eyes as he handed the phone back. “Like Deacon Davis’s ubiquitous Skechers.”

  “Not like the Skechers, Jack. Rafferty gave Rachel those earrings. After some birthday dinner he hosted for her. Before she murdered Danielle.” Martha tucked her phone back into her pocket. Checked her watch. “And they’re exactly like his wife Nina’s. He confirmed that. Said they were ‘meaningless.’ Men. Rachel must have pierced her ears after the murder. We couldn’t find a salon that did it—one of my interns canvassed for days, but apparently those establishments close up shop pretty quickly. Who knows, maybe she did it herself.”

  “No. No way. You got your guy upstairs looking for a matching earring? From six years ago? If she dropped an earring at the murder scene she wouldn’t be dumb enough to save the matching—Wait. The murder scene. So you do think the murder scene was in Suffolk? At the statehouse?”

  “Of course.” Martha was delighted to let him understand how silly it was to believe anything different. “What d’you think, that Rachel North killed Ms. Zander elsewhere, maybe in Harvard Yard? And then managed to get her body to the snowy statehouse parking lot? Hardly likely.”

  “But how are you investigating? The jurisdiction—”

  “Well, turns out, it’s because she’s married to you. And you live in Middlesex. If you were in on it, or even if you knew about it later and helped her cover it up?” Martha paused, letting Jack think it through. “Then that’s a crime too, isn’t it? The Suffolk DA and I made a deal. I’ll investigate, I’ll prepare the case, she’ll prosecute. You and Rachel both, or just her, or just you. I don’t think it’s you, I must say, unless you wear earrings.”

  “That’s nuts.” Jack stood, pointed upstairs. “Get out of here, Gardiner. And take your lackey, too. You’re gonna make a case based on an earring? Try it. I dare you. Not a chance.”

  “Point taken, counselor.” Martha, almost smiling, stayed seated. “Say we forget about the earrings. Keep it between us. We don’t want that reporter to lose her job, right? Well, you might, I suppose. But here’s another blast from the past. Remember Lewis Millin?”

  “Where’s this going, Martha? That has-been cop left town, retired early, probably got run out on a rail after he blew the Nina alibi. So much for the pit bull detective.”

  “I’d be upset, too, if I were you, Jack,” Martha could read the suspicion on Jack’s face, the wary disbelief. It never got easier to explain how a loved one was guilty of a crime. Husbands could never believe wives would betray them or lie to them or manipulate them or use them. She looked at her watch again, then stood. “Hang on,” she said.

  She walked to the front door as the doorbell rang, and opened it before it stopped.

  “Who the hell—?” Jack was on his feet as Martha stood next to the new arrival.

  “Lewis Millin, you remember him.” Martha gestured to the gray-haired man standing next to her. She hadn’t seen him in years, his shoulders now rounder, his arms tanned, in a navy-blue knit polo shirt, with a ballpoint pen and spiral notebook at the ready in the front pocket. Duck shoes. “Came dow
n from Maine for this. Turns out he kept all his notes. Cold cases, you know. Sometimes you’ve simply got to look at everything again.”

  “Hello, Jack,” Millin said. “Sorry about this. You were always a stand-up guy.”

  “Lew and I never stopped working on this, Jack,” Martha said as she closed the door. “And I could not believe Rachel accepted the internship in my office. Volunteered, did you know that? Pretty damn audacious. It almost—but not quite—made me wonder if I was wrong.”

  She paused. “But I’m not. Can’t believe you let her do it.”

  “Rachel did not kill Danielle Zander,” Jack insisted, shaking his head.

  “Yeah,” Millin said. “She did.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  JACK KIRKLAND

  The three stood in his entryway. A tense, silent triangle. Jack whirled, took a seat, in the armchair this time. Planted both feet wide apart on the floor, opened his arms.

  “Give me all you got,” he challenged. “I mean it. Take a seat. Bring it on. And call your thug down from up there, Gardiner. This whole thing is bogus. Bogus as your illegal warrant. But we’ll deal with that after I hear your so-called evidence.”

  Millin perched himself in the center of the couch. He scratched one ear like his life depended on it. Then took out his spiral notebook and flapped it open, talking as he turned the pages.

  “She had an alibi, back then. Rachel North? That she was home, alone, watching TV. Or else working at the statehouse, which was not suspicious. I mean, she worked there.”

  “Which, in retrospect, was pretty damn convenient,” Gardiner said. She’d stayed in the entryway, a solo Greek chorus.

  “That’s absurd,” Jack said. “Truth is not convenient. It’s simply true.”

  “To continue.” Millin flipped a page. “The TV show she supposedly was watching was actually on. No way for us to prove she wasn’t home. No calls, no texts. She had a pattern of working weekends. She had no history of violence, no problems in the office. There was no DNA—she wasn’t in the database anyway. She didn’t seem to have a motive.”