The Murder List Page 10

  Half thinking, I pulled open the thin top desk drawer. Two unsharpened yellow pencils rattled in a narrow grooved shelf. A pad of yellow Post-its. I put the supplies on the desk. My desk.

  “This is Rachel North.” I tried one more time as I closed the drawer. “How can I help you?”

  “Good morning,” Senator Rafferty said. But not on the phone. In my doorway. Holding two Starbucks cups. He handed one across the desk to me with a gloved hand. “Milk, extra sugar,” he said. “Welcome.”

  I hung up my desk phone, then his cell phone rang, and I heard laughter in the reception area, out by the coffee machine. The office was coming to life. It was unsettling to see the senator. Tom. Maybe necklace PTSD, or something. I kept trying to unremember that whole debacle. Not debacle.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking the cup. I hadn’t put my shoes on yet and was happy to have my lower half hidden behind my desk. “How’d you know?”

  But he was already talking on his cell. He held up his own coffee, cocked his head toward his closed office door as my desk phone rang again.

  “Five minutes,” he mouthed the words at me. “Sure, tomorrow,” he said into his phone. “That could work.”

  Head spinning, I saluted him with my coffee, then put it down and picked up the ringing phone. “Rachel North,” I said.

  “Screw you,” the voice said.

  And whoever it was, definitely female, hung up.

  “Nice,” I said out loud. The call might not even have been meant for me, since disgruntled constituents were part of the deal. But I couldn’t resist starting a mental list of who might have wanted to taunt me personally. Logan Concannon topped it. In fact, she was the only one on it. I’d have been angry, too, I decided. But in politics, some days you are in and some days you are out. Logan knew that. But what could she do about it?

  The phone rang again, and I stared at it, apprehensive or angry, and finally grabbed it. Jammed the receiver to my cheek. “What?” I said. “Who is this?”

  “Ah, Ms. North?” A small voice this time, a different person. “This is Danielle Zander. Dani, people call me. I’m kind of new? I‘ve only been here a few weeks, and now I’m taking your place in Constituent Services? And wonder if I could come talk with you?”

  Fabulous. Fine way to start a relationship with a new staffer, by snapping at her when I answered the phone. Danielle Zander. I wrote her name on a Post-it so I’d remember. Danielle Zander.

  “Terrific.” I flooded my voice with warmth. “Wonderful, Dani. Welcome. But I have to meet with the senator in a few minutes. How about at…” I paused. I had no idea what today’s schedule would be. “Shoot me an email, and we’ll set up a time today, okay? And I’ll come retrieve my possessions, too. To let you get settled in.”

  And now it was one minute until Rafferty wanted to see me, I realized as we hung up. I dug in my tote for my shoes, took the black suede pumps out of the silky shoe bag that came with them. What was—? Oh. That mail the senator had delivered yesterday in the storm. I’d noticed the forgotten stack of envelopes as I was leaving this morning, grabbed it from the side table, and stashed it with my shoes. If I left the mail in the bag now, I was sure to forget about it.

  I pulled it out, bills bills bills—and then something else. Even though it was bad news, I burst out laughing.

  The buzz of an intercom almost made me fall off my chair. “Rach?” Tom Rafferty’s voice came through the speaker on my desk. “You ready?”

  I read the postcard again. SECOND REMINDER FROM THE OFFICE OF THE JURY COMMISSIONER.

  NOW

  “Honey? I have some bad news.”

  I look up from my black binders, concerned by Jack’s ominous tone, and try to clear my head from the mind-numbing police jargon that reduces Tassie Lyle’s murder scene to acronyms. TOD, DNA, TBD, UNK. I’ve been at it for hours. After reading the Sunday papers this morning, both of us resolutely ignoring our Friday-evening sparring match over my lunch with Martha, Jack took over the kitchen table with trial-prep work, so I’d commandeered the dining room.

  “What? What bad news?”

  “Nick Soderberg? The intern in your office?”

  “Yeah? What about him? Is he okay?”

  “That phone call?”

  “Jack?” I stand, and a couple of police reports fall to the carpet. I haven’t seen Nick since that first day at the office. According to Andrew, he’s been assigned to cold cases and works in some other part of the building on those unsolved murders. I can’t read Jack’s expression and wonder if he’s trying to figure out how to tell me something horrible about Nick. I’m increasingly aware, after being married almost six years, that Jack’s bad news often has to do with his own life, not someone else’s. But the words bring a chill. “What bad news? What happened? Who called?”

  Jack puts his glasses on the top of his head, peers at me as if I’ve misunderstood. “Like I said. Nick Soderberg. That was him. On the phone.”

  I plop down in my chair, annoyed as hell. Is he trying to annoy me? Or is he simply annoying? Maybe it’s a good thing we find this out now, before we spend every day together as law partners. Maybe, now that I’m almost a lawyer, he’s realizing that he doesn’t honestly see me as a partner. Maybe he doesn’t think I can do it. Maybe Martha’s got a point. Or maybe he’s the same as he always was and it’s me who’s different.

  In which case it might be Jack who’s baffled.

  “Oh, okay.” I try to be pleasant, try to find common ground, try to be a partner, try not to be judgmental, try not to make him mad. “You scared me. I thought—well, I don’t know. Anyway, what’s up?”

  “You ‘have’ to go to the office, Nick says. As soon as you can get there. Apparently Gardiner’s calling her troops together, for whatever reason. He didn’t say. And I didn’t ask. None of my business.” Jack puts his palms together, as if in prayer. “And forgive me, honey, but it was a while ago. I meant to tell you, but I got distracted.”

  If flames could explode from my head, I’m sure they would. And I don’t have time to respond, either to yell at Jack or attempt to make peace. I settle for an openmouthed silence, two beats maybe, before I whirl and sprint upstairs.

  I get to the office on fumes, my own fumes, and I barely remember making the drive. I’d thrown on jeans and a blazer, then slapped on makeup bit by bit at various stoplights, using the obstacles for my benefit this time. Leon greets me at the front desk with an inquisitorial look at his watch, and waves me through to the conference room. I know it’s 4:00 P.M. on a Sunday. So what?

  Now the corridor is empty, hallway lights off and most doors closed, but in the conference room the ceiling fluorescents are on full.

  At one end of the long rectangular conference table sits Martha Gardiner, wearing a beige sweater and khakis, arms crossed over her chest. She barely glances at me as the door creaks open. Andrew DiPrado and Elijah Lansberry sit next to each other, their backs to me, legal pads in front of them. Opposite Gardiner, Nick Soderberg stands in front of an easled whiteboard, a thick black marker in one hand.

  On the board, printed in black marker, is a name. Danielle Zander.

  PART

  TWO

  BEFORE

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  JACK KIRKLAND

  “Jack? Yoo-hoo. Where are you? Have you heard one thing I’ve said?”

  Jack felt Clea’s toes probe his ankle, then climb up under his pants leg. The other patrons of Gallery wouldn’t notice, couldn’t, since the white cloth over the restaurant’s dinner table chivalrously concealed her teasing advances. He wasn’t in the mood for what was apparently on her mind, not now, not even with Clea Rourke. All he cared about was that jury. The three-week murder trial had flown by some days, other times it felt like it dragged on for a lifetime. For his client, Deacon Davis, it was a lifetime. When this thing was over, if Jack didn’t win, Deke’s life would be over, too.

  “And that’s the hell of it,” he said out loud. He swirled the cubes in his empty gl
ass, aching for another Scotch, but it wouldn’t be prudent, not on the night before the last day of testimony. Possible testimony. He had so much to do. Plans to make. Preparations. Homework. Being out to dinner was bordering on malpractice. But Clea had persisted. You need to eat, she’d coaxed, wheedled, insisted. All true, physiologically, but not in this restaurant packed with Boston’s Beacon Hill big shots. A high-priced, four-star, mahogany-and-leather sanctuary in the shadow of the statehouse, Gallery was a see-and-be-seen place. Which Clea craved. And she didn’t care obviously, about what he loved. Winning.

  “Hell of what?” Clea sipped from her glass of red, her second.

  She’d left her toes where they were, kneading his leg softly, a gentle under-the-table reminder that off-the-record could happen in more ways than one. Not that she was covering the trial—they couldn’t go that far—but she knew the elements of this case. Even though she wanted to be a big-time reporter, and she was savvy enough to do it, for now she was the ratings-bait morning anchorperson. She relied on the prompter, recited whatever news they gave her to read, looked pretty, and prattled with the weather guy.

  “Damn Martha Gardiner.” Jack rattled his ice cubes again. Maybe the residual Macallan would melt and release some vestige of alcohol. “And that judge, too. She’s a former prosecutor. Like they all are. Crap, might as well be paid by the DA. She’s never, not freaking once, sustained one of my objections. Sure, she kept out Davis’s criminal record, because she knows that’d be reversible. But Gardiner? Her blue-blood BFF—is that what you call them? Can do no wrong. And Deacon himself. He’s insisting on testifying.”

  “He’s going to testify? He has a criminal record?” Clea leaned forward, eyes wide, planting her elbows on the table, fingers entwined beneath her chin as if in prayer. “Really?”

  Where was the waiter? Jack needed a check, he needed to pay, he needed to go home and figure out a way to win this thing. He remembered that old movie The Verdict. When some lawyer had whined “I did my best,” the supposedly evil James Mason had sneered back at him. “You’re not paid to do your best,” Mason said. “You’re paid to win.” Jack always recited the line along with him. Damn right.

  If Deacon Davis testified, swore he didn’t kill Dr. Oreoso, would it help them win? Problem was, legally, Jack could not refuse to let him do it. If the client wanted to testify, the client got to testify. It was his absolute right. And if anyone ever learned Jack had twisted his arm not to, it was Jack’s ass that would be in a sling. But Jack was trying to do what was best for his client. He always did.

  Jack signaled, arm raised, but the waiter, a white-haired field marshal in a dinner jacket, ignored him and turned left instead. He pulled open the mahogany-and-stained-glass door Jack knew led to a plush and private party room in the back. The final notes of “Happy Birthday” and a fragment of applause escaped before the door was closed again.

  “Jack?” Clea was caressing his leg again. “Please, please tell me. I know it’s not exactly—you know, exactly fair. And the criminal-record stuff—Jack? Are you listening to me? I’ll get brownie points. They’ll understand that I have sources. This would be so big. For me. And Jack, he’s guilty, so nothing will matter in the long run. Right?”

  He hated when she did this. It was her job, he supposed. But what about his? Every damn thing was on the line. He tuned her out in self-defense.

  “Sir? Miss Rourke? Dessert?” Their waiter strode to their table, leather-bound folder in hand, and saved Jack from a sarcastic answer. Dating a TV anchor, if “dating” was what they were doing, was a minefield. She was intelligent and she was attractive and, fine, she’d pitched some stories to her editors that made him look good. But right now, he was pretty sick of her. She could not let up. She could not let go. For one damn moment, could she not let it be about his life? His case? And the jury was not supposed to be watching television anyway—she should know that. They’d have to tell the judge if they did. It was too risky.

  “Clee?” he said. Please say no to dessert, he thought. I have to go home and work. Alone. “I know you have to get up early.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah. I’m working on something big now.” She stopped. Twinkled at him. “Unless—are you…?”

  Hell no. “Yeah, no, I’ve got stuff to do.” He turned to the waiter. “Just the check.”

  The door to the party room had opened again, a flash of light and a peal of laughter signaling the change. A line of partiers began to cluster out of the room, chatting and gesturing, not bothering to hide evidence of their celebration. A laughing dark-haired woman, carrying a pile of unwrapped white gift boxes, wore a silver pointy hat, the elastic snapped under her chin. A younger woman had a red ribbon draped around her neck.

  Clea turned in her seat, leaned forward, squinting. “That’s Senator Tom Rafferty. See? In the navy coat? Graying hair? Broad shoulders? Whoa. Someone plunked down a lot of Massachusetts taxpayer money for that birthday party. Do you see his wife? She can’t be that little blond with the ribbon.”

  Clea turned back to him, questioning. When he didn’t answer, she turned back. The group was now nearing their table, on their way to the front door.

  “I always wanted to see her. Nina Rafferty, I mean. Wait, maybe the dark-haired woman in the birthday hat? Long wavy hair? Black coat? Right behind Rafferty, talking to him. Is that her? She is pretty, but I’ve gotta say, she doesn’t look old enough.”

  The laughter came closer.

  “Jack?” Clea leaned toward him. “What on earth is that expression on your face?”

  From the moment the door opened, Jack had wished he could hide his face with his place mat or the wine list. Maybe he could duck under the table, ostensibly hunting for something, until the group went by.

  Too late now. Lightning fast, his brain cataloged the possible issues and rules. He analyzed the possibilities. Came to a conclusion. He was not allowed to have any contact with her outside the courtroom.

  The woman in the birthday hat, as Clea had called her, came closer. He knew exactly who she was. Juror Number Four. Rachel North. Beacon Hill staffer. The one who kept looking at her watch. He’d pegged her as a possible guilty vote, wanting to get the murder trial over with. A law-and-order hardliner. Had to be.

  North paused at their table, head tilted, seeming to search for context. It took her about three seconds. “Oh,” she said. She touched her silly hat. “Um.”

  Jack nodded. She had gray eyes, he saw.

  “Rachel? You called for the car?” The man Jack knew was Senator Tom Rafferty had caught up to her. Looked at Jack for a beat. Then at Clea. He held out a jovial hand.

  “Well, well, Clea Rourke,” he said. “Big fan.”

  Clea beamed. Jack watched her drink in the attention. Chin lifted, eyes shining. This was what she lived for. The spotlight, the glory, the access. She’d been squirreling away sources, Jack knew, always pitching herself for some investigative reporter job. Tom Rafferty would be a valuable catch.

  “How was your dinner?” Clea asked, shaking his hand. “Do you have a February birthday?”

  “My chief of staff does. She’s—” He turned, but Rachel North had gone.

  “This is Jack Kirkland,” Clea said. “He’s—”

  “Of course. Old buddy.” Rafferty nodded, interrupting. He looked at Jack’s empty Scotch glass, or maybe he didn’t. “Interesting.”

  Rafferty pulled a pair of black leather gloves from his overcoat pockets. Pointed them at Clea. “You two have a nice evening, then.”

  “What was that all about? Does he hate you or something?” Clea, frowning, leaned across the table, whispering as Rafferty strode away. “And I was going to give him my card, damn it.”

  “He doesn’t hate me,” Jack said. The waiter, with the check flap on a silver tray, was approaching. About time. “He’s a lawyer, too. I knew him from school. Probably wonders what the hell I’m doing at Gallery, with you, during my murder trial.”

  RACHEL NORTH

&nbs
p; Jury duty was going to kill me. When I got back from court today, I clicked on my office computer, but the glow of the screen did nothing to improve my Tuesday afternoon mood. February was gloomy and miserable. Exactly like me.

  I was juggling my entire life. Doing my civic duty in court in the morning. Doing my civic duty to Senator Rafferty and the Commonwealth of Massachusetts in the afternoon. But I’d manage, like I always did, and it was all for the best. Tom—the senator—said he was proud of me. So maybe it wouldn’t kill me. If the senator was happy, I could manage anything.

  Today was “motions,” the judge semi-explained, so my fellow jurors and I spent most of the morning in the jury room, talking about the Red Sox and nothing. One woman, Roni Wollaskay, seemed simpatico, and even a potential campaign donor. Her husband had big money, she’d confided in me, from their furniture store. So I’d keep her close, and see where that went. It was all about Tom. Strictly professional, naturally, but my job, and my life, were always about Tom.

  Plopping my tote bag under my desk, I jammed my coat on the rack, flipped off my boots, slid on my shoes, and took a deep breath. The memories of last night flooded back. Those, certainly, were warm.

  And I was still floating. It had been sweet of Senator Rafferty—I had to call him that—to throw the party for me. Only a few staffers attended, including that Dani Zander, who’d fussed over the senator like a schoolgirl. Nina, out of town, had sent her regrets, the senator said. Wonder if he’d given her the necklace. How she liked the golden stars. He’d presented me a brass paperweight wrapped with a red ribbon, engraved with a silhouette of the statehouse. Dani had taken the ribbon and tied it around her own neck. I’d heard her giggle to Tom that now she was a present. Disgusting.

  Now the senator’s green “in office” light was off, so he was gone, though there was nothing on his schedule. “And I would know, wouldn’t I?” I said out loud. He must have been grabbing lunch.