The Murder List Read online

  “I lust for you, too,” he says. He takes two wineglasses from the cabinet by the sink, tucks a bottle of cabernet under his arm, brings it all to the table as he talks. “But since your ‘Martha’ has no suspect, as you say, and as a result no case, and moreover, even if there were, I couldn’t, as you correctly recognize, take it, then as far as you and I are concerned, there’s nothing privileged or confidential about what happened at the scene. Right?”

  “Well…” I try to untangle his words. In law school, we’re taught not to use compound questions, because it makes it difficult for the witness to give a clear answer. Seems like trial procedure doesn’t count at the kitchen table.

  “Right.” He stabs a corkscrew into the wine bottle, yanks it out, sniffs the cork. Then he salutes me with it, punctuating his verdict. “Sustained. Tell me everything.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Apparently the job of an intern includes daily bafflement. Second day, another quandary.

  Newly arrived at the reception desk, I put down my briefcase and hold up the envelope Leon Colacetti had given me the moment before. “I’m supposed to take this envelope? To Ms. Gardiner? Um, in her office?” I point down the empty corridor.

  Leon leans over from behind his file-strewn desk, hands me a scrap of legal paper. “Nope. Here. And she’s already there.”

  I see what he must mean to be a smile.

  In block-printed black felt-tip pen, the paper shows an address in Newtonville, a once-blue-collar Boston suburb now feeling the march of gentrification from gig-economy millennials.

  “Look for the maroon Crown Vic,” Leon says, looking at his computer screen. His phone blinks green with an incoming call. “You’re going to be even later if you don’t leave now.”

  Why doesn’t he simply tell me what’s going on? He’s cornering the market on passive-aggressive here, but I can play, too. And might as well see if I can elicit some information.

  “Is Ms. Gardiner expecting me? Or am I the early bird?”

  “She predicted you’d be first.” The blinking green light disappears. He takes a sip of coffee.

  I assume it’s coffee, I remind myself.

  “Great,” I say. “Will I need to go inside at this address to find her? Or—”

  Leon turns to me, scratches his cheek with one finger, impatient. I can tell it’s all he can do not to roll his eyes. But how am I supposed to know what to do?

  “You are holding the search warrant for the home of a person of interest in the case you are assigned to.” He speaks with elaborate patience. “Ms. Gardiner, along with her state police investigators, are in their vehicles, three of them, at the address I gave you, waiting for said warrant. They are also waiting for you. That said, I am happy to take some time to elaborate on the search-warrant procedure, if you like, Ms. North.”

  “Got it.” Maybe this is a test, or hazing, or the newbie gauntlet. Maybe he’s just a jerk. Fine. I need to keep everyone happy. “And thank you so much. Next time I’ll know.”

  I walk out of the building and into the parking lot as two car doors slam. Eli Lansberry and Andrew DiPrado converge on me, each carrying a briefcase in one hand and a lidded paper cup in the other.

  “What’s up?” Eli looks at the envelope I’m holding. He gestures at it with his coffee cup. “What’s that?”

  “Where’re you going?” Andrew glances at the front door, then back at me. His red-striped tie is tight up to his neck, and his khaki suit almost looks starched.

  Once again, I have no idea what to say or do. Are my fellow interns supposed to be in on what I’m doing?

  “Apparently interns double as delivery service,” I say, waving the envelope. “Early bird gets the scut work, right?”

  I don’t wait for a reply. And I wonder, as I head for my car, what Leon will tell them. She’s headed to deliver a search warrant in a murder case and then she’ll be there when it’s executed will hardly sound like scut work. I have no idea whether Leon is an ally or is conspiring, for some reason, to make my life miserable.

  I push the ignition. No politics like office politics. And no humiliation like office humiliation. Once the toxic buzz of speculation begins, there’s nothing powerful enough to extinguish it. I back out of the parking space and sneak a glance at the front door as it closes Andrew and Eli in behind it. It’s 8:20, and Nick Soderberg has not arrived. Again—that I know of. Maybe Gardiner, dividing and conquering, has sent him on a mission somewhere as well. Or maybe he’s simply late.

  Halfway to Newtonville, that white envelope is burning a hole in my passenger seat’s upholstery. I let out a breath, imagining some poor guy—guy?—blissfully doing whatever he’s doing this morning, coffee or whatever, when in reality the full force of law enforcement is about to steamroll his life.

  Inside this envelope is their instrument of power. The search warrant includes the person of interest’s name and address and a detailed list of exactly what the detectives will look for there. It’s essentially Martha Gardiner’s outline of her theory about who killed Tassie Lyle and how they did it. Maybe even why. It’s the inside of this case. The rules.

  To my right, a silver convertible, the Red Sox–capped driver impatient, blasts through the red light, making a left turn in front of me. No cops around to catch him, the driver probably figured. So he’ll get away with breaking the law.

  Unlike the poor sap who’s named in this search warrant. Unlike the poor sap whose home—or wherever—is about to be searched within an inch of its life. And whichever of his possessions are listed on the warrant are about to be sorted, labeled, bagged, sealed, and removed. Bags that will seal not only the incriminatory items but his fate. What can link him to the crime? What do the cops look for? Little does this person know—I hum the bum-bum notes of Law & Order—the good guys are on to him. And we are after him.

  What could be ahead for this now-suspect is handcuffs, a miserable stay in the Middlesex jail, a wrenching murder trial, and if all goes as Gardiner plans—life in prison without parole.

  If they can prove he did it, I hear Jack’s voice lecturing me. His defense attorney, whoever that turns out to be, will have other plans for this suspect.

  Exactly why does Gardiner think this person is guilty? I need to think like a defense attorney now.

  BEFORE

  Showing up at midnight on a Friday, uninvited, at a subordinate’s apartment? Manila envelope in hand, I paused, waiting for Tom to answer. Our eyes remained locked, but his expression stayed unreadable. As an employee, it was protocol for me to wait for instructions, and possibly impertinent for me to have asked what was in the envelope he was giving me. But he’s the one who’d thrown protocol out the window.

  “I wondered if you’d ask,” he finally said.

  “Well, yeah. Envelopes at midnight?” I proceeded carefully. Made my tone amused. He had to own this. “I feel like I’m in a bad movie, Senator. I’m not sure of my lines. How can I help you?”

  Tom looked at the carpet, not at all the confident politico I was used to. He jammed his hands into his coat pockets, then looked down at me. He was five inches taller, and never was it more evident than at this moment. I had the power here. He must know that.

  “Well,” he finally said, “I said I needed to deliver an envelope to you. I didn’t explain what was in it. I’m the boss.” He smiled, maybe shy, maybe conspiratorial. “And there you have it. So if anyone asks, you can confirm it.”

  So the line in the sand appears. The decision looms. I’m not naïve, I know what men do and how they behave. The senator had obviously made some decisions. And was acting on them. I couldn’t wait until Monday, he’d said.

  He trusted me, on some level, to pretend what he was doing was aboveboard and acceptable. When, in truth, it was neither of the above. Not even in the old boy “go along to get along” playing field of Beacon Hill. My only play—because office politics are politics, too—was to pretend I believed what he was saying.

  “Constituent complaints
are a never-ending struggle,” I said, placing the envelope on the narrow table under the entryway mirror. “Shall I look at it—now? This weekend?”

  “Whenever you want,” he said. “How are you, Rachel? You know how much I rely on you. How well you understand your job. And me.”

  I saw him glance toward the front window. Which is when I remembered. Wait. I’d seen his car at the curb. Idling. Was someone inside? And if so, that meant there was someone else who knew he was here.

  “Is someone waiting for you?” I asked.

  He frowned, as if that were a loaded question. “At home, you mean?”

  Guilty conscience, I thought. He’s got to be thinking of Nina Perini, his high school sweetheart, prom queen, corporate powerhouse, big-time fund-raiser. Wife of however many years. Not a day goes by when I don’t think of her. Nina Perini. La la la. It’s musical, almost rhymes, like an ingenue in a cheap romance novel. She only uses “Rafferty” when she’s at political events. So very power-woman. Maybe he’s sick of it.

  “No, no,” I said. As if we were having a normal conversation and not negotiating our futures. “In the car. Waiting for you in the car.”

  A look crossed his face again, unreadable. If someone had driven him here, that meant someone could know he’d visited me. A witness. Which meant it might actually be about some papers. Could that be true? The envelope sat there, taunting me from the side table. If he was working late, and had invaded my private space by bringing me some damn paperwork that would as easily have waited until Monday—talk about crossing the line. That was unacceptably imperious. And if there was someone in the car, waiting for him to leave, that was certainly the case. That meant it wasn’t about “us.” It was about him.

  Maybe I had romanticized this whole encounter. Maybe I was a silly girl with a crush. Maybe he was a self-centered narcissist who thought I—and the rest of his staff, probably—had nothing better to do than bow to his every whim.

  I thought about ripping the envelope open.

  I thought about handing it back to him and saying—bring it to my office on Monday.

  I thought about dropping the woolen blanket to the floor, as if I’d forgotten it was there. I would stand here, in my threadbare little T-shirt, and challenge him. What do you want? I could demand. Up in his Beacon Hill office, he wielded the power. He could change my life, certainly. For better or worse. With one word, one gesture, one phone call. But at 22 Lime Street? My territory. He was the visitor. The subordinate. The petitioner. I could do or be or say whatever I wanted. I could also ruin him.

  But I would never do that. Not to him. Not to me. In the silence, I wrapped the heavy shawl even closer. He could help me. He could also ruin me.

  “Is there?” I persisted. “Someone waiting for you?”

  Outside a horn beeped. Twice, polite taps. Tom flinched, hearing them. Looked toward the window. Someone was out there. Waiting.

  I took a step backward, away from him. As much as I longed for him, I also needed to keep my self-respect. And allow him his. Fantasy was one thing. But when it came to a late-night encounter with one’s boss, very few happy endings could be written.

  “I have to go, Rachel.” He’d turned to me again. “But listen. There’s nothing in that envelope. I only wanted an excuse to, well, there’s one more thing. I can trust you, correct? To keep it between us? I know I can.”

  “That’s my job, Senator.” I kept my tone professional. Though this was weird as hell.

  He reached into an inside coat pocket, pulled out a flat book-size box. Robin’s egg blue, I could see through the taped bubble wrap. Turquoise blue. Tiffany blue.

  “Hold on to this, Rachel,” he said. “And soon we’ll talk.”

  And there it was. The doors to two diverging futures opened before me. But being the easy catch was not my style. The horn beeped again, this time insistent.

  “It’s very late,” I said. “And if there’s someone out in the cold, waiting for you to ‘deliver the envelope’”—I gestured toward the window—“you have accomplished that. And now? You should probably go.”

  He held out the box again. Like the horn, this time insistent. “Rachel?”

  I took it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “You’re up to speed?” Gardiner, in the front passenger seat, points at the driver of our maroon sedan, a black-clad guy in a black baseball cap, obviously SWAT, who Gardiner introduced only as Ben. I’m in the back, naturally. Me, she ignores.

  “Got it,” Ben growls. He eases us around the corner.

  Jeffrey Paul Baltrim, white male, five-ten, brown hair, age twenty-eight—as Gardiner just explained—lives two blocks away.

  I touch my seat belt, running a hand down the gray protective webbing snapped across my navy court-worthy jacket. Our lives change so fast. When we least expect it—unless we always expect it—our freedom is snatched away. If he’s poor enough, this guy may get assigned a murder-list lawyer. At this moment, though, our target is defenseless. Is he home? Is he oblivious? Is he worried? Or has he already headed for the hills?

  “Baltrim’s the guy who delivered that pizza to Tassie Lyle,” Gardiner goes on. She’s looking over the warrant as she talks, page two, the list of what they’re allowed to search for. “Confirmed, no question. Lyle ordered it herself, so says the restaurant manager. Baltrim’s a new hire. He never came back to the store after that delivery.”

  “Was she alone when he arrived?” I dare to ask. “Were there witnesses?”

  Gardiner doesn’t answer.

  What might make a jury find him innocent? My brain concocts defense-worthy excuses. It was a mistake. An accident. She made me do it. She deserved it because … whatever. This warrant, a piece of paper signed by a judge, gives law enforcement—us—the right to break down Baltrim’s door.

  We creep toward the house, maybe ten miles an hour. Not a dog barking, not a bird singing, not a lawn mower droning across some needy lawn. I’m in an unmarked car with Ben the SWAT guy, an assistant district attorney, and a search warrant for a suspected murderer’s house. Two black sedans accompany us. How I spent my summer semester.

  “You’ll stay back, Ms. North,” Gardiner says. “Way the hell back. And then—”

  My cell phone rings from my tote bag. Bing-bonging, interrupting Gardiner mid-instructions. It’s Jack. I slam it off, my face burning. Damn it, Jack. But he probably figures I’m behind a desk, reviewing documents. There’s no way he could know where I am. I should be grateful instead of annoyed.

  Gardiner does a full turn, looks at me over the seat back. “If you’re ready, Ms. North?”

  She doesn’t wait for my answer.

  “Do it,” she instructs Ben. “If we find probable cause,” Gardiner goes on, unbuckling her seat belt, “then we’ll—damn. Hang on.” She points out the windshield. The front door of 36 Raeford is opening.

  “Is that him?” I whisper. It must be. Framed in the doorway of the careworn vinyl-sided ranch and wearing a white T-shirt with the smiling pizza logo of Oregano Brothers and jeans is a white male. Brown hair, five ten. Who looks about age twenty-eight. But in front of him is a little boy, maybe five, wearing blue jeans and a Red Sox cap.

  “Plan B,” Gardiner says. “Plan B, Plan B.”

  I hear a radio crackle. Ahead of us and behind us, the two black cars pull away.

  Baltrim, if that’s who it is, has closed the front door, and he and the boy are walking toward the sidewalk. After a few steps, the boy points toward the sky, tripping over his colorful rubber-soled shoes. Baltrim looks up, and I do, too, curious at what’s piqued the child’s interest. Two airplanes’ contrails have crossed above them, making a gigantic white X-marks-the-spot in the cloudless cobalt sky.

  “Okay, Ms. North,” Gardiner says. “The kid is a monkey wrench. But Baltrim’s out of the house. Appears unarmed. Follow my lead. Got it?”

  No, I want to say.

  But Gardiner is opening her door. “Now, Rachel,” she says. “Improvise. Somehow
get his name. Confirm it. Then I’ll take over. The good guys have arrived.”

  I get out of the car and approach our target, attempting to look pleasant. But Gardiner’s improvisation scenario—which means lying—seems misguided. Am I allowed to dupe a person into identifying himself? Trick him? A judge might say no.

  “Excuse me? Sir?” I attempt to sound needy. “We might be lost. We’re looking for Raeford Street?”

  Gardiner’s so close behind me I can almost hear her heart beat. Are we facing a murderer?

  “You found it,” Baltrim eyes us, assessing. “This is Raeford.”

  “This is his house!” The boy, eager to help, points to it. “Number thirty-six. And we’re going to the park. Uncle Jeff says—”

  “That’s enough, Jonah,” Baltrim interrupts the boy. Maybe he didn’t notice the two departing black cars. Maybe he’s not seeing Ben behind the wheel of ours. “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” I say, staying pleasant. Now for the name. “Are you—”

  I hear our car door click open. Ben’s head, only marginally less intimidating without his black baseball cap, appears. And then the rest of him.

  “Uncle Jeff?” The boy’s eyes widen as Ben—a battleship in black boots and webbed straps—walks to the back of the car, then steps around it, toward us. If the child has seen Star Wars, he’ll be terrified. “Who’s that?”

  If we’re supposed to be nonthreatening, this is not how I would have handled it. But what do I know? If Baltrim’s a killer, as they—we—suspect, this morning may be about to take a turn.

  “Jeffrey Paul Baltrim?” Gardiner interrupts. “We’re from the—”

  “Are you a police?” The boy takes a step forward.

  “Run home, Jonah,” Baltrim says. “Your mom’ll be home soon. We’ll go to the park another time.” The boy stays put. Baltrim reaches toward his own back pocket.

  Ben’s fingers poise, warningly, over his holstered weapon. The holster’s snap tab is open. “State police. Let’s see your hands.”