The Murder List Read online

  “The other night…” I couldn’t help but say. “When you gave me—”

  “Oh, right. Sorry about that, Rachel,” he said. “As you heard, I had to run before I could explain. But my wife—Nina? Was in the car. And when we left the statehouse, I realized I had it with me, but I couldn’t let her see that box. Her birthday present, you know? We were right in your neighborhood. So. I made up the envelope thing. Just got one from my briefcase. And now I’m also here to pick it up. The box.”

  I touched a finger to my neck, then yanked it away. It wasn’t for me. The necklace, golden stars, wasn’t for me. I shouldn’t even know it was a necklace.

  The world inside my head went white, then black, and I could hear my own heart beating. I was an idiot, a full-fledged, freaking, devastatingly humiliated idiot. I hated this man, loathed him with every cell of my humiliated soul. Who would even put a person in that position?

  A man who loved his wife, Rachel. And wanted to surprise her and trusted an employee with a special gift. The answer was so simple.

  But you, Rachel, you are living in such a freaking dream world. I could almost hear myself criticize. Who’d be insanely dumb enough to think it was for you?

  “I have to,” I began, “go downstairs to get it.” I managed somehow to smile, and turn away before he could answer. Or ask me anything.

  “You’re in charge, Ms. Chief of Staff,” he said to my back. “I’ll wait for you here. We have a lot to discuss.”

  He’d never know. I reassured myself, a mantra, a refrain, a prayer, as I half ran, half stumbled downstairs to my bedroom. I yanked the bubble wrap from my lowest dresser drawer, I’d kept the wrapping, sentimental idiot that I am, then replaced the golden stars in the precious turquoise box, then rewrapped the whole thing, as if pristine and untouched. My face burned, my eyes brimming with sorrow and hatred and regret and humiliation.

  That man had no idea, none at all, of what he’d done. To me. Of what he’d done to me.

  I stared at myself in my mirror. A full-length portrait of a woman scorned. The bubble-wrapped box was reflected, too, backward, exactly like this entire situation. My brain swirled, sucking me down.

  At that moment, I saw the mirror reflection narrow her eyes. Then the woman in the mirror smiled at me.

  He doesn’t know you wore it, the woman in the mirror reminded me. No one knows, and no one can know.

  I tilted my head, listening, as she explained. She tilted her head, too. “So nothing’s really happened,” I whispered.

  I’d made a mistake. An error. But no harm done. As far as Tom knew, there was nothing amiss.

  I saw the reflection smile. “You win, Rachel,” she told me. And she disappeared.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  “I’ll let you consider my proposition, Rachel, if you need to,” the senator said as I handed him the box. He didn’t even look at it, just tucked it into his jacket pocket. “You’d start whenever Mother Nature allows us to return to work. And with a salary increase commensurate.”

  Even in the strange light, the gloom of the falling snow softening every edge, I could see the hazel flecks in his eyes, the silvery beginnings around his forehead, the tips of his ears still red. I tried to separate what was real and what was my imagination. It was Logan who’d been fired, not me. Maybe it was her own future I’d heard her talking about.

  So much of how we behave depends on what we decide reality is. One wrong decision means every following decision is also wrong. Until we’re trapped in a dead end of our own making.

  He’d felt close enough to me to entrust me with a gift for his wife. That had to be reassuring. An example of respect and comradeship. The proof that he thought of me as an equal. He’d promoted me, after all. It was a business proposition. I was the one ruining it all, ruining it with my juvenile crush, when Tom, the senator, was looking for an adult business relationship. But I win now. Because he’ll never know I’d taken his wife’s necklace for my own. It was better this way. Much better.

  Maybe this outcome proved I knew enough, and was strong enough, to grab the brass ring when it was presented.

  I loved him. But I’d make myself forget about that.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I shift into reverse, wait for a few cars to pull out of the DA’s office parking lot, and contemplate Martha Gardiner’s lunch-table heart-to-heart. “How I spent my summer” will be working a big murder case. And being the protégé of a top-notch prosecutor. And doing valuable personal research. I chose you, she’d said. She believes in me. Even though Jack’s pegged her as Satan in pearls, I win. I get to learn from the best.

  I wonder, as I stare out the windshield, if Jack has also some scoop on our adversary, Lizann Wallace. Maybe I can get him to tell me and use some of that info to impress Martha. Like why Lizann left the DA’s office, and how she got on the murder list.

  I keep my foot on the brake even though all the other cars are gone. I need to stop and consider what direction I’m going.

  Might Martha not be the enemy? If she sees potential in me, for me, and she’s up-front enough to single me out, might it make sense that she’s honestly trying to warn me about—something? She’d talked about women sticking together—or whatever she said—and helping each other, and maybe she was signaling something specific. “I’ve known your husband longer than you have,” she’d said. That was no tossed-off remark.

  Is she trying to protect me from Jack? Or conscript me to harm him?

  I shift into park now, the parking lot deserted and silent, only a few random cars waiting in their yellow-lined spots for owners at work in the office building behind me. Car windows open, I can hear the underscore rumbling of the highway traffic behind a barrier of spindly evergreens. I cross my arms on the steering wheel and rest my chin on my hands.

  Lunch. Martha. Jack.

  She and I had stayed at “lunch” far past three. Sal had brought chocolate-chip cookies, tiny ones, for dessert. Martha had checked in once with Leon, then clicked off without explanation.

  “Can I be honest with you?” she’d asked.

  Which frightened me, because wasn’t she before? But I understood it was simply an expression. “Always,” I said.

  “So, Jack. Your husband. Did he—show you those crime-scene photos he kept out of the security-guard case? Blood on the walls?”

  “He did,” I’d been relieved to say. “He doesn’t keep anything from me.”

  Martha smiled. “I’m sure. Did he tell you how he’d filed a formal complaint against me? With the Board of Bar Overseers?”

  “A complaint? Why?”

  “Ask him, Rachel. He as much as called me a criminal. Oh, the complaint was dismissed. But not before he’d unloaded a complete load of crap. On me.”

  This is thin ice, but I need to defend him. “There must have been a reason.”

  “A reason. Oh. Most certainly.” Martha raised an eyebrow. “I knew his first wife, did he tell you that? Helped her find a divorce attorney. Guess he didn’t approve. So he took it out on me, as well as on Caroline. But. As you say. I’m sure you knew.”

  Jack had told me his ex Caroline was “a nag” and “a princess.” Until now I’d been happy to agree. Now it sounds Neanderthal.

  “Did he tell you about little Tory Makinnis?” Martha continued. “Tory—he was six—was killed by a drunk driver. A driver who Jack had gotten acquitted a week before—after a police officer made a piddly time error on a traffic ticket. Have you asked how he feels about that? Tory’s mother died soon after. Her husband says it was from grief.”

  “Jack doesn’t control the world,” I’d said. “He makes sure everyone follows the rule of law.”

  She’d surprised me by laughing. “The rule? Of law? Oh, my dear. Ask him about Pasco Duff. Who violated a restraining order and killed his wife with a corkscrew. Your husband convinced the jury he was insane. He’s out now, by the way.”

  “Well, you’d have to be insane to kill someone,” I’d
said, wondering if that was true.

  “Ask him.” Martha pointed at me with a forefinger. Then shrugged. “Just so you know. You said he tells you everything. Maybe he—forgot about those things.”

  I wondered where Martha was going with this. I knew Jack hated her. I always thought it was because she’s one of the few who can beat him. Maybe she hates him equally as much. Is that why we were here? So Martha could ruin his marriage by making me disloyal? That seemed—complicated. I steeled myself to ask her. She’s the one who’d said she was being honest.

  But then—as quickly as she’d targeted Jack, she pulled back.

  “I always wanted to be on this side of the law,” she’d revealed, rattling the ice cubes in her empty lemonade glass. “My father was a prosecutor. My mother was a law professor, one of the first women at Yale. So it’s in my family.”

  “My mom was—” I began. Then stopped. Cancer’s a bitch.

  “I know.” Martha nodded. “I’m so sorry. And you were so young. Your father was a single dad, then, after she died? Correct? That must have been a difficult childhood.”

  I’d skirted that, as well. “Yes, he was a lawyer, too.” I told her. “Just, you know, taxes. But I first went into politics, and then…” No reason to go into that, either, I’d decided. Plus, it sounded like she’d backgrounded me. But makes sense she would have. I picked up another cookie instead.

  “He must have taught you, then. Prosecutors have to stay vigilant.” Martha stabbed her straw through the slice of lemon at the bottom of her glass. “Justice never sleeps.”

  “What if you’re wrong, though? You charge the wrong person?”

  “Then let the defense prove that to the jury,” Martha said. “How often do we get the ‘wrong guy,’ as you put it? Let me ask you, Ms. North. What’s the conviction rate for our office?”

  I knew that.

  “Seventy percent? Or so?” I’d answered. “In thirty murders a year or so in Middlesex.”

  “Exactly. And do you think that’s because we cheat? Or lie? Or manipulate? Or we’re wrong?” She rattled her ice cubes again. “No, Rachel. It’s because we work hard. We arrest the criminals. We take an oath, don’t we? To be the ones who help make the world safe. It’s a…” She took a deep breath, as if searching for words. “Powerful responsibility. One I take seriously.”

  “Does anyone ever get away with it?” Risky question. I didn’t want to make her angry.

  “Not if I can help it.” She raised her glass as if asking for more.

  Sal had appeared, silently. Not with more lemonade, but with two tiny chilled glasses filled with lemony liquid, and an ornate bottle to show us it was limoncello. “Beautiful,” he said.

  I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but the sun over the river was golden, and a single finger-winged hawk circled the glowing sky.

  “To justice.” Martha had lifted her glass. “And to us.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Martha didn’t even shift into park when she dropped me off in the DA’s office parking lot a little after five. All the other spaces were empty. I opened the car door, but then, strapped in my seat belt, l turned back to her before I got out.

  “Thanks for the lunch,” I’d said. “And thanks for the insight. On everything.”

  “See you Monday,” she’d said.

  “Have a nice weeke—” I’d begun, but she’d already driven away.

  Now I flinch as a car pulls up behind me, the driver poking me with two quick beeps of his horn. I wave across my rearview—sorry—shift into drive, and head toward home, brain in high gear.

  Martha trusts me. Okay, that’s good. Trusts me enough to make sure I know what she knows about Jack. To warn me. But there’s the problem. Is that trust? Or is that her insidious way of recruiting me? Is she doing opposition research on me? Or maybe—on Jack?

  Which would be hilarious. Because she has no idea I’m doing opposition research on her. Her confidence in me will make that even easier. Lawyers are always in battle, if they’re any good. They’re soldiers of the law. Whichever side they choose.

  Whichever side I choose.

  What a strange way to look at my life.

  Jack’s silver Audi is already in our driveway. I pull up and park beside it, and after a quick glance toward the kitchen window—is he watching me?—I touch the car’s hood with a flat palm. Warm. So he hasn’t been here for long. I laugh out loud at myself. It’s a hot day, so my investigative techniques might not be entirely accurate.

  There’s nothing for him to watch, anyway. I dig for my keys and unlock the door, put my briefcase in the entryway for later.

  “Hey you,” I call out.

  “Hey you.” Jack’s at the kitchen table, laptop open in front of him, cell phone in his hand.

  He puts down the phone as I come toward him, and I plant a kiss on his head. He’s been home long enough to change out of his court clothes and into jeans and a Red Sox T-shirt. And that reminds me. For one sweet homecoming moment, I’d forgotten the last time I’d seen him. In court.

  I feel my irritation itch to the surface again.

  “Anything you want to tell me?” I take two steps away, and as I say it, I can’t keep the tension out of my voice. I’m picking a fight. Something I never do, except if I’m teasing or in mortal combat over the last egg roll. And that makes me even angrier. He picked the fight this morning in court.

  “About what?” He flaps down his laptop.

  “Newton District Court? Judge Harabhati’s session? This morning? Ring a bell?”

  “What about it?” he says. His phone pings with a text, but he ignores it. “Turned out I had to be in court anyway, so I thought I’d surprise you. I wanted to catch up with you after, but looked like you were otherwise occupied. With your new friend. Did you two have a nice day? Did you go shopping, maybe? Shoes?”

  Seriously? This is exactly what Martha was talking about. Always an excuse, and then some kind of demeaning woman thing. I wish I could call him on it. But I don’t want to make him angry, though I’m getting increasingly tired of being the submissive one. Martha chose me.

  “Honey? It’s a tiny bit tiresome, you know? Your attitude? It’s school, for gosh sake. The world is not about you you you.”

  I turn away before he can answer. The whole thing is incredibly disturbing, and unfair, and I’m not sure what I can do to assure him that—well, assure him of what? That I’m doing this for both of us? Am I?

  Maybe I’m too mad to think straight. I know I need to be careful of that.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  BEFORE

  Forget the speed of light. Nothing travels faster than gossip.

  First this morning, one of the previously blasé statehouse security guys tipped his cap to me and even called me “ma’am,” possibly for the first time in my life. A puffer-jacket-clad pack of preteens tramped past me on the 8:15 statehouse tour—and their Park Service guide made them move over to let me go by. Annabella Rigalosa, the powerful statehouse Human Resources director, saluted me with her plastic-topped Dunkin’s foam cup as she hustled past me. Even though she didn’t say anything out loud, she knew.

  What’s public knowledge moves in an instant on Beacon Hill. Secrets only take a few beats longer. Gossip is the fuel of power.

  The elevator had arrived immediately, but that had to be coincidence. As the doors opened on the second floor, the corridor was empty. I turned toward my old office—then stopped. I’d have to clear it out today. Wonder who’d be taking it over? The senator—that’s what I mentally call him now, even though he’d suggested I call him Tom—had instructed me to move to Logan’s. The office right outside his. The gatekeeper office, the one that protected him from intruders.

  I pulled open the stained-glass door, apprehensive. Politics abhors a power vacuum, so when one of us goes, someone has to take their place. I walked more slowly than usual toward Logan’s office—my office. I felt like an interloper. The statehouse was such a revolving door,
like the senator said, there were probably some staff members I hadn’t dealt with yet. All the chess pieces had been rearranged.

  Logan’s door—my door—was closed, but I could see that the light was off. I pictured her, flipping the light switch for the last time. Her lips pressed together, an armful of documents, maybe? An echoing slam of the door and a flounce down the hall. Or maybe—I stopped, trying to be compassionate. Maybe she’d been crying? Why would she be crying? Or maybe she was blissful, happy, enthusiastically off to some fabulous new job where the pay and the health insurance were better and there wasn’t a job-threatening election every two years. Funny what we rely on. Funny what we’ll do to change our lives.

  I knocked on the door. Luckily no one was in the anteroom to laugh at my timid entrée into my new life.

  No answer.

  Okay, then. Here goes Rachel, the new chief of staff.

  “Acting chief,” I muttered. Apparently, there was paperwork that had to go through Director Annabella Rigalosa’s Human Resources Office. Or maybe the senator was testing me.

  The phone began to ring the minute I stepped across the threshold and onto the cheap beige carpet. I dropped my tote bag under the desk and, still in my coat and muffler, I picked up the receiver. My learning curve would be less a curve and more an absolute vertical.

  “Rachel North,” I said, sounding businesslike and confident. And as if I hadn’t just arrived.

  Silence.

  “Hello?” I tried again. I held the receiver between my ear and shoulder, shrugging off my coat, waiting for a reply, surveying my new territory. There was nothing of Logan’s left. Nothing in the bookshelves. Nothing on the chunky glass-topped wood table beneath the window. My view was one thick branch of a snow-covered tree and a hint of some statue and a sliver of what I calculated was Bowdoin Street. My desk, empty. I hung my coat over the wooden rack in the corner. Shook off my salt-stained boots, toe to heel, trying to keep my balance.

  “Hel-lo?” As I walked in stocking feet back to my desk, I could hear someone breathing on the other end of the line and people talking in the background. Maybe a TV?