“My God.” Mary leaned back in her chair, recoiling from the knowledge. “Trevor’s been playing you all along. He gave you drugs before you went over, knowing they’d screw up your perceptions, maybe even put you out of it. I don’t know enough about drugs, but I bet they have ’em. You may have heard your mother yelling, but it was him she was kicking. He killed your mother, then he told you that you did it.”
“He planned on my father confessing?”
“I doubt it. Trevor couldn’t have known your father would take the rap, but he took advantage of the opportunity. Either way, he gets your money. And if he’s the killer, he’s got the bruises to prove it. Did you notice any bruises on him later?”
“No, but I wasn’t looking. How can we find out? Can we get the police to examine him, like with me?”
“No. You volunteered, and I doubt very much he’ll chirp right up. The cops can examine Trevor if he’s under investigation for the crime, but he’s not, so far.” Mary kicked herself again. “I should have thought of it at the FBI, when they were questioning him. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say that, remember?” Paige smiled. “You didn’t suspect him then.”
“I should have.”
“He would have explained the bruises another way, Mary. He’s a liar.”
Suddenly the conference room door opened, and Judy walked in carrying a FedEx package. She was a welcome sight, even in a black corduroy jumper, white turtleneck, and red clogs. “News update, Mare,” she said. “I ordered you both lo mein for dinner, I told our boss you’re too sick to come to work, and most important, I brought you a present.”
“What a woman.”
“I’m more nurturing now that I have a dog.” Judy handed over the FedEx package, and Mary opened it. Out slid a piece of white paper with a Polaroid photo clipped to it.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Mary said, amazed. CRIMINALISTICS LABORATORY REPORT, Philadelphia Police Department, read the top. She might have gotten it later, in discovery, but somebody wasn’t making her wait. Brinkley. He was trying to help her, even if he wasn’t returning her calls. She scanned the report, technical but understandable. “This says the DNA on something, Item B, was from a white male.”
“Yowsa!” Judy squinted at the Polaroid. “Could this be Item B?”
Mary looked. It was a photo of an earring back against the field of an Oriental rug. What was this about? Where had she seen that rug? “Paige, isn’t that the rug at your parents’ house?”
Paige stood up and took the photo from Mary’s outstretched hand. “That’s our dining room rug.”
“I thought so.” It was where Honor Newlin had been killed. Mary scrutinized the photo. “If Brinkley sent this to us, it means it’s a police photo. They take photos of the evidence at the crime scene. This must be an earring back they found there. And the lab report is saying it’s from a male.”
Paige pointed at the photo. “I know! I bet this is Trevor’s. He didn’t have his earring on later.”
“What do you mean, later?” Mary asked.
“Later that night, after my mother was killed. I’d given him a new earring earlier that day, for a present. It was a gold cross with a post back. But when we got back to my place, it wasn’t in his ear anymore. Somebody, I guess the police, must have found this back part.”
Mary thought about it. “Brinkley found it in the dining room.”
“That must be right,” Paige said eagerly. “Trevor was freaked that he lost it. I thought he was upset because it was eighteen carat, but he must have been worried the police would find it at my parents’ house.”
Mary nodded grimly. “Maybe he lost it fighting with your mother, when he killed her.”
“Does this prove anything?”
“The earring back? No. It’s a given Trevor has been at your parents’ house. He said so to the FBI, remember? That’s probably why they asked. If he were confronted with it, he could say he dropped it some other time.”
“No, he couldn’t. He has been there before, but he never had that earring before. I gave it to him that day.”
“But they didn’t find the earring, they found the back of it. The earring we could identify, but the backs are all alike. It could be an earring back Trevor lost another time, even if it is his DNA on it. It doesn’t prove anything except that there are good cops in the world.”
Judy touched Mary’s arm. “Cheer up. You’ll think of something else.”
“I will?” Mary said, but to her surprise, she already had.
46
Davis was at the office working on his laptop, outlining the Newlin case. He’d already gotten two calls from that scumsucker Roberts, but hadn’t returned them yet. Let him waste his own time. Roberts had yet to defend a murder case in an actual courtroom. He’d be even easier than DiNunzio. The phone rang and Davis picked up.
“Go away,” Davis said, but it was the Chief. “What? They went to Walsh? Why didn’t he call me, Chief? Doesn’t he know we’re on the same team? Left hand, meet the right hand.” Davis laughed it off, but the news caught him by surprise. Newlin’s daughter, trying to confess to Walsh. This was one wacky family. Newlin must have figured she’d do something like this. That’s why he wanted to notify her himself. He wanted to play her, too.
“No bruises? I like that in a woman. Did they take Polaroids anyway?”
Davis reached for his Gatorade, almost buried in documents from Newlin’s office. The wife’s will was on top because he’d been studying it when the phone rang. Under the will, documents lay thick as the earth’s strata; financials from Newlin’s firm and partnership compensation, and the other documents they had seized. It was late but Davis would read through them before he went for a run.
“What? Then where? To the feds?” Davis’s mood darkened. “Those idiots! They got a tag on the boyfriend. You think they could let me in on it? They’re worse than the cops, Chief! Fuck no! I don’t have time to call ’em and suck up!”
Davis didn’t like his plans interrupted. On his computer screen was a list of witnesses they’d need to subpoena from the firm; Whittier, Field, Videon. He’d planned to have Whittier explain the compensation structure, then use Videon to take them through the prenup and his conversation with Honor Newlin. Davis hated to use the Necessary Evil, but he’d have to. If Davis spent the day preparing him, maybe he wouldn’t mouth off on the stand.
“Of course the boyfriend said she didn’t do it. She didn’t do it! The father did, like I told you. Now let me work. Keep this up and I’ll ask for a raise!” Davis said, and hung up.
Maybe it was time for that run.
Jack stood in Detective Brinkley’s galley kitchen, his hand resting lightly on a chair of light wood at a round table. A fake Tiffany lamp over the table was the only light in the room and it cast long shadows on Brinkley’s already long face. The kitchen was attached to the living room and, like it, was spare and uncluttered, with mismatched furniture. A black IKEA entertainment center dominated the area, with only a small TV above a stereo with tall, thin speakers and shelves of CDs. Jack was too intent to focus on decor for long. He had a plan for getting the information he needed about Trevor. “I have a beef with you, Detective,” he said.
“Nice face.” Brinkley was crossing to the refrigerator. “You run into a truck?”
Jack ignored it. “You’ve been saying things in the press, things that are hurting my family. The paper says you think my daughter and her boyfriend were involved in the murder. You have it all wrong. I did it.”
“That why you came here? To tell me what a bad guy you are?” Brinkley retrieved two bottles of Michelob from the refrigerator and two jelly glasses from a wood cabinet above the sink, then set everything on the table with a clatter. “Have a seat,” he said, sitting down and eyeing Jack as critically as he had at their Roundhouse interview.
Jack remained standing. “The press is all over my daughter because of you. She can’t go anywhere. I came here to tell you that you’re ruining
my kid’s life. You keep this up, I’ll file suit against you and the police. You don’t have any evidence for what you’re saying. It’s not true, none of it.”
“You know, you are a bad guy, Newlin. Even though you didn’t kill your wife, you’re a bad guy.” Brinkley uncapped the beer with a church key that was already on the table. “You filed a false confession. You played my department for fools. You took public resources for your own personal use. Got everybody running in the wrong direction. And got me suspended, for doing my job.”
“You didn’t answer my question. You have any evidence for what you’re saying?” Jack demanded. He knew what Brinkley was saying was true, but he couldn’t admit it. The detective could report him to get his job back.
“You took the rap for your kid and her boyfriend, but that wasn’t right. It was easy but it wasn’t right. The right thing woulda been to let these kids answer for what they did.” Brinkley took a sip of one of the Michelobs and slid the other one toward Newlin. “And you’re a bad liar, pal. I’m thinkin’ you’re just about the worst liar I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen some real morons. I picked up a guy, long time ago. He’s standing on the street, talkin’ to his buddies, holding a TV.” Brinkley spread his arms wide, the brown bottle in one hand. “Like this big. I mean, holding the friggin’ TV, right on the street. So me and my old partner, we’re beat cops, we come walkin’ around the corner just by chance, the worst luck of this guy’s life.” Brinkley started to laugh. “And we say, ‘Hey, what are you doin’ with that TV?’ And the dude says, ‘What TV?’ I mean, ‘What TV?’ ” Brinkley burst into laughter.
Standing there, Jack didn’t know what to do. He was trying to talk tough, but the detective was in hysterics. He felt like a complete idiot in his I LOVE PHILADELPHIA jacket, with a face that a truck hit, and he knew that Brinkley was right. Jack wasn’t a good liar; he’d worried about that from the beginning. And he was so tired, and so worried, and so sick at heart, that he could do only one thing. What TV? He started to laugh. He laughed so hard that he had to sit down behind his untouched beer and glass. And when he finally stopped and wiped his eyes, Brinkley was wiping his, too, with a napkin from a stack on the table.
“Well, Newlin,” the detective said, still smiling. “Let’s get down to it. You got your tit in a wringer and you came to me for help. You’re worried I’m gonna turn you in, but I won’t. Anything we say is off the record.”
“How do I know that?”
“You have my word.”
Jack considered it. If he told the truth, Paige was on the hook for murder. If he didn’t, she could be killed by Trevor. Momentarily stalled, he reached for his beer and took a swig.
“Let me make this easy, as my partner would say. We’ll skip over how we got here and go straight to what happens next. I agree with you, your daughter is in deep shit. She’s at least an accessory to murder, but I think the boyfriend is the doer.”
Jack’s gut tightened at hearing his suspicion confirmed. Trevor had killed Honor, not Paige. All this time. “If that’s true, then Paige is in danger, from Trevor.”
“Not yet. He’s been in custody all day, on a drug charge.”
“Drug charge?” Jack said, astounded. Paige’s boyfriend? How had this happened? Had he been blind?
“The feds should be letting him go about now.” Brinkley checked his watch. “Where’s your daughter?”
“I don’t know.” Jack stood up in alarm. “I called but she’s not home.”
“She was at the FBI today with the lawyer, DiNunzio,” Brinkley said, rising.
“Paige, at the FBI with Mary? That’s not possible. How do you know that?”
“Friends in high places.”
“Oh, no.” Jack pieced it together in a flash. Paige must have decided to tell the truth, gone to Mary, and then to the police and the FBI. “We’ve got to get going,” he said, but Brinkley was already reaching for his coat.
47
Cold air blasted Mary and Paige the moment they pushed through the revolving door of the office building and hit Locust Street. Mary felt her nose turn instantly red and her cheeks chap on impact. She finger combed her hair into place, knowing it was useless. She shouldn’t have been worrying about how she looked anyway. Here she was, going to visit a client. Well, not a client anymore. Did that make it okay to have a crush on him? “Let’s get a cab,” she said anyway. “It’s too cold to walk.”
“The hotel is only ten blocks or so. Dad left the name of it on my machine.” Paige flipped up the collar of her black jacket and squinted against the harsh wind. “We can walk.”
“Of course we can, but we don’t have to.” Mary squinted up and down the street but there were no cabs. The street was dark, and traffic heading toward Broad Street was sparse. A man walked by in a wool topcoat and a knit cap, his muffler flying at his neck. At this time of night he’d be heading toward Suburban Station. Not a cab in sight. “Why are there more lawyers than cabs in the world? Cabs are more useful and often smell better.”
“Come on, Mary,” Paige said, buttoning a latch at the top of her coat. “Walking is good exercise.”
“All right.” Mary turned reluctantly toward Market and the hotel. “I’m not the type who cares if my hair looks like shit.”
“Me neither.” Paige fell into step beside Mary. “I’ve wasted too much time worrying about my hair. And my weight. And my eyes. And my hips.”
Mary caught a faceful of city wind that would drive soot into her contacts and redden her eyes, for that Cujo look. “I never worry about what I look like.”
“Kind of weird to think you’ve spent your whole life on all the wrong things. With the wrong people.”
“You’re only sixteen.” Mary put her head down against the wind. If this kept up, she’d have bugs on her teeth. “Your whole life hasn’t started yet.”
“And I’ve screwed it up already,” Paige said, her tone quiet, and Mary looked over, since it sounded strangely like something she would say. Paige’s head was down, and her hair blew back in a silky sheet of red, as if she were standing in front of a photographer’s fan. But she didn’t look like a model anymore, with her hand carried protectively in front of her tummy. Behind her was a dark, closed-up store, and Paige seemed so alone that Mary took her arm impulsively.
“You know, I don’t agree with you.”
“No?” Paige didn’t remove her arm.
“Not in the least.” Mary kept walking with Paige’s arm in hers, enjoying the chumminess of it. She missed working with Judy on this case, but this was almost as good, and for once, Mary was the smart one. “I think you have made a rather large mistake and are trying like hell to correct it. You walked into a police station today and begged them to arrest you for a murder that it turns out you didn’t commit. That takes guts.”
“Like father, like daughter,” Paige said, and Mary laughed.
“You think it’s genetic? You Newlins run around confessing to major felonies? Have excessive guilt complexes?” Mary’s teeth chattered against the cold, and a crumpled newspaper blew down the sidewalk like urban tumbleweed. Another man hurried by on the street, his tartan scarf wrapped up to his nose. The cold and wind seemed suddenly hostile to Mary. She decided she didn’t like the city in winter after all, and squeezed Paige’s arm protectively. “You sure you’re not Catholic?”
Paige smiled. “Can I ask you a question? It’s kind of personal.”
“That’s the only kind I answer. The rest is all small talk, and who cares about that?”
“It’s about abortion.”
“Okay, I’m all ears.” So much for feeling smart. Mary had her own views, but it was so personal. The wind blew harder on the other side of the street, making it rough going, or maybe it was the conversation. They reached the corner and crossed against the traffic light, since there were no cars. “Fire away.”
“Well, you know I’m pregnant. What do you think I should do?” Paige looked over just as a gust of cold air hit them, and Mary co
uldn’t take the cold anymore. She turned reflexively to put her back to the wind, which was when she saw him. A tall figure in a black ski mask and parka stood halfway down the block, aiming a gun at them.
“Get down!” Mary screamed. She didn’t have time to think, only to react. She threw an arm around Paige, who was turning to her in confusion, and yanked her down to the sidewalk just as a gunshot rang out. Mary’s chest slammed into the sidewalk and the heel of her palm skidded against the cold concrete. The explosive crak reverberated down the street, and she covered Paige’s head with her arm.
“Mary!” Paige shouted in panic. “What’s happening?”
“Stay down!” Mary raised her head to look back. Another shot sounded, echoing with a sickening report, and flame spit from the gun. Mary ducked reflexively. She had no idea where the bullets flew. Fear gripped her. She couldn’t think. It was so sudden. The figure began to run toward them. There was no one else on the street. He would kill them. They couldn’t stay here.
“Get up! Run!” Mary shouted and scrambled to her feet, yanking Paige up by her arm. “Help!” she kept screaming, and so did Paige, terrified, but there was no one around. They tore down the block, their coats flying.
Mary’s chest heaved with effort. Her pumps slipped on the frigid sidewalk. Ahead lay the lights of the city center. She looked frantically around for escape routes. There were none. It was a straight line and they couldn’t outrun a bullet. He’d hit them for sure.
She bolted down the street with Paige. Ahead lay an alley on the right. It had to go through to the street. Most of them did.
Mary glanced over her shoulder. The figure was running full tilt, holding his gun stiff at his side. He covered ground fast, his stride long. He was big and strong. His eyes were black holes. Who was it? Trevor, had to be. She should have known. Paige had blown his cover and now he was after her. Them both.