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  Mike kept his sleeve tucked in his pocket as they approached. “I wonder when was the last time Clifton had a murder case.”

  “Three years ago, there was a murder after a domestic dispute.” Bob strode along, his topcoat flying open. “This neighborhood has a higher per capita income than Wilberg, and the school district’s better, but we didn’t buy here because I wanted new construction.”

  Mike felt as if he needed to reestablish a rapport, since the disagreement at Don’s. “I appreciate your help tonight.”

  “Happy to do it. But let me do the talking in there, okay?”

  “All right,” Mike answered reluctantly, as they hurried past the reporters, climbed the steps to the entrance, and went through the glass door, which led to a rectangular anteroom ringed by blue chairs. Two township employees in ID badges sat in the corner drinking coffee, but Mike crossed to the Plexiglas window on the right, which was staffed by a female police officer. He was about to speak to her when Bob cut in front.

  “Excuse me,” he said in a low tone, glancing over his shoulder. He introduced himself and Mike, then added, “I’m an attorney with The Ridgeway Group. District Attorney Sanford James is expecting us.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Ridgeway.” The officer rose, vanished from the window, then returned after a moment. “Sir, the door to your right will buzz. Come in and I’ll meet you.”

  “Thanks.” Bob and Mike were admitted into a spacious, well-lit squad room that contained a honeycomb of gray cubicles, their walls plastered with kids’ school pictures, peewee football leagues, calendars, and official notices. A white dry-erase board hung between two windows in the back, with black Sharpie scribbles: Jim S. On call 2/7 through 3/4. Dave E. On call 3/5 through 2/11. They followed the officer down a hallway with doors marked INTERVIEW ROOM A, B, and C. The door to Interview Room C hung open, and the officer showed them inside.

  “Here we go,” she said, gesturing to a compact young woman in a slate gray pantsuit, who stood up, flashed a professional smile, and extended her hand.

  “Hello, gentlemen, I’m Jane Marcinko, an Assistant District Attorney working on the Sara Hambera case.” Jane was attractive, with hazel eyes and strawberry blonde hair, cut short. Freckles covered her small nose, and the only flashy part of her generally conservative demeanor were glasses with a cherry red bridge and stems. “I was asked by District Attorney James to meet with you, as he had to leave. I also spoke with Don Hambera on the phone, so I know the situation.”

  “Excellent.” Bob paused. “Wait, didn’t you go to law school with Mary Trestlemenn?”

  “Yes, we were at Villanova together.”

  “I thought so.” Bob smiled. “Mary works for me. I met you at her wedding last month. You played a sonata on the piano, right? An original composition?”

  “Right! I remember you, now.” Jane’s eyes lit up behind her colorful glasses. “Oh no, my playing was off that night.”

  “Not at all.” Bob grinned. “You clerked for the Third Circuit, as I recall. Did you enjoy your clerkship?”

  “Loved it.” Jane smiled, and Mike hid his impatience with the small talk, though Bob was only warming up.

  “Clerking is such a valuable experience. Everybody should do it.”

  “I agree.” Jane nodded. “Did you?”

  “No, I had to work, but I regret it, one of my two regrets in life. One, that I didn’t clerk and, two, that I don’t play jazz piano.”

  “Ha! Then I’m two for two.”

  “You play jazz piano, too?”

  Mike couldn’t take it another minute. “To cut to the chase, I have the email—”

  “Mike, please.” Bob glanced at Mike with a stiff smile, then turned back to Jane. “Jane, Dr. Scanlon is my brother-in-law, and he just returned from Afghanistan, where he served as an Army doctor.”

  Jane turned to Mike. “It’s an honor to meet you, though I’m sorry about these circumstances. Don told me why you’re here, on the phone.”

  Bob interjected, “Then you know that we have the email of a man who was having an affair with Dr. Scanlon’s late wife, and Dr. Scanlon believes there’s a possibility that whoever murdered Sara Hambera did so because she knew about the affair and wanted to keep it quiet.”

  Mike shook his head. “Wait, no, I think it’s more than a possibility, it seems likely to me. These women were best friends, and the email shows that Sara knew and disapproved of the affair. Here, take a look.” He pulled the email from his inside pocket and handed it over, and Jane’s eyes went back and forth as she read it, her lips flattening, then she looked up.

  “Do you have any evidence to support this theory, Dr. Scanlon?”

  “It’s common sense, and it provides a motive for an apparently random crime. I’m hoping that you can find out who is registered to the email address of Mac702@wahoo.com or trace the ISP address to find the identity.”

  “We could find that ISP address without a problem, but that would take us only to a private network, business, or large private service provider, like Comcast.”

  “That’s a start, isn’t it?” Mike asked, encouraged.

  “It’s a start that doesn’t lead anywhere. Once we find out the ISP address, then we have to penetrate the private company, or Comcast, to find out to whom in the company or network the ISP address belonged. To do that we would need a court order.”

  “Okay, so get one.”

  “The court will deny any request for such an order, in this case. The same goes for trying to subpoena the information from the host site. We’d lose.”

  “Why?”

  “Think about the logic of the request, and you’ll understand.” Jane eased her glasses up higher onto her nose. “You’re asking me to find out the identity of Mac702, because you believe that he murdered Sara so that the affair would remain a secret. You have no factual basis for that, only your speculation.”

  “But the murder occurred right after I sent him an email, saying I was coming after him.” Mike caught Bob’s eye and didn’t mention the assault case. “So he knew the jig was up.”

  “That establishes a temporal connection between the sending of your email and the murder, but not a logical connection. That’s not proof, in other words.”

  “I can’t get the proof if I can’t get the information.” Mike thought hers was a circular argument. “Once we find out who Mac702 is, then we know if there’s a connection.”

  “It doesn’t work that way under the Constitution. There’s a privacy interest that needs to be protected.”

  “The privacy of a killer?”

  “You’re putting the rabbit in the hat. We don’t have any evidence that Mac702 is a killer.” Jane cocked her head. “If your wife had been murdered, that would be a different case. Then I might have a factual basis for believing that Mac702 was a suspect. But that’s not the case we’re positing. This is the murder of a friend of hers, which is too tenuous a connection.” Jane opened her hands, palms up. “I wouldn’t even ask for an order in this case.”

  “What’s the harm in asking? Why not go to court and see if the judge grants it?”

  “If we go to court and ask for an order without a factual basis, we undermine our office.”

  Mike bristled. “Aren’t you supposed to be thinking about Sara? And justice?”

  Bob shot him a warning glance, but Mike ignored it, and Jane seemed undaunted anyway, continuing her argument.

  “We are thinking about Sara and we’re mindful of our duty to represent all of the citizens of the Commonwealth. We serve none of them if we run into court and lose.”

  Mike didn’t get it. “Do you only fight battles you can win? Don’t you sometimes fight a battle because it’s the right thing to do?”

  “Mike.” Bob waved him off. “Enough.”

  “Enough what?” Mike couldn’t let it go. “Sara matters. She had a family, she taught middle school. She was a person, a mother. This theory gives you a motive when there doesn’t seem to be any at all. Isn’t tha
t worth investigating?”

  Bob interjected, “Jane didn’t say she wasn’t investigating. She said she’s not going to court with the email.”

  Jane rose, nodding in Bob’s direction. “That’s right. Please rest assured that we are investigating.”

  “What are you doing to investigate?”

  Bob turned to Mike, his expression tense. “Mike, they’re doing what they need to do.”

  “Bob, I’m allowed to ask a question.” Mike controlled his temper. “She’s a public servant. She’s supposed to account to us. It’s her job.”

  “Gentlemen.” Jane raised her hands like a referee, then turned to Mike with a stern gaze. “Dr. Scanlon, you’re incorrect. It’s my job not to discuss this case or this investigation with you, the reporters outside, or a hotdog seller on the street. All of that information is confidential from third parties, who have no association with the case.”

  “I’m not a hotdog seller. Sara and Don are friends of mine, and Sara was my wife’s best friend. Don sent me here.”

  “Nevertheless, you’re not immediate family. We wouldn’t discuss our investigation in any depth, even with Don.” Jane set the email on the table. “Tell you what, I’ll meet with District Attorney James and discuss this information with him. He or I will get back to you, if need be. Thank you for coming in.”

  “Thank you, Jane.” Bob flashed a smile, then went to the door. “Mike, we have to go.”

  “Thanks.” Mike turned and left the room, but Bob stormed ahead of him and out the door. They hustled past the reporters, and Mike didn’t bother to chase Bob, who stalked ahead, climbed into his Mercedes, and drove out of the lot.

  “See you at home,” Mike said, to himself. He’d struck out with Bob, but it was Sara who mattered to him.

  One was having a hissy fit, and the other was dead.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  “Hi, everybody.” Mike walked in the front door, and Bob was already standing in the living room, evidently giving Danielle an earful.

  “Mike, are you okay?” Danielle looked up worried, her mouth open slightly. She was already dressed for bed in a red cashmere robe, and she’d been stitching her floral needlepoint under her magnifying lamp.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” Mike shed his coat and went to the closet to hang it up.

  “But you assaulted someone?” Danielle rolled up her needlepoint, set it aside, and rose. “That’s not like you.”

  “He could be the one, Danielle.” Mike closed the closet door and faced them. “He could be Mac702.”

  “Then you made a scene at the police station? That isn’t like you, either, not at all.”

  “I didn’t make a scene.”

  Bob snorted. “You certainly did. You embarrassed the both of us.”

  “I asked a few questions. I pressed her.”

  “No, you were belligerent. Her friend works for me. They’ll be gossiping about us all night.”

  “So what? Sara was murdered.”

  “I like to maintain some decorum as boss. I like my associates to think well of me and my family, and I don’t need them to hear that you acted out with an Assistant District Attorney.” Bob flushed, angrily. “And it’s not because of Sara, it’s really because of Chloe. You want to find out who she was sleeping with.”

  “Okay, that, too. I’ll cop to that. It’s both. I want to get to the bottom of it. Don’t you?”

  “The police are investigating, and so is the Assistant District Attorney. What more do you want?”

  Mike gave up. He wanted to make peace, but he only knew how to make war. “Look, let’s not try and talk it over now. Sara was murdered today, and we’re all on edge.”

  Danielle’s forehead creased, and she tugged her robe around her. “But I feel like something’s happening to you, Mike. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you might want to see a therapist.”

  “I don’t need a shrink, thanks.” Mike felt a sharp cramp travel up his missing arm.

  “What about at rehab? I saw online, at the VA website, that they have a support group there. You can call and set up the appointments, or see a professional on your own.”

  “I know, I will. I just got home.” Mike tried to stay calm. “How’s the baby?”

  Bob scowled. “Don’t dismiss my wife. She loves you. She asked you a question.”

  “And I asked her one, and I love her, too.” Mike wanted to hear about the one good thing in his life, Emily. “I just want to know how the baby is. Is that a crime?”

  Bob threw his topcoat on the chair, piqued. “What the hell, Mike?”

  “The baby’s fine,” Danielle answered. Her lower lip trembled, but Mike couldn’t tell if she was hurt or angry, or both.

  “Look, I’m sorry, Danielle. I appreciate everything you’re doing. Don’t think I don’t, because I do.”

  “I understand, but you need help and you’re not getting it. Don’t you think you should have done that today, instead of going to that boy’s house?”

  “That boy is a man.” Mike grimaced at the pain, or maybe at having to account for his time.

  “But you’re making matters worse for yourself, don’t you think?”

  Bob interjected, “That’s exactly what’s happening. I tell him to plead not guilty, he gives me a hard time. I tell him to let me do the talking to the Assistant District Attorney, and he picks a fight with her.” He pointed at Mike. “You’re worried about the enemy, Mike? You’re your own worst enemy.”

  Danielle recoiled. “Don’t be that way, honey.”

  “What way?” Bob threw up his hands. “We have to get on the right foot here.” He faced Mike again. “It only takes a second to get a criminal record, then what are you gonna do? Who’s gonna hire you then?”

  Danielle placed a hand on Bob’s arm. “Honey, don’t pressure him. He’s not himself.” She turned to Mike. “Mike, we have to be honest with each other. Bob is right, we’re getting off on the wrong foot, but I know it’s not you, it’s the painkillers. The Oxycontin. You’re taking ten pills a day, when you’re supposed to be cutting back and taking half that.”

  “How do you know how many I’m taking?” Mike recoiled, surprised.

  “I saw the discharge instructions.”

  “The ones on my dresser?” Mike felt his temper flicker.

  “Yes, I had to clean in there, and I saw the papers, so I read them, because I’m worried about you. I’m trying to help you.”

  Bob interjected, “We both are, but you’re fighting us.”

  Danielle nodded, frowning. “I admit, I counted the pills. I had seen on the bottle that there were thirty when they were prescribed, and if you were taking one every twelve hours, as prescribed, you should have had a lot more left.”

  Mike reddened, defensive. “Danielle, it’s one thing to see papers on my dresser and another to go in my medicine chest.”

  Bob scoffed. “May I remind you that your medicine chest is in our house?”

  Danielle’s eyes widened, plaintive. “Mike, I didn’t go in your medicine chest. I saw the pill bottle when you dropped the pills this morning. Remember, when we were on the computer? I respected your privacy, I did.”

  Bob shook his head. “Neither of you have any business talking about privacy when you were hacking into Chloe’s email. That’s what started this whole thing.”

  “We weren’t hacking.” Danielle glared at Bob, and he scowled back.

  “You were, too. You shouldn’t have. You should have let it lie. You’re only adding fuel to his fire.”

  Mike raised his hand. He didn’t want them fighting because of him. “Please, don’t fuss. I’m sorry I started this, and you’re right. Mea culpa.”

  Danielle’s eyes shone wetly. “It’s okay.”

  Bob faced him, but his forehead remained knit. “Apology accepted.”

  “Good, thanks.” Mike wanted to move on. “Now, if somebody tells me where those things are from my old house, I’ll leave you both alone, so you can get to
bed.”

  “What things?” Danielle asked.

  Bob cocked his head. “You mean in the storage unit?”

  “No, you said you kept our personal things in the house, didn’t you?” Mike had thought about it on the ride home. “When you told me how Chloe’s laptop got broken.”

  “Oh, right, there are a few boxes in the closet of my home office.”

  “Can I look through them? Just tell me where. The office is next to my room, isn’t it?”

  “Now? It’s so late.” Bob frowned, and so did Danielle, their foreheads like his-and-her masks of malcontent.

  “Mike,” Danielle said, her tone gentle. “Don’t you want to get some sleep?”

  “No, thanks. I don’t feel tired at all. It’s almost morning in Landstuhl.”

  “But you’re home now.”

  “I’m aware of that, but I’m still in its time zone.”

  “Why do you want to look through the boxes?”

  Mike was so tired of explaining himself. “Because Sara was murdered, and I want to know who did it, and I have a theory that Chloe’s lover killed Sara. If that’s true, it’s on me because I sent him an email, threatening him. So I’m going to look in every box upstairs and go through every single picture, credit card receipt, and old telephone bill to see if I can figure out who Mac702 is, because he got my wife pregnant and killed her best friend.”

  Danielle shook her head. “Don’t you think the police will do that?”

  “I don’t know what they’ll do, and there’s no reason I can’t help out. If I don’t find anything that helps in the boxes from the closet, I’ll drive over to the storage unit and look there. I won’t sleep until I know I’ve done all I can do. It’s all I can think about.”

  “Can I just say that I’m worried that you’re, kind of, losing it? Getting obsessed, out of jealousy, with this Mac702?”

  “If I am, I don’t care.” Mike flashed on Afghanistan, lying awake in his rack, night after night. “Chloe was all I used to think about and that was taken away when I found out she was pregnant, but this isn’t about me anymore. Now I want to know if Mac702 killed Sara. So I’m obsessed, it’s true, because I loved my wife and I loved her best friend, yes, I’m obsessed, completely.”