Moment of Truth Page 21

  The room was bare. There was a king-size master bed with the sheets stripped, a bank of dressers with the drawers open, an alcove with a window seat with the seat pad gone and all the novels taken from the shelves. The cops must have seized Jack’s things as soon as he was charged. Mary’s heart sank and she walked into the room like a sleepwalker. She should have come here earlier. Was there nothing left? She scanned the room and it was completely empty. Off the bedroom was an open door, obviously a closet, and she went to it.

  A double walk-in with long racks on each side, also empty, even of hangers; the wood cubbyholes for shoes were bare, as if in move-in condition. Damn. She left the closet and eyeballed the room. In the corner were another two doors and she went to them though she knew what she would find. Two bathrooms, empty. She shook her head. She had blown it. There was only one chance. Paige’s room.

  She left the empty bedroom and hurried back down the hall the way she had come. She had to bet Paige’s bedroom would be on the other side of the stair, the way rich people lived. Keep the kids separate. It seemed so foreign. In her parents’ house, Mary and her twin had shared the bedroom across from her parents, so close they used to call to each other from bed. She hurried down the hall and to the end, where she opened the second set of white double doors and turned on the light.

  The room had been left untouched. There were evidence tags on the dressers, but the cops hadn’t seized them yet or hadn’t given them the priority they’d given to Jack’s belongings. She entered the room, which was the same size as the master bedroom, and it looked like every little girl’s dream. A white four-poster bed dominated the space in the center of a large powder pink Oriental rug, and the bed linens were a custom white-and-pink-quilted pattern. White night tables flanked the bed and matching dressers lined the room on the left, near a closet.

  On the right wall of the room stood white bookshelves and a white hutch, which caught Mary’s attention. It was full of dolls, all of them six inches high with identically perfect faces, round eyes, and red cupid mouths. They were dressed in beautiful outfits, and she knew instantly what they were; she had seen them in the bedroom of one of her friends growing up. They were called Madame Alexander dolls, and the DiNunzios could never have afforded them. They cost fifty dollars apiece then; she couldn’t imagine what they cost now.

  She stood before them, momentarily enchanted. At least twenty dolls sat legs akimbo, in the top row, with their round Mary Janes in black velveteen, touching toe to toe. The German doll wore a dirndl, the French doll the French flag, and the Italian doll sported red and green ribbons flowing from her synthetic hair. In the center of the top row was a doll that was bigger than the rest, also a Madame Alexander but clearly the crème de la crème. Mary had to stop herself from picking it up. She was supposed to be working, not playing with dolls.

  She walked over to check the rest of the bookshelves. The books looked like assigned reading and school textbooks; no novels otherwise. She always thought you could learn a lot about someone from their bookshelf, and this bookshelf confirmed what she thought about Paige. In the shelf above the desk was a large Sony CD player, which Mary found strange. Paige hadn’t lived here in a year. Why would she leave a CD player behind? It would be expensive to replace, even for a girl with bucks. Mary walked to the desk area to check.

  The CD player looked brand-new, and there was a stack of CDs next to it. Weezer, Offspring, Dave Matthews Band; music that Mary had heard about but didn’t know. How old were these CDs? She picked a few up and squinted at the infinitesimal copyright dates. All last year. Paige had left these behind, too. Why? Then she noticed something in the middle of the desk, on a blotter covered with teenage doodles. Paige’s driver’s license, with a picture of the girl, posing prettily even for the state’s camera. What kind of teenager leaves her driver’s license behind? CDs you can replace, even a CD player, but a driver’s license? That was a headache. Paige wouldn’t have left that behind. Not if she had a choice.

  Mary looked around the room, her thoughts racing. The bedroom was too neat to have been left in haste, but it was left abruptly in some way. She crossed the room and peeked inside the closet. It was completely full; a double rack of skirts and tops, matching sweater sets folded in shelves, and fancy shoes in cubbyholes. Why?

  She constructed a scenario. Imagine that Paige told her mother she was going to move out, even that she already had picked out a condo at Colonial Hill Towers. What would have happened? What could explain what Mary was seeing? Then she realized it. Paige hadn’t left abruptly, or in haste, but she must not have been permitted back in. That was it. The bedroom was just as it was the day that Paige had told her parents — or her mother — that she intended to move out. Her mother hadn’t let her pack anything; it was all here. And she hadn’t let her back into the house. All of it, even the driver’s license, had had to be replaced.

  Mary felt her heart quicken. So much for the façade of the young model movin’ on up. Maybe Paige had no hard feelings about moving out; her mother sure did. Mary was about to tell the others when she remembered she hadn’t checked the bathroom. She should, just to be complete. She walked to it, flicked on the bathroom light, and looked carefully around. Nothing unusual except for too much makeup and a complete line of Kiehl’s shampoos, conditioners, and “silk groom,” whatever that was.

  She left the bathroom and walked by the shelves, pausing again at the dolls. They were so pretty; so perfect. Especially the big one at the top, with a blue gown and matching train spread around her, glistening and satiny. Her hair was a beehive of blond plastic; Mary guessed it was Madame Alexander’s version of Cinderella. She itched to hold it just once.

  Oh hell. What was the harm?

  Mary tugged her shirtsleeve down over her hands to cover her fingerprints, so the cops wouldn’t indict her for murder. It seemed professional, especially if you were doing something as dorky as playing with dolls at a crime scene. Once her hand was covered, she scooped up the doll by the hair. Then she gasped. Not at the doll. At what lay hidden under the doll’s satin gown.

  “Lou!” she called. “Judy! Come quick!”

  A small, pink leather book sat on the shelf where the doll had been and its cover said “MY DIARY.” The doll lay forgotten on the floor. Mary told them her theory of what had happened between Paige and her mother while the three of them gathered around the diary, deciding what to do.

  “Let’s take it and run,” Mary said, excited. “Finders keepers, losers weepers. Isn’t that a legal principle?”

  “Shouldn’t we tell the cop at the door?” Judy asked, but Mary shook her head.

  “No, he’ll seize it. He’ll turn it in unopened, and we won’t get to read it.” She turned to Lou for verification.

  “That’s right. The uniform at the door won’t open it. He doesn’t have the authority, and once it’s bagged, it’s theirs.” Lou’s mouth set in the harsh bathroom light, emphasizing the deep lines of his jowls. Still he didn’t look old to Mary, he looked experienced.

  “If it helps Newlin’s case, they have to turn it over to us, under the discovery rules.” Mary was remembering from her cramming. “But I don’t know when we’ll get it. A lot of the cases suggest it could take months, if we ever get it back.”

  Judy looked grave. “It’s true. I’ve read cases where they never turn it over.”

  “I’m opening it,” Mary announced, reaching for the diary, but Lou stopped her arm.

  “No. Let me, in case I gotta testify.” He reached into the inside pocket of his windbreaker, withdrew a white cotton handkerchief, and deftly wrapped his hand with it. Mary was impressed.

  “You carry that to pick up evidence?” she asked.

  “No, I carry it to wipe my nose,” he answered, and reached for the diary.

  BOOK THREE

  35

  Mary sat opposite Jack in the tiny interview room, not six feet by six feet, with no partition between them. The walls were of cinderblock painted an instituti
onal sea green and contained windows of bulletproof glass with a view of the guard station. A large button of bright red protruded from the wall, and Mary, who had never been in a prison before, knew it had to be the proverbial panic button. If it had been any other prisoner, it would have made her edgy, but with Jack she felt completely safe, if not completely professional. “We need to talk,” she said.

  “Sure, what is it? Is it about the preliminary hearing?” He smiled in a friendly way, despite the strain evident on his face. His color was pale and he seemed restless, his long legs crossed at the ankle, in dark blue pants with sneakers. A light blue shirt sat loosely on his shoulders, its V-neck deep enough to reveal a light tangle of chest hair and its sleeves short enough to show off sinewy biceps. To Mary’s eye, he did more for a prison uniform and steel handcuffs than most felons.

  “No, it’s about the case. We need to start over. I don’t think you killed your wife.”

  His smile vanished. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. I think Paige did it, with her boyfriend Trevor. You were supposed to be at dinner that night, but I think that when you came in, your wife was already dead. You made it look like you killed her, but you didn’t. You’re innocent.”

  “This is silly, Mary. I did do it.”

  “No, Paige did, and you’re protecting her. If you tell me the truth, we can help her. They’ll give her the deal they won’t give you.”

  “I did it. You just don’t want to believe it.”

  “I’d believe it if it were true, but it’s a lie. All of it, from the outset.”

  “No it isn’t. I did it. I confessed to it.” Jack pursed his lips. “I even had blood on my hands, and you still don’t believe it?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Face it, Mary. You’re not seeing me clearly.”

  “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “You know why. You tell me.” Jack didn’t bat an eye, and Mary’s face flushed crimson. So he knew. She couldn’t deny it, so she didn’t try. She fumbled for words.

  “You’re right … about that. I have a crush, I plead guilty. And I may be embarrassed and humiliated, but I’m not wrong.” Mary set her jaw, her neck still aflame. “You didn’t kill your wife, and I know it. I can distinguish between the murder case and my personal feelings.”

  “No you can’t. You can’t separate those things. You’re emotional and new at criminal law. You don’t want to think I’m capable of murder, but you’re kidding yourself. Is this why you don’t want to negotiate my guilty plea?”

  “Jack, give it up.” Mary leaned forward urgently. She had to convince him. “I can tell you now, there won’t be a deal in this case, not for you. It’s all over the papers today. Masterson announced there will be no deals in this case. No plea bargains, understand? If they ask for the death penalty, you’re headed straight to Death Row. Dwight Davis has put ten men there, and you’ll be the eleventh. Tell me the truth and I can help you, before it’s too late.”

  “I can’t believe this.” Jack’s face colored with growing anger. “I shouldn’t have hired someone with so little experience.”

  “I have enough experience to know that you’re lying to protect Paige. Paige and your wife fought all the time, and your wife put enormous pressure on her, emotionally abusing her for years, as her manager, too. You ignored it, maybe denied it, for too long, and when you finally came to, it was almost too late.”

  “That’s not true.” Jack’s brow darkened and his mouth grew tight.

  “You supported Paige’s emancipation but your wife didn’t. You drafted the papers, but Honor wouldn’t even let Paige back into her room. Honor kept everything that kid owned, stole it like a common thief. She even kept Paige’s diary. I found it in her room.”

  “What?” Jack exploded. “You had no business doing that!”

  “My guess is your marriage started coming apart a year ago, when you took Paige’s side. You’ve been overcompensating since then, that’s why you’re protecting her now. I know guilt when I see it. It’s my favorite emotion.”

  “Mary, what are you saying? Why are you doing this to Paige? Investigating her, reading her diary, accusing her of murder. You’ll ruin her life!”

  “Taking responsibility for a crime she committed isn’t helping her. I understand that now. It’s wrong for you and wrong for her. Let her take responsibility for herself. Otherwise, you raise a kid who expects her way paved her whole life, and the world doesn’t work that way. She’s like an orchid, Jack. She can live in a hothouse, but it’s cold outside.”

  “Paige is not your business!”

  “Then what about Trevor? You’re protecting him, too. Paige lied about him, to you and to me.”

  “No she didn’t!” Jack shouted.

  “Bullshit!” Mary shouted back. She plunged a hand into her briefcase and thrust the newspaper at him. “A Roundhouse Divided,” read the headline. “Did you see this morning’s paper yet? Kovich and Brinkley having a fight in front of Colonial Hill Towers. Why do you think they were there?”

  Jack grabbed the paper in handcuffed hands, his eyes scanning the article, his brow creasing as he read.

  “They were investigating Paige and Trevor. I figured it out and so did the cops. You can’t keep the wheels on this thing, Jack. They’re gonna come after her, so why don’t you give it up?”

  “You’re destroying my daughter, is that what you want?” Jack threw down the paper and jumped to his feet, and Mary stood up, too. They stood eye-to-eye in the cell, an instant and volatile intimacy.

  “Listen to me, Jack. I know why you’re doing this. I know Paige is pregnant.”

  “Stop it with Paige!” Jack erupted. “Stay away from my daughter! Stay away from me. You and your law firm are fired!”

  “Trevor is already running around with another girl. Is that what you want to leave Paige with? How can you help her if you’re in here? Or if you’re dead? And don’t you have your own life to think about? Aren’t you entitled to that?”

  “That’s it!” Jack yelled. Suddenly he turned and slammed his handcuffed hands into the red panic button in the cinderblock wall. The alarm went off instantly, reverberating in the tiny interview room.

  “What are you doing?” Mary shouted, bewildered, but the din drowned out her voice.

  “That’s it! I’ll kill you!” Jack bellowed and reached for her throat, despite his handcuffs. His hands encircled her neck loosely and ersatz rage contorted his face. Mary realized instantly what he was doing. He was making it look like he was strangling her. Through the window she could see black-shirted guards sprinting from the security desk in alarm. “I’ll fucking kill you!” Jack shouted again, his touch harmless. Up close his eyes were filled with pain.

  “Jack, no!” Mary yelled, pulling his hands from her, but all hell had broken loose. The guards were at the cell window with their guns drawn. A huge guard burst through the door and brought his gun butt down onto the back of Jack’s head. The sound was sickening. The blow stilled Jack’s eyes. For a split second, he stared unseeing at Mary, unconscious on his feet. She caught him in her arms but he was too heavy and collapsed to the floor.

  “Jack!” she screamed, but the sound was lost in the clamor of the alarm. Four armed guards swarmed over him and dragged him out the door, banging his cheekbone into the doorjamb on the way.

  A young guard rushed to Mary and grabbed her arms, his eyes searching her face with concern. “Are you okay?” he asked, anxious.

  “Yes, of course.” Her eyes brimmed with tears of frustration. “I’m fine. He didn’t really—”

  “That asshole’s goin’ straight to ad seg.”

  “Ad seg, what’s that?”

  “Administrative segregation, isolation. Twenty-three hours in a cage. We’ll call the cops for you. You can press charges for assault.”

  “No, I don’t want to press charges. He was just pretending,” she said, her voice thick, but the guard released her in disbelief.

  “Lady
, get real. He was trying to kill you.”

  “No, he wasn’t. It was an act. He didn’t mean it.”

  A look of disgust crossed the guard’s features. “I don’t get what you broads see in these cons,” he said, but Mary didn’t try to set him straight. She wiped her tears, straightened her clothes, and picked up her bag and briefcase.

  She had to get going before it was too late.

  36

  Brinkley didn’t touch the newspaper Captain Walsh threw across the desk at him and Kovich. He’d been shown it by the old man at his newsstand, the uniform at the desk downstairs, and the guys on the squad, who taped the photo to the wall in the coffee room. Somebody had drawn a mustache on him and had given Kovich a kielbasa dick.

  “Explain this to me, you idiots!” Captain Walsh shouted, over the tabloid tenting his desk, where it had landed. The Cap was so pissed he could barely keep his seat. Dwight Davis, freshly shaved and suited, leaned against the credenza behind him. His expression was grave, and even though he was in the right, Brinkley still wished he could pop him one.

  “I’m very sorry about this, Cap,” Brinkley said, and met his boss’s eye. Captain Derrick Walsh was a big man with curly black hair. A merlot-colored birthmark crept across his right cheek and bled into his right eye, but Brinkley always figured the Cap owed his toughness to growing up with that birthmark. “I take full responsibility for it, sir. It’s my fault.”

  “It’s my fault, too,” Kovich added, but the Cap exploded.

  “Goddamn right it’s your fault! Who else’s fault could it be? Mine?” The Cap’s barrel chest heaved in his starchy white shirt, which bore the stripes of his rank and an ornate gold badge. It was the only decoration in the office, which was bare of the citations, awards, and honors the Cap had received on the job. Brinkley had always respected Walsh for not being a show-off, so his criticism landed hard. It didn’t help that Brinkley was completely ashamed of his conduct.