“You have to give me your husband,” McCoy concludes.
Allison counts to ten before she answers.
“Ex-husband.”
McCoy opens her hands. “Exactly.”
“Get out.”
“You’d be helping him as well, Mrs. Pagone. Mat was the one.He was the one passing the money to the senators. I know it.”
“Mat wasn’t even representing Flanagan-Maxx. Not at thetime.”
“Not on the books,” McCoy agrees. “We know he was lobbyingfor MAAHC. Same difference.”
Allison plays with her hands. She inhales deeply.
“Ollie Strickland,” McCoy says. “Don’t act like you don’tknow.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“We’ll get Ollie to roll, Allison. In time. He’s not thereyet. Someone always gives in, and it’s usually the one who has less to lose.The ones with mud on their shoes, they’re always the last to fall, and theyfall farthest.”
“Get out, Agent McCoy.”
“I know that you know.” McCoy fixes on Allison. “I think SamDillon knew, too. I think Sam Dillon found out what Flanagan-Maxx was doing,subsidizing a nonprofit group to push their prescription-drug legislation forthem. And not just advocating. Bribing lawmakers. That’s the illegal part.That’s the part your ex-husband was doing.”
“You can’t prove that.”
“No, not yet. But I will.”
Allison stands up. “My answer is no.”
McCoy rises as well. “Your ex-husband will say yes.”
Allison’s chin rises; she stares into McCoy’s eyes. “Whatdoes that mean?”
Drop the 311 if Mat sings.
McCoy stares back with confidence, as if she enjoys havingthe ball in her court. “It means I’ll go to Mat,” she says. “I’ll make him adeal. I’ll get the county attorney to spare you the death penalty if he’ll giveme the information I need.” She raises a hand, as Allison begins to protest.“You two may be divorced, but he’s no monster. He’ll be more than happy toadmit his involvement, if it means sparing the mother of his daughter a deathsentence.”
“You can’t do that,” Allison says. “You can’t. I have to bepart of a plea agreement.”
“C’mon, Mrs. Pagone, you were a public defender once.” McCoyshrugs. “I’ll get the county attorney to drop the 311 request. He doesn’t needa plea from you. He’ll just tell the court that he no longer wishes to seek thedeath penalty. He has total discretion on that. He’ll give his word to yourhusband-sorry, your ex-husband-and I’m sure Mat will sing like a canary forme.”
Allison looks around the room, flaps her arms nervously sothey smack against her legs.
Nothing on Mat.
“You don’t have any proof against Mat, or you wouldn’t behere.”
McCoy sighs. “I don’t have enough to put him away,” sheconcedes. “And that’s only because Sam Dillon is dead. So I figure, Mat owesyou one for that. He bribed a bunch of senators and you killed the only personwho could put him away. Really, he’s getting a pretty good deal here. You killthe guy who was going to roll on him, the least he can do is keep you off deathrow.”
Allison sits back down on the couch. “How can you do this topeople?”
“How can I do this to people who commit murder and bribepoliticians? It’s not that hard, frankly.” She claps her hands together again.“I’ll give you a couple of days to think about it. Your trial’s in recess untilWednesday, right? So how’s Wednesday night for you?” she asks, as if she’sscheduling a dinner. “Okay. Wednesday. I’ll come by after court. But I’mtelling you, Allison. If you think you can stonewall me, you’re not as smart asyou seem to be. Mat will take my deal whether you want him to or not.”
McCoy gathers her bag and nods at Allison.
“I have a daughter,” Allison says. “She’s already going tolose her mother.”
McCoy deflates. Allison can imagine what the agent is thinking.This is what criminals always do. They rob, cheat, steal, maim, and kill, butas soon as the hand of justice grabs the back of their necks, they’re beggingfor mercy.
“Wednesday night,” McCoy repeats, on her way out.
ONE DAY EARLIER…
They just got this last night,” says Special Agent OwenHarrick. He pops a stick of cinnamon gum into his mouth and offers one to JaneMcCoy.
McCoy refuses the gum and works on her milkshake. There’sfast food all around the federal building downtown, irresistible temptations toJane. Harrick is more of a health-food nut, but he’s also junior to her. Choiceof restaurants, when they’re working late-which is most of the time-is one ofthe few arenas in which Jane McCoy pulls rank. Harrick had settled for achicken sandwich and a side salad. Jane, in a halfhearted nod to dietaryconsiderations, skipped the entrees altogether and just got a large chocolatemilkshake.
Harrick lifts the remote and points it at the VCR in thecorner of the conference room. “Ready?”
McCoy sucks the last of the shake, then slurps through theempty straw. Harrick looks at her with bemusement.
“Relax,” she says. “So I’ve had my dinner, gimme my movie.”
“Dinner,” he chides. “Two scoops of ice cream with milk.” Hepoints the remote at the screen. “Lights, camera. . action.”
The picture is grainy black-and-white. No surprise there.The Bureau has always focused more on discretion than quality in their surveillanceequipment. You want a camcorder that fits into your pocket with a zoom lensthat can pick up the wink of an eye from a hundred yards away, no problem. Butyou want a picture that could compete with the quality of a summer vacationvideo by grandpa, call Miramax, not the federal government.
“The Countryside Grocery Store,” McCoy says. “Corner ofRiordan and-what’s that?”
“Apple,” Harrick says. “Riordan and Apple.”
The running time in the corner of the video shows that itwas taken last night, just before midnight. The video shows a car parking at abank, across the street from the grocery store, and the trunk popping. A manemerges from the car, goes to the trunk, then walks up to the store carrying agym bag. The man on the screen leaves the camera’s vision, disappearing intothe back of the store.
McCoy blows out a nervous sigh.
Owen Harrick fast-forwards through a good amount of deadspace. Jane watches the seconds then minutes fly by in the corner of thescreen.
“Here,” says Harrick, returning the tape to “play” mode. Thetape shows the man reemerging from behind the grocery store with his gym bagand walking quickly back to his car. “That’s it. He was out there for less thanfifteen minutes.”
Jane stares at the empty screen, feels the adrenaline pump throughher. She rubs her hands together nervously. “Okay,” she murmurs. She tosses theempty milkshake container into the trash. “I’m going to go see Allison Pagone,”she says. “Tomorrow morning. A nice, early Saturday-morning meeting.”
“You think she’s in danger?”
McCoy shrugs. She will no longer give predictions on thatsubject.
ONE DAY EARLIER…
