someone else did and he was going to give them up. That’s who killed him.And then they send an e-mail to your address to give the cops a suspect on asilver platter.”
“I was framed?” Allison asks.
“Could be. Could be. Who knows? I’m just getting started.Give me a few months and we’ll pull this thing apart like a turkey leg at a-”
“No,” Allison says. “No, no.”
“What’s that?” McGaffrey frowns.
“I’m not moving the trial date, Ron. This thing is crushingme. Crushing my family. I want it done.”
“Allison, this is-we’re talking about six weeks away.”
“I know that. And I understand it makes your job tougher.But Ron, this is a deal-breaker.”
“I can’t try this case in six weeks. I just got this.”
“A deal-breaker, Ron. I want you. Everyone says you’re thebest, and that’s what I need. I can afford you. I can afford you and as manyassociates or partners as you need to get up to speed. I’ll give you a retainertoday. How is fifty thousand?”
McGaffrey deflates, mulls it over. She can imagine what he’sthinking. He has a thriving practice, sure, but he’s not the best-he may thinkso but Allison puts him a step below Paul Riley-and this is a case that willgive him national publicity. The change of attorneys, alone, will be news. Hispicture will be everywhere. Bios about him, profiles in the newspaper. Catchingthis case will give him instant credibility.
To say nothing of the fact that Allison has put fifty thousanddollars on the table without blinking. Lawyers in private practice relishretainers because they don’t have to chase the client to collect the fee. It’salready there, in a client trust account. McGaffrey will blow through thisnumber by the time the trial is over; her defense will probably run a couplehundred thousand dollars, if not more.
“That’s one condition,” she says. “The trial date.”
“There are conditions.” McGaffrey pronounces the word withdistaste. “And more than one.” He gives her the floor, her condition numbertwo.
“Leave my family out of this,” she says. “My ex-husband isone of those lobbyists they’re looking at. You start pointing fingers allaround the state capital, one of them will land on him. And that’s a badthing.”
“That’s a bad thing-because he’s part of your family.”
“That’s a bad thing,” she answers, “because pointing at himwould be pointing at me.”
“What are you saying to me, Allison?”
Allison takes a moment. This is a privileged conversation.Nothing that she says to Ron McGaffrey can be repeated, under anycircumstances.
She clears her throat.
“The theory goes that a certain ‘someone’ bribed thosesenators, and Sam found out, and that certain ‘someone’ knew that Sam knew, andkilled him before he could talk.”
“That’s the theory, yes.”
“What if I were the one who bribed those senators?” sheasks.
Her new lawyer frowns.
She smiles sheepishly at him. “The theory in general soundspretty good, Ron. But let’s not get too specific. And let’s definitely notstart accusing my ex-husband.”
ONE DAY EARLIER…
They trained him. They taught him about weapons, aboutexplosives. They taught him English-not the basics, which Ram already knew, butslang and common phraseology. About American culture. About American securityprocedures in airports and government buildings. How to walk into a roomwithout being noticed, how to extract information from an asset without givingup any of his own.
He was smart, they told him. He was not physically strong,not big, but he was highly intelligent. He would be an undercover operative.
Ram Haroon peeks around the end of the aisle, toward thecafe in the corner of the grocery store. He sees her there, Allison Pagone,talking to Larry Evans, the man who has asked her for the opportunity to writean account of her murder trial.
He knows plenty about Allison Pagone. He knows she has toldLarry Evans things that she hasn’t told anyone else. He knows that in LarryEvans’s apartment are stacks of notes and research on Allison Pagone andFlanagan- Maxx Pharmaceuticals and members of the Senate and the prescriptiondrug Divalpro.
They are finishing up. Haroon pulls his baseball cap low onhis face.
Larry Evans walks out of the grocery store to his car, alow-end import, and drives away. Haroon knows where he is going. He knows whereLarry Evans lives, where he parks his car. He knows that the underground garagedoes not have a security camera.
He also knows a quicker route to Evans’s apartment than theone Evans is taking.
The apartment building is on the north side, four stories ofbrick. A key card is required to activate the small lot beneath, but there is aback entrance that requires only a key.
That won’t be a problem. Picking a lock was one of the firstthings they taught him.
Haroon parks his car on the street-illegally, out ofnecessity, but this won’t take long. He enters through the back and stands inthe shadows by a parked truck. The garage is dingy and dark, holds about fortyvehicles. This is rental property, not well kept. The garage smells like one,oil and gas and exhaust fumes. He hears the hydraulic door lift a moment later.Larry Evans’s car rolls down the ramp and toward Haroon, and he steps back intothe shadows.
The car turns into the spot two down from the truck and theengine dies with a small gurgle. Haroon steps out from the shadows. There is asmall window on the hydraulic door that, combined with a weak overhead light,provides faint illumination down here. But it’s still dark enough, and the lackof the cameras is reassuring, in any event.
Evans emerges from the car, slams the door shut, slings hisbackpack over his shoulder, and begins a casual walk until Haroon makes himselfvisible.
“Mr. Evans,” Haroon says.
“What-” Evans does a double-take, instinctively drops hisbackpack and gets his hands free.
Ram Haroon laughs.
Evans looks around him quickly. “What-what are you doinghere?” He regards Haroon warily for a moment, then walks up to him, lowers hisvoice. “What the fuck?”
“I want to talk,” Haroon says.
Evans’s eyes move to the corners of the garage.
“There are no cameras down here,” Haroon says. “I supposeyou already know that.”
Evans frowns, then lets out a nervous release. “In the car,”he says.
Haroon takes the passenger seat. Evans slams the door shutand looks at Haroon, impatient.
“Don’t do that again,” Evans warns. “You’re gonna give me africkin’ heart attack.”
“She likes you,” Haroon says. “She trusts you. I can seethat.”
“You were-” Evans leans into him. “You were at the grocerystore?”
“I was. Not close enough to hear, of course, but I can seefrom her expression that she’s at ease around you. She believes you are thetrusted journalist you claim to be.”
Evans shrugs, falling back in his seat. “The fuck did I tellyou?”
“You are still confident that Allison Pagone knows nothing?”
“Yeah.” He looks at Haroon. “Yeah. This ‘ethical dilemma’that Dillon had? At this point, she’s assuming it had something to do with thatbribery thing. The prescription drug.”
“Divalpro,” Haroon says.
“Right. She figures that Dillon was on to this bribery thingbut didn’t want to involve Allison in it. Probably
