Allison puts on her coat and goes outside, to avoid havingto watch them scour her house. The warrant is limited to a search for a goldstatuette with a marble base, an award given to Samuel Dillon by the MidwestManufacturers’ Association two years ago.
At least they were specific, she thinks.
They’ve been in there almost three hours. She sat in thekitchen but finally couldn’t bare it. She’s second- guessing herself, given theweather today. It’s teeth-chatteringly cold outside, single digits. She wishesto God they could have had the decency to conduct this search last week, whenthe temps were north of freezing. She can see them turning over chair cushions,going through all the cabinets in the kitchen, removing all the china-God, shehopes they don’t break anything-even looking through the freezer.
Someone finally got a good look at the empty spot on Sam’smantel and had the sense to ask, What used to be here?
She wonders what other surprises lay in store for her. Shesenses that Roger Ogren is not to be underestimated. He suffered a ratherembarrassing loss in a big trial a few years back, a trial in which Paulrepresented the accused. She assumes Ogren will be especially teed-up to haveanother shot at one of Paul Riley’s clients.
She remembers the trophy-the award, Sam called it. The MMAputs more money into lobbyists’ coffers than any single contributor. It was anaward that said that Sam Dillon was the best at what he does. She remembersreaching for it on the mantel, commenting on it, Sam’s nonchalance, but sheknew that he was appreciative. Sam didn’t advertise his success like others inhis business-like Mat, for one. He had more of an aw- shucks demeanor, confidentbut humble, which Allison assumed played well with politicians. Let them be thecenter of attention, Sam will stay behind the scenes. Sam had already had histime in the spotlight as a three-term state senator. Now he was making fourtimes as much and working less.
Sam was almost awkward with her at first. Maybe that wasbecause she had been married to a colleague. Maybe. But she sensed a gentlequality in Sam in matters personal, and she liked it. Preferred it. She’ll takeshy and sincere over smooth any day of the week.
This is when it hurts the most. When things move slowly,when she’s not working on her case or worrying about her family. It’s justsinking in. It’s only now, three weeks after his death, that she is beginningto truly comprehend that she will never see him again.
It’s awkward, the whole thing. She only really dated him fortwo, two-and-a-half months, and it was a covert courtship, at her insistence.She has never met Sam’s daughter, Julia, a television producer in Los Angeles.She didn’t even attend his funeral.
So she has been forced to mourn in secret. In a perverseway, that almost makes it easier, as if the whole thing never happened becauseit hasn’t been publicly acknowledged. But that’s just mind games. The rush ofadrenaline is gone. The searing, utter joy as his image played through hermind, the hope that he brought to her life are washed away now as she strugglesto hold the pieces together.
If he had just told her. Oh, if he had just said the wordsin those phone calls.
She could sense it in his voice immediately. Something wasdifferent, wrong.
Sam sighed through the phone. “It’s something I’m going tohave to-I guess you could say I’m having an ethical dilemma.” That was all hewould say, and she let him keep that distance.
A week passed. Sam had told her he would be down at thecapital most of that week and might not even have time to call. It was agony toAllison, not even speaking to this man who had swept into her life; she feltlike a schoolgirl with a crush, waiting by the phone just on the chance hemight call. She was filled with insecurity, despite Sam’s mention of an ethicalproblem. Sam was distant for the first time in their admittedly shortrelationship, and it burned inside her.
He called, that Wednesday, the Wednesday before his death,the day before the cocktail party at his firm. Her caller identification toldher that he was calling from the city.
“You’re in town,” she said to him.
“I’m-what?”
“I have caller ID, Sam. You’re in the city.”
She heard him sigh. She felt her heart drum. Why was hebeing secretive? Why hide the fact that he was in the city?
Was there someone else? Had this relationship been moreone-sided than she had imagined? Had she pushed him too hard, too fast?
“Okay, I’m in town.”
It didn’t make sense. The legislature was in session. Whywasn’t he down there?
“I just wanted to say hi,” he said. “I–I can’t explainwhat’s going on, Allison.”
“This is that ‘ethical dilemma’ you were talking about?”
“I really-I can’t talk to you about it.”
“Something’s going on,” she said.
“Yes. You’re right. And when the time comes, I’ll tell you.Not now.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“Listen, I-we can’t talk about this now. I just wanted tohear your voice. I’m not up for twenty questions.”
It was like a kick to her stomach. She didn’t know what tomake of this.
“I’ll see you tomorrow at the cocktail party?” she asked.
“Yeah. But we can’t-y’know-Jessica’ll be there. All thestaff will be.”
“Right.” She could hardly protest. It had been her idea, nothis, to travel below the radar for the time being.
“I’ll be here when you need me,” she told him.
TWO DAYS EARLIER…
Roger, it’s Jane McCoy.”
“Well, Agent McCoy!” Roger Ogren’s voice, over the phone, isheavy on the sarcasm. He has a thing for that sing-song voice, like it’sendearing or something, and McCoy doesn’t have to struggle for reasons why thisguy strikes out with the ladies.
“It’s Jane, Roger.”
“To what do I owe this wonderful surprise?”
McCoy rolls her eyes at Harrick, who smiles.
“I think I know what your murder weapon is,” she says.
Through the phone, McCoy hears feet coming off a table. Shehas gotten his attention. “I’m all ears, Jane.”
“I was looking at the crime-scene photos you sent over,” sheexplains. “I see something missing.”
“Missing,” Ogren repeats. “You’ve been to Dillon’s house.”
“Just once.” McCoy looks at Harrick. “There was something-”
“Something on the mantel,” Ogren interrupts. “There’s a dustpattern. Front and center. Something’s missing. You know what it is?”
McCoy takes a breath. “About two years ago, Sam Dillonreceived an award from the Midwest Manufacturers’ Association. It’s an annualaward for representing their interests or whatever. Sam was their lobbyist. Itlooks like some Academy Award or something-it’s a long, gold thing shaped likesome old-fashioned machinery. The base is square, and marble.”
“That’s our murder weapon,” he says, an accusatory tone tohis voice.
“I don’t know if it is or it isn’t, Roger, but it’s not inthe pictures you sent me.”
