knows how much pressure is justright.
“You got what you wanted, Roger. Justice was served.”
He laughs. A bitter chuckle. “This wouldn’t have happened ifshe weren’t out on bail,” he says. “She couldn’t have gotten a gun and shecouldn’t have killed herself.”
McCoy lifts her shoulders. “Hey, you wanted her dead, she’sdead.”
The prosecutor glares at McCoy, then turns and walks to hiscar. He can’t deny that he was seeking the death penalty, of course, whichmeans he cannot deny that he wanted death for Allison Pagone. But he doesn’tappreciate the bluntness of McCoy’s comment. As if Roger Ogren were a killer,too.
“I’ll bethe’s pissed,” Harrick says, walking up, watchingOgren leave.
“Something like that.”
They walk to their car and drive away. Once in the vehicle,Harrick, driving, casts a look at McCoy. “Something bothering you? Talk to me,Janey.”
“It looked too clean,” she says. “There’s such a thing aslooking too much like a suicide.”
“Oh, come on.” Owen Harrick shrugs. He was a city cop foreight years. He’s witnessed a lot more suicide scenes than Jane McCoy.
“A bathtub?” McCoy asks.
“It’s private,” Harrick answers. “She wanted intimacy. It’salso easier to clean up.”
“Oh, she didn’t want to mess up the house?” McCoy looks ather partner. “She’s worried about resale value?”
“It’s the house she raised her daughter in. She cares abouthow it looks. You’re thinking way too hard on this. It’s a suicide, Jane. Shethought about it first, is all. People do plan suicides.”
McCoy is silent.
“She killed Sam Dillon,” Harrick continues, turning a cornerand leaving the sight line of Allison Pagone’s home. “She killed him and shefelt remorse. That works for me.”
“I hope so.” McCoy’s head falls back against the headcushion. It will be another sleepless night for her.
ONE DAY EARLIER…
The small turn of his head, as if his attention werediverted. The set of his jaw, the clenching of his teeth. The line of his mouthturned, ever so slightly, from a smile to something more primitive, almost asnarl but not so prominent. A stolen moment, an entirely private moment inpublic, a stolen glance among a roomful of people, intended for privateconsumption.
Thursday, February fifth of this year. A cocktail partythrown by Dillon amp; Becker, Sam’s lobbying firm, an annual party for clientsin the city’s offices. Hors d’oeuvres passed by servants in tuxedos, softclassical music playing from speakers in the corners.
The Look, Allison calls it, though she has never spoken ofsuch things aloud, except to Sam. A look of pure, unadulterated lust, a passionthat drives men to do things they should not do, the most primitive ofemotions. She watches everything about Sam-how he holds his breath, moves hiseyes up and down her body-trying to imagine exactly what it is that Sam isimagining, because Allison has no experience with such things, has never seenthis look from her husband in the twenty years they were married.
She freezes that image in her mind. She is not sure why.Maybe because it was one of the last pictures that she has of Sam-he was deadtwo days later-or maybe because it is so staggering to think how far thingshave fallen.
Allison Pagone sits on the wine-colored couch in the den.The memories always flood back, no matter how fleetingly, when she sits here.Memories of her childhood. She remembers when she was fifteen, when she had aparty while her parents were out, a bottle of red wine spilled on the couch,her enormous relief when the wine blended in with the color. Another memory: She was six, sleeping on the couch because she had wet her bed, worrying abouther parents’ reaction, then her mother’s soothing hand running through her hairas she woke up the next morning.
She thinks of her daughter, Jessica, and the torment shemust be feeling right now, her mother standing trial for murder. And she willnot be acquitted. Jessica has read the stories, watched the televisioncoverage, despite the judge’s instructions to the contrary. Regardless ofwhether she is a witness, nobody is going to tell a young woman she cannot readthe cold accounts of her mother’s crime in the paper.
Allison has watched her daughter age over the last threemonths. Twenty years old, she is in many ways still a girl, but these eventshave changed that. Allison is to blame, and she can do nothing about it.
She picks up the phone on the coffee table. She dials MatPagone’s office. She checks her watch. It is past nine o’clock in the evening.
She gets his voice mail. She holds her breath and waits forthe beep. She looks at the piece of paper in front of her. They spelled hisname wrong. It should be Mat with one t, short for Mateo.
“Mat, I know you’re not going to get this until tomorrowmorning. I’m sorry. For everything. I also want you to listen carefully.Jessica is going to need you now more than ever. You are going to have to loveher for both of us. You have to be strong for her. You have to do whatever youcan to be there for her. You-you have to-promise-”
She takes a deep breath. “Mat, don’t say a word to the FBI.They don’t have anything on you. You hear me? They don’t have anything. Justkeep your mouth shut. You can’t help me now so don’t make this worse and talkto them. And take-take good care of our-”
Her voice cuts off. She lets out a low wail. She hangs upthe phone quietly and puts her face in her hands, ignoring the man seated acrossfrom her.
“That was very good, Allison. Now just one more.”
Allison looks up at the man, then inhales deeply, composesherself. This is the end now, she knows it. She picks up the phone and dialsthe numbers, reading them off the business card.
You have reached Special Agent JaneMcCoy. .
She waits for the beep and reads from the paper. “JaneMcCoy, this is Allison Pagone. I want you to know that I will not be used. Iwill not let you rip the last shreds of dignity from my family. You have me.It’s over for me. If you have a hint of decency in you, you will not deny mydaughter both of her parents. I want you to know that you can’t toy withpeople’s lives like this. I won’t let you turn me against my family. Yourlittle plan didn’t work. So live with that. ”
She hangs up the phone and looks up at the man sitting onthe ottoman opposite her, training a revolver on her. He is dark in everyway-Middle Eastern with jet-black hair, dark eyes, a menacing smile, the way hecan look pleasant during all of this.
“Excellent,” the man says. “Your flair for drama has paidoff.”
“You said you’d leave,” says Allison. “I did what youwanted.”
The man stands but keeps the firearm directed at Allison.“Please stand up,” he says.
An hour later. Ram Haroon checks his watch. It is after11:45 at night. He looks at Allison Pagone, lying in the bathtub, motionless.He looks over the scene. He is reluctant to go back into the bathroom, to stepon the tile, so he leans in from his spot in the bedroom. The scene looksentirely clean. Nothing has been disturbed. There is no reason to suspect thatthis was anything other than a suicide.
He walks to the study and unzips his gym bag. Thestatuette-it’s more like a trophy-is wrapped in plastic. He sets it on the desknear her computer and leaves it in the plastic, still covered with the dirtfrom behind the grocery store, where it was buried.
Perfect. Better than a suicide note confessing to themurder. This is the proof, the trophy used to bludgeon Sam Dillon in February.
He walks back through the house, careful not to changeanything. If the light was on, it stays on; nothing can be altered. If thetiming of her death were ever fixed by the authorities, and someone saw a lightturn off afterward, it would ruin the impression.
He walks down the basement stairs. He came in through abasement window and returns to it now, jumps
