Tell No One

'Elizabeth's father has been lying to me,' I said.

She nodded.

'I've got to talk to him.'

'He didn't tell you anything before.'

True enough, I thought.

'Do you think it'll be different this time?'

I absentmindedly patted the Glock in my waistband. 'Maybe,' I said.

Carlson greeted me in the corridor. 'Dr. Beck?' he said.

Across town at the same time, the district attorney's office held a press conference. The reporters were naturally skeptical of Fein's convoluted explanation (vis-a-vis me), and there was a lot of backpedaling and finger-pointing and that sort of thing. But all that seemed to do was confuse the issue. Confusion helps. Confusion leads to lengthy reconstruction and clarification and exposition and several other emotions.' The press and their public prefer a simpler narrative.

It probably would have been a rougher ride for Mr. Fein, but by coincidence, the D.A.'s office used this very same press conference to release indictments against several high-ranking members of the mayor's administration along with a hint that the 'tentacles of corruption' – their phrase – may even reach the big man's office. The media, an entity with the collective attention span of a Twinkie filled two-year-old, immediately focused on this shiny new toy, kicking the old one under the bed.

Carlson stepped toward me. 'I'd like to ask you a few questions.'

'Not now,' I said.

'Your father owned a gun,' he said.

His words rooted me to the floor. 'What?'

'Stephen Beck, your father, purchased a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight. The registration showed that he bought it several months before he died.'

'What does that have to do with anything?'

'I assume you inherited the weapon. Am I correct?'

'I'm not talking to you.' I pressed the elevator button.

'We have it,' he said. I turned, stunned. 'It was in Sarah Goodhart's safety-deposit box. With the pictures.'

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. 'Why didn't you tell me this before?'

Carlson gave me a crooked smile.

'Oh right, I was the bad guy back then,' I said. Then, making a point of turning away, I added, 'I don't see the relevance.'

'Sure you do.'

I pressed the elevator button again.

'You went to see Peter Flannery,' Carlson continued. 'You asked him about the murder of Brandon Scope. I'd like to know why.'

I pressed the call button and held it down. 'Did you do something to the elevators?'

'Yes. Why did you see Peter Flannery?'

My mind made a few quick deductions. An idea – a dangerous thing under the best of circumstances – came to me. Shauna trusted this man. Maybe I could too. A little anyway. Enough. 'Because you and I have the same suspicions,' I said.

'What's that?'

'We're both wondering if KillRoy murdered my wife.'

Carlson folded his arms. 'And what does Peter Flannery have to do with that?'

'You were tracking down my movements, right?'

Yes.

'I decided to do the same with Elizabeth's. From eight years ago. Flannery's initials and phone number were in her day planner.'

'I see,' Carlson said. 'And what did you learn from Mr. Flannery?'

'Nothing,' I lied. 'It was a dead end.'

'Oh, I don't think so,' Carlson said.

'What makes you say that?'

'Are you familiar with how ballistic tests work?'

'I've seen them on TV.'

'Put simply, every gun makes a unique imprint on the bullet it fires. Scratches, grooves – unique to that weapon. Like fingerprints.'

'That much I know.'

'After your visit to Flannery's office, I had our people run a specific ballistic match on the thirty-eight we found in Sarah Goodhart's safety-deposit box. Know what I found?'

I shook my head, but I knew.

Carlson took his time before he said, 'Your father's gun, the one you inherited, killed Brandon Scope.'

A door opened and a mother and her teen son stepped into the hall. The teen was in mid-whine, his shoulder slumped in adolescent defiance. His mother's lips were pursed, her head held high in the don't-wanna-hear-it position. They came toward the elevator. Carlson said something into a walkie-talkie. We both stepped away from the elevator bank, our eyes locked in a silent challenge.

'Agent Carlson, do you think I'm a killer?'

'Truth?' he said. 'I'm not sure anymore.'

I found his response curious. 'You're aware, of course, that I'm not obligated to speak to you. In fact, I can call Hester Crimstein right now and nix everything you're trying to do here.'

He bristled, but he didn't bother denying it. 'What's your point?'

'Give me two hours.'

'To what?'

'Two hours,' I repeated.

He thought about it. 'Under one condition.'

'What?'

'Tell me who Lisa Sherman is.'

That genuinely puzzled me. 'I don't know the name.'

'You and she were supposed to fly out of the country last night.'

Elizabeth.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' I said. The elevator dinged. The door slid open. The pursed-lips mom and her slumped adolescent stepped inside. She looked back at us. I signaled for her to hold the door.

'Two hours,' I said.

Carlson nodded grudgingly. I hopped into the elevator.

Chapter 40

'You're late!' the photographer, a tiny man with a fake French accent, shouted at Shauna. 'And you look like – comment dit-on? – like something flushed through the toilette.'

'Up yours, Frederic,' Shauna snapped back, not knowing or caring if that was his name. 'Where you from anyway, Brooklyn?'

He threw his hands up. 'I cannot work like this!'

Aretha Feldman, Shauna's agent, hurried over. 'Don't worry, Francois. Our makeup man will work magic on her. She always looks like hell when she arrives. We'll be right back.' Aretha grabbed Shauna's elbow hard but never let up the smile. To Shauna, sotto voce, she said, 'What the hell is wrong with you?'

'I don't need this crap.'

'Don't play prima donna with me.'

'I had a rough night, okay?'

'Not okay. Get in that makeup chair.'

The makeup artist gasped in horror when he saw Shauna. 'What are those bags under your eyes?' he cried. 'Are we doing a shoot for Samsonite luggage now?'

'Ha-ha.' Shauna moved toward the chair.

'Oh,' Aretha said. 'This came for you.' She held an envelope in her hand.

Shauna squinted. 'What is it?'

'Beats me. A messenger service dropped it off ten minutes ago. Said it was urgent.'

She handed the envelope to Shauna. Shauna took it in one hand and flipped it over. She looked at the familiar scrawl on the front of the envelope – just the word 'Shauna' – and felt her stomach clench.

Still staring at the handwriting, Shauna said, 'Give me a second.'

'Now's not the time-'

'A second.'

The makeup artist and agent stepped away. Shauna slit open the seal. A blank white card with the same familiar handwriting fell out. Shauna picked it up. The note was brief: 'Go to the ladies' room.'