The funeral was a major blur. Grace usually wore contact lenses. She took them off that day and did not wear her glasses. Everything seemed a little easier to handle in the blur. She sat in the front pew and thought about Jack. She did not picture him in the vineyards or on the beach anymore. The sight she remembered best, the sight she would always carry with her, was Jack holding Emma after she was born, the way his big hands held the little wonder, carrying her as if afraid she’d break, scared he might hurt her, the way he turned to Grace and looked at her in pure awe. That was what she saw.
The rest, all she now knew about his past, was white noise.
Sandra Koval came to the funeral. She stayed in the back. She apologized that their father could not come. He was elderly and ill. Grace said that she understood. The two women did not embrace. Scott Duncan was there. So were Stu Perlmutter and Cora. Grace had no idea how many people showed up. She didn’t much care either. She held her two children and fought her way through it.
• • •
Two weeks later the children went back to school. There were issues, of course. Both Emma and Max were suffering separation anxieties. That was normal, she knew. Grace walked them into school. She was there before the bell rang to pick them up. They were hurting. That, Grace knew, was the price you paid for having a kind and loving father. The hurt never goes away.
But now it was time to end this.
Jack’s autopsy.
Some would say that the autopsy, when she read and understood it, was what sent Grace’s world off kilter again. But that really wasn’t it. The autopsy was merely independent confirmation of what she already knew. Jack had been her husband. She had loved him. They had been together for thirteen years. They had two children together. And while he had clearly kept secrets, there were some things a man cannot hide.
Some things must truly remain on the surface.
So Grace knew.
She knew his body. She knew his skin. She knew every muscle on his back. So she really did not need the autopsy. She did not need to see the results of the full-exterior examination to tell her what she already knew.
Jack had no major scars.
And that meant that-despite what Jimmy had said, despite what Gordon MacKenzie had told Wade Larue-Jack had never been shot.
• • •
First Grace visited the Photomat and found Fuzz Pellet Josh. Then she drove back down to Bedminster, to the condominium development where Shane Alworth’s mother resided. After that, she plowed through the legal work on Jack’s family trust. Grace knew a lawyer from Livingston who now worked as a sports agent in Manhattan. He set up plenty of trusts for his wealthy athletes. He went through the paperwork and explained enough for her to understand.
And then, when she had all the facts pretty much down, she visited Sandra Koval, her dear sister-in-law, at the offices of Burton and Crimstein in New York City.
• • •
Sandra Koval did not meet her in the reception area this time. Grace was inspecting the photo gallery, stopping again at the shot of the wrestler, Little Pocahontas, when a peasant-bloused woman told her to come this way. She led Grace down the corridor and into the exact same conference room where she and Sandra had first talked a lifetime ago.
“Ms. Koval will be with you shortly.”
“Great.”
She left her alone. The room was set up exactly the same as last time, except now there was a yellow legal pad and a Bic pen in front of each seat. Grace did not want to sit. She did her own version of a pace, more a limp-pace, and ran it over in her head again. Her cell phone buzzed. She spoke briefly and then snapped it off. She kept it close. Just in case.
“Hi, Grace.”
Sandra Koval swept into the room like a turbulent weather front. She headed straight for the little refrigerator, opened it and peered inside.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“No.”
With her head still in the mini-fridge, she asked, “How are the children?”
Grace did not reply. Sandra Koval dug out a Perrier. She twisted the top off and sat.
“So what’s up?”
Should she test the temperature with her toe or just jump in? Grace chose the latter. “You didn’t take on Wade Larue as a client because of me,” she began without preamble. “You took him on because you wanted to stay close to him.”
Sandra Koval poured the Perrier into a glass. “That might-hypothetically-be true.”
“Hypothetically?”
“Yes. I may, in a hypothetical world, have represented Wade Larue to protect a certain family member. But if I had, I would have still made sure that I represented my client to the best of my ability.”
“Two birds with one stone?”
“Perhaps.”
“And the certain family member. That would be your brother?”
“It would be possible.”
“Possible,” Grace said. “But that wasn’t what happened here. You weren’t out to protect your brother.”
Their eyes met.
“I know,” Grace said.
“Oh?” Sandra took a sip. “Then why don’t you clue me in.”
“You were, what, twenty-seven years old? Fresh out of law school and working as a criminal lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“You were married. Your daughter was two years old. You were on your way to a promising career. And then your brother messed it all up for you. You were there that night, Sandra. At the Boston Garden. You were the other woman backstage, not Geri Duncan.”
“I see,” she said without a trace of worry. “And you know this how?”
“Jimmy X said one woman was a redhead-that’s Sheila Lambert-and the other, the one who was egging him on, had dark hair. Geri Duncan was a blonde. You, Sandra, had dark hair.”
She laughed. “And that’s supposed to be proof of something?”
“No, not in and of itself. I’m not even sure it’s relevant. Geri Duncan was probably there too. She might have been the one who distracted Gordon MacKenzie so you three could sneak backstage.”
Sandra Koval gave her a vague wave of the hand. “Go on, this is interesting.”
“Shall I just get to the heart of the matter?”
“Please do.”
“According to both Jimmy X and Gordon MacKenzie, your brother was shot that night.”
“He was,” Sandra said. “He was in the hospital for three weeks.”
“Which hospital?”
There was no hesitation, no eye twitch, no give at all. “Mass General.”
Grace shook her head.
Sandra made a face. “Are you telling me you checked every hospital in the Boston area?”
“No need,” Grace said. “There was no scar.”
Silence.
“You see, the bullet wound would have left a scar, Sandra. It’s simple logic. Your brother was shot. My husband had no scar. There’s only one way that can be so.” Grace put her hands on the table. They were quaking.
“I was never married to your brother.”
Sandra Koval said nothing.
“Your brother, John Lawson, was shot that day. You and Sheila Lambert helped drag him out during the melee. But his wounds were lethal. At least I hope they were, because the alternative is that you killed him.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because if you took him to a hospital, they would have to report the shooting. If you showed up with a dead body-or even if you just dumped him on the street-someone would investigate and realize where and how he was shot. You, the promising lawyer, were terrified. I bet Sheila Lambert was too. The world went crazy when this happened. The Boston DA-hell, Carl Vespa-was on television demanding blood. So were all the families. If you got caught up in that, you’d be arrested or worse.”
Sandra Koval stayed quiet.
“Did you call your father? Did you ask him what to do? Did you contact one of your old criminal clients to help you? Or did you just get rid of the body on your own?”
She chuckled. “You have some imagination, Grace. Can I ask you something now?”
