Dead Even

Chapter 11

“HOW’S YOUR GRANDFATHER?” CONRAD ASKED WHEN Sara and Guff entered his office.

“He’s okay. The nurse said he slept through the night, which is a good sign.”

“That’s good to hear,” Conrad said. “And on the bad side, Victor told me about your conversation with Monaghan.”

“He did?” Sara asked, confused.

“I don’t understand this guy,” Guff said. “Last week, he wanted to tear you a new one, and this week he’s your BFF.” Realizing that no one knew what he was talking about, Guff added, “BFF – best friend forever. Didn’t you ever have that in junior high?”

Ignoring the joke, Conrad studied Sara’s face. “You still think Victor’s wrapped up in this, don’t you?”

“I’d be a fool if I didn’t. No matter what I do, he always knows what I’m up to. And that means one thing: Victor Stockwell’s either really concerned, or, much as it offends you, really dirty.”

“Don’t say another word.” Conrad checked the hallway, then closed the door. When he returned to his seat, he explained, “This isn’t something to be flip about. Victor’s been here for almost fifteen years. He’s got a lot of friends wandering these halls, and he’s not the type of person you want as an enemy.”

“That’s fine,” Sara said. “But where does that leave me?”

“Accusing a veteran with no proof,” Conrad said. “Now did you finish going through his old files?”

“Most of them, but I think it’s time to move past the cobweb stuff. We have to get back to the original question: If you were one of the best prosecutors in the office, why would you request this petty burglary in the first place?” Sara asked. “I was thinking about this on the train this morning. Besides prosecuting a case, what else can an ADA do with it?”

“We can decline prosecution, or we can downgrade it to a misdemeanor,” Conrad answered.

“Besides that,” Sara said. “And think about the other party in this case. From hiring my old firm to hiring Jared, someone is obviously looking out for Kozlow. He’s clearly connected to someone. Now assume Victor is also connected to those people. If you were a dirty ADA, what else could you do?”

“You could bury the case,” Guff said.

“Exactly,” Sara said, pointing at her assistant. “That’s exactly what I was thinking. Victor promises some hotshot that he’ll bury a case. But when the case comes in, some eager new ADA grabs it before it hits his desk. When Victor hears the news, he goes nuts and has the ECAB secretary call every ADA in the building until they find out who has it.”

“But if that’s all true, why didn’t Victor just take the case back?” Guff asked.

“He couldn’t at that point. I had already brought it into the open. It was too late to-”

“Are you both out of your heads?” Conrad asked. “You think Victor Stockwell is burying cases?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“There’s a difference between something being possible and something being provable,” Conrad said. “And if I were you, if you can’t prove it, I wouldn’t say it. Besides, you’ve got no business going after someone like that in the first place.”

“If you really mean that, why do you keep encouraging me?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard what I said. From the very start, you’ve been warning me away from Victor, but every time I need help going through his background, you’re more than happy to point me in the right direction. So what’s the truth?”

Conrad showed the tiniest of smirks.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Sara asked. “You think he’s dirty, too.”

“I’m reserving judgment. But the truth is, I trust your instincts. There’re too many unexplained coincidences in this case, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that I don’t believe in coincidences. Now if you want to keep looking, I’ll help you look, but once again, I’m not going to let you put Victor’s career at risk unless you have proof.”

“I’m not bringing him up on charges. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on.”

“Whatever you’re doing, I still think you’re missing part of the picture,” Conrad said. “Even if you did bring the case out in the open, if Victor really wanted to bury it, he could’ve taken it back and declined prosecution.”

“Are you kidding? Once I saw the facts, Victor couldn’t just decline prosecution. It may’ve been small, but it was still a good case.”

“Maybe,” Conrad said. “Although he still could’ve pled it out. All he had to do was give Kozlow a reduced sentence or downgrade it to a misdemeanor.”

“Unless, for some reason, the person pulling the strings didn’t want any record of the burglary at all.”

“I’d believe that,” Guff said, shrugging his shoulders.

“You also believe all vegetarians are evil,” Sara said.

“Don’t laugh,” Guff said. “Hitler was one.”

“There’s still one flaw in your theory,” Conrad said to Sara.

“Which is?”

“You have no explanation for why this minor burglary was supposed to be hidden.”

“I know,” Sara said. “That’s where I get stuck every time.”

“How about this?” Guff asked. “Maybe Kozlow is related to someone and they’re trying to keep his record clean.”

“Or maybe Kozlow’s on parole in another state, and any record here would get him crucified there,” Conrad added.

“I checked that the first day,” Sara said. “Kozlow’s been arrested twice, but he’s never been convicted.”

“Maybe he’s up for a job where he can’t have any sort of criminal background on his record,” Conrad said.

“Now that’s interesting,” Sara said.

“Wait, I got it,” Guff said. “Maybe Kozlow made a bet with some really bad-ass tough guy. And the bet was that Kozlow wouldn’t get arrested for a whole month. Then, he pulled the burglary and got arrested. So now, he has to hide the arrest, or he’ll lose the bet.”

“Yeah, that could be it,” Conrad said sarcastically. “The way I hear it, betting on your own likelihood of being arrested is all the rage these days. It’s sweeping Vegas like an electric broom.”

“C’mon, stay with me,” Sara said. “Any other ideas?”

“I think the first step is finding out more about Kozlow and who’s footing his legal bills,” Conrad said. “When you get that, you’ll at least know the parties involved. Then we can try to put together the motive.”

“And then we can figure out how they’re related to the doorknob guy from yesterday,” Guff said.

“The doorknob who?” Conrad asked.

Sara shot Guff a look. “He means Kozlow,” she said abruptly. “If we can link him with his moneyman, we’ll have a much better idea of what’s going on.”

“Did you do it?” Jared asked the moment Kozlow entered his office.

“Do what?” Kozlow asked, strolling to his usual chair in the corner.

Jared shot out of his seat and slammed his door shut. “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he said. “Sara’s grandfather fell down a flight of stairs last night and-”

“Calm yourself. I heard what happened.”

“How’d you hear?”

“Like I said, I heard… but I had nothing to do with it.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Believe what you want, but I’m telling you the truth. If we did do it, we’d make sure you knew about it. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

Jared thought about the logic of Kozlow’s argument. “So it wasn’t you?”

Kozlow smiled. “For once, boss, we’re innocent. The old man just took a fall down some stairs.”

Sitting alone in her office, Sara picked up the phone and dialed the general number for Jared’s law firm. “Wayne and Portnoy,” the receptionist answered. “How can I help you?”

“Can you please transfer me to Accounts Receivable?” Sara asked.

After a short pause, a female voice answered, “Hello, this is Roberta.”

“Hi, Roberta,” Sara said in her most congenial tone. “This is Kathleen calling from Jared Lynch’s office. I was just wondering if you could help me find some information on a client who-”

“Who the hell is this?” Roberta asked.

Panicking, Sara said, “It’s Kathleen.”

“Kathleen who?”

“Kathleen Clark,” Sara said, remembering Kathleen’s last name from last year’s holiday card list.

“Well, that’s real funny, because Kathleen Clark was just down here two minutes ago buying some stamps,” Roberta explained. “Now do you want to start over, or do you want me to call the cops?”

Without saying another word, Sara hung up.

A minute later, Guff walked in without knocking. Taking one look at Sara, he asked, “Who sunk your battleship?”

“No one,” Sara said. “I just tried calling Jared’s law firm, and-”

“They busted you, didn’t they?” Guff asked, shaking his head. “I told you not to do that. It’s unethical and you know it.”

“Oh, and suddenly you’re Mr. Ethics?”

“Sara, I know who I am. I know my faults. I over-generalize, I’m generally pessimistic, I don’t like kids, I don’t floss, I don’t believe in spontaneous combustion, I think most people are fad-following sheep waiting for their televisions to show them the next great logo to plaster on their chests, and I think guys with goatees are fundamentally stupid. But I also know my days are numbered. And I understand, deep down in my black heart, that when my time has come, my reckoning will have paid attendance. Just to torture me, they’ll televise it. But I can live with that because I understand myself. I know my lot in life.”

“And I don’t?”

“No. You don’t,” Guff said. “You’re an ADA now. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

“Guff, have you forgotten what happened yesterday? That guy threatened Jared and put my Pop in the hospital.”

“You don’t know-”

“I do know,” Sara insisted. “I saw him with my own eyes and heard him with my own ears. It doesn’t take a genius to put the rest together. We’re talking about the two most important people in my life. If I lost either of them, and it was my fault, I…” She paused. “That’s when it’s over for me. So when the consequence is my family’s safety, calling my husband’s firm is hardly the sin of the century.”

“All it takes is one snowflake to start the avalanche.”

“Guff, please – I’m having a hard enough time with this as it is.”

“I know you are, and I know how much they mean to you. I’m just trying to watch your back.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that,” Sara said.

“Meanwhile, as long as we’re on the topic of lying, why didn’t you tell Conrad about the doorknob guy?”

“Because I knew what his reaction would be. If he found out this guy threatened me, he’d be all over the case, lecturing me on how ADAs can’t be intimidated. And you and I both know that the fewer people I tell, the more I protect Jared. Besides, I’m not so sure I want him knowing. He’s been a bit big in the mouth lately.”

“Hold on. Are you saying you don’t trust Conrad?”

“I trust him, but he has been yakking too much to Victor.”

“C’mon, he’s not revealing anything that’s private.”

“My personal life isn’t private? My success on this case isn’t private?”

“Sara, he’s just shooting the shit and you know it. Office gossip rules our world.”

“But don’t you think Victor is-”

“You know I think Victor’s being uncomfortably nosy. But that has nothing to do with Conrad.”

“Fine, I get your point,” Sara said. “But I still don’t want to tell him. Now did you get the information from Crime Scene?”

“At your service,” Guff said, handing Sara the manila folder he was holding. “One fingerprint test coming up.”

“What’d it say?” Sara asked, opening the folder.

“The doorknob had a clear print, but it didn’t make any sense,” Guff said. “They matched it perfectly, and it led to a guy named Sol Broder.”

“Who’s Sol Broder?”

“That’s the thing. His picture didn’t look like your sketch, but when they ran his name through BCI, Sol came up with a rap sheet that reads like a Scorsese script.”

“That’s great. So what’s the problem?”

“Well, I don’t know how else to say this, but… Sol Broder died three years ago.”

Sara dropped the folder on her desk. “You’re telling me the guy I spoke to, the guy who pushed Pop down the stairs, is a dead man?”

“Either that, or a really good magician.”

Sitting in the back of his town car, Rafferty was annoyed. Born and raised in Hoboken, New Jersey, only three houses away from where Frank Sinatra was born, Rafferty had spent most of his young-adult life trying to avoid not only the multiple Italian boyfriends of his Irish mother, but also the lower-middle-class legacy of his hometown. The first in his family to go to college, he had escaped early and never looked back. He won a local scholarship to Brooklyn College, but after one year transferred to Princeton. Always bigger, always better.

At Princeton, Rafferty’s roommate was a loudmouthed little screamer who also happened to be the heir to a well-established magazine publishing company. From him, Rafferty learned how to speak, how to eat, and how to dress. All of it meant to impress. During winter break of that same year, Rafferty was invited to his roommate’s getaway house in Greens Farms, Connecticut. There he met his roommate’s father, who offered Rafferty his first job in the publishing industry: a summer internship in the subscriptions department. For Rafferty, the old-boy network was no longer just a rumor; it was within reach.

The only negative aspect of the job was that the low pay forced Rafferty to live at home with his mother. After a winter in Greens Farms, a spring trip to Martha’s Vineyard, and a year at Princeton, the return to Hoboken was crushing. In Rafferty’s mind, it wasn’t where he belonged. After that summer, he never spent another night in his hometown. Always bigger, always better. So as his car wove its way through Hoboken’s narrow streets, Rafferty had a hard time concealing his anger.

From Manhattan, Hoboken was only a ten-minute drive through the Lincoln Tunnel, and Rafferty stared out the window the entire time. When the car reached its destination, he realized much had changed. From the newspapers, he knew that Hoboken was now populated by two polar-opposite communities: the deep-rooted Italians who claimed favorite son Sinatra as their hero, and the up-and-coming urban professionals who believed living in Hoboken was the best way to avoid paying New York City taxes. Riding through the streets he grew up on, Rafferty could see the results of gentrification – the main streets were now filled with yuppie cafés, the side streets still had the mom-and-pop bakeries, and the back streets, as always, had the local neighborhood kids, talking about the ways they were going to break free.

As the car approached 527 Willow Avenue, Rafferty said, “This is it. Double-park near the funeral home.” The driver followed Rafferty’s instructions and pulled up in front of the funeral home on the end of the block.

“When was the last time you saw him?” Kozlow asked as the car came to a stop.

Rafferty didn’t answer. He opened the door and stepped outside.

Following Rafferty toward the four-story brick brownstone, Kozlow asked, “Did you tell him we’re coming?”

Rafferty pushed the buzzer for apartment eight. “I’d rather catch him unprepared.”

Through the intercom, a grainy voice asked, “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” Rafferty said. “Buzz us in.”

“Who’s ‘me’?”

“It’s Oscar,” Rafferty barked.

“Oscar who?” the voice said.

Pounding the intercom with his fist, Rafferty shouted, “Open the damn door or I’ll break your f-”

A rasping buzzer sounded, granting them access to the building. Rafferty pulled down on his lapels and straightened his jacket. There was no reason to be upset, he told himself. By the time they had climbed the four flights of stairs, both Rafferty and Kozlow were out of breath. As they approached apartment eight, the door flew open. It was the man with the sunken cheeks. “Hello, boys.”

Walking into the spartan one-bedroom apartment, Rafferty wanted to shove him in the chest. Just enough to scare him. Old instincts were returning, but he restrained himself. There was no reason to regress. “Elliott, I thought you were going to clean this place up.” Rafferty flicked a chip of paint from the wall.

“Give me some money and I’ll be happy to oblige,” Elliott said. “What’s up, Tony?”

“Same old same old,” Kozlow said.

“I’ve already given you money,” Rafferty interrupted, following Elliott into the beat-up living room.

“I mean real money. The big bucks.”

“You know where we are with that,” Rafferty said as he approached a metal folding chair in the corner of the room. He brushed off the seat with his hand before sitting down on it.

“So you didn’t come by to give me good news?” Elliott asked.

“Actually, I came by to ask you a question,” Rafferty said. “Monday afternoon, Sara Tate’s grandfather fell down a flight of stairs in the subway. Fractured his pelvis in a nasty spill. I want to make sure you didn’t know anything about that.”

“And Sara Tate’s the DA who has Kozlow’s case?” Elliott asked.

“That’s correct,” Rafferty said, looking for a hint of deceit on Elliott’s lean features.

“Sorry, I don’t know anything about that.”

“So you’ve never approached Sara? Never spoken with her?”

“Hey, I don’t even know what she looks like,” Elliott said with a twisted grin. His tone was taunting, like a man without a care. Or someone who was enjoying a rare moment of control. “The woman’s a complete stranger to me.”

“Elliott, can I steal some soda?” Kozlow called from the kitchen.

“It’s what you do best,” Elliott called back, not taking his eyes off Rafferty.

“Don’t fuck with me,” Rafferty warned.

“Would I be stupid enough to dick you around? You’re like a father to me.”

“Sure I am,” Rafferty said.

“You are. Besides, what’re you so worried about? I thought you had it all taken care of.”

“I do,” Rafferty said. “Unless someone starts changing the plans.”

“Well, you can stop suspecting me,” Elliott teased. “I already got what I wanted. Besides, I want you to succeed. If I didn’t, I never would’ve let you meet Tony.”

“And that worked out so well, didn’t it?” Rafferty replied.

“Hey…” Kozlow said from the kitchen.

“So is there anything else I should know?” Elliott asked.

“Not yet,” Rafferty said as he headed to the door. “But don’t worry. I’ll be in touch.”

Rafferty and Kozlow were both silent until they had left the building. Stepping into the crisp September air, Kozlow finally asked, “Do you believe him?”

“You know him better than I do. What do you think?”

“I trust him. He may be vindictive, but I don’t think he’d do that to us. Sara’s grandfather took a fall on his own.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Rafferty said as he got into the car. “For all our sakes.”

“All right, then. That’s fine,” Jared said coldly into his phone. “If you want to see him, put your request in writing.”

“Are you kidding me?” Sara asked. “All I want to do is interview Kozlow. Why make me put it in writing when you can agree to it right now on the phone?”

“Sara, don’t take it personally, but that’s what I do with every client. If you want him, you have to go through the proper channels.”

“Fine, I’ll send it over,” Sara said, sounding angry. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Don’t forget we have the prom tonight,” Jared added.

“Do I really have to-”

“Yes, you have to be there. It’s important to me, and it’d look terrible if you weren’t, so I’ll see you there at nine.”

As Jared hung up the phone, Kathleen walked in the room. “She wants to see Kozlow?”

“Of course. But she’s crazy if she thinks I’m going to make it easy for her.”

Before Kathleen could respond, there was a heavy knock on the door. “Anyone here?” Barrow asked as he entered the room. He was carrying a small brown bag that clearly contained a bottle of wine.

“Where’ve you been? Drinking?” Jared asked the moment he saw his favorite private detective.

“On the job? You know me better than that,” Barrow said, his salt-and-pepper beard looking more salt than pepper. “This bottle is purely about fingerprints. Snotty client of mine has me spying on her rich husband.” Jared and Barrow had known each other since Jared first started at the firm. In the past six and a half years, they had become close friends and enjoyed more than their fair share of laughs and good times, including the night Barrow spied on Sara so that Jared would know exactly what time she would be home for her surprise thirtieth birthday party.

On a professional level, Barrow had unearthed information that had single-handedly won at least four of Jared’s cases. But from the look on Barrow’s face, Jared knew this wasn’t going to be one of them. “So what’s the bad news?” Jared asked. “Who’re we dealing with?”

Sitting in one of the chairs in front of Jared’s desk, Barrow said, “To be honest, I’m not sure myself. I ran Rafferty’s name through every information network I have access to, but I came up with almost nothing. He was born in Hoboken, which means he’s probably not from money. By some miracle, and a textile-workers-union scholarship, he clawed his way to Princeton – big surprise. He lives in some fancy building on the Upper East Side – again, big surprise. He owns a partnership interest in a fifty-million-dollar theatrical property company called Echo Enterprises, and the only thing I can conclude is this: If I were you, I’d stay away from this guy.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I can tell he’s bad news, J. People don’t hide themselves unless they have something to hide. And the more I dig, the less I find. Oscar Rafferty is in control of his life, and he’s structured it to keep us out.”

“What about Kozlow? What’s his story?”

“Tony Kozlow is a handful if ever there was one. When I asked around about him, the two most common descriptions were ‘violent’ and ‘unstable.’ Apparently, he doesn’t follow orders well – he was kicked out of the army for insubordination. The thing is, he’s never the one in the driver’s seat. Both times he was arrested, he was following someone else’s lead: knifing someone for a loan shark in Brooklyn, then making a payback call for some small-time drug dealer. On that alone, I’d say he and Rafferty have an employer-employee relationship.”

Jared was silent as he mentally tested Barrow’s hypothesis. Eventually, he said, “Could they be Mafia?”

“Not a chance,” Barrow said. “Mob connections leave obvious tracks. Trust me, though, these guys are just as dangerous.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because they already approached me,” Barrow said definitively.

“What?”

“Believe it. Somehow, they knew you hired me to check them out. So on my way over here, they approached me with a better offer. Rafferty said he’d pay me double if I fed you some bullshit info.”

“What’d you say?”

“I told them I’d do it. Cash is cash.”

“But all that stuff-”

“You think I’d ever feed you bullshit?” Barrow asked. “It’ll take a lot more than a few grand to buy my integrity and make me turn on a friend. But that doesn’t mean I won’t take their money with a smile.”

“So they think you’re telling me-”

“They think I’m telling you that I couldn’t find a thing on either of them. That I never heard of Tony Kozlow, or his loan shark, or Echo Enterprises, or Rafferty’s slick Upper East Side address, or his dying-to-be-upper-crust background. Fuck them if they want to be stupid.”

“You really think that’s going to fool them?”

“You got any better ideas?” Barrow asked, his voice growing serious. When Jared didn’t answer, he added, “These guys aren’t playing around. The fact that they knew you’d turn to me means they’re looking into your background and sniffing in all the right places. And after spending a total of five minutes with them, it’s clear they’re serious about this staying quiet. Whatever it is, they have some big secrets to hide.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“What else?” Barrow asked slyly. “Let me keep digging in their direction. They can’t screw with you and not expect repercussions.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s smart to pick a fight.”

“Come on!” Barrow said, standing from his seat. “You’re not picking a fight. You’re just trying to find information. If Rafferty ever confronts you, just say that I couldn’t find anything. He’ll never know the difference.”

“I’m not sure that’s the best-”

“Good. It’s decided,” Barrow said. “Now we’re back in business.” Before he left the office, Barrow reached into the brown paper bag he was carrying, pulled out an empty champagne bottle, and slapped it on Jared’s desk.

“What’s that?”

“That, my friend, is an actual champagne bottle from the New Year’s Eve scene in Godfather, Part Two. And that is also how I spent the first couple hundred dollars of their money. I figured it would really piss ’ em off. Happy early birthday.”

Jared was unusually quiet. He didn’t even reach for the bottle. “You shouldn’t have done that, Lenny.”

“Listen, there’s no reason to get concerned. You’ll be thanking me later.”

“I’m sure I will,” Jared said dispassionately. “I just want you to be careful.”

“Worry about yourself,” Barrow said as he walked to the door. “You’re the one they’re watching.”

At a quarter past seven that evening, Sara sat on one of the many park benches that lined the esplanade of Battery Park City, overlooking the Hudson River. Located at the southernmost tip of Manhattan, Battery Park City was, for Sara, a spot where she could truly escape New York. Unlike Central Park, which was packed with tourists and locals vying for jogging, Rollerblading, and relaxing space, the riverside jogging path of Battery Park City was used primarily by local residents and a few commuters who worked in the nearby financial district. And its tree-lined, twisting walkway made it the perfect place for a quiet, secluded meeting.

Checking her watch and wondering what was taking so long, Sara heard a voice behind her shout, “Don’t worry, I’m not standing you up.” As Sara turned, she saw Barrow walking toward her, a wide smile across his face. She didn’t return the smile. “Why the long face?” he asked as he sat next to her on the park bench.

“I was just worried you weren’t coming.”

“So I see,” Barrow replied, looking down at her chewed-apart cuticles. “Now how about telling me the real story? What’s the big to-do that you had to bring me all the way out here?”

“I need to ask you a favor. And it’s not an easy one, so I thought it’d be better to ask you in person.”

“Sara, if you’re hunting information about Jared, the answer is no.”

“Please just hear me out,” Sara begged. “I know it’s an uncomfortable position for you, but I’m in real trouble.”

“C’mon, Sara. He and I-”

“I know you go back a long way. And I know you’d never do anything to hurt him. But I really need your help with this. Believe me, do you even think I’d ask you if it wasn’t life-or-death important?”

Barrow looked out toward the Hudson River. “It’s really that important?”

“I swear to God, Lenny. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.”

Still refusing to look at Sara, Barrow kept his eyes focused on the giant Colgate clock that floated in the Hudson River. “Tick tock, tick tock,” he whispered. Eventually, he turned back to his friend. “I’m sorry, hon. I can’t do that to him.”

“You don’t understand,” Sara pleaded. “This is-”

“Sara, don’t put me in this one. It’s hard enough as it is. When I asked Jared if it was okay to meet with you, he told me to feed you phony info. I wouldn’t do that to you, and I can’t do anything against him. That’s the only way to make sure I keep you both as friends.”

“So you’re not going to help me at all?”

“I’m sorry,” Barrow said. “For this case, you’re on your own.”

Walking down the stairs that led to the lower level of Rockefeller Center, Sara was a wreck. Her meeting with Barrow had gone far worse than she’d expected, only adding to her fear that Jared’s safety was slowly slipping out of her grasp. So when she finally reached the ground-level entrance to Wayne & Portnoy’s annual fall formal, affectionately known as the prom, she took a deep breath and tried to ignore the day’s events. Even if her calm was only superficial, she didn’t want Jared to see her upset.

After checking for Sara’s name on the twenty-two-page, over-one-thousand-person invitation list, the hostess pointed to the enormous tent that was covering what was usually Rockefeller Center’s ice-skating rink. “As you can see, we’ve tented the rink for a bit more privacy. You’ll find the dance floor in there, with music by your DJ, Sir Jazzy Eli. For food and a more formal atmosphere, you can head over there.” The hostess pointed to the indoor concourse of shops that ran along the perimeter of the ice rink.

“Are the restaurants open?”

“Not tonight,” the hostess said proudly. “We rented out the restaurants and the café. The whole place is yours.”

Sara rolled her eyes at the exaggerated presentation. Heading for the coat check, Sara took off her jacket, revealing a dramatic black dress. Encrusted with thousands of tiny black beads, the dress clung to the outlines of her body. Once inside the enormous tent, she saw a makeshift dance floor crammed with young couples, all of them bouncing in sync to the thundering beat. They looked so young, she thought. Probably right out of law school. She remembered when Jared took her to his first prom. It was at the Carlyle then. Jared had just started at the firm, and he and Sara had only been married a month. Bowled over by the extravagance of the event, they had spent the entire first hour of the party counting and tasting every single one of the fifteen hors d’oeuvres, from the sushi to the grilled tomatoes to the lamb chops. Then, after a few minutes of schmoozing with Lubetsky and some of the other partners, they hit the dance floor. Every year since then, whether it was Jared’s prom at Wayne & Portnoy or Sara’s equivalent event at Winick & Trudeau, Jared and Sara danced less and schmoozed more. So much simpler, Sara thought as she turned away from the tent.

Entering the indoor concourse that surrounded the rink, Sara saw that the only thing that had changed since the Carlyle was the location. The regular restaurants were now replaced by the standard Wayne & Portnoy party configuration. Hors d’oeuvre stations were scattered throughout the rooms, drinks were being served at six different bars, and the same old lawyers in their same old tuxedos were having the same old conversations.

“Sara! Over here!” someone shouted from across the room. She recognized Jared’s voice and craned her neck to find him. As he waved her over, she saw that he was standing with an older man who was graying at the temples. “Fred, I want you to meet my wife,” Jared said as Sara approached them. “Sara, this is Fred Joseph – maybe the best defense man in the whole firm.”

Putting on her best party smile, Sara politely shook Fred’s hand. “So nice to finally meet you,” she said.

“Isn’t it, though,” Fred replied. Only Jared laughed at the joke. Undeterred, Fred added, “Jared tells me you two are on opposite sides. Must be tough trying to talk to each other.”

“Yeah,” she said. She couldn’t even force a laugh. “Listen, Fred, would you mind excusing us a moment? I haven’t seen him all day and-”

“No need to explain,” Fred said. “Jared, we’ll talk later.”

“That’d be great,” Jared said with a full smile. But as soon as Fred was out of sight, the smile was gone. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he barked at Sara. “He’s a partner.”

“I don’t care if he’s your mother,” Sara shot back. “I’m not in the mood.”

A few people were starting to stare. Refusing to make a scene, Jared took her by the hand and calmly walked to the corner of the restaurant. Still finding no privacy, he headed toward the swinging doors of the kitchen. Inside, there were waiters with silver platters running in every direction. All Jared cared about, though, was that there were no lawyers.

But before Jared could say a word, a waiter approached the couple. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t have you standing here. We’ve got hot plates-”

“This is an emergency,” Jared insisted. “Just give me a minute.”

“But, sir…”

Jared pulled Sara to the far wall of the kitchen, next to an ever-growing stack of dirty dishes. “We’re out of the way. Now give me a minute.” The annoyed waiter left, and Jared looked back at his wife. “Don’t ever embarrass me like that again,” he said to Sara. “This is my life.”

“You knew I didn’t want to come tonight.”

“But you said you would.”

“I don’t care what I said – I don’t want to be here.”

“And you think I do? I’m up to my ears in work. This case is killing me.”

“You always have it the worst, don’t you?”

“Actually, I do,” Jared said, raising his voice. “So the least you can do is make it easier for me.”

“Why? You’re not making it easier for me to see Kozlow. Instead, I have to put it all in writing.”

“So that’s what this is about. You’re mad because I’m sticking to protocol. Well, sorry, hon, but if you didn’t want to play hardball-”

“Don’t give me your macho clichés. This isn’t hardball and it’s certainly not protocol – it’s just you being a pompous ass.”

“Oh, it is?”

“It definitely is. Why else would you make me jump through your paper-shuffling hoops?”

“Why would you call my law firm’s billing department pretending to be Kathleen?” Jared shot back.

Sara froze. “What’re you talking about?”

“Sara, I know you were the one who called. What’d you think, they weren’t going to tell me that someone was trying to get Kozlow’s billing information? The moment I heard it, I knew it was you.”

Sara didn’t say a word.

“And you think I was playing unfair?” Jared continued. “What you did not only violated a half dozen ethics rules – it also violated our trust. You know my career is at stake, and you still played dirty behind my back. I’d never do that to you.”

“You wouldn’t?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Jared insisted.

“Then why’d you tell Barrow to feed me bogus information about the case?”

Jared stared angrily at his wife.

“Oh, no, you’d never do anything behind my back,” Sara said sarcastically. “You’re all perfect and proper with your superstar firm, and its big parties, and its never-lose attitude. Well, let me tell you something: When all is said and done, you’re just as ruthless as I am. The only difference is I don’t pretend that I’m pitching my tent on the moral high ground.”

“I don’t need the lecture,” Jared interrupted. “I know what I did, and I take full responsibility for it. So if you want to talk about this case, let’s talk. Otherwise, I don’t need to spend every night fighting about our individual trial strategies.”

Sara leaned against one of the industrial refrigerators and took a deep breath. “I agree. Now what else is there to talk about?”

“How about the realistic conclusion of this case?” Jared asked. “The way I see it, we should get this wrapped up as soon as possible. The longer we keep it going, the less time we have for Pop, who I’m sure would-”

“You son of a bitch.”

“What’d I-”

“Don’t you dare use him against me!” Sara shouted. “He’s not a bargaining chip! He’s my family! Do you understand?”

“Sara, I swear I didn’t mean anything by that. I was just-”

“I know exactly what you meant. Now if you want to talk, that’s fine, but leave Pop out of it. I don’t even want to hear his name mentioned.”

“Fine, then let me get straight to the point. As far as I can tell, you have nothing to work with. You won a weak indictment based on the testimony of an incompetent cop and an unreliable witness – both of whom you know I’ll rip apart at trial. When you take them out, this is nothing more than a simple mistaken-identity case. So to make it easy on you, I’m giving you one last offer: Take the dismiss and seal now, or take the loss at trial. It’s your choice.”

“That’s a nice speech,” Sara said. “But there’s no way you’re avoiding a trial.”

Jared’s fists tightened and his face flushed with blood. “Dammit, Sara, why do you have to be so stubborn?”

“That’s funny,” Sara said coldly as she walked out of the kitchen. “I was just going to ask you the same question.” Pushing her way through the doors, she added, “Enjoy the rest of your party.”

“You look terrible,” the elevator operator told Sara a week later.

“You should’ve seen me when I woke up,” Sara said. Bags under her eyes darkened her fair complexion. “It took me a full hour to make myself look this good.”

“It always happens that way – you start losing your case, you start losing your sleep.”

“Who said I’m losing my case?” Sara asked as the elevator doors shut.

“Don’t get mad at me, I’m just telling you what I hear. Word on this ride is that you’re facing off against your husband. Honey, if you wanted to hurt yourself, there are less painful ways to do it.” When Sara didn’t show a hint of a smile, he added, “It’s getting down and dirty, isn’t it?”

Sara nodded. “When he first got on the case, I was torn up by the idea that I might potentially hurt him. But now… now it’s starting to get personal. Every day, we’re finding new ways to stab each other in the back.”

“Of course you are – the best way to hide fear is with anger. It’s the next logical step. You shouldn’t be surprised.”

“I’m not surprised, I’m just disappointed. I thought we were stronger than that.”

“It’s got nothing to do with strength. The longer it goes, the uglier it gets. And honey, you’re going to see a whole lot more of ugly.”

“Darnell,” Sara said, leaning against the back of the elevator, “you give a real shitty pep talk.”

“Then how’s this?” he asked as the elevator approached the seventh floor. Doing his best Ethel Merman impression, he sang, “You’ll be swell, you’ll be great – gonna have the whole world on your plate. Starting here, starting now…”

“Everything’s coming up roses…” they both sang as Sara plodded out of the elevator. “Thanks, Darnell,” she added through the closing elevator doors.

Heading up the hallway, Sara saw Officer McCabe leaning on the corner of Guff’s desk, waiting for her to arrive. She glanced over her shoulder at the attendance board. The small magnet next to Victor’s name was in the “Out” column. He hadn’t arrived yet. Relieved, Sara rushed toward McCabe and pulled him into her office.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“Not at all,” she said, shutting the door behind him. “I just had a quick question that I was hoping you could help me with.”

“Ask away,” McCabe said.

“After an arrest, do you follow up on all your cases?”

“That depends on the case. If it was one where my partner got shot, or a buddy or relative was hurt, I’d definitely follow up on it. But if it’s something small, there’s no time to follow it up – especially since most cases get plea-bargained.”

“Is this case considered a small one?”

“An unarmed burglary? It might as well be jaywalking. I have a few of those every week. I don’t have the time to check up on all of them.”

“So if I – or someone else who got the case – had sat on it forever, you would’ve never known about it.”

“I’d know if I followed up on it, but the odds say I probably wouldn’t bother. I just have to get Kozlow off the street – you guys take care of the rest.”

“I guess we do,” Sara said. “Especially when we think no one’s looking.”

Leaving Sara’s office, McCabe noticed two fellow officers from his precinct in the hallway. After a quick discussion of their cases and a recap of office news, McCabe headed for the elevators. When he turned the corner at the security guard’s table, someone was blocking his exit through the turnstile. It was Victor.

“Are you Michael McCabe?” Victor asked with a cold stare.

“That depends,” McCabe said. “Are you going to serve me with a subpoena?”

Forcing a strained smile, Victor said, “Nothing like that. I just wanted to introduce myself.” He extended his hand. “I’m Victor Stockwell.”

“So you’re the famous Victor,” McCabe said, shaking his hand. “What can I do for you?”

“Well,” Victor said, putting a hand on McCabe’s shoulder, “I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“Will it take long? Because I have to get back-”

“Don’t worry,” Victor said. “It’ll only take a second.”

A half hour later, Sara called Patty Harrison. There was no answer. She hung up and dialed Claire Doniger’s number.

“Hello,” Doniger answered.

“Hi, Ms. Doniger. This is Sara Tate calling. I’m sorry to bother you, but I wanted to-”

“What is it?” Doniger asked.

Trying to keep her voice soothing, Sara said, “I wonder if you could set aside some time for us to come up to see your house. As we put together the case, it’d be helpful if we could get the exact layout of your home so that the jury can see-”

“I’m sorry, but as I told you last week, I’ve been quite busy lately. Now, I don’t mean to be rude, but I must get going. Good-bye, Miss Tate.” The line went dead.

Sara stormed over to Conrad’s office. “Can you help me get a detective?”

“Why do you want a detective?” Conrad asked.

“Because if I’m going to figure out what the hell is going on with Claire Doniger, I’m going to need some professional help. I’m not Miss Marple – I can’t do this alone.”

“Calm down,” Conrad said. “Now start over. What’d Doniger do?”

“She hasn’t done anything. She’s just completely unhelpful. She doesn’t want to talk about the case, she doesn’t want to testify, she doesn’t want to let us into her house. You’d think we’re the enemy.”

“Don’t let her do that to you,” Conrad said, pointing at Sara. “I told you before: You’re the one who’s in control and it’s your job to make her cooperate. If she doesn’t want to make time for you to come over, tell her she has a choice: She can let you take a half-hour tour of the house, or you can show up with an order to examine the scene and six of your closest police pals, a photographer, and a reporter, all of whom would love to take the new and improved eight-hour tour of her house while tearing through her stuff. Who knows what you’ll turn up. And if she doesn’t respond to that, you grab her by the shoulders and shake her until you knock some sense into her brain.” To illustrate, Conrad shook an imaginary person in front of his desk. “Screw her if she doesn’t want to toe the company line.”

Smiling at Conrad’s solution, Sara said, “Y’know, you’re pretty cute when you’re angry.”

“Thank you,” he replied, straightening his tie. “It’s the shaking back and forth part that got you excited, isn’t it?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sara laughed, surprised by Conrad’s reaction. “Who said I was excited?”

“Not me. I didn’t say a word.”

“Good, because I wasn’t even close to excited. At best, I was mildly amused.”

“That’s fine. Back away from it all you want. I don’t want to put words in your mouth. Now is there anything else?”

“I told you,” Sara said, regaining control of the conversation. “I need a detective who’ll help me investigate.”

Twenty minutes later, Guff walked into Conrad’s office. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Sara held her hand up and whispered, “Conrad’s trying to get us a detective.”

“No, I understand,” Conrad said. “I appreciate the help.” He put down the phone and turned to Sara. “Forget it. You’re on your own.”

“He said no, too?” Sara asked.

“I can’t believe it,” Conrad said. “Between the precinct and the squad, no one would assign a detective. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Why’re they being so tightfisted?”

“First and foremost, they’re understaffed. Besides that, it’s the budget cuts. Everyone’s so worried about their jobs, they’re not willing to take a minor case.”

“Or maybe there’s more to it than that,” Sara said. “For all we know, Victor might’ve-”

“Sara, you have to stop,” Conrad interrupted. “Even Victor doesn’t know every detective we’re calling.”

“But he may know all the precinct sergeants who’re in charge of assigning those detectives,” Sara pointed out.

“Big deal,” Guff said from the sofa. “I say we go down there tomorrow and have a look around ourselves. We don’t need some overrated detective to do the work for us.”

“I don’t know,” Conrad said. “I know this may sound strange coming from me, but maybe you should just plead out the case and be done with it. Considering what Monaghan said, it’s far more important that you don’t lose your first case at trial. And based on your witness list, it doesn’t sound like you have much to work with.”

Biting her lip, Sara couldn’t help but agree. But ever since Pop’s accident, she knew it wasn’t about her job. The stakes had been raised. The fight was for Jared. “No,” she insisted. “I can’t plead out.”

“But if you get rid of this, you can take your other cases and-”

“I’m taking care of the other cases.”

“Are you?” Conrad asked.

“I’m taking care of them,” she repeated. “If I can’t get a detective on this one, then I’ll go up there myself. Tomorrow morning, we’ll visit Claire Doniger and see what we can find.”

At one-thirty, Jared headed to “Chez Wayne,” the firm’s private dining room, for lunch. Every day, over three hundred employees swapped stories, shared gossip, and stuffed their faces in Chez Wayne’s enormous dining area.

Sitting alone in the back of the room, Jared ignored the conversations of his fellow employees. He dug into his minestrone soup, his mind focused on the case. Although he didn’t want to jinx himself with overconfidence, he was feeling good about his position. Sara still had almost nothing in terms of information, and her witnesses were becoming even more difficult to work with. Things were finally looking good for the defense, and best of all, his wife would be safe. So when he saw Marty Lubetsky enter the room, Jared waved his hand to get his boss’s attention.

Approaching Jared’s table with a tray of food, Lubetsky asked, “What’s got you so happy?”

“Nothing,” Jared said. “I was just thinking about the AmeriTex case from last week.”

“Jared, don’t fish for compliments.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Sure you weren’t,” Lubetsky said as he set his tray down and took a seat. “Don’t worry, though. I got copies of the motions. It was nice work.”

“Thanks,” Jared said.

“Now tell me about the Kozlow case. How do things look?”

“Good. Very good. I’m still hoping for a dismiss and seal, but I don’t think Sara’s going to go for it.”

“How’s her case?”

“It’s starting to crumble. By the end of the week, I think she’ll realize she’s stuck with a loser. And as she starts getting desperate, I’ve got a few more tricks.”

Resting against the doors of the subway car, Sara knew she was in trouble. From the moment she had taken the case, things had been sliding downhill. And no matter how hard she tried to climb back up, she could feel everything collapsing around her. As the train headed uptown, swarms of commuters packed in and Sara was pushed to the center of the car. With her back and shoulders pressed against strangers, she started to feel claustrophobic. She opened her coat to cool herself off, but the subway’s dry, chalky air caused her to break into an uncomfortable sweat. Closing her eyes, she tried to forget her fellow passengers. She tried to forget about Jared and Kozlow and Sunken Cheeks. And she tried not to think about her parents and her family and what would happen if she lost the case. But regardless of how hard she tried, and how many other things she could shut out, she couldn’t stop thinking about Pop. She’d never forget the fear in his eyes when he was wheeled into the hospital room. She had almost lost him, and he knew it. They had broken Pop. That was what she couldn’t shake, and unless she could prevent it, that was what they were going to do to her husband. Hold it together, she told herself, clutching the handle of her briefcase. It’ll be fine.

When the train reached Seventy-ninth Street, Sara shoved her way out of the car, desperate to get a breath of fresh air. As quickly as she could, she climbed up to the street and finally breathed a sigh of relief. On the walk home, she did her best to convince herself that everything would be okay – that she just needed to calm down and stay focused. But as she turned down her block, she heard someone behind her say, “Hey, Sara. What’s going on?”

Whirling around, Sara was relieved to see that it was just her upstairs neighbor, Joel Westman. “Sorry, Joel. I thought you were someone else.”

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Joel said as he caught up to Sara. “Are you okay? You look sick.”

“I’m fine,” Sara said as they approached their building. “I think I’m just coming down with a cold. It’s been a rough week.”

“I know what you mean. Work can really get in the way of life,” Joel said. “Meanwhile, what happened to your briefcase?”

Looking down, Sara saw that someone had scratched the word Win into the side of her leather briefcase. Her heart skipped a beat. The threat was closer than she had known – indeed, so close it had been standing right next to her on the subway.