Dead Even

Chapter 13

“LENNY’S DEAD?” SARA ASKED, STUNNED. “WHEN DID it happen? How?”

“A hit-and-run driver plowed into him a block away from his office,” Conrad explained. “Crushed his skull on impact.”

Sara sank to the sofa. “I can’t believe it. We’ve known Lenny for years. He took me to the hospital when I had my appendix out – carried me from the cab.”

“If you want, I can get you the homicide report on it,” Conrad offered. “It may have some more information.”

“I can’t believe he’s dead,” Sara said.

“Are you okay?” Guff asked, sitting down next to her.

“Hand me the phone,” Sara said to Conrad. “I have to tell Jared.”

“Dead?” Jared asked, his voice cracking.

“Sara called about a half hour ago. He was found dead last night,” Kathleen explained. “I’m really sorry, Jared. I know you two were close.”

“I don’t believe this,” Jared said. As he undid his tie and the first button of his shirt, his hands were shaking. “Have you heard from Rafferty or Kozlow?”

“Not yet. I don’t think they’re coming in today.” Seeing the sweat form on her boss’s forehead, Kathleen asked, “Are you okay? Do you want me to get you some water?”

Jared stood up and walked to the door, perspiration running down his back. “I’m fine. I just need to get some fresh air.” Lurching down the hallway, Jared had trouble catching his breath. He staggered into the men’s room and over to one of the three marble sinks. Leaning forward, he felt as if he was going to throw up. For two minutes, he fought his nausea and struggled to slow his breathing. He then turned on the cold water and splashed it against his face.

Eventually, he looked up, staring at himself in the mirror. It’s my fault, he thought. I never should’ve gotten him involved. Looking away, he wished there were some way he could undo the past weeks’ events. That he could get rid of the case, protect his wife, and, most important, bring back his friend. As he replayed the events in his mind, he kicked himself for going to Barrow’s office last night. He should have known better than that – Rafferty had said he’d always be watching. Still unable to look in the mirror, Jared closed his eyes and tightened his fists. In the span of a heartbeat, painful remorse turned to tormenting anger.

He opened his eyes. “You dumb son of a bitch! How could you do that to your friend?” he screamed. Then, without thinking, Jared pulled back and thrust his fist into the mirror, shattering the glass into the sink. Blood ran down to his elbow, but he stood motionless. The senseless act of rage didn’t make him feel any better. It didn’t take away his pain, and it didn’t allay his fears, but it did remove the mirror. And for a short but fulfilling moment, Jared Lynch didn’t have to face himself.

At five o’clock that evening, Jared arrived home from work exhausted and devastated. For the past seven hours, he had been sitting at his desk, accomplishing nothing. So when Kathleen finally told him to go home, for once he didn’t argue. And when she said the word home, Jared knew she didn’t mean Pop’s house. She meant home – his home, Sara’s home, their home – the only place he wanted to be. As he opened the door and stepped inside, he expected to find an empty apartment. Instead, he was surprised to see his wife.

“Jared, I’m so sorry,” she said, approaching her husband. She opened her arms and took him in.

As he buried his head against her shoulder, he began to cry.

“I’m here,” Sara said, softly running her hands across his back.

The couple stood there, locked together. For a minute, their problems were gone. Then Sara noticed the white gauze bandage on Jared’s hand. “What happened to your hand?” she asked.

“It’s fine. I’m okay,” he said as he pulled away.

“But how’d you-”

Sidestepping his wife, Jared went into the kitchen. “I cut myself with a letter opener. It’s nothing.” He poured himself a glass of red wine, then headed for the bedroom. Sara followed.

Entering the bedroom, Sara noticed that her briefcase was sitting open on the bed. As casually as possible, she closed the front flap and moved it to the floor.

“You really don’t trust me, do you?” Jared asked as the tears welled up inside him. “Sara, I’d never do that again. I know there’s no reason to believe that, but I swear to you, it really is the truth. You caught me off guard with the murder charge, so I guess I got desperate.”

“Jared-”

“I know you don’t want to go through this right now, but I didn’t know where else to go. I just… I don’t know… I really… I love you, Sara.”

“I love you, too,” she said. “And I understand.”

“Then with Lenny…”

“Really. You don’t have to explain. I know what you’re trying to say.”

“You do?” he said. “So you don’t mind if I come back to-”

“Jared, our friend was just killed – I don’t want you to be alone at Pop’s.”

He reached to embrace her.

As they hugged, Sara added, “Do you really think I’m so heartless that I wouldn’t let you stay here tonight?”

Jared pulled away. “What do you mean ‘tonight’?”

“I don’t know, I just thought that since the trial’s coming up…”

He was already grinding his teeth. Without saying a word, he stormed out of the bedroom. As he passed the kitchen, he threw his wineglass in the sink. The glass shattered in every direction, and red wine went flying.

“Damn,” Sara whispered. She just wanted to protect him. Without him there, it’d be one less thing for Sunken Cheeks to harass her about. Chasing after him, she called, “Jared, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. If you want to stay, you can.”

“No way. Not a chance,” he said as he headed for the front door.

“Please – I really want you to stay.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “Honey, I swear to you, I want you to stay. I mean it.”

Jared stopped and turned around. “If you wanted me to stay, you never would’ve said that in the first place.”

“That’s not true. I still-”

“He’s dead!” Jared shouted. “Lenny’s dead and you’re still worried about your files! Do you understand how twisted that is?”

“Jared, please…”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he said. “I’ll be at Pop’s.” He pulled open the door, his back to his wife. “And if you care, Lenny’s sister called. The funeral’s tomorrow, so if you’re not too absorbed in your own damn world, you should be there.”

“Of course I’ll be there.”

“Great. I’ll see you then.” Without looking back, Jared walked out, slamming the door behind him.

“Enough of this,” Kozlow said as he listened to the end of Jared and Sara’s conversation. “She’s kicking our asses all over the mat. Let’s kill her and be done with it.”

“Are you that much of a moron?” Rafferty asked, sitting at the desk in his study. “Sara’s the best bargaining chip I have. Without her, I have nothing over Jared.”

“Who cares about Jared? If he’s not in the house, he’s useless. I say we go back to Victor and tell him to-”

“Enough with Victor. I told you a dozen times, he won’t touch the case. So I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

“All I’m saying is Jared hasn’t done anything lately to-”

“Are you listening?!” Rafferty shouted. “I said I don’t want to hear it!”

In one quick movement, Kozlow reached across the desk and grabbed Rafferty’s left ear. Pulling him forward, he whispered, “How many times do I have to tell you – don’t yell at me. I don’t like it.”

“Let go of me,” Rafferty demanded. When Kozlow obliged, he asked, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Kozlow said. “I just don’t like being talked to like that.”

“You’ve made your point.” Running his hand over his hair, Rafferty slowly regained his composure. When this was done, he’d deal with Kozlow.

“So you think if we want to win, our best bet is still with Jared?” Kozlow asked.

“That’s it,” Rafferty said. “Now you know everything.”

Sitting in her empty apartment, Sara tried to picture his face. She had been friends with Lenny for half a dozen years, but as she knew from personal experience, the simplest things are usually the easiest to forget. In a few weeks’ time, her vivid memories of his physical presence would begin to fade. She’d always remember who he was as a person, and what he was like as a detective, but the artist in Sara wanted something more visual. Sure, she could always look at old photographs, but that wasn’t the same. She wanted to recall how he moved across a room, and how he gestured with his short, fat fingers, and how his shoulders bobbed when he laughed. That was what she needed to remember, and that was what she spent the next two hours trying to do.

Drained by the effort, Sara reheated some leftover pasta and, standing at the kitchen counter, ate it from the container. Then, hoping to focus on something less stressful, she emptied the hamper into her purple laundry bag and headed for the laundry room in the basement of the building. Dragging her bag down the stairs, she walked out the front entrance of the brownstone, pulled out her keys, and opened the black metal gate that led to the basement door. Closing the gate behind her, she entered the laundry room and slowly separated her clothes into colors and whites.

The laundry room itself was typical for New York: quiet, musty, and difficult to access. Set off from the room was a small area for residential storage and another area that contained a poorly lit labyrinth of pipes and circuit breakers. Since the day they moved in, Sara had found the room creepy – the concrete walls made it feel like a tomb. When she was finished loading the washers, she took out her key, opened the gate, and returned to her apartment.

A half hour later, she returned to the basement. Once again, she opened the metal gate to reach the laundry room. Still regretting what she’d said to Jared, she moved her clothes from the washers to the dryers. I should call him, she thought. Tonight’s not a night to be alone. In the midst of the transfer, she heard a clanging noise from the back of the basement. Those loud pipes that keep us up all winter, she thought. But when she heard the noise get closer, she peered over her shoulder. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move. Startled, she dropped the pile of clothes in her hands. Just a mouse, she realized, watching it scurry behind one of the washers. Although she was somewhat relieved, something still felt wrong. When she was done loading the dryers, she stepped outside to the black gate and realized that she had left her keys in the laundry room. She turned around and headed back. But when she checked the tops of the washers and dryers, the keys weren’t there.

Sara pulled open the door of one of the dryers and rifled through her wet clothes. Nothing. Leaning into the second dryer, she pulled out one piece at a time, carefully searching for her missing keys. Suddenly, she heard another noise behind her. She turned around expecting to see the mouse. But then, suddenly, the lights went out.

Sara was enveloped by darkness. Her first thought was that someone else was in the room. Don’t move, she told herself. That’s how he’ll find you. Holding her breath, she listened carefully. But all she heard was the monotonous churning of the spinning dryer. Over and over, the sound filled the air – it was maddening. Maybe it’s just a blown fuse, she thought. There’s no reason to panic. Then she felt a hand cover her mouth. Someone was behind her. He gripped her jaw tightly. “Hiya, Sara,” he whispered in her ear. She knew that voice anywhere. It was Sunken Cheeks.

She thrust her elbow into his stomach. It was just enough to make him let go. Sara darted in the direction of the door. Elliott was right behind her. She still couldn’t see, but running her hands along the cold wall she found the door and tore it open. When she reached the black metal gate, she grabbed the bars and screamed, “Police! Hel -!”

Before she could even finish the word, she again felt his hand over her mouth. Elliott punched her fingers until she let go of the gate and dragged her back into the laundry room. The door closed and darkness returned. She thrashed in every direction, trying to pull herself free. Holding both of Sara’s wrists in one hand, he threw her up against the wall. She was still struggling against his grip. Elliott backhanded her across the face. She stopped fighting. He leaned in and clutched her throat. She could smell the stale remnants of alcohol on his breath. “Keep him out of this house. Do you understand me? I don’t want him fishing through your stuff.”

Sara nodded vigorously.

Still holding her by the wrists, he threw her to the ground. In the pitch dark, she had no idea where he was – behind her, in front of her – he could have been anywhere. She lay completely still on the floor. Again, she listened carefully. And again, all she heard was the churning of the spinning dryer. Stay still, she told herself. He’s at just as much of a disadvantage. Then, above the sound of the dryer, Elliott’s deep voice cut through the room.

“Nothing’s sacred,” he warned. “Not even you.”

Before Sara could react, she caught a crack of light by the door. Then she heard the black metal gate swing open and slam shut. He was outside. She ran out the laundry room door and saw Elliott on the other side of the gate.

“Police! Someone! Help!” she screamed.

“Not in this city,” Elliott said. He took Sara’s keys and put them on the farthest step from the basement. “Someone’ll be along soon.” As he walked up the block, he added, “See you in court.”

Monday morning, Sara arrived at work hoping for a relaxing day. The combination of Lenny’s funeral and seeing Jared there had left her completely exhausted. So as she headed up the hallway, the last thing she expected to see was two workmen packing up boxes in her office. “What do you guys think you’re doing?” she asked.

“Moving files,” one of the workers said.

“I can see that. Who gave you permission to come in here?”

“Conrad Moore. He said we had to get all the Kozlow files, since they were removing the ADA.”

As Sara’s mouth dropped open, Guff entered the room. “What’s going on?”

“I’m fired,” Sara said, rushing out the door.

“Excuse me?” Guff asked. Chasing after Sara, he followed her to Conrad’s office.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Sara asked as she barged inside.

“Calm down a second,” Conrad said. “I can explain.”

“How can you possibly explain? You found out I got fired and you didn’t even have the decency to tell me!”

“What’re you talking about? You’re not fired.”

“I’m not?” Sara asked.

“No,” Conrad said. “You’re just off the case.”

“What?”

“That’s what Monaghan told me. He says he can’t have a novice handling a first-class homicide. It’s too complex and there’s too much on the line. You’re supposed to turn over all your files to me.”

As Conrad’s words slowly registered, Sara turned to Guff.

“It’ll be okay,” Guff said. “We’ll figure out a way to-”

“No,” Sara blurted. “I have to stay on this case. This is my case.”

“I’m sorry,” Conrad said. “I know you’re upset, but I have to do what he says.”

“This has nothing to do with me being upset,” Sara said, her voice deadly serious. “I have to stay on this case.”

Conrad glanced over at Guff, then looked back at Sara. “What aren’t you two telling me? There’s obviously something important you’re leaving out.”

“There’s nothing,” Sara insisted. “I just need to be on the case.”

When Conrad stared at Guff, Guff said, “Stop looking at me – I didn’t do anything.”

“Sara, something is obviously going on.”

Her glance dropped to the floor, but she didn’t say a word.

“If you tell me, I can help you with it. Otherwise, you’re on your own and off the case.”

Still, Sara was silent.

“Fine, have it your way,” Conrad said, walking to the door. “I can get the rest of the files myself.”

As Conrad was about to leave, Sara looked over at Guff, who nodded back at her. Sara spoke up. “If I tell you, you have to give me your word that you’ll do things my way.”

Conrad closed the door and turned around. “Go on.”

“First, give me your word. Promise me that you’ll do things my way.”

“I’m not promising anything. Now tell me what the hell is going on.”

“Forget it,” Sara said.

Shaking his head, Conrad said, “Give me one good reason why I should take orders from you.”

“Because if you don’t, you’ll be putting my life and my family’s life in jeopardy.”

Sara let her statement sink in. Eventually, Conrad said, “I promise you, I’ll never do anything that will put you or your family in danger.”

“And I have your word on that?”

“You have my word.”

Taking a deep breath, Sara explained how she had been approached by Sunken Cheeks, and how he told her she had to win the case. From the threat he made about Jared to what he did to Pop, she told Conrad everything. Conrad didn’t interrupt once. Then, the moment Sara was finished, he said, “Are you telling me an outside party threatened you and you never reported it to anyone? What did I tell you about that? The system is set up to protect you when-”

“Conrad, no offense, but I don’t want to hear your lectures on the system right now. The system didn’t protect Pop, and it certainly can’t protect my husband. This psycho, whoever he is, has the fingerprints of a dead man, knows everything about me, approached me on a subway without me even knowing, and somehow got into my basement without a key. The truth is, he scares the hell out of me. Every time I walk into my house, I check the closets to see if he’s there. In the bedroom, I look behind the door to see if he’s waiting for me. He’s not your basic criminal, and until we know who he is, I see no reason to piss him off. He’s just asking me to do my job.”

“He’s not asking you to do your job. He’s threatening Jared’s life.”

“He wants me to win,” Sara shot back. “That’s all he wants. And you and I both know that I can give it to him. You may be a better prosecutor, but no one knows my husband better than I do. I know how he thinks, and how he fights, and who he talks to.”

“Like Lenny Barrow,” Conrad interjected.

“Exactly. Like Lenny Barrow,” Sara said. “Believe me, I don’t plan on letting this guy off the hook, but I can’t let you shut me out of this. It’s my family, my problem, and my case.”

“I don’t know…”

“Conrad, since the day we first met, I’ve followed your rules. If you said it, I did it. And I’ll always be grateful for that. Just this once, though, I’m asking you to see things my way. Help me stay on this case. That’s all I’m asking.”

For the next minute, no one said a word. “Let me think about it,” Conrad finally said. “We’ll talk again first thing tomorrow.”

“As long as you think carefully,” Sara said, heading for the door. “That’s all I ask.”

The following morning, Sara and Guff sat in Sara’s office, waiting impatiently for Conrad to arrive. “Do you think he’s going to go for it?” Guff asked.

“I have no idea,” Sara said. “Sometimes he seems so predictable, other times I can’t figure him out.”

“Predictable? Conrad’s never predictable. He may love to follow the rules and preach morality, but the moment he thinks it’s necessary, he’s prepared to drop that shtick and do what’s right. Don’t forget, he’s both a New York resident and a government employee. By definition, that makes him a realist.”

“I pray you’re right,” Sara said.

Ten minutes later, Conrad walked into Sara’s office. He shut the door and stood directly in front of her desk. “Here’s my offer,” he said. “First, I’m not dropping this case.”

“Then you can-”

“Hear me out,” he interrupted. “I’m not dropping this case, because Monaghan won’t let you do it alone. But I will agree to colawyer it with you. To everyone else, it’ll look like I’m in charge, but between us, we’ll be equal partners on it.”

“So I still get to run it and manage it as I see fit?”

“As we see fit,” Conrad corrected. “You have a lot riding on this case, but I won’t let you do anything illegal or stupid just to make a point. In my experience, emotion always wrecks rational thought. So if you step out of line, I’m going to yank your ass back.”

“But you’ll help me win?”

“Make no mistake, Sara, we’re going to win. No matter what your husband does, no matter how many motions he files, no matter how many designer-suit-wearing, expensive-tie-buying, Saab-driving, salon-styling, manicure-getting, mahogany-loving, conspicuous-consuming, overbilling, prestige-sucking, rich-ass lawyers he can find in that overhyped law firm, they’re going to shine our industrial-carpeted floors by the time we’re done with them. And whoever this fucker is that hurt your Pop – when this is all over, we’re going to do our end-zone dance on his mysterious but guaranteed to be kicked-in face.”

Sara grinned broadly.

“I knew he was going to say that,” Guff said. “So damn predictable!”

“Now, do we have a deal?” Conrad asked, offering a handshake.

“As long as you don’t tell Monaghan about the guy who threatened me.”

“Monaghan won’t hear a word. The only thing I’ve told him is how aggressive you are as a prosecutor and how late you love to work. You know he loves to hear that. Now, are you sure you’re ready to continue hunting for this guy?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Sara said, shaking Conrad’s hand.

“Good,” Conrad said as he sat next to Guff on the couch. “Because that’s where I want to start right now.”

“Wait, before we do that, tell me something,” Sara said. “What convinced you to keep me on the case?”

“All I had to do was put myself in your shoes. The moment I did that, I realized I’d want someone to step up for me. Now does that answer your question, or do you need me to feed you some psychological bullshit about how I needed to do this to exorcise my own personal ghosts?”

“Nope. That’s enough,” Sara said. “But if you keep doing nice things for me, I’m going to start telling people what a big softy you really are.”

“They’d never believe it,” Conrad said. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a sealed interoffice-mail folder. “Anyway, getting back to personal ghosts, this just arrived from Crime Scene. It looks like the fingerprint results you requested.”

“The ones from my briefcase? What’d they say?”

“I didn’t want to open it without my co-counsel,” Conrad said. He threw the envelope to Sara. “You do the honors.”

Sara ripped open the envelope and flipped through the report. “I don’t believe this,” she said.

“What?” Guff asked. “The prints belong to that same dead guy?”

“No, it’s not the same dead guy. It’s a new dead guy. According to the report, the prints on my briefcase belong to Warren Eastham, a petty criminal who was murdered last year.”

“I don’t understand it,” Guff said. “How the hell does a man have two sets of fingerprints?”

“Maybe he works in Crime Scene and he’s sabotaging all the searches we run,” Conrad suggested.

“Or maybe Crime Scene is blowing the searches on its own,” Guff added.

“I don’t care how he does it,” Sara said. “I just want to know who he is.”

Dressed in tight black biker shorts and an oversized, faded Michigan sweatshirt, Elliott walked straight into the lobby of the medical examiner’s building. “Messenger,” he announced to the security guard, flashing the bright yellow nylon backpack that hung off his shoulder. “I’m looking for a Dr. Fawcett.”

“Take the elevator to the basement,” the guard said. “Room B- 22.”

When Elliott reached the basement, he quickly found room B-22. Opening the door, he saw Fawcett sitting behind his desk. “How’re you doing?” Elliott asked with a smile. “I’m here to pick up the final autopsy report on Arnold Doniger.”

“Are you from the DA’s office?” Fawcett asked suspiciously.

“Oh, yeah,” Elliott said, pulling a clipboard from his backpack. “Let’s see here – I’m supposed to deliver it to Assistant District Attorney Sara Tate at 80 Centre Street ASAP. She apparently wants it yesterday.”

“They always do,” Fawcett joked. He handed Elliott the sealed envelope.

“Thanks, doc,” Elliott said, putting the envelope in his backpack. “Say hi to the stiffs for me. Tell them they’re really stinking up the place.”

“Will do,” Fawcett said as Elliott left the office.

Two and a half weeks later, a sharp October wind signaled the early arrival of winter. Although wool overcoats began to decorate the urban landscape, there was no other sign that anything was different in the city that never noticed. Sirens were still blaring, traffic was still overwhelming, Chinese food was still being delivered at all hours of the night, and Sara, Conrad, and Guff were still struggling to put together the pieces of the case.

“I got it,” Guff said, waving a stack of papers in his hand as he entered Sara’s office.

“Got what?” Conrad asked, leaning against Sara’s filing cabinet.

“Oh, my good man, do you not know what you thus miss? I have acquired that most honored of all items – the tome of worldly bequests.”

“The what?” Conrad asked.

“His will,” Sara explained, sitting at her desk. “The surrogate court finally agreed to turn over Arnold Doniger’s will.”

“Agreed?” Conrad asked. “You should’ve subpoenaed it from them.”

“You subpoena, I ask,” Sara said. “The result’s the same.” Turning to Guff, she asked, “So what’s it say?”

“You were right about one thing – Arnold Doniger wasn’t lacking in the rich department. If you total all the monetary gifts in his will, he was worth at least seven million dollars. And that doesn’t include his New York City house, his weekend home in Connecticut, or his interest in Echo Enterprises, which I’m assuming is his business.”

“Big deal,” Conrad said. “Half the East Side can go dollar-for-dollar. The real question is, who benefits?”

“That’s the crazy part,” Guff said, handing Sara the will. “We’ve been assuming Claire Doniger hired Kozlow to cash in on her husband, but according to the will, Claire doesn’t get a single cent. When they were married ten months ago, she signed the prenup to end all prenups.”

“But can’t she still take her elective share?” Conrad asked. “From what I remember from law school, spouses can always get a guaranteed percentage, even when they’re left out.”

“Not in this case,” Sara said. “Claire waived her elective share and everything else in her prenup. She doesn’t even get the house they lived in.”

“So you’re telling me Claire doesn’t have a motive to kill her husband?” Conrad asked.

“Not if that motive was an inheritance in the will. Based on this, she doesn’t get a thing.”

“Then who does?”

“Again, there’s no one in particular. The monetary gifts are designated for a dozen or so different charities, the house in Connecticut goes to the local historical society, and the proceeds from selling the New York house are earmarked for Princeton, his alma mater.”

“He doesn’t have any other family?”

“No kids and no siblings. He’s got a few cousins and an aunt in Florida, but all they get is a few thousand. Nothing worth killing anyone for.”

“What about the business?” Conrad asked. “Who gets that?”

“Echo Enterprises is given to the other partners of the firm. My guess is he didn’t want to mix family and business.”

“I don’t believe this,” Sara said, standing up. “How can Claire not be the one who hired Kozlow? It made such perfect sense.”

“Sure it did,” Conrad said. “Except for the small fact that she doesn’t have a motive.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” Guff said. “Maybe she had him killed precisely because she didn’t take anything under the will.”

“I don’t know,” Conrad said. “That seems a little shortsighted. Once her husband dies, she loses her home, her security, her entire livelihood. If I were Claire, and I was pissed about being left out of the will, I’d keep my hubby alive and sock away all the money I could.”

“Maybe she simply hated her husband,” Sara suggested. “That’s possible.”

“Now you’re projecting.”

“I’m serious,” Sara said. “Why do we need her to take money under the will? Tons of people kill their spouses for lesser reasons than that.”

“That’s true,” Conrad said. “But when a not-so-wealthy fifty-year-old woman kills her sixty-six-year-old, recently married millionaire husband, there’s got to be a good reason for it. And in all of my years working here, it’s almost always got to do with money.”

“Which is the one thing Claire doesn’t get.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” Guff said. “Maybe Claire isn’t involved with this at all.”

“No way,” Sara said. “Claire is definitely involved with this. She’s acted way too weird to not have some connection.”

“Then we need to figure out what that connection is,” Conrad added. “Otherwise, we’re going to have a hard time making this case.”

“So we have the victim, and the cause of death, and the will, and the possible triggerman, but we still don’t have the motive,” Guff said.

“And without the motive, we’re stuck.”

“They know,” Claire Doniger said, fidgeting with her wedding band as her daily juice and jasmine tea sat untouched in front of her. “They definitely know.”

“Don’t get hysterical,” he said. “If they knew, you’d already be indicted as an accomplice. They can’t prove a thing.”

“But how long is that going to last? They keep asking me when they can look through the house. What if they find something that-”

“I told you, I’m taking care of everything. Jared is working right now to make sure that visit never happens.”

Claire stood and nervously started to clear the table. “You’ve been saying that all along. But what if he can’t stop them? What if-”

Grabbing Claire’s wrists, he forced her to set down the teacup and saucer she was holding. He then pulled her toward his chair and onto his lap. “I want you to take a deep breath for me and listen to what I’m about to say: If it were only about the money, I would’ve walked away weeks ago. Do you understand? I don’t like being alone. So no matter what it takes, no matter what I have to do, I’m not letting them take my best prize away from me. You’re the reason I got into this, and no matter the consequences, we’re going to come out of it together.” Holding both of Claire’s hands in his own, he added, “Now tell me who loves you.”

Forcing a weak smile, Claire said, “You do.”

“You’re damn right I do,” Rafferty said. “Damn right.”

Massaging his temples and doing his best to ignore his throbbing headache, Jared stared at his computer screen. For the past two weeks, he’d sought out the firm’s best criminal-defense attorneys. From each one, he tried to learn one more trick, one more hint, one more maneuver to win the case and save his wife.

Even the poster board was getting more attention than usual. Every day, he stared adamantly at the layout of the crime scene. Arriving no later than seven in the morning, he spent the first fifteen minutes of each day playing it through his head. Leaving no earlier than eleven at night, he always took one final look. He catalogued every moment. He indexed every minute. He did everything in his power to visualize every nuance of the crime.

Finally, to pick up where Barrow left off, Jared hired a well-recommended private detective, who scoured every inch of every block between Doniger’s house and the spot where McCabe picked up Kozlow. Under Jared’s instructions, the detective spoke to the garbagemen who did the early morning pickup, questioned the late-shift doormen from nearby buildings, and even called local taxi companies to see which drivers were in the neighborhood on the night in question. No matter how tenuous, how unlikely, or how outrageous the lead was, Jared and his staff searched for anyone who might be able to put Kozlow at a spot that was different from the one where McCabe said he was. But, in the end, after all the examining and exhaustive research, they couldn’t find a single new witness.

“There must be someone we’re forgetting,” Jared said, staring at the poster on his wall.

“Are you kidding?” Kathleen asked. “We’ve thought of everyone.”

“Did you ever find out about the paperboys?”

“Which ones? The New York Times, New York Post, Daily News, or Newsday? I spoke to all of them and none of them started delivering before five-thirty that morning.”

“What about-”

“There’s no one else,” Kathleen interjected. “We’ve been through everyone. The local bakeries that start kneading dough at sunrise, the corner groceries that are open all night, even the high-end escort services that frequent the area. I think the only person we haven’t spoken to is Arnold Doniger, and that’s only because he’s dead.”

“I know,” Jared said. “I just don’t want to miss anything.”

“Jared, killing yourself isn’t going to bring Lenny back. And it’s certainly not going to save your wife. When we find out about your motions, we’ll know a lot more about the shape of the case. But until that happens, you can’t keep running yourself like this.”

“I’m fine,” Jared said, turning toward his computer screen.

“Jared, you’re not-”

“I said I’m fine,” he insisted, raising his voice. “Now let’s move on to the next subject.”

“How much farther is this place?” Guff asked, sitting between Sara and Conrad in the backseat of the taxi.

“Stop asking already,” Conrad said as the cab pulled out of the Holland Tunnel. “We’ll be there soon enough.”

“I can’t help it,” Guff said. “I get anxious during field trips. It makes me feel like I’m back in junior high.”

“Junior high, huh?” Conrad asked. “Then how’s this? Shut up until we get there, or I’ll stuff you into a gym locker.”

“Ahhhh, childhood,” Guff said with a smile. “How I miss those now-gone days.”

Ten minutes later, the cab pulled up to the front entrance of the Hudson County Pistol Range. As the three coworkers got out of the car, Conrad announced, “Here it is – the best firing range in the tristate area.”

“You mean besides Manhattan itself?” Sara asked.

Within twenty minutes, Conrad, Sara, and Guff were armed, outfitted, and ready to begin their shooting practice. Following Conrad through the long, understated brick building, Sara and Guff were led to an enormous room that held eight private shooting booths. At the far end of each booth was its respective target. Some booths had standard bull’s-eyes, others had outlines of animals such as deer and lions, and still others had outlines of human beings. The booths were organized into beginner, intermediate, and advanced areas, with the target located twenty feet away for the beginners and thirty yards away for the advanced. Without pause, Conrad walked straight to an advanced booth.

“I guess we’re beginners,” Sara said to Guff.

“No way,” Conrad said. “Stay here with me.”

“But I’ve never shot a gun in my life.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Conrad said. “Best way to teach someone to swim is to throw them in the deep end.”

“What if I don’t want to learn how to swim?” Sara asked.

Conrad pointed to the booth next to his. “Everybody swims. Now get in.”

When all three of them were in their booths, Conrad put on his protective goggles and headset. “Can everyone hear me?” he asked through the headset’s small chin microphone.

“I read you loud and clear, Bandit,” Guff said through his own headset. “Now how ’bout helping me with these here smokeys on my tail.”

Ignoring Guff and getting a thumbs-up from Sara, Conrad picked up the.38-caliber handgun he had rented. With six quick shots, Conrad ripped apart the paper target of the human being thirty yards away.

“Not bad, Slim, but check this out,” Guff said, aiming his own gun. He fired six shots, then lowered the gun and looked at the target. He hadn’t hit a thing. “My gun’s broken,” he said.

“Your turn, Sara,” Conrad said.

“Before I go, I have to once again ask my little question: What the hell are we doing here?”

“I already told you, we weren’t getting anywhere sitting in the office, so I thought we could use a change of scenery. And whenever I hit a logic wall, this is always the best place to calm down and reevaluate.”

“This is how you calm down? Wearing yellow glasses and an oversized headset while shooting giant holes through paper people?”

“Some people like classical music; others prefer a more aggressive aesthetic,” Conrad explained. “Either way, we all needed our heads cleared. Now stop complaining and start shooting.”

“Whatever you say, colonel,” Sara said. “But I still don’t understand how this helps us with the case.” Holding up her gun, Sara carefully aimed at the target. She fired one shot. Then aimed again. Then fired another shot. Then aimed again. Then fired another shot. After six shots, she hadn’t hit the target once.

“You’re trying too hard,” Conrad said when Sara was done. “Shooting a gun is an instinctive act. The gun’s an extension of you. It’s like throwing a baseball – you can’t wait around and aim it – you just have to throw it.”

“Ohhhh, another physical-fitness analogy,” Sara said. “And this time a Zen one.”

“I’m serious,” Conrad said. “Try again, but this time just point and shoot.”

After reloading, Sara once again faced the target. “Here we go,” she said. “Be the bullet.” She then raised her gun and fired off another six shots. This time, two of them hit the very top of the target.

“Not bad,” Conrad said, stepping into her booth. “I think the only problem is your stance. Your center of gravity is off, so the kick of the gun is forcing you back and making you shoot high.” After reloading Sara’s gun, Conrad said, “Don’t keep your feet together. Put one in front of the other and let your back leg be your anchor.” When Sara rearranged her feet, Conrad stood directly behind her and positioned her hips.

“Easy there, cowboy. Now you’re getting a little personal.”

“That’s the point,” Conrad said. With a grin, he held on to her waist. “Now center your weight there. Your back leg’s your anchor, but your weight’s balanced there.”

“I’m anchored,” Sara said. Then, in a quick blur, she pulled her gun and got off six shots. Four of them hit the paper human target. One of them plowed through his face.

“Oh, my, where’d you learn to shoot?” Conrad asked.

Sara looked over her shoulder. She winked and lowered her voice to a growl. “Chinatown, Jake.”

“Oh, my God,” Guff said. “That’s totally it.”

“What’s it?” Sara asked. “Chinatown?”

“No, no,” Guff said. “Doniger’s motive.”

“Doniger’s motive is Chinatown?”

“It’s not what you said, it’s what you did,” Guff explained. “This whole time we’ve been going for the obvious motives. We went through greed, jealousy, hatred. But we never considered lust. I didn’t even think about it until I saw the two of you together in the booth.”

“What happened in the booth?” Sara asked.

“Yeah,” Conrad added.

“No offense to either of you – since I hold you close to my heart – but are you really that blind?”

“Me?” Sara asked. “I wasn’t-”

“Forget about how he got there; focus on the result,” Conrad interrupted. He stepped out of the booth and approached Guff. “So if the motive is lust, where does that leave us?”

“I have no idea,” Guff said. “It’s only been a minute. That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

“Maybe Arnold was sick and she killed him to put him out of his misery,” Conrad suggested. “That’s a killing out of love.”

“No way,” Sara said. “She’s not that nice.”

“Maybe she was in love with someone else, and she killed her husband so she could be with her true love,” Guff suggested.

“Too romantic,” Conrad said. “Besides, even New Yorkers are civilized enough to file for divorce.”

“Not when there’s something to be gained by the death,” Sara countered.

“What do you mean?” Conrad asked.

“What if the person Claire loves is one of the people who takes in the will?”

“I see where you’re going,” Guff said. “So both of them hired Kozlow to kill her husband. She grants them easy access to the house, her lover foots the bill.”

“There’s only one problem,” Conrad said. “According to the will, all the assets go to charities and other organizations.”

“Except for one item,” Sara said. “Echo Enterprises. That goes to the company’s other partners.”

“So you think one of Arnold’s partners was sleeping with Claire, and when they realized that his death would not only allow them to be together but would also make them both rich, they hired Kozlow and bumped him off?” Conrad asked.

“It works for me,” Guff said.

“Me, too,” Sara added. “Although I want you both to know there was nothing going on in the booth.”

“Oh, c’mon now,” Guff said. “Does the sun set in the east? Do New Yorkers love to wear black? Was Elvis buried in a white suit, powder-blue shirt, and cashmere tie? Yes, yes, and yes. We’re all simple creatures. So do I know flirting when I see it? Absolutely.”

“The sun doesn’t set in the east,” Conrad pointed out “It sets in the west.”

Guff looked over at Sara, then back at Conrad. “That doesn’t change the facts!” Guff shouted over Sara’s laughter. “Flirting went on in that booth!”