Dead Even

Chapter 12

ON THURSDAY MORNING, SARA STOOD IN FRONT OF 201 East Eighty-second Street, anxiously waiting for Conrad and Guff to arrive. It had been over a week since she had spoken to Patty Harrison, and Sara knew that if she didn’t turn up something soon, she was going to have a hard time at trial. Staring at the old but pristine brownstone with potted plants on the doorstep and elegant tall windows, she couldn’t help but compare Claire Doniger’s home with her own. If Sara and Jared’s brownstone had Upper West Side character, Doniger’s had Upper East Side polish.

A cab pulled up and Guff and Conrad got out. “So this is where Kozlow picked the original fight?” Guff asked, staring up at the house.

“Take a good look at it,” Conrad said. “Try to imagine all the events as you know them and make sure they physically could work in this location.” Following Conrad’s instructions, the three coworkers stared at the building, trying to imagine Officer McCabe dragging Kozlow to Doniger’s door and Patty Harrison peering through her peephole.

“Okay, I’m done,” Guff said within thirty seconds. “Can we go inside now?”

“Shut up,” Conrad and Sara said simultaneously.

When they were done looking at the facade of the building, Conrad and Guff climbed the steps. “Hold on a second,” Sara said. “I want to talk to Harrison first. I haven’t been able to reach her since the grand jury.” She walked across the street to Harrison’s brownstone. Conrad and Guff followed.

As Sara rang Patty Harrison’s doorbell, Conrad put his finger over the peephole in the door.

“Why’re you doing that?” Sara asked.

“If she sees us and doesn’t want to speak to us, she’ll pretend she’s not home,” he whispered. “This way, she has to ask-”

“Who’s there?” a voice called out from behind the door. Conrad smiled.

“Ms. Harrison, it’s Sara Tate,” Sara said. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“No,” Harrison shot back. “Go away.”

“It’ll only take a minute,” Sara said. “I promise.”

“I said go away. I’m through talking to you.”

Confused, Sara looked at Conrad. “Ms. Harrison, is everything okay?” she asked.

There was no answer.

Banging on the door, Conrad said, “Ms. Harrison, this is Assistant District Attorney Conrad Moore. I’m giving you two options: You can open the door now, or we can come back with a search warrant, a carload of cops, and a battering ram. Either way we’re coming inside.”

“You don’t have probable cause for a search warrant,” Sara whispered.

“She doesn’t know that,” Conrad said under his breath. Then, raising his voice, he yelled, “Ms. Harrison, you have three seconds to make up your mind. After that, we’ll make sure the whole neighborhood knows you’re refusing to cooperate with the authorities. One… two…”

The dead bolts clicked and the door opened.

As Sara walked inside the cluttered house, Harrison had her back turned, with her head in her left hand. “Is everything okay?” Sara asked, touching her shoulder.

When Harrison turned around, Sara saw a deep purple bruise under her swollen left eye. The right side of her bottom lip was gashed and another bruise marked her right cheek. Harrison’s right arm, in a fiberglass cast, hung from a sling around her neck. As soon as Sara saw her, she felt nauseous. Harrison was no longer just a witness. She was now a victim.

“Who did this to you?” Sara asked.

“Please, leave…” Harrison begged as the tears filled her eyes.

“Tell us who did this,” Sara said. “Was it Kozlow?”

“We can protect you,” Conrad added as Harrison sat on the sofa in her living room.

“She said she could protect me, and look where that got me,” Harrison said, pointing at Sara.

“But this time-”

“He broke my wrist with his hands!” Harrison shouted, the tears streaming down her cheeks. “With his bare hands!”

“Tell us who he is,” Sara said, putting her arm around Harrison.

“Get off me,” Harrison said, pulling away. “Get out of my house. Just by coming here, you’ve put me at risk. If you want to bother someone, go bother the Donigers. They’re the ones who started this.”

“Please, Ms. Harrison, let us help you.”

“I don’t want your help! I want you out of my house!” Harrison screamed, her face flushed. “Now get out! Get out of my house!”

Searching for words, Sara headed for the door.

“I was just trying to be a good citizen!” Harrison shouted after her. “That’s it – a good citizen!”

“We know that,” Conrad said as he followed Sara. “That’s why we-” The door slammed shut.

Guff looked over at Sara. “Oh, my God,” he said. “Can you believe that?”

“He used his bare hands,” Sara said. “He snapped her wrist with his bare hands. What kind of animals are we dealing with?”

“I’m not sure,” Conrad said. “But I have a few questions for Claire Doniger.” Conrad walked across the street and banged on Doniger’s door. Putting his finger over her peephole, he waited for an answer.

There was none. Conrad rang the doorbell and banged one more time.

“She probably heard you shouting,” Sara said.

“Or maybe she’s just not home,” Guff added.

“That’s bullshit,” Conrad said. “I know she’s in there.” Banging his fist against the door, he shouted, “Open up, Ms. Doniger! We know you’re in there!”

“Forget it,” Guff said, heading for the front steps. “We’ll find her later.”

When there was still no response, Conrad followed Guff down to the sidewalk. “Are you coming?” Conrad asked. Sara was still standing in front of Doniger’s door. Moments later, she walked down the steps and joined Conrad and Guff. “What was that about?” Conrad asked.

“Ms. Harrison said that we should talk to the Donigers, as if there were more than one. I checked the mailbox, and it said ‘Mr. and Mrs. Arnold Doniger.’ Apparently, Claire Doniger is married.”

“Then how come we’ve never heard of this Mr. Doniger?” Guff asked.

“You got me,” Sara said. “But it shouldn’t be too hard to find out.”

In her office, Sara called Claire Doniger. “Hello, this is Claire,” Doniger said when she answered the phone.

“Hi, Mrs. Doniger. This is Sara Tate calling. I was wondering if I could ask you a quick favor.”

“Please, we went through this yesterday,” Doniger said. “I-”

“Actually, I’d just like to speak to your husband.”

There was a short pause on the other line. Then Doniger said, “My husband is dead.”

Startled, Sara said, “I’m sorry to hear that. When did he die?”

Again, there was a short pause. “This past Friday.”

“Really?” Sara asked, trying not to sound suspicious. She mentally counted the days. “I hope your testifying didn’t interfere with the funeral. When was it?”

“Saturday.” Before Sara could ask another question, Doniger added, “To be honest, this last week has been terribly hard. He was sick for a bit – the diabetes got the best of him in the end. That’s why I really didn’t want to get involved with this whole burglary thing. It seemed so pointless compared to everything else I’ve been going through.”

“No, I understand perfectly. I’m sorry I’ve been pressing so hard.”

“It’s okay,” Doniger said. “And I’m sorry I’ve been so short with you. It’s still a new adjustment.”

“Of course,” Sara said. “You have my deepest sympathies. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” The moment Sara hung up the phone, she looked up at Conrad and Guff.

“He’s dead?” Guff asked.

“She says he died this past Friday,” Sara explained. “Apparently he was a diabetic. Says he was sick for a while.”

“You don’t believe that for a second, do you?” Conrad asked.

“Are you kidding? We’ve spent the past two weeks in close contact with this woman and she fails to mention that her husband died? We saw her on Monday, and she never said a word. At that point, she’d barely been a widow for seventy-two hours.”

“What are you going to do?” Guff asked.

“You tell me,” Sara said. “What does it take to get a body exhumed?”

At eight-thirty, Jared was alone in his office. Kozlow had left almost two hours earlier, and Kathleen had just gone home to be with her husband. Relishing the quiet, but unable to relax, Jared sat on the edge of his chair and planned his upcoming conversation with Sara. First, he’d tell her that he’d spoken with Pop at lunchtime. That would get her guard down. Then he’d ask her how work was going. Although that would probably get her guard up, he knew he had to hit the issues quickly. Over the past few nights, no matter the subject, he’d seen Sara’s patience shrinking, and a prolonged discussion about work wasn’t going to make talking to her any easier.

Jared looked at his watch. He couldn’t wait any longer. He’d been tempted to make the call since lunch, but it was smart to hold off until late in the day. By this time, Sara would be tired and frustrated, the long workday taking its usual toll. As his corporations professor in law school used to say, “The wearier the prey, the quicker the kill.” It was the professor’s corniest line, but at this moment, as Jared picked up the phone, he couldn’t have agreed more with its accuracy.

Dialing Sara’s number, he eventually heard her answer, “ADA Tate.”

“Sara, it’s me.”

“What do you want?”

Jared kept his voice warm and sincere. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Is that okay?”

“That’s fine. What else is going on?”

“I spoke to Pop today. He sounds like he’s doing well.”

“I know. I went by to see him during lunch,” Sara said. “Thanks for checking in on him.”

“Not at all.” They paused.

“Okay, Jared, what’s the real point of this call?”

Jared shook his head. His wife knew him too well. “I wanted to make you one last offer.”

“Jared!”

“Just listen a second. I’m not going to badger you about what’s good for my job or your job. We’re talking about something bigger than careers. You said it yourself – we’re talking about our marriage and our lives. As long as this case goes on, all of that’s at risk. You’ve seen what’s happened in the last week and a half. Every day’s spent grating against each other; every night’s spent ignoring what’s really important. Sara, if we use the dismiss and seal, we can end that right now. Then we can get back to our lives, and our marriage, and Pop, and everything else we’ve been trying so hard to juggle.”

“And that’s your final offer? The famous dismiss and seal?”

“That’s it. After today, I’m starting to prepare the evidentiary motions. And once that starts, even though I’m trying to protect you, we’re going to find ourselves at trial. Now c’mon, honey, what do you say?”

“No matter how you couch it, Jared, it’s pure manipulation. You don’t think I see that?” Sara laughed. “Besides, I’m not making a move until I hear from the medical examiner.”

“What does the medical examiner have to do with this burglary?”

“Well, if we can get him to dig up Arnold Doniger’s body, he’ll tell us if we have to also charge your client with murder.”

Jared leaned forward in his seat. “Who’s Arnold Doniger?” Without getting an answer, Jared heard a click. His wife had hung up.

“What’d he say?” Conrad asked.

“I think he wet his pants right there,” Sara said.

“I can’t believe you hung up on him like that.”

“He deserves it on this one. He calls me up, acting like he’s Joe Law, expecting me to grovel at his feet just because he pulls a couple heartstrings. I hate it when he uses Pop and my career against me – he knows it makes me crazy.”

“Those’re your Achilles’ heels. Any good opponent would exploit them.”

“Well, I don’t want an opponent. I want a husband.”

“If you love him so much, how come you’re not willing to give, Sara?”

Sara looked up at Conrad. She was tempted to tell him about Sunken Cheeks. And that she was only fighting this hard to protect her husband. But instead, she lied, “Because he’s the man on the other side. Giving him a hard time is my goal.”

Conrad watched her carefully. “Do you want to try that one again?” he asked.

Fidgeting with some paper clips, Sara didn’t reply.

“Have it your way,” he said. “I’m done asking.”

Ten minutes later, Guff returned to the office and handed Sara a few pieces of paper. “Here’s the copy of your order to exhume. Judge Cohen signed it, and they’re digging him up tonight. The autopsy’s scheduled first thing tomorrow morning.”

“That’s great,” Sara said as she put the papers in her briefcase. “And thanks again for getting the signature.”

“Don’t thank me. Conrad was the one who knew the judge.”

“Then thank you,” Sara said, nodding her head to Conrad.

“For you, my friend, the world.”

At ten P.M., Jared grabbed his suit jacket from behind the door and stepped into the hallway. Although there were dozens of young associates still working throughout the firm, almost all of the support staff had gone home. As a result, the hallways were deserted. Walking toward the elevators, Jared was still digesting Sara’s news. When he’d gotten off the phone with her, he searched Lexis’s computer databases for information about Arnold Doniger. All he could find was a New York Times announcement of his engagement to Claire Binder, a Radcliffe grad and antiques expert twelve years his junior, and a short obituary from the previous Saturday. Why didn’t Rafferty tell him?

While he was waiting for the elevator to arrive, Jared thought about the newfound confidence in Sara’s voice and what that meant for the case. His palms abruptly filled with sweat, causing him to drop his briefcase. As he bent over to pick it up, the elevator arrived. Inside were Rafferty and Kozlow.

Forcing a smile, Jared said, “What are you…”

Before Jared could finish his sentence, he felt Kozlow’s fist rip into his stomach, sending him crashing to the ground. As Jared gasped for air, Kozlow dragged him into the elevator. When the doors shut, Rafferty pressed the emergency stop button. The blaring emergency alarm screamed. Not giving Jared a chance to breathe, Kozlow kicked him two more times in the stomach. He then picked up Jared’s briefcase and opened it, dumping all the papers on Jared’s now-heaving body.

As the paper littered the elevator floor and the alarm continued to wail, Kozlow kicked him again. He then put his foot on the back of Jared’s head and forced Jared’s face into the floor. “Oh, we’re having fun now, aren’t we?” Kozlow asked. Trying to pick his head up, Jared didn’t answer. He started to spit blood. “I asked you a question!” Kozlow shouted. “Are we having fun, or not?” With a quick push, he once again pressed Jared’s face into the floor. Jared felt like he was going to black out. “Answer me!” Kozlow shouted. “Answer me or I’ll kick your head in!”

“Enough, Tony,” Rafferty said, pulling Kozlow away from Jared.

“Don’t touch me!” Kozlow yelled at Rafferty. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m sure you do,” Rafferty said. “But I need to talk to him. Now catch your breath and calm down.” As Kozlow stepped back, Rafferty leaned down toward Jared’s face. “You told me not to worry,” he whispered. “Isn’t that what you’ve been telling me?”

“I’m sorry,” Jared moaned, saliva running down his chin. “I didn’t know she had-”

“Don’t feed me any more bullshit. I’m full. We need to find out what Sara knows. Get her notes, read her mind, do whatever you want, but find out what the hell is going on. This cannot turn into a murder trial.”

Rafferty stood up and shut off the emergency alarm. In a few moments, the elevator arrived at the first floor of the building. Jared remained on the floor as Rafferty climbed over him and left the elevator. When Kozlow followed, he ground his boot into Jared’s right hand. “Pick yourself up,” Kozlow warned, pressing his heel against Jared’s fingers.

“I mean it,” Rafferty added as the doors slid shut. “Tomorrow morning I want some answers.”

Jared arrived home at a quarter to eleven. He waited impatiently on the sofa until Sara walked in at eleven-thirty. The moment the door slammed shut, Jared was out of his seat, approaching his wife.

“Tell me what happened,” he said before she had even unbuttoned her coat.

“I can’t,” Sara said. “Now drop it or change the subject.”

“What’s the story with Arnold Doniger? Why is he-”

“Jared, are you listening to what I’m saying?” Sara asked, glaring. “Please stop asking me about it.”

“Just tell me if you’re going to do an autopsy, so I’ll know what I’m doing tomorrow.”

Sara walked into the bedroom and started to undress.

“Please,” Jared said. “I have to know.”

She understood what he was doing, but she wasn’t going to budge. Pretending not to listen, she hung her suit jacket and skirt in her closet. After taking a T-shirt from her dresser, she made her way to the bathroom. Jared followed her, standing in the doorway as she washed her face.

“Sara, don’t ignore me like this. I need your help. I don’t know what else to do.”

He was begging now, and the tone caught her off guard. Not just because of the way it tugged at her emotions, but because she could tell it was true. Jared was drowning. He needed her help. And with a few pieces of information, she could take his pain away. No, she told herself. Don’t let him do that to you. Keeping her eyes shut, she rinsed off the soap. Then, in one quick movement, she buried her face in a towel. Don’t look at him, she told herself. It’s the only way he can get to you.

“Please, Sara. You’re my wife.” As Jared said the words, Sara heard the smallest of cracks in his voice. He wasn’t just begging anymore. He was crying. She lifted her face from the towel; she couldn’t help herself. As she looked up, she saw pain in his eyes. No, not just pain. Fear. “Please,” he repeated.

Sara felt her mouth go dry. Her heart sank. She never wanted to do this to him. But she had to. “I’m sorry, Jared. I can’t.” Dropping her gaze to the floor, she tried to squeeze past him, but Jared put his arms around her.

“Sara…”

She pulled away. “Please… it’s hard enough.”

Jared stood in the doorway of the bathroom, watching his wife get into bed. As she shut off the light on her nightstand, he didn’t move. Finally, from the dark, she spoke. “Good night.”

For two and a half hours, Jared lay motionless in bed, pretending to be asleep. Lying with his back to Sara, his eyes long adjusted to the dark, he stared at the pale beige radiator in the corner of the room. He thought about the day they had moved into the apartment and the day he had suggested repainting the radiator to match their wine-and-beige-colored comforter. Sara had told him that no one in New York would be caught dead color-coordinating a radiator and had refused to participate in such a “useless” project. But Jared pressed on and painted it, his sense of order outweighing his wife’s commitment to her city’s constant chaos. And now, as he tried to keep himself awake, he once again stared at the radiator and wondered why they had spent so much time fighting over something so inconsequential.

When the electronic numbers on his digital alarm clock read 2:30, Jared slowly turned toward his wife and whispered, “Sara.”

No answer.

“Sara, are you awake?”

Still no answer.

As quietly as he could manage, Jared raised the covers and slid out of bed. Silently, he tiptoed around the bed. On the way, he hit a loose floorboard that let out a tiny shriek. In response, Sara turned over on her side, facing the nightstand that Jared was aiming for. He stopped in his tracks. “Sara?” he whispered.

No response.

Jared crept forward and crouched next to his wife’s briefcase, which was leaning against the nightstand. But as he reached for it, he paused. My God, what am I doing? Pulling away, he wondered why he had ever thought he could go through with it. Then he caught sight of Sara, and the answer again became perfectly clear: Her life was worth the risk. Steeling himself against the churning in his stomach, Jared held his breath and gently lifted Sara’s bag.

His hands were shaking as he opened the single clasp and raised the leather flap. Feverishly fingering through the folders inside, he pulled out the one marked KOZLOW. As he was about to open it, he looked again at his slumbering wife. She looked beautiful. Transfixed, Jared continued to stare at her. He didn’t want to betray her, but he needed to know what she knew. And before he could talk himself out of it, he opened the folder and started reading.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Jared quickly stood up. Sara was wide awake.

“Sara, before you say anything, let me-”

“Get out.”

“It’s not what-”

“Get out! I want you out of this house! Now!” she shouted. Hopping out of bed, she pulled the folder from Jared’s hands. “How dare you do this to me! How dare you! Do you really have that little respect for me?”

“Of course not, I just-”

“You just what? You were looking for gum? You needed a pen to write down your dream? You wanted to break every ethics rule in the book? What’s the lame excuse of the week?”

“Trust me, I know it doesn’t look good, but I can explain.”

“Trust you? You want me to trust you?” She dropped the folder and smacked Jared. First in the chest, then in the shoulder. “This is our trust, Jared! This is our trust, and you just ripped it apart!”

He tried to block her as best he could. “Sara, just let me explain!”

“No, no, of course. Go ahead – explain. I’m dying to hear this one.”

Jared took a deep breath. He was shaking. Nowhere to turn. “I know you’re not going to believe this, but this has nothing to do with you. It’s only about the case. Like I said from the beginning, you have to realize how much it all means to me. I wasn’t looking for a free ride; I just wanted to know what I was going to be facing tomorrow.”

“And did you do the same thing before I went in front of the grand jury? Did you raid my files then? And are you going to take another peek before the actual trial?” As Sara rattled off the questions, she stepped closer to Jared. She pushed her finger into his chest with each accusation.

Instinctively, he backed up, moving farther away from Sara’s side of the bed. “Don’t use that tone with me,” he said. “I barely even saw anything.”

“That’s because I woke up and stopped you!”

“Listen, I’m sorry we had to get into this, but if the situations were reversed, you’d have done the same thing to me,” he said, his back pressed against Sara’s dresser. “Now if you want me to move out, I’ll be happy to oblige, but you better think very carefully before you do anything you’ll regret.”

Sara turned around, reached into the top drawer of her nightstand, pulled out a set of keys, and threw them at Jared. “These’ll get you into Pop’s apartment. Take your stuff and get out of my face.”

“Are you kidding me?” Jared asked, stunned.

“That’s my decision,” Sara said. “Now leave.”

“Are you sure you-”

“Get out. Now.”

He shook his head with confused rage. “You’re going to regret this one.”

“We’ll see.”

He stormed to his closet with his jaw clenched. Wait until she’s alone, he thought. Then she’ll see she overreacted. In a blur of hostility, he pounded from room to room until he was done collecting suits, toiletries, and enough clothes to get him through the weekend. But it wasn’t until he was finally ready to leave that Jared realized what was happening.

As he carried his black hanging bag to the door, he saw Sara sitting in the dark of the living room. Her briefcase was leaning against the couch. Instantly, rage gave way to reality. “I’m going,” he said in a soft voice.

She didn’t respond.

“Sara, I’m-”

“I heard you.”

Jared put his hand on the doorknob. “I just want you to know I’m sorry.”

“You should be.”

“I am. I really am,” he said. He didn’t want to leave now, but he had no idea what to say. Searching for the perfect words, he came up empty. Finally, he blurted, “Are you sure you want me to go?”

Again, Sara didn’t respond. She watched him carefully. He looked so vulnerable as he stood there, his hanging bag sagging from his shoulder. An awkward silence filled the room. Jared tried to read his wife’s blank expression. Slowly, he lowered his bag to the floor.

“Don’t do that,” Sara said.

“But you-”

“I’m not changing my mind, Jared. I want you out.”

That was it. She wasn’t going to take it back. Turning away, Jared opened the door. Without another word, he was gone.

The first thing that hit him was the silence. He was unfazed by the photographs of Sara and her parents that decorated the long walls of the entryway. He barely registered the familiar stale smell that was reminiscent of his own grandparents’ house. But as he entered Pop’s modest apartment on East Seventy-sixth Street, the one thing Jared couldn’t ignore was the piercing silence.

“Hello?” he called out just to make some noise. “Anybody here?” No one answered.

With his hanging bag still slumping from his shoulder, Jared dragged himself inside and dropped his belongings. He headed quickly to Pop’s bedroom, and just as quickly decided that he didn’t want to sleep in Pop’s bed. It didn’t feel right. After hunting around for the linen closet, Jared pulled out some sheets and a blanket, opened the sleeper sofa, and made his new bed. All he had to do was lie in it.

It’s only until the case is over, he told himself. That’s all she meant, isn’t it? Unwilling to face the answer, he walked back up the entryway and double-checked the lock on the front door. Unlike the door in his own apartment, which had two different dead bolts as well as a chain, Pop’s front door had only a single lock – the same one that had originally been in the door when Pop moved in, almost twenty years ago. For Pop, the single lock was more than enough to make him feel safe. For Jared, it was an entirely different story. Jared wasn’t worried about a lock. He wasn’t even worried about himself. He was worried about his wife. And the longer he was gone, the less Sara was protected.

Returning to the living room, Jared picked up the phone from the coffee table and dialed his home number. C’mon, honey, pick up. The phone rang again. C’mon, Sara, I know you’re there. And again. Are you there? And again. Where are you? And again. Sara, now you’re scaring me. Are you-

“Hello,” she finally answered, her voice groggy and hoarse.

“Sorry to wake you. I just wanted to let you know I got in okay and that-”

Sara hung up.

Jared quietly put down the phone. She was safe. For now.

She hadn’t been able to sleep since his phone call. She was fine when he left the apartment, and she was fine when she didn’t know where he was, but from the moment he called to say he was okay, she couldn’t relax. Maybe it was the sound of his voice, or maybe it was her conscience. Either way, it was finally starting to sink in. She’d have to do this one alone.

At four-thirty in the morning, Sara was still wide awake. First she tried a cup of hot tea with some warm milk. Then she tried listening to classical music. Then she wondered if there was something else she was missing. In her experience, she knew that if she couldn’t fall asleep, it was either because she was still reliving the previous day, or because she was afraid of facing the coming one. In this case, Sara realized that both statements were true. And as she instinctively curled up to the pillows on Jared’s side of the bed, she knew it wasn’t going to be an easy night.

“What’d he die of?” Walter Fawcett asked bluntly the following morning. A heavy, rough-spoken man with a thick mustache and even thicker glasses, Fawcett was one of the ten medical examiners assigned to perform autopsies in Manhattan. Standing outside the autopsy room, in the basement of the office of the chief medical examiner, Fawcett and Sara went over the details of Arnold Doniger’s death.

“According to his wife and his death certificate, he went into a coma brought on by his diabetes,” Sara explained, rubbing her bloodshot eyes. “Apparently, his blood sugar was too low.”

“Earlier, you said the paramedics brought him in. Was there anything significant in their report?”

Handing Fawcett a copy of the report, she explained, “According to this, Arnold was acting a bit cranky throughout the night of his death. His wife said he regularly had fits of anger caused by his diabetes, so she just assumed his blood sugar was low and gave him some apple juice and a granola bar. A few hours later, right before he went to bed, she saw him give himself a shot. When she wakes up the next morning, he’s lying dead next to her. She freaks out and calls an ambulance. End of story.”

“That’s never the end,” Fawcett said. “We’ll find more.” When he was done looking at the report, he handed it back to Sara. “You staying for the autopsy?” Lost in her own world, Sara didn’t reply. Fawcett snapped his fingers in front of her face. “You with us here?” he asked.

“Huh?” Sara asked, jolted back to reality. “I’m sorry. What’d you say?”

“One, I asked if you’re staying for the autopsy. Two, I’m asking what’s got you so preoccupied?”

“Nothing really – just another part of the case,” Sara explained. “And as far as the autopsy goes, I have to be in court by noon, but I was hoping I’d be able to watch. Everyone in the office said it’d be helpful to see how one’s done.”

“They don’t know what they’re talking about,” Fawcett said as he headed toward the autopsy room. “But if you think it’s critical, go put on some scrubs.”

“They’re doing an autopsy?” Rafferty asked as he took a seat in front of Jared’s desk.

“According to the one file I did see, they dug the body up last night, and they’re dissecting him this morning,” Jared said.

“And that’s when she caught you?” Kozlow asked from his usual chair in the back of the office. “Oh, man, you must’ve-”

“That’s enough,” Jared interrupted. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Lame move, buddy.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Jared said. “I only took about three days’ worth of clothes with me, so I still have an excuse to go back there. Besides, it’s not like she changed the locks.”

“Not yet,” Kozlow said.

“Is there anything we can do to stop the autopsy?” Rafferty demanded.

“We can try to block it, but personally, I think that’ll do more harm than good. The last thing we want is to appear more suspicious.”

“Then what do we do?”

“We schedule our own autopsy, which’ll hopefully contradict the findings of their pathologist. Conflicting reports always confuse a jury. Besides that, the best thing we can do is wait. I know that makes you crazy, but there’s no reason to get excited until we know what they find.”

“What if they find something suspicious?” Kozlow asked.

“That depends,” Jared said. “If it’s a debatable issue, the pathologist we hire might be able to downplay it. But if they can link it directly to you, they may charge you with mur-”

“I told you, I don’t want this turning into a murder trial,” Rafferty interrupted.

“Well, sorry to disappoint you, but that’s out of my control at this point.”

When Sara and Fawcett were done scrubbing up, Fawcett handed her a piece of spearmint gum. “Chew this,” he said.

“Huh?” Sara said, taking the gum.

“You’re not supposed to bring in food or drink, but it’ll keep you from getting nauseous. The smell can turn stomachs.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sara said as she pocketed the gum and pulled her surgical mask in place. “I’ve been inside a mortuary before.”

Shrugging, Fawcett walked toward the autopsy room. The enormous, immaculately clean room was sectioned into eight individual working areas and contained eight autopsy tables. The metal tables had hundreds of small holes to drain internal fluids away from the body. At the moment, three other autopsies were taking place. When Fawcett opened the door to the room, the stench of decomposing bodies hit Sara like a freight train. As she frantically reached for the gum, she caught sight of Arnold Doniger’s unearthed remains. She saw the greenish hue that now colored his complexion. And the decomposition that had just started to eat away at his shoulders and the outside of his thighs. And the slippage of skin that made his face seem almost liquefied. Before she could even get the gum out of her pocket, Sara lurched forward and vomited into her surgical mask, causing a stream of discharge to run down the front of her hospital gown.

Fawcett immediately pulled Sara out of the room to avoid contaminating the area. Watching her clean up in a metal sink next to the autopsy room, he asked, “Would you like that piece of gum now?”

“I think so,” Sara said as she spit out the remainder of her breakfast. After rinsing her mouth and splashing some water on her face, she looked up at Fawcett.

“Ready to try again?” he asked, handing her a new surgical gown.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Fawcett took a quick scan of Doniger’s body, then stepped on the foot pedal that started his hands-free recorder. His voice became careful and meticulously measured. “There are embalming incisions in the left and right femoral triangle, as well as the left side of the neck. The embalmed body is a well-developed, well-nourished sixty-six-year-old white male measuring sixty-eight inches, and weighing one hundred and seventy-four pounds. He has brown hair and no discernible exterior injuries.” Opening Doniger’s eyes, Fawcett pulled out two plastic disks that looked like opaque contact lenses.

“What’re those?” Sara asked.

“Eye caps,” Fawcett said. “Mortician’s favorite trick. They’re lenses with ridged teeth on them – that’s what keeps your eyes closed. Permanently.”

“Nasty,” Sara said.

“But they work,” Fawcett replied. “I just hate having them in there. Personal taste.” He put the eye caps aside and picked up a scalpel. With a quick flourish, he sliced a large Y into Doniger’s chest. The incisions ran down from each shoulder, met at the center of his chest, then went down to the pelvis. “Chew,” Fawcett said when he noticed that Sara’s mouth wasn’t moving. “This is the worst of it.”

Following his directions, Sara frantically chomped on her gum. It still didn’t prepare her. Fawcett reached into the center of the Y and peeled Doniger’s skin away from his body, revealing darkened ribs and most of his internal organs. That’s when the sweet, alcoholic smell of the embalming fluid hit.

“You still there?” Fawcett asked.

“I… I think so,” Sara muttered. All she tried to think of was the freshness of her spearmint gum.

“Good – because I was lying. This is the worst part.” He put down his scalpel and picked up four-foot-long stainless steel cutting shears. “For a gardener, it cuts heavy branches; for me, it’s just as good on old bones.” He then went to work on Doniger’s ribs, cutting through the lowest ribs and working his way up. Each crack was like a wooden bat against a baseball. To clean it up, he drew the breastbone away from the heart, then pulled away five ribs that were lodged in the diaphragm.

“Spearmint gum, spearmint gum, spearmint gum,” Sara whispered to herself.

When the ribs were gone, Fawcett took a survey of the now easy-to-reach organs. “Nice,” he said, seeming pleased. “They didn’t trocar him much. Most of it’s intact.” Turning to Sara, he added, “What’d you say she fed him the night he died?”

“Apple juice and a granola bar. Why?”

Fawcett leaned into the open body, took his scalpel, and sliced around Doniger’s stomach. Satisfied with his cuts, he slid his hands under the organ, lifted the stomach, and put it into a nearby metal pan. He then looked back at Sara. “Because we’re going to peek inside and see for ourselves.”

Three and a half hours later, on the last piece of her second pack of gum, Sara left the autopsy room. She watched through the door as Fawcett pulled a sheet over the body, then made some final statements into his recorder. When Fawcett joined her, she could barely contain her excitement. “What’d you think?” she asked eagerly. “Is it a murder?”

“I can only give you facts – you draw your own conclusions.”

“That’s great, but I’ve spent the last three and a half hours listening to you talk about anterior chambers and aqueous equilibration. I need you to put it in plain English. Did Arnold Doniger die in a coma caused by his diabetes?”

“As near as I can tell, yes,” Fawcett said as they took off their gowns. Well accustomed to Conrad’s black-and-white approach to answering questions, Sara was frustrated by Fawcett’s conditional responses. “The relevant question now is: Was the death natural or was it caused by a third party?”

“I don’t understand,” she said as they headed back to his office.

“There’s enough information to support both – you just have to decide which scenario is more logical. According to the decedent’s wife, her husband was cranky, so she gave him some apple juice and a granola bar. When you’re a diabetic, the crankiness is caused by low blood sugar. To raise your blood sugar, you commonly have some form of caloric intake – an apple, a cookie, something like that. And if the food makes your blood sugar too high, you ordinarily take an insulin shot to lower it. At least, that’s generally the case.”

“So food brings your blood sugar up, and an insulin shot brings it down.”

“Correct,” Fawcett said as he stepped into his cluttered office and headed directly for the overcrowded bookshelf on the far wall. As he looked for a particular book, he continued, “And if you give yourself a shot when your blood sugar is low, the shot will bring it down even further and you’ll fall into a coma or have a stroke. Essentially, we know his blood sugar was low at the time of the shot, because it caused him to go into the coma. The trick is finding out what his blood-sugar level was hours before the shot.”

“How do we do that?”

“As I said, that’s the trick. Remember the Claus von Bülow case? Detecting blood sugar levels to prove a murder is a difficult game. It’s an almost undetectable crime.”

“What do you mean ‘almost’?” she asked, trying to drag concrete answers out of him.

“Ah, here we go.” Fawcett pulled a small white textbook from the shelf. As he scanned a few pages, he rubbed his right earlobe between two fingers. Eventually, he explained, “According to traditional practice, a few hours after someone dies, you can’t tell their blood-sugar level. It’s undiscernible in most of their body. But if you subscribe to some of the superior medical journals – which were recently sliced from our budget – you’d know that it’s still detectable in one place: the anterior chamber of the eye.”

“Are you telling me that when you were dissecting Arnold’s eyes, you were actually measuring his blood-sugar level?”

“Science can only give you the facts if you know where to look,” Fawcett replied. “Equilibration in the eye is very slow, so the fluids of the eye don’t match the fluids of the rest of the body. As a result, while the fluids in your body may dissipate, the fluids in your eye linger and leave a mark that’s as clear as a fingerprint – which allows us to track the body’s blood-sugar levels.”

“And what did Arnold Doniger’s eyes say?” she asked anxiously.

“They said his blood sugar was normal, but you have to remember that the eyes are always a little bit behind the rest of the body. Which means that if he died of low blood sugar, which is strongly suggested by the autopsy results, his blood sugar dropped precipitously in the end.”

“But doesn’t that support Claire’s story that his blood sugar was low and that that’s why she gave him the juice and the granola bar?”

“Don’t lose sight of the facts. You saw what was in his stomach – there were no signs of food. He hadn’t eaten for several hours.”

“So they starved him, and then when his blood sugar was low enough, they gave him a shot of insulin and finished him off?”

“Or they gave him an overdose of insulin. That’s if a third party caused the death. Either way, it’s a wonderful way to kill someone. As a pathologist, even if I’m diligent enough to check the eyes, it’s still difficult to reach a solid conclusion. Whoever did this, you have to admire their ingenuity.”

Sara nodded. “What about pinpointing the time of death? According to my theory, he died about four days earlier than his wife says. Any way to prove that?”

“That’d be simpler if he was a fresh kill, but he’s been in the ground for almost a week. Were there any odd smells reported by the paramedics when they came to get the body?”

“I don’t think so, but I’ll ask,” Sara said. “Anything else suspicious?”

“Actually, there was some tearing in the lining of the brain, which is sometimes the result of intense cold or freezing temperatures. But since the brain is now mostly a mass of decomposed mush, I’m not convinced that’s what caused it. It did strike me as odd, though.”

As she processed the information, Sara glimpsed Fawcett’s clock; it was almost eleven forty-five. “I’m late,” she blurted, leaping out of her seat. As she rushed to the door, she added, “Let me ask you one last question: Do you think your findings are convincing enough to prove that Arnold Doniger was murdered?”

“You’re the one who draws the conclusions – were you convinced?”

Sara opened the door and smiled wide. “Thoroughly. Now all we have to do is convince the jury.”

Running up the steps of 100 Centre Street, Sara glanced at her watch and cursed the New York City traffic that had held her taxi hostage for the past half hour. It was now almost quarter past twelve, which meant she was already fifteen minutes late for Kozlow’s arraignment. Hoping that Kozlow still hadn’t entered his plea, she darted into the building, through the metal detector, and took the elevator to the eleventh floor. She read room numbers as she ran and headed up the hallway until she reached room 1127. Pausing in front of the courtroom, Sara took a moment to catch her breath. The much-needed minibreak made one thing clear: If she didn’t go to the bathroom soon, she was going to explode.

Looking through the glass window in the door of the courtroom, she saw that Kozlow was seated on the left side of the room. He still hadn’t been called, which meant the proceedings were running late. She raced for the bathroom. Inside, she headed straight for the first of the four bathroom stalls. Moments later, she heard someone else enter the bathroom and turn on the water at one of the sinks. Curious, Sara peeked through a crack in the door. But by the time she got a good look at the sinks, the person was gone. Sara was startled by a loud knock on the door of her stall.

“Who is it?” she asked nervously.

“It’s me. Rise and shine.” The familiar voice sent a chill through Sara’s chest, and there, peering over the top of the stall, was the man with the sunken cheeks.

She jumped to her feet, readjusted her clothes, and barreled out of the stall.

Sunken Cheeks was leaning against one of the sinks, waiting for her. “Caught you with your pants down, huh?” he asked as she charged toward him.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Just checking up on my inves-”

Before Elliott could finish his sentence, Sara swung her briefcase through the air, attempting to hit him in the face. Raising his hand to block her attack, he caught her briefcase in midair. “Nice briefcase,” he said. He threw it to the floor. “I see you rubbed my message out.”

“Stay away from me.”

“You’re not the one I care about, Sara – although I’m glad you kicked your hubby out.”

“Don’t you dare touch him.”

Elliott grabbed Sara by her lapels. “Don’t tell me what to do.” He shoved her backwards, sending her crashing into the stall. Tripping over the toilet, she banged her head on the back wall. As Elliott left the bathroom, he added, “By the way, check out Doniger’s basement. You’ll like what you find.”

Picking herself up as fast as possible, Sara raced after Elliott. But by the time she reached the hallway, he was gone. “Damn,” she said, vigorously rubbing the bump on the back of her head. Her heart was drumming as she peered through the window in the door of the courtroom. To her surprise, Jared and Kozlow were standing at the defense table, addressing the judge. With a sharp tug, she pulled open the door.

When she walked into the room, she heard the clerk of the court ask Jared, “How does your client plead, sir, guilty or not guilty?” Wondering how the arraignment was proceeding without her, Sara headed briskly to the front of the room. Maybe she should shout an objection, she thought, her mind scrambling for a solution. But as she was about to open her mouth, she noticed that Conrad was sitting at the prosecutor’s table. Nodding, she offered a silent thank-you to her mentor.

“Not guilty,” Jared said, standing next to Kozlow at the defense table.

In response, Conrad approached the bench and handed a bundle of papers to the judge.

Without saying a word, Sara sat at the prosecutor’s table. Glancing to her left, she locked eyes with Jared. He looked haggard, with heavy bags under his eyes. He clearly had had a rough night. Purposely turning away Sara waited for Conrad to return to the table. When he sat down next to her, she whispered, “Thank you. The autopsy ran longer than I thought and traffic was-”

“Don’t sweat it,” Conrad interrupted. “You’re just lucky Guff had copies of your files. He’s the one who really saved your ass.”

Turning around, Sara saw Guff in the front row of the spectator section. He winked at her.

“The motion day is set for two weeks from today,” the judge announced from the bench. “Report to Part Thirty-one on October third. The case will be heard by Judge Bogdanos.”

When the judge banged his gavel, Jared approached his wife. “Nice to see you. I was starting to get worried.”

“I had some extra work to do,” Sara said.

“You mean the autopsy,” Jared said definitively.

“Exactly.”

“So what’d they find?”

“I don’t think she has to answer that,” Conrad interrupted, standing from his seat.

Annoyed, Jared said, “You must be Conrad.”

“And you must be Jared.”

“That’s right. Her husband. And last I checked, Sara was able to answer questions for herself.”

“Well, last I checked, defense attorneys knew that they shouldn’t expect shortcuts. So stop begging for autopsy results you’re not entitled to yet.”

“I didn’t realize this was your case,” Jared said.

“It’s not,” Sara said, stepping between the two men. “Conrad, back off. Jared, we’ll discuss this later.”

“Whatever you want,” Jared said, still staring at Conrad. “Give me a call when you’re ready.” Motioning to Conrad, he added, “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” Conrad said coldly.

As Jared and Kozlow walked out of the courtroom, Sara looked at Conrad. “What was that about?”

“I just didn’t want to see him walk all over you,” Conrad said, packing up his briefcase.

“I appreciate the concern, but I can handle my husband just fine.”

“I’m sure you can, but-”

“There is no but,” Sara interrupted. “I may be new, and I may still be learning, but I’m not a lightweight. The only reason I let him broach the subject of the autopsy was because I wanted to see how much he knew. Jared’s got a great information network and I want to know where it starts. So stop thinking you can swing in on a vine and save me from the bad guys.”

“Sara, just so you know: Not once, ever, have I thought you were a lightweight.”

Caught off guard by the compliment, Sara took a second to respond. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It doesn’t mean anything. That’s just how I feel.”

“Then don’t treat me like a novice. I finally know what I’m doing with this one.”

“So I guess you didn’t need me to stand in for you today? You had the whole thing covered yourself, right?”

Sara had to grin. “C’mon, don’t go mucking up my impassioned arguments with some lame logical flaw,” she joked. “I know I needed you to stand in for me. I just-”

“I get the picture – he’s your husband, so you’re the only one who can pick on him. Now can we get out of here? You have a trial to prepare for.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah – we all can’t wait for the trial,” Guff said as they walked out of the courtroom. “Now tell us about the autopsy. Did you puke all over yourself, or were you able to hold it together?”

Looking over Guff’s shoulder, Sara saw that Jared and Kozlow were still lingering in the hallway. “Not here,” she said. “Wait until we get back to the office.”

After returning to 80 Centre, Sara spent the next forty-five minutes relaying the findings of the medical examiner’s autopsy. She told them about the fluid in Arnold Doniger’s eye and the lack of food in his stomach. She told them that he could’ve been killed by a forced injection by a third party, or he might have accidentally given the injection to himself. Slowly and methodically, Sara explained all the details, trying her best not to sway her colleagues’ opinions. If they were going to be convinced it was murder, she wanted them to reach that conclusion themselves.

When she was done explaining, Conrad said, “So his stomach was completely empty?”

Sara nodded.

“Then she couldn’t have given him anything to eat,” Conrad continued. “Even if everything else can be logically explained, Claire lied to our faces.”

“That’s what did it for me,” Sara added. “You can’t ignore that fact.”

“And if it’s a murder, that also tells us why almost nothing was taken during the burglary,” Guff said.

“It all fits,” she said. “Every single piece of it.” Looking at Conrad, she added, “So be honest: What do you think?”

At first, Conrad was silent. Eventually, he said, “Sounds to me like you might be able to upgrade this case to a homicide. Nice going.”

“Yeah?” Sara asked, her voice rising. Unable to hide her excitement, she beamed with delight. For the first time since Pop went into the hospital, she saw the path for saving Jared.

“Between Claire and Kozlow, we’ve got too many fishy actions in too short a time span,” Conrad said.

“Oh, man, I can’t believe it,” Sara said, pounding her desk. “I knew this case had something to it. Now who do we charge with murder? Both of them or just one?”

“You tell me. Who do you think is the killer?”

“I think Claire is full of crap, but I don’t think she’s the one who did the deed. My guess is she hired Kozlow to give the injection.”

“And maybe the so-called stolen watch and golf ball were payment for the kill,” Guff added. “If we check Claire’s bank accounts, we’ll be able to see if she was out of cash or not.”

“Great. Perfect. Let’s get those as soon as possible,” Sara said. “I don’t want to waste any time with this.” Turning to Conrad, she asked, “What else can we do?”

“If I were you, before I filed new charges, I’d do some more research. You have the how, but to make a good murder case, you need to know the why. Look into Claire Doniger’s cash flow, check out Arnold Doniger’s will, find anything you can that would suggest a motive. And when you have that, file new charges with a new complaint and rearrest the party you want to charge. You have a lot of work ahead of you, but you’re well on your way.” Conrad stood and walked to the door. “Meanwhile, I hate to run, but I really have to get back to my work for a change. Keep me informed about what you find.”

“You can count on that,” Sara said. “And thanks again for filling in for me today – you have no idea how much that meant to me. Really. Thank you. For everything.”

“Anytime,” Conrad said.

As Conrad left, Guff watched his boss. She was already feverishly writing up a to-do list. “Don’t worry,” Guff said. “We’re going to be able to save him.”

“Only if we’re organized. That’s the only way to beat him.” Seeing that Conrad was gone, Sara carefully picked up her briefcase and set it down on her desk in front of Guff. “Can you take this down and have it fingerprinted for me?”

“Why?” Guff asked.

“Because when I was rushing to get to court on time, I was lucky enough to once again meet up with Sunken Cheeks.”

“He was in the courthouse?”

“Spying on me,” Sara said. “And since we still don’t know who he is, I did the only thing I could think of – I swung my briefcase at him, hoping he would catch it.”

“So now you have the fingerprints on this bad boy?” Guff asked. When Sara nodded, he added, “You’re one sneaky son of a bitch, y’know that?”

“I try,” she said, leaning back in her seat. “And you, Mr. Guff – thanks again for saving my butt.”

“It was nothing. To be honest, Conrad was dying to fill in. And watching him confront Jared was well worth the price of admission.”

“I still don’t understand why he did that.”

“What’s to understand? He’s got the hots for you.”

“Oh, please. Conrad’s got no hots.”

“Sara, through poor planning and bad timing, you almost missed today’s arraignment. You didn’t call to make sure you were covered, you didn’t have anyone to back you up, you just plain missed it. And what was Conrad’s reaction? Did he ream you? No. Did he make the big vein appear on his forehead? No. Instead, he said, ‘Oh, I’ll cover for her – no big deal.’ Anyone else he would’ve slaughtered. But you, he covers.”

“Maybe he’s just calming down as he gets older.”

“Conrad’ll never calm down. We’re talking about a man who, even when he stays in a hotel, makes his own bed. That’s the person you think is calming down? The only reason he got in Jared’s face is because he’s got the hots for you.”

“I wouldn’t read too much into it,” Sara said. “He was just doing me a favor.”

Later that evening, Jared took a cab across town to the Upper East Side. Amid the designer boutiques and stylish storefront cafés that lined Madison Avenue was the home office of Lenny Barrow. Located on Madison and East Sixty-fifth Street, above a boutique that sold overpriced children’s clothes, was a sign that read SURE YOU KNOW WHERE HE IS? LEONARD BARROW – PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR. Entering through a narrow doorway next to the clothing store, Jared walked upstairs and knocked on Barrow’s door.

Barrow greeted him wearing a sport coat and a tie. “What’re you so dressed up for?” Jared asked.

“You know how it is in this neighborhood,” Barrow said as he pulled off his jacket and loosened his tie. “Everyone’s got to make an impression.” He walked back to his desk and slouched down in his beat-up leather chair. The office was cramped and tiny, but Barrow knew the location guaranteed a clientele who’d pay their bills on time. “Now what’s so important that you had to come all the way over here?” he asked.

“To be honest, I’m scared of even talking in my office anymore,” Jared explained. “The walls have ears.”

“All walls have ears. The important question is, who’s listening?”

“I know who’s listening. That’s why I want to know what else you found.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I did some digging into corporate records and found out that Rafferty’s company, Echo Enterprises, is co-owned by our dearly departed chum, Arnold Doniger.”

“What?” Jared asked.

“They’ve been partners for years – built it into a real gold mine.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. So Rafferty had Arnold killed to get control of the business?”

“Depends who gets the business,” Barrow said. “Time will tell.”

“What about the tap on Rafferty’s phone? Is that set up yet?”

“I meant to put it in yesterday, but I didn’t have time. I checked his phone bills, though.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Local calls aren’t itemized, so I can’t see who he’s calling. Sara can get them, though. The DA’s office can have them itemize everything.”

“I don’t care about the DA’s office. In fact, don’t mention them anymore – they’re not going to help us. I need information that’s accessible now. Understand?”

Tapping his thumbs on his desk, Barrow stared at his friend. “I take it there’s still a problem in the bridal suite.”

“I’m sorry, that wasn’t directed at you. Sara and I are just hitting a few speed bumps.”

“I think having you move out is a little worse than a speed bump.”

“How’d you know I moved out?”

“It’s my business to know.”

“Okay, so Kathleen told you.”

“Of course Kathleen told me. What do you expect? She’s worried about you. Says you’re starting to get obsessive – even refusing another piece of movie memorabilia.”

“That has nothing to do with me moving out. I just want to win the case.”

“And Sara’s given you a few too many reasons to think that’s not possible anymore?”

“It’s hard to explain. It’s just that two days ago, she was down for the count, and now she’s hitting like Muhammad Ali. Everything’s been going her way lately.”

Watching Jared fidget with the tip of his tie, Barrow asked, “You really don’t like losing, do you?”

“I hate it,” Jared said, looking up.

“And the fact that your wife’s the one who’s beating you is making you even crazier.”

“I don’t know. There’s more at stake than that.”

“More than your marriage? What’s bigger than that?”

“Nothing I can really talk about,” Jared said despairingly. “Please just drop it.”

An awkward silence took the room. “You’re really in trouble, aren’t you, J?”

Jared didn’t move.

Leaning forward, Barrow opened his bottom drawer and pulled out a.38-caliber handgun. “Here,” he said. “In case.”

Jared took the handgun from Barrow and stared at it. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’m the gun-toting type.”

“If you’re in as much trouble as I think you are, you should have a gun,” Barrow said. He rolled up the leg of his slacks, revealing an even smaller pistol in a leather ankle holster. Unfastening the holster, he handed it to Jared. “If you don’t like the big one, take this instead. It’s small, compact, and easy to hide.” When Jared didn’t reach for it, Barrow added, “Just in case.”

Reluctantly taking the gun, Jared rolled up his own pants and put on the holster.

“You barely even notice it’s there, do you?”

“I guess,” Jared agreed. “Let’s just hope I don’t have to use it.”

Sitting in the driver’s seat of his plain white rental car, Kozlow stared at the inconspicuous entryway to Barrow’s office and wondered what was taking so long. Give it time, he told himself. It’s just like Rafferty said: “They have a lot to discuss. Jared’s getting nervous, and as that happens, he’ll start looking for a way out.”

As usual, Rafferty was right. Jared was in the office for almost a full hour. When he did finally leave, Kozlow watched him disappear up the block. He seemed even more tense than when he had walked in.

Looking up at Barrow’s private-detective sign, Kozlow knew it wouldn’t be long. Twenty minutes later, Barrow left his office and headed across Sixty-fifth Street. Here we go, Kozlow thought. Time to return that favor.

With a semihot cup of coffee in hand, Sara arrived at work early Saturday morning. Between the newest developments with Kozlow, the maintenance and negotiations of her other two cases, and the paperwork from the two cases she pled out, Sara was finally starting to understand the temptation of keeping a change of clothes in her office.

Putting the coffee down on her desk, Sara picked up the phone and checked her voice mail. The only message was from Tiffany, who wanted to know why Sara hadn’t picked her up from school yesterday. “Oh, no,” Sara said as she listened to the message. Replacing the receiver, she tried to think of a way to make it up to her.

Sara then flopped in her chair and kicked her feet up on her desk. This is going to be a great day, she thought, putting Tiffany out of her mind. Pop was feeling better; her mundane burglary was now a cut-your-teeth homicide; and while she missed her husband, she felt confident she could keep him safe. For the first time in months, Sara was flushed with confidence. It was all going to work out.

Ten minutes later, Guff stuck his head into Sara’s office. He took one look at her and asked, “What flavor canary did you eat last night?”

“Can’t I just be in a good mood for once?”

“Actually, I was going to ask you the same thing,” Guff said with a mischievous smile, “because today’s your lucky day!” Darting out to the hall, Guff shouted, “Bring it in, boys!” He high-stepped back into Sara’s office, followed by two delivery men carrying a brand-new olive-green vinyl sofa.

“You actually got one!” Sara said in disbelief. “How’d you pull this one off?”

As the men put the sofa down on the right-hand side of the room, Guff explained, “Let’s just say we owe the cute little redhead in Purchasing a favor.”

“What’d you do? Go out with her?”

“Exactly the opposite. I promised her I wouldn’t call her for six weeks. She tried to make it a full two months, but I held my ground.”

“You sure did,” Sara said. She sat on the sofa and patted its cushions. “Ohhhhh, genuine American vinyl.”

“Nothing but the shiniest for my boss,” Guff said as the delivery men left the office. “And that’s not even the best part.” Guff reached behind his back and pulled something from his back pocket. “Guess what I’m holding in my hand right now?”

Sara thought for a moment. “A giraffe?”

“Smaller.”

“A canoe.”

“Smaller.”

“A shrunken head.”

“Uhhh, smaller – depending on how shrunken it is.”

“A magic lasso that makes you tell the truth.”

“Oh, you’re never going to get it,” Guff said. “The paperwork came in during your first week, and although you’re supposed to pick it up yourself, I fudged the rules and picked it up for you. You were so busy, I figured-”

“Just give it to me already,” Sara demanded.

“Okay, close your eyes,” Guff said as Sara obliged. “On three. One… two… three.”

When Sara opened her eyes, she saw what Guff was holding: an official gold badge with the words Sara Tate, DA, and New York County engraved into it. Sara’s badge seemed to sparkle in the morning light.

“Congrats,” Guff said, handing her the badge in its black leather case. “You’re officially an assistant district attorney.”

Mesmerized, Sara couldn’t take her eyes off of her newest form of ID. “Incredible,” she finally said. “I feel like a cop.”

“And now you can do all those cool cop things, like walk onto a crime scene and get good seats at the movie theaters. Most important, you can whip it out and scream, ‘Sara Tate! ADA!’” Guff yelled as he pulled out his own imaginary badge.

“This is terrific. Thank you, Guff. I really mean it. You didn’t have to do all this.”

“Just do me one favor in return. Let me see you flash the badge.”

Sara got up from her new sofa and crouched into position. She then brandished the badge and yelled, “Sara Tate! ADA! Stop or I’ll blow your ass away!”

“You can’t yell a rhyme,” Guff said, laughing. “No one’ll take you seriously.”

Before Sara could make another attempt, Conrad stormed into the office. He didn’t look happy.

“Check it out,” Sara said, holding out her badge. “Real solid-metal authority.” When she didn’t get a response, she added, “Put on a smile – we’re having a good time here.”

“You don’t even know, do you?” Conrad asked.

“Know what?”

A dire tone blanketed Conrad’s voice. “Sara, I think you may want to sit down.”

“What happened?”

“Just take a seat.”

“Is it Jared? Is he okay? What-”

“Jared’s fine.”

She was frantic now. “It’s Pop! Oh, God, it’s Pop! What happened? Is he-”

“Your family’s fine,” Conrad interrupted. “It’s your private-eye friend, Lenny Barrow. They found him murdered last night.”