Dead Even

Chapter 17

“I TOLD YOU IT WASN’T GUFF,” CONRAD SAID THE FOLLOWING morning. “I said it yesterday. I knew it couldn’t be him.”

“I don’t really care about Guff,” Sara said, her voice completely drained of energy. Her arms were folded on her desk and her head rested on them. She hadn’t looked up since she told Conrad the story. “I need your help with Jared. I mean, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s not him.”

“What’re you talking about? Of course it’s Jared.”

She kept her head on her desk. That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Slowly, she felt her stomach start to turn. It wasn’t possible. This couldn’t be happening.

“Sara, are you okay?”

Feeling as if the wind were knocked out of her, she said nothing. This wasn’t some distant friend. Or a new coworker. This was her husband. She was supposed to know everything about him. Everything. That was what she’d told herself last night to coax herself to sleep. And that was how she initially talked herself out of Conrad’s conclusion. But the closer she looked, the more she found details she couldn’t ignore. When he wanted to be, Jared was more manipulative than anyone she knew. In the last month alone, she had seen that firsthand. And the call to Victor – that was the only way Victor could’ve known she was coming. Over and over, Sara ran through the facts, and whether she trusted Jared or not, she knew there wasn’t going to be an easy answer. “How?” she finally asked Conrad. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Sure it does,” Conrad said. “I’ve seen Jared operate. He may act all squeaky clean, but he’s as scheming as the rest of us. That’s why he peeked in your briefcase. From the moment he told you about Rafferty, I said you should watch your back.”

“You only said that because you’re jealous of him.”

Conrad glared at Sara as his voice took on a more serious tone. “I just think there’s something he’s hiding.”

“Why, though? He hates Rafferty.”

“I agree with that. But that doesn’t mean Jared’s not working with Victor. One thing has nothing to do with another.”

Once again, Sara felt her stomach start to turn. “But why would he possibly do that to me?”

“Does he have anything to be embarrassed about in his past? Maybe he and Victor bury cases together – Jared lines up the clients, Victor makes them disappear. Or maybe he’s being blackmailed. Maybe he’s taking revenge for something you did to him. For all we know, he completely set you up in Brooklyn that night.”

“Stop it,” Sara said, raising her voice. “It’s impossible. None of those things are true.”

“Sara, I know this is hard, but you can’t just shut your eyes and hope it all has a happy ending. Take off the blinders and deal with the problem.”

“I am dealing with it.”

“No. You’re not,” Conrad said. “If you were, you would’ve already stepped into his personal space and asked him why he was calling Victor in the first place.”

Sara knew he was right. She should’ve asked as soon as she found the phone number. “It’s not as easy as you think.”

“Just call him. If he says he’s never spoken to Victor, we’ll know he’s lying.”

Sara reached across her desk and picked up the phone. Seven numbers later, she heard Jared’s phone ring. “C’mon, I know you’re there,” she muttered. “Pick up the damn phone.”

“Mr. Lynch’s office,” Kathleen answered.

“Hi, Kathleen. It’s me. Is he in?”

“I’ll check. Hold on a second.”

Unable to stop fidgeting, Sara stood up. But Conrad grabbed her by the shoulders and sat her down again.

After a moment, she heard, “Sara?”

“Do you have a minute?” Sara asked, trying her best to sound calm.

“Of course. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just have a quick question. Do you know a guy named Victor Stockwell?”

“I told you before – only by reputation. Why?”

“Have you ever spoken to him on the phone?”

There was a short pause on the other end. “No. Why?”

Sara looked up at Conrad and shook her head. “Jared, is anyone in your office?”

“What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I just need you to answer this question. Have you ever spoken to Victor?”

Jared didn’t say a word.

“Please, honey, you can tell me,” Sara said.

“I haven’t,” he insisted. “Why do you-”

Before he could finish the question, Sara hung up. She felt a piercing pain in her chest.

“I’m sorry,” Conrad said. He put his hand back on her shoulder.

Closing her eyes, Sara was reeling. Take it easy, she told herself. There’re hundreds of logical explanations. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized she couldn’t come up with even one. And when she realized that, she knew it was over. She didn’t know him anymore. The phone rang, tearing through the silence. Sara didn’t pick it up. It rang again. When it rang a third time, she reached for it.

“Don’t,” Conrad said.

“Jared, I don’t want to hear your lame excuses,” she answered.

“I’m sorry,” Jared said. “I shouldn’t have lied to you like that.”

“So now the story’s changing?”

“Sara, please, I’m telling you the truth – I spoke to him one time. That was it.”

Sara covered her other ear and turned away. This was even worse.

“Sara?” Jared asked. “Sara, are you there?”

“I’m here,” she whispered.

“Please don’t be mad,” Jared pleaded. “I know it looks bad, but it was for a good reason.”

“I’m listening.”

“Okay, here it is. Here’s the story. Here’s how it happened.”

“Are you going to tell me why you did it, or are you going to make it up as you go along?”

“Sara, I swear to you, I only called him to get help. That night before your first day, you were so nervous, I had to do something. So while you were packing your briefcase, I went into the bedroom and called Judge Flynn. Now, I know you didn’t want me to call in any favors, but you should’ve seen yourself – the article in the Times had you crazy. There was no way I could just sit on my hands. I told him what was happening and asked him if he had any suggestions. He said my best bet was to make sure you got a case. Then he made a few phone calls and told me about ECAB. He found out Victor was the next day’s supervisor, and he gave me his number. The next morning, I called Victor. I explained the situation and said if he could help us out, Judge Flynn would really appreciate it. He said he’d see what he could do, but that was the last I heard of him. Next thing I knew, you had a case.”

“Jared-”

“I know what you’re going to say. I shouldn’t have done it; I shouldn’t have gone behind your back like that. I know it was wrong. I just didn’t want to see you drown. It rips my heart out to see you like that.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me all this the other night?”

“I wanted to. I wanted to so bad. But I thought if you found out what I did, you’d slip back into self-doubt. I didn’t want to see you lose that confidence. So I made the worst judgment call of all and decided it didn’t matter. Obviously, I was wrong.”

“And that’s the truth?”

“I’m telling you, that’s what happened,” Jared said. “I wouldn’t lie to you again.”

“Twelve times were enough, huh?”

“I understand if you don’t believe me, but that’s the only reason I did it. When you called me before, you just caught me off guard.”

“Then let me ask you one last thing: Why’d you let me suspect Victor all this time? You knew I was running crazy. Why not help me out?”

His answer was nothing but a long pause. Eventually, Jared stuttered, “I… I don’t know. I just chose not to. I’m sorry.”

Sara was shaken by his response. “That’s it? You ‘chose not to’?”

“I swear to you, Sara. That’s the real answer. I didn’t mean to hurt you – I was only trying to help.”

“Okay,” she said, still attempting to discern if he was telling the truth. “We’ll talk more about it later.”

“Great, we’ll do it later.”

Unable to ignore the nervousness in his voice, Sara hung up the phone and looked at Conrad.

“Well?” Conrad asked.

She took a deep breath. “I’m not sure. Part of me thinks he’s lying, but part of me really believes him.”

“Are you out of your head?”

“You didn’t even hear his explanation.”

“Tell it to me.” After Sara relayed the conversation, Conrad said, “Oh, c’mon, Sara. He lied to your face, let you hang up, and then called you back as soon as he thought of a good enough cock-and-bull story. I mean, all you did was read an article about budget cuts – do you really think that’s enough to make him call Victor?” Before Sara could argue, Conrad added, “How about letting me do a search on your home phone? If Jared’s story’s true, we’ll be able to see the calls from that night. One call to the judge; that’s all we’re looking for.”

“I don’t know,” Sara said. “Except for one part, he gave me a good explanation. I think I have to trust him.”

“Sara, don’t be stupid. He didn’t even-”

“Don’t call me stupid! I’m not a moron, Conrad. And while you think you know everything about love and law, there’s a chasm between the two. If I start searching our phone bills, I’ve train-wrecked the only thing we have left.”

“So you’d rather be blind to reality?”

“Are you really that jaded? Is that what all those years here have done to you? This isn’t about being blind. It’s about having faith.”

“I know what faith is, I just don’t-”

“He’s my husband.”

Without knocking, Guff entered the office holding a thick manila envelope.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Conrad said. “It’s just another leap of faith, right?”

Sara didn’t like Conrad’s tactics, but she had to admit that Jared’s story took the suspicion off of Guff. Favoring friendship over fear, she explained the story to her assistant. When she was finished, she was surprised to see Guff laughing.

“Me?” Guff asked. “You suspected me? That’s the most absurd idea since Elvis carpeted his ceiling.”

“So you’re not mad?”

“Sara, I’m not in this because you’re my boss. I’m in it because you’re my amigo. If I got all huffy and puffy on you, I’d just be taking time away from that.”

Sara couldn’t help but smile. “Guff, if only everyone else were like you.”

“The world would be a beautiful place, don’t you think?” Guff said. “Now what’re you going to do about Sunken Cheeks? The trial starts tomorrow.”

“Forget about Sunken Cheeks,” Conrad interrupted. “What’re you going to do about Jared?”

“Conrad, can you please drop it already? I know it’s under your skin, but it’s not your life, it’s mine. And if I plan to save it, I have to find out who this guy is in the next few hours.”

Guff shook his head at Conrad. “Don’t do this to her. She’s running out of time.”

Conrad crossed his arms and studied his colleagues. The conversation about Jared was going to have to wait until later. “Tell me what’s in the folder.”

Guff held up the manila envelope. “You want phone numbers? I got phone numbers. I got local, long distance, international, interstate, by the aisle, by the window.” He threw the envelope on Sara’s desk.

Flipping through dozens of photocopied pages, Sara struggled to read the dense report. “How do you -?”

“The calling log is in the back,” Guff said.

When Sara read the log of Rafferty’s phone line, she saw Claire Doniger’s home phone number circled in red pen every time it appeared.

“If it makes you feel any better, Jared was dead on the money – there’s no question there’s a connection between them,” Guff said as Sara continued to flip pages. “Rafferty may’ve said that they only spoke a few times, but there are almost forty calls made during the week of the murder. Four on the day of the burglary, when we think Arnold Doniger was murdered, and five on the day Claire says he died. Either way, these two are talking more than Lucy and Ethel.”

“Good. Next up, where are we on Sunken Cheeks?”

“Same place we always were,” Guff said. “Lost.”

“When are the photographs supposed to get here?” Sara asked.

“Right about now,” Conrad said, looking at his watch.

“Can you-”

“I’m on my way down.” Conrad got up from his seat and headed for the door. “As soon as they hit the mail room, they’re ours.” Seeing that Sara looked more antsy, he added, “It’s okay. It’s going to work out.”

“I don’t know,” Sara said. “What if they know about me and Jared?”

Conrad looked back at her. “Don’t worry,” he said. “They don’t.”

As he turned the corner and walked past the funeral home, Elliott noticed that a dark blue Town Car was waiting in front of his apartment. He headed straight for the car, and the window rolled down. When he leaned inside he saw Rafferty.

“Everything okay?” Rafferty asked.

Elliott didn’t like the tone of the question. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“No reason. Just wanted to know if you heard anything new about Sara.”

Now Elliott knew something was wrong. Rafferty either had something, or he was fishing for something. “Nothing out of the normal,” Elliott said. “Why? You seen anything?”

“Nothing out of the normal,” Rafferty said, his answer smothered in sarcasm. “But once the trial starts, I’m expecting a hurricane.”

“Should be exciting. You have to let me know how it goes.”

“Of course I will. I’d never cut you out.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Rafferty said. “Just making sure we understand each other.”

“Always have and always will,” Elliott said. “So I’ll see you when it’s over?”

Rafferty nodded.

As Rafferty’s car pulled away from the building, Elliott turned back to his front door. Don’t let him rattle you, he told himself. It’s all coming together. When he reached his apartment, he headed straight for the living room and unlocked the padlock on the storage trunk that served as his coffee table. Carefully, he lifted a box from the trunk and put it on the couch. He opened the box and pulled out one of six sets of plastic mannequin hands. At the base of the hands, written in thick black ink, was the name WARREN EASTHAM.

Elliott carried the hands back to the kitchen and stood them upright on his table. Then, carefully, he rolled up his sleeves and removed from his own hands the transparent, skintight latex gloves that held the sculpted fingerprints of a man who had been dead for almost eight months. And in that moment, as he slipped the gloves back on to their plastic holders, Warren Eastham once again returned to the dead and Elliott came back to life.

“Where the hell is he?” Sara asked, looking up from the outline of her opening statement. “It’s been almost twenty minutes.”

“You ever been in the mail room?” Guff asked as he assembled the witness files. “Pulling a package early takes at least a month and a half.”

“I don’t have that long – we’re running out of time here.”

“We’re doing the best we can, Sara. You know that.” Changing the subject, Guff picked up the wedding photo that was perched on the corner of Sara’s desk. “Did you and Jared have a big wedding?” he asked.

“Monster. Jared’s family doesn’t do anything small.”

“So you know all of his family? It’s not like there’re any secrets between you two?”

Sara stopped reading her outline and looked up at her assistant. “You’re having second thoughts, aren’t you?”

“They’re not second thoughts – it’s just that Conrad usually has a good hunch about this stuff. Plus, Jared’s story…”

“I admit, it has a couple of holes. But each of them can be explained.”

“No, you’re right. Forget I said anything. You have to trust him.” Turning her attention back to the outline, Sara asked, “What about Conrad? You think I can trust him?”

“Don’t even start with that. Conrad would never-”

“It’s just a question. I mean, if we’re going to raise the microscope, we might as well examine everyone.”

“So you think Conrad’s involved with Victor?”

“Actually, I don’t think anyone’s involved with Victor. But you do have to wonder why Conrad’s so anxious to keep me and Jared from talking.”

“I think we all know the answer to that one.”

“Maybe,” Sara said. “It’s still something to think about. And speaking of which…” She flipped through her Rolodex and picked up the phone.

“Who’re you calling?”

“Our favorite medical examiner,” she explained as she dialed.

“Great,” Guff said. “While you do that, I have a few more phone calls to make.” Sara nodded to her assistant, and Guff left the room.

“This is Fawcett,” he answered.

“Hi, Dr. Fawcett, it’s Sara Tate, from the DA’s office. I just wanted to remind you to send over a clean copy of the autopsy report before the trial – I need to submit it as evidence and mine’s all marked up.”

“Are you sure you haven’t gotten it yet? I sent my final version over weeks ago. Messenger and all.”

“Really,” Sara said suspiciously.

“Yes, indeed. Of course, it’s easy to make another copy, but-”

“Guff, did you send a messenger to Fawcett’s office?” she called out, covering the phone.

Guff stuck his head back in the office. “Not me, boss.”

Sara shook her head. “Let me ask you another question,” she said, turning back to the phone. “Is it possible to fake a fingerprint?”

“Define ‘fake.’”

“Do you need someone’s actual hand to leave their fingerprint on something?”

“A few years ago, the answer would be yes. Not anymore. The beauty these days is that everything’s possible. If I want to leave your fingerprint on something, I just need a copy of your print on a piece of paper. If I have that, I can make a photocopy of your print. Then, while the photocopy is still hot, I put a piece of fingerprint tape on the print and lift the tape.”

“Off the copy?” Sara asked.

“Right off the copy,” Fawcett said. “The toner from a copy machine is sometimes used for fingerprint powder. Once I have it on the tape, I can put that piece of tape anywhere. Bam – you’re wherever I say you are.”

“But what if there’s no tape involved? Could someone do it by themselves? Maybe keeping someone else’s fingerprints on top of their own?”

There was a prolonged pause on the other line. Eventually, he said, “If you wanted to, you might be able to do it with latex gloves. Of course, then you’d have to keep the gloves a little wet, but it’s sufficiently possible.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Real prints usually have remnants of sweat gland secretions or some other contaminant like grease or dust. But if you kept licking the gloves, or just rubbed them with a little bit of oil, you might be able to make it look like a real print. The real trick, of course, is copying the original prints, but as I said, it’s not impossible. Why? Do you want to make a set of gloves?”

“No, I want to find a set of gloves.”

Ten minutes later, Conrad returned to the office carrying a medium-sized box, which he dropped on Sara’s desk. “Here’s our new best option.”

Sara got out of her seat and saw that the box was filled with thousands of neatly stacked photographs. Each of them was a portrait of a man in his army uniform, posed in front of an American flag.

“Kozlow was stationed at Fort Jackson in South Carolina when he first joined the army,” Conrad explained. “He made it halfway through basic training, got in a fight with a fellow recruit and got the boot soon after. Apparently, he didn’t want to face the consequences that went along with his attitude problems.”

“So who’s in these pictures?” she asked as she shuffled through the photographs. “Everyone on his team?”

“Team?” Conrad asked. “Do you know anything about military terminology? A team has two to three people, a squad has nine, a platoon is three to four squads, a company is three to four platoons, a battalion is five companies, a brigade is two battalions, and a division is three brigades, which is about five thousand people.”

Sara looked down at the thousands of photographs on her desk. “So is that everyone in his brigade?”

“It’s everyone who was at Fort Jackson while Kozlow was there. And the first pile is everyone in his basic training company. If you look carefully, you may find Sunken Cheeks.”

Flipping through the first pile of photographs, Sara said, “This is impossible. Look at these guys – they’re all the same. Square shoulders and a crew cut, square shoulders and a crew cut, square shoulders and a crew cut. After the first bunch, it gets maddening. I might as well be looking through yearbooks or something stupid like that.”

As Sara picked up the next pile of pictures, Guff came barging into the office, waving a fax. “Start writing your thank-you cards, ladies and gents, because Guff just saved the day!”

Conrad shot Guff a skeptical look. “This better be good.”

“Oh, it is, Most Solemn One.” He looked down at his fax. “While you were searching through the military past, I took the other way around and started searching through the present. I took the two names that came up from Sunken Cheeks’s fingerprints and ran them through BCI. Sol Broder and Warren Eastham have almost nothing in common. They weren’t born in the same cities, neither of them was in the military, they didn’t live near each other, and as far as I can tell, they didn’t even know each other. But they did have one thing in common: They were both criminals. So I ran a search on every piece of their criminal records – what their crimes were, when they were arrested, who their lawyers were, where they served their time – you name it, I searched it. Again, nothing came up. Both Broder and Eastham served their time upstate at the Hudson facility, but Broder was there four years ago, while Eastham was there two years ago. They were never there at the same time.”

“So what’s your great find?” Conrad asked impatiently.

“My great find is that a closer examination revealed the one thing Broder and Eastham had in common: When Sol Broder left the Hudson facility, Warren Eastham occupied his old cell.”

“So?” Conrad asked.

“So that means they shared the same cellmate,” Sara said.

“Exactly,” Guff said with a smile. “And that cellmate is…” Guff held up the faxed mug shot of a prisoner. It was blurry, but it was definitely Sunken Cheeks. Sara’s eyes went wide.

“That’s him!” Sara said, grabbing the fax out of Guff’s hands. “That’s the guy who threatened me.”

“Unbelievable,” Conrad said. “You may get employee of the month for this one.”

“I’m shooting for the whole year,” Guff said.

“So who is he?” Sara asked, still studying the picture.

“His name is Elliott Traylor. That’s all we have right now, but give me an hour and we’ll have the rest.”

“Here we go,” Guff said, reading from a file folder as he stood in the middle of Sara’s office. “The life and times of Elliott Traylor. He was born in Queens, New York, to Phyllis Traylor, who raised him on her own.”

“What happened to his father?” Sara asked.

“There’s no mention of a father,” Guff said. “The family grew up relatively poor in Queens, and Elliott’s mother used to work as both a secretary and a waitress. Here’s the interesting part, though. According to their tax records, Elliott’s mother used to work for a company called StageRights Unlimited. And that was the original name for – you guessed it-”

“Echo Enterprises,” Conrad said.

“Are you kidding me?” Sara asked.

“Wait, it gets better. When she was at StageRights, Phyllis Traylor was the personal secretary for Mr. Arnold Doniger. But according to her unemployment records, she was fired from StageRights a few months before Elliott was born.”

“That was at least twenty-five to thirty years ago,” Sara said. “Is she still alive?”

“No, she died seven years ago from lung cancer. Elliott went to high school in Queens and then won an engineering scholarship to Brooklyn College. His test scores say he was quite the boy genius, but he apparently had a hard time when his mother passed away. He was only a sophomore in college at the time.”

“What was he in prison for?” Conrad asked.

“Aggravated sexual abuse and aggravated assault. Seems he had a difference of opinion with a woman he was courting. She started screaming it was rape; he punched her in the face and broke her jaw. Luckily, someone heard and called the cops. From the file we have on him, he’s a brutal bastard. Smart, too.”

“That engineering degree might explain the fingerprints,” Sara said.

“I still don’t understand one thing,” Conrad said. “What the hell does Elliott have to gain if Kozlow is found guilty?”

“Maybe he’s holding a grudge from when his mom was fired all those years ago,” Guff suggested.

“Too corny,” Sara said. “And not strong enough to make him take all those risks.”

“Maybe he’s been hired by someone else who hates Kozlow and Rafferty for some other reason.”

“No, now you’re getting off track,” Conrad said. “If Elliott is involved, he must have something to gain. There’s a fifty-million-dollar business on the line here.”

“Then let me ask you this,” Guff said as he joined Sara on the couch. “If they take the money away from Rafferty, who gets it?”

“According to the will, it goes to Arnold Doniger’s heirs.”

“So Claire does get it?” Guff asked, confused.

“No, the will specifically states that Claire takes nothing, and since she waived everything else in the prenup, it goes to his other surviving relatives. First, they’ll look to see if he has any children, then they’ll-”

“Stop right there,” Conrad said. “What if Arnold Doniger has a son he doesn’t know about?”

“How do you have a son you don’t-” Suddenly, a cold chill ran down Sara’s back. “Oh, my God. You think Elliott-”

“Why not? It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“Hold on a second,” Guff said. “You think Elliott is Arnold Doniger’s son?”

“Actually, I do,” Sara said. “Look at the facts: Elliott’s mother spends five years working as Arnold Doniger’s secretary. Over time, a little office romance develops and Arnold starts having a little fun behind his first wife’s back. Then the bad news hits – Elliott’s mom is pregnant. Six months before the baby’s due, Arnold tells her to hit the road. He may have tons of money, but he can’t let an illegitimate child ruin his marriage, his reputation, and his lifestyle.”

“I’m with you,” Conrad said. “Six months later, Elliott is born. His mother has no job, no money, and, as the birth certificate says, no husband. When Elliott is old enough, his mother tells him the story of his father, and for years, Elliott harbors nothing but hatred for the man who won’t acknowledge his existence. So when the opportunity comes to get Dad’s money – his rightful inheritance – Elliott wants to make sure he’s first in line.”

“See, I think he’s more involved than that,” Sara said. “Elliott has way too much information to just be showing up at the reading of the will.”

“You think he took part in the murder?”

“That’s the only way to explain how he knew about the wine cellar,” Sara pointed out. “He and Rafferty could’ve plotted Arnold’s death together. Rafferty would get the money; Elliott would get revenge. But when Kozlow got arrested and the plan fell apart, Elliott realized that he had even more to gain than the resolution of his I-hate-Daddy complex. At that point, he switched sides, turned on Rafferty, and pushed me to win.” As the logic of her own argument registered, Sara slumped back in disgust. “Which means Elliott plotted the death of his own father.”

“I know it’s hard to fathom, but it happens all the time,” Conrad said.

“But it’s his father,” Sara said, disgusted. “How do you kill your own parent?”

“By hiring Tony Kozlow to give him an overdose of insulin.”

“There’s only one problem,” Guff said. “If Elliott’s involved with the death, isn’t he also covered by the slayer statute?”

“Of course,” Sara said. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not a greedy little scumbag. Besides, the only way to prove Elliott was involved with Arnold’s death is if Rafferty rats him out. And if he does that, Rafferty will be admitting his own involvement.”

“Which he’ll never do, because if he does, he’ll never see a dime of Arnold’s money,” Conrad said.

“Exactly,” Sara added.

“You think?” Guff asked skeptically. “It seems a little far-fetched to me.”

“I disagree,” Sara said. “You’d be surprised what people will do when their family’s involved.”

“Or what they won’t do,” Conrad said. “Like keep their mouths shut.”

“But a bizarro Electra complex? What’s the likelihood of-”

“Either way, it doesn’t matter,” Sara interrupted. “Regardless of what you believe, Elliott’s clearly the man we’re looking for.”

“So what do we do now?” Guff asked.

“That’s easy,” Sara said. “Have you ever heard of a prisoners’ dilemma?”

At nine o’clock that evening, Sara, Conrad, and Guff packed up their belongings. “You really think it’ll work?” Guff asked as he put on his jacket.

“It can’t miss,” Sara said, stuffing two legal pads into her briefcase.

“Of course it can miss,” Conrad said. “If you tell Jared, and Jared tells Victor…”

“Don’t start with that.”

“Then don’t tell him. The plan only works if everything’s kept quiet. That means no one should know about it – especially your husband.”

“Why’re you so convinced that Jared’s involved with Victor? Why would he possibly do that to me?”

“I told you before, maybe you don’t know him as well as you think you do. What if he and Victor are running this case-burying business together? Assuming Victor does it for money, he still needs some good way to find the richest defendants – and as an up-and-comer in a big-name law firm, Jared’s the perfect scout. That’s why he doesn’t have any clients; they’re all off the books.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Is it? Are you sure? Think about it, Sara. Think carefully. People have lapses of strength all the time. All he needs is the tiniest push: He’s not satisfied at work; he’s sick of living in a tiny one-bedroom apartment; he needs the money; he’s having trouble making partner-”

“I don’t want to hear this,” Sara said as she struggled to stuff a file folder in her briefcase. Realizing it wouldn’t fit, she added, “Dammit, what the hell is wrong with this thing?”

“Take it easy,” Guff said as he helped her with the folder.

“Sara, if you tell Jared, and he’s on the other side, this thing’ll blow up in our faces. We’ll be sitting there thinking it’s all going to work out, and then, out of nowhere, BOOOM!” Sara jumped at Conrad’s sound effect. “Next thing you know, we’re finished.” Conrad let the silence of the room drive home his point.

“But if Jared doesn’t know-”

“He’ll be fine, Sara. It’s not like I’m asking a lot. I don’t need you to lie to him; I just want you to keep it quiet. Otherwise, we risk watching all our hard work slip away.”

Sara turned to Guff. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know. I see Conrad’s point, but part of me keeps thinking that once you doubt Jared, there’s no going back.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” Conrad said. “It’s just one little secret – nothing more. Now what do you say?”

“I’m not sure,” Sara said. “Let me see how tonight goes.”

A half hour after she arrived at home, Sara was sitting in front of the computer, staring at a blank screen. When she had first walked in, she had expected to find her husband cooking in the kitchen or typing in the bedroom. But as she made her way to the back of the apartment, she was surprised to find neither. Determined to take advantage of Jared’s absence, she’d quickly exchanged her business suit for sweatpants and a T-shirt, and pulled a chair up to the computer. Now was the time to decide, she thought. Before he gets home.

Carefully weighing each of the arguments in her head, she tried her best to reach a solution. Deep down, she wanted to believe him. It was the only choice. But the longer she sat alone in the silent apartment, and the longer she looked down at her watch, wondering where Jared was, the more she started to doubt him. And the more she started to doubt him, the more she saw the strength of Conrad’s argument. She didn’t have to lie to Jared – she just had to keep quiet.

Sensing the arrival of rationalization, Sara wondered what Pop would do in the same situation. He’d tell the truth, she thought. What about Jared’s parents? They’d lie. What about her own parents? What would they do? Sara walked over to the row of pictures on her dresser, picked out the photo of her parents, and sat down on her bed. It was an old picture, taken on the day Sara got accepted to Hunter College. Her father was so proud that when they went out to a small nearby restaurant to celebrate, he brought the acceptance letter and showed it to the waiter. Then he took a picture of Sara with the letter. And his wife with the letter. And even the waiter with the letter. Finally, Sara grabbed the camera and said, “How about we get some people in the next one?” Within an instant, Sara’s father had wrapped his arm around his wife and placed his hand so confidently on her shoulder. On the count of three, Sara snapped the picture.

Over a dozen years later, Sara loved the picture not because it was a great one, and not because it made her parents look beautiful. She loved it because every time she looked at it, she remembered that day – the acceptance letter, the pride, the waiter, the food, and most important, the people there.

The click of the front door locks jarred Sara from her memory. Jared was finally home. Brushing her thumb across the glass that covered her parents’ image, she knew it was time to move past the lessons of death and to pay attention to the ones about life.

When Jared burst into the room, she could tell that he had already prepared his excuse. Racing to the computer, he was ready to type out why he was late, and where he’d been, and why she had to believe him about Victor. But before he even passed the bed, Sara stepped in front of him. Jared was biting at his bottom lip. He looked anxious, almost nervous. It would definitely be easy to keep the secret, she thought. Just don’t say a word. She sat down at the computer, unclenched her fists, and fought her hesitation. Don’t look back, she told herself. Only forward. And as her fingers danced across the keyboard, Sara Tate took her leap of faith. Over her shoulder, Jared read the words, “Here’s the plan…”

Sitting on a discarded milk crate in the basement, he stared intensely at the monitor. It was propped up on two other crates, and it bathed the dark room in the artificial glow of blue light. When he saw the first few words flicker across the screen, he smiled at his own ingenuity. It hadn’t been difficult to put in the splitter, but it did take some time to find the exact location of the gas furnace’s vent pipe. Once he had that, though, he just dropped a plumb line from the hole in their wall down to the basement. That’s what it took to get the wire down there: a washer on a string. All he’d had to do was make sure no one was home, which, for him, was as easy as finding out about their meeting in Brooklyn. He just had to know where to look. And who to speak to. Slowly, the screen was filled with Sara’s plan. And as he read every word, Elliott nodded to himself. There was nothing to worry about. Sara, Rafferty, all of them – they’d never know what hit them.