“Big fuckin’ deal,” Bogosian said, though he had only the vaguest idea what she meant. So many fuckin’ words. He hated lawyers. He never had an honest one in his life, and they couldn’t keep him out of jail.
“How am I going to explain who you are?”
“I don’t give a fuck. You’re not leaving my sight.”
Marta pointed a short distance down the hallway. “Look, there’s another conference room directly across from the one I’ll be working in. It has glass walls like the one I’ll be in. You can see everything I’m doing. I won’t make any phone calls, and if one comes in, you can listen in on your phone.”
“You think I’m stupid? You could tell the other two lawyers.”
“And put them in danger? Never.”
“Fuck that. I’m comin’ in with you,” Bogosian said, and stepped so close Marta almost freaked. The last time he had been this close he’d beaten her unconscious. She suppressed the fear rising in her throat and walked neatly around him to the elevator bank, punching the DOWN button with authority.
“Then I’m not working on the motion,” Marta said, struggling to keep her voice strong. “Take me back to the hotel right now. You can call Steere and tell him his fingerprints are coming into evidence.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fine. I’ll call him as soon as we get back.”
“You’re bluffin’.”
“Am I?” Marta turned and forced a smile. The beauty shot. “Want to find out?”
Bogosian thought a minute. What a bitch. Steere would go ballistic if Bobby called him on the cell phone again. And Steere did say he wanted the motion done. Bogosian figured it would be okay if he could watch her. Besides, what could she do? She was just a broad.
“What have you got for me, ladies?” Marta barked at the associates. She closed the conference room door behind her and pulled out the seat at the head of the table. She was trying to hide her anxiety, but she wasn’t fooling Judy, who appraised her with a critical eye. Her blouse was wrinkled, a first for Erect, and her eyes drooped as if she were in pain. Something odd was definitely going on. Judy would have asked Marta if she were okay, but Erect didn’t invite that sort of inquiry. And Mary had an agenda.
“Marta, I have something to tell you,” Mary said. She stood up nervously, her neck blotchy under her blouse. Mary had decided to show some balls for a change. Be a FEMINAZI. “Something important.”
“Make it fast.”
“I didn’t finish the motion in limine. You can tell Bennie if you want to. You can fire me if you want to. The motion’s not done.”
“I don’t care about the motion,” Marta shot back. “Did you figure out what the D.A. has on Steere?”
Mary’s eyes widened in surprise, and Judy found herself thinking: schizophrenic, even for Napoleon.
Marta rose to her feet as the associates told her about Steere’s color blindness and the traffic light. Her instinct told her they were onto something. Steere had lied to her again, even when he supposedly confessed. Why hadn’t she seen it? Steere had admitted he was a liar, yet Marta had swallowed his shit about killing a homeless man. What, did she need a fucking sign? She’d nail him to the wall.
“The only problem is motive,” Mary said. “Maybe you know something that can fill in the blank.”
Marta’s thoughts raced ahead. First she’d have to shake Bogosian, who was waiting in the conference room across the hall. She could see him through the glass, a slick leather mountain, sitting at an identical conference table. He was reading his dog magazine and glancing over at them from time to time. Marta had told the associates he was her driver, but hadn’t introduced him.
“This is the picture from Darnton’s autopsy.” Mary handed an 8 × 10 photo across the table to Marta. “We both think his real name is Eb Darning.”
Marta picked up the photo. A corpse on a slab. A face in a morgue. She flashed on the Magnum that had bored into her ribs and realized something she should have realized before. If Marta uncovered the truth about this murder, it would cost her her life. Steere would send Bogosian after her and he wouldn’t stop pounding until she was the corpse on the slab. The face in the autopsy picture. Marta had to put Steere behind bars for the rest of his life or she’d be dead. Her head thundered. Her wounds throbbed. Blood pulsed in her ears. The conference room seemed suddenly distant. The photo slipped from her fingers.
“Marta, are you okay? Marta?” It was Mary. Her expression was anxious, but Marta couldn’t hear her clearly. It sounded like she was underwater.
Marta felt suddenly warm. Perspiration appeared under her blouse and on her palms. The conference room whirled around her. Papers and briefs and files circled like a tornado. She’d had spells like this as a kid, after the station wagon. She couldn’t give in to it now or it would bring Bogosian down on them all. Marta forced a smile that even to her felt like a horrid grimace.
“Marta?” Judy asked, rising to her feet. Marta looked so pale Judy thought it was a heart attack.
“I’m fine,” Marta said quickly. “Fine. Don’t worry about it.” She wiped back her hair with a shaking hand. The room came back into focus and the associates’ voices came up. Whatever the spell was, it was ebbing away. She could see Bogosian out of the corner of her eye, his head cocked. He was standing up beside his chair, watching her. She gave him a dismissive wave and held the back of a chair for support.
“Are you having chest pain?” Judy was asking.
“Take a deep breath,” Mary said.
“I’m fine.” Marta braced herself against a chair as the merry-go-round of a room slowed to a complete stop. Across the hall, Bogosian eased back into his seat with the magazine. Marta breathed freer and she looked at DiNunzio and Carrier hovering around her. She realized they were concerned about her, which was confusing. She had toyed with the notion of slipping them a message about Bogosian, but now she knew she couldn’t do that. It had to end here, at least for them. She’d work them like dogs, but she wouldn’t get them killed. “Listen, you two, go home. Go home now.”
Judy and Mary exchanged looks. “What are you talking about?” Judy asked.
“Go home. Now. That’s an order. This case is over. Steere doesn’t matter, forget about Steere. Go home.”
“I don’t understand,” Carrier said. “What about the D.A.?”
“Forget about the D.A. We’ll deal with him later.”
“But Mary could be right. If we knew more about Darning—”
“Forget Darning. Go home.”
Judy plucked Steere’s tax returns from the table. “You didn’t get to see these. They show a connection with the bank—”
Marta grabbed the packet and tossed it back on the table. “Forget the bank. Forget Steere. Go home, Carrier. Both of you, go home.”
Judy stood stock-still. “Marta, are you on some kind of medication?”
“Do you need us to get you a … professional?” Mary asked.
Marta looked from one to the other and burst into laughter. They were like puppies, these two: dogged in their determination and loyal without reason. They reminded Marta of herself when she was young, protecting two drunks who didn’t deserve it from bill collectors and school principals. Instead of making her feel closer to them, the insight distanced her further. “I said, go home.”
“You can tell us,” Judy said softly. “There’s a lot of stress, and it’s okay if you are. The pressure. The media. It would get to anybody.”
“I’m not having a breakdown,” Marta said firmly. “Go home. You’ve done very good work, and I … appreciate it. Thank you.”
Thank you? From Erect? With that, Judy realized that Marta wanted them out of the picture for some reason. She was clearly upset about something, maybe even sick. She seemed to be protecting them, but that would be totally out of character. What was going on? Who was that “driver,” anyway? The guy looked like The Hulk. Judy glanced at Mary, who she knew was thinking the same thing.
But Mary wasn’t.
Mary was thinking there’d been a miracle. That there really was a God and he’d spoken to Marta Richter. Taken her aside, thrown one white-robed arm around her padded shoulders, and had a Dutch-uncle talk with her in the sky. Warned her that if she didn’t stop torturing associates, she’d end up a wealthy but crispy critter. That she’d be cast down to that level of lawyer hell where she’d have to listen to Alan Dershowitz whine for eternity. But even though the boss had apparently converted to a human being, Mary still wanted to stay with the Steere case. She hadn’t come this far to get a killer off scot-free. Not with her history. “Maybe we should go home,” Mary said lightly. She picked her jacket off the back of the chair. “I’m exhausted. Aren’t you?”
“What?” Judy said, wheeling around to stare at her friend. “Aren’t you interested in following up?”
“Nope.” Mary slipped into her blazer. “Why would I be?”
Judy finally came up to speed. “Maybe you’re right. We can deal with the D.A. when they file, right?”
Marta relaxed inwardly. “Walk her out, Carrier. That’s an order.” She liked the idea of the associates leaving together and she’d make sure Bogosian wouldn’t bother them. She opened the conference room door. “Go!”
“Yes, sir,” Judy said, and saluted.
“It’s about time you learned to do that,” Marta said, smiling. Across the hall, Bogosian looked up from his magazine and returned to it when Marta nodded. “You know, you both have to learn to take orders better.”
Judy grinned, gap-toothed. “Don’t bet on it.” Erect. “Can we borrow the car to get home?”
Marta paused. The car was still at Steere’s town house. She glanced anxiously across the hall at Bogosian, who sat near the doorway. “I left the rental at the hotel. The driver brought me over.”
“We can walk home,” Mary said as she strolled out the conference room door. “It’s a good thing we live right in town.”
Judy followed Mary into the hall. “See you, Marta. Call us if you hear from the jury.”
“Don’t worry,” Marta said. She stood in the door and watched them walk down the hall to their offices, feeling a tug in her chest which stopped mercifully short of full-blown maternal feelings. It persisted until she noticed Carrier’s ski boots making wet footprints on the new carpet.
The associates waited for the elevator when Judy spotted Erect watching them through the glass wall of the conference room. Judy waved at her, and Erect waved back. “Say good-bye to Erect, Mare,” Judy said to Mary. “We have to show her we’re leaving.”
Mary waved. “Good-bye, schizo.”
“She’s not a schizo. Something’s up.” Judy faced the elevator and shook her head. “Something happened to Marta.”
“A visitation. Angels and saints. Harps and trumpets.”
Judy was trying to put the pieces together. “She looked scared.”
“Fear of God. He took long enough. I hate it when he’s late.”
They both heard the rattle of the elevator as it zoomed up the shaft. Judy zipped up her parka and gathered her poles and cross-country skis. “Well, here we go. We have work to do.”
“Agreed.”
“And great snow to do it in.”
“I know what you’re thinking—”
“White. Fresh. Virgin.”
“—and you can just forget it.” Mary was swaddled in a heavy coat and Totes boots. She yanked her knit cap on. “No way, Fay Wray.”
“Yes, way. Oh, yes.” Judy lined up her skis and snapped a bungee cord around them. “You will be mine.”
“It’s not happening, girlfriend.”
“No time like the present.”
Mary shook her head. “No. I’m smarter than I look.”
“No you’re not. And it is happening. Here and now. Coming to a snowdrift near you.”
“I’m not doing the ski thing.”
“Yes, you are.”
Mary pursed her lips. “I don’t have skis.”
“I have an extra pair at home. There’s no other way.”
“We can walk.”
“That’ll take three hours.”
“You want me to ski to the Twenty-fifth Street Bridge?” Mary said, raising her voice.
Judy shot her a warning glance and her blue eyes slid meaningfully toward The Hulk sitting in the conference room. He was a distance away but he was sitting right near the open door, flipping through a magazine. Judy couldn’t tell if he was within earshot and she didn’t want to take a chance. She was even beginning to feel funny about leaving Marta alone with him. She resolved to call the office and check on her when they got home. “You follow?”
Mary glanced over her shoulder at the man, critically now. He didn’t look like a cabdriver and he had no uniform like a limo driver. Who was he, anyway? Mary felt dumb for not wondering about him before. “Maybe I’m not smarter than I look.”
“Told you,” Judy said as the elevator went ding!
Down the hall, Bogosian lifted his thumb off the caption under a bearded collie. Right again! He watched the lawyers get into the elevator and the doors close slowly behind them. So they were going to the Twenty-fifth Street Bridge, huh? Bitches. He’d have to follow up on that, too.
16
After the associates left, Marta returned to her seat at the conference table and pretended to work, scribbling nonsense on a legal pad. She considered leaving a note of some kind, but that wouldn’t help her right now. She felt Bogosian’s gaze on her. What if he decided he wanted to sit in the room while she worked? She had to hurry.
Marta reached for Steere’s tax returns. She was intrigued by the Mellon Bank connection and flipped through to the back of the tax return packet, prepared by an expensive accounting firm. Marta felt a twinge as she opened the slick plastic cover. Predators like Elliot Steere couldn’t exist without professionals to keep him rich and free. Professionals like her. She hadn’t realized it until she became the prey.
On the third page of the packet was a listing of Steere’s mortgage deductions. He owned a couple of investment properties in his name and apparently had three residences under mortgage; homes in Society Hill, Vail, and Long Beach Island, New Jersey. It was the New Jersey house that caught Marta’s eye. An address in a town called Barnegat Light.
The beach house. Marta remembered what Steere had said in the interview room at the courthouse: that he was going to St. Bart’s on a jet leaving from Atlantic City, if the Philly airport closed. She looked out the windows of the conference room. Snow flurries swirled around the building, blown in all directions by confused currents. No small plane would fly in this storm. Steere had lied again. Marta clenched her teeth.
Then she thought a minute, pushing her emotions aside. Why did Steere say that? Why say anything at all? He’d been thinking about the beach. Maybe he’d been thinking about his beach house. He used to say he missed going there, when he was in jail over the summer, and Marta had the impression he considered it more a home than his city town house. Maybe it was his hideaway with his girlfriend. Maybe there’d be a clue there. Something, anything. Marta felt desperate. Her life was on the line.
The telephone rang on the sleek credenza behind her, and Marta jumped. Who was calling? The court? Had the jury come back already? No! She leapt from the chair and grabbed for the phone. Across the hall, Bogosian did the same thing, picking up the phone in his conference room. The lighted button would have told him which line to use. “Yes?” Marta answered, anxious.
“Ms. Richter?” said a young man’s voice. “This is Judge Rudolph’s law clerk.”
“Are they back?”
“No. Judge Rudolph asked me to inform the parties that he’s granting the jury a conjugal visit. It was requested by one of the jurors. A transcript regarding the request will be available tomorrow to the parties.”
“A conjugal visit, tonight?” Marta asked, relieved. She’d gain some time before the verdict. “It wasn’t scheduled.”
“It is now.”
?
??Have they stopped deliberating for the night?”
“Yes, they’ll resume at eight in the morning. Because of the snow, Judge Rudolph has ordered the deliberations be moved to the sequestration hotel.”
“Thanks,” Marta said, and hung up. Thinking.
Across the hall, Bogosian hung up, too. Watching.
Marta swiveled around and immediately got back to fake work. She kept her head down and wrote. She had to get rid of Bogosian, fast. By the time she’d filled a page with legal buzzwords, she had a plan. There was only one way to do it. Her heart beat faster. She checked her watch. 8:40. There was no time to lose. She’d have to execute it right under Bogosian’s nose. Marta steeled herself. It was her only chance.
Now.
She got up, walked casually to one of the Steere files, and pulled out a manila folder at random. It flopped open, and as Marta paced with it she pretended to read. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Bogosian reading and occasionally looking up, apparently satisfied she was hard at work. Each time Marta paced, she walked closer and closer to the telephone on the credenza, watching Bogosian and waiting for the right moment. She wouldn’t get a second chance. He could shoot her through the glass if he wanted. In the next instant, Bogosian lowered his head and squinted at the magazine. It was Marta’s moment and she seized it.
She plucked the telephone receiver off the hook and set it on the credenza beside the phone, then turned on her heel without breaking stride. If Marta could dial three digits — 514 — she’d have building security on the line. She couldn’t risk calling 911 because the cops would want to take her in. There’d be questions asked and time wasted. Just three digits.
Bogosian was reading in his conference room. His back was to the phone so he couldn’t see the button lit on the open line. Marta paced away from the phone and back again. She kept her face down to the file. She paced to the phone, quickly punched a 5 on the keypad, spun on her heel, and walked away from the phone.