All Day and a Night (22 page)

Carrie could feel her french fries working their way back up as she returned Thomas’s phone to him. She took this job because she’d convinced herself she’d be doing the right thing by Donna. But Linda Moreland wanted money, and she wanted to win. She wanted the celebrity lawyer reputation. Perhaps most dangerous of all, she truly believed she was saving people.

And Carrie had no idea how she could save herself from being a part of it.

C
arrie had never been to a prison before. In law school, her study of criminal law had been restricted entirely to books. Russ Waterston didn’t handle criminal cases, and the civil work she did do rarely required her to leave the firm’s law library. Now she was on her way to pick up a man being released from prison. She had no idea what to expect, but she was convinced she was completely lost. All she could see was farmland in every direction.

She looked down again at the rental car’s GPS system to make sure she was in the right place, and the gadget insisted she was almost there.

She took the next right turn, as prompted by the robotic voice, and pulled onto a long, narrow road. It was beautiful here, and peaceful. Up ahead, she saw a sprawling concrete complex, surrounded by watch towers and barbed wire. Now she understood. This beautiful, peaceful place was the perfect location. No one wanted a maximum security prison in his backyard. No one wanted to be near the Anthony Amaros of the world.

And yet here she was, about to serve as his personal driver.

A
sign at the visitors’ entry warned that all phones had to be turned off and could not be taken into the “hospitality area.” She powered down her cell and slipped it into her purse.

A heavy woman in a flowered dress entered just ahead of her and commented that the line was short today. It didn’t look short to Carrie. She counted ten people in front of her, including the flowered-dress lady, before the line turned a blind corner.

“Is the front of the line somewhere close to that turn?”

“Oh no, sweetheart. I’d say it’s another thirty feet or so to the metal detectors. You haven’t been here before?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“It’s okay. I was afraid my first time, too, but my son, he needs visitors. I like to think that contact with the outside might keep him from getting too hard, you know? Who you here to see?”

“Um, my uncle.” Somehow it didn’t seem right in that moment to announce herself as an attorney, to declare herself an outsider.

“Oh, okay. Well aren’t you a thoughtful niece.”

She smiled.

A guard was pacing the distance of the line, eyeing its members. He started to pivot at the line’s end, but did a double take at Carrie.

“Who are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“You counsel?”

She was wearing khakis and a white button-down shirt. Did she really stand out that much?

“Um, yes, I am.”

“You here for a client?”

The flowered-dress lady was looking at her, confused. “I am,” Carrie confirmed.

“You’re in the wrong line. Don’t worry, new lawyers do this all the time.” He waved her out of the line as the flowered-dress lady commented that her uncle was lucky to have a lawyer in the family.

Carrie followed the guard past the back of the line. At the corner, he turned right instead of left, and Carrie followed. “See? Attorney window up there? Ring the bell, give the desk your client’s name, and they’ll get you a private room for your conference. Different from the other visitors, where we randomly monitor conversations.”

She nodded. “Right, that makes sense.”

“Wow, you really are green, aren’t you? Tell you what: let me walk you through it. What’s your guy’s name?”

She noticed for the first time that the guard wasn’t wearing a ring, and didn’t seem to have a tanline from one either. Regardless of his reasons, she was grateful for the help.

“Anthony Amaro. My understanding is that he’s supposed to be released any minute.”

The guard did another double take. “Amaro? Whoa, I didn’t expect that. He’s been bragging to everyone who will listen about that woman from television being his lawyer.”

“And I work for her. And, as you’ve probably figured out, I’m new to this.”

“I got that.” He didn’t seem quite as friendly now. “Mike,” he called through the window, “what’s going on with Amaro? This lady’s looking for him.”

“He’s being cut loose right now. Should be just a few minutes.”

“They’ll release him out back,” the guard explained. “You can pull around and meet him there. You’re alone?”

She nodded, and he shook his head disapprovingly. “Good luck with that.”

C
arrie had been resting her eyes, listening to the purr of the idling engine, but the grinding sound of the security gates jerked her to full alert.

Anthony Amaro walked out alone, dressed in a black T-shirt, blue jeans, and work boots. He carried a single cardboard box. As many times as she had looked at photographs of him over the years, she might not have recognized him in another context. He had always been physically innocuous: slightly chubby, but not fat; a receding hairline, but not bald; not ugly by any means, but certainly not attractive, either. Despite the averageness of his appearance, though, he had always looked ominous, the blank stare of his booking photo juxtaposed in newspapers with photographs of his victims. Now, his face was puffy and sagging, like an actor made up to look older. He was balder and grayer. Whatever used to terrify her about him visually was gone. He looked harmless.

She stepped from the car, and he turned in her direction. She almost waved instinctively. She had no idea what she was doing.

She waited for him to walk within earshot. He was staring at her intensely, but it was impossible to attribute an emotion to his flat expression. “I’m an associate with Ms. Moreland’s firm,” she explained. “I’ll get you situated in a nearby motel.”

She did not offer a handshake, choosing to pop the trunk instead. He placed his cardboard box inside, and then she opened the back passenger-side door for him.

“Do you mind if I sit up front? The back feels like being in a police car or something.”

“Sure, of course.”

As she put the car in gear, she felt his eyes on her. “I thought Linda Moreland was representing me.” He sounded disappointed, but, still, his face did not change.

“She is.” Last week, Carrie was billing her time out at three hundred dollars an hour to Fortune 500 companies. Now this guy was getting her services for free, and managed to sound disappointed about it. “Linda will be arriving tomorrow. Unless you’d prefer to go back to your cell, I’m afraid I’m your contact person for now.”

“Sorry if that was rude. I’ve been—well, you know where I’ve been, since I was about your age. That’s a long time. Guess I lost my manners.”

“It’s fine, Mr. Amaro. You just need to put your seatbelt on, and we’ll get you out of here.”

She watched as he instinctively reached for the right side of his waist before fumbling with the shoulder strap and securing it. He didn’t speak again until they pulled onto the long road leading back to the highway. “They tell you when you go in on an LWOP that it’s a living death, but it took about seven years to sink in. For my brain to get around the idea that I was never getting out. Ever. No matter what. No words to describe that kind of hopelessness. It’s like someone put you in the middle of the ocean on a dinghy, and you’re just waiting to die. But here I am. From the yard, you’d never know how beautiful this place was, just a few feet away.” He rolled down the window and stuck his head out like a dog.

“Well, you’ll get plenty more of this scenery. We’re putting you in a motel pretty far out of town. Ms. Moreland wants you to have some privacy.”

“The scenery in here is pretty good, too, if you don’t mind me saying. You’re very attractive, Miss—”

“Blank.”

He pulled his head back into the car. “You’re not related to Donna Blank, are you?”

Carrie felt her pulse quicken at the sound of her sister’s name escaping his lips. “I’m from upstate, so I think we do share a bloodline somewhere in the past.”

“But you’re—what? Japanese or something?”

“Really, it doesn’t matter, Mr. Amaro. Let’s just focus on getting you settled in somewhere until Linda arrives, and then we’ll be working on your case.”

“Sure, sorry. Just been inside for a lot of years. I’ll never forget the names and faces of those poor girls. It’s like, on the one hand, you got to feel sorry for what happened to them. But then there’s an anger, too. Like somehow it’s their fault you’re locked up for something you didn’t do. I know it’s not really, but—anyway, I know those six names and faces. You look like her in a way. Prettier, though, maybe because of your racial mix or whatever. Sorry for commenting.”

“Really, it’s okay.” She saw the bright sun behind them flash on the windshield of an approaching car. “Get down!” On instinct, she reached her right hand to Amaro’s shoulder and pushed him forward. He followed her instructions and crouched low in his seat.

“Sorry about that,” she said, once the BMW passed them. “You’ve been released on the Deborah Garner case, but the Utica police could still try to arrest you for the other victims. We want to keep you out of sight for now, just to be safe.”

He shifted in his seat. “I haven’t had a woman touch me in almost twenty years. And certainly not one as pretty as you.”

She looked at the GPS, already programmed for the motel she had selected to suit Linda’s instructions. Twenty minutes left, driving alone, in the country, with Anthony Amaro.

E
llie and Rogan pulled up to the back gate, where most prisons processed releases. Ellie hopped out of the passenger’s seat and waved down a guard walking the perimeter.

“You happen to know when Anthony Amaro’s getting cut loose?” she asked.

“He pulled out of here, probably ten minutes ago.”

“He’s
gone
?” She looked back toward the road, wondering if they might find him hitchhiking on the main road.

“Yeah, got into a white Malibu with an Oriental lady. You just missed him.”

T
he headquarters of the Utica Police Department looked a lot like Ellie’s junior high school. Two floors. Blond brick. Occupied a quarter of a block. Most NYPD precinct houses were twice the size. Rogan reached for the front door, then paused. “You know this is going to blow, right?”

“As in vuvuzela-levels of blowing. Come on, Double J, let’s get it over with.”

They made their way to a desk sergeant at the front counter. Rogan explained they were from the NYPD and were hoping to talk to someone about Anthony Amaro.

“Yeah, sure. Let me find him.”

Now that they were here, they both realized how bad this was going to look to local police. They had come here—to their jurisdiction, from New York City, to talk to a witness who might know something about five women who died right here, in this city—and hadn’t bothered to make a courtesy call to the UPD. Now, to top it off, Amaro had been released, just outside their town, because of mistakes made by the NYPD.

Ellie knew Rogan had been holding back his thoughts, so she decided to express them for him. “I know. Max should have looped in Utica law enforcement, even before putting together a fresh-look team.” She could see the failure as yet another signature Martin Overton move: avoid accusations that he’s covering for the past by starting with a completely fresh slate. But as a result, she and Rogan were now in someone else’s jurisdiction, in need of help they should have asked for a week ago. And as much as she wanted to blame the elected DA’s political motivations, she knew for a fact that Max, all too happy for the career advancement, hadn’t pushed back against his boss one bit.

“Too late now,” he said. “How are we playing this?”

“We’ll just have to tell them we’ve been moving nonstop. The DNA evidence. Helen Brunswick. Dealing with Linda Moreland. Rushing to Five Points. Hell, one look at you and those I-can’t-sleep-in-a-hotel bags under your eyes, they’ll know the pace we’ve been keeping.”

“Please, on my worst day I’m still the finest man you’ll find around this joint. You and I both know that coming here to talk to Amaro’s old cellmate without going through UPD was a dis. We’ve been treating them like yokels.”

A phone call would have been standard operating procedure if they hadn’t deeply believed that UPD had basically closed up shop on the Amaro investigation.

“Maybe,” she said. “But think of it this way: the fact that UPD hasn’t contacted Max—despite all the news coverage of Amaro’s petition for release—pretty much confirms that our instincts were right.”

Rogan shushed her as the door next to the desk sergeant opened.

The man who walked out was probably in his late fifties but was trim and fit, his white hair and a few wrinkles around his eyes the only signs of age. “Detectives, I’m Will Sullivan. You’re here about Anthony Amaro?”

“Have you heard from anyone in your DA’s office yet?” Rogan asked. “There have been some developments this morning down in the city.”

“Nope. We knew he was asking to be released, but have been assuming it’s just a lot of talk. That case was solved years ago.”

“Well,” Rogan said, “that’s the tricky part. His lawyers have attacked the most critical pieces of evidence against him—the eyewitness, the confession. It all started when a woman was killed in Brooklyn three months ago. Turns out the killer broke her limbs, postmortem. Then someone—we still don’t know who—mailed letters to both Amaro and the DA, saying Amaro’s innocent and the real killer’s active again. Plus, the crime lab found new DNA evidence on one of the victims, and it doesn’t belong to Amaro.”

“Which victim?” The detective was twisting a red plastic coffee stirrer in his hands. One edge of it was flattened by teethmarks. Ellie thought of her own telltale way of holding a pen between her index and middle fingers. Will Sullivan was an ex-smoker.

“Donna Blank,” Rogan said.

He nodded. “But he wasn’t even convicted of killing her. It should still be fine, right?”