Moment of Truth (32 page)

“Jesus H. Christ, Reg!” Walsh yelled. “You’re killin’ me here! You’re
killin’
me! What the fuck were you
thinkin’
?”

“It’s me, too, Cap,” Kovich interrupted, but Brinkley waved him into silence. He had to defend himself. It was now or never and it couldn’t get any worse.

“Cap, I’ll tell you, I’m worried that Newlin’s setting himself up. I think he’s covering for the daughter or the boyfriend, or both.”

The Cap’s eyebrows flew heavenward. “What the
fuck
is goin’ on here, Reg? I read this file, I saw the lab work! The prints, the blood work, the whole shebang. We
charged
the father. What are you
talking about
?”

“The boyfriend had some trouble in juvy and we were about to follow up on that. We found an earring back near the body that may belong to him. We were about to check his whereabouts the night of the murder.”

“You’re tellin’ me you’re runnin’ down another suspect, when you already got one in custody—
who confessed
?”

“He’s the wrong man,” Brinkley said, and the more he said it the stronger he felt.

The Cap turned to Kovich. “Stanislas. You don’t think we got the wrong man, do you?”

“I’m willin’ to check it out with Mick, Cap. I trust his judgment.” Kovich nodded, and Brinkley kept his face front. If Brinkley weren’t Brinkley he would have hugged his partner.

“That’s very touching,” the captain said. “Now what do you think?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. Brinkley is the assigned. It’s his case.”

“Christ, you people!” Walsh jumped to his feet. “Kovich, answer me! Did Newlin kill his wife or not?”

“Yes,” Kovich said, after a minute.

“Good! Now
you’re
the assigned, and that’s an order!” Walsh shouted, and both detectives looked up. The assigned was chosen by wheel; it was whoever’s number was up when the job came in. You couldn’t start mickeying with that. Most of the detectives thought it was magic or fate whose number was up when the call came.

“Cap, it was my call, and it’s my case.” Brinkley kept a civil tone, but Dwight Davis frowned and folded his arms.

“Reg, no disrespect, but you know what you’re doin’ here? Masterson’s on record saying we make no deals, the case is so airtight. I’m on record saying it’s a lock. It’s in the same goddamn paper as this story.” Davis gestured to the messy tabloid. “Then you come along and make us look like smacked asses. I gotta explain to Masterson, he’s gotta explain to the mayor, the mayor’s gotta explain to the public and the media. You know, Reg. The thighbone’s connected to the hipbone.”

“I know,” Brinkley said, only because he was in the wrong.

“I got a prelim in
Newlin
today, in case you forgot. I gotta make out a prima facie case of murder, which in this case I could have done with my eyes closed, until today. If you’re the assigned, how am I gonna put you up there? What are you gonna say? The defendant is innocent? Or is this gonna be the only case in history where the assigned does not testify at the prelim?”

Brinkley had considered it. “I’ll have it sorted out by the prelim, one way or the other. You can count on me.”

Davis raised a palm. “Not since this article. Now you’re gonna get crossed like nobody’s business. Now even DiNunzio will know what to ask you. You’re fucked, Reg. You can’t testify.”

Brinkley felt it slipping suddenly away. His case. His life. His wife. Forget the D.A.; he faced Walsh. “Cap, listen to me. I’m not about to do anything that would hurt the department.”

“You already did,” the captain said sternly. “This is the problem. You shoulda come to me before.”

Brinkley knew it wouldn’t have helped. It was just something to say later, at times like this. He couldn’t say anything that wouldn’t get him in deeper, so he didn’t say anything. He knew the way this was going, the way it had to go.

“I know you were only doin’ what you think was right, Reg, but you’re on suspension. You’re off for a week, no pay, and you’re off the Newlin case, too. I’ll take whatever heat the union gives me, grieve it if you want to, but I can’t have this, in the papers.” Walsh pointed a thick finger at Kovich. “I’d suspend you, too, if I didn’t need you at the prelim.”

Neither Brinkley nor Kovich replied, but stood up in unison without a word. Brinkley flipped open his jacket for his badge, slid his gun from his shoulder holster, and set both down on the tabloid, covering his own photo. The department was taking guns ever since a suspended cop shot his wife two months ago, and he didn’t want to make the Cap ask for it. It was bad enough.

“This should go without saying, but don’t talk to the press, Reg,” Walsh ordered. “You neither, Stan. Got it?”

“No comment,” Kovich said, with a weak smile, but Brinkley wasn’t about to make jokes.

He wasn’t about to be stopped, either.

“I need some answers about your father’s case, Paige,” Mary said, sitting on the chair across the coffee table from the young woman. A bouquet of white silk freesia in a glass vase sat atop the oak table, and the morning sun streamed through the windows, suffusing the living room with light. Mary didn’t mention that she wasn’t Jack’s lawyer anymore. It was only a sin of omission, anyway.

“So early?” Paige blinked against the brightness, dressed in her blue chenille robe and slippers. Her hair fell loose to her shoulders, in a sleepy tangle, but gray circles ringed her blue eyes. “I’m not a morning person.”

“Sorry about that.” Mary felt a momentary twinge. If Paige were pregnant, she wouldn’t be feeling so well in the mornings. She wondered if Paige had gotten an abortion, but she couldn’t be distracted now. “It’s important.”

“All right, if you say.” Paige sat before a cup of take-out coffee that Mary had brought her, for which she still hadn’t been thanked, but she found herself less bothered by Paige’s rudeness than before. Mary was seeing her differently, more fully. This was a girl who had been raised with both privilege and cruelty, and Mary felt she had less and less right to judge her. She just wanted to save her father’s life.

“By the way, you’re alone this morning, aren’t you?”

“That’s kind of personal, but yes.”

“Sorry. I wanted to make sure that Trevor wasn’t here. I thought you guys might have gone out last night,” Mary lied. Okay, so it was a sin of commission. Drastic measures were called for.

“No, he couldn’t meet me last night. He had to study.”

So Trevor had lied to her, of course. Mary would save it for later. “Here are my questions. First, I was in your old bedroom, at your parents’ house, and there’s a lot I didn’t understand.” She pulled a pen, a legal pad, and a large manila envelope from her briefcase. The envelope held the diary, which puffed out its middle in a clear, square outline. She sat the envelope with the diary down between them like bait, but didn’t refer to it. “Wonder if you can help me out.”

“Sure,” Paige said. If she noticed the puffy envelope, it didn’t show. “I can help you, but why were you in my room?”

“As defense lawyer, I have to check out the crime scene. That’s what we do, to help your father. You want to help your father, don’t you?”

“Sure, yes.”

“I figured as much.” Mary glanced at her legal pad as if there were notes there. “Let’s see, I saw your CD player and a whole bunch of CDs. How come you left that stuff?”

“I didn’t need it. I got a new one.”

“But this was a new one, and so were the CDs.”

“I wanted an even newer one.”

Mary checked the blank pad again. “Your driver’s license was in your room, too.”

“Oh? I thought I lost it.”

“But it was right in the middle of your desk. I’m surprised you didn’t see it there if you were looking for it.”

“Well, I didn’t.” Paige shifted in her plush robe. “What’s the difference?”

“Don’t get attitudinal, I was just asking. It seemed like there were lots of things in that room that you would have taken with you if you could. I got the feeling that you didn’t go back once you moved out, and you left things that mean something to you. Like your Madame Alexander dolls.”

“My dolls?”

“Yes.” Mary leaned back in the soft couch and watched Paige carefully. “I loved your collection. The doll from Africa, and from Italy. Take it from me, Italians don’t wear red and green ribbons in their hair anymore. That is so last season.”

Paige forced a smile, then her eyes fell on the manila envelope on the coffee table.

“You had the little
I
Love Lucy
set, too. Lucy and Ethel, dressed for the chocolate factory. Do they give you the chocolates or not? Bonbons not supplied?”

“Uh, no.” Paige eyed the envelope, guileless enough to betray herself. Mary could see her wanting to grab it and run.

“You have the doll in the black lace dress, with the French hat. I love that one. But my favorite was the big doll with the blue dress, from a fairy tale. Who was she? Cinderella?”

“Yes, it was Cinderella.” Paige’s eyes shifted from the envelope and met Mary’s with resignation. “So. You found my diary.”

“I did. I wasn’t looking for it, but I found it. And I know your mother was horrible to you, growing up. I know that she was mean and abusive to you. I know that she put enormous pressure on you to succeed as a model and that you thought about leaving home for years until you finally moved out. She was furious at you for that, wasn’t she? And your dad took your side, which caused even more problems than before.”

Paige’s lips parted in sad recognition.

“I know that she wouldn’t let you back into your room and that’s why everything was left behind. Everything you owned or had been given. All your stuff.”

Wetness welled in Paige’s eyes.

“I know that you two fought at the Bonner shoot. I know, too, that you’re pregnant and thinking about an abortion. How’m I doin’?” Mary slid the envelope gently across the coffee table, and Paige reached out and picked it up.

“You read my diary.” Her tone was hushed and she picked up the envelope only slowly, as if in shock.

“Open it,” Mary said, and Paige fumbled with the brass clasp, opened the manila envelope, and reached inside. The diary came out with its latch hanging apart, and the teenager started at the sight.

“You broke it!” she cried.

“No, I didn’t. Somebody else did.”

Paige opened the diary and gasped. The first page was charred from a burn at the center, as if someone had burned it with a cigarette. The charring spread almost to the end of the page, obliterating the handwriting beneath. Paige turned the page carefully. The second page was burnt the same way, gone at the center and black around the edges. The only writing still visible was blackened. She flipped the pages frantically but they began to crumble in her hand. “Oh my God,” she said, but it sounded like a moan.

“Your mother did this, didn’t she?” Mary asked, and Paige nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on the cinders where the diary’s pages used to be.

“Of course she did. She’d wanted to hurt me. She loved to hurt me. She knew I wrote in it when I was upset. She knew how much it meant to me. She must have done it when I told her I was leaving. She went crazy. Dad couldn’t stop her.” Paige looked at Mary with wet eyes. “You didn’t read my diary. You couldn’t have.”

“No, I found it that way.”

“Then how did you know everything?”

“I put it together. I tried to figure out what would make a smart little girl grow up into a very troubled young woman. You wanna tell me? I can help.”

“Tell you about my mother, how it was with us? I mean, you’ve probably heard it all before, like on Jerry Springer or something.” Page tried to smile but it quivered into a downturn. “But, you know, when bad things happen to you, it’s like they never happen to anyone else in the world, ever. Even though they do, you know?”

“Yes.” Mary thought instantly of her husband’s death. “Well put.”

“Um, you see, I think my mother, she hated me. No matter what I did, she
hated
me. I was never good enough. And you know what? I hated her. I don’t even miss her. I’m glad she’s dead. Glad. That’s the whole story, that’s all I want to say.” Paige tossed her head, her red hair falling back. “At her memorial service today, I should get up and dance around. She’s history. It’s all history. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” Her eyes welled up again, but Mary ignored the waterworks.

“I understand, but we do have to talk about the truth. You have to tell me what happened the night your mother was murdered. Because I know your father didn’t kill your mother, and I don’t want to see him convicted for a crime he didn’t commit. I have to believe that in your heart you don’t want that, either. It’s time for you to take responsibility for yourself.”