Sasha McCandless 03 - Irretrievably Broken (15 page)

Fred piped up again. “On the other hand, what harm would it do to tell her about the pictures and allow her to decide for herself what steps, if any, she thinks it prudent to take for her own protection?”

“I agree,” John said, immediately.

Cinco rubbed his eyes.
It figured.
He was going to have to break the tie. The others watched him and waited to hear what he would say.

So much responsibility. Always. He gulped his drink and thought.

Finally, he said, “We do nothing. Our duty is to the firm and its current members. Martine is a bright woman. Surely, she’ll realize it’s a bit odd that her two closest friends at the firm were murdered within days of each other. With regard to Sasha, she’s purportedly competent, and, I’ll remind you, she told us in no uncertain terms not to micromanage her case.”

He was pleased to hear the firmness in his own voice. He didn’t want to engage in endless debate that would require him to reveal that he’d destroyed the photographs. As much as he knew they would all secretly agree that had been the best course of action, he also knew they would feel compelled to posture and wring their hands over whether it had been the
right
thing to do.

He drained his glass and set it on the table with a thud. No one spoke for a moment, and then Fred cleared his throat.

“Now, let me see if I have this straight,” Fred began, and Cinco recognized his
I’m just a regular guy trying to make sense of all this mumbo jumbo
routine. Fred spread his hands wide and continued, “We’re
not
gonna tell Martine someone wants to kill her. We’re
not
gonna tell Sasha that someone has been in touch with us, and, given that he seems to have killed
both
Clarissa and Ellen, it sure as shootin’ isn’t her client. In short, we’re gonna close our eyes and hope this just goes away?”

Marco leaned forward and looked hard at Fred. “Not at all. I think what Cinco’s saying—and he can correct me, if I’m wrong—is that it would be irresponsible for us to share the limited information we do have with Martine or, for that matter, Sasha. The only purpose that would serve would be to frighten Martine and, unless we’re willing to share those photographs, frustrate Sasha.”

“Correct,” Cinco said. Before Fred could open his mouth again, he went on. “Of course, the firm will continue to investigate. If we can determine with some degree of certainty who’s behind this, then, yes, we’ll speak to Martine and Sasha.”

“And the authorities, I should hope,” John chimed in.

Kevin held up a hand. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We do have a duty to the firm not to embroil it in a murder investigation.”

“That’s quite right,” Marco said. “If you recall, that’s why we reached out to Sasha in the first place. We can’t directly
do
anything; we need an outsider we can have do things for us.” He paused and glared around the table. “Of course, as it turns out, you were all wrong about our ability to turn her head with a few hundred thousand dollars, so we have no way to control her anyway. But, for better or for worse, we do nothing.”

“Unless doing nothing rises to the level of interfering with justice,” John interjected.

Fred and John shared a look.

Cinco could tell they were about to start up again with their argument about concealing evidence of a crime. A nice buzz from the scotch was starting to kick in. Cinco wanted to savor that warm feeling—ideally, in the arms of his wife; he did not want to engage in another round of strategizing with the brain trust.

“I think we’ve reached an agreement for now. I’ll have Sam Davis dig a little deeper into Vickers’s past and we can reconvene if and when something else changes.”

He pushed back his chair and stood up quickly before anyone could object; he wobbled a little but righted himself. The others downed their drinks and followed suit.

CHAPTER 28

Rich sat in his car and stared up at the massive stone building. It stared back at him with its thick glass eyes, two blocks of light peering out from the dark facade. He’d never been to the Pittsburgh Bureau of Police Headquarters before. It looked like a Transformer, with the two slanted pieces jutting up from the roof. It looked like a place you wouldn’t want to walk into under any circumstances. Especially not these circumstances.

He swallowed. There was no way around it. Andy had called the detective and told him Rich was coming. They were expecting him.

In books and movies, killers got a twisted, delicious thrill out of interacting with the authorities who were investigating their crimes. Not him. Bile burned his throat, and his hands shook. He exhaled, slow and long. Then he picked up the manila envelope addressed to Detective Gilbert from the seat beside him and pushed open the driver’s door.

As he closed it, his eyes fell on the other envelope, the one addressed to that lawyer lady, and his stomach tightened.

He’d checked her out on Google to get her office address and had skimmed the page of hits. She was a former Prescott & Talbott attorney. As if that weren’t bad enough, according to some profile piece in the newspaper, she had singlehandedly prevented a plane crash and solved the murder of a judge—all within the past year. She was the
last
person he wanted to see with a copy of the pictures. He imagined someone like her could screw up his plans for Martine if she stuck her nose into things. He didn’t want that to happen, especially not after the Clarissa disaster.

He shook his head. That wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t known she was pregnant. It had all worked out, though. Just not according to his plan. The final act, Martine, had to proceed flawlessly, though.

He leaned in, grabbed the second envelope, and then pulled the door shut.

As Rich walked through the parking lot and neared the building, his entire body flushed; he was hot, dizzy, and lightheaded. He mumbled his name and Gilbert’s to the uniformed woman at the front desk, struggling to stay on his feet and appear normal. His heart thudded in his chest as she called ahead to Gilbert to announce him.

She returned the phone to its base and pointed Rich to an elevator bank, rattling off directions in a rapid monotone. He couldn’t make out what she said; his ears felt like they were full of water and his pounding pulse drowned out her words.

He squinted at the bright overhead lights and tried to remember which floor she’d told him to go to. He couldn’t think through the ringing in his ears. He leaned against the wall and slowed his breathing. He could feel the woman at the desk watching him.

The elevator bell dinged and the doors opened. A distinguished-looking black man stepped off the car and nodded toward him. Rich recognized him from the news footage.

“You from Andy Pulaski’s office?”  Detective Gilbert asked. His voice rumbled in his chest, serious and intense.

“Yes,” Rich managed to squeak.

The detective walked over. He had a long, fast stride.

Before Rich had worked out what to say next, the detective was standing beside him.

“We appreciate Mr. Pulaski’s assistance,” Gilbert said, staring at Rich’s forehead.

Rich felt the droplets of sweat gathering in his hairline.

“Warm in here, huh?” he said. He gave the detective a weak smile.

Gilbert raised a silver eyebrow. “I hadn’t noticed. Are those the pictures?”  He jerked his head toward the envelopes.

Rich looked down at his hands and immediately regretted it, as the sweat started to trickle down toward his nose. He wondered if the detective could hear the roar of his heartbeat.

“Uh, yeah. Here.”

Rich thrust both envelopes into the other man’s large hands.

“Thanks.”

Gilbert flipped to the second envelope. “Hang on, I don’t think this one is mine. Says ‘Sasha McCandless’ on it.”

“Oh, oops,” Rich said, “that’s a copy for Mr. Costopolous’s attorney. Boy, would Andy be mad if I’d left that with you.”  He held out his hand and considered adding a nervous laugh. Given how jangly his nerves were, he knew it would sound genuine, but he didn’t want to overdo it. Better to let the detective come to the idea on his own.

“His attorney?”  The eyebrow arched up again. “Mr. Costopolous has retained counsel?”

Rich winced. “Oh boy, now I’ve done it. I don’t know the details, Detective. Ms. McCandless called Andy this evening and said she represented Mr. Costopolous.”  He shrugged.

Gilbert looked down at the envelope and then at Rich’s outstretched hand. He was quiet for a moment, then he said, “Tell you what, son. I’ll see that Ms. McCandless gets this envelope.”

Rich bit the inside of his cheek to stop the smile he felt starting. “Well, if you’re sure ...”

“I’m positive. Thanks again for your assistance.”  Burton tucked both envelopes under his left armpit and stuck out his right hand.

Rich wiped his own clammy hand on his pants before taking the detective’s outstretched paw. He turned to leave, forcing himself not to run toward the door on his shaky legs.

CHAPTER 29

Sasha and Connelly stood shoulder to shoulder in her kitchen. Even though it had been almost eight o’clock by the time she’d gotten home, Leo had insisted on teaching her how to make her favorite dish.

All the ingredients for his slow-cooked short ribs had been lined up on the island when she’d walked through the door. She hadn’t had the heart to tell him that once he left for the weekend, she’d go back to her standard dinner of a Greek yogurt, with a square of dark chocolate and a beer for dessert. Instead, she’d dropped her briefcase by the stairs and tied on her striped apron.

“You want to cut the vegetables uniformly, so they’ll cook evenly,” he explained, trying to guide her hand.

She jerked the chef’s knife away. “I can cut a carrot, Connelly.”

He looked at her pile of unevenly sized carrot chunks but said nothing. He went back to trimming the short ribs.

Sasha sighed and put down the knife. “I’m sorry. I just ... I’m stressed out about these murder cases. And even though I didn’t know Ellen or Clarissa that well, I worked with them, you know? It’s just all I can think about. But, I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

Leo put down his knife, too, and searched her face. “Maybe you’re also stressed out because your boyfriend is probably going to take a job out of state and has invited you to move there with him, but you haven’t answered?  Do you think that might be part of it, too, Sasha?”

She stared down at her pathetic carrots.

“Maybe.”

He tilted her chin up. “Come with me.”

“Connelly—” she started, but he stopped her.

“Wait. Let me do this right.”

He reached into his pocket. At the same time, her cell phone rang.

She grabbed it from the island and checked the display. She didn’t recognize the number.

“Don’t take it,” Connelly said.

Sasha had already reflexively picked up the call.

As she said her name, she glanced over and saw a small black box in Connelly’s palm. Her mind began to spin.

“Ms. McCandless,” said the voice on the other end, “this is Detective Burton Gilbert with the Pittsburgh Police Homicide Squad.”

Sasha processed that fact while trying to determine if the box in Connelly’s hand was what she thought it was.

The detective continued, “I apologize for calling so late, but it’s come to my attention that you represent Nicholas Costopolous.”

He paused. Sasha knew he was waiting for her to confirm that information. Was that a
ring box
in Connelly’s hand?

“Ms. McCandless?”

“Sorry. Yes, I represent Mr. Costopolous.”

The detective’s voice grew serious. “Does he know the police have been trying to contact him?”

“I can’t discuss anything he and I have talked about, Detective, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

Connelly placed the box on the counter and pantomimed hanging up.  Sasha turned away from him and listened to Gilbert’s measured words.

“As I understand it, Counselor, you’re not an experienced criminal defense attorney, so I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt here. Your client was a person of interest, but now, thanks at least in part to his own behavior, he’s the prime suspect in the murder of his wife. The district attorney tells me we have sufficient evidence to arrest him. So, it’s your choice: he can turn himself in at headquarters within the next hour or we’ll get a warrant and issue an all-points bulletin on him. If you choose option B, I’ll also be seeking a warrant to charge
you
as an accomplice after the fact,” the detective said in a deep, serious voice.

Her stomach dropped, but she told herself he was bluffing. She hoped. She cleared her mind and tried to think like Larry, like a criminal defense attorney: pragmatic, realistic. It was hard to think at all with that little velvet box staring at her and Connelly playing charades.

“Give us ninety minutes. And I’m coming in with him,” she said.

She hung up before he could respond.

Connelly stared at her, then he said, “Tell me you’re not going out.”

She untied the apron and folded it into a neat square.

“I’m sorry, Connelly. Nick Costopolous has to turn himself in. I’m his lawyer.”

“Can’t it wait until morning?”

“No, it really can’t.”  She decided not to mention the detective’s threat to charge her if she didn’t produce Nick. It would only serve to get Connelly in a lather.

She headed up the stairs to the bathroom to wash her face and put on some fresh lipstick. Connelly followed.

He stood in the doorway to the bathroom and watched her. After she’d made the necessary repairs and checked her reflection, he opened the ring box.

“This isn’t how I wanted to do this, Sasha. But, I guess I don’t have a choice. You know I love you. I want you to come to D.C. with me.”

He took out a ring and pinched it between two fingers. The center stone shone brilliant red.

“Is that an engagement ring?” she asked.

“It is if you want it to be.”