Mary set down the resume and picked up Graham Madden’s. Madden worked in general litigation at Hamptons Holdings, LLC, a financial services company in Southampton, N.Y. He had gone to Harvard undergrad and Penn Law, where he was a Legal Writing Instructor. He had grown up in Hempstead, on Long Island, and worked summers at small firms in New York. Mary couldn’t imagine Machiavelli having any entrée there. Madden’s interest was “surfing in Montauk,” so there was no connection to Machiavelli.
Mary sighed to herself, picking up the last resume, Steve McManus, the applicant John had interviewed. McManus wasn’t from Philly, having grown up in Chicagoland, and had worked summers at Mayer Platt Brown, one of the best law firms in Chicago. His personal interest was robotics, and he worked in general litigation at AI-Intelligence, a robotics company in Cheltenham, with a headquarters in Oak Park. McManus graduated from Temple Law School with honors and the University of Michigan with a degree in engineering.
Mary set the papers down and eyed her laptop screen, but didn’t bother to search online again. She had searched on Philly and Pennsylvania Bar Associations meetings, as well as Chicago and New York, trying to see if there were any board memberships in common, or even cocktail parties, CLE conferences, or other meetings, but nothing had panned out. She had taken a stab at geographical similarity, but there was none. Machiavelli lived in a townhouse in South Philly, Battle lived in an apartment in Wayne, Madden lived in Brooklyn, and McManus lived in an apartment in Cherry Hill.
Mary eyed the laptop screen as it went black, racking her brain. She had even looked on the applicants’ social media, but there was no connection to Machiavelli, and she supposed that there could be a random way they could have met, like a train or a plane, but she had no way of knowing. And she had to admit to herself that she didn’t know why the plaintiffs would agree to front for Machiavelli, unless he was paying them a fortune, but they didn’t seem to need the money.
Her gaze fell on the notes that John had written during his interview of Steve McManus. John had taken about a paragraph’s worth, handwritten on a legal pad, and it wrenched her chest to see his characteristically neat handwriting. He had noted “careful, logical thinker,” “would impress clients,” “ease with math and numbers, could be a plus on London Technologies,” and “serious-minded.” None of it gave Mary any clues as to how McManus could be connected to Machiavelli, and it made her sad all over again to think that John was gone.
Her office felt a shade darker and a bit cooler, and the sun had dropped behind the buildings. Her phone was lying up on her desk, and she pressed the screen to see that it was 6:13. Judy would be winding up her long, sad day, going to pick up William and buy him a suit for the funeral.
Mary felt her mood spiral downward, not only frustration at not being able to connect Machiavelli to the plaintiffs, but that so much was up in the air about John’s murder. She feared that Judy was still under suspicion, even though the lead on Shanahan was a good one. She picked up the phone and speed-dialed Judy, who picked up after a moment. “Honey, how are you?”
“Hanging in,” Judy answered, her tone cheery, so Mary guessed that William was within earshot.
“Did you get William?”
“Yes.”
“Good. How’s he doing?”
“He’s sad, but he’s okay.”
“Did Shanahan say anything to you?”
“No.”
“Have the police been out there?”
“No. Listen, I’m at the Loew’s hotel. I realized I can’t come back to your house with William.”
“Why not?”
“Your steps are a problem with his wheelchair. Same with my apartment. I should’ve thought about it before. The hotel has handicap access and a bathroom he can use, too.”
“Oh, right.” Mary realized again that the world needed to do better to accommodate the handicapped. Progress was being made, but not nearly fast enough. “Do you want me to come help you?”
“No, and I stopped by your house and got the dog, too. The hotel is dog-friendly.”
“How did you get into my house?”
“I have a key, remember? So we’re going to check in and chill.”
“Order room service,” Mary said, trying to cheer her up, but she knew it was useless. “Isn’t there anything left I can help you with? Did you make the arrangements for the funeral service?”
“I think I got it in control, and Marshall helped. I sent out an email about the memorial service to his friends. His aunt and uncle are flying in tonight and I’m going to book them a room too. And I made a phone call to make sure, and John was, well, um, taken care of today.”
“Oh.” Mary knew that Judy meant that John’s body had been cremated. Her heart went out to her best friend, who had to be in agony right now. “You sure you don’t need help?”
“I’m fine. You know, I’m rethinking our theory about Shanahan.” Judy lowered her voice. “It’s hard to believe he did it.”
“You mean killed John? Why?”
“Seeing him out there today, he was helping everybody get dinner ready. And he really did seem genuinely sad for William. Maybe Shanahan’s not the nicest guy, and he may have anger issues, but is he a murderer?”
“Just because he’s nice sometimes doesn’t mean he’s not a murderer.”
“And I don’t know if it’s enough motive. Even if John had filed that complaint with DHS, Shanahan wouldn’t have been severely penalized. There’s no jail time, there’s not even a fine. He’d just get fired.”
“So? Losing your job matters, and he’d be blackballed in the business.”
“I know,” Judy sounded uncertain. “But as a motive for murder?”
“We don’t know what else Shanahan has to hide. Maybe there’s more in his past. Other crimes, maybe under an alias, anything. It could be anything. Killing John would have headed off any investigation into him.”
“I just feel like we’re missing something. Anyway I can’t talk now. Meet me there at nine fifteen tomorrow morning, would you? The service is at ten o’clock. Love you.”
“Sure. Love you too. Call if you need anything.”
“Will do, bye.” Judy hung up, and Mary pressed End, setting the phone down and mulling it over. She wondered if Judy was right that Shanahan wasn’t John’s killer. Maybe it had been a burglar. Or maybe they were missing something, because Mary had to acknowledge to herself that as soon as Judy had said those words, they had struck a chord.
I’m missing something.
Mary eyed the computer screen without really seeing anything. She felt unsettled and uneasy at her very core, like a gut instinct that she was ignoring. Maybe she was missing something, but the only thing that she could see that they would be missing was Machiavelli.
Which was when it struck her.
“DiNunzio, did you hear me?”
Startled, Mary looked up to see Bennie standing in the threshold to her office, a grim look on her face. Her heavy briefcase and purse hung from shoulder straps, and stray blonde curls escaped her topknot. The blue of her eyes seemed diluted, and the lines in her face more prominent than Mary had seen before.
“Oh, hi, Bennie. I didn’t see you there.” Mary set down her phone. “That was Judy, and she has William.”
“Good.” Bennie motioned Mary up. “DiNunzio, come on. Time to go. I’ll walk you out.”
“I can’t go yet. I want to keep looking for a connection between the plaintiffs and Machiavelli.”
“There isn’t one, except that he’s their lawyer.” Bennie’s dry lips made a flat line. “Anne and Lou have gone home. You and I are the last ones here.”
“Bennie, can you sit down for a minute? I just got an idea I want to try it out on you.”
“Okay.” Bennie set her bags on the floor and eased into the chair opposite Mary’s desk. “What idea?”
“What if Machiavelli killed John?”
Bennie recoiled, frowning. “What are you talking about?”
“Let me just think out loud with you. I think that Machiavelli has been trying to destroy this law firm. And so far, he’s certainly hurting our reputation. We didn’t get Nutrex and we almost lost London Technologies.”
“O-kay,” Bennie said slowly.
“We know that Machiavelli is behind the reverse-discrimination complaint because he’s the opposing counsel, whether or not I can prove that he manufactured the lawsuit. And by the way, I know he manufactured it. I can feel it in my bones.”