Susan exhales, waits for a minute before saying anything. “Is this the only thing that has you so on edge? Or is there more? Is it the firm’s financial problems? Things at home?”
Though I’ve not gone into any great detail, I’ve confided to Susan that things between Piper and me could be better.
“None of that helps,” I say. “But, look, the firm’s been short of cash before, and we’ve gotten through it. And Piper and I . . .” I shrug. “What can I say? It is what it is.”
“So it’s just the case, then?”
I nod.
“And you’re going to handle it the way Marcie told you? Whatever it takes?”
“Whatever it takes. That’s exactly how it’s going to be. How it has to be.”
Susan studies me, then stands and pats me on the shoulder. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she says. “For everyone’s sake.”
“So do I,” I answer.
For everyone’s sake.
It’s 7:30 p.m., and I’m alone in the office except for the cleaning lady, who’s finishing up our suite. My phone rings. It’s the night-shift security guard, calling from the front desk. “I have a visitor—Mr. Hanson. Is it okay to send him up?”
A minute later, I hear the elevator door ding and see David turn the corner, walk down the hall. He’s wearing an Italian black-leather jacket that likely cost as much as I make in a month. His jacket hangs over a light-blue, herringbone, button-down shirt that David probably had made in London. His wool trousers are sharply pleated and break perfectly over his shoes. I remember David telling me once that he had all his dress shoes made for him in Argentina, that he flew down once a year to meet his shoemaker, pick out the leathers, have his feet remeasured.
David’s face shows me he’s still basking in his victory at the gag-order hearing. He’s all smiles. He won’t be for long.
I open the door for David, shake his hand perfunctorily. I offer few words. All business. I lead David into my office, close the door, and lock it. David sits on one of the chairs across from my desk. He’s sensed my tension.
“Is everything all right? With the case?”
“Turn your chair around,” I say. “I have to show you something.” David turns his chair so he’s facing the large TV screen, which is linked with my computer. I pull the DVD out of its plastic container, slide it into the computer.
Five minutes later, David is slumped in the chair, his expression that of a man standing before a firing squad. It is so quiet now that I can hear the second hand of my watch. I let it tick for a full minute.
“I didn’t do it, Mick. I didn’t kill Jennifer.”
I stare at David, wait a beat. “Sure you didn’t—just like you never went to her house that day. That is what you told me, right?”
David lowers his head, closes his eyes. More time passes. “I’m sorry for lying to you. But she was dead when I got there. I swear it.”
“Then why didn’t you call the police?”
“I froze. I panicked. I thought about calling the police; I really did. But I knew it would all come out. I was on the verge of some big things with the company. A scandal would have ruined it. Years of work down the drain.”
Years of plotting and scheming, I think.
“So you just left her there, a woman you’d been intimate with who-knows-how-many times? Someone you laughed with, played with, maybe even bared your soul to? You left her lying on the basement steps?”
David closes his eyes again. “It was an awful thing to do. A cowardly thing. If I could go back, do it again, I’d call the authorities.”
“Why go back at all, if you knew what was in there? Why expose yourself to getting caught in the house with a body? How could you even dream that you could sanitize a crime scene so well that the CSU guys wouldn’t pick anything up?”
David’s jaw tightens. I get the impression he’s asked himself the same question a hundred times. “It was a stupid thing to do,” he says. “Idiotic.” We sit for a minute as David stews. Then he considers what he’s seen on the tape and asks, “Was I the only one on the video?”
“Yes,” I answer. A lie. I can’t tell David who else was on the original video, which I edited down to the much shorter version that I just shared with David.
David clenches his jaw. “Fucking Devlin Walker must be dancing in the streets over this.”
“Devlin Walker has no idea this video exists,” I say. “And it’s my intention to keep it that way.”
David is puzzled.
I answer him before he asks. “This tape was delivered to me as part of a blackmail attempt.”
“Blackmail?” David literally shouts the word, and I almost laugh out loud at his indignation. After everything he’s done, he’s upset at mere extortion? David steams for a few seconds, until his practical side kicks in. “Who? How much?”
“It’s better you not know who,” I say. “As for how much . . .” I tell David the figure, and he shouts again.
“No way! That’s insane. I want to know who’s behind this.”
I sit calmly, my elbows and forearms on my desk, hands together. “I’m not sharing that with you. And as for ‘insane,’ I think it would be crazy of you not to pay.”
“Let Walker have the video. I’m not afraid of what’s on it. I’ll explain to the jury that Jennifer was dead when I got there, and you’ll argue that someone else killed her before I arrived.”
“Was she dead when you first got there? Or only by the time you left?”
“Fuck you, Mick! Fuck you. I did not kill Jennifer. I told you—”
“You told me a lot of things!” Now it’s my turn to yell. I shoot out of my seat, point my finger at David. “You told me you weren’t at Jennifer’s house anywhere near the time of murder, and that was a lie. You told me you’d only been seeing her a few weeks, and that was a lie. And you’ve been feeding me and my staff that fairy tale about spending the whole afternoon taking a thirteen-mile walk in your suit and custom-made shoes. So stop telling me you didn’t kill that woman and insisting that I believe you. I’m not accepting anything you say at face value anymore. As a matter of principle.”
David’s face is purple now. The veins in his temples are throbbing. His teeth are showing. Something flashes across his eyes. Glee, a cruel glee, is what I see. David is itching to tell me something. But he pulls back. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then another. He sits down, puts his elbows on the chair arms, steeples his fingertips. I use the pause in our fight to remove the DVD from the computer, walk it to my wall safe, lock it inside. Then I return to my chair and address my antagonist in as calm a voice as possible.
“I’m going out on a limb here. It’s against everything I believe in to give you this advice. It’s unethical—in fact, illegal—for me to say this, but here it is. You have no choice. You must pay the money.”