“No.”
Novak shut his file as his expression radiated frustration. “The media is going to love this one.”
“He’s right,” Ricker said.
“Ricker, when did you worry about the press?” Adler asked.
Early in their careers, they’d had this conversation several times over a beer. What came first, the case or the career? Neither wanted to be the guy who put politics above a case.
Annoyed, Ricker shoved his hand in his pocket. “If Hayward can’t hold up his end, I’m going to make it my personal mission to bury him.”
“You’ll have to get in line behind me,” Adler said.
A muscle pulsed in Ricker’s jaw. “And Kaitlin Roe can be present if she stays behind the yellow crime scene tape.”
“Understood.”
“I’ll call Blackstone and work out the details,” Ricker said.
Adler left Ricker and Novak, knowing this was a fragile victory. If Hayward were manipulating them, this was going to cost him political capital that he’d planned to use to help Logan. Not to mention, it would cost Ricker more, who’d stuck his neck out for him.
Quinn came up on his flank as he moved through the bullpen. When she read his expression she smiled. “So, it’s still Let’s Make a Deal?”
“It is.”
“Good.”
He checked his watch. “Saint Mathew’s is having an alumni fund-raiser starting right about now.”
“And we care why?”
“Because Blackstone is supposed to be there.”
“It won’t look too good if we just show up.”
“If an alumnus shows, it wouldn’t raise a brow.”
She cocked her head. “Well, my mama and daddy couldn’t afford private school.”
He shrugged. “Mine could.”
“You’re a Saint M.’s kid?”
“I am.”
She laughed as she followed him to his car. “Jesus, Adler. You always gave off the rich-boy vibe, but I figured it was an act.”
He slid behind the wheel. “Maybe you’ll make some new friends.”
She clicked her seat belt. “Not likely.”
It took less than twenty minutes to drive to the school and find street parking a block away.
Out of the car, Quinn tugged up the collar of her shirt. “Do I look preppy enough?”
“You’re a natural.”
The parking lot was already full, and he could hear Irish music drifting from the sculpture garden. He dreaded events like this. His parents had dragged him to his fair share.
He adjusted his tie and buttoned his jacket, and they climbed the front steps and strode toward a table.
His grin froze when he recognized his ex-wife sitting at the table. Their divorce had been her idea, but he hadn’t contested it. She’d thought she was marrying a future governor or senator, not a career cop. “Veronica.”
Her smile instantly warmed and she rose, touching her now-pregnant belly with her left hand, which sported a diamond-studded wedding band. “John, how are you?”
He thought about all the times they’d talked about having children. When the time came to get pregnant, she’d asked him about leaving the police department and starting a “real” career. He’d found a reason not to quit, and she’d found a reason not to get pregnant. This went on for several years until a year ago, when she’d asked him for a divorce. “I’m great. How are you?”
She laughed. “I’m married.”
“Congratulations. When’s the baby due?”
Her smile turned extra bright. “Less than a month.”
Their divorce had been final seven months ago. “I wish you the best.”
Quinn stuck out her hand. “I’m Detective Quinn, his partner.”
Veronica smiled. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d make it today,” Veronica said to Adler.
“I thought I’d drop by.”
Quinn filled out a name tag for herself and him. He peeled off the back of the tag and affixed it to his coat.
“Good seeing you, Veronica.”
More people approached the table, providing them with a smooth exit.
“You look pretty cool about seeing your ex-wife,” Quinn said.
“I am.”
“Not that it’s my business, but how long were you two married?”
“Ten years.”
“Long time.”
“Yes, it was.” Seeing Veronica and this school reminded him of the life he didn’t recognize anymore. They walked down the hall and stepped out the side door into the garden. At least thirty well-dressed people had gathered for the celebration. He scanned the crowd, easily spotting Blackstone.
“My high school reunions aren’t this nice,” Quinn said. “Best we got is a rented back room in a restaurant.”
Seeing an opening, Adler motioned to Quinn, and they moved toward Blackstone, whose back was turned.
“Blackstone,” Adler said.
The attorney turned, and the smile anchored in place didn’t flinch. He extended his hand. “Detectives.”
Adler matched Blackstone’s firm grip. “I’m not wearing that hat now. I’m an alumnus.”
“I’d heard something about that.”
Adler hesitated a beat and released his hold. The attorney kept files on his opponents, and Adler imagined if he wasn’t on Blackstone’s list, he would be soon. “I hear Hayward came around the school often after he dropped out of college.”
Blackstone adjusted a gold cuff link. “I thought this wasn’t about work.”
His smile widened. “I’m talking about a fellow alumnus visiting his old school.”
Blackstone sipped his wine and grinned. “Right.”
“What does Hayward have on you? A professional like you doesn’t stick with a guy who’s career poison.”
Blackstone didn’t blink. “I value friendship much like you do. I hear you’re helping out a fellow cop injured in the line of duty.”
Adler felt Quinn’s gaze shift to him. “My guy’s not a drug-addicted murderer.”
Dark eyes hardened. “True friendship isn’t always easy or convenient.”
“Or maybe he has something on you.” Adler studied his expression carefully. Blackstone was a master at hiding emotions, but a subtle tension tightening the edges of his smile tipped his hand. “Something that you just don’t want the world to know about.”
Blackstone looked relaxed, like the poker player holding all aces. “You’re reading more into this than you should.”
Adler smiled as Blackstone turned and walked toward the dais. He would figure out whatever else Hayward was hiding and nail him.
“I’ve seen enough,” Quinn said.
Blackstone’s deep voice followed them through the garden and through a side entrance. As Adler strode out of the school, his phone dinged with a text from Novak. He halted midstride when he read it. Shit.
Kaitlin Roe has been stabbed.
INTERVIEW FILE #12
A RELUCTANT SAVIOR—JACK HUDSON
Thursday, March 1, 2018; 1:00 p.m.
When I explain the purpose of my podcast to Jack Hudson, he’s reluctant to talk to me, even though it’s been fourteen years since I showed up on his doorstep drunk, terrified, and begging him to call 911. It’s hard to blame him. My unexpected arrival propelled him into the spotlight and all the crap that comes with it.
Mr. Hudson is now in his late sixties, but he remains lean and fit. We sit at his kitchen table beside a large window that overlooks the bare trees and the river. “As soon as you said your name, I knew who you were. The media was camped out in front of my house for weeks. I hated that. I caught a few looking in my windows, and one went through the mail in my mailbox.”
The blunt assessment feels like an accusation. But atonement isn’t easy.
“I am sorry.” Silence lingers. He doesn’t accept my apology. “Can you tell me what you remember?”
He huffs out a breath. “It was a warm night. High humidity. I had gone to bed early. You woke me up out of a dead sleep. Startled the hell out of me.”
“Did you hear anything before I showed up?”
“As I told the cops, I went to bed early. I didn’t hear anything.”
Looking out his window, I can hear the rapids. How did he not hear me scream? “Do you remember Gina?”
“Sure. She was a sweet kid. I’d watched her grow up. She shouldn’t have died so young.” His cat jumps up on the table, and he strokes her head before gently placing her on the floor. “She wouldn’t have died if any one of the girls had shown any common sense.”