In the Company of Liars (9 page)

“I talked to my dad later that night.”

“And did anything result from that?”

“Well, not until Mr. Dillon was dead. Then my dad and I were thinking that it might have been important, what I heard. So we told the cops.”

“Thank you, son. Your witness, Mr. Ogren.”

Roger Ogren stands and buttons his coat. He is younger, and not as heavy, as his opposing counsel. Ogren does not have a wedding band on his finger, and Allison makes the assumption that he never has. He seems the type who lives for his work, especially this work.

“My name is Roger Ogren, Richard.” The prosecutor glances at a pad of notes on the lectern. “You and I have spoken before, haven't we?”

The witness leans in to the microphone. “Yes.”

“Okay. Richard, that phone conversation you were describing? You don't know to whom Mr. Dillon was speaking, do you?”

“No.”

No one will ever know to whom Sam Dillon was talking. Sam, and others in his office, made and received several calls from the state capital that afternoon. The phone records did not identify the particular phone lines used from the offices of Dillon & Becker, nor did the phone records at the capital help much. Based on the approximate timing of the calls, they could have been made to any number of politicians or lobbyists or clients, either at the capital or in the city.

But yes, there had been a phone call from Flanagan-Maxx that day, a little after four in the afternoon. The problem is, no one can tie Richard Cook down to a particular
time—he can't say four o'clock or two-thirty—so no one can conclusively say that the conversation Richard overheard was between Sam and Walter Benjamin.

“You don't know what Sam Dillon and this other person were talking about, do you?”

“No.”

The prosecutor taps on the lectern. “Mr. Dillon was a lawyer, wasn't he?”

“Umm—yeah, I guess so.”

“He advised clients on issues.”

“You mean like going to the capital and stuff?”

“I mean,” says Ogren, “like giving advice to clients. Whether it concerns legislation or other stuff. Mr. Dillon was a lawyer who gave advice to clients.”

“I—I guess so. You mean a lawyer like you are? Like, trials and stuff?”

Roger Ogren squirms a moment. He's supposed to be asking the questions. “You don't know if he was or wasn't, is that what you're saying?”

“Yeah. I know he's a lobbyist. Other stuff, I don't know.”

“And it's possible that this is exactly what Mr. Dillon was doing on the phone, right? It's possible that he was on the phone with a client, discussing something the
client
had done wrong. He was telling the person on the other end to take the fifth, not himself. Right?”

Richard Cook does not appear to have an agenda here, and Allison can't imagine why he would. He readily concedes the point. He didn't know who Sam Dillon was talking to or what they were discussing.

“Thanks, Richard. No more questions.” Roger Ogren takes his seat triumphantly.

“No redirect,” says Ron McGaffrey. “But at this time we would submit into evidence, by stipulation, a subpoena for the decedent, Samuel Dillon, to appear before the federal grand jury in the Operation Public Trust investigation.”

“It will be admitted,” says the judge.

“And if I could simply note, Your Honor, that the date Mr. Dillon was scheduled to appear was Wednesday, February eleventh, which means that Mr. Dillon was found dead only three days before he was scheduled to testify.”

“Duly noted, Counsel,” says the judge, smirking.

Do you date immature men?” Sam asked. Not the first time they had met—she had met Sam Dillon on two occasions over the last few years. But this was the first time she had been available. This was after Thanksgiving, last year, after the veto session had been completed.

I always have in the past,
she wanted to answer but didn't. It was odd enough that Sam was a colleague of Mat's, a fellow lobbyist. She didn't need to refer to her ex-husband. That could break the sensation. Or would it? Might it add an element of danger? Intrigue?

“I haven't dated in twenty-one years,” she answered, referring to Mat anyway. It was unavoidable. Somehow she didn't care, and she felt a breath of liberation in not caring. An even greater lift because the man standing before her at the reception didn't seem to be conflicted, either.

“I could see where it might be awkward,” he said.

She could see that Sam was tipsy. The end of session, even the small veto session, usually prompted small parties,
and Sam's firm had planned this event as a holiday party. Allison had only arrived about an hour ago, on Jessica's invitation, but Sam and some of the others had clearly gotten an earlier start.

“Because my daughter works for you?” she asked.

Sam demurred. Shook his scotch, let the ice clink against the glass. His suit was a soft brown, over a crisply ironed shirt, bright red tie. He looked like a lobbyist but he didn't look—what was the word?—slick. Had an ease about him.

Allison glanced over Sam's shoulder at Jessica, who was standing among other interns her age, laughing at a joke.

“Jessica's very talented,” Sam said, avoiding the subject as Allison had, in a way. She felt a wave of disappointment, wondered if the subject had been forever changed.

Sam followed her eyes, turned his head, then returned to Allison without looking at her. He raised his glass to his mouth as he began to utter the words.

“It's probably not—”

She cut him off with her own words, surprising herself. They came out without warning, something she had never experienced before. She would have to get used to “firsts” again.

“We would need to be discreet,” she interrupted. “For the time being.”

Sam's glass was suspended at his lips. She saw a flicker in his eyes, a slight reaction at his mouth, before he shook the ice and took a drink, eyes fully focused on her.

They are back. There was a time, after the arrest and the arraignment, when the press left Allison largely to herself. It was big news, sensational stuff; then it was nothing until the trial approached—until then, on to the next salacious scandal. But since the trial began last week, they have
returned with a flourish, the news trucks lining her street, the reporters standing on the curb, hovering over the property line of her house. Cameras filming her whenever she leaves the house, which is hardly ever.

It is, in a way, a very public place to meet, but in truth it's preferable to most spots. Since February, when this started, they have followed her almost everywhere; if she wandered into a coffee shop or café downtown, the pack would be close behind, staring through windows. But for some reason, they have never followed her into a grocery store. Who knows—maybe the store manager would have expelled them. For whatever reason, the media probably found it odd to follow a woman through the aisles of a grocery store as she filled her cart.
Allison, why the scented fabric softener? Have you always used Tide? Why Folgers over Maxwell House?
The breaking news on cable television:
“We are here live at the Countryside Grocery Store on the city's northwest side. Bob, we have just received word that murder suspect Allison Pagone—hold on Bob, I'm getting something”—the reporter touches her earpiece, then nods triumphantly—“yes, Bob, we can now confirm that Allison Pagone has decided to go with the sugarless gum Trident as her breath freshener, baffling experts who had predicted cinnamon Altoids.”
The newspaper headlines:
PAGONE SPLURGES ON FRESH FRUIT
.
MURDER SUSPECT
: “
I CAN
'
T BELIEVE IT
'
S NOT BUTTER
!”

She carries a hand cart with her to the small coffee shop inside the store. She finds him there, as she has every Sunday.

“Hey there,” Larry Evans says to her. He is dressed casually as always, a button-down shirt and jeans, baseball cap.

“Hey yourself.” There is a cup of coffee, black, awaiting her. She takes a sip and receives a jolt.

Larry Evans gives her the thumbs-up. She isn't sure of the meaning but she can guess.

“Don't tell me the trial's going well,” she says to him.

“I think it is.” Larry moves in his seat with excitement. “I think you have them right where you want them.”

“Like Butch Cassidy had 'em right where he wanted 'em.”

“Allison.” Larry throws his hands up. “They say you were dumped by Sam and so you killed him? Come on. That's all they can say? That's weak.”

“The judge seems persuaded.”

“Well, sure—I mean, without any response, it might seem convincing. But you have plenty to say in response.” There is a hint of challenge in what he is saying. He has come to learn how stubborn Allison can be. “You start your defense tomorrow, right?”

“Larry.” Allison sighs. “They have so much evidence against me. Physical evidence. A motive. An alibi that blew up in my face. I have an answer for all of that? I have smoke and mirrors. My defense is one giant diversion tactic.”

The prosecution's case rested on Friday, after three days of damning evidence. It gave the news outlets the weekend to play over all of the proof implicating Allison in Sam Dillon's murder.

Larry doesn't have an answer, of course. He doesn't know how this all played out. Even Larry, the optimist, the one who has rallied to her cause, cannot explain away the evidence placing Allison at the scene of the murder, or her argument with Sam beforehand, to say nothing of the alibi fiasco.

“Testify, Allison,” he says. “Tell them what really happened.”

She smiles at him. “Larry, I want to win this case as much as you want me to win. I'm just trying to be pragmatic. Their case is solid. And I'm not going to testify, because that could just make things worse.”

“How so?”

“I can't—I really can't get into that. Suffice it to say, I can't testify.”

“You're protecting someone,” he gathers.

“I really—” Allison sighs. “I really can't go there.”

“You still haven't shown your lawyer what I wrote up for you, have you?” Larry shakes his head in frustration. “These—the prosecutors don't have a clue, Allison. Either they haven't figured out what I have or they don't want to talk about it because it hurts their case. I'm guessing the former is true. They don't know. Which means you can hammer them.”

“You know that what I tell my lawyer is off limits, Larry. That was the deal—”

“Okay, okay. I don't want to know what you tell him.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I don't get you, though. You've got a ticket and you won't punch it.”

Allison drinks her coffee and looks around at the shoppers, their happy-go-lucky lives and their silly, frivolous concerns.

“So all you're going to say in your defense,” he asks, “is that some unnamed, unknown person connected to the bribery scandal killed Sam Dillon because they were afraid he might squeal on them? That's it?”

“I think it could be convincing,” she says.

“No, you don't.” The heat comes to Larry's face. “No, you don't. You have names and you won't give them.” He drills a finger on the table. “I think you know, Allison. I think you know and you won't say. And I don't get that. I have no idea what's going on.”

Allison smiles at him weakly.

You certainly don't
, she thinks to herself. And she will never tell him.

J
ane McCoy looks over the expansive office of the FBI's special agent-in-charge for the city's field office. The desk is oak, large and polished like a military spit-shine, reflecting the ceiling lights. The carpet is blood-red. The bookshelves along the wall are immaculate, adorned with manuals and a few well-placed photographs. The guy wants to impress, he succeeded.

Irving Shiels has been the SAC for eleven years here in the city, having served overseas before that. She has always gotten along well with Shiels. There is a mystique about him in the office, something unapproachable, the strut in his stride, the cold stare of those dark eyes, but she has been able to reach him on a personal level. A lot of people get tongue-tied around a boss. McCoy, for reasons she cannot explain, is just the opposite. She imagines it's a rather solitary existence, running an office like this, and anyone in Irving Shiels's position would appreciate the occasional joke or informality, provided it doesn't cross the line. A
witty comment or personal anecdote can break the ice, and that is her forte. She remembers babbling to him on an internal elevator one day about one of her cases, an international child kidnapping case when she was new to the bureau, and realizing in retrospect that she had been doing all the talking. Shiels probably takes it for confidence, that someone like Jane McCoy could be so freewheeling around him. The truth is, McCoy is just a talker.

“The prosecution's case ended yesterday,” McCoy says. “It's everything we expected.”

“Right. Read it in the Watch. Looks bad for her.” Shiels leans back in his chair, a scowl playing on his face. He rarely lightens up, never seems to err on that side. He's the classic straight shooter. Doesn't drink, doesn't smoke. Doesn't smile, either. “So what's up next?” he asks.

McCoy shifts in her chair. “Walter Benjamin is up next. The Flanagan-Maxx government guy.”

“Right. Benjamin.”

“I'll be in the courtroom, sir. I'm sure it will be fine.”

“I saw where the daughter testified.”

“Yes, sir. Jessica was the prosecution's best witness.”

Shiels runs a hand over his mouth. “I'll bet she was. Okay.” He looks at the ceiling. “Tell me about the doctor.”

McCoy sighs. “As far as we can tell—”

“Don't tell me ‘as far as we can tell,' Agent. Tell me that we know exactly what is going to happen here.” A vein appears prominently in Shiels's forehead. He is quick to heat, at least that's what the other agents say. McCoy has never seen an eruption firsthand. But she can tell just by looking at him. His skin is damaged, broken blood vessels on his cheeks, worry lines on his forehead, a worn mask that ages him beyond his fifty-four years. He wears the authority well, but the skin doesn't lie. Stress will take its pound of flesh one way or the other.

Sure, she understands. This is a career-maker or -breaker for both of them. But Jesus Christ, Shiels knows there are
limits to their surveillance of Doctor Lomas. They can't infiltrate the lab and they can't bug his house.

“Sir,” McCoy begins again, choosing her words with care, “Doctor Lomas is going about his business as always. He has one messed-up life there, but when he's in the lab, he's going great guns. We're hearing a couple of weeks, he'll have the formula perfected.”

Shiels sighs and raises a hand, as close as he will come to an apology. “The doctor's still clucking?”

“Yes, sir,” McCoy says, her tone indicating that she is as surprised as her boss. It continues to amaze McCoy that some cocaine addicts can function indefinitely in society. They teach their classes, make their deadlines, argue their cases in court. As long as they have their breaks for the occasional fix, they can go out and do their jobs. Some of them give in, are overcome by the addiction, but the truth is, what stops many junkies is the lack of money to continue their habit. And financial resource is one of the few problems that does not plague Doctor Neil Lomas.

“What about the other problem?”

McCoy shakes her head. “He's not gambling anymore. He seems steady enough.”

Shiels seems okay with that, or maybe the momentary glazing over of his eyes is due to sleep deprivation. “What do you get,” he poses, “when you cross the murder of a lobbyist with a bribery scandal with a terrorist operation that could kill hundreds of thousands of people?”

“An ulcer?” she tries.

“Right. Yeah. Exactly.” He moves past McCoy and touches the chair by her shoulder. “And how is the loose cannon?”

Allison Pagone, he means. “Not loose at all, sir.”

“Are we sure we know everything there is to know about her, Agent?” Shiels is at his window now, looking over the downtown.

“I'm confident,” McCoy says, with a twitch to her gut.
The truth is, she
thinks
she knows all there is to know about Allison Pagone. But she has been around the block. No matter the resources you employ, there is only so much you can know about a person, especially what's inside her head.

Shiels turns and faces McCoy. “And what about the rest of her family?”

“It's covered, sir.”

“Covered.” He moves his shoe over the carpeting, drawing with his foot, as far as she can tell, a tic-tac-toe pattern. Could be a crucifix. Shiels has seen a lot in his years with the government, and the fact that this thing has him so jumpy doesn't exactly ease McCoy's mind.

“We're watching Allison,” McCoy adds.

“You were watching Sam Dillon, too.”

McCoy bows her head. A sore point, for all of them. Especially for McCoy. She will not repeat the mistake with Allison Pagone. She can't. It would mean the end of her career, first of all. Maybe not an outright termination but an unspoken demotion, a reassignment, shitty casework. And her career is the least of her concerns. She took it hard when Dillon was murdered, took it personally, even though she had never so much as spoken a word to the man.

“Just what we fucking needed,” Shiels moans, pacing the room again. “A celebrity. It's bad enough that all of this is connected. Bad enough we have the county prosecuting a murder case around all of this. Bad enough that Pagone could be telling her lawyer God knows what—”

“She doesn't
know,
sir—”

“—no, that's not enough. No,
this
case has to involve a best-selling novelist. We only have about three hundred media outlets covering this story.”

“Don't worry about Allison Pagone, sir,” says McCoy.

The special agent-in-charge looks at Jane, then sits on the edge of the desk near her.

“Agent McCoy,” he says, “we need Allison Pagone alive.”

“Yes, sir.” McCoy nods.

“This was your call, Agent.”

“Yes, it was.”

“And I backed it up to Washington. I told them Jane McCoy's the one they want in charge of this operation. I backed up everything you've done on this. You think I don't get a call from Virginia every single day on this? You know how many people think the Bureau is the wrong agency for this?”

“Sir, I won't let you down. We'll get them.”

“Good enough.” Shiels moves back to his desk, takes a seat and puts on his reading glasses. This is his way of saying
Get up, get out.

And don't screw this up.