Moment of Truth (23 page)

“Yeah, for some people.”

Mary glanced at the hotel dubiously. “Wonder when they’ll come out. She told us Trevor had a class at three.” She checked her watch. It was almost three o’clock now. “She lied about that.”

“Maybe she didn’t lie. Maybe she talked him out of it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re not a man. End of story.”

“Hmmm.” Mary watched the entrance, feeling torn. She wanted to see how long the two of them were there and what they did next, but she also felt guilty leaving Judy back at the office. She explained the quandary to Lou as she reached into her bag for her flip phone, dialed the office number, and left a message. “She’s not there,” she said as she slid the antenna down with a flat palm. “So I should stay, at least.”

“Stay? In this cold?”

“You go back to the office. I’ll stay here.” Suddenly Mary felt a surge of well-being. Dividing labor. Managing the case. Pushing old men around. Was this what they meant by empowerment?

“What are you gonna do here alone?”

“Watch when they come out, maybe follow them.
Surveille
them,” she answered, but Lou was looking at her, his eyes blank pools of blue in a tan, lined face. Either he didn’t understand real police lingo or resented her empowerment. “All right, Lou. You’re the cop here. Help me out. Tell me what to do.”

“I’ll stick around. See what happens.”

“Okay, good. I approve.”

“Like it matters.”

Mary smiled. “I think you enjoy our quality time.”

“I think I got nothin’ better to do. Plus I don’t want you near that kid, the boy. I don’t like him. He’s a punk.”

Mary felt her suspicions gain strength. Lou knew this stuff. “You think Trevor’s in on it?”

“I don’t know who’s in on what. To me, the jury’s out on the both of them. I don’t know enough to make any conclusions, except that for kids with a lotta class, they got no class.”

Mary didn’t disagree.

Mary and Lou watched the entrance to the Four Seasons through two cups of hot coffee, three soft pretzels, and a hot dog with sauerkraut, which she had carted from a hot dog stand in front of the Academy of Natural Science. At three-thirty, she switched to chocolate water in a white Styrofoam cup. There was still no sign of either Paige or Trevor, although Mary saw the entire partnership of Morgan, Lewis and Bockius leave a firm luncheon, laughing and talking. They’d had a good year. Again.

“Why does everybody hate lawyers?” she asked Lou, sipping lukewarm chocolate water. She kept her eyes on the hotel entrance.

“Because they can,” Lou answered. “It’s like that dog joke. You know that joke.”

“Yes, you told me that joke. The punch line is, ‘Because they can,’ right?”

“Right,” Lou said, though he didn’t remember telling Mary that joke. He would never tell a woman that joke, and even though Mary was a kid, she was still a woman. “Did I really tell you that joke?” he asked, to double-check.

“Yes,” she said, watching and sipping.

If he did, Lou regretted it.

Mary was giving Lou a pop quiz. “Do you know what the three statues in the Swann Fountain are?”

Lou squinted behind him at the still fountain. “Naked.”

“No. They’re a man, woman, and young girl.”

“Naked.”

“No!” Mary’s teeth chattered. “I mean, do you know what they represent? Besides the Newlins?”

“No clue.”

“The three rivers of Philadelphia. Can you name them?”

“The
Niña
, the
Pinta
, and the
Santa Maria
?”

“No.”

“Manny, Moe, and Jack?”

“No.”

“Moe, Larry, and Curly?”

Mary waited.

“Okay, tell me,” Lou said, after a time.

“It’s them! They’re out!” Mary leapt from the frosty bench when she saw Paige and Trevor materialize at the entrance to the Four Seasons, looking remarkably remote for a young couple that had just had sex in a coatroom. They weren’t even holding hands, a fact that Mary couldn’t help noting. “See?” she said.

“I see ’em,” Lou said, rising stiffly and shoving his hands in the pockets of his corduroys.

“No, I meant, see, she shouldn’t have had sex with him. He’s not even holding her hand.”

His eyes were trained on the hotel and he squinted against the cold. “What?”

“Forget it.”

“Look.” Lou frowned. “She’s takin’ the one cab, he’s takin’ the other.”

“Oh, no.” Mary watched as the doorman retrieved a cab for Paige and Trevor helped her into it, then waited until the next cab in line pulled up for him. “Where’s he going? His school is three blocks away. What’s he need a cab for?”

“Maybe he’s late.”

“It’ll take longer in the cab.” Mary snatched her bag from the bench. “I’ll follow him.”

“No, I will. I don’t want you near him.” Lou hustled to the curb and hailed a cab that was coming toward them down the Parkway. “You take her.”

“No, she knows what I look like.” Mary hustled in front of him at the curb and waved frantically at the cab. “I’m following him.”

“Mare, wait.” Lou grabbed her arm in protest. “Let me do it. You take her, I’ll handle him.”

“No!” Mary said, and as the cab slowed to a halt, she lunged forward to take it, flinging open the door even before the cab had stopped. “Follow her.”

“Mary, stop!” Lou kept a wrinkled hand on the door handle. “This kid could be dangerous. Don’t talk to him. Don’t get close to him.”

“I’ll be careful. I’m not Judy or Bennie. You got your lawyers mixed up.”

“Hah! You’re all trouble,” Lou called back, flagging the next cab, as Mary climbed into hers and took off.

Dwight Davis had gotten a job offer from the law firm of Tribe & Wright, so he remained uncowed by the grandeur of the place. Set at the pinnacle of a skyscraper, the firm occupied six floors, each one tastefully outfitted with light, custom furniture, giving the place a uniformly costly glow. As Tribe’s managing partner, William Whittier had the largest office, and Davis was waiting for him in it. According to his secretary, Whittier had “stepped away,” which was Tribe-speak for went to the bathroom.

Davis sat with his flowery cup of coffee and suppressed his smile at the plush surroundings. Success at law firms was no longer measured in the number of windows—with modern architecture, even first-year associates couldn’t be deprived of light and air—but in the number of desks. Second and third desks had become as important as second or third homes. Whittier had three desks; he not only ran the firm, he received the highest percentage of all fees it received. In other words, he was a major landowner, if not king.

Whittier’s main desk was a huge, glistening affair of white oak whose raison d’être was to bear a single stack of correspondence, a shiny brass ship’s clock, and a miniature walnut cabinet for a fountain pen collection. The second desk, to which Davis had been shown, was the Palm Beach house of desks, semitropical and relaxed. A large teak circle on a pedestal, it was as bare as the main desk except for a gray-green conferencing phone with footpads like a gecko. The third desk, tucked in the corner like a country home, was a computer workstation that held a slim laptop. For what it cost, Davis could hire an expert that would put some scumbag in jail for consecutive life terms, but nobody at Tribe thought that way, which was why he’d turned them down.

“You must be Dwight Davis,” Whittier boomed, appearing at the door. Bill Whittier was a lanky six-footer, wearing a gray pinstriped suit and a broad, hail-fellow grin. He was middle-aged, but crossed the room with a sloppy step that reminded Davis of an overgrown frat boy, especially when Whittier clapped the prosecutor on the shoulder. “Brother Masterson’s told me all about you,” he said, and extended a loose handshake.

“You play tennis with a grip like that?” the D.A. said.

“Hah! Very good. Squash, actually. The bar’s closer.”

“There you go.” Davis smiled. Of course. Squash. He eased back into his seat. “Thanks for your time today.”

“No problem. This matter is top priority, with me.” Whittier seated himself at the second desk opposite Davis and brushed back his pale blond hair with stubby fingernails, then twisted to the door just in time to see a second lawyer in an Italian suit coming in. “And here’s Art, right on time as usual.” The entering lawyer was thinner and shorter than Whittier, with gaunt cheeks, slick black hair, and dark eyes sharp behind eyeglass frames the size of quarters. Whittier turned back to Davis. “You won’t mind if one of my partners, Art Field, sits in.”

“Of course not, he’s welcome.” Davis had expected as much and shook Field’s hand before they both sat down. Field would function as Whittier’s counsel, to make sure the frat boy didn’t get himself or the firm in trouble. Field would also qualify as a human tape recorder, to back up whatever Whittier said he said, whether he’d said it or not. What else were partners for?

Whittier relaxed, crossing one strong leg over the other. “So tell me, how’s your boss? Keeping the bad guys locked up, I hear. We’re very proud of him, here at Tribe.”

“I’m proud to work for the man,” Davis said, wondering if Whittier was reminding him of the firm’s campaign contribution. “But if I tell him we’re proud of him, he’ll tell us to go straight to hell.”

Whittier laughed, a hearty ha-ha-ha signifying manners, not mirth. “He is a little cranky, isn’t he?”

“I try, Lord knows I try.”

Whittier ha-ha-haed again, then quieted. “Terrible news about Honor Newlin, just terrible. And Jack, of course. He was one of us, you know.”

“Yes, I do.” Davis nodded, impatient. Of course he knew Newlin worked here; that’s why he’d asked Masterson to set up the meeting. Every muscle in him strained to cut the shit, but if he did that, he’d get nothing.

“It’s a terrible tragedy, just terrible. We’re still in shock, my partners and I, and awfully conflicted. Jack’s confessed, I understand. It was reported in several of the morning papers.”

“I can’t confirm or deny that.”

“Of course.” Whittier shook his head. “All over the news. Partner at Tribe & Wright, well, just terrible. Terrible for Jack, and for the firm.” He kept shaking his head, though his wavy blond hair remained in order. “Impossible to understand, you see. Jack was such a wonderful partner. A responsible husband and father. Impossible, really.” He sighed. “As they say, who knows what goes on behind closed doors?”

“Yes,” Davis said, for lack of something better, though Whittier didn’t seem to be listening anyway. Davis couldn’t shake the impression that Whittier was no Felix Frankfurter in the legal department and had become managing partner because of politics, not brainpower. And he undoubtedly had the right connections, which was all that really mattered in administrative jobs.

“And Honor Newlin was a lovely woman, a lovely woman. One of my wife’s favorites.”

“Oh? Did you see them socially?”

“Not much.”

“How often?”

“Rarely.” Whittier eyed Davis warily. “This concerns Jack, I assume. Not me or my partners.”

“Correct,” Davis answered, instantly wishing he had said something more casual. Once a D.A., always a D.A., and now Whittier had edged away, sitting farther back in his chair.

“Now, Davis, I’m no trial lawyer, I spent my long professional life in corporate law, as you may know. But I’m not so old I’ve forgotten what a subpoena is, and I understand that I am under subpoena to talk with you today. Is that the case, sir?”

“Of course.”

“You have a subpoena with you, for the record?”

“Definitely.”

“You’ll leave it with Art before you go. I wouldn’t want to be in the position of voluntarily doing anything that could harm Jack, if you understand.”

“Understood. May I?” Davis picked up one of the blank legal pads from the table. He knew that yanking out his own pad would put Whittier on guard and the only way he could get what he needed was if nobody acknowledged what was happening. “Now, remind me, please. You are the managing partner here, and Jack Newlin headed the estates group, correct?”

“Yes, quite right.”