Moment of Truth (27 page)

“I’m the night shift, not the morning. But I think so.”

“What’s he look like?”

“We call him Abercrombie Boy. He’s like, right out of the catalog, you know.”

Brinkley had no idea. “No, I don’t.”

“Tall, a jock. Good-looking. A rich boy.”

“He got an earring?”

“I don’t know. Mostly I look at her.”

“You got a sign-in log?”

“Yeah, sure.” The guard went behind the desk, pulled out a large black notebook, and opened it up.

“Turn back to the page for Monday,” Brinkley asked, and the kid found the page and turned the book toward the detectives. It was a standard ledger, with signatures in a list and the time they signed in. Brinkley ran his finger down the page, stopped at the name of Paige Newlin, then jumped to the signature next to hers. Trent Reznor. “Trent Reznor, that’s his name,” Brinkley said, satisfied.

“Huh? That can’t be his name.” The guard came around and peered at the logbook. “Trent Reznor’s with Nine Inch Nails.”

“What?” Brinkley read over the guard’s shoulder, then thumbed back in time and checked every name written next to Paige Newlin’s. “Ben Folds, Thurston Moore, Gavin Rosdale,” he read aloud, and the guard took off his hat.

“Wait a minute. Ben Folds is with Ben Folds Five, Thurston Moore is with Sonic Youth. They’re all bands. None of those are real names.”

Brinkley went further backward in time, reading the log entries. “Dave Matthews, Eddie Vedder. Also rock stars, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, older ones.”

Brinkley tore through the book, checking each time he saw Paige Newlin’s name on a line. The entries went back to December of last year and each name next to hers was different, as was each line of handwriting. Some slanted forward and some back, but he never wrote in the same hand twice. Shit! “Don’t you read what these people write down?” Brinkley demanded.

“Uh, no.” The kid colored. “I mean, not usually, I guess. We just ask them to write it.”

“What’s the point then? Why have them sign it if you’re not going to check? What’re you doin’ the goddamn job for?” Brinkley raised his voice, and Kovich grabbed his arm.

“Excuse us,” he said tensely. “Me and my partner are leaving now. Thanks for your help.”

“Uh, sure,” the guard answered, shaken, as Kovich steered Brinkley to the entrance door and out onto the sidewalk. The sun was bright but the wind gusted in currents in front of the tall building. Traffic whizzed by, moving smoothly at this hour, and two well-dressed older women approached. Kovich squeezed Brinkley’s arm.

“You gotta calm down, Mick. You were screaming at the kid.”

“He’s a fuckup!” Brinkley heard himself shout, which he never did.

“He’s ten years old, for Christ’s sake!” Kovich yelled back as they squared off on the sidewalk. The two women picked up their pace past the detectives.

“Then he shouldn’t be working the job! Security is supposed to mean something.” Brinkley gestured at the women, who looked back, startled. “These people, they’re payin’ for security!”

“What do you care? You don’t live here. You’re losin’ it on this case, don’t you see!”

It only made Brinkley angrier. It was like nobody but him could see the truth. “The kid, the boyfriend, he’s hiding something, don’t
you
see?”

“No, no, you know what I see?” Kovich was shouting now, full bore. “The boyfriend is a wise-ass. A kid playin’ games. Thumbin’ his nose at authority. Who hasn’t signed a fake name for a laugh?”

“Me!”

“Well I did, plenty of times, when I was young.”

“What the fuck for?”

“For fun, Mick! For goddamn fun!”

“That’s not fun!”

“You wouldn’t know fun if it bit you in the ass, Mick. You don’t know how to laugh anymore! You’ve been an asshole ever since Sheree walked out on you!”

Brinkley was about to yell back but he stopped short, his chest heaving, as soon as it registered.

Kovich blinked behind his big aviator glasses. “Aw, shit,” he said quietly. His soft shoulders slumped.

Brinkley suddenly found it hard to swallow. Or even speak. He pivoted on his heel and walked away, ignoring the stares of passersby, so blind in anger and pain that he didn’t notice the man in the car parked at the curb, photographing the scene on the sidewalk.

Davis knew who Marc Videon was the moment he entered the divorce lawyer’s office at Tribe & Wright. Marc Videon was The Necessary Evil. Corporate law firms didn’t want their CEO clients to go elsewhere to off-load their wives, because there was a chance they wouldn’t come back, so the firms were forced to employ a Necessary Evil. Davis had encountered one in every white-shoe Philly firm, and the suspect profile was so blatant it should have been unconstitutional: The Necessary Evil was always an outsider in a bad suit, nominally a partner and compensated on a salaried basis, and invited only to those firm social functions that the messengers went to, democratic events like the Christmas Party. Meeting Videon, Davis saw that he fit the bill, with his too-wide pinstripes that fit too tight on his squat form, a slightly greasy face with small features, and unnaturally dark hair that matched a pointy black goatee.

“Sit down, please,” Videon said, seating himself. His office was as large as other Tribe partners’, but in law firms, everything was location, location, location, and Videon’s office was nowhere, stuck on the bottom floor of the firm near the duplicating department. Davis could practically feel the heat and hear the harsh
cathunka
of Xerox machines as big as oil tankers, belching paper like smoke. Nor was Davis surprised to see that Videon had only one desk, an undistinguished box of walnut veneer, with chairs and end tables that reflected only a mid-range furniture allowance.

“Thanks.” Davis introduced himself, then sat down across from Videon’s desk, which was cluttered with papers, cases, and scribbled notes. The Pennsylvania guidelines for alimony rested on the keyboard of a thick gray laptop, and Davis pulled out his legal pad. Next to him sat Art Field, the tape recorder with a law degree. Whittier had excused himself for this meeting, and Davis assumed he’d gone on to gouge the Fortune 500 in six-minute increments. “I appreciate your agreeing to meet with me on such short notice.”

“What ‘agreeing’? I’m under subpoena,
n’est-ce pas
?” Videon’s neat head swiveled to Art Field, who was clearly annoyed at being acknowledged.

“Yes,” Field answered. “There is a document subpoena as well.”

Videon smiled. “Oh, goody. I like it rough.” He ran a manicured hand through his thinning hair, which was nevertheless black as night. In fact, Davis figured that
BLACK AS NIGHT
was the name on the box. Videon had to be sixty, if he was a day. “I knew you’d come to talk to me sooner or later. Let’s start with what a shame it is about Honor Newlin.”

“It is a shame,” Davis said, seriously. He wasn’t so sure he liked The Necessary Evil, which would make sense. Evil shouldn’t have a lot of running buddies.

“Yes, of course, a shame. A terrible shame. A terrible tragedy. Have I said ‘terrible’ enough yet to convince you of my sincerity? Put otherwise, are you buying this shit?” Videon paused as if expecting an answer, but Davis didn’t give him one. “Yes, well, to the facts. Honor Newlin was in to see me on Monday. The day she was murdered. She wanted to divorce Jack.”

“Begin at the beginning.” Davis took out his pen. “What time did you see her?”

“First thing in the morning, I think. Hold on.” Videon moved the alimony guidelines aside, adjusted the laptop, and hit a few keys. Davis couldn’t read the screen because of the angle. “Honor came in at 9:30. She was late and she’d already had a drink.”

Davis made a note, hiding his surprise. He didn’t dare look over at Field. “How do you know?”

“I knew her. Besides, I offered her one, and she turned me down. She said she’d already had one. Other than that, pure guesswork.”

“What did you offer her?”

“She drank Scotch.” Videon paused, then smiled. “You disapprove.”

“Frankly, yes.”

“Have you ever been divorced, Mr. Clean?”

“Yes.”

“Good for you. Was it nasty at least?”

“Amicable.”

“Lord, what a waste.” Videon sighed. “Sorry you disapprove of my methods. I’m a divorce lawyer, son. I keep Kleenexes for the wives and Scotch for the husbands. Sometimes, there’s a crossover, for women with more bucks than estrogen.” He waved in the direction of a dark cabinet under a window that overlooked a rooftop parking lot. “You want a snoot?”

“I don’t drink.”

“I knew that,” Videon said, and laughed. “What do you do for laughs?”

“I do justice.” Davis smiled.

“Hah! I knew we had nothing in common.” Videon shifted forward in his high-backed chair. “You try to change the world, right?”

“Perhaps,” Davis answered, though he had never thought of it that way.

“Well, I try to keep it the same. The rich retain power and money. The poor try to get it and lose. You even up the odds, and I keep them out of whack, the way my clients want them.” Videon eased back in his chair, his dark eyes scrutinizing Davis. “You aren’t comfortable with my honesty.”

“I’m comfortable with what pertains to the Newlin case,” Davis answered, impatient.

“Oh, but it does. Honor Newlin walked in with all the money and she wanted to walk out with it.” Videon turned to his laptop and hit a key to scroll down. “This year I saw Honor Newlin twice, including the day she was killed. I’ll give you a copy of what I’m looking at, it’s my time records. Besides the day she was murdered, I met with her on January fourth, the first business day after the New Year. She said her New Year’s resolution was shedding Jack.”

Davis made a note. “Back up a minute. She called you, for the first appointment?”

“Yes, naturally.”

“Tell me about it.”

“The first time, she told me she wanted a divorce.”

“Did she say why?”

“She felt her marriage was moribund. Things hadn’t turned out the way she hoped. She had
l’ennui
,
la malaise
, and other French things. She was a victim of empty mansion syndrome and expected Jack to fill the void, to ascend the ranks to managing partnerdom. But he wasn’t, even with the Buxton dough. Why?” Videon glanced at Field, seeking neither permission nor approval. “They used to say Jack was too much of a nice guy. That he didn’t have the killer instinct. Hah! Perceptive,
non
?”

Field cleared his throat. “That’s quite enough, Marc.”

“I heard that Jack confessed to the police,” Videon said to Davis. “Did he?”

“I can’t comment.”

“Of course. What a perfect answer. How do they make people like you? So upright. You’re the good guy. I always wanted to meet a good guy, but I’m a divorce lawyer. Did I mention that?” Videon smiled at a joke only he knew. “As I was saying, Honor wanted the divorce, and she asked me, in our first meeting, to review her prenuptial agreement.”

“She had a prenup?”

“Do I look stupid?”

“You drafted it?”

“I’m more than just a pretty face.”

“What did it provide?”

“What else? That if they divorce, Jack gets
rien
. Nothing. Squat.”

Davis made a note. “Isn’t that a conflict? I mean, you worked with Jack, so why would she come to you for a prenup?”

“Jack asked me to draft the damn thing, and it was completely against him. Go figure. The Foundation has since become one of our most valued clients, heh heh.”

“What’s funny about that?” Davis asked, cranky, and Field looked miffed as well.

“Well, the Foundation is a private charity, as opposed to a public charity, like the Red Cross. That means there’s virtually no oversight of the billings at all. It’s even better than a corporate client because they watch the bills. The Buxton Foundation was a license to rape and plunder.”

Field gasped. “Marc! Show some judgment!”

Videon scoffed. “As if it weren’t common knowledge.”

“It isn’t,” Field said. “Please excuse my partner—”

“—he knows not what he does,” Videon supplied, but Field was visibly agitated.