In the Company of Liars (29 page)

“My problem here,” Paul says, “is there's little guarantee of safety for my client. You can't predict what this man, Larry Evans, will do. You can tell us he
probably
wouldn't want to kill Allison. You can give us odds. Odds aren't a guarantee. This guy Evans will never be sure about Allison.”

“What do you want us to say, Counselor?” McCoy asks. “I acknowledge that your client is taking a risk here. She's doing it for her country. And,” she adds, “to keep her family out of jail.”

Paul shakes his head.

“Look,” McCoy says to Allison. “You studied to be an actress, right?”

“I was a theater major, yes,” Allison confirms with embarrassment.

“So—this is the role of a lifetime.”

It is, Allison realizes, a role that she has played before.
Nora Helmer
, she thinks to herself, a prisoner in her own home, underappreciated even after she saves her husband. A role that, in many ways, Allison has played her entire married life.

“Be protective of Mat and Jessica,” McCoy advises. “If anyone brings either of them up, mentions their potential involvement—whether it's this guy Evans, or Mat, or Mr. Riley here—be defensive. Insist on their innocence. Say you'll ‘never let anything happen to them.' Stuff like that. Just be sure you say it in the parts of the home where Larry Evans can hear you.”

“And you're sure he'll be listening?” Allison asks.

“As sure as I'm sitting here,” McCoy says. “Your place is bugged, Mrs. Pagone. We'll confirm that for you.”

“How are you going to confirm it? You can't very well waltz in.”

McCoy looks at her partner. Allison senses that Harrick has a thing for McCoy.

“Did you clean up your house after they searched it?” McCoy asks.

“Of course I did. Right away.”

“Okay. Here's what we'll do. I've been talking to the county prosecutors. I'll give them a reason to want to search your house again.”

“What reason?”

“I'll mention the statuette,” McCoy says. “The murder weapon. I'll tell them it was on Sam's mantel, which is true, and now it's missing, which is also true. They'll want to do another search. They'll take your place apart and
you'll need it cleaned up afterward. This time, you'll call one of those companies that specializes in that sort of thing. I'll give a name and number to Mr. Riley here, and a specific time for you to call, and it will be our guys who take that call and do the cleanup. FBI technicians. They know what they're doing. They'll confirm it. And they'll tell you where, in the house, he can hear you best.”

“Sounds like you already know,” Paul Riley says.

McCoy shrugs. “I would imagine it's the area around your telephones. Where are your phones?”

“One in my bedroom,” Allison says, “and one in my living room.”

“Okay. He'll have your phones tapped and he'll have the ability to hear around there as well. So if you want him to hear something, sit in the living room. Or the bedroom.”

“Will the FBI be eavesdropping, too?” Paul asks.

McCoy shakes her head. “We can't bug Allison's home. We can't run the risk that Evans would detect it. He's good, this guy. He has top-of-the-line industrial espionage equipment. We put something inside her house, we can't be sure he won't know about it. That would blow everything. So no, we just have to rely on our other surveillance.”

“And if they become the wiser?” Paul asks.

“They won't.” McCoy deflects her eyes.

“You mean you
hope
they won't.”

“That's what I mean, yes.” McCoy opens her hands. “I'll say it for the tenth time. She's taking a risk. We're grateful. You'll probably know what this is about someday, and you'll be a hero, Mrs. Pagone.”

“Until then,” she says, “I'm a black sheep.”

“Mrs. Pagone,” Owen Harrick chimes in, “you're only a black sheep because you wanted to be. We'd be more than happy to put this bribery scandal front and center. We'd be more than happy to feed all kinds of information on Operation Public Trust to the county attorney. Roger Ogren
would definitely take that bait, because it's an obvious motive. He might even drop the charges against you, eventually.”

“No—”

“He charged you because you fell into his lap, Mrs. Pagone. And you fell into his lap because you
wanted
to.”

“We could tell him about your daughter, too,” McCoy adds, squeezing the pressure point. “We're doing what you want us to do here.”

“No, you're right, I understand that,” Allison says. “I don't want you mentioning this to the county attorney. Nothing about Mat, nothing about Jessica. That's”—she looks at Paul, then at McCoy—“that's part of this deal, I thought.”

“It is,” McCoy assures her. “We won't say a word about Jessica. I'll handle those conversations personally with Roger Ogren. We'll keep the AUSAs off of your ex-husband, too. That won't be fun, but we'll do it.”

That won't be fun.
What McCoy means, Allison assumes, is that this thing is so top-secret that even other federal prosecutors are being kept in the dark.

A chill creeps up her spine.

“Right. Okay.” Allison takes a deep breath. “That's what I want. I'll do what you ask. I'll—I'll work with this man. Larry Evans. I'll put him at ease. But the federal government doesn't go near Mat or Jess. And if something—
happens
to me, the deal still holds.”

“Of course,” says McCoy. “That's in there, too.”

“We can't guarantee that Roger Ogren won't approach Mat on his own,” Harrick says to Paul. “There's going to be a leak or two to the papers—we agreed on that. The bribery thing is going to come out, in small amounts. Just so we're clear on all of that.”

Allison nods. It was a negotiation, over the last several days. Of paramount importance to the federal government, apparently, is that Larry Evans accomplish whatever his
plan is. And that means Larry Evans has to feel comfortable about Allison. The feds wanted to splash the bribery scandal everywhere; Allison, for Mat's sake, wanted just the opposite. They reached a middle ground. The story would leak, a little, to the papers. But there would be no hard evidence turned over to the county attorney prosecuting Allison's case. No names of specific senators. No phone records. And Special Agent Jane McCoy gave her word that she would block Roger Ogren if he got too close.

Roger Ogren probably will approach Mat at some point. But Mat will do fine on an alibi. And he can refuse to answer questions about House Bill 1551 under the Fifth Amendment. He can dummy up just like everyone else around him will do.

“Roger Ogren's going to stick with his theory,” McCoy predicts. “You were a wounded ex-lover looking for revenge. It's not a bad story, you certainly made sure that he has evidence to support it, and—look—this guy's going to have a tight trial date. He can't start chasing new theories when he's short on time. Plus, I'm going to be telling Ogren, every other day, that the bribery scandal has nothing to do with Sam's death.”

“We're clear on the trial date, right?” Harrick asks. “You'll demand a speedy trial?”

“Yes,” she says.

“That will put the trial in May, probably,” Paul Riley says.

“That would be perfect,” McCoy says. “The timing would be good.”

So whatever it is the FBI is worried about,
Allison assumes,
it should be over by May or so.
This was a matter on which McCoy has been adamant, a quick trial date.

“We can talk to Mat a little more easily than you can,” McCoy says. “We'll let him know what he's to do. You can help him, too, Mrs. Pagone, but just be careful about talking to him.”

Allison understands. Mat will not have too much
difficulty. His job is not very complicated. More than anything, he will simply be a foil, a sounding board in Allison's house, prompting Allison on certain subjects for the benefit of Larry Evans. He will offer to confess, will talk about how dumb he was to bribe state officials, things like that. Allison will rise to his defense, helping to convince Evans that this murder was connected to the bribery scandal, when Allison knows very well that it was not.

“I'll write some things out for him,” she says. “Dialogue is what I do.”

“Fine.” McCoy looks at her partner for confirmation. “Yeah, you can write some stuff out for him, if you like. As long as it doesn't sound like it's being read over the mike. I mean, Mat's a lobbyist and a lawyer, I assume he can pull this off.”

“He can pull it off,” she assures them.

“But listen, Mrs. Pagone. If you want to type up some dialogue, fine, but you can only hand it to him. No e-mail, no regular mail. Only hand-to-hand exchanges.”

Allison nods. “Mat's going to pick me up from the law firm when I go down, and drive me home at night. We might have brunch on weekends, things like that. I'll have plenty of chances to invite him in.”

“Mat's car won't be miked up, will it?” Paul asks.

“No.” Owen Harrick shakes his head. “We'll be watching his house. And we'll have someone at his parking garage downtown. No one's getting to his car. Consider it safe.”

McCoy raises her eyebrows, lifts her hand tentatively off her knees. “I think that's it. I think this is the last time we're going to speak together, Mrs. Pagone, until we're in motion. We'll get the papers to you through Mr. Riley here. We'll talk to you through Mr. Riley or Mat. You talk to Paul in his office, or to Mat in his car. Otherwise, assume someone is listening.”

“What about my daughter?”

“Your daughter can't know about this at all,” McCoy says, simply.

Allison could not agree more. This is dangerous enough. “My daughter's not in danger, though? Right?”

“I—I can't imagine why, Mrs. Pagone. If you're under the spotlight, then so is your family. Anything that happens to you or your family right now would be national news. Listen. Let me make this clear to you, okay?”

Allison sits back. She wants, needs, this reassurance.

“If I'm Larry Evans right now, I'm thinking, odds are you don't know anything. I just need to keep an eye on you. Any violent act against your daughter or Mat, or you, will only make things worse. Evan is hoping that this is going to play out as a non-issue, and you're going to help him believe that.”

“He's not going to touch your daughter,” Harrick says. “He has no reason to. This guy is calculating. He won't take a risk that isn't worth taking.”

“
Allison
is a risk, at the end of the day.” Paul Riley puts an arm over Allison's chair. “She's a risk, and if this man can find a convenient way to kill her, he's going to take it. This guy is a pro, you already said. He can find a way to make it look believable.”

McCoy grimaces. Allison knows what she's thinking. She can't deny the possibility.

“I'll do it,” Allison says. “We'll be ready.” She looks at Paul. “I'll do it.”

M
cCoy collapses into a chair in Harrick's office. “You look like shit, Jane.”

“I feel like it. You see Allison?”

“Yeah. That lady's torn up,” Harrick agrees. “I think she loved Dillon.”

“She's so motivated right now—she's got the adrenaline
pumping. She's trying to keep her family protected. She hasn't had a chance to feel pain yet.”

“She's smart,” Harrick says. “She spends almost her whole time talking about Mat and his immunity—”

“When what she's really worried about,” McCoy finishes, “is Jessica.” She points to the file containing the agreement. “This is all about those affidavits naming Larry Evans as the killer. This is all about keeping Jessica away from a murder charge.”

“Right.” Harrick puts his hands on his knees. “Shiels is going to want us.”

“I know, I know.” McCoy brings a hand to her face.

“For the hundredth time, Jane,” Harrick tells her. “It wasn't your fault.”

“Okay.” McCoy pushes herself out of her chair. “Allison Pagone can't die,” she says, as Harrick steers her down the hallway. “Even if everything else goes as planned, if I let another civilian die, I—it can't happen.”

“She won't die,” Harrick promises.

“You think she's up for this, Owen?” McCoy hates this feeling of vulnerability but she can't help it. She needs the reassurance. “You think she can handle this?”

“I think she has no choice.” Owen puts a hand on her back. “She's a mother,” he says simply.

A
llison takes the chair that is offered and sits. She declines a drink but thinks better of it, says she'll have some water.

Detective Joseph Czerwonka returns to the interrogation room with a bottle of Evian and sets it in front of her. He takes the seat across from her. “I'm going to tape this conversation,” he tells her.

She nods. The detective reaches for the tape recorder, in the center of the small desk that separates them, and hits the “Record” button.

“My name is Detective Joseph Czerwonka,” he says. “The date is February the thirteenth. Time is three-thirteen p.m. I am speaking with Allison Quincy Pagone. Mrs. Pagone, I am going to advise you of your rights. You have the right to remain silent. Anything that you do say to me can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to counsel. If you cannot afford an attorney, an
attorney will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights, Mrs. Pagone?”

“I do.”

“Would you like to have an attorney present?”

“No,” she says. “I waive counsel.”

“Do you understand that I am recording this conversation?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I'd like to go over a few things since we spoke two days ago. First, do you have anything you'd like to say?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Czerwonka is dressed better today than two days ago. He's wearing a crisp blue shirt and a nice silver silk tie. She figures he's expecting to be on camera today.

“Mrs. Pagone.” The detective reaches into a bag at his feet. He sets a large plastic bag on the table. In it is a single platinum earring. “We recovered this earring from your jewelry box yesterday. Do you acknowledge that this is your earring?”

“I won't answer that.”

He nods. “Can you explain to me why I found only one earring, and not two, at your house?”

“No comment.”

“Mrs. Pagone, I'm giving you the chance to explain this for me. We found the second of these two earrings at Sam Dillon's house.”

She stares at him. “That's not a question.”

“Do you have any explanation for that, ma'am? How one of those earrings found its way to Sam Dillon's house?”

“No comment.”

“No comment,” he repeats. “You won't provide us any explanation?”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Are you familiar with a brand of fingernail polish called ‘Saturday Evening Red'? Made by Evelyn Masters?”

“I have nothing to say.”

“That was the brand of polish found on the broken fingernail at Mr. Dillon's house.”

Allison nods. Again, no question pending.

“We also found that polish in your home,” he says. “And we found cotton balls in your garbage that contain that polish, along with traces of nail-polish remover.”

She stares at him.

“Did you recently remove that nail polish from your fingers?”

“No comment.”

“Were you romantically involved with Sam Dillon?”

“I already answered that, last time, Detective.”

“You said ‘no,' last time. Is that still your answer?”

“I have nothing more to say.”

Czerwonka is not deterred. “Are you refusing to answer any questions at all, Mrs. Pagone?”

“It looks that way.”

“Let me—let me be candid with you, Mrs. Pagone. We have a hair follicle that looks a lot like yours, recovered from Sam Dillon's home. It has the bulb still attached, which means there's DNA. We now have a sample of your DNA and I think there's going to be a match. What do
you
think?”

She shakes her head.

“And you know we're going to do a DNA test on that sweatshirt,” he adds. “You think that's going to be your blood we find on there? Or Sam Dillon's?”

“You'll find what you find.”

“We've got your fingernail, we've got your earring, and we have a silver Lexus SUV—like the one you drive—seen at Sam Dillon's home around one in the morning, and we've got you returning to your house with mud all over you, a little before two. We've got you going to Dillon's office in the capital the day before he was murdered. You were shouting at him. By all accounts, it sounds like he was dumping you. Ending your relationship.”

Allison folds her arms.

“I'm giving you this chance to explain this to me, Mrs. Pagone. Look.” Czerwonka makes a face, leans on his elbows. “I could see why you don't want to admit being involved with Dillon. He works alongside your ex. You two probably wanted to keep it quiet. I get that. I'd probably do the same thing, if it were me. And then the thing gets complicated. He says some awful things to you. Breaks your heart. I've been there. You—you've had a tough go of it. A divorce, then a rebound, then that guy dumps you, too. Your head, it's not where it should be. You're not doing anything like a cold, calculated murder. It's like the heat of the moment, you just snap. That's not Murder One, Mrs. Pagone. You've been a lawyer. You lawyers call it diminished capacity, right? Manslaughter, maybe. Maybe—who knows? Temporary insanity.”

Allison rolls her neck. She'd like to reach over and smack this guy.

“That's not life in prison. That's not a needle in your arm. But see, you don't help me out here, I have to see this thing the way it looks. Premeditated murder. I have all I need, right now, Mrs. Pagone. How we charge you is up to you now, not me.”

“I have nothing to say, Detective,” she says. “Do what you're going to do.”

“Just—” He raises a hand. “Just talk to me about Sam. We know you two were an item. You told your daughter, Mrs. Pagone. Just tell me what you told her.”

“Do what you're going to do, Detective. I'm not saying another word.”

Joe Czerwonka's lips move into a grim smile. He shakes his head, as if to say,
you had your chance.
“I'm going to place you under arrest, Mrs. Pagone,” he says, rising to his feet. “For the murder of Samuel Dillon.”