Dead Even Read online

“Please just hear me out,” Sara begged. “I know it’s an uncomfortable position for you, but I’m in real trouble.”

  “C’mon, Sara. He and I—”

  “I know you go back a long way. And I know you’d never do anything to hurt him. But I really need your help with this. Believe me, do you even think I’d ask you if it wasn’t life-or-death important?”

  Barrow looked out toward the Hudson River. “It’s really that important?”

  “I swear to God, Lenny. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.”

  Still refusing to look at Sara, Barrow kept his eyes focused on the giant Colgate clock that floated in the Hudson River. “Tick tock, tick tock,” he whispered. Eventually, he turned back to his friend. “I’m sorry, hon. I can’t do that to him.”

  “You don’t understand,” Sara pleaded. “This is—”

  “Sara, don’t put me in this one. It’s hard enough as it is. When I asked Jared if it was okay to meet with you, he told me to feed you phony info. I wouldn’t do that to you, and I can’t do anything against him. That’s the only way to make sure I keep you both as friends.”

  “So you’re not going to help me at all?”

  “I’m sorry,” Barrow said. “For this case, you’re on your own.”

  Walking down the stairs that led to the lower level of Rockefeller Center, Sara was a wreck. Her meeting with Barrow had gone far worse than she’d expected, only adding to her fear that Jared’s safety was slowly slipping out of her grasp. So when she finally reached the ground-level entrance to Wayne & Portnoy’s annual fall formal, affectionately known as the prom, she took a deep breath and tried to ignore the day’s events. Even if her calm was only superficial, she didn’t want Jared to see her upset.

  After checking for Sara’s name on the twenty-two-page, over-one-thousand-person invitation list, the hostess pointed to the enormous tent that was covering what was usually Rockefeller Center’s ice-skating rink. “As you can see, we’ve tented the rink for a bit more privacy. You’ll find the dance floor in there, with music by your DJ, Sir Jazzy Eli. For food and a more formal atmosphere, you can head over there.” The hostess pointed to the indoor concourse of shops that ran along the perimeter of the ice rink.

  “Are the restaurants open?”

  “Not tonight,” the hostess said proudly. “We rented out the restaurants and the café. The whole place is yours.”

  Sara rolled her eyes at the exaggerated presentation. Heading for the coat check, Sara took off her jacket, revealing a dramatic black dress. Encrusted with thousands of tiny black beads, the dress clung to the outlines of her body. Once inside the enormous tent, she saw a makeshift dance floor crammed with young couples, all of them bouncing in sync to the thundering beat. They looked so young, she thought. Probably right out of law school. She remembered when Jared took her to his first prom. It was at the Carlyle then. Jared had just started at the firm, and he and Sara had only been married a month. Bowled over by the extravagance of the event, they had spent the entire first hour of the party counting and tasting every single one of the fifteen hors d’oeuvres, from the sushi to the grilled tomatoes to the lamb chops. Then, after a few minutes of schmoozing with Lubetsky and some of the other partners, they hit the dance floor. Every year since then, whether it was Jared’s prom at Wayne & Portnoy or Sara’s equivalent event at Winick & Trudeau, Jared and Sara danced less and schmoozed more. So much simpler, Sara thought as she turned away from the tent.

  Entering the indoor concourse that surrounded the rink, Sara saw that the only thing that had changed since the Carlyle was the location. The regular restaurants were now replaced by the standard Wayne & Portnoy party configuration. Hors d’oeuvre stations were scattered throughout the rooms, drinks were being served at six different bars, and the same old lawyers in their same old tuxedos were having the same old conversations.

  “Sara! Over here!” someone shouted from across the room. She recognized Jared’s voice and craned her neck to find him. As he waved her over, she saw that he was standing with an older man who was graying at the temples. “Fred, I want you to meet my wife,” Jared said as Sara approached them. “Sara, this is Fred Joseph—maybe the best defense man in the whole firm.”

  Putting on her best party smile, Sara politely shook Fred’s hand. “So nice to finally meet you,” she said.

  “Isn’t it, though,” Fred replied. Only Jared laughed at the joke. Undeterred, Fred added, “Jared tells me you two are on opposite sides. Must be tough trying to talk to each other.”

  “Yeah,” she said. She couldn’t even force a laugh. “Listen, Fred, would you mind excusing us a moment? I haven’t seen him all day and—”

  “No need to explain,” Fred said. “Jared, we’ll talk later.”

  “That’d be great,” Jared said with a full smile. But as soon as Fred was out of sight, the smile was gone. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he barked at Sara. “He’s a partner.”

  “I don’t care if he’s your mother,” Sara shot back. “I’m not in the mood.”

  A few people were starting to stare. Refusing to make a scene, Jared took her by the hand and calmly walked to the corner of the restaurant. Still finding no privacy, he headed toward the swinging doors of the kitchen. Inside, there were waiters with silver platters running in every direction. All Jared cared about, though, was that there were no lawyers.

  But before Jared could say a word, a waiter approached the couple. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t have you standing here. We’ve got hot plates—”

  “This is an emergency,” Jared insisted. “Just give me a minute.”

  “But, sir…”

  Jared pulled Sara to the far wall of the kitchen, next to an ever-growing stack of dirty dishes. “We’re out of the way. Now give me a minute.” The annoyed waiter left, and Jared looked back at his wife. “Don’t ever embarrass me like that again,” he said to Sara. “This is my life.”

  “You knew I didn’t want to come tonight.”

  “But you said you would.”

  “I don’t care what I said—I don’t want to be here.”

  “And you think I do? I’m up to my ears in work. This case is killing me.”

  “You always have it the worst, don’t you?”

  “Actually, I do,” Jared said, raising his voice. “So the least you can do is make it easier for me.”

  “Why? You’re not making it easier for me to see Kozlow. Instead, I have to put it all in writing.”

  “So that’s what this is about. You’re mad because I’m sticking to protocol. Well, sorry, hon, but if you didn’t want to play hardball—”

  “Don’t give me your macho clichés. This isn’t hardball and it’s certainly not protocol—it’s just you being a pompous ass.”

  “Oh, it is?”

  “It definitely is. Why else would you make me jump through your paper-shuffling hoops?”

  “Why would you call my law firm’s billing department pretending to be Kathleen?” Jared shot back.

  Sara froze. “What’re you talking about?”

  “Sara, I know you were the one who called. What’d you think, they weren’t going to tell me that someone was trying to get Kozlow’s billing information? The moment I heard it, I knew it was you.”

  Sara didn’t say a word.

  “And you think I was playing unfair?” Jared continued. “What you did not only violated a half dozen ethics rules—it also violated our trust. You know my career is at stake, and you still played dirty behind my back. I’d never do that to you.”

  “You wouldn’t?”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” Jared insisted.

  “Then why’d you tell Barrow to feed me bogus information about the case?”

  Jared stared angrily at his wife.

  “Oh, no, you’d never do anything behind my back,” Sara said sarcastically. “You’re all perfect and proper with your superstar firm, and its big parties, and its never-lose attitude. Well, let me tell you something: When all is said and do
ne, you’re just as ruthless as I am. The only difference is I don’t pretend that I’m pitching my tent on the moral high ground.”

  “I don’t need the lecture,” Jared interrupted. “I know what I did, and I take full responsibility for it. So if you want to talk about this case, let’s talk. Otherwise, I don’t need to spend every night fighting about our individual trial strategies.”

  Sara leaned against one of the industrial refrigerators and took a deep breath. “I agree. Now what else is there to talk about?”

  “How about the realistic conclusion of this case?” Jared asked. “The way I see it, we should get this wrapped up as soon as possible. The longer we keep it going, the less time we have for Pop, who I’m sure would—”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  “What’d I—”

  “Don’t you dare use him against me!” Sara shouted. “He’s not a bargaining chip! He’s my family! Do you understand?”

  “Sara, I swear I didn’t mean anything by that. I was just—”

  “I know exactly what you meant. Now if you want to talk, that’s fine, but leave Pop out of it. I don’t even want to hear his name mentioned.”

  “Fine, then let me get straight to the point. As far as I can tell, you have nothing to work with. You won a weak indictment based on the testimony of an incompetent cop and an unreliable witness—both of whom you know I’ll rip apart at trial. When you take them out, this is nothing more than a simple mistaken-identity case. So to make it easy on you, I’m giving you one last offer: Take the dismiss and seal now, or take the loss at trial. It’s your choice.”

  “That’s a nice speech,” Sara said. “But there’s no way you’re avoiding a trial.”

  Jared’s fists tightened and his face flushed with blood. “Dammit, Sara, why do you have to be so stubborn?”

  “That’s funny,” Sara said coldly as she walked out of the kitchen. “I was just going to ask you the same question.” Pushing her way through the doors, she added, “Enjoy the rest of your party.”

  “You look terrible,” the elevator operator told Sara a week later.

  “You should’ve seen me when I woke up,” Sara said. Bags under her eyes darkened her fair complexion. “It took me a full hour to make myself look this good.”

  “It always happens that way—you start losing your case, you start losing your sleep.”

  “Who said I’m losing my case?” Sara asked as the elevator doors shut.

  “Don’t get mad at me, I’m just telling you what I hear. Word on this ride is that you’re facing off against your husband. Honey, if you wanted to hurt yourself, there are less painful ways to do it.” When Sara didn’t show a hint of a smile, he added, “It’s getting down and dirty, isn’t it?”

  Sara nodded. “When he first got on the case, I was torn up by the idea that I might potentially hurt him. But now…now it’s starting to get personal. Every day, we’re finding new ways to stab each other in the back.”

  “Of course you are—the best way to hide fear is with anger. It’s the next logical step. You shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “I’m not surprised, I’m just disappointed. I thought we were stronger than that.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with strength. The longer it goes, the uglier it gets. And honey, you’re going to see a whole lot more of ugly.”

  “Darnell,” Sara said, leaning against the back of the elevator, “you give a real shitty pep talk.”

  “Then how’s this?” he asked as the elevator approached the seventh floor. Doing his best Ethel Merman impression, he sang, “You’ll be swell, you’ll be great—gonna have the whole world on your plate. Starting here, starting now…”

  “Everything’s coming up roses…” they both sang as Sara plodded out of the elevator. “Thanks, Darnell,” she added through the closing elevator doors.

  Heading up the hallway, Sara saw Officer McCabe leaning on the corner of Guff’s desk, waiting for her to arrive. She glanced over her shoulder at the attendance board. The small magnet next to Victor’s name was in the “Out” column. He hadn’t arrived yet. Relieved, Sara rushed toward McCabe and pulled him into her office.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” she said, shutting the door behind him. “I just had a quick question that I was hoping you could help me with.”

  “Ask away,” McCabe said.

  “After an arrest, do you follow up on all your cases?”

  “That depends on the case. If it was one where my partner got shot, or a buddy or relative was hurt, I’d definitely follow up on it. But if it’s something small, there’s no time to follow it up—especially since most cases get plea-bargained.”

  “Is this case considered a small one?”

  “An unarmed burglary? It might as well be jaywalking. I have a few of those every week. I don’t have the time to check up on all of them.”

  “So if I—or someone else who got the case—had sat on it forever, you would’ve never known about it.”

  “I’d know if I followed up on it, but the odds say I probably wouldn’t bother. I just have to get Kozlow off the street—you guys take care of the rest.”

  “I guess we do,” Sara said. “Especially when we think no one’s looking.”

  Leaving Sara’s office, McCabe noticed two fellow officers from his precinct in the hallway. After a quick discussion of their cases and a recap of office news, McCabe headed for the elevators. When he turned the corner at the security guard’s table, someone was blocking his exit through the turnstile. It was Victor.

  “Are you Michael McCabe?” Victor asked with a cold stare.

  “That depends,” McCabe said. “Are you going to serve me with a subpoena?”

  Forcing a strained smile, Victor said, “Nothing like that. I just wanted to introduce myself.” He extended his hand. “I’m Victor Stockwell.”

  “So you’re the famous Victor,” McCabe said, shaking his hand. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well,” Victor said, putting a hand on McCabe’s shoulder, “I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  “Will it take long? Because I have to get back—”

  “Don’t worry,” Victor said. “It’ll only take a second.”

  A half hour later, Sara called Patty Harrison. There was no answer. She hung up and dialed Claire Doniger’s number.

  “Hello,” Doniger answered.

  “Hi, Ms. Doniger. This is Sara Tate calling. I’m sorry to bother you, but I wanted to—”

  “What is it?” Doniger asked.

  Trying to keep her voice soothing, Sara said, “I wonder if you could set aside some time for us to come up to see your house. As we put together the case, it’d be helpful if we could get the exact layout of your home so that the jury can see—”

  “I’m sorry, but as I told you last week, I’ve been quite busy lately. Now, I don’t mean to be rude, but I must get going. Good-bye, Miss Tate.” The line went dead.

  Sara stormed over to Conrad’s office. “Can you help me get a detective?”

  “Why do you want a detective?” Conrad asked.

  “Because if I’m going to figure out what the hell is going on with Claire Doniger, I’m going to need some professional help. I’m not Miss Marple—I can’t do this alone.”

  “Calm down,” Conrad said. “Now start over. What’d Doniger do?”

  “She hasn’t done anything. She’s just completely unhelpful. She doesn’t want to talk about the case, she doesn’t want to testify, she doesn’t want to let us into her house. You’d think we’re the enemy.”

  “Don’t let her do that to you,” Conrad said, pointing at Sara. “I told you before: You’re the one who’s in control and it’s your job to make her cooperate. If she doesn’t want to make time for you to come over, tell her she has a choice: She can let you take a half-hour tour of the house, or you can show up with an order to examine the scene and six of your closest police pals, a photographer, and a reporter, all of wh
om would love to take the new and improved eight-hour tour of her house while tearing through her stuff. Who knows what you’ll turn up. And if she doesn’t respond to that, you grab her by the shoulders and shake her until you knock some sense into her brain.” To illustrate, Conrad shook an imaginary person in front of his desk. “Screw her if she doesn’t want to toe the company line.”

  Smiling at Conrad’s solution, Sara said, “Y’know, you’re pretty cute when you’re angry.”

  “Thank you,” he replied, straightening his tie. “It’s the shaking back and forth part that got you excited, isn’t it?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sara laughed, surprised by Conrad’s reaction. “Who said I was excited?”

  “Not me. I didn’t say a word.”

  “Good, because I wasn’t even close to excited. At best, I was mildly amused.”

  “That’s fine. Back away from it all you want. I don’t want to put words in your mouth. Now is there anything else?”

  “I told you,” Sara said, regaining control of the conversation. “I need a detective who’ll help me investigate.”

  Twenty minutes later, Guff walked into Conrad’s office. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Sara held her hand up and whispered, “Conrad’s trying to get us a detective.”

  “No, I understand,” Conrad said. “I appreciate the help.” He put down the phone and turned to Sara. “Forget it. You’re on your own.”

  “He said no, too?” Sara asked.

  “I can’t believe it,” Conrad said. “Between the precinct and the squad, no one would assign a detective. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Why’re they being so tightfisted?”

  “First and foremost, they’re understaffed. Besides that, it’s the budget cuts. Everyone’s so worried about their jobs, they’re not willing to take a minor case.”

  “Or maybe there’s more to it than that,” Sara said. “For all we know, Victor might’ve—”

  “Sara, you have to stop,” Conrad interrupted. “Even Victor doesn’t know every detective we’re calling.”

  “But he may know all the precinct sergeants who’re in charge of assigning those detectives,” Sara pointed out.