"The bullet is going to match your gun," Mac said to Louisa Cormier. "You made the whole thing too complicated."
"It almost worked," whispered Louisa Cormier.
"Louisa," Pease warned, leaning over to whisper to his client before sitting up. "Self defense," he said. "Charles Lutnikov came to my client's apartment after threatening her on the phone. She had the gun out to protect herself. He tried to wrestle it from her. It went off. She panicked."
"And then thought out the elaborate cover-up on the spot," said Fineberg.
"Yes," said Pease. "She's a writer with a very active imagination."
"Who didn't write her own books," said Mac.
"We'll see what a jury thinks about that," said Pease.
"Why would Lutnikov threaten Ms. Cormier?"
Neither lawyer nor client spoke.
"Involuntary manslaughter," said Pease. "Suspended sentence."
"No," said Fineberg. "The evidence these officers have gathered shows intent, premeditation, and cover-up."
Pease leaned over to whisper in Louisa Cormier's ear. A look of horror came over her face.
"Murder Two," said Fineberg.
"Manslaughter," said Pease. "Nothing goes public. You pick a judge who will seal the record. Say what you like to the media."
Fineberg looked at Mac and then turned to Pease, shaking her head.
"Off the record?" Pease said, patting his client's hand.
"Off the record," said Fineberg.
"Louisa?" Pease said, hand on her arm ready to guide her with gentle pressure.
"I can't," Louisa Cormier said, looking at Pease.
Pease cocked his head and said, "They can't use it unless we let them."
Louisa Cormier sighed.
"I shot Charles Lutnikov. He was blackmailing me," she said, looking at the table, hands folded white-knuckled in front of her now.
"You had been paying him for writing your books," said Fineberg.
"It wasn't about money," Louisa said. "It was about writing credit. He wanted all my future books to bear both of our names as author. I offered him more money. He wasn't interested."
"So you shot him?" asked Fineberg.
"He said he was bringing up the manuscript of the new book and that he would give it to me only if I had a notarized statement saying that the book would bear both of our names. I couldn't have that. People, editors, reviewers would start to think about my previous books, and Charles couldn't be counted on to keep from telling about his helping me with the previous books."
"And…?" Fineberg said after a long pause by Louisa Cormier.
"When he came up, I stopped the elevator. The manuscript was in his hands, clutched to his chest like a baby. He wanted it to be our baby. I tried to reason with him, told him that if we continued the way we were I'd help him get his own books published. He wasn't interested. He reached over to the elevator buttons and pressed a button when it happened."
"You shot him," said Fineberg.
"I didn't mean to," she said. "I just wanted to threaten him, warn him, frighten him, have him hand me the manuscript. The elevator door closed on my hand. He grabbed for the gun. He was enraged. The gun fired. The doors opened again. I could see he was dead. I hit the button to stop the elevator and took the manuscript from him."
"Unfortunate accident. No. Self defense," said Pease with a broad smile.
"Then why hide the gun," Fineberg said. "Why make all of this up?"
"My career, my… I was frightened," Louisa Cormier said.
"You didn't plan to shoot him, but you immediately thought of a plan, a very complicated plan, as soon as you shot him. You were on your way to the firing range with the gun and a bolt cutter minutes, maybe seconds, after you shot Lutnikov," said Fineberg skeptically.
"Make an offer, Ms. Fineberg," Pease said. "Make it a good one."
17
"SORRY ABOUT THIS, STEVIE," said Dario Marco, seated behind his desk. "You're a good worker, a loyal employee, a good guy."
Stevie stood on a leg that threatened to give way and looked dumbly and open-mouthed at the man behind the desk who had been his boss, his protector.
"Problem here, you see," said Marco, sitting back and adjusting his jacket to get rid of the wrinkles, "is that we need to give the police someone. They've been all over the place. They've got evidence against you on the Spanio killing and you killed a cop and shot another one. Big problem is you killed the cop right outside the door you just came through. So, what can I do? I mean, I ask you?"
Stevie said nothing.
Marco shrugged to show again that he had no choice. "Besides which, you really are one dumb bastard and you're getting old."
Stevie looked at Jake, who had betrayed him, and then at Helen Grandfield who had no expression.
"Dad," Helen said. "Let's just do it."
"I owe Stevie an explanation," Dario said patiently.
"He came here to kill you," she said.
"That's so," Dario Marco agreed. "And he broke in, and it was fortunate that we had a gun."
"The Jockey doesn't have a permit," said Stevie, trying to think.
"That's right," said Marco. "He's a convicted felon. You're dumb, but not that dumb. The gun is mine. I've got a permit. Jacob picked it up from the desk where I had just finished cleaning it when you…"
"Why?" asked Stevie. "You set me up, right from the start. You wanted the cops to come for me. Why?"
"Back up," said Dario. "Believe me, I wanted you to get away. Why would I lie now? But in business you cover your ass. You're getting old, Stevie. You're going to slow down. Shit, you're already slowing down. Look at yourself. Now you've broken into my office and said you were going to kill me. In front of three witnesses."
Dario Marco nodded at Jacob, who looked at Stevie and hesitated.
"He set you up too, Jake," said Stevie.
"Shoot the old fart," said Marco.
The leap across the desk by Stevie was a surprise to everyone in the room, probably even Stevie. When his stomach hit the table, all feeling left his wounded leg. He reached out for Dario's neck and found it. He was doing what he was good at now, dumb or no dumb.
"Shoot," Helen shouted.
Jake fired and missed. His hand was shaking, but Stevie's weren't. Lying on his stomach on the desk, he lifted Dario from the chair and snapped his neck.
Helen was on his back now, clawing at his face, grunting, screaming. Jake looked for an open shot. Dario Marco's body slipped down, eyes open in surprise, chin resting on the edge of the desk. Stevie threw Helen Grandfield off of him. She tripped backwards, going over a chair.
Stevie tried to stand. He turned his head toward the Jockey, who had backed away trembling, two hands on the gun. No way Stevie could make the lunge before he was shot. He dug into his pocket and clutched the dog Lilly had given him.
"Stop," said a voice.
Jake over his gun, Helen over the overturned chair she had fallen behind, Stevie over his shoulder, saw the uniformed cop, the one who Stevie had bypassed at the front door on his way in. The cop had heard the shot.
The cop, whose name was Rodney Landry, was a bodybuilder with four years on the force. He knew what to do: aim his weapon at the tiny man next to the desk. From the description he had been given, Landry knew that the man with the bloody leg, who, for some inexplicable reason, was lying on the desk, was the one he had been told to look for.
From where he stood, Landry, weapon in hand, did not see Dario Marco.
"Put the weapon down on the floor very slowly," Landry ordered.
Jake wanted to hurry, but he forced himself to bend slowly and place the weapon on the floor. Stevie managed to turn his body and get up on one elbow.
"He broke in here," Helen Grandfield screamed, pointing at Stevie. "He killed my father."
Landry could see it now. It looked like a joke, a Halloween joke. The dead man's head seemed to be resting on his chin behind the desk. His eyes were wide open and he looked surprised, very surprised.