“News?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “You?”
“Well, yeah. I talked to Saskia, at the radio station. Got the phone number. Called it.”
“Fantastic. I guess I wrote it down wrong, right?”
“Wrong. You got it right. It’s just not a phone number.”
“Not a-?” I can’t help but sing it to myself. I’ll be able to sing it forever: 555-0193.
“Not a phone number. There’s no such number. There’s no prefix 555. It’s only used for movies and stuff.”
“Could it be a cell phone? One of those prepaid phone things?”
“Oh, darn, Charlotte. Y’all are so awfully smart. I jes’ forgot to ask the phone company that.” Franklin pauses, making sure his sarcasm sinks in. “Yes, of course I checked on that. And no, it’s neither of those. Trust me, it’s not a phone number. It’s a dead end.”
“Hssst.”
I twist around, trying to gauge where the hissing sound is coming from. It’s Monica.
“Hang on, Franko.” I look at Monica, questioning.
The receptionist cocks her head backward, toward the closed doors behind her. She holds up five fingers. Then, with a dramatic twist of her head, turns back to her blinking phone console.
“Gotta go, Franko. I’ll call you.” I click the phone closed before Franklin has a chance to answer. I close my computer and return it to my tote bag. Flap my notebook shut, click my pen closed and stash both of them in the side pocket. I grab my coat, but the sleeves are somehow hopelessly tangled, refusing to let me put my hands through as I struggle to put it on. I adjust my muffler around my neck and stand, staring at the doors.
Five minutes until what?
Until Josh comes out, in handcuffs, being led away to the lockup?
Until Josh comes out, smiling and free, and we can go home?
I look at my watch. Two more minutes. I look up. Monica is no longer at her desk.
Monica slides through the opaque double doors and into the back rooms of the D.A.’s office. Franklin and I have been here countless times, and I know it’s nothing but zigzags of fabric-covered movable walls, a checkerboard of cubicles. Behind that, a row of actual offices, with actual walls, and with windows overlooking the gold dome of the state Capitol.
The doors open. There’s Josh. His back, at least. He’s wearing his coat, which I hope is a good sign. He turns halfway, looking back toward the hallway and offices, talking to someone else I can’t see. Josh gestures, a swift chop of one hand I’ve seen hundreds of times. He’s not wearing handcuffs.
I have to press my lips together to keep myself from crying. Then I see another man’s hand on one of the double doors, keeping it open. Who? Why? Pale long fingers, a wedding ring. Then a pin-striped arm comes through. A broad shoulder.
My own shoulders drop in relief. It’s Will Easterly. When we first met about a year ago, he was a lanky pale whisper of a man, gray hair a bit too long, cheekbones a bit too high, suit a bit too off the rack. Back then, he was crusading to get an innocent woman out of prison. Now he’s happily married to her. Now he’s much better dressed and clearly found a barber. But he’s still crusading. He’s one of the best defense lawyers in Boston.
Josh turns and sees me.
And the doors close behind them. Josh is out.
I’m at Josh’s side in an instant. Burying my face in his shoulder, I lock both my arms through the crook of his, inhaling his scent, still close to tears.
“Why? How? Who? When? What?” I say, my voice muffled by navy blue wool. “Are you okay? Why didn’t you call me?”
“Charlie, darling, how did you find out I was here?” Josh is talking at the same time. “I didn’t want to worry you. I had my phone off. I’m fine.”
“Hey, Charlie,” Will says. “Long time no see.”
The coffee is disgusting. Inside the lobby of the Saltonstall Office Building it’s as dank and chilly as it is outside. Still, I have never been so happy to be anywhere, drinking anything. Josh is out. And if Will’s lawyer-magic worked, Josh is not going back in.
Toni DuShane was right. It was all about the alibi.
“They kept asking me where I was when Dorothy died. Where I was when Alethia fell. But I knew you would have killed me if I hadn’t called a lawyer, sweetheart.” Josh is leaning against a dingy mottled wall, propping his coffee cup on the marble pedestal of a statue of Leverett Saltonstall himself, the fifty-seventh governor of Massachusetts. “Will was good enough to hurry over from court.”
“And Josh was wise enough not to say a word to the cops on the way,” Will says. He pats Josh on the shoulder. “Those pompous-ass assistant D.A.’s-Soroff has them convinced their ends justify their means. That it’s more important to catch bad guys than to respect the Constitution. The idea that they’d try to strong-arm Josh into confessing. Appalling.”
“But he’s-” My voice rises, my interruption almost a squeak.
“Yes, of course he’s innocent, if that’s what you were going to say, Charlie.”
I nod. I haven’t let go of my death grip on Josh’s arm. Except to put about five sugars into my coffee. Which didn’t help it.
“But they’re devoted to their ‘mission,’” Will continues. “Their law, and their order. Anytime they can steamroll some poor sucker, the Fifth and Sixth Amendments go out the window. Our tax dollars at work.”
“But what happened?” I look at Josh. “Ebling and Pratt told me the plainclothes police were swarming around Bexter this morning.”
“Right. I got buzzed to come to the Head’s office. He told me they had sent a teacher’s aide to my class. I’ve never seen him look so flummoxed. Anyway, the assistant D.A., this Ross Monahan, was standing there like Joe Friday. He asked me to come downtown and help with their investigation. ‘Look at some photos,’ he said. Told me it was ‘voluntary.’ So, fine. I have nothing to hide. And what the hell, I want to find out what happened as much as anyone.”
Josh shrugs one shoulder, remembering. “But once we were in their car, headed down the Pike toward their office, it turned into a parody of a cop show. Monahan was driving, some state trooper next to him in the front seat. I was in the back. We’re chatting about nothing, when the trooper turns around, drapes one arm casually over the seat and asks me how I had heard about the threatening phone calls Dorothy Wirt received. I said, from Dorothy. And then he says, ‘Where were you on the night of Dorothy’s death?’”
“Did they read you your rights?” I ask. I glance at Will, fearful. I also, briefly, wonder where the Head was all this time. Pratt said the D.A.’s investigators had called him in, too. But I have to hear about Josh first.
“No,” Josh says. “But that question certainly pushed our ‘interview’ into another realm entirely. So much for their charade that I was ‘helping in the investigation.’ At that point, I told them I’d prefer to have a lawyer present.”
“Wise decision,” Will puts in.
“I know,” I say.
“They were not happy, that’s for sure. The trooper actually asked me, ‘Why do you need a lawyer if you have nothing to hide?’ Asshole. I didn’t say another word until we got to the D.A.’s office. They put me in some bleak conference room where I called Will. He was in court, all the way in Leominster. So I waited, staring out the window, fuming, until he arrived. They stationed another statie at the door. Young enough to be one of my students.”
“That’s pitiful,” I say. I look down at my murky coffee, imagining Josh in solitary, worrying. Wondering about his future. “But, Will, then what? Shouldn’t Josh have been able to leave if he wanted to?”
“Yes, but of course they rarely inform you of that. It’s all about intimidation. When I arrived, I notified the district attorney’s office I was representing Mr. Gelston. Josh and I conferred. Subsequently, I informed Mr. Soroff and his state-police lackeys that if they were not prepared to charge Josh with something-”