IT TAKES ME TWO WEEKS to recover.
“What did you expect?” asks Dr. Khan when he comes to call at my condo. He watches me force myself from my bed, struggle to walk a little farther than the day before. “A less healthy person would have died.”
My little family welcomes me to the office with looks and lectures and much tut-tutting. In my absence, they’ve made it through. A few cases adjourned, others handled thanks to double duty by Jeff and Alicia.
“Alicia’s coming along,” Jeff says. “Picked up some difficult stuff, pulled it off with aplomb. Every cloud has a silver lining, or at least some of them.”
We’re back to normal. Qualification—the new normal. Damon and I have developed an understanding. We don’t speak of the body found in the Dumpster. We don’t speak of that night at the Trussardi home. Who knows, I might need to call him to develop the boy defense or to take the gloss off Laura’s virtue by showing she bought drugs, although the possibility of Cy cross-examining Damon on the safe and the gun sends shivers up my spine.
I’ve resumed driving, although occasionally I still think I see a dark van behind me. So far, no other warnings have appeared on my windshield. I’ve decided to keep digging—to hell with the consequences.
Any doubt that it’s not business as usual is dispelled by Debbie’s shout down the hall, “Cy Kenge for you, Jilly. Line 2.” No ifs, buts, or would-you-like-to-take-the-calls, just you’re on.
I pick up the phone. “Cy, what can I do for you?”
“Heard you were away, Jilly.” Something in Cy’s tone puts me on edge.
“If you think I went off for a tummy tuck, Cy, you’ve got the wrong girl. Just a mundane case of H7N9, I’m afraid. Now that we’re through the gracious preliminaries, what’s your book of business?”
“Two things,” he says. “One business, one pleasure.”
“Let’s start with the pleasure.”
“No way, Jilly.”
I sigh. “Okay, Cy, the business.”
“I’m prepared to accept a plea to second degree in Trussardi, release on parole after ten years if he behaves himself. Against my better judgment, might I add. It seems someone upstairs has your guy’s back.”
No preamble, no negotiation, just the offer, one I would have jumped at a month ago.
“Sorry, Cy,” I reply. “To be frank, I discussed this possibility with my client, but he refuses to plead to anything. I’ll convey your offer, of course.”
“No accounting for stupidity.” He moves on to the pleasure part of the call. “Lois and I still hope you can come to our party. This Saturday.”
“Thanks. How’s Lois recovering?”
“Splendidly, Jilly. She’s got her new liver, has been out of the hospital for a week now and feeling better every day. You’ll see on Saturday.”
“I’ll try to make it.” I’m about to hang up when I hear his voice again.
“Jilly, while I have you, there’s something I should tell you. On Trussardi.”
Now we’re getting down to the real business.
“Yes?”
“News about Trevor Shore.”
My stomach clenches.
“He’s been killed in a little town near São Paulo. Shot. Looks like gang violence—a case of being in the wrong place at the right time. Although you never know: it could have been targeted. Maybe he knew too much. Maybe your man fingered him.”
Stupid me, assuming the cops didn’t know where Trevor Shore was, when all along they were watching him. A game has been playing out, a game I do not understand. Why is Cy offering me a plea if he thinks Trevor Shore’s disappearance is my problem? Was it his plan to get Trevor back and have him testify? Viewed objectively, the Crown’s case is thin—the gun, the bed, a wisp of a motive that I hope to blow out of the water. Trevor on the stand would have strengthened the motive, maybe provided some juicy detail that would have clinched the conviction.
“I’ll send you the police reports as we get them,” Cy says crisply. “See you at the party.” The line goes dead.
I look up. Jeff is hovering in the doorway. “So?”
“Eavesdropping?”
He slides into the chair across my desk.
“Trevor Shore’s been shot dead. Brazilian police are investigating. Cy’s hinting that Trussardi is behind it.”
“Crazy.”
“What’s with this man we call our client, Jeff? Do you think he could have hired someone to kill Shore? Why would he do that?”
“Who knows what goes through his head? He just sits there brooding over the photo of the dark lady.”
“And at the same time he’s conspiring how to take out Trevor Shore? Doesn’t figure. Maybe our police told the Brazilian cops to keep Shore away so they could convict Trussardi, and the Brazil boys went overboard.”
Jeff raises an eyebrow.
“Or maybe somebody we don’t know about yet killed him.” I change tacks. “Cy just offered to reduce the charge to second degree. Ten years to parole. Our duty to tell the client.”
Jeff’s up, pacing to the window. “Our duty, Jilly, our duty? It’s our lifeline. We’re going down, and you talk like you’d rather not throw it to the client? It’s a case, not the bloody Holy Grail. You’ve lost perspective on this one, Jilly.”
“Calm down, Jeff. The Crown’s case isn’t all that strong.”
He laughs. “If you forget the matrimonial bed and the gun. Trussardi’s crazy if he doesn’t accept this offer. This isn’t like Damon’s case—good kid scared out of his wits—where we had a real chance at second, maybe manslaughter. The person who committed this crime meant it.” He leans toward me over the paper-strewn table. “Please tell me you’re going to tell him to take it, Jilly.”
“I’ll recommend it.”
Jeff slumps into his chair. “Thank god. This case is a high-speed train about to go off the tracks. Whoever said speedy justice was good was a fool.”