MARTHA GARDINER
Martha Gardiner untied the dark red string around the accordion file, unwrapping it a bit more slowly than necessary, letting Rachel wonder what was going on. After the meeting ended, she’d asked Nick to leave the file behind, so she and Rachel could have a private chat. Rachel being late was perplexing, and if it seemed to matter, she’d ask about it. But later. Rachel now sat across from her at the conference table, silent.
Martha pulled the file open, the dark cardboard pockets expanding, wide enough to let Rachel see there were tabbed files and manila folders inside. She glanced up to see if Rachel was attempting to read them. She wouldn’t dare, not at this point, but the woman was nothing if not ambitious. Hungry for information. Rachel certainly knew more than she’d revealed about the Zander murder. That husband of hers definitely did.
“Martha?” Rachel asked, her swivel chair squeaking with the abruptness of her question. “Who do you think killed poor Danielle?”
Rachel couldn’t help but ask about it, Martha figured, and didn’t blame her. An impossible thing, this murder. So personal. So close. But Martha wasn’t totally sure of anything. That’s what this summer was about.
“What do you think we think?” Martha inquired, looking eager to hear. “There’s a whole list of people who might be guilty, right? A whole list of potential murderers? Ha ha, the murder list. Your husband would love that, wouldn’t he? Anyway. That’s why you’re here. You have insight, I know it. Maybe there’s something you don’t realize you know. Maybe you heard something or saw something, or someone told you something back then. Even years later. Maybe we can discover it together. Is that possible?”
She saw Rachel’s face darken.
“Did you…” The younger woman looked at the ground, then at the ceiling. Then at her, a frown creasing her forehead. “Martha? I thought you—you said at lunch you chose me to work with you because I had potential. Because of my personal skills. Not because I knew a murder victim.”
Martha loved this, how people’s insecurities inevitably rose to the surface. How valuable they could be. How useful. She tried to look offended.
“Oh, Rachel. Don’t take everything personally. I meant exactly what I said. We can work together. That’s my goal. So. As a member of the good-guy team?” Martha smiled, letting her know they were sisters and confidantes. “Is there anything, maybe now seen through the filter of your legal training—anything new that leaps to mind? Any suspicions? Any suspects?”
Rachel had picked up Nick’s black marker and now rolled it between her palms. “Well? I’ve thought and thought about who the police suspected might have done it, and I don’t know if—I don’t want to speculate.”
“Oh, do. Go ahead.” Martha held the file in her lap. Leaned closer to Rachel, briefly, forging a connection. “And it’s not speculating. It’s brainstorming. Only between us. It’s what partners do.”
“Do you still believe it was Nina Rafferty?” Rachel pulled off the top of the marker, clicked it back on. Did it again. “I mean—I’m sorry, Martha. I know that was a defeat for you.”
“Guess you know that firsthand.” Martha couldn’t help it, though she knew it was unworthy. She reached over, gave Rachel a quick pat on her forearm. “Sorry, Rachel. Yes, I’m a tiny bit bitter. I’m only human. But I hate to lose. And I’m sure your husband feels the same way. Does he think Nina did it? Have you ever asked him? You can tell me. And keep going. Who else? You said you’d thought about it. I have, too.”
“I mean, who would it be?” Rachel said, her eyes widening. “Rafferty himself? I mean, that’s impossible. Isn’t it? Or do you suspect him? It has to be—her lover? Or some deviant stranger? But that person is out there. Do you or the police have any clues?”
Martha fiddled with the file strings, retying them slowly, considering Rachel’s questions. She placed the fat folder on the table beside her, rested one elbow on it. She could hear the buzz of the fluorescent lights, smell the sugar from the leftover doughnuts and the harsh aroma of the coffee dregs.
Places we never expected to be, Martha thought. If Nina Rafferty had been found guilty, or if she, Martha, had won that damn case, she’d never been sitting in this cramped office. As it was, that one loss had ripped Martha’s career out from under her. How could she have been so quick on the trigger, so supremely confident? How could she have let a killer go? She was older now, more experienced. Sometimes, she knew, a devastating loss was all one needed to insure a spectacular win. But it took time. And it took the correct puzzle pieces placed in the correct positions. On this bleak Sunday afternoon in a second-tier DA’s office, she was sitting across from one of those pieces.
“I’ve never forgotten this case,” Martha finally said. “Have you?”
Rachel fidgeted in her chair, winced when the wheels squeaked again. “Of course not.”
“That poor young woman. She was a public servant. Trying to make the world a fairer place, a safer place. Exactly as we are. If we don’t stand up for the victims, who will?”
“I know,” Rachel said.
“I need you to work on this with me.” Martha decided to lay it on the line. No reason to be coy. Justice had a peculiar persistence, and part of law enforcement was understanding the flow. “I can’t let this go. It’s my job to resolve this. That young woman’s death haunts my conscience. Her murderer is out there. It has almost—possessed me.”
“Me, too.” Rachel leaned forward, clasped her hands under her chin. “But Martha, why are you looking into this now? Are you reopening the case? Did something happen? How did you get Suffolk to hand this over?”
“Yes, Nick did a fine job organizing the files from over there.” One step at a time, Martha warned herself. She needed to be sure how trustworthy Rachel could be. How much she’d told her husband, and how much he’d told her. Or warned her. “The files were mine, after all. My case. I needed Nick to make sure everything was intact. Who knows who went through this stuff or who manhandled it. But Nick’s not the one best equipped to work on the case. You are.”
Rachel nodded, as if she were pondering this. Martha let her think she had a choice. Although as an intern, she didn’t, in reality, have much choice at all. Martha was her boss, and Martha controlled her future. And she knew it. Rachel certainly understood this was a chess game, as all cases were. She was a particularly interesting piece of it, Martha thought. Jack, too. She kept wondering if one was the pawn. Or if they both were.
“But, and forgive me, Martha—”
“There’s nothing to forgive. And I know you need to get up to speed. Of course. I’ll fill you in on details when the proper time comes.”
Rachel looked nervous, as if she was deciding whether to say something.
“You can ask me anything,” Martha said. She slid the file into her briefcase, then looked up. Pleasant and encouraging. Whatever Rachel wanted to say, it might be helpful.
“Ethically…”
Martha’s eyebrows went up, she could feel them. Okay, this surprised her. “Ethically what?”
“Is it ethically appropriate for me to work on this?”
“Appropriate.” Martha couldn’t believe this woman was taking this tack. She’d accepted this job. If she had any qualms, it would have been more appropriate to face them sooner.
“Well, yeah, I mean, you know. I mean, since I worked with Danielle. And all.”
“Did you kill Danielle Zander?” Martha asked. “Do you know who did?”
Deer in headlights was too clichéd. Rachel clearly wasn’t expecting that question, which is why Martha asked it.
“Do I know?” Rachel blinked, then again. “Why could you possibly think I would know? How?”
“Kidding.” Martha flipped a hand. “To make a point. Since you didn’t and you don’t know who did—you don’t, is that correct? Or you certainly would have mentioned that in your interview with Lewis Millin.” She flattened her palms on the tabletop. Her Harvard signet ring tapped on the surface, the red stone glistening under the lights. “Which, as I know, you did not. So, in reality, you’re the most valuable person we could have. You know the geography, you know the system, you know the players, you know the relationships. You know her lawyer, too, don’t you? And soon enough you’ll know everything in the file.”
“I didn’t know her, though, Ms.—Martha. Not well.”
“Then in that way you are precisely like the rest of us. And all the more reason why it’s ‘appropriate.’” Martha raised an eyebrow, to telegraph she wasn’t letting Rachel off the hook. “That you should be involved.”
“Okay. But.” Rachel gulped. “Could I ask if Nina Rafferty is still a suspect? Since my husband—”
“Who was not your husband at the time of her arraignment years ago, correct?”
“Well, no.” Rachel ducked her head, as if acknowledging the logic. “But what if, say, what if it turns out the evidence shows Nina Rafferty is guilty? I know we can bring charges again, if such new information is brought to light. But since Jack—”
“Forget Jack.” Martha Gardiner stood, picked up her briefcase with the red-tied file inside. “For once. Rachel, this is about you, not him. And it’s about justice for Danielle Zander. Try to remember that. It’s what I’m trying to teach you. Now I’m asking you. If Nina Rafferty is guilty, is that a problem for you?”
“Of course not,” Rachel said.