MARTHA GARDINER
“You’ll stay here,” Martha Gardiner told them. Andrew DiPrado and Eli Lansberry sat in the backseat of the tan four-door sedan, a lidded cardboard evidence box of files balanced between them. Nick Soderberg was beside her in the front seat. Martha hadn’t chosen this summer’s interns at random. Andrew was an ROTC MP, Eli a criminal research prodigy, and Nick—with his mother on the Suffolk County DA’s staff—her eyes and ears.
She’d kept Rachel back at the office this morning, doing busywork filing. This was no place for her. Not this time. “This may take a while,” she told her guys. “You wanted to be here, fine, but you can’t come in. You okay with that?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Of course they were okay.
The white-painted house across the suburban street—front bay window curtains drawn, porch empty, driveway with mailbox at the end, mown grass and a strip of pink peonies and geraniums at curbside—looked serene. Their Chevy was unmarked, though it wouldn’t fool anyone with half a brain. But their target might not be looking. Not that it would matter.
Most people had already left for work this time of the morning, or for school. The entire neighborhood seemed quiet. Empty. Good thing. Better this way.
Lieutenant Oscar Saldono was driving the state police white Crown Vic that would soon arrive and park behind them. Oz would do backup for Martha. Or Martha for him. Another car was on the way.
Martha twisted off the ignition. Powered down her car window. Almost time. She turned to face her team, one arm draped over the steering wheel.
“You’ve handled this matter like pros,” she said. “It’s complicated. And unusual. But you did it. Bravo.” She’d always believed in offering praise where praise was due—especially to interns. It conveyed a message to young people about how leadership worked. How the prosecution worked. With a mission. A goal. A search—no matter how disturbing—for justice. Evidence was evidence. The law was the law. The law doesn’t care who you are or who you know. And especially not what you want.
“It’s fair that you’re part of this now,” Martha went on. “Be patient a little longer. You’ll see how your hard work, your teamwork, is about to pay off.”
“Is anyone home?” Nick looked at the front door. They all did. “Should we make a call?”
Martha saw the calculation in his expression. The analysis. Exactly like his mother, who was waiting for word across town. This was the end—she hoped—of six shitty years. Of the case that got away. Almost. She lost this case once. She wasn’t about to lose it again.
“Well, how would you assess the situation?” Martha didn’t take her eyes off the house as she asked the three of them, but she put a smile in her voice. “A car is in the driveway. The newspaper—good thing some people never change—is also in the driveway.”
The three didn’t respond. They knew when to keep quiet. And they’d worked hard on this case. She’d taught them well. That’s one reason this had been successful. So far.
“What’s more, a no-knock warrant means?” she continued.
“If no one is there, we can go in,” Eli said. “However we have to do it.”
“Correct. However we have to do it.” Martha nodded, confirming. She often wondered what would happen to each summer’s crop of wannabes after they left. Her ducklings. Some would wind up on her side. Others, lured by the potential four-figure hourly rates and mahogany desks, would opt for the soul-crushing indentureship of a big firm. Others, “true believers” they’d call themselves, would descend into the double-talking legal underworld of the defense bar, congregating in moth-eaten walk-ups, foraging for clients, grateful when they became experienced enough at working the system to be appointed to the murder list, an opportunity to try to defend the dregs of society.
True believers. She’d once tried out the phrase on a murder-list lawyer. “What is it you believe in?” she’d asked. “Setting criminals free? That’s not what the law is about.”
But whoever it was had walked away. “We’ll find the bad guys, and convict them, in spite of you!” Martha had actually called it out after the guy. Embarrassing, maybe, but it mattered. Someone had to stand up for the victims, offer justice to mourners left behind. Martha would do whatever she could to even the score.
Jack Kirkland was an exception. He believed as much in his justice as Martha believed in hers. Now, though, he had a choice. He could either remain as part of the problem, or realize he’d be better off as part of the solution.
A car engine rumbled behind them. A glance in the rearview confirmed Oz Saldono had pulled up at the curb, the trooper’s front bumper a foot from their rear. The vehicles would get no closer to the house. If there were trouble, Martha didn’t want them stuck in the driveway. Even though it’d trap their target inside.
Oz appeared outside her door. “We a go?” His eyes stayed on the house across the street. “Think we’re expected?”
“You never know.” Martha Gardiner hadn’t seen a movement from inside, but that didn’t mean anything. “Maybe.”
“That’s why I have this.” Oz patted his weapon, holstered now, at his side.
“And that’s why I have this.” Martha, patting the papers in her jacket pocket, could not resist the gibe.
She did not slam the car door on the way out. Nodded at the three left behind. Andrew, eager for the collar, gave a thumbs-up, then stopped, looking embarrassed. They all fell silent. Watching.
In fifteen seconds, Martha and the trooper were on the front porch. Oz took a position behind her at five o’clock, an unnecessary precaution, but like everything they did, it had a purpose. Serving a search warrant, nothing was predictable.
Martha heard the doorbell echo down the hall. Exchanged an affirmative nod with Oz, who’d also heard the footsteps approaching. No need to say anything. Only two people lived here. They knew where the other one was.
She took out the warrant. Unfolded it. Three pages. The morning sun, slanting through some kind of trellised vine, spackled stripes on the white paper. Those pages meant that after all those years, Danielle Zander was about to be Martha’s case again. And hers to win.
The door opened. Halfway.
Martha watched Jack Kirkland’s face go pale, his eyes narrow, his mind working. He took in Oz, then Martha herself, then Oz again, and then the papers in Martha’s hand.
“Martha?” Kirkland’s hand stayed on the doorknob, the door not quite open. He was dressed for work, apparently, shirt and tie, suit jacket open. “What’s wrong? Is Rachel okay?”
“Jack Kirkland?” Martha had wondered how he’d deal with this. Was it out of the clear blue, a devastating gut punch? Or was he expecting it? Dreading it? Already prepared to fight it? No matter now. These wheels were in motion. “Your wife is fine. But we have a warrant to search the premises, and we will provide you a copy if you so desire.”
Martha held out the folded warrant, offering it to him as protocol required. Kirkland’s reaction would be a key. Would he ask why? Or simply take the thing?
“What’s this about?” He snatched the papers from her hand, flapped the pages open, and read them, his eyes skimming down the pages. “You’re sure Rachel is…”
His voice trailed off as he read the warrant. Martha knew precisely what Jack was reading. In an abundance of caution, she’d typed it herself. And gotten her pal Judge Saunders to sign it.
There is cause to believe that on the premises there is now concealed property described herein, to wit, notes from Thomas A. Rafferty, as well and including letters, emails, diaries, photographs, and possessions, including jewelry, connected with him or referring to him and others on his staff or related to him during his term in office as the senate president, clothing, computer data, thumb drives, telephone, cell phones, answering machine results, files, or any other personal effects of Rachel Minifee North and/or Jack Morgan Kirkland that could be used as evidence in a criminal prosecution regarding the death of Danielle Zander.
“My possessions?” Kirkland took a step forward, away from the door and out onto the porch.
“You gonna let us in, sir?” Oz had stepped up behind Gardiner, now standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her as he inquired, effectively blocking Jack’s exit.
But Martha had the next move.
“So that’s a surprise?” she asked. “Our interest in you? But our interest in Rachel is not?”
“Bullshit,” Kirkland said. “Where is she?”
“We can talk all you want,” she replied. “But inside. While Lieutenant Saldono is executing.”
“Bull.” But Kirkland, scowling, stepped back, allowing the two into the dim hallway of the house.
Martha took in hardwood floors, a modest chandelier, a carpeted stairway going up, silver-framed photographs lining one wall. Kirkland had entered the living room, where he sat, radiating anger, on a brown leather armchair.
She stood in the entryway, facing a photo-covered baby grand, as Kirkland’s eyes followed the statie tramp up the stairway and go out of sight.
“Martha? What the hell are you thinking?” Kirkland had pulled his cell phone from his suit jacket pocket. “I’m calling her.”
“Put that away,” she said. Kirkland put it on the coffee table instead. He’s screwing with me, Martha thought. But if Rachel called him, she’d see the caller ID. So all good.
“Martha. Tell me. Does Rachel know about this?”
“About what?” As always, Martha had to admit, Kirkland had asked the pivotal question. She was surprised Jack was talking at all. Most lawyers would have shut the hell up. “About the warrant? Or about the murder of Danielle Zander?”
“Bull.” Kirkland shook his head.
Both lawyers looked up at the same time. Upstairs, a door had slammed. Then neither spoke as the noise from above continued, footsteps, drawers opening, and closet doors. Eli Lansberry had pulled the home’s layout for her from the town assessor’s records—three bedrooms upstairs, a bath, a hallway. Downstairs, it was living room, dining room, kitchen, den, and another bathroom. Only two residents. This wouldn’t take long, Martha predicted. Unless it did.
Kirkland had steepled his palms, silently tapping one forefinger against the other. Head down, he stared at his own fingertips. Muffled footsteps moved across the ceiling above them. Kirkland’s shoulders rose and fell. He took a long breath, then looked Martha straight in the eye. “Is she in on this?”
Martha needed to keep him talking. Even slippery Jack Kirkland could make a mistake, especially juggling a fraught situation like this. Now was the time to play husband and wife against each other.
“‘In’ on what? On helping me get this warrant? Or in on the murder? What—are you afraid she’s throwing you under the bus? And waiting back at the office to take you into custody? Rachel North, accusing her own husband of murder. Is that what you mean? Is she right?”
Martha read the apparent confusion on Kirkland’s face and needed to decide whether he was genuinely angry. Or genuinely complicit.
According to Detective Lewis Millin’s notes, Kirkland and Rachel had been together when the body was found. Very convenient.
And gotten married soon after. Again. Convenient.
Whatever Kirkland knew, he could not be compelled to tell. Convenient.