David Ellis - In the Company of Liars

“You can’t do that,” Allison says. “You can’t. I have to be part of a plea agreement.”

“C’mon, Mrs. Pagone, you were a public defender once.” McCoy shrugs. “I’ll get the county attorney to drop the 311 request. He doesn’t need a plea from you. He’ll just tell the court that he no longer wishes to seek the death penalty. He has total discretion on that. He’ll give his word to your husband-sorry, yourex -husband-and I’m sure Mat will sing like a canary for me.”

Allison looks around the room, flaps her arms nervously so they smack against her legs.

Nothing on Mat.

“You don’t have any proof against Mat, or you wouldn’t be here.”

McCoy sighs. “I don’t have enough to put him away,” she concedes. “And that’s only because Sam Dillon is dead. So I figure, Mat owes you one for that. He bribed a bunch of senators and you killed the only person who could put him away. Really, he’s getting a pretty good deal here. You kill the guy who was going to roll on him, the least he can do is keep you off death row.”

Allison sits back down on the couch. “How can you do this to people?”

“How can I do this to people who commit murder and bribe politicians? It’s not that hard, frankly.” She claps her hands together again. “I’ll give you a couple of days to think about it. Your trial’s in recess until Wednesday, right? So how’s Wednesday night for you?” she asks, as if she’s scheduling a dinner. “Okay. Wednesday. I’ll come by after court. But I’m telling you, Allison. If you think you can stonewall me, you’re not as smart as you seem to be. Mat will take my deal whether you want him to or not.”

McCoy gathers her bag and nods at Allison.

“I have a daughter,” Allison says. “She’s already going to lose her mother.”

McCoy deflates. Allison can imagine what the agent is thinking.This is what criminals always do. They rob, cheat, steal, maim, and kill, but as soon as the hand of justice grabs the back of their necks, they’re begging for mercy.

“Wednesday night,” McCoy repeats, on her way out.

They just got this last night,” says Special Agent Owen Harrick. He pops a stick of cinnamon gum into his mouth and offers one to Jane McCoy.

McCoy refuses the gum and works on her milkshake. There’s fast food all around the federal building downtown, irresistible temptations to Jane. Harrick is more of a health-food nut, but he’s also junior to her. Choice of restaurants, when they’re working late-which is most of the time-is one of the few arenas in which Jane McCoy pulls rank. Harrick had settled for a chicken sandwich and a side salad. Jane, in a halfhearted nod to dietary considerations, skipped the entrees altogether and just got a large chocolate milkshake.

Harrick lifts the remote and points it at the VCR in the corner of the conference room. “Ready?”

McCoy sucks the last of the shake, then slurps through the empty straw. Harrick looks at her with bemusement.

“Relax,” she says. “So I’ve had my dinner, gimme my movie.”

“Dinner,”he chides. “Two scoops of ice cream with milk.” He points the remote at the screen. “Lights, camera… action.”

The picture is grainy black-and-white. No surprise there. The Bureau has always focused more on discretion than quality in their surveillance equipment. You want a camcorder that fits into your pocket with a zoom lens that can pick up the wink of an eye from a hundred yards away, no problem. But you want a picture that could compete with the quality of a summer vacation video by grandpa, call Miramax, not the federal government.

“The Countryside Grocery Store,” McCoy says. “Corner of Riordan and-what’s that?”

“Apple,” Harrick says. “Riordan and Apple.”

The running time in the corner of the video shows that it was taken last night, just before midnight. The video shows a car parking at a bank, across the street from the grocery store, and the trunk popping. A man emerges from the car, goes to the trunk, then walks up to the store carrying a gym bag. The man on the screen leaves the camera’s vision, disappearing into the back of the store.

McCoy blows out a nervous sigh.

Owen Harrick fast-forwards through a good amount of dead space. Jane watches the seconds then minutes fly by in the corner of the screen.

“Here,” says Harrick, returning the tape to “play” mode. The tape shows the man reemerging from behind the grocery store with his gym bag and walking quickly back to his car. “That’s it. He was out there for less than fifteen minutes.”

Jane stares at the empty screen, feels the adrenaline pump through her. She rubs her hands together nervously. “Okay,” she murmurs. She tosses the empty milkshake container into the trash. “I’m going to go see Allison Pagone,” she says. “Tomorrow morning. A nice, early Saturday-morning meeting.”

“You think she’s in danger?”

McCoy shrugs. She will no longer give predictions on that subject.

Countryside. Apple. Riordan. Yellow.

Countryside Grocery Store. Corner of Apple and Riordan. Delivery entrance in back. Yellow post.

Ram Haroon is vaguely aware of this grocery chain in the Midwest, and he knows Riordan Avenue. But he doesn’t know Apple Street. He has to stop and ask for directions. He would prefer not to make a point of asking anyone, but he’s out of options. Riordan Avenue extends from the lake to the suburbs. Apple Street could intersect anywhere along that route. The store is probably close to Allison Pagone’s home but he simply doesn’t know. He thought of going on the internet to find all the Countryside locations, or even to use MapQuest, but that leaves a trail. Sloppy. There is not even a single piece of paper with this information, because he has memorized it.

Countryside. Apple. Riordan. Yellow.

But now, having avoided all paper trails, he is forced to ask a convenience-store clerk for the information. Not ideal, especially when it turns out he’s only a couple of blocks away from his destination.

So he finds it, finally. There is a small bank across the street from it. He chooses to park in that empty lot, in a position where he is facing the grocery store. He takes a while, a good five minutes, and looks over the store. The lights are out. The parking lot is empty. It’s half past eleven, and the store has presumably long been closed.

After another five minutes have passed, he pops the trunk and gets out of the car. Inside the trunk, in a gym bag, are a small hand-shovel and two plastic freezer bags. He puts on his brown gardening gloves, which will serve a dual purpose here.

Delivery entrance. Yellow.

Haroon goes to the back of the store, the delivery entrance as promised. Large double doors, a metal ramp running up to an elevated dock, level with the back doors. The rear of the building is spacious and well lit, two characteristics that he would prefer were otherwise. An old wire fence runs along the border of the property, propped up by several posts.

One of them, not far from the ramp, is the only one painted yellow.

He walks over to that spot and feels around with his hands to no avail. He places his shovel cautiously into the ground and digs softly until he hits something solid.

And then he smiles.

Ram Haroon sits at the counter of the diner and rotates the coffee cup on its saucer. He steals a look at his watch, sees that it’s eight on the dot. By now, most of the families have left the restaurant, most of the little kiddies. There are some couples lining the booths, mostly older folks, one pair of teenagers on a cheap date.