David Ellis - In the Company of Liars

I always have in the past,she wanted to answer but didn’t. It was odd enough that Sam was a colleague of Mat’s, a fellow lobbyist. She didn’t need to refer to her ex-husband. That could break the sensation. Or would it? Might it add an element of danger? Intrigue?

“I haven’t dated in twenty-one years,” she answered, referring to Mat anyway. It was unavoidable. Somehow she didn’t care, and she felt a breath of liberation in not caring. An even greater lift because the man standing before her at the reception didn’t seem to be conflicted, either.

“I could see where it might be awkward,” he said.

She could see that Sam was tipsy. The end of session, even the small veto session, usually prompted small parties, and Sam’s firm had planned this event as a holiday party. Allison had only arrived about an hour ago, on Jessica’s invitation, but Sam and some of the others had clearly gotten an earlier start.

“Because my daughter works for you?” she asked.

Sam demurred. Shook his scotch, let the ice clink against the glass. His suit was a soft brown, over a crisply ironed shirt, bright red tie. He looked like a lobbyist but he didn’t look-what was the word?-slick. Had an ease about him.

Allison glanced over Sam’s shoulder at Jessica, who was standing among other interns her age, laughing at a joke.

“Jessica’s very talented,” Sam said, avoiding the subject as Allison had, in a way. She felt a wave of disappointment, wondered if the subject had been forever changed.

Sam followed her eyes, turned his head, then returned to Allison without looking at her. He raised his glass to his mouth as he began to utter the words.

“It’s probably not-”

She cut him off with her own words, surprising herself. They came out without warning, something she had never experienced before. She would have to get used to “firsts” again.

“We would need to be discreet,” she interrupted. “For the time being.”

Sam’s glass was suspended at his lips. She saw a flicker in his eyes, a slight reaction at his mouth, before he shook the ice and took a drink, eyes fully focused on her.

They are back. There was a time, after the arrest and the arraignment, when the press left Allison largely to herself. It was big news, sensational stuff; then it was nothing until the trial approached-until then, on to the next salacious scandal. But since the trial began last week, they have returned with a flourish, the news trucks lining her street, the reporters standing on the curb, hovering over the property line of her house. Cameras filming her whenever she leaves the house, which is hardly ever.

It is, in a way, a very public place to meet, but in truth it’s preferable to most spots. Since February, when this started, they have followed her almost everywhere; if she wandered into a coffee shop or cafй downtown, the pack would be close behind, staring through windows. But for some reason, they have never followed her into a grocery store. Who knows-maybe the store manager would have expelled them. For whatever reason, the media probably found it odd to follow a woman through the aisles of a grocery store as she filled her cart.Allison, why the scented fabric softener? Have you always used Tide? Why Folgers over Maxwell House? The breaking news on cable television:“We are here live at the Countryside Grocery Store on the city’s northwest side. Bob, we have just received word that murder suspect Allison Pagone-hold on Bob, I’m getting something”-the reporter touches her earpiece, then nods triumphantly-“yes, Bob, we can now confirm that Allison Pagone has decided to go with the sugarless gum Trident as her breath freshener, baffling experts who had predicted cinnamon Altoids.” The newspaper headlines:PAGONE SPLURGES ON FRESH FRUIT.MURDER SUSPECT: “I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S NOT BUTTER!”

She carries a hand cart with her to the small coffee shop inside the store. She finds him there, as she has every Sunday.

“Hey there,” Larry Evans says to her. He is dressed casually as always, a button-down shirt and jeans, baseball cap.

“Hey yourself.” There is a cup of coffee, black, awaiting her. She takes a sip and receives a jolt.

Larry Evans gives her the thumbs-up. She isn’t sure of the meaning but she can guess.

“Don’t tell me the trial’s going well,” she says to him.

“I think it is.” Larry moves in his seat with excitement. “I think you have them right where you want them.”

“Like Butch Cassidy had ’em right where he wanted ’em.”

“Allison.” Larry throws his hands up. “They say you were dumped by Sam and so you killed him? Come on. That’s all they can say? That’s weak.”

“The judge seems persuaded.”

“Well, sure-I mean, without any response, it might seem convincing. But you have plenty to say in response.” There is a hint of challenge in what he is saying. He has come to learn how stubborn Allison can be. “You start your defense tomorrow, right?”

“Larry.” Allison sighs. “They have so much evidence against me. Physical evidence. A motive. An alibi that blew up in my face. I have an answer for all of that? I have smoke and mirrors. My defense is one giant diversion tactic.”

The prosecution’s case rested on Friday, after three days of damning evidence. It gave the news outlets the weekend to play over all of the proof implicating Allison in Sam Dillon’s murder.

Larry doesn’t have an answer, of course. He doesn’t know how this all played out. Even Larry, the optimist, the one who has rallied to her cause, cannot explain away the evidence placing Allison at the scene of the murder, or her argument with Sam beforehand, to say nothing of the alibi fiasco.

“Testify, Allison,” he says. “Tell them what really happened.”

She smiles at him. “Larry, I want to win this case as much as you want me to win. I’m just trying to be pragmatic. Their case is solid. And I’m not going to testify, because that could just make things worse.”

“How so?”

“I can’t-I really can’t get into that. Suffice it to say, I can’t testify.”

“You’re protecting someone,” he gathers.

“I really-” Allison sighs. “I really can’t go there.”

“You still haven’t shown your lawyer what I wrote up for you, have you?” Larry shakes his head in frustration. “These-the prosecutors don’t have a clue, Allison. Either they haven’t figured out what I have or they don’t want to talk about it because it hurts their case. I’m guessing the former is true. They don’t know. Which means you can hammer them.”

“You know that what I tell my lawyer is off limits, Larry. That was the deal-”

“Okay, okay. I don’t want to know what you tell him.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I don’t get you, though. You’ve got a ticket and you won’t punch it.”

Allison drinks her coffee and looks around at the shoppers, their happy-go-lucky lives and their silly, frivolous concerns.

“So all you’re going to say in your defense,” he asks, “is that some unnamed, unknown person connected to the bribery scandal killed Sam Dillon because they were afraid he might squeal on them? That’s it?”

“I think it could be convincing,” she says.

“No, you don’t.” The heat comes to Larry’s face. “No, you don’t. You have names and you won’t give them.” He drills a finger on the table. “I think you know, Allison. I think you know and you won’t say. And I don’t get that. I have no idea what’s going on.”

Allison smiles at him weakly.

You certainly don’t, she thinks to herself. And she will never tell him.

Jane McCoy looks over the expansive office of the FBI’s special agent-in-charge for the city’s field office. The desk is oak, large and polished like a military spit-shine, reflecting the ceiling lights. The carpet is blood-red. The bookshelves along the wall are immaculate, adorned with manuals and a few well-placed photographs. The guy wants to impress, he succeeded.