David Ellis - In the Company of Liars

“And listen to me,” she says, on her way out. “You lay a hand on Jackson out there and I’ll find you. We understand each other?”

“I got you, lady. Just go.”

She heads back down the stairs and re-dresses, her jacket, heels, and baseball cap. She emerges from the apartment to find little Jackson, wearing a soulful expression with his hands still plastered to his cheeks. She removes two twenties from her pocket and puts them in his hand. Call it severance pay.

“We’re all good, Jackson,” she says to him. “Take off now. Stay out of trouble.”

Jackson lets out a moan.

“And the three of clubs is the middle card,” she says to him.

So the question is,” Larry Evans says, “why did Flanagan-Maxx hire only Sam Dillon to get the Divalpro legislation passed? Dillon was a Republican, so he was the natural to work the House and the governor. But what about the Senate? Why didn’t they hire anyone to work the Senate?”

“That’s an easy question,” Allison says. “The Senate Dems don’t like Flanagan-Maxx. They won’t like this legislation. So they use someone else to push the Senate.”

Larry sips his coffee, clearly unsatisfied with the answer. “They funnel money to the Midwestern Alliance for Affordable Health Care? Their arch-enemy, suddenly their best friend.” Larry points at his notes. “A quarter of a million dollars to MAAHC last year? That’s how much F-M paid to MAAHC, last year. Did you know that?”

Larry has been reading the reports filed with the state board of elections, as well as Flanagan-Maxx’s financial statements for the previous year.

“And, lo and behold,” he continues, “MAAHC turns around and gives a hundred grand to Mat Pagone to lobby the Senate for the Divalpro legislation. House Bill 1551.”

“So?” Allison shrugs. “Seniors want Divalpro.”

“Bullshit. Every seniors’ group except MAAHC was opposed. The generics would be every bit as good, and everyone knows it.”

“Okay, fine.” Allison tucks a hair behind her ear. “So, Flanagan-Maxx knows they have no friends in the Senate, they want a different face supporting it. They kick some money to MAAHC to support the legislation. MAAHC uses some of that money to hire Mat, they keep the rest of it. I still haven’t heard anything illegal.”

Larry works his jaw, drums his fingers on the table. He disagrees with Allison, clearly, and she senses more. She also senses that Larry knows Allison knows more than she is saying.

“Flanagan-Maxx didn’t want its fingerprints on the Senate,” he says. “They knew what Mat would have to do, and they wanted a wall between themselves and Mat. That’s why they didn’t hire Mat to begin with, straight up. They used MAAHC as that wall.”

The grocery store is busy today. So is the cafй. This has become a place to socialize, where women catch up with each other while keeping one eye on their wandering kids.

“Tell your lawyer,” Larry says. “Tell him what I found out.”

“What I do with my lawyer is my business. We agreed on that. You don’t talk to my lawyer. You talk to me.”

Larry reaches for his jacket, a light one hanging over the back of his chair. “You aren’t going to tell him,” he gathers.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Why won’t you tell him? Here.” Larry pushes the documents in front of Allison, printouts from the state board of elections’ website and financial documents on Flanagan-Maxx. He points at the documents as he hikes his laptop bag over his shoulder.

“That’s all you need, right there, for an acquittal,” he says. “And you won’t use it.”

This is McCoy.”

“Agent McCoy? Roger Ogren. I see weekends are no better for you than me.”

“They might be a little better for me, Roger. You’re on trial in a couple of weeks. And call me Jane.”

McCoy tucks the phone into her shoulder and reaches for the cheeseburger on her desk. She is losing weight and can’t afford to. A little midday fast-food is the ticket. Only one she knows.

“Yes, that’s right,” Ogren says, “I’m on trial in less than two weeks. I’m wondering if you’re aware of any surprises in store for me.”

McCoy almost coughs up her sandwich.

“Nothing I know of,” she says.

“You’re being coy, Jane.”

“I’m not, really.”

“Unless my memory fails me,” he says, “you have Allison Pagone’s home bugged. You can hear everything she says in there with that fancy eavesdropping equipment.”

McCoy squeezes her burger, causing a dollop of mustard to fall on her jeans.

“Shit,” she says, not to Ogren.

McCoy didn’t want to talk to Roger Ogren, or any state or county official, for that matter, about the fact that Allison Pagone’s house was wired for sound. But the subject had to be broached. Not long after getting Allison Pagone in their sights for Sam Dillon’s murder, the prosecutors and police executed a warrant to search her house. McCoy’s best guess was that they wouldn’t even notice the eavesdropping equipment. But she couldn’t be sure. She and Irv Shiels debated it. They most certainly couldn’t have loose lips discussing the fact that Allison Pagone’s house was miked up. That, obviously, would defeat the purpose of eavesdropping. So the two of them went to the county attorney himself, Elliot Raycroft, and told him. They also threatened, cajoled, and ultimately stroked him into understanding that they couldn’t tell his office a damn thing about what they were doing, and in return, he had to keep quiet about the bug. The conversation was about as enjoyable as eating sand.

She doesn’t like the fact that Ogren’s even raising the topic, but she’s not surprised.

“Surely she must be saying something, Jane. Something I can use.”

“She doesn’t talk about the case in her home,” McCoy says. “Not anything substantive, at least. Not anything that concerns you.”

“Anything that concernsyou?” he ventures.

“Maybe.” McCoy wipes at her jeans but it’s pointless. She’ll have to do a load of wash tonight, because these are her only good pair of jeans.

“Look, she talks in her house, obviously,” McCoy elaborates. “But she seems to limit her discussions about the case to her lawyer’s office. She doesn’t have many visitors, and she’s certainly not going to start talking about her case to anyone. If there was something there, I’d tell you, Roger. I’ve told you before, haven’t I?”

“That’s why I called.”

“Well, there’s nothing new to report. I’m looking at her for something unrelated to this murder. I haven’t heard anything from her in that house that is remotely of interest to you. Scout’s honor.”

“You were a Scout?”

“I was a Brownie for about two days. I hated it. Hey, Roger?”

“Yes?”

“You’re still keeping quiet about this? No one else in your office knows that we have her place miked up, right?”

“Yes, Jane,” Ogren replies with no shortage of condescension. “I’m keeping quiet.”

Have a seat, Allison, please. Get you anything?

” “I’m fine, thanks.”

Ron McGaffrey sets his considerable frame behind his desk and dons his reading glasses. He lifts a document and reads from it.“Best Served Cold?” he asks.

Allison starts. “What-what did you say?”

“Were you writing a new book with that title?”

“Well, yes,” she says, the heat coming to her face. “That was the working title. How do you know about that?”

“Roger Ogren sent it over this morning,” he says. “Seems it was deleted from your computer? Removed from your hard drive?”