David Ellis - In the Company of Liars

“Oh my God,” he mumbles.

“Hold up.” McCoy waves her hand furiously. “Hold up. I’m only asking about Doctor Lomas because I need to know who you spoke to. That’s it, Mr. Benjamin. Don’t connect him with Sam Dillon’s death. Really. There’s no connection there.”

There is such a thing as protesting too much, and McCoy wants to dance that fine line. This is what she feared when she brought up the topic, but it was too important not to address. She cannot let Walter Benjamin blame himself for this. She cannot ask him to bear that kind of a burden.

She will bear it herself. The death of Sam Dillon was her fault.

“Who have you spoken to in the company since this investigation began?” she asks.

Walter Benjamin’s face is flushed. He is still grappling with the thought he has just had.

“Did I get Sam ki-” His throat closes. He places a hand on his chest, as if struggling for breath. “Did I-”

“No, you most certainly did not. Really, Mr. Benjamin. This had nothing to do with you. Now, could you answer my question?”

“Who-have I spoken to at the company? Well, our CEO. Our chief counsel. That’s it.”

“Doctor Lomas?”

“No. I haven’t spoken to Neil. Should I-what do you want me to do?”

“Don’t go out of your way to initiate conversation. What I would like for you to say is, ‘There’s something going on in my department. I’ve been instructed not to discuss it.’ Just something like that. To anyone who asks, not just Doctor Lomas. I’m sure Mr. Salters here has already given you that advice.”

“Okay.” He nods. “Okay.”

“You’ve been put on a paid leave, correct?”

“Yes, I have.”

“You’ll be back soon, Mr. Benjamin. No one thinks you had anything to do with the bribing of those senators, and we’ll make that clear when the investigation is over.”

Benjamin brings a trembling hand to his face. “That’s-very nice to hear.”

“But you will comply with what I’ve asked?”

At this point, Walter Benjamin looks like he just completed a marathon. He would probably agree to stand on his head if she asked. “I will repeat what you said. ‘It has something to do with my department. I’ve been instructed not to discuss it.’ I’m not talking to anyone, Agent McCoy. Believe me.”

“Thank you, sir. Thanks, Mr. Salters. I think that’s all I have for you.”

Benjamin and his attorney stand up, the former with some difficulty. He looks at McCoy as she gathers her things.

“Neil?” he asks.

“Doctor Lomas has nothing to do with this,” she assures him. “Forget about Neil.”

She hopes that he will take her advice. She has thought enough about Doctor Neil Lomas for every man, woman, and child in this city.

Harrick shows them out, then returns a moment later. McCoy has not left her spot at the table. He places a hand on her shoulder.

“He’s been a good boy,” Harrick says. He’s referring to the wiretap of Walter Benjamin’s phone. They are taking no chances.

“Walter Benjamin is a decent enough guy caught up in something ugly.” McCoy tries to get out of her chair but stops. She is weary, emotionally and physically exhausted, and this thing has hardly begun.

“I didn’t mean to put that bug in his ear,” she says. “Now he thinks that what he told Doctor Lomas might have gotten Sam Dillon killed.”

“You had no choice, Jane. We had to be thorough.”

“You see the look on his face?” She shakes her head. “On the mere suggestion that he might be responsible for what happened to Dillon? I’ve never seen anyone so tortured.”

Harrick takes the seat next to her. “I have,” he says. “I’ve seen it on your face every single day for the last month.”

The firm’s party after veto session: Sam was a bit drunk but shy, nevertheless, as he broached the idea of dating me. It felt weird but exciting. Even feeling weird, itself, was exciting. It made me realize how boring my life had become.

Meet for a drink at Roy’s: Our first date! Sam had a Jack and coke. I had a glass of wine. We approached it up front, the issue with Mat. Sam brought it up. We lost track of time and missed our dinner reservation. We ended up going to a diner, The Mad Hatter, for a late-night dinner. I wanted to invite him home but didn’t.

The lake: The next day, I had done so much talking about jogging, he invited me to his place and we ran around his lake. It was freezing but beautiful. He made me breakfast afterward and really screwed it up. The eggs were runny and the bacon soggy. It was the best breakfast I ever had. I wanted to sleep with him so badly but I left in the afternoon.

Allison pulls away from the desk and leaves the room. She feels dizzy. She lowers herself to a crouch and takes a moment. “Do you remember that?” she mumbles to him. “Do you remember that moment, after breakfast, and we were all sweaty from the run, and you mentioned the shower? Do you have any idea how much I wanted to get in there with you?”

She feels the pain in her stomach. She needs to eat today, or it will be forty-eight hours without food. She also needs to get back to her original purpose for coming upstairs and working on the computer, not the memories she was composing, and certainly not whispering sweet nothings to a man who is dead.

He is dead. She needs that fact to penetrate her skull.

The problem is, she has no pictures of Sam. Not a single photo. It’s probably because they were so covert, initially, not wanting to flaunt a relationship in Mat’s face, and photography was a form of documentation. She has nothing to look at but what’s in her mind’s eye, and that will fade like everything else.

So this is her scrapbook, her reminder of every day they spent together. But now she needs to get back to it. She switches screens, from the memorial she is composing to her dialogue.

MAT: You know what you should do. You should blame me. You should say I killed Sam. Blame the empty chair.

ALLISON: Don’t be silly.

MAT: I mean, at trial. Your lawyer should point at me. Put me on the stand. I’ll refuse to answer. Take the Fifth.

ALLISON: It would never work, Mat. The judge would never buy it.

MAT: It’s worth a shot.

ALLISON: What about your career? Your reputation?

MAT: I don’t have a career anymore.

ALLISON(pondering, troubled): We can’t do it. Pointing at you would be pointing at Jessica.

Allison arches her back, stretches her arms. This is too forced. Not natural enough. That’s what dialogue is all about, right? Writing how people talk.

She goes back to the other screen, but she can’t get Sam out of her head.

“There are things you don’t know, Allison,” Sam had told her. This was-what?-maybe two weeks before he died. Yes. Two weeks. The following week was the phone call. She had pushed him to elaborate. Things had been going so well, and now-now they seemed different.

“It’s something I’m going to have to-I guess you could say I’m having an ethical dilemma,” he told her, sighing through the phone.

And the next week-a Wednesday, she remembers. The Wednesday before he died. Another phone call, even though Sam was in the city.

“I-I can’t explain what’s going on, Allison.”

“This is that ‘ethical dilemma’ you were talking about?”

“I really-I can’t talk to you about it.”

“Something’s going on,” she said.

“Yes. You’re right. And when the time comes, I’ll tell you. Not now.”

“I’m worried about you,” she told him.

“Oh, Jesus.” Allison wipes the sweat from her forehead. She can’t keep doing this, torturing herself like this. However difficult it may be, she must focus.