Brad Meltzer - Dead Even

“Can you please transfer me to Accounts Receivable?” Sara asked.

After a short pause, a female voice answered, “Hello, this is Roberta.”

“Hi, Roberta,” Sara said in her most congenial tone. “This is Kathleen calling from Jared Lynch’s office. I was just wondering if you could help me find some information on a client who-”

“Who the hell is this?” Roberta asked.

Panicking, Sara said, “It’s Kathleen.”

“Kathleen who?”

“Kathleen Clark,” Sara said, remembering Kathleen’s last name from last year’s holiday card list.

“Well, that’s real funny, because Kathleen Clark was just down here two minutes ago buying some stamps,” Roberta explained. “Now do you want to start over, or do you want me to call the cops?”

Without saying another word, Sara hung up.

A minute later, Guff walked in without knocking. Taking one look at Sara, he asked, “Who sunk your battleship?”

“No one,” Sara said. “I just tried calling Jared’s law firm, and-”

“They busted you, didn’t they?” Guff asked, shaking his head. “I told you not to do that. It’s unethical and you know it.”

“Oh, and suddenly you’re Mr. Ethics?”

“Sara, I know who I am. I know my faults. I over-generalize, I’m generally pessimistic, I don’t like kids, I don’t floss, I don’t believe in spontaneous combustion, I think most people are fad-following sheep waiting for their televisions to show them the next great logo to plaster on their chests, and I think guys with goatees are fundamentally stupid. But I also know my days are numbered. And I understand, deep down in my black heart, that when my time has come, my reckoning will have paid attendance. Just to torture me, they’ll televise it. But I can live with that because I understand myself. I know my lot in life.”

“And I don’t?”

“No. You don’t,” Guff said. “You’re an ADA now. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

“Guff, have you forgotten what happened yesterday? That guy threatened Jared and put my Pop in the hospital.”

“You don’t know-”

“I do know,” Sara insisted. “I saw him with my own eyes and heard him with my own ears. It doesn’t take a genius to put the rest together. We’re talking about the two most important people in my life. If I lost either of them, and it was my fault, I…” She paused. “That’s when it’s over for me. So when the consequence is my family’s safety, calling my husband’s firm is hardly the sin of the century.”

“All it takes is one snowflake to start the avalanche.”

“Guff, please – I’m having a hard enough time with this as it is.”

“I know you are, and I know how much they mean to you. I’m just trying to watch your back.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that,” Sara said.

“Meanwhile, as long as we’re on the topic of lying, why didn’t you tell Conrad about the doorknob guy?”

“Because I knew what his reaction would be. If he found out this guy threatened me, he’d be all over the case, lecturing me on how ADAs can’t be intimidated. And you and I both know that the fewer people I tell, the more I protect Jared. Besides, I’m not so sure I want him knowing. He’s been a bit big in the mouth lately.”

“Hold on. Are you saying you don’t trust Conrad?”

“I trust him, but he has been yakking too much to Victor.”

“C’mon, he’s not revealing anything that’s private.”

“My personal life isn’t private? My success on this case isn’t private?”

“Sara, he’s just shooting the shit and you know it. Office gossip rules our world.”

“But don’t you think Victor is-”

“You know I think Victor’s being uncomfortably nosy. But that has nothing to do with Conrad.”

“Fine, I get your point,” Sara said. “But I still don’t want to tell him. Now did you get the information from Crime Scene?”

“At your service,” Guff said, handing Sara the manila folder he was holding. “One fingerprint test coming up.”

“What’d it say?” Sara asked, opening the folder.

“The doorknob had a clear print, but it didn’t make any sense,” Guff said. “They matched it perfectly, and it led to a guy named Sol Broder.”

“Who’s Sol Broder?”

“That’s the thing. His picture didn’t look like your sketch, but when they ran his name through BCI, Sol came up with a rap sheet that reads like a Scorsese script.”

“That’s great. So what’s the problem?”

“Well, I don’t know how else to say this, but… Sol Broder died three years ago.”

Sara dropped the folder on her desk. “You’re telling me the guy I spoke to, the guy who pushed Pop down the stairs, is a dead man?”

“Either that, or a really good magician.”

Sitting in the back of his town car, Rafferty was annoyed. Born and raised in Hoboken, New Jersey, only three houses away from where Frank Sinatra was born, Rafferty had spent most of his young-adult life trying to avoid not only the multiple Italian boyfriends of his Irish mother, but also the lower-middle-class legacy of his hometown. The first in his family to go to college, he had escaped early and never looked back. He won a local scholarship to Brooklyn College, but after one year transferred to Princeton. Always bigger, always better.

At Princeton, Rafferty’s roommate was a loudmouthed little screamer who also happened to be the heir to a well-established magazine publishing company. From him, Rafferty learned how to speak, how to eat, and how to dress. All of it meant to impress. During winter break of that same year, Rafferty was invited to his roommate’s getaway house in Greens Farms, Connecticut. There he met his roommate’s father, who offered Rafferty his first job in the publishing industry: a summer internship in the subscriptions department. For Rafferty, the old-boy network was no longer just a rumor; it was within reach.

The only negative aspect of the job was that the low pay forced Rafferty to live at home with his mother. After a winter in Greens Farms, a spring trip to Martha’s Vineyard, and a year at Princeton, the return to Hoboken was crushing. In Rafferty’s mind, it wasn’t where he belonged. After that summer, he never spent another night in his hometown. Always bigger, always better. So as his car wove its way through Hoboken’s narrow streets, Rafferty had a hard time concealing his anger.

From Manhattan, Hoboken was only a ten-minute drive through the Lincoln Tunnel, and Rafferty stared out the window the entire time. When the car reached its destination, he realized much had changed. From the newspapers, he knew that Hoboken was now populated by two polar-opposite communities: the deep-rooted Italians who claimed favorite son Sinatra as their hero, and the up-and-coming urban professionals who believed living in Hoboken was the best way to avoid paying New York City taxes. Riding through the streets he grew up on, Rafferty could see the results of gentrification – the main streets were now filled with yuppie cafés, the side streets still had the mom-and-pop bakeries, and the back streets, as always, had the local neighborhood kids, talking about the ways they were going to break free.

As the car approached 527 Willow Avenue, Rafferty said, “This is it. Double-park near the funeral home.” The driver followed Rafferty’s instructions and pulled up in front of the funeral home on the end of the block.

“When was the last time you saw him?” Kozlow asked as the car came to a stop.

Rafferty didn’t answer. He opened the door and stepped outside.

Following Rafferty toward the four-story brick brownstone, Kozlow asked, “Did you tell him we’re coming?”

Rafferty pushed the buzzer for apartment eight. “I’d rather catch him unprepared.”