Linda Fairstein - The Kills

I thanked her and got back into the car and headed for the hilltop high above the water that surrounded my lovely old farmhouse on all sides, grateful for the placement the Mayhew farmers had given their home almost two centuries earlier, as the waves picked up steam on the shores below. I had expanded and rebuilt the sturdy structure, but it still retained the charm and character that came from its original bones.

My heart beat more rapidly as I made the turn off State Road. I thought of my friend Isabella Lascar, who had died on the very same path just a few years ago.

I was distracted by the movement of a large dark body in the bushes ahead of my car, just out of range of the high beams. My foot slammed on the brakes and the buck leaped directly in front of me, then up and over the ancient stone wall that ringed my property.

Seconds later, the doe and two small deer followed him, trailing off through the woods on my neighbor's land.

I drove on to my house and parked the car. Usually, my caretaker came ahead and lighted the entrance and living area for me, cutting flowers in summer to place around the rooms and stocking the refrigerator with basics. This time, because he had already left the island, I was faced with a dark, cold shell that seemed strangely unwelcoming.

I unlocked the side door and walked quickly into the kitchen and small parlor beyond, flipping on every light switch. I rested the bag of food on the countertop, opened the cabinet to grab a glass, and filled it with ice. In the living room, I pressed the CD player button for random select. By the time I poured some Dewar's, Simon and Garfunkel reminded me that I was fakin' it, and as I was well aware, not really makin' it. I clicked the remote, content to wind up on the bridge over troubled water.

Mike Chapman's home number was on my speed dial. I settled onto the sofa with my drink and waited for him to answer.

"Hello."

"Val? It's Alex. Is this a bad time?"

"No, no. It's fine. How've you been?"

"Good, thanks. Just came up to the country to prepare for the storm." I didn't know whether to mention that Mike had told me she hadn't felt well lately. Before I could decide what to ask, he had taken the phone from her hand.

"Etymology, blondie. Whaddaya know about it?"

I was too disinterested to answer fast enough.

"Me? I thought it was bugs. I'm fat on bugs-figured I would have cleaned up on you tonight. Who knew it was about words? O.K., you know, the initials? Know what they stand for?"

"Count me out, Mike. Look-"

"From the Boston Morning Post, 1839. Some cellist from Ottawa won fourteen grand on this. An editor who couldn't spell right used it back then to mean 'oll korrect.' Get it? 'All correct' gets muffed into O.K. "

"Riveting. I called to tell you the latest snag in the case."

"Can't you give it a rest, kid? Don't go snapping at me. I got my jammies on, about to have my nightcap-"

"Fine. Call me in the morning. The next dead body can be on your conscience."

Mike's tone changed and he snapped into business mode. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. What's up?"

"Funny stuff with Tiffany Gatts and her lawyer," I said.

"How funny? Laugh out loud?"

"Not exactly. She's willing to squeal on Kevin, but says if she does, her life's in danger. Someone's going to kill her mama, too."

"Better be bringing a cannon for that job."

"Helena Lisi's just a front," I said.

"For what?"

"For the brains behind the operation, I have to think. Somebody else is paying the legal bills, but doesn't want to be connected to the courtroom. You've got to find out who that is. Yesterday."

"You don't think Lisi will tell you, if you ask nice?"

"I can hear her start to whine before I even pose the question. I could try to subpoena her to the grand jury, on the theory that there's a criminal conspiracy, but she'll move to quash and we'll be arguing that one till doomsday."

"Lawyer-client privilege?"

"Even the Supremes let us get into some disclosures about fees in certain circumstances, but I'm counting on you to beat the clock. Maybe you start with Mrs. Gatts. See what she knows."

"So there's a new lawyer?"

"Shadow counsel. A stupid artifice that could undermine the whole case, and certainly toss a conviction, if we get anywhere close to one. If we nail Kevin-or someone else for Queenie's murder-this schmuck just becomes part of a fraud that greased the wheels for Tiffany to slide right into our laps, without any real representation."

"Got it."

"Thanks, Mike. We'll talk in the morning."

"Deal," he said, as I started to sign off. "Coop? You okay up there? You're not alone, are you?"

"We're fine," I said, misleading him with the plural pronoun. "Promise. Speak to you tomorrow."

I hung up and hit the number of Jake's cell phone. "Hey," I said as he came on the line. "Can't believe I got you on one ring."

I stretched out on the sofa and cradled the phone against my shoulder.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"Home. The Vineyard." Jake knew it was the one place in the world where I was most content. The tension sloughed off my shoulders within half an hour of my arrival here, even in the worst of circumstances. "And you?"

"Didn't Laura give you the message? I'm trying to get up there, too."

"I haven't even checked the machine. I-I just needed to hear your voice."

"I'm at Reagan National. Nothing's flying out at the moment. The wind has increased and the first bit of the storm is about to hit."

The Vineyard weather was anywhere from twelve to eighteen hours behind D.C.'s, depending on the speed the system picked up along the way. I could expect Hurricane Gretchen to reach our shores by tomorrow afternoon.

"Go back to the hotel. The airport here has probably shut down already."

"That's not a problem. I was planning to fly to Logan and get down in the morning if I had to. Till I had a brainstorm."

"What's that?" I smiled, pulling a throw over my legs and stirring the ice cubes in the glass with my finger.

"I'm about a concourse away from the row of rental booths. I figure I'll get a car, turn the music up loud, drive up to Woods Hole-even if it takes the better part of the night-and be there in time for the first ferry. Nothing cozier than a great storm. We can stay the whole weekend and-"

I sat bolt upright and swung my legs to the floor, tangling myself in the mohair blanket. I shrieked into the receiver, "You can't do that, Jake. Please don't do that."

Didn't he remember what had happened to Adam Nyman, my fiancé, on the night before we were supposed to be married? Driving to the Vineyard from Manhattan, he'd been killed when his car had been sideswiped on the turnpike and had crashed down onto a riverbed below.

Jake clearly didn't connect the urgency in my voice to that tragedy. "Darling, either Mike's right about the fact that you're entirely too controlling," he joked, "or you're stowed away up there with some other foul-weather aficionado who doesn't want me in the neighborhood. C'mon, babe, the all-night drive'll make me feel like I'm in college again."

The static on his phone was masking the panic that had seized me.

"No, no, no, no, no," I kept repeating, until I could break into his response. "Don't you understand, Jake? It's-it's about Adam. It's too painful to bear. Ten hours of highway driving, half of it bound to be in a blinding storm?"

"It's not raining yet, Alex. The roads are-"

"You're missing the point. I'm begging you not to do this, Jake. I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to you on your way here. Wait till the front passes and fly up if you want, for the weekend. Just swear to me you won't try to drive it."

His tone chilled. "There's probably a good reason you don't want me up there with you. I'm sure you'll tell me when you're ready."