Chapter Thirty-One

You need to sign these."

Kelly Gallagher, the public defender assigned to Jackie Newton, clicked the pen and handed it to Myron. Gallagher was younger than Myron expected, probably no more than thirty, with a wet-pavement-gray suit that seemed to be fraying in live time. He wore a tie loose enough to double as a belt. His white shirt may have been some newfangled cream color, but it looked more like it had suffered a laundry accident.

"What am I signing?" Myron asked.

"It's like I told Terese," Gallagher said. "If you want to get in and talk to Jackie, you need to be part of her defense team. I know you passed the bar in New York, but Pennsylvania has bar reciprocity. So I need you to sign here. And here."

Myron skimmed it over as he took hold of the pen.

"So you're married to Terese Collins," Gallagher said.

"Yep."

"If the situation for my client wasn't so dire, I'd hate you for that right now."

Myron bit back the smile. "Yeah, I don't blame you." He signed the papers and handed them back to Gallagher.

"So what are you hoping to accomplish here, Myron?" Gallagher asked.

"What's your take?"

"Take on…?"

"Terese says you're a great public defender."

He shook his head. "Like she wasn't already the perfect woman."

"She also told me you're cynical."

"Does she find that attractive? If so, yes."

"What percentage of your clients do you think commit the crimes of which they are accused?"

"Seventy-three percent."

"Pretty specific."

"If I say three out of four, you'd think I was making it up. Seventy-three percent gives the illusion of specificity and thus believability."

"So between us—and understanding that either way I will defend Jackie Newton to the nth degree—do you think she killed Ronald Prine?"

"No."

"That was quick."

"You don't think I thought about it before you asked? Look, when I got assigned this case, I figured she'd be guilty as sin. Didn't even consider the possibility she didn't do it. And I almost didn't care. See, like most rational, thinking, breathing people, I hated Ronald Prine. The guy was a heartless prick who got off on ruining people's lives. So before I even met Jackie, I was already planning a Robin Hood–like defense of justified homicide or temporary insanity or diminished capacity, that kind of thing. The prick ruined her life, she has a sick father, she snapped. You get that idea, right?"

"I do."

"So that's what I thought."

"And what changed your mind?"

"Jackie. Look, I can be fooled by a charming client, no question about it. But this time? It's not even a close call in my eyes. She didn't do it."

"How do you explain the evidence?"

"By ‘evidence,' you mean the rifle and the threatening emails sent from her ISP?"

"Yes."

Kelly Gallagher smiled. "That's why you're here."

The guard gave them a wave.

"Showtime," Gallagher said.

He got up first. Myron followed. When they entered the small interrogation room, Jackie Newton was already seated. Her eyes looked up at them, hollow from fear and lack of sleep. Perhaps Myron was projecting, what with knowing her story, but there seemed to be both disbelief and defeat in her face. She couldn't believe where she was—and yet she also understood that life rarely worked out for someone like her. The world was capricious and random and cruel.

"Jackie, this is Myron Bolitar. He's come on to help me with the case."

She turned her eyes toward Myron. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you want to help?"

"I think you're innocent," Myron said.

Tears suddenly filled her eyes, like she'd been surprised by that. She held them back, wouldn't let them fall. "And again I ask," she said in a voice fighting to remain steady. "Why?"

"I owe you an explanation, but we don't have time," Myron said. "So let me just dive into this, okay?"

She glanced at Kelly Gallagher. He gave her a small nod.

"Go ahead," Jackie said.

"Do you have an alibi for the time of the murder?"

"I was working."

"Can your employer verify that?"

"You know I'm broke, right? I mean, I can't pay you if—"

"I am not here for the money," Myron assured her.

She looked wary. Understandable. People don't do things out of the kindness of their hearts. That had been her life experience.

"I don't have an employer per se," she said. "My father is sick. I'm taking care of him, so I can't work a regular gig. I hire myself out as a handyman mostly. Odd jobs via apps like TaskRabbit, that kind of thing."

"And that's what happened on the day of the murder?"

She nodded. "I got a job, yeah. It was to put together a kid's cedarwood playset in a backyard for forty dollars per hour, maximum of three hours to do the job. That's the deal I negotiated with the owner."

"So the person who hired you can back this up?"

Jackie looked over at Kelly. Kelly said, "Some of it. Yes, a woman named Leah Nowicki confirmed that she hired Jackie over the Task-Rabbit app. But once Jackie arrived and they met, Nowicki went to work and left Jackie alone in her yard to finish the job."

"So theoretically," Myron said, speaking to Jackie now, "you could have left and come back."

"But I didn't."

"We're still working on it," Kelly Gallagher added. "Maybe there was nearby CCTV or something that can lock in the alibi."

"So what next?" Myron kept his attention fixed on Jackie Newton. "You finish the job and go home?"

"Yes."

"What time was that?"

"I got home around seven o'clock."

"Anyone else there?"

"Carol DeChant had stopped in for five minutes but she was gone by then."

"Who's that?"

"A neighbor. She's a widow. She comes over sometimes and keeps him company. She watches him for me when I'm gone too many hours. It pisses Dad off though, having someone watch him." Jackie Newton actually smiled. "So what Mrs. DeChant does is, she pretends she's interested in him. Sexually. She does that just so he won't get angry when she stops by to check on him."

"Some neighbor," Myron said.

"There are a few good people in this world, Mr. Bolitar."

"There are," Myron said. "Okay, and Mrs. DeChant was gone when you arrived?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"I called her fifteen minutes before I got back. She said she was just leaving, that Dad was down for a nap."

"So you get home. What happened next?"

"I started making dinner for when Dad woke up. I was home maybe half an hour when the doorbell rang. It was two police officers. They said that a Remington rifle had been stolen from someone in the building. They asked if we owned one. I told them yes. They asked if maybe it was mine. I said let me take a look. I think that surprised them."

"They probably figured you'd jump on the stolen-gun story," Myron said. "They figured you'd disposed of the rifle after the murder—that's what most killers would do—and would come up with some weird excuse that would help them get you. So what happened? Did they ask to come in?"

"Yes. I told them I kept the rifle in my closet."

"And they followed you there?"

Jackie Newton nodded. "I opened the closet and pushed back the big overcoat in the back and yep, there it was, the rifle, leaning against the wall. Then I said, ‘Nope, the stolen one isn't mine,' but they were already freaking out. One took out his gun."

"What did you think was happening?"

"I didn't have a clue. I said, ‘Whoa, whoa, calm down, the rifle isn't even loaded.' Then I saw that they had gloves on. The cop with the gun called for backup. The other told me not to move. I asked him what was going on. He asked me if I knew Ronald Prine. At that stage, I figured this was just more Prine harassment—that he'd sent them to torment me. I got mad and said, ‘Yeah, I know the prick. What, do you guys work for him or something?' And then the cop asked again, slower this time, ‘Do you know Ronald Prine?' and now I really didn't like the tone in his voice. So I stopped talking. I said I wanted a lawyer."

"They tested the rifle," Myron said.

"Yeah, I know."

"Had you fired it lately?"

"No. No one has fired that gun since Dad took it to a shooting range maybe five, six years ago."

"You said the rifle was in the closet."

"Yes."

"Like readily visible?"

"No, it's way in the back behind my dad's old overcoat."

"So how often do you see it?"

"What do you mean, the rifle?"

"Yes," Myron said. "We know you were set up. We know that rifle was the murder weapon. This means at some point the killer gained access to your house and took the rifle. So I'm asking when was the last time you saw the rifle."

"I'm not sure. Months ago probably."

"Okay, so the killer could have taken it anytime in the past few months. We won't really be able to narrow that down, but we do know that they had to have returned it sometime between the murder and the time you got home. That's a pretty narrow time frame. Our best guess is, the killer shot Prine, drove straight to your place, and put the rifle back into the closet. I assume your father's home alone a lot. Would he hear someone sneaking in?"

"He sleeps a lot," Jackie said. "He's in his room most of the time with the door closed. Someone could have sneaked in if they had, I don't know, a key or something."

Myron turned to Gallagher. "The building have CCTV?"

"Only on the street."

"We have to comb through all that footage."

"It's a busy street," Kelly Gallagher said.

"But how many people would be carrying a rifle?" Myron asked. "I don't mean out in the open. But they'd have to have it in a guitar case or something. It's too warm for a long coat to cover it, but we could look for those people too."

"Wait, if we can find video of Jackie taking public transportation to her TaskRabbit job and she's not carrying a rifle—"

"Won't help," Myron said. "They'll say she carefully planned this. She took the rifle from her closet days or weeks ago. She planted it near the spot where she would commit her crime."

"Sorry," Jackie said, "but this whole scenario is insane. Why me? I don't mean this in a whiny way—but I'm a nobody. I mean, I'm less than a nobody. Why pin it on me?"

Gallagher looked at Myron. "That's a good question. And I suspect you have a theory."

"I do, but let me get to it my way, okay?" Myron turned back to Jackie. "Do you have any enemies?"

"Ronald Prine," she said. "But my guess is, he didn't do it."

"Any others? How about an ex?"

"The last guy I dated was a pharmacist from Bryn Mawr. He dumped me because I spent too much time with my dad. Mr. Bolitar?"

"Call me Myron."

"What aren't you telling me?"

"I'm trying to help you, Jackie."

"Why are you so sure I didn't do it?"

It was then that Myron felt his phone buzz. He had turned off all other settings. The buzz could only be used by his wife, parents, Win, or Esperanza and only for something urgent. He pulled out his phone and checked. It was a text from Terese.

Come out now. I'm across the street.