Chapter Thirty-Two

Win stood in front of four Vermeer paintings.

"What do you think?" Stan Ulanoff, the curator, asked him.

He was at the Frick museum, the original one located in the Henry Clay Frick mansion, on Fifth Avenue between 70th and 71st Street. The Gilded Age mansion was currently closed to the public for an expansive renovation project that was finally reaching completion.

There are debates on how many Vermeers exist worldwide. Some claim thirty-four. Others say thirty-five or maybe thirty-six. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, a stone's throw away from the Frick (if you had an arm that could throw ten blocks), has the most Vermeers on planet Earth—five of them. The far smaller Frick owns an impressive three, all of which are now on the wall in front of Win.

"We used to keep the Vermeers in the West Gallery," Stan explained, "but for this very special exhibition, we've moved them to this new spot. Our reopening gala will be the event of the season, and we hope you will accept being our guest of honor."

"No, thank you," Win said.

"I'm sorry?"

"No, thank you."

"You don't want to be our guest of honor?"

"That's correct."

"But we would like to recognize your generosity—"

"No, thank you," Win said again. "Please continue your presentation."

The smile faltered a little, but he got it back. He raised his arm, curator/guide style, and continued. "From the left to right—and also in chronological order from oldest to newest—we have Officer and Laughing Girl, then Girl Interrupted at Her Music, and The Mistress and the Maid, and of course, on this wall, by itself so as to highlight it, we can't thank you, Mr. Lockwood, enough for loaning us…"

His voice tailed off as he looked at the Vermeer placed on its own wall next to these three. The Met owned five, the Frick owned three—and Windsor Horne Lockwood III, aka Win, owned one.

"… The Girl at the Piano."

A voice next to Win whispered, "Great painter, not so clever with names."

Win turned. It was his personal assistant Kabir.

The curator frowned. "Vermeer didn't name his paintings. Others later attributed names to them based on—"

"Yeah, I know," Kabir said to him. "I was joking."

Kabir had just turned thirty years old. He had a long beard and as a Sikh American he wore a dark blue turban. Because we still jump to conclusions based on appearances, people often expected Kabir to speak with an accent or bow or something, but Kabir had been born in Fair Lawn, New Jersey, graduated from Rutgers, loved rap, partied like, well, a thirty-year-old living in Manhattan, but still, to quote Kabir, "You always have to explain the turban."

Stan frowned at Kabir for another second before turning to Win and lighting up the smile. "Do you like it?"

Win would be honest enough to admit The Girl at the Piano, the centerpiece of the opening, was the smallest and least impressive of the paintings, but then again, Win's Vermeer was the most notorious. Stolen decades ago, The Girl at the Piano and the tragic mystery behind the heist had only recently been unearthed. When Win finally got the Vermeer back, he decided to send it on a tour so that the world could enjoy it. The painting's first stop had been Win's cousin's historic mansion-museum in Newport, Rhode Island. Alas, that too had ended in tremendous controversy, thus adding to the painting's mysterious and dark allure.

"I do like it," Win said.

This pleased the curator.

"If you'll excuse us one moment," Win said.

He and Kabir slipped into the next room. They stood before another one of the Frick's gems, La Promenade, the masterpiece of a mother with her two wide-eyed young daughters, by Renoir. The wide-eyed girls looked well-fed and well-to-do in their fur-trimmed overcoats. The mother had her hands on the girls' backs. Was the mother protectively escorting her children or pushing them ahead? Win didn't know, but something felt amiss in that promenade.

"Articulate," Win said to Kabir.

"First up, those pickup games where someone might have gotten Greg Downing's blood or whatever," Kabir said. He read off his phone. That was how he took notes. Many young people did this, of course, but it still always looked strange to Win. "We had one of our best investigators go up to Wallkill. There is only one outdoor court that hosts pickup games. It's near Wallkill High."

"And?"

"Nothing. It's a game that features mostly regulars, though like most of these things, anyone can show up. There's a lot of trash-talking and arguing over calls, but no one remembers any incident involving blood spilled in the past year. Also no one remembers Greg Downing showing up."

"Downing claimed that he went in disguise."

"Yeah, like what? Fake mustache? Wig?"

Win said nothing.

"I personally talked to a guy named Mike Grenley. He's like the commissioner of the Wallkill pickup games—knows everybody in town, selects the teams, brings a ball, keeps the score, that kind of thing. Total basketball nutjob. He's a huge fan of Myron's, by the way."

"I'll let Myron know."

"Anyway, he says he would have recognized Greg Downing, even if Downing played with both his hands tied behind his back."

"Mr. Grenley might have missed that night."

"He says he hasn't missed one since 2008 when he tore his meniscus."

"Try pickup games in neighboring towns."

"Already on it, boss."

"What else?"

"You wanted me to do a deep dive into Greg Downing's son Jeremy."

Kabir, like everyone outside the very inner circle, had no idea that Jeremy Downing was Myron's son. Only biologically, of course. It was important for Win, even in his own mind, to make that distinction. It made what Win was doing now feel slightly less like a betrayal to think of it that way.

"What did you find?"

"Here's a summary," Kabir said, handing him a sheet of paper. "I sent the entire file to your email."

Win began to scan the text when he spotted the discrepancy. He was about to read more when Kabir touched him on the shoulder and said, "Whoa."

Kabir stared wide-eyed at his phone.

"Whoa what?"

"We need to watch this pronto."

Terese met Myron in the coffee shop across the street from where Jackie Newton was being held. She had a laptop open, and after Myron came through the door, she handed him one AirPod and put the other in her own ear.

"Sadie's about to go live," she said.

"But you don't know what she's going to say?"

Terese shook her head. "But my network would never go live unless she guaranteed something big." Terese pushed the cup at him. "Black. Darkest roast."

"I love you, you know."

"You're not so bad yourself."

"Kelly Gallagher has a crush on you."

"Really?"

Myron made a face. "Like you didn't know."

"I'm way older than Kelly Gallagher. It can't work."

"Plus you're married to a dreamboat of a guy."

"Oh right," Terese said. "That too."

The white-bearded news anchor with the wire-framed spectacles announced that they had breaking news. Myron sat up and leaned forward. The woman at the podium was none other than the founder of Fisher, Friedman and Diaz, Sadie Fisher. On Sadie's right, no more than a foot behind her, was the recently abducted Bo Storm. Myron couldn't help but feel relief. The kid looked healthy enough.

Sadie, ever in her element, looked out into the audience as though she might devour it. Bo looked the direct opposite of all that.

On the bottom of the screen, the banner conveyer-belted the words brEAKING NEWS: LIVE FROM LAS VEGAS across the lower part of the screen.

"Thank you all for coming," Sadie Fisher began.

She wore the fashionable eyewear and bright lipstick. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, giving her even more of the fetish librarian vibe. Her white blouse was extra white against the form-fitting black suit. Her chin was high.

"Our judicial system is founded on certain bedrock principles, none greater than the presumption of innocence. In our country, you are innocent until proven guilty. This idea is sacrosanct in our society. No man or woman should ever, ever, be denied their freedom, unless and until the government proves their case beyond a reasonable doubt. No exceptions."

Terese leaned close to Myron. "I feel like ‘The Star-Spangled Banner' should be playing in the background."

"And of course," Sadie-on-the-screen continued, "few things shock the senses of all decent people more than an innocent man or woman serving hard time for a crime that they didn't commit. If an overzealous or, worse, an overly ambitious prosecutor convicts someone wrongly by accident—takes away their freedom—that, to me, is still a crime. It may not be murder, but it is still very much manslaughter. But if we find out that prosecutors not only wrongly convicted a human being but let them languish in prison after—after—they learned the conviction was a mistake, it is unconscionable. Correct the mistake—don't cover it up. Own up to it. Do not let your victims spend even one more day behind bars."

Sadie put her hands on both sides of the podium and gripped the wood.

"We are here to talk about an outrage and a danger to the entire public."

Terese whispered, "She has a gift for hyperbole."

"She's a lawyer," Myron replied.

On the screen, Sadie nodded toward Bo. He slid forward a bit, his eyes darting everywhere but straight ahead.

"This young man was forced by an overzealous prosecutor to testify falsely in a murder trial. The Clark County District Attorney's Office threatened him with criminal prosecution, even though they knew that they were demanding he lie. But the corruption goes deeper than one rogue prosecutor. The Clark County DA, in conjunction with other law enforcement agencies, have colluded to keep innocent people incarcerated. They know, for example, that not only did they force my client to testify falsely but that Joseph Turant, who has been imprisoned for four years for the murder of Jordan Kravat, is innocent. If they didn't know it at the time of his trial, they know it for certain now."

She paused, fixed her glasses, turned her eyes back toward the camera.

"There are at least six other murder cases nationwide where innocent people are currently languishing in prison—and the FBI knows it. The latest involves the murder of Cecelia Callister and her son Clay Staples—a case where the innocent man currently being railroaded is my client Greg Downing. And I stress this—the FBI knows he didn't do it."

There was a sudden burst from the reporters at the press conference. This was how it always happened. Most people are followers, staying in check until one of them breaks the fence. Then they all flow in…

"Where's your evidence?"

"Why would the FBI do this?"

"Are you saying the FBI is intentionally imprisoning innocent people? Why?"

Sadie Fisher held up her hand and waited until everyone was quiet. When order was somewhat restored, she continued. "It is my belief that most of these prosecutors originally tried these cases in good faith. They believed that they had the right perpetrators, and that the convictions would be righteous. Not here in Clark County, however. Here, they were so blinded by the idea of convicting a man who they believed had significant ties to organized crime, that they ran afoul of all rules and ethics. They used Bo Storm to gild the lily, to make sure a strong case was a slam dunk."

Sadie Fisher raised her hand again, preempting the next explosion of questions.

"But now, as I stand here today, the FBI knows that those incarcerated for these murders are innocent. They are doing nothing about it. They are dragging their heels—"

"Why?" a reporter shouted. "Tell us why."

There were murmurs of agreement from the press corps. Sadie looked out at the sea of reporters. She had strung them along long enough.

"They are dragging their heels," she repeated, "for two reasons. One"—she raised her index finger—"overturning and admitting error in those murder convictions will cause tremendous embarrassment and damage careers. Yes, I find this disgusting and so do you, but we all know it's often the reason for prosecutorial cover-up, but—"

"Any evidence?"

"But two," she continued, making a peace sign with her fingers now, "the bigger reason for their silence is…"

Sadie paused now, making sure that the world was listening.

"Damn," Terese said to Myron, "she's good."

Myron nodded.

When Sadie was ready, she dropped the bomb: "… is because there is a serial killer on the loose."

Myron expected yet another outburst from the press; instead, there was dead silence.

"The FBI now knows that a serial killer is responsible for the murders of Jordan Kravat, Walter Stone, Tracy Keating, Cecelia Callister, and Clay Staples—and several more that are still unknown—and that the people in prison or being held for these murders—Joseph Turant, Dan Barry, Robert Lestrano, and Greg Downing—were framed."

"Wow," Terese said under her breath. "She's taking no prisoners."

Myron's phone buzzed. It was a message from Win: Watching?

Myron:Yes

Win:PT is not going to be pleased.

Myron gave the message a thumbs-up.

A bubble with dancing dots played for a few seconds.

Win:When you get back, we need to talk.

Myron read the message again. He didn't like it. Once again, it wasn't like Win to be coy or cagey—or if you say that enough, do you just have to accept that maybe he is? Before Myron could think of a response, Terese nudged him back to Sadie and the press conference.

"In fact," Sadie Fisher continued, "we believe that real estate mogul Ronald Prine, who was murdered only two days ago, was also a victim of the Setup Serial Killer—"

"Setup Serial Killer?" Terese repeated.

"Too wordy a nickname," Myron agreed.

"—and," Sadie continued, "that the young woman arrested just last night, Jacqueline Newton, is the killer's latest frame job."

"I guess she just did our work for us," Myron said.

Terese nodded, her eyes glued to the screen.

"In closing," Sadie said, "I would like to address the FBI and its current director, Harry Borque, directly."

Sadie Fisher turned and faced the camera straight on, adjusted her glasses, and drove hard to the ending salvo.

"If you want to deny what I am saying, please go ahead. Your excuses won't hold water. Not anymore. The public has the right to know that there is an odious serial killer working across this country who not only kills people but then frames others for his crimes. My guess is, you will claim that you were holding back on the serial killer revelation to prevent public panic or to somehow help facilitate their capture. That's nonsense."

Her anger grew now, feeling on the edge.

"I might have been somewhat sympathetic to such a phony PR move if it wasn't for the fact that you are knowingly—knowingly—keeping innocent people behind bars to mitigate the embarrassment of prosecutorial mistakes. Sorry, that's criminal conduct and for that, I will not stay silent. I will not let innocent people spend even one more moment behind bars. Free them. Free them now. And shame. Shame on all of you who allowed this. You are the serial killer's co-conspirators, and I will not rest until the truth comes out and all who are truly guilty are brought to justice."

On that note, Sadie stormed off stage.

"Wow." Terese leaned back. "I think I need a cigarette."

The reporters on hand started shouting questions in her wake. Bo didn't move at first, looking like the classic "deer in the headlights" before bolting away, to keep within the metaphor, like a deer who finally realizes the headlights signal that a car is indeed heading toward them.

"Will there be much blowback?" Terese asked.

"On me?"

"Yes."

Myron shrugged. "I'm not sure. It doesn't matter."

"She's telling the truth, right?"

"As far as we know it."

"What was Sadie's goal here?" Terese asked.

"To get her client released."

"Greg Downing?"

"Yes."

"Still," Terese said, "she's not in the wrong."

"No," Myron agreed, "she's not."

"Greg will be kicked free," Terese said.

"Probably."

"And Jackie Newton too."

"I hope so, yes."

"Then it's over, isn't it?"

Myron said nothing.

"You got involved in this to help Greg."

"Yes."

"Mission accomplished."

"True."

"So I repeat: It's over, isn't it?"

Myron thought about that. "Would it sound arch if I say, ‘There's still a serial killer out there'?"

"It would," Terese said. "The entire FBI is on this now. The public will be on the lookout. It isn't on you to capture this guy."

"True."

"You don't have the resources they do."

"True."

"And it would be dangerous."

"True again."

Terese looked at him. "It's not over for you, is it?"

"I don't think so, no."