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  ‘Where do you normally keep your gun, Jeffrey?’ asked David, not missing a beat.

  ‘In the hall cabinet. Under lock and key.’

  ‘And the key?’

  ‘Like I told you, in the upstairs drawer.’

  ‘In your bedroom.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Beside your bed.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In a drawer that remained unlocked.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did anyone else in the household know where this key was kept?’ asked Sara.

  ‘No,’ said Logan, tapping his prison issue flip-flops on the cold grey floor. ‘My wife knew but my son . . . I mean my children,’ he corrected himself, shaking his head as if in self-admonishment, ‘they did not know where it was kept.’

  David looked at Sara. Logan was lying again – and this time, not very well.

  ‘What time did you get home last night?’ asked Sara. She was tag teaming it now.

  ‘Ah . . . seven-thirty, eight, I am not sure.’

  ‘It was eight-sixteen,’ continued Sara. ‘A neighbour saw you turn into your drive.’

  ‘Well, it might have been . . .’

  ‘But Stephanie was shot at eight-twenty,’ said David. ‘Which means that you must have gotten out of your car, taken your briefcase to the study, run upstairs to the bedroom, retrieved the cabinet key, run downstairs to the hallway, taken out the gun, gone to the garage, looked for the cleaning rags, found none, walked back to the other end of the house to the kitchen and accidentally shot your wife – all in the space of no more than four minutes.’

  ‘Then I suppose I am . . . a fast walker,’ said Logan.

  ‘Did you re-lock the cabinet?’ asked David, this new question stopping their client dead.

  Logan looked at them then, his foot frozen mid tap, his brow contorted in a knot of confusion, his head shaking rapidly as if trying to clear the fog.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ he managed.

  ‘Did you re-lock the cabinet – in the hallway, where the gun was kept?’

  ‘Ah . . . no. There was no need, I was going to put the gun back so . . .’

  ‘Then why did the police find it locked?’ asked Sara. ‘And why was the key found back upstairs in the bedroom drawer?’

  ‘I must have . . .’

  ‘Walked, quickly, we know,’ finished David, not meaning to be harsh but determined to show his client just how unbelievable his story was.

  Logan looked at him then, and David could have sworn that in that second his lips had clenched in anger. But then they quivered, and David realised that he had misread the doctor’s sorrow for resentment – sorrow at his own predicament and the predicament of his son.

  ‘The thing is, Doctor,’ said Sara, ‘the gun, the cabinet, the timing of the whole thing – the fact that there was no blood on your clothing, no residue on your hands . . . ? We don’t mean to be unsympathetic, but we needed you to see just how implausible this whole thing is. We understand your motives are selfless, but your story . . . it is so full of holes, so desperate in its irrationality, that in many ways it only goes to consolidate your teenage son’s guilt.’

  So, she had said it – plain and clear.

  Logan lifted his head, his eyes burning with what could be fear, frustration, perhaps even irritation at Sara speaking of it before he had the chance to utter it himself.

  ‘Please,’ he began, his voice much softer than the expression on his face. ‘You must understand that this is the only solution, for if you don’t, all is lost. Not one life, but two – my wife’s and that of my son. What happens to me is now inconsequential. I had my chance in life – at a family, at parenthood, and somewhere along the line I forgot what matters the most. So now I have a chance to make amends – a sick and twisted opportunity that I must hold on to, no matter what the cost.’

  ‘This isn’t going to work,’ said David at last.

  ‘Probably not,’ said Logan. ‘But if I do not try, I will never forgive myself.’

  David nodded before glancing at Sara. ‘Okay, Jeffrey. Let’s see if we can’t get you indicted.’

  7

  She was up on a chair when they entered her office, wearing her ‘weekend’ clothes – snug-fitting tailored pants and a polo top, her hair out and parted to one side, the bulk of it fixed behind her diamond-studded ears.

  ‘Detective, Lieutenant,’ she said as they moved into the room.

  Joe and Frank had originally gone to her office down the hall but, upon finding it not only empty but stripped of books, paperwork and personal belongings, they had wandered back to the Acting District Attorney, Roger ‘The Kat’ Katz’s office – the bigger one next to the DA’s.

  ‘You moving in?’ asked Joe, noticing Frank – a somewhat prudish, happily married father of two, trying to look anywhere but at Amanda Carmichael’s perfectly formed butt.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, twisting to look at them, and Joe knew this was all part of her ‘game’ – her top shifting to reveal her toned stomach, her expression a mixture of efficiency and innocence. ‘Roger is in DC for the next couple of weeks and it seemed silly to delay the move considering DA Scaturro is not coming back,’ she added, pointing to the hastily packed boxes in the corner of the room.

  ‘I’ll get Roger’s PA to move his things into the DA’s space on Monday. It’ll give her something to do besides file those too long acrylic nails of hers.’

  Truth be told, from what Joe knew of Amanda Carmichael’s reputation, he was more than just a little suspicious of the motives of the BU-educated show pony with the Supreme Court dad and the Country Club mom. She was smart, that was for sure, and ambitious, but he had also heard stories of her arrogance, her intolerance, and her general belief that she knew better than everybody else.

  However, she was new at this 2IC gig, and so Joe was willing to cut her some slack, and the fact that she had the balls to shove Katz’s belongings into dirty cardboard boxes had gained her some points in Joe’s estimations – considering Joe deemed Roger Katz to be one of the lowest assholes on the ladder of legal depravity.

  ‘So,’ said Carmichael, hopping down from her chair and pushing it behind her desk. ‘Take a seat, gentlemen,’ she said gesturing at the two leather-covered visitors’ chairs on the opposite side of her desk. ‘I appreciate your coming in on a Saturday,’ she said, taking a pair of designer reading glasses from her top drawer and placing them on the tip of her perfectly shaped nose. ‘But as you can appreciate, this is one of the biggest cases we will be prosecuting this year. The press have been calling all morning, the story is headlining every major news bulletin in the country and this is only the beginning. This is a big deal, gentlemen, and we are in the thick of it.’

  Frank was rolling his eyes, Joe could sense it. Carmichael was revelling in the attention and was obviously hungry for more. The fact that she gave a statement to the press late last night without consulting with Joe was evidence enough of her desire to ‘own’ this thing from the beginning, and that action alone was enough to make Joe suspicious of her motives – new kid on the block, or not.

  ‘You shouldn’t have given a statement until we briefed you,’ said Joe, not one to beat around the bush.

  ‘Detective McKay briefed me on my cell, Lieutenant,’ she argued.

  ‘I gave you a basic run-down,’ said Frank, opening his mouth for the first time.

  ‘Which was very comprehensive,’ said Carmichael. ‘The media were hungry. They had been awaiting an official statement for hours. I made sure they were satisfied so that they did not distort the truth from the outset. I gave them a brief statement relating to Mrs Logan’s . . .’

  ‘Tyler,’ interrupted Joe then.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Carmichael.

  ‘Stephanie Tyler. The victim went by her maiden name.’ He was not sure why he needed to make a point of it; maybe because he met Tyler and found her gracious, maybe because he knew cops too often forgot to give their victims the courtesy of the correct acknow
ledgement, or maybe because he sensed Carmichael couldn’t give a fuck what the woman was called – just that she was prosecuting this Goddamned headliner of a case.

  ‘Right,’ said Carmichael, making no attempt to hide her displeasure at the correction. ‘Well, as I was saying, I gave a brief statement relating to Ms Tyler’s death and confirmed that Doctor Logan was being taken in for questioning. It was a consolatory gesture so that the media did not go away disappointed. Nothing more, nothing less.’

  ‘With all due respect, Miss Carmichael,’ said Joe, now leaning forward in his seat. ‘We were running a murder scene. And satisfying the press’s insatiable appetites was not exactly a priority.’

  ‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, Lieutenant,’ she said, her long slender finger waving in a gesture that reeked of superiority. ‘Satisfying the media is key to any major prosecution – especially one involving a fellow media identity.’

  Carmichael sat back in her seat then, a satisfied smile on her high-cheekboned face, and in that moment, Joe actually missed the previous asshole who used to pontificate from the seat which the incredibly stunning blonde now occupied before him. At least he could tell The Kat to go fuck himself when he treated Joe and his fellow cops like inferior subordinates. This one was going to be harder to tackle.

  ‘So tell me, Lieutenant,’ Carmichael went on unfazed. ‘What have you got?’

  And so Joe and Frank spent the next half-hour summarising their findings – findings that were yet to be backed up by the solid technical evidence reports soon to be provided by their experienced forensic analysts. Basically, they explained that no matter which way you looked at it, Doctor Jeffrey Logan was not good for the kill. His son, however, was another matter altogether.

  ‘Long story short, we think the dad is covering for the kid,’ said Joe. ‘The BPA alone points singularly at the boy,’ he said, referring to the bloodstain pattern analysis carried out at the scene and currently being confirmed by Boston PD’s respected Crime Lab Unit technicians. ‘And there was a burn from the blast on the right shoulder of his T-shirt, and chances are, despite the fact the .460 Weatherby blows the powder out and forward with a hell of a force, that we’ll find trace powder residue on the shirt as well.’

  ‘The thing is, Miss Carmichael,’ said Frank. ‘Under normal circumstances we would have arrested the kid last night. But when his father confessed, we knew we didn’t have a leg to stand on until the crime lab stuff came in.’

  ‘Which is when exactly?’ said the obviously displeased ADA.

  ‘Mid-week at best,’ said Joe.

  ‘After the arraignment?’ said Carmichael, now removing her glasses and shaking her head. And in that moment Joe was sure the spectacles were just a prop, a theatrical accessory she used to give herself an air of authority in court.

  ‘It’s not good enough,’ she said. ‘This arraignment will be viewed, recorded, picked to pieces by every major media outlet in the country. You cannot expect me to go in there and argue for this man’s incarceration if we know he is as innocent as a . . .’

  ‘You don’t have any choice,’ interrupted Joe. ‘You have to play this one straight – and then, when the evidence comes in, we can arrest the son and hand him over to the juvenile court.’

  ‘The juvenile court?’ she said, incredulous.

  ‘The boy is only thirteen.’

  ‘Shit,’ she said, making no attempt to hide her disappointment. Massachusetts was one of the few states in the US which had passed a law stating that a person as young as fourteen charged with murder would be tried as an adult in the Superior Court. Such a person, if found guilty of first-degree murder, could be sentenced to life without parole in state prison; if found guilty of second-degree murder, they could be sentenced to life with parole eligibility after a lengthy fifteen years.

  ‘When is he fourteen?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s a moot point, Ms Carmichael, and you know it,’ said Joe. The woman was really starting to piss him off. ‘Thirteen is thirteen, no matter how you look at it.’

  ‘And how is Cavanaugh going to approach this?’ she asked, obviously knowing that Joe and David were friends. ‘In fact, come to think of it, how did a lawyer of Cavanaugh’s calibre become involved in the first place?’

  She knew the answer; this was just another dig at Joe.

  ‘From what I am told,’ Carmichael went on, ‘Doctor Logan asked for a public defender, which, under the circumstances might have worked better for us considering . . .’

  ‘Doctor Logan asked for a lawyer and we got him one,’ said Joe, refusing to explain further simply because he was not answerable to the twenty-nine-year-old upstart before him. ‘And considering the doctor confessed, my guess is Cavanaugh will play Monday’s arraignment as straight as he can – stress that this was an accident, argue for bail.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Carmichael. ‘What is this – a fucking kangaroo court where everyone avoids the truth?’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ said Frank. ‘It’s called due process, it’s part of the fifth and fourteenth amendments. It’s about safeguarding the rights of every individual – even those have the guts to lie to protect their kids.’

  ‘You actually admire this man, Detective McKay?’ asked Carmichael, incredulous, her big blue eyes now narrowing in contempt.

  ‘I got two teenage kids, Ms Carmichael,’ replied Frank, with determination. ‘Let’s just say, I can see where he is coming from.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Carmichael. ‘Well, cue the fucking violins.’

  They were silent then, Joe deciding there was no point in arguing further. This one was dangerous, he told himself. Dangerous and smart and ambitious to boot.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Joe at last.

  ‘Apparently so,’ said Carmichael. ‘At least as far as you two are concerned.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Carmichael,’ began Joe, not sure what the ADA was insinuating. ‘But . . .’

  ‘Just tell me the minute the crime lab stuff is in,’ she interrupted, now rising from her chair and moving around the desk to dismiss them. She headed straight for the entrance of her brand new office, strutting across the room like a Goddamned diva. And then she stumbled into one of Katz’s hastily packed boxes, tripping herself up so that she had to grab at a side table to regain her balance.

  ‘Shit,’ she said, as she regathered her composure and stood beside the door.

  ‘Better watch your step, Miss Carmichael,’ said Joe, as he and Frank turned to leave. ‘As the Chinese say, you keep looking at the mountains you’re gonna fall into the molehills.’

  ‘I’ve never taken a fall in my life, Lieutenant,’ she countered.

  ‘Well then, maybe you’re due, Miss Carmichael, maybe you’re due.’

  8

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ asked David for the umpteenth time. They had just entered one of their favourite eateries, a popular breakfast and lunch café at the northern end of the harbour known as Myrtle McGee’s.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Sara said. ‘It was just a little slip, David,’ she added, referring to her ‘slide’ down the wide stone front stairs of Suffolk County Jail barely half an hour earlier. They had been harassed by a barrage of media the moment they left the building, and Sara had been caught in the crossfire.

  ‘What’s up, lass?’ asked a concerned-looking Mick McGee, hurrying around his counter to meet them at the door. Mick was Myrtle’s proprietor, a large, red-faced Irishman with a number two crew cut revealing a shock of bright orange spikes. He was also a good friend – and as such, now obviously concerned about the lack of colour in Sara’s pasty complexion.

  ‘Nothing!’ she said, managing a smile in protest as Mick and David helped her to a corner booth. ‘I’m fine. It was my fault. I caught my heel in a crack and . . .’

  ‘Don’t listen to her, Mick,’ said David. ‘The press holed us up on the front steps of County, practically barrelled her down the stairs.’

  Mick shook his head. ‘Barbarians,’ he sa
id, never one to hold back on an opinion. ‘Not to worry,’ he said, helping Sara into her seat. ‘I’ll get you a . . .’

  ‘Coffee, strong, black,’ interrupted Sara.

  ‘Juice, combo, orange,’ countered Mick. ‘You need a little sugar is all – and I’ll add some wheat grass for protein.’

  ‘Thanks, Mick,’ said Sara, knowing there was no point in arguing, as Mick rushed back to his lime green counter and set about ‘fixing things’ the only way he knew how.

  ‘Not another word,’ said Sara, as David reached across the table to take her hand. ‘It was just a fall, David. If I thought it was anything more I’d be at the doctor’s in a shot. You know that.’ She smiled. ‘Besides, you keep sweeping me off my feet like you did on the front steps of County and people are going to assume we are trying out for the lead roles in the next live action version of Cinderella.’

  ‘You and Cinderella,’ he said, squeezing her hand with a smile.

  ‘Hey, stop complaining. I could have had a Snow White fetish and then I’d be demanding seven little people come share our cosy two-bedder.’

  ‘This your way of telling me you’re carrying septuplets?’ asked David with a smile.

  ‘Over my dead body,’ she laughed.

  Half an hour, two roasted chicken sandwiches, one coffee and an extra large juice later, David and Sara were back to discussing their case. They didn’t have much time. They had promised their client that they would look in on his two children later in the afternoon and had called ahead to Logan’s business partner, Katherine de Castro, to make sure she would be at home. She was, and she would be, she had assured them with enthusiasm, and they set up the visit for three.

  ‘I know he has hired us to represent him,’ Sara began, referring to their client, ‘but in all honesty, part of me thinks we should be talking to the ADA. Logan didn’t kill her and I am not sure what it says about us – basically sharing in his lie and endorsing his confession by representing him in court.’