Текст книги "False Testimony"

Автор книги: Rose Connors

Соавторы: Rose Connors
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Chapter 25

We’re in lockup. We’ve been here for the better part of three hours now: Charles Kendrick, the Kydd, and I. Our client’s mantra hasn’t wavered. “I don’t have any idea,” he tells us again and again. “I don’t know anything about it. I swear.”

“Our District Attorney has been wrong in the past,” I tell him, “but she’s never been sloppy. She had you hauled in here; that means she’s got evidence. If you know what the evidence is—or even what it might be—it would behoove you to give us a heads-up. I’m tired of running this race a lap behind Geraldine Schilling.”

“I don’t,” he says, looking from me to the Kydd, as if the Kydd might back him up. “I swear to God I don’t know what evidence she could have. I would never lift a hand to Michelle. I had nothing to do with her death.”

Maybe politicians are particularly persuasive by nature. Or maybe I’m going soft in my middle age. Whatever the reason, I believe him. Part of me wishes I didn’t. Someone murdered Michelle Forrester. I hate to think of that someone still roaming the Cape.

A series of knocks quiets us and then the door opens. “It’s time,” a uniformed guard says as he and his partner crowd into the small room. Senator Kendrick’s wrists are already cuffed behind his back, as they have been all afternoon, but the second guard through the door approaches him now with ankle shackles. “Is that necessary?” I ask.

The guard looks from me to the Senator, who’s sitting quietly at a small table, his shoulders stooped, his eyes lowered to the floor. Not exactly the portrait of a combative prisoner; not the profile of a flight risk, either. The uniform consults silently with his partner and then shrugs. “I guess not,” he says, dropping the heavy hardware on the table and beckoning his charge with one hand. “Let’s go, Senator,” he says, his tone neutral. “It’s time.”

Charles Kendrick and his escorts enter the main courtroom of the District Courthouse first, the Kydd and I bringing up the rear. The noise in the enormous room escalates as soon as the first trio clears the doorway, before I can even see inside. No doubt the crowd is reacting to the sight of our senior senator in cuffs. I’m startled by the volume, and one look at the Kydd tells me he is too. The place must be packed.

It is. The spectators assembled in Superior Court for the conclusion of the Holliston trial earlier today have moved here en masse, it seems, and they’ve got plenty of new companions. Half the year-round residents of North Chatham are here, Helene Wilson among them, about a half dozen rows back. Her gaze moves from the Senator to me and she shakes her head. Her eyes are worried.

Members of the press corps jockey for the front spots in the side aisles, forced by court officers to stay pressed against the windowless walls in single file. The officers are trying to keep some semblance of an aisle open on each side of the room, but I’m pretty sure a fire in this building now would kill us all.

Most of the reporters call out urgent questions—to Senator Kendrick, to the Kydd, to me—as we approach our table. We ignore them, but they continue shouting at us anyway. They’re wired. The Senator’s arrest isn’t just a scoop; it’s a scandal.

Honey Kendrick is already here, seated in the front row, directly behind our table. Abby sits on one side of her, holding her mother’s hand. Monsignor Davis is on the other, seated sideways and talking quietly with both of them. Mother and daughter are in tears; the Monsignor is undoubtedly doing his best to console them. His job is going to get harder as we proceed. Geraldine Schilling has news to share, a story to tell. None of us wants to hear it, Honey and Abby least of all.

The counsel tables in District Court are normally surrounded by too many olive green, imitation leather, high-backed chairs. Today, when we could use a few, only two are pulled up to the defense table. The Kydd points to the empty seats at the bar, telling me he’ll sit back there.

“Not on your life,” I tell him. “You’re not going anywhere, Kydd. Find another chair and sit right here. You’ve been on this case longer than I have today.” Misery loves company is my real rationale. I’m pretty sure the Kydd knows that, but he retrieves another chair from against the side wall without argument. No sooner does he sit than the room falls abruptly silent. And silence—in this arena, anyhow—is the ultimate attention-getter.

The sudden quiet prompts those of us seated up front to shift in our chairs. Geraldine and Clarence turn to the gallery and the Kydd, the Senator, and I do likewise. The explanation stares back at us. The Forresters—Mom, Dad, and big sister—are just inside the back doors, looking straight ahead at our table, at the Senator, at the man they’ve been told murdered Michelle. Not one of us moves. Even at this distance, their expressions shut us down. They’re stricken. In pain. And it’s physical.

The chambers door opens and the bailiff tells us to rise. I’m surprised when the judge emerges—pleasantly so. All arraignments are held in District Court and most are presided over by District Court judges. The chief judge apparently made a special request on behalf of our senior senator, though. Leon Long is here for this one, and he ordinarily presides in Superior Court.

Judge Long is the only black judge ever to sit in Barnstable County. And no matter which bench he’s on, he’s a welcome sight to members of the defense bar. In his courtroom, the presumption of innocence is real and the prosecution’s burden is steep. He bangs his gavel before he sits—a habit engrained over the course of more than two decades on the bench—but it’s not necessary. The Forrester family has already called this room to order.

The courtroom clerk stands, recites the docket number, and then announces, “The Commonwealth of Massachusetts versus Charles Johnson Kendrick.” She looks over at us—not unkindly—and then reclaims her seat.

Geraldine is up instantly. “Your Honor,” she says, “Mr. Kendrick is charged with the first-degree murder of Michelle Andrea Forrester, a murder committed with extreme atrocity or cruelty.”

Some prosecutors might address the Senator as Mister by mistake. Not Geraldine. From this moment until she secures his conviction and sentence, Geraldine Schilling will seize every opportunity she can to diminish Charles Kendrick. Stripping him of his title is just the beginning. It’s nothing personal; she does it to all murder defendants. In her mind, at least, it’s part of the job.

Judge Long looks at me and shakes his head, ever so slightly. The signal is almost imperceptible, but it’s there. And I’ve tried enough cases before him to know what he’s telling me. He doesn’t want to hear the Senator’s plea yet. He wants the District Attorney to put her cards on the table first. “Ms. Schilling,” he says, “let’s hear the facts.”

Most Barnstable County judges will take a simple plea from the defendant—guilty or not—before they call for a recitation of the facts. Not Leon Long. In his courtroom, the defendant need not say a word until the government demonstrates it’s got something real against him. Geraldine doesn’t need to prove her case at this point, of course. But she does need to convince the judge she has one.

She seems ready to do just that. “As you are undoubtedly aware, Your Honor, Ms. Forrester went missing last Thursday, eight days ago. She was last seen at Cape Cod Community College, wrapping up a press conference for her employer.” Geraldine stops and points at the Senator. “Counselor,” Judge Long says, “there’s no need to point. I’m well aware of the defendant’s seat assignment.”

Judge Long has given her this admonition before—many times in many cases. Pointing is part of the drama prosecutors put on for jurors; it has no place in an arraignment. Geraldine won’t stop, though. She can’t help herself. She looks up at the judge now, her expression suggesting he just paid her a hefty compliment. “The facts,” he reminds her.

“Of course, Your Honor,” she says. “Charles Kendrick was one of the first witnesses we interviewed. I spoke with him personally, Monday morning and again Monday afternoon. On both occasions, he claimed he had no contact with the deceased after the Four Cs press conference.”

Geraldine looks over at us and almost smiles before she continues. “The deceased’s automobile, a BMW roadster, was found on Tuesday, parked deep in the woods near the intersection of Old Queen Anne and Training Field roads in Chatham.”

I turn to check in with the Kydd, then with the Senator. They’re as surprised as I am. The area Geraldine is referring to is known as the Golden Triangle, eighteen acres of pristine wooded conservation land. This is the first any of us has heard of Michelle’s car being found there.

“That’s right,” Geraldine says, speaking in our direction now. “We withheld that fact from the public, pending the results of forensic testing.”

Geraldine returns to her table and Clarence hands her three documents, no doubt the results to which she just referred. She delivers one copy to us, passes another up to the judge, and holds on to the third. “Hair follicles and skin fragments,” she says, tapping the top page. “Multiple samples. All match those of the deceased.”

I pass our copy of the lab report to the Kydd so he can check her facts. I’m virtually certain she’s calling it like it is, though. Geraldine Schilling usually does.

The judge studies his copy of the report, then peers over the rims of his half-glasses. “That’s to be expected,” he says to Geraldine. “It was her car.”

“True,” she says. “That is to be expected.” She turns and walks slowly toward us, her eyes holding the Senator’s. “But not in the trunk.”

A single sob fills the room, then ends abruptly. Catherine Forrester sits in the front row behind the prosecutors’ table, across the aisle from Monsignor Davis and the Kendricks, with both hands pressed over her mouth. Her eyes are squeezed shut and two rivers course down her cheeks. She’s flanked by Warren and Meredith, both trying in vain to comfort her, both fighting losing battles with their own floodgates.

Geraldine waits, longer than necessary, still staring at the Senator. “Counselor,” Judge Long says quietly, “continue.”

“Blood,” she says, looking up at him. “We also found a solitary—but sizable—patch of blood on the upholstery in the trunk. It, too, matches that of the deceased.”

The judge nods and looks down at the lab report again. Geraldine goes back to her table, retrieves an evidence bag, and hands it up to him. “And this,” she says. “A rope, approximately eighteen inches in length.”

Judge Long scrutinizes the bag, then looks back at Geraldine. “Ordinary clothesline,” he says.

“Exactly,” she agrees as she pivots and walks toward us again. “What we didn’t find,” she says, “is the spare. The BMW roadster’s spare tire is ordinarily stored in the trunk. Michelle Forrester’s was missing.” She slaps a hand on our table and the Senator jumps a little beside me. “Until this morning,” she says, glaring at him.

Senator Kendrick stares back at her, then at me, and shakes his head. He doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

“As we all know,” she says, turning away from him and facing the bench again, “Chatham’s harbormaster found Ms. Forrester’s body yesterday, floating in the shallows of Pleasant Bay.”

Catherine breaks down again. Geraldine pauses, allowing the mother’s sobs to take center stage. There’s no other sound in the crowded courtroom.

“Our Medical Examiner performed the autopsy yesterday,” she says at last. She retrieves another set of documents from Clarence and again delivers copies to us and to the judge. “This is his report.”

I check the signature line, then pass it over to the Kydd. Calvin Ramsey had a long day yesterday.

“Cause of death,” she says, holding up her copy of the autopsy report, “cerebral hemorrhage.”

Catherine’s sobs had softened, but they escalate again. Geraldine turns to look at her. “Induced by blunt trauma to the cranium,” she says quietly, “a single heavy blow to the skull. The absence of water in the lungs indicates she was dead before her body was dumped into the ocean.”

All three Forresters are audibly crying now. Everyone else in the room is silent. The Senator is rigid beside me; he doesn’t seem to be breathing.

“My office secured a search warrant this morning,” Geraldine continues as she marches toward us yet again, “for the Kendrick property on Old Harbor Road in North Chatham.” She pounds our table this time, her fist landing squarely in front of our now paralyzed client. “Lo and behold,” she says, “we found Michelle Forrester’s spare. In this man’s garage.”

A surge of commentary erupts in the gallery. The judge pounds his gavel, hard. Geraldine is on the move; she’s got more.

“We also found a coil of clothesline hanging on a nail,” she says, pointing at the evidence bag on the bench. “That clothesline.”

Judge Long looks down at the rope, but doesn’t react.

“We found blood on the garage floor,” she says. “Traces, but enough.”

The judge picks up the lab report again.

“That’s right,” Geraldine says as she watches him read. “It’s a match.”

She returns to her table. Clarence kneels beside it, retrieves a long, narrow, plastic-wrapped package, and hands it to her. It’s almost as long as she is.

“And finally,” she says, “we found this.”

She lays it on the bench and returns to our table. “A shovel,” she says, addressing the gallery. “The shovel that was used to murder Michelle Andrea Forrester.”

The onlookers grow noisy again but Judge Long doesn’t bother to hush them. Instead, he goes back to the lab report and the Kydd pushes a page from our copy across the table to me. He’s highlighted the portion that details the evidence found on the underside of the shovel’s heavy metal base: hair, blood, skin fragments. All Michelle’s, along with a small slice of her scalp.

I lean toward my client, hoping he’ll have something to say, some theory about what the hell happened here. He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t even seem to know I’m looking at him. He’s turned completely around in his chair, his eyes locked with Honey’s. She’s staring back at him, dry-eyed, open-mouthed. She looks horrified. So does he. I’m willing to bet everyone else in the courtroom does too.

Judge Long sets the lab report on the bench, removes his glasses, and leans on his forearms. He’s quiet for a moment—as is everyone else in the room now—staring down at the damning report. When he turns his attention our way, his somber expression says it all. Geraldine Schilling has done her job; she’s assembled a case against the Senator, a real one. She’s convinced the judge of that much, to say the least. “Counsel,” he says to me, “how does your client plead?”

“Guilty.” The voice is loud, definite, and it takes a split second for me to realize it came from the seat next to mine. The Senator is on his feet in a flash. I jump up and grab his arm. “Shut up,” I tell him. “Now.”

He shakes my hand away. “I’m ready for sentencing,” he says to the startled judge. “I’m guilty.”

The room goes nuts. Judge Long bangs his gavel a half dozen times. “Senator Kendrick,” he says, “you’re represented by counsel, sir. Your attorney will enter your plea. Please be seated.”

It’s obvious the Senator has no intention of doing any such thing. He moves out from behind our table, shaking his head at the judge. “My attorney doesn’t know anything about it,” he says. “I lied to her.”

The noise in the gallery goes up another decibel.

“Look,” he says to Judge Long, “Michelle Forrester and I had an affair.”

Pandemonium erupts behind us.

“I broke it off,” the Senator continues, “four months ago. But last Thursday…” He turns to Honey and grimaces. “I lapsed.”

“Senator Kendrick,” Judge Long says, almost shouting to be heard above the ruckus, “I strongly advise you to sit down now, sir. Your attorney is here to speak for you.”

It’s pretty clear the Senator isn’t going to take the judge’s advice. He’s talking to everybody now. Everybody but the Kydd and me, that is. The spectators. The reporters. The District Attorney. “Michelle and I spent last Thursday night together,” he says. “It was a terrible mistake.”

“Senator!” The judge is on his feet now. He bangs his gavel once more, hard. “Please, sir, be seated.”

Not a chance. “Michelle read more into that night than I ever intended,” the Senator says. “She thought we’d reestablished our prior relationship. She thought we’d go forward as—well—as a couple.” He pauses and stares at his wife for a few seconds. “Michelle wanted more from me than I was free to give.”

Honey buries her face in her hands, sobbing. Abby wraps her arms around her mother, then she breaks down too.

“When I explained that to her,” the Senator continues, “she got angry. She threatened to go to my wife, to tell her everything. And then…”

He pauses for a breath, and I realize for the first time that he’s trembling.

“And then I lost my temper.” He shrugs, exactly the way he did in my office when he described Michelle’s impromptu visit to Old Harbor Road. The rest was inevitable, he’s telling us.

I don’t buy it.

“Your Honor,” I shout above the ruckus, “we ask the court to enter a not guilty plea at this time.”

“That’s out of the question.” Geraldine is shouting now too. It’s the only way to be heard in here. “The man already entered a plea. He can’t change it now.”

Judge Gould bangs his gavel repeatedly until the crowd quiets. He doesn’t speak until the silence is complete. “You forget, Ms. Schilling, that this man’s plea is not entered until I accept it.” His words are quiet, measured. “And I don’t.” He looks from Geraldine to me to the Senator. “I don’t accept any plea at this time.”

“But Your Honor—” Geraldine says.

He silences her with one hand, packs up his file, and stands. The confused bailiff tells the spectators to rise. “We’ll reconvene on Monday morning,” the judge says as he leaves the bench, “first thing. The defendant will enter his plea at that time.”

Geraldine shakes her head; she’s frustrated. A guilty plea today would have been far more tidy.

Judge Long pauses at the chambers door and turns to the defense table. The Senator is still on his feet, in front of it, the Kydd now at his side. “Senator Kendrick,” the judge says, “I suspect your lawyer plans to spend some time with you this weekend.”

I sure as hell do. They both look at me and I nod to confirm it.

Judge Long turns his attention back to the still-trembling Senator. “I strongly suggest you listen to her, sir, take her advice.” He takes another quick glance at me, then heads for chambers.

The room erupts again as soon as the judge exits. The guards head for their prisoner at once, but I step in front of them. “Give us a minute?” I ask. They nod and resume their posts against the side wall.

“What the hell was that?” I bark at my client.

“It was a confession,” he says.

“It was not. It was an act. You were lying.”

He shakes his head, his eyes angry. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. “I was owning up to my crime.”

“You were owning up to someone else’s crime.”

He takes a deep breath before he answers. “That’s ridiculous,” he says, his voice even. “But I understand. You’re a criminal defense attorney. You’re not used to people coming clean.”

I get as close to him as I can without stepping on his feet. “What I’m not used to,” I tell him, “is standing by while my client pleads guilty to a crime he didn’t commit. And I don’t intend to get used to it anytime soon.”

He looks into the distance, grits his teeth, and says nothing.

“Listen to me,” I tell him, “we’re talking about first-degree murder here, life behind bars. Life. Whatever it is you’re hiding can’t be worse.”

His gaze returns to me; it’s steady. “You don’t know that, Counselor,” he says.

And he’s right. I don’t.

Chapter 26

Harry doesn’t pull into our office driveway when we reach it; he cruises on by. We’re eastbound on Main Street, destination undisclosed. “What?” I ask. “The day hasn’t been long enough? We’re taking a joyride now?”

“Just a short one,” he says.

He’s out of his mind. It’s seven-thirty. He hung around the Superior Courthouse until six, when the Holliston jurors retired to their hotel for the evening, then he crossed the parking lot and caught the final moments of chaos in the District Court. It was pushing seven by the time we extricated ourselves from the reporters and spectators and made our way through the snowdrifts to his Jeep.

The Kydd pulled out of the county complex just moments before we did, late for a hot date. The story of my life, he always says. If he’s going to keep this job, he’s fond of telling Harry and me, he may as well enter a Roman Catholic seminary. Harry always tells him to forget it. Rectors don’t cotton to Southern Baptists, he says.

“Are stores open?” Harry asks now.

He really isn’t of this planet. “It’s eight days before Christmas,” I tell him. “Of course they are.”

“How about flower stores?” he asks.

I stare at him.

“Florists?” he says.

“I know what they’re called, Harry. I’m trying to figure out why the hell you want to go flower shopping at this particular moment.” My feet hurt, my head aches, and my stomach’s growling. I want to sit someplace warm and quiet and eat dinner, not go shopping—for flowers or anything else.

He narrows his eyes, the way he always does when he’s about to hand me a line. “Thought I’d pick up a little something for my special someone,” he says.

That’s a bald-faced lie; he thought nothing of the sort. He knows me well enough to know that at this point in the workweek, I’d rather have a back rub than a bouquet of roses. “Who is she?” I ask.

He laughs, then reaches for my hand and kisses it, a habit of his that always melts my heart. “You know who she is,” he says.

“Well, she’s out of luck,” I tell him. “I don’t think you’ll find any florists open at this hour.” I lean over and kiss his cheek. “But I bet she’d settle for a filet mignon and a good Cabernet.”

“You read my mind,” he says. “How about Pete’s?”

Pete’s is a celebrated steak house on Main Street in Chatham. The entire menu is top-notch, but it’s the baked stuffed potatoes that bring Harry to his knees. “Sounds good,” I tell him. “There’s just one problem.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ve already passed it.”

“I know,” he says, nodding. “We’ll come back. I want to make a couple of stops first. Quick ones.” He pulls into the parking lot of the Chatham Village Market, a first-class, employee-owned grocery store, and stops in front of the Christmas trees.

I’m surprised. Harry and I normally decorate a tree together, in my Windmill Lane cottage, on Christmas Eve. We’ve never bought one this early before. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“I need a wreath,” he says. He hops out, leaves the Jeep running, and heads for the small shanty that serves as a temporary shop. His sudden concern with holiday decor leaves me mystified, to put it mildly. I watch while he chats with the tree merchant, a burly man in a fisherman’s knit sweater, denim overalls, and a striped stocking cap. In no time at all, Harry’s headed back, his purchase complete. He gestures for me to roll down my window, then hands me a fragrant circle of pine.

It’s understated, lovely. Small, dark red berries are clustered in random spots around it and a single matching ribbon is tied in a simple bow on one side. “Where are you going to hang it?” I ask as Harry puts the Jeep back in gear.

“I’m not,” he says. He turns right out of the driveway, heading eastbound again.

“Pete’s is the other way,” I remind him.

“One more stop,” he says, covering my hand with his. “It’ll just take a few minutes. Promise.”

We ride in silence for a short while. Harry takes a left on Old Harbor Road, then a right on Highland Avenue. I was mystified before, but I’m downright stunned now. “We’re going to church?” I ask. “The Catholic church?”

He shakes his head as he parks on the street, just past the main entrance. “Hell, no,” he says. “The steeple would implode if we did. I wouldn’t do that to the good Catholics so close to Christmas.”

Harry takes the wreath from my lap and gets out of the Jeep, so I follow. A few dozen cars are already parked in the church’s large lot and more are pulling in. A lighted sign near the front steps explains. The children’s Christmas pageant begins at eight, fifteen minutes from now. The organist has already begun, though. “O Come, All Ye Faithful” wafts through the air, growing louder each time a churchgoer opens the front doors . Harry sings along as we walk around the side of the church into complete darkness. “Adeste, fideles, laeti triumphantes; Venite, venite in Bethlehem.”

He’s full of surprises tonight. “You know the Latin version?” I ask.

“Natum videte Regem angelorum.”

“All of it?”

“Venite adoremus, venite adoremus, venite adoremus, Dominum.”

I stare at him, astonished. He shrugs and drapes his arm around my shoulders. “High school,” he says. “The Jesuits gave me no choice.”

Harry stops when we reach the back of the church and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the total darkness. When they do, I realize we’re in a small cemetery, the one Monsignor Davis described on the witness stand. Now I understand Harry’s need for a wreath. There are about a dozen graves back here, situated randomly around a stone image of a woman clutching her heart. A crown of thorns is pressed onto her head, which I’m guessing goes a long way toward explaining her chest pain.

We locate Father McMahon’s burial site easily; its headstone looks much newer than the others, even after a year in the elements. Harry sets the wreath at its base and the two of us stand in silence, staring at the grave of a man neither one of us ever met. His simple stone is inscribed with his full Christian name, his dates of birth and death, and a passage from scripture:

Come to Me, all you who labor and are burdened,

and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon

you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly

in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.

For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.

Matthew 11:28–30.

“It’s a damned shame,” Harry says. “Derrick Holliston murdered a good man. And then I murdered his memory.”

“You were doing your job,” I tell him. “You didn’t have any other option.”

Harry shakes his head. “Option or no option,” he says, “my words maligned a man who didn’t deserve it. I’m responsible for them.”

“You don’t know what happened here a year ago.”

“Yes, I do,” he says quietly.

Here we go again. “You don’t, Harry. You have your suspicions, but you don’t know anything about it. Maybe it went down just as Holliston said.”

He arches his eyebrows at me, but says nothing. He doesn’t need to. I’m a broken record. And he’s not listening anymore.

“Christmas visitors!”

I jump a little before I realize it’s Monsignor Davis coming through the darkness. He opens his arms, welcoming us, as he approaches. “As the Magi visited the Christ child in the manger, so you’ve come to visit our Father McMahon.”

“Damn,” Harry says, shaking the priest’s hand. “We forgot the frankincense. And the shops are plum out of myrrh.”

The Monsignor laughs. “Not to worry,” he says. “Frank was never one to covet worldly wealth. He’d be glad just for your visit.”

“Don’t be so sure about that,” Harry says. “If I were Frank, I wouldn’t offer me an eggnog.”

Monsignor Davis looks curious, but apparently decides not to inquire further. “Any word from the jury?” he asks instead.

“Nada,” Harry tells him. “They’ve quit for the night. They’ll be back at work by eight tomorrow.”

The Monsignor checks his watch, then heads for the church’s back door. “The pageant’s just about to begin,” he says. “Are you coming?”

Harry starts to laugh, then catches himself. “Maybe some other time,” he says. “The camels are hungry.”

The Monsignor waves and then turns away from us, laughing as the heavy door slams shut behind him.

Harry drapes his arm around my shoulders again as we head back toward Old Harbor Road. “Who’re you calling a camel?” I ask.

He lowers his head, his expression hangdog. “I knew that was a mistake.” He smiles apologetically, looks a bit abashed, even, but by the time we reach the Jeep, he’s whistling “Midnight at the Oasis.”

If we were to continue in the same direction on Old Harbor Road, we’d eventually come upon the Kendrick estate, where I suspect Honey and Abby are in hiding tonight—from the persistent press; from well-intentioned neighbors; from the prying public. We don’t, though. Harry makes a U-turn instead, heading for Pete’s, and in the dim glow of the streetlights, he looks a little bit sad.

“Remember,” I tell him, “even if you’re right about Holliston, you don’t have a monopoly on lying clients. I’ve got one on my hands too.”

“So you said.” He reaches over and cups my cheek in his palm, another habit of his that warms my heart. “What makes you so sure?” he asks.

It’s a rational question; I wish I had a better answer. “I don’t know,” I tell him. “But I am. Charles Kendrick is lying. He’s taking the rap for a murder he didn’t commit.”

“You don’t know that,” Harry says. “You can’t.”

He’s right, of course. I can’t.

But I do.