Keep Them Close(42)

“Meaning?”

“We can narrow it down to a specific class of foundations. Maybe even a specific brand. This one has a warm-undertone mica shimmer. I don’t know if that’s common or not. But in theory, if we get a suspect and she’s got that product in her bag, and the chemical signature matches exactly?” She snaps the tube shut. “That’s practically a courtroom exhibit.”

Louise’s jaw tightens. “Is there a time window? Like, could this face have been pressed against the glass six months ago? A year? Cuz the owner, she’s owned this place for years.”

“Oh, no,” says Mendoza. “This part isn’t an exact science, but we’re only talking about a time window that spans a couple weeks at most and probably less than that. High-oil bronzers oxidize. We can usually tell whether this was left today, yesterday, or several days ago. You guys think the murder was on April first?”

“Yeah.”

“Has the owner been in this condo since then?”

“Beats me. They haven’t let us access the lobby videos yet. We’re dealing with the building’s lawyers on that. And the owner of this unit isn’t talking. The only thing she said, when she filed the missing-persons report, is that she was in this condo on the afternoon of April first.”

Mendoza smiles. “Is her DNA profile in the system?”

“It is, yeah.”

“Give me a week, tops,” she says, “and I’ll tell you if it was her.”





Two Weeks Before April Fools’ Day





33


Allison

I set down the draft and turn to Aaron Starks. “This is excellent work,” I tell him. “You almost have me convinced the court should dismiss the congressman’s charges.”

He seems to appreciate the praise, as best as you can read him. Even after spending a lot of time with Viv and me, Aaron still elevates “reserved” to an art form. I’ve scarcely seen him smile in the month that he’s done work for me. And here he is, staying well past work hours, but still wearing his suit coat, tie still pinching his collar, as we sit in my office eating dinner.

“It’s not often we see partners working these kinds of hours around here,” he says. “You do it every night.”

“We’re in sprint mode now.” I dump the dressing into my salad, close the lid, and shake it up. “We’re down to, what, fifty-four days? Today’s the eighteenth? Or is it the nineteenth?”

“Wednesday, March eighteenth,” he says. “The year is 2026, by the way.”

I laugh. The days are blurring together. I’ve been working round the clock. But it’s not like there’s anything at home for me. I doubt Finley’s even there. He’s probably out with his buddies or screwing some woman, Trinity or who knows who else. With my leaving him alone every night, he’s been given a complete hall pass. No need to invent excuses.

When the congressman’s trial is over, I remind myself. Six months from today, tops. Then I’ll be ready to cut the cord and deal with the drama.

Aaron turns to me. “You really don’t think we’ll win the motion to dismiss the superseding indictment?” he asks. “I like our argument.”

“Oh, no. The judge will give the government a chance to prove the quid pro quo by inference, circumstantially. That’s what I’d do if I were the judge.” I wave a hand. “Maybe there’s too much of the former prosecutor left in me.”

He leans back in his seat. “?‘The day we accept graft as just the cost of doing business, as just politics, is the day we start to give our country away, bribe by bribe, favor by favor.’?”

I draw back. “Are you quoting—”

He raises a finger, shushing me. “?‘This isn’t their government. It’s your government. Take it back today with your verdict.’ Rebuttal doesn’t get any better than that.”

I feel color spread across my face. He must have read my closing argument when I prosecuted Senator Bridges. “What, you found the transcript online?”

“I was there,” he says.

“You—you were at the trial?”

“Yeah, in the ceremonial courtroom. Standing room only. I was a first-year in the D.C. branch at the time. But I was in Chicago. I finagled one of the tickets our firm had. I got chills listening to you. People say prosecutors have to be sober. Just-the-facts. But that was more than just the facts. That was emotional.” He makes a fist. “That was…inspirational.”

I look away, instinctively ready to deflect praise, as I was raised to do, as I’m programmed to do. But I can’t stifle the heat rising within me, as if someone dialed up my internal thermometer.

“That day,” he says, “I promised myself that I would be as good a lawyer as you. I never dreamed I’d get a chance to work with you.”

Our eyes meet. It’s supposed to be a quick, inadvertent glance. Instead it lingers, stretches. A beat too long. Then another. My breath slips, shallow in my chest. He doesn’t look away. I don’t, either.

The room feels suddenly smaller.

He shifts in his chair, slow, deliberate, as though he’s giving me every chance to stop him. A subtle lean across the table. The soft catch of his breath. And then he tilts toward me, close enough that I can feel his warmth over the scattered documents, close enough that the world outside our little glass box disappears.