The Intern(74)

Andrew Martin came out to get them.

“Madison, nice to see you again. Come on in.”

He smiled like an unusually handsome dentist, reassuring her before he drilled her teeth. The conference room he took them to was out of central casting. The long table, the whine of the HVAC, a smell of burnt coffee, and—as she’d feared—an enormous bulletin board marked “McCarthy Assassination.” So, the focus of their investigation really was this crime Madison hadn’t known about until yesterday. Not something bloodless like bribery or corruption, but the murder of a prosecutor, with graphic photos of a burned-out car and bloody bits of flesh that made her stomach heave. And that wasn’t the worst part. She took a step closer, her mouth falling open. Among dozens of photos of suspects, most of whom she didn’t recognize, she saw Judge Conroy, Detective Wallace, Ray Logue, and Nancy. But Danny’s mug shot was also there. And next to it, Madison herself, her Harvard Law School ID photo with “The Intern” written under it.

She was on a bulletin board for assassinating a prosecutor.

“Madison, so glad you could join us.”

She turned, noticing for the first time the petite, pretty female prosecutor at the head of the table. With a sleek, black bob and immaculate clothing, she looked ready to address a jury. Meanwhile Madison hadn’t slept, showered, or combed her hair since yesterday.

“Morning, boss. Special delivery,” Olivia said, dropping the plastic evidence envelope full of drugs on the table in front of the woman.

“How’d you get that on the plane?”

“I have my ways.”

“Thanks, it’ll make a nice conversation starter. Miss Rivera, Brooke Lee. Department of Justice.”

Brooke Lee. Wallace had mentioned her.

“I work with AUSA Martin on this investigation. I’m sorry we’re meeting under such unfortunate circumstances. Not long ago, you would’ve been someone I’d love to hire. But now.”

Picking up the evidence, she clucked her tongue. Madison’s legs went weak, and she fell into the closest chair.

“You can’t possibly believe those are my drugs,” she said.

“I admit, Detective Wallace has been known to lie. On the other hand, your brother was arrested for selling Rocket heroin, so it would make sense that you’re involved in his operation. Despite the Harvard Law pedigree.”

“Danny is innocent. The drugs were never his.”

“Look, I get it. He’s your little brother. You probably have fond memories of reading him bedtime stories. That doesn’t make him innocent. There’s not a narcotics case in history where the defendant doesn’t claim they’re not his drugs.”

“This time, it’s true. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was just bad luck.”

“I’ll say. He’s facing ten years. But if you’re willing to talk, and you give us hard evidence against Judge Conroy, you might be able to help Danny out. Help yourself too. Because the penalty for possession of these drugs here,” she said, holding up the plastic envelope, “is a minimum of five years in federal prison.”

Madison realized that her teeth were chattering. She’d been freezing since forgetting her coat in the judge’s office last night. The cold blast of air from the vents didn’t help. It was almost like an enhanced interrogation technique, the equivalent of bright lights or sleep deprivation. Brooke Lee was staring her down. The feds were sharks, as dangerous as Wallace in their own way. Desperate and exhausted, not knowing what to do, she did the thing they always said not to. She started talking.

“Wallace kidnapped me last night. He planted the drugs on me. Please, you have to believe me.”

“What I don’t understand is, if you’re just a humble law student, and so innocent, why would Wallace waste his time framing you?”

“To stop me from cooperating. He thought I was working for you and wanted to destroy my credibility. And you’re scaring me, because I’m afraid he succeeded.”

“Your credibility is yet to be determined. It really depends on you. On your willingness to answer questions truthfully.”

“Ask me anything. I’ll answer. The whole truth, I promise.”

“Okay. What exactly is the nature of your relationship with Kathryn Conroy?”

“I’m her student and an intern in her chambers.”

“Why are you living in her house?”

“I’m not living there. I just stayed over a couple of nights.”

“Why?”

“She hired me as a pet sitter.”

“Hmmm.” Brooke looked skeptical, shaking her head.

“I swear, that’s the truth. She’s my professor. I got an internship in her office. Then she asked me to watch her cat.”

“What were you doing at the Pro Bono League dinner?”

“The judge gave me a ticket. I was networking.”

“You were seen speaking with Douglas Kessler. Why were you talking to him?”

“Again, networking. I’ll be working at his law firm next summer.”

“What exactly did you talk about with him?”

Her mouth fell open. What the hell was she doing? She should ask for a lawyer before she incriminated herself.

“Brooke, may I?” Martin interrupted. “I think rather than focusing on Kessler, we need to get Conroy’s whereabouts. She’s been MIA for two days now, and we urgently need to speak with her. Madison, tell us where she is, and you’ll go a long way toward restoring your credibility. Hold back, and we’ll have reason to think you’re involved.”