“Whoa,” Len said. “When you say ‘placed,’ you mean the bra was put there, like a staged kind of thing?”
“Staged,” she said. “Yeah, that’s the word I was looking for. What if it was?”
“Shit,” Len said. “It complicates things. I mean, why stage something if you’re Joe DeSantos and you’re out of your mind on booze and you just want her dead?”
“No idea. Maybe it sends a message? There was an inscription on the bra—those letters we found. Maybe Joe didn’t just want her dead. Maybe he also wanted to leave something behind for someone to make sense of.”
“For who to make sense of?”
“No idea. Let me know when you confirm Robbie’s alibi. We’ll go from there.”
CHAPTER 36
New York State Attorney General’s Office
Lower Manhattan
6:55 p.m.
Joe brought one Jameson whiskey box to pack up the things he was going to bring home from the office. He had never kept much there. No framed photos. No degrees on the wall. Just a paperweight, some extra ties, and a spare pair of dress shoes. It was a little before seven in early August, so the office was empty. That was good—the last thing he wanted was awkward goodbyes or good lucks from any of his coworkers. The few he was closest to had anticipated his exit and sent him some nice thoughts. It was an office he would dearly miss, and the work had given him another couple of years he never believed he’d get. But it was over. He was about to start filling the box when he heard an all-too-familiar voice talking on a cell phone and projecting from down the hall. He sighed.
Craig.
As the bureau chief, Craig came down to the city for meetings regularly, but Joe always knew when. Except for now. A few seconds later, Craig rapped his knuckles on the doorjamb.
“Anybody home?” he asked.
Joe gave him a tired shrug. “I’d ask why you’re down here, but I know.”
“It was last minute,” Craig said. “I should have called, but I knew I’d find you here.”
“Let me guess. A meeting with the chief of staff. At least one minute of it on me, and how fast I’m leaving.”
“He mentioned you,” Craig said, as if conceding a point. “But nothing’s been decided.”
“I’ve decided. I just signed it.” He plucked a stiff piece of AG letterhead amid the mess of papers on his desk, hoping his hand wasn’t shaking. He’d been without a drink for four days.
“What the hell?” Craig asked, settling into a chair across from the desk. His face morphed into an exaggerated “confused” expression—his brows furrowed, his lips bunched like he was making a duck face—and then he glanced at the letter.
“I won’t accept this.”
“You have to.”
“Why? I’m five years from retirement. What’s the worst that could happen? They send me to defend the tax department? What the hell do I care?”
“Craig, please. We’ve got to get serious. I can’t work here, and you know it. I have a feeling you came down here today for me. To accept my resignation, ultimately, but also to try to talk me out of it. Because you’re loyal. Thank you.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not accepting it.”
“You are. It’s better for everyone. For you, for the bureau. It’s better.”
“The bureau is doing fine. Better with you in it.”
“You’re the best boss I’ve ever had,” Joe said, checking the emotion rising up inside. “When I first got to the Bronx, years ago, I was lucky to end up in your unit.”
“I like to think I was lucky,” Craig said.
“Whatever. I was a kid. I was a really screwed-up, really broken kid.”
“You were,” Craig said, making another exaggerated expression. Joe knew what this was. It wasn’t that Craig wouldn’t go deep, emotionally. It was just that he wouldn’t go there easily. He pointed a finger at Joe. “But you had talent.”
“Craig.” Joe spoke with dead evenness, as if to expiate any further funny faces, regardless of what a balm against the truth they were. “You saved me back then. And again a couple of years ago. You can’t save me now. It’s okay.” There was a pause, and then Craig’s face went blank, like the signal feeding it had died.
“You didn’t kill anyone.”
Joe’s face fell. “I don’t think I did, no.”
“You didn’t.”
“I—I don’t think . . .”