Brooke Lee would offer her full immunity and WITSEC in a heartbeat. All she had to do was fold. It would be tempting if not for the fact that she’d seen this dance play out in a hundred other cases. She knew how it would end. A tidy little house somewhere in a warm climate. A new name, plastic surgery, some hair dye. A mindless job eight hours a day to help her forget the dead she’d left behind. If she was lucky, she’d get to enjoy it for a year or two before a stranger walked up and put a bullet in her brain. No, cooperation was a false god. She’d disappear, all right, but on her own terms. Protect only herself and the ones she loved. Before she left this room, she would get as much information as possible. And tell no one, because you’d better believe they were waiting to see who she contacted once she hit the street.
“Given that you have no attorney present, I’d like to state for the record that you are free to leave at any time, and to refuse to answer any question that’s posed,” Lee said.
“And I’d like to state that, while I came here fully prepared to cooperate and answer questions, your duplicity has forced me to rethink that. I’ll stay to hear what you have to say. As for answering questions, that’s off the table, at least until I understand the scope of your investigation.”
Brooke looked taken aback. Shot yourself in the foot, didn’t you?
“Okay, um. Let’s start with your FBI background check.”
“That’s ancient history.”
“I’m not referring to the process you went through twenty years ago to become a prosecutor. It would be understandable if you don’t remember that. But the more recent one, the background check to become a federal judge.”
“That’s still, what, eight years ago? But sure. Whatever. Go ahead,” she said, crossing her arms, putting on a long-suffering expression.
“Do you recall speaking with Special Agent Justin Greco for your judicial background check?”
Greco. So, that’s where this started. Had he developed a conscience? Been arrested? Flipped? Greco could do some serious damage. They’d be going over every security clearance he’d ever worked on, not just Kathryn’s. And there were some big fish in that sea.
“Justin— Who?”
“Special Agent Justin Greco? He was in charge of your background check. You met with him on several occasions.”
Lee took a manila folder from a briefcase and shuffled through the contents. Kathryn wanted to rip it from her hands and see what the hell was in there. Eventually, Lee withdrew a photograph and placed it before Kathryn on the shiny conference table. Her heart skipped a beat. It was a surveillance photo, in living color but somewhat blurry, taken from some distance away, of Greco walking with a second man. She recognized Greco by his bulk and his shaved head. She recognized the second man from—well, her entire life. It was Charlie.
How much did they know? Was it possible to distance herself?
“Do you recognize these individuals?”
“Is that Greco?” she said, pointing to the bald man.
“So you recognize the gentleman with the shaved head as Justin Greco?”
“Not really. It’s just process of elimination, because I do recognize the other man, who’s not Greco. That’s Detective Wallace from the Boston PD.”
“Yes. How well do you know Wallace?”
“I worked cases with him when I was a prosecutor. Occasionally, he appears in my courtroom on cases for which I’m the assigned judge.”
“That’s how you know Charlie Wallace? From cases?” Lee said, raising her eyebrows.
It wouldn’t do to show emotion. Her strategy was working so far. Shrug nonchalantly, say nothing. Let them come to her with more information.
Brooke Lee went thumbing through her folder again.
“Take a look at this photo and tell me if you recognize anyone.”
Pinpricks of tiny stars swamped her field of vision. Eddie’s funeral. The past went through her like wind, and she was standing in that cemetery in her mind. The nineties. The women with their big hair and shoulder pads. The men in suspenders, shirts with contrasting collars like something out of Wall Street, though plenty of mobsters dressed like that to this day. And that explained why they had this old photo. The FBI had been taking surveillance pictures that day, hoping the mob would show up to pay their respects. They’d been his clients, after all. In her head, she could still see the people flipping off the guys with cameras who stood on the periphery of the cemetery. Hear their voices. Shame, for shame. Fucking vultures. It was all for naught. The mob was who whacked Eddie—for not listening, for being a pain in their ass. There wasn’t a wiseguy in sight at that funeral, only their lackey Ray Logue standing beside Kathy, his arm around her shoulders. And Mrs. Wallace, that witch, kind of a mobster in her own right, stone-faced in the front row with Charlie by her side. She didn’t look grief-stricken, because she wasn’t capable of love. Kathy’s cheek still burned from being slapped by her. Her mouth was full of spit. God, she hated that woman. Every night, she went down on her knees and prayed the bitch would just drop dead. But no. The good died young, the wicked flourished. And Mrs. Wallace was still in her life.