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Chapter One

“You surprised him, shot him with his own gun, and then, in a fit of jealous rage, butchered him with a kitchen knife. You let him bleed to death while you cleaned yourself. You waited an hour before calling the police. You planned on murdering your husband, did you not, Samantha?”

“I… no… I loved…love him…” she sobs, but I’m impervious to her distress. It doesn’t matter that she’s a woman, that she’s beautiful, or that her husband was a cheating bastard. What matters, is that Samantha Jenkins had motive, the means and the opportunity to murder her husband—that and the evidence pointing to her guilt. I’m merely using the facts to prove my case.

“Objection, move to strike. The prosecutor has badgered and led the witness throughout, Your Honor,” her attorney, Owen Bryce, interjects.

What the hell did he expect? He, like every attorney, has been taught the fundamental rule of cross-examination; ‘every question must be a leading one’. Unlike a direct examination where the aim is to gain information, your intent during cross-examination is not to ask the witness; it’s to tell the jury. You are, in fact, testifying. You want the jury to hear what you have to say, not what the witness has to tell. In this instance, I want them to remember, the victim, Robin Jenkins’ dying moments, not the defendant’s evidence.

“One more transgression and you will be ruled in contempt, Counsel,” Judge Smythe cautions.

“The Commonwealth rests, Your Honor,” I respond, satisfied that I’ve achieved my goal. Bryce is invited to redirect, but he, probably realizing the futility of doing so, declines.

“Court will reconvene at three p.m. to hear closing arguments,” Judge Smythe announces.

“Lunch, Adam?” my second-chair asks hopefully as I pack up. Tess Williams is a highly attractive woman with flaming red hair and long, long legs. The phrase ‘don’t foul your own nest’ comes to mind at her look of blatant invitation. I’d never accept, but I’m not about to deny myself the pleasure of a beautiful and intelligent woman’s company over lunch.

“Let’s go to Neptune Oyster, their clam chowder’s legendary, “ I suggest, and her smile widens.

“You were amazing in there, Adam,” she says almost as soon as we’re seated and leans across to run long, red nails down my forearm. I hold her gaze for a moment before moving my arm.

“Thanks, but it’s a pretty cut and dried case. We just have to keep the pressure on and hope the jury doesn’t sympathize with her because of her husband’s infidelity.”

“I agree,” Tess says. I feel her ankle brush against mine. It could be accidental, but I highly doubt it; it’s not the first overture of this nature she’s made.

I smile wryly. “Tess, what are you doing? You’re a beautiful woman, and under different circumstances, we’d be spending a couple of hours in a handy hotel room. But I’m in a relationship, we’re professionals, colleagues, and we’ve been friends for a long time. Let’s not spoil things.”

She sighs exaggeratedly. “We could be so good together,” she laments, her gaze lingering on mine before she abruptly turns to her menu. “Okay, let’s order. Remind me, what’s good here.”

I smile. “As I’ve said, the clam chowder’s legendary.”

Images

Back in court, I listen to Bryce extol his client’s virtues as a faithful and supportive wife. He’s a good attorney, but he lacks the killer instinct, I decide.

“My client loved and still loves her husband deeply,” he says. “Yes, she was devastated and angry when discovering his infidelity and heartbroken that he’d fathered a child with another woman, but she believed they could resolve the problems in their marriage. She professed her willingness to accept his unborn child, and Mr. Jenkins assured her that they had a future together.

“My client was not home at the time of her husband’s murder. She stopped off for a drink after an exhausting day of shopping. There is nothing unusual in that, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury. The pub she visited was crowded; it’s not surprising that no one remembers having seen her.

“Mrs. Jenkins returned home to find her husband lying in a pool of blood. She was shocked and distraught and did what many in the same situation would—she tried to help her husband. The prosecutor would have you believe there was something sinister in my client’s behavior. He suggests her first response should have been to phone for help; but Mrs. Jenkins’ reaction was typical, Ladies and Gentlemen. Hers was the natural response of a loving wife. She was utterly distraught, and when her desperate efforts to save her husband failed, surely, it’s understandable that it took time for her to think clearly enough to call the police?

“Testimony from her neighbor, Mrs. Arnold, who believes she heard my client arrive home that day cannot be substantiated and should, therefore, be discounted. The housekeeper, Mrs. Davidson’s testimony does not prove that my client was the one who removed the gun from the drawer; the deceased may well have done so himself. He may have heard a disturbance and decided to arm himself against an intruder.

“It’s ludicrous to assume that my client was the only left-handed person in the vicinity when approximately ten percent of the world’s population is left-handed and thirty percent mixed-handed

“There is simply not sufficient proof to find Mrs. Jenkins guilty of murder. It would be doing further injustice to an innocent and already wronged woman. If you hold even a shadow of doubt in your minds, Ladies and Gentlemen, you must acquit my client,” he concludes.

It’s my turn, then, to make my argument. I rise and thank the court, defense counsels and the jury for their time and attention.

“Defense Counsel presents a good case, but he failed to acknowledge the facts. The facts, Your Honor, Ladies, and Gentlemen, are that several witnesses overheard the defendant threaten not only her husband but also his pregnant mistress. Despite interviewing dozens of witnesses at the pub where the defendant claims to have visited on that fateful night, police were unable to find a single person who remembered her being there—not a bartender, not a waiter or waitress, not another patron. The defendant is a striking-looking woman, one, who would hardly go unnoticed in an establishment such as the Silverton.”

I allow my gaze to sweep the jury before settling on a middle-aged woman at the end. Having even a single juror predisposed to your argument can be advantageous, and I can tell I’ve won her over.

“Mrs. Arnold didn’t only think she heard the defendant arrive home as counsel has asserted, she witnessed her drive into the garage two hours before she claims to have done so. The timing confirms she was home at the time of her husband’s murder. Mrs. Davidson, the Jenkins’ housekeeper, has testified that the defendant knew where the spare key to the gun drawer was kept. A random intruder would not have known that.

“Police found no signs of forced entry, and the coroner has presented forensic proof that Robin Jenkins had been shot at close range. The crime scene revealed no visible signs of struggle. Surely a man with the physical attributes of the victim would have tried to defend himself against an intruder? Robin Jenkins had his throat slit after being shot, and he had, almost certainly, still been alive and unable to protect himself from that final and vicious assault. The entry point and nature of the knife wound indicates that his killer is left-handed—as is the defendant. The force with which the wound was inflicted indicates a person of small to medium build—as is the defendant.

“Defense Counsel claims his client’s failure to contact police immediately on discovering her husband’s body is because she was overcome. We say she delayed because she needed time to destroy evidence and rehearse her alibi. The defendant has herself testified that she tried to help a man she knew was already dead. That is how she explains the presence of her bloodied handprint on her dead husband’s shirt. We say, and forensic evidence substantiates the fact, that the damning print resulted from her leaning over Robin to slit his throat

“Ladies and Gentlemen, you are charged with the unenviable and grave responsibility of determining guilt or innocence. I urge you, in your deliberations, to disregard personalities, the suppositions, and the emotion surrounding this case. Consider the facts and only the facts. The facts will lead you to the only possible verdict, and that is finding Samantha Jenkins guilty of the premeditated and brutal murder of her husband.”

Judge Smythe instructs the jury and then retires them to deliberate. On the way out, Bryce and I cross paths. “You truly are a bastard,” he accuses me.

“So they say,” I reply dispassionately and, without stopping to engage him further, make my way out of court.

Many have accused me of displaying hubris in court, but I make no apologies. Criminals come in all guises. They hide behind the mantle of respectability, beauty, charm, or the facade of a grieving spouse, parent, lover or friend. They almost always profess innocence, even in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. A prosecutor’s role isn’t merely to present evidence; it includes unveiling the truth, exposing criminals and those seeking to protect them. Today, I did just that.

I chipped away at Samantha Jenkins’ show of bereaved widow. I read the culpability in her eyes and went in for the kill. I know guilt; I witnessed it in Eleanor’s eyes in her ever-diminishing periods of lucidity. I watched her become consumed by it and then lose it at the bottom of a bottle or with a shot in the arm. Yes, I learned in those terrible years to recognize guilt—I suffered it. So I really don’t care what my opponents in court think of me.

The only opinions that matter are those of my family because I owe them everything. They understand my compulsion for work. The same can’t be said for my girlfriend, Jaclyn. She simply refuses to accept my dedication and probably never will, especially as I choose not to share details of my past. After six months of casual dating and then living with her for another six, I still don’t have the desire to share the most private part of myself with her. Not that I think it would make a difference if I did.

She dislikes my friends and shows no interest in getting to know them. I don’t believe she’s genuinely interested in knowing the real me, to be honest. I’m pretty certain she wouldn’t like that person anyway. She wants the wealthy, successful prosecutor with the bright future. She’s not curious about the work I do or why I do it. She’s interested in its potential for my greater success and ascension among Boston’s elite and, by extension, hers.

As if gifted with some sixth sense, my phone sounds with her ringtone. I brace myself for another meaningless, and what’s become a predictable, conversation.

“Hi,” I answer, hoping to be proven wrong.

“You haven’t returned my calls, Adam. What if it had been an emergency?”

“Is it?” I ask, trying to contain my irritation.

“Is it what?”

“Is it an emergency, Jaclyn?”

“Well no, I’m just making a point. When will you be home?”

I take a calming breath. “I intended to call you shortly. I’m meeting Matt and the gang for a drink; it would be nice if you joined us.”

Why don’t we spend the evening alone, or we could go to a nice restaurant. What about Espalier?”

“I haven’t seen my friends in weeks, and I’ve promised Matt.”

“Adam, I don’t have anything in common with those people.” She sighs heavily.

“Matt’s like a brother to me; he is, in fact, family. I’m going, with or without you, it’s up entirely up to you, Jaclyn.”

“I’m not going Adam, just don’t be home late. We need to talk.”

“We do, but it won’t be tonight,” I reply testily, expelling a frustrated breath when she hangs up on me. I’m glad she’s raised the need to talk, though. I’ve been delaying the inevitable for too long.

I wasn’t ready for a committed relationship when I met Jaclyn, but we ran into each other at social events on several occasions after. I finally invited her out, and we started dating casually. Our relationship started out as easygoing, which I liked and enjoyed. I was clear about not wanting something long-term, but I let my guard down, and she managed to insinuate her way into my life. After spending a weekend together, I’d discover an item of lingerie in a drawer or a pair of shoes in my closet. I should have heeded those early signs, but I convinced myself I was being overly sensitive. Before I realized it, she’d all but moved in, and, instead of addressing the situation as I should have, I took the path of least resistance. Jaclyn started changing soon after, and the carefree nature of our relationship, the very thing that appealed to me, is rapidly being lost.

The physical aspect of our relationship remains satisfactory, and I’d describe my feelings for her as fondness. I don’t feel burning passion; certainly nothing like the kind that exists between Mom and Dad, or Caitlin and Matt. I’d hoped, hell, I still hope, to find that some day.

Despite knowing how dear my family is to me, Jaclyn avoids every opportunity to spend time with them. What she enjoys, I’ve discovered, is the media attention I attract. She loves nothing more than to be seen and photographed on my arm. I, on the other hand, hate the media’s seeming obsession with me. I’ve tried, in the face of our differences, to ignite the kind of love for Jaclyn that my family experiences. Instead, I feel more and more stifled in a relationship I should never have allowed to develop.

My annoyance dissipates as I navigate the familiar streets of Southie, and I can’t help smiling when passing James Condon Elementary where Matt and I met. He came to my aid when I was confronted and outnumbered by bullies in the schoolyard. We ended up with bloody noses and scraped knees but victorious, mostly due to his formidable reputation and size. We became best friends, and he later introduced me to Alan and Ian. Matt’s my brother-in-law now.

I’ve stopped at a red light, still musing, when, suddenly, I’m propelled forward to the sound of a sickening crunch. It takes only seconds to realize what’s happened, and I’m already uttering a string of expletives as I step out of my car. The offending driver has yet to emerge as I move to assess the damage.

“Are you blind?” I turn on the offender. “That was a red light!” The car door opens to reveal a shapely leg clad in black tights and pink leg coverings, and I’m faced with a petite woman, wearing sunglasses that obscure most of her face. All I can distinguish is a slightly upturned nose and a full, enticing mouth, which at any other time I’d find highly appealing.

“I’m so sorry! I…I just reached for my phone…” she stammers.

“You shouldn’t be using your phone. Someone could’ve been hurt or killed.”

She appears taken aback by my anger but juts her chin out defiantly. “I’ve apologized, there’s no need to be an ass about it. It was just a tap, and as you can see, your precious car’s fine.” I glare at her incredulously before bending down to pointedly inspect the dent on my practically new car.

“I want your driver’s license number and insurance details,” I demand, straightening up.

“I’m not giving you a thing!” she replies, the slight tremor in her voice causing me a momentary pang of remorse. Then, I remember her calling me an ass.

“In that case, I hope you have insurance. If not, I suggest you find a good lawyer.”

“You truly are insufferable,” she huffs and retreats to her car. She opens the door and leans across the driver’s seat to rummage through a large handbag. Her shapely lips purse in annoyance as she scribbles in a notepad she’s retrieved.

“Here, I don’t have time for your histrionics,” she says haughtily, rips the page out, slaps it into my chest; and then, before I can react, returns to her car and drives away. I watch, dumbfounded as her taillights disappear from view.

It takes me moments to uncrumple the note, which reads, A. White—nothing more. “Well, Ms. White…you’ll be hearing from me,” I mutter, incensed anew—by her audacity and my inability to stop a woman half my size from escaping. I’m still bristling with irritation by the time I enter Ian’s.

“What took you so long?” Matt asks as I sit beside him.

“I don’t want to discuss it,” I answer tersely, raising my hand to gain the attention of a server. When I’ve ordered a drink for myself and everyone else at the table, I turn to greet Tess, Lana, Alan, and Ian, who owns the pub.

Tess, whose name is actually Teresa, and her best friend, Lana, grew up in our neighborhood. They have each, at some stage, dated Matt, Alan, and Ian. Tess and Ian had an on again-off again relationship spanning many years, and she may well have dated Alan and Matt to get back at him for some perceived or real slight. Lana remains what she calls a ‘free spirit’ and dates prolifically.

Their dating merry-go-round had, at times, caused conflict and tension, but our friendships have endured. Both showed interest in me, but I viewed them then, as I do now, purely as friends. Lana readily accepted my disinterest, but Tess, who joined the DA’s office nearly two years ago, continues to push periodically like she did today.

Our group, as we always do when getting together, soon settles into relaxed conversation and friendly banter. The night turns out to be just what I needed after the grueling weeks of trial and then, of course, the altercations with Jaclyn and that damned runaway. By the time we declare it a night, the place is all but emptied of patrons by the time we’re ready to leave. Alan opts to stay over at Ian’s apartment above the pub and drive home in the morning. As always when driving, I limited myself to two drinks, so after seeing Tess and Lana into a cab, I offer to drop Matt off.

Arriving home just after two a.m., I find our bedroom light still on. I curse silently; I’d hoped to do this after having had some sleep. Jaclyn’s sitting up in bed and wearing a low-cut negligee. I recognize her two-pronged attack immediately; recriminations followed by sex as a reward for me showing suitable contrition. I chide myself with the thought that it worked in the past because I allowed it to.

“I’m surprised you’re still awake,” I say by way of greeting.

“I told you we needed to talk, Adam. I tried calling, but your phone’s been turned off as usual.”

“And I told you it would have to wait, and my phone was off because I didn’t want my evening interrupted.”

“What if someone needed to contact you?”

“Everyone who matters knew where I was. They could have called the pub.”

“Well, I wouldn’t deign to call there!”

“Why would you consider calling Ian’s beneath you?”

“I’ve told you I can’t stand those people. They hold you back.”

I swear I feel a tiny explosion go off in my brain at her blatant contempt for my friends. She’d like me to forget them and where I come from; and, despite their education and success, she probably feels the same way about my parents and sister. The only difference between them and me in her eyes, I realize, is her belief in my potential for greater things.

“My friends have never held me back,” I say, barely containing my anger.

“People talk about you becoming DA, possibly running for political office one day, Adam. Do you really think those people will help you get there?”

“Those people?”

“Those people,” she says, not even attempting to mask her disdain.

“They’re my people, and I would never hide that fact.”

“Adam…”

“Jaclyn, this isn’t going to work.”

“What do you mean?” Suddenly nervous, she scrambles out of bed.

“I should never have agreed to you moving in,” I say, carefully removing her arms from my neck.

“Perhaps I’ve been too harsh, but would you at least consider what I’ve said? “ she offers, her tone conciliatory. “You’re so reluctant to go out into society…”

“My friends are part of society.” I step back as she tries to wrap her arms around my waist.

“I mean people who influence things…who matter.”

“Everyone matters, don’t you get that? That’s why I do what I do.” I force myself to remain calm. “Look, I’m sorry, this is my fault. I should never have allowed this to become something more. I’m going to sleep in the guest room; I suggest you move back in with your sister tomorrow,” I tell her before turning away.

“Don’t do this, Adam. We’re good together.”

“That’s just the thing, Jaclyn, we’re not and never will be—and if you’re honest, you’ll admit I’m not really what you want.”

“You are… and I thought you wanted me? I love you…” she claims, bringing us to the crux of the matter.

“I’m sorry, Jaclyn, but I don’t,” I say, softening my tone. She looks crestfallen, and I’m filled with contrition. It’s my ambivalence that’s brought us to this point.

“Call your sister in the morning, please,” I say with gentle determination before leaving and shutting the bedroom door behind me.

Her sister, Anne, turns up around seven that morning to help move her things out. I offer to help, but Jaclyn rebuffs me with a cold, “no thanks,” as they each lug a large suitcase down the stairs. Anne glares at me venomously. I ignore her; she’s an even greater snob than her sister.

I do the least I can, under the circumstances, and hold the door for them. “Be happy, Jaclyn,” I wish her to no response.

An overwhelming sense of relief washes over me when I shut the door. Later, wandering around my apartment, I make a mental note to enlist Mom’s help in redecorating the master suite. I want to reclaim every part of my home, especially the bedroom and living areas where Jaclyn spent most of her time.

Images

Just before seven-thirty, Tess sends me a text telling me to turn on the news. I realize, as I listen to the newscaster, just why she contacted me.

“VOXP has uncovered details of an investigation into an alleged drug and sex ring operating right under the noses of our authorities. The syndicate, reportedly one of long standing, is said to involve some very prominent Bostonians, including Senator Justin Wade who, it is alleged, is associated with a high-end escort agency implicated in the investigation. Senator Wade, the youngest and, arguably, the most famous member of the Massachusetts Senate, is part of a powerful political dynasty dating back generations. He could, if allegations prove to be correct, find himself responsible for our biggest political scandal of recent times.

“The police commissioner and the senator’s office have yet to comment on the matter. VOXP will keep abreast of developments and will, as always, be first to bring you the news.”

I’m still grappling with the implications of the report when Tess calls to say the jury in the Jenkins case is in.

Samantha Jenkins is found guilty of first-degree murder. She’s yet to face sentencing, but I have little doubt that she’ll end up serving a life sentence.

Chapter Two

Tess and I return from court to an office abuzz with speculation. Every prosecutor hopes the newscast proves accurate and is, no doubt, chomping at the bit to handle the trial. A case of such magnitude is bound to gain national attention and successfully prosecuting the perpetrators would significantly boost the careers of those involved.

I’ve yet to come to terms with the possible involvement of a friend and, given my time in court, haven’t had the chance to think about it, let alone consider the possibility of working on the case. Justin Wade and I were close friends in college; well, as close as our differences allowed, but we had once been friends, and I hope for the sake of our past association and his political ambitions that allegations of his involvement prove false.

“Thorne!” Gerard Beazley, our DA, calls out from my doorway later that day. He’s a large man whose dark hair is graying at the temples, hardly surprising given that he presides over our office, which handles over fifty thousand criminal cases each year.

Bill Watts, his second in command, manages day-to-day matters and prosecutes one or more of the high-profile cases. But it’s Gerard Beazley we look up to. Every prosecutor in this office strives to emulate his stellar career. Despite his often intimidating persona, the DA’s well liked and has earned the affectionate nickname of Bristly, a reference to his expressive, bushy eyebrows.

“Good work on the Jenkins case; come and see me at three,” he instructs, then leaves as abruptly as he arrived. Accustomed to his brusque manner, I return to what I’d been doing without being overly concerned. By lunchtime, my backlog of paperwork hasn’t diminished nearly enough, so I decide to grab something from the local deli and work through. I’ve only just returned when my phone rings.

I smile when noting the caller’s identity. “Hello, darling. I’ve given up waiting on you to call,” Mom says when I answer. My smile broadens at her teasing tone. I love my adoptive mother, Emma, dearly. She’d been our social worker, and when Eleanor was found dead from a drug overdose, the police contacted Mom, who had been listed as my emergency contact at school. Reluctant to place me into the welfare system, she took me home with her instead.

She and her husband, Callum, immediately applied to foster me. When that was granted, they petitioned to adopt me. Without Mom having taken such a personal interest in our case and caring about me, I might not have made it out of the system unscathed. I’ve certainly come a long way from the rundown part of Boston where I spent the first seven years of my life. My home, now, is a former commercial building in the Back Bay district, bordering the area where I once lived. The building, formerly a library and later a rundown art gallery, stands at the end of a street of Victorian brownstone homes.

Soon after purchasing it, I had the property converted into two residences and transferred the second title to my sister, Caitlin. I’ve renovated my half of the cavernous building into a home for myself, but Cait and Matt have yet to decide what they want to do with hers. My greatest wish is that they convert it into a home for themselves.

Many speculate about the source of my wealth, and to those who don’t truly know me, I’m the high profile, millionaire prosecutor, darling of the media and social set. They couldn’t be more wrong in their assessment of me because none of those things, with the notable exception of my career as a prosecutor, matter to me. At my core, I remain the once poor boy rescued from the hell of his early childhood by the angel now on the phone.

“Sorry, Mom, I’ve just been so busy, but I plan to visit soon,” I apologize.

“You’d better, Adam. In fact, I’m going to insist that you and Jaclyn come to dinner on Sunday.” Mom’s never been a fan of Jaclyn’s, I know, but she’s never voiced her opinion because of her love for me.

“I’ll be there, but Jaclyn won’t. We’re no longer together,” I confess.

“Oh, Adam, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m fine, Mom. In fact, I’ve never felt better,” I assure her.

“As long as you’re certain, darling. Must dash; I just called to congratulate you on the verdict. We’re so proud of you, sweetheart. See you on Sunday?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“I love you,” she tells me before hanging up.

“Love you too, Mom,” I belatedly reply.

Images

“Congratulations again on your win, Adam,” Bristly greets me as I enter his office. He motions me to a seat. “You just keep adding to your impressive record.” “I’ll get straight to point. What have you heard about this case that’s made the news?”

“Only what’s been reported. Is there any truth in it, Sir?”

“Police have been conducting an undercover investigation for some time and were just about to present us with their findings when the news broke. It’s a nuisance, but it hasn’t changed anything materially, I’m assured. Chief Andersen’s arranged for the detective managing the case, Holmes, to brief our office. He’ll be here at six-thirty. Watts was kept in the loop until he went in for surgery. Maddox has been liaising with the police in his absence, so she’ll be sitting in.”

“Did you want me to assist Jodi?”

Bristly sucks in his bottom lip and contemplates me from beneath bushy brows and, then, releasing it with a smacking sound, smirks. “You offering to second-chair?” he challenges.

“I’d much rather head up the case, but I’ll deal with whatever you decide, Sir,” I answer diplomatically.

“I’m glad to see you’re prepared to put the department’s best interests ahead of your own ambitions,” he says dryly, “but with Watts away, I want you to lead. It’s fortuitous that the Jenkins trial’s over.”

I can’t hide my pleasure. I’ve dreamed about bringing major drug dealers to justice. The truth is, I’ve wanted an opportunity like this from the moment I decided to become a prosecutor.

“Maddox will second-chair; she already knows this,” the DA continues. “This is an important case, Adam, the biggest of its kind. We can’t afford to mess up, so I want you to come to me if you need any help, and the Commissioner and I need to be kept informed. There may be some pretty big reputations on the line, and we don’t want any political or media backlash. It’s yet another reason I want us to do everything humanly possible to move any related trials through the courts as quickly and efficiently as possible.”

“I understand, Sir, and thank you for the vote of confidence. I look forward to working with Jodi, and I’ll set up regular briefings to keep you in the loop.” I take a moment before continuing.

“I’m not sure whether Senator Wade will be implicated, but I should advise that he and I were friends at Harvard; and although we haven’t been in contact or seen each other since graduation, you may wish to reconsider my involvement in the case, Sir.”

“Would you allow someone responsible for supplying drugs and sexually exploiting young women to go free? Even if that person had once been a friend of yours?” Bristly asks, scrutinizing me carefully.

“No, I wouldn’t,” I say without hesitation.

“Then I don’t have a problem, Adam. Keep me informed.” I recognize the dismissal and get up immediately and thank him before making my way to Jodi’s office.

She’s on the phone but signals for me to enter and take a seat. Jodi Maddox is petite with straight, near-black hair falling to her shoulders. Her large, gray eyes are capable of incinerating you with a single look. She’s smart as a tack, a fearless prosecutor and, reputedly, a great team player, and somewhat bossy.

She tells, no, demands that the person she’s speaking to gets back to her with the information promised hours ago. I smile surreptitiously—definitely bossy. I’m glad she’s on my team because Jodi, I can tell, is a woman who gets things done.

“Adam Thorne visiting the peasants…wonders will never cease,” she says when hanging up.

“Hi Jodi, how’re things? I’ve just met with the DA …” I hesitate, wanting to choose my words carefully.

“I’m aware you’ll be prosecuting this case if it goes to trial, Adam. It’s not like you to worry about what others think. Don’t go soft on me now.”

“No chance of that,” I reply, echoing her lighthearted tone. “Are you free to brief me on what you know now?”

An hour later, I’m staring out of my office window, pondering what I’ve learned. I’m still struggling to believe that Justin’s caught up in a drug and sex ring; it’s just so far removed from the man I knew.

Justin and I met when he introduced himself to me in the registration line on our orientation day at Harvard Law. He later introduced me to his friend Thomas Martin. We learned that we’d be living in the same building, and, later, were also assigned to the same student group. Those coincidences led to a friendship that lasted for our duration at Harvard.

Justin and Tom, childhood friends, were extremely close. I was more a peripheral friend, which was totally understandable. They have much in common—both born into lives of wealth and privilege, and imbued with an overwhelming sense of entitlement, while I—well, my life had been the exact opposite.

Justin’s descended from a long and distinguished line of politicians. His path to political greatness, potentially the highest office in the land, had been determined even before his birth. Tom planned on following his grandfather into private practice. “Corporate law or defense attorney,” he argued in response to my stated desire of becoming a prosecutor. “Business is where the money’s at, and there will always be more bad guys needing representation,” he said, greatly irked that I couldn’t be persuaded to his way of thinking. Money has never motivated me, even before I came into my fortune. No one outside of my family, at that stage, knew of my wealth, and I kept my secret from my new friends. The media have become aware of it, publicized it, but, thankfully, haven’t uncovered its source. I aim to keep it that way.

I haven’t seen either Justin or Tom since the day after graduation. We attended a number of parties the night before, separating sometime near dawn, each to fall into some girl’s bed to avail ourselves of the last college sex on offer. Bleary-eyed and nursing hangovers from hell, we packed up our belongings the next day and stepped into our separate futures with promises to keep in touch.

We didn’t, but I’m well aware of their achievements. Justin’s political success continues to attract media attention, and the legal fraternity is pretty close-knit, so it would have been impossible for me not to know that Tom’s made junior partner in his grandfather’s old firm. I haven’t actively sought information, not have I given conscious thought to either of them in years, but it appears I’m destined to meet one or both of them again. I highly doubt that they’ve lost touch with each other, and Justin may well have need of an attorney.

Images

Jon Holmes is a tall man, lean with a strong jaw, dark hair, and brown eyes. Well groomed and tailored, he’s nothing like the detectives I grew up watching on television. His intelligent, searching eyes and firm handshake tell me there’s much more to him than the urbane exterior he presents.

“It’s good to meet you, Adam. I’m looking forward to working with you,” he says when Jodi introduces us.

“The feeling’s mutual,” I return, meaning every word because something about this man tells me he’s good at what he does.

“Should we get on with it now that we’ve gotten the male bonding out of the way?” Jodi quips.

“Let’s,” I say, matching her jovial tone.

While Jon unpacks several files and a laptop, Jodi pours a cup of coffee, adds cream and stirs in two sugars before handing it to him. Her actions tell me two things; they’ve spent a lot of time together, and they currently know a lot more about this case than I do.

“Adam?” She holds up the pot.

“I’ll stick to water, thanks,” I say, moving to grab a bottle.

“This all starts and ends with the Cordi family,” Jon announces as he boots up his laptop. “Do you know anything about them, Adam?”

“I know the history, but these days they’re business moguls and philanthropists, aren’t they? I mean, rumors about their criminal activities continue, but they’ve unsubstantiated.”

“That’s what they’d like us to believe, but every drug-related crime we’ve investigated for nearly a decade’s provided some clue pointing to their involvement. We’ve just never been able to establish a direct link. Until now,” he adds on a note of satisfaction and turns his laptop to face me. “This guy was picked up on suspicion of distributing.”

A photograph of a behemoth of a man fills the screen. “Luca Delgado,” Jon continues, “claimed the fifty grams of coke found on him was for personal use…until we found a kilo hidden in a compartment in his trunk. The reality of fifteen to twenty soon had him talking, and he gave up some pretty concrete leads in exchange for a plea bargain. It’s not enough to bring the Cordi brothers in, but we’re confident it will get us search warrants for two of their lieutenants’ homes. Delgado swears we’ll find what we need there.”

“Are you sure? I’d hate to end up prosecuting only their minions.”

“Delgado’s information was pretty specific, and the Cordis don’t know we’ve picked him up yet. If we act quickly, we can move before they get a chance to move or destroy evidence.”

He brings up three male faces onscreen next. Their familial connection is apparent, except for their differing hair and eye color. One’s blond, one has dark brown hair, and the third man’s hair is nearly jet-black. His eyes are almost onyx, while the others’ are mid-brown.

“The blond, Silvio, is the eldest. He took control of the family business after his father’s death. Before him, the family had only been involved in petty crimes and, as slum landlords, fed off the less fortunate. Under Silvio, they gained control of street crime, especially prostitution and drugs. Not satisfied with small-time distribution, they began importing large quantities. The drugs sold on the streets became purer and, consequently, more deadly.”

“How the hell did they not get caught?” I ask.

“Silvio’s quite the strategist, it turns out. He implemented a hierarchy to protect himself and his brothers. First, he split the operations into two territories headed up by Joseph and Enzo. They, in turn, created geographical areas and appointed district leaders. The leaders appointed lieutenants, who hired dealers. The Cordis introduced rules to ensure that no one from one area had reason to deal or associate with their counterparts in the other territories. Only the district leaders knew who was really in charge, and a combination of bribery and fear kept it that way. So, you can see just how effectively they managed to distance themselves from their crimes.

“While their criminal organization thrived, the brothers concentrated on becoming socially acceptable. They each married women from respected families and then used their in-laws to gain entry into society.

“They all have children, but only Enzo has a son, Aleksi, who’s probably being groomed to take over one day.”

“How did they finally slip up?” I ask.

“Silvio’s too smart and careful, and Enzo,” he points out the brown-haired guy, “the youngest, has always looked up to Silvio. He wouldn’t step out of line. Joseph, however,” Jon’s eyes harden as he jabs at the screen, “considers himself smarter than his siblings and, according to Delgado, resents Silvio’s position. Well, he got over-confident,” he says with a satisfied grin.

I get the strangest sense, as I look more closely at his photograph, that I know Joseph Cordi. I dismiss the notion, telling myself I probably saw him at a social or fundraising event. I return my attention to Jon but find it hard to completely abolish the flicker of memory of a similar, but younger face.

“The brothers became well acquainted with and, in some cases, befriended prominent businessmen and politicians,” Jon says as Jodi and I replenish drinks. “They were strong supporters of former Senator Joshua Wade’s re-election campaign some years back.”

At the mention of the Wade name, I return to the table. “When Justin Wade contested and won his father’s seat, the relationship between the families strengthened with Joseph, allegedly, taking it beyond political support,” Jon continues.

“How?” I ask impatiently.

“We’ve been informed that he and Justin are in business together.”

“What the hell does that mean, exactly?”

“Delgado claims Joseph’s expanded the family’s street prostitution business into a sophisticated network of brothels. His allegation’s been confirmed by another source, who claims Joseph also recruited girls for clients with very specific tastes.”

“They’ve targeted under-aged girls, enticing, sometimes forcing, them into prostitution,” he elaborates at my raised brow.

“And how’s Justin involved in all of this?”

“The flagship in Joseph’s escort business is a club called Liaison, reputedly very exclusive. Justin Wade’s a member and, if our informant proves correct, he’s also a part owner. We’ve learned that he has a special relationship with a woman, Liaison’s most sought-after escort, with a reported nightly fee of five thousand dollars.”

I’m both incredulous and disgusted by this snippet of information. “I know what you’re thinking, believe me,” Jon says, reading my thoughts. “We don’t know much about her, we don’t know what she looks like, and we’ve yet to trace her.”

“Surely someone could have photographed her, followed her?” I challenge.

“We don’t have much more than her name at this stage. That information came from a mole we managed to plant as a waitress, but she was fired before she could learn more or before she even set eyes on this woman. We suspect Joseph had, or still has, one of ours in his pocket; we couldn’t risk another plant in case the investigation was blown. And, as I’ve said, the club’s exclusive; membership’s near impossible to obtain, guests are stringently vetted, and phones and other devices are not allowed beyond the reception area. Members comply readily, for their protection as much as the club’s.

“This woman’s, apparently, an absolute knock-out, and our informant reports that she was taken off the market when Wade became an owner. She’s now his exclusive escort.”

“Who is she?” I ask.

“Her name’s Angelique Bain.”

Jon’s briefing takes three hours, at the end of which, we agree on the urgent need to obtain search warrants for the henchmen’s properties. Jon’s confident we’ll uncover evidence that will lead to the arrest of the Cordis, several more henchmen, and, possibly, Justin. I remain skeptical about his involvement, but from what I’ve learned, he has some questions to answer, at the very least. Jodi and I agree to meet early on Monday to prepare the warrant petitions. It’s ten p.m. when we finally leave the office for the weekend.