you tell Paul?”
“The only thing I could say. We’ve been working on stories together. That was the first time I’d seen you since Buck’s murder, and you were upset. That Buck was like a father to you.”
“Paul knows that. Did he believe you?”
“He seemed to. But I can’t be sure. You’ll have to see what you think. He’s on his way to the Watchman right now. To your office. He wants to talk to you.”
All thought vanishes in a wave of heat. “Jet—”
“You’ve got to deny it, Marshall. Us, I mean. I know you’ve talked about coming clean, trying to get ahead of Max, but you’re kidding yourself. There’s only one thing you can say. Do you understand?”
“Jesus. Yes, I hear you.”
“If Paul asks you if we’ve spoken today, say no. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“You also need to call Claude Buckman before you speak to Paul. Tell Claude about the video. Max only showing Paul that hugging photo was a gift from God. Claude has to stop Max from ever showing Paul the sex footage.”
“Jet, calm down—”
“Me? Will you do all that?” she asks, her voice cold. “Swear to me you will.”
“Jet, I’ll deal with it. I’ll call you when it’s done.”
“Don’t do anything crazy, Marshall. Nothing noble. Think about Kevin. Okay?”
Unbelievably, my iPhone rings while I’m trying to get off the burner phone. The screen says arthur pine, atty.
“Jet, I’ve got to go. Pine’s calling.”
“Good. Tell Arthur to get Claude for you.”
I pocket the burner and answer the iPhone. “Arthur, I’m sorry. I was on another call, but I was about to call you.”
“I saved you the trouble.”
“Look, about the club’s offer . . . I need to talk to you about one issue in particular.”
“You can throw away your Christmas list.”
Pine took too much enjoyment in saying that for me to mistake his meaning. “What’s happened?”
“The offer’s off the table.”
“Because I took longer than an hour?”
“That didn’t help, but that’s not it. Circumstances have changed. Claude told you they might.”
“What changed?”
“We’ve become aware of a certain video.”
Oh, hell—
“A video that, if it were made public, could put a very close friend of yours in a homicidal state of mind.”
They think they’ve got me by the balls now. They think they don’t have to give up anything, or help anybody, to get their crimes buried. I can’t believe I even considered making a deal with these bastards.
“We still need that cache,” Pine says. “We need everything you have, as soon as you can get to the bank.”
“Go to hell, Arthur.”
“Listen to me, Marshall. This is life and death for you.”
The only coherent thought I can hold in my mind is that before I do anything else, I need to have the conversation with Paul Matheson that I should have had three months ago.
“Did you hear me?” Pine presses. “Where are you?”
“Go fuck yourself, Arthur.”
Chapter 33
It’s been a long time since I felt real fear. In our insulated lives we only brush up against it, usually when confronting medical symptoms that suggest a mortal disease process. Raw, paralyzing fear is something you forget as soon as possible yet instantly recall when it hits again. That’s what I feel when I approach my office at the Watchman, knowing Paul Matheson is waiting inside to question me about his wife.
The mere sight of his F-250 outside the building sets something thrumming in my chest—not merely the prospect of confrontation, which is certain, but of violence. I feel a sense of foreboding that Max spoke truly in my kitchen: that the fight we avoided on that golf course almost thirty years ago is about to happen. Why? Maybe because thirty years ago, Paul had betrayed Jet a dozen times himself.
Today he’s married to her.
The moment I enter the building, I become aware of an unusual quiet, which tells me that at some level my employees perceive some threat, if not outright danger. Ben Tate falls into step beside me at the pressroom door.
“Bad vibes in your office. Worse than those guys from this morning.”
I keep walking down the narrow hall. “And?”
“He asked me if I’d seen his wife in the building recently.”
Ben was never slow on the uptake. “And you said . . . ?”
“I thought I saw her here after Max was arraigned yesterday, but I might have been mistaken. She’s in and out a lot, talking to reporters. Did I screw up?”
“No. It doesn’t matter.” It’s odd how willing people are to cover for you, even if they’re not sure why they’re doing