“It saddens me, child, to have you here while I have so little of value to say. I hope you can forgive an old man for such a frightful lapse, but I find myself weary.”
Elizabeth took his hand, the bones within it light and brittle.
“If you would be kind enough to fix another drink.” He retrieved his hand and offered the glass. “My heart aches from thoughts of Adrian, and my legs seem to have lost much of their feeling.” Elizabeth fixed the drink and watched him take it. “Did you know that George Washington slept here, once?” He gestured vaguely; seeming tired enough to be transparent. “I often wonder which room.”
“I’ll leave you alone,” Elizabeth said. “Thank you for speaking with me.”
She made it to the tall, wide doors before he spoke again. “Do you know how I got my nickname?”
Elizabeth turned her back to the curving staircase and the floor stained black by time. “I’ve heard the story.”
“That flint-eyed judge was right about one thing. Lawyers are not to become emotionally involved. We are to be strong when clients are weak, righteous where they are flawed. It’s a simple conceit. Discipline. The law.” He looked up from the depths of his chair. “That worked for every client until Adrian.”
Elizabeth held her breath.
“We spent seven months prepping his case, sat side by side for long weeks of trial. I’m not saying he was perfect—God knows he was as human as the rest of us—but when he was convicted, it was like something inside me broke, like some vital, lawyerly organ simply stopped working. I kept my face, mind you. I thanked the judge and shook the prosecutor’s hand. I waited until the courtroom was clear, then I put my head on the defense table and wept like a child. You asked if there was anything I could tell you, and I guess that’s it. The last trial of Crybaby Jones.” He nodded at the liquor in his glass. “A sad old man and tears, like bookends.”
* * *
When Elizabeth returned to the police station, she marched through the front door without slowing. Adrian was telling the truth—that was the old man’s message. Now, she wanted to know what they had on him. Not the trespass. The murder. She wanted answers.
“What are you doing here, Liz?”
She rounded into the bull pen, still moving fast. Beckett worked his large body between the desks, trying to catch her as she narrowed the angle to Dyer’s door.
“Liz. Wait.”
Her hand found the knob.
“Don’t. Liz. Jesus…”
But the door was already opening. Inside, Dyer was standing. So were Hamilton and Marsh.
“Detective Black.” Hamilton spoke first. “We were just talking about you.”
Elizabeth faltered. “Captain?”
“You shouldn’t be here, Liz.”
Elizabeth looked from Dyer to the state cops. It was hours after dark, too late for the meeting to be random. “This is about me?”
“New evidence,” Hamilton said. “We’d like your take on it.”
“I won’t allow that,” Dyer said. “Not without representation.”
“We can keep it off the record, if you like.”
Dyer shook his head, but Elizabeth raised her hand. “It’s okay, Francis. If there’s new evidence, I want to hear it.”
“Off the record, then. Come in and shut the door. Not you, Beckett.”
“Liz?” Beckett showed his palms.
“It’s okay. I’m fine.”
She tried to tell herself that was true, but Dyer looked ruined. Even Hamilton and Marsh seemed burdened by some unseen weight. Elizabeth worked to hold on to her conviction and purpose. She’d come for Adrian because the old lawyer’s certainty was as compelling as any proof she’d ever seen. But the air in the close, crowded office tasted thick and sickly sweet. It was fear, she realized. She was barely three feet into the room, and already afraid. “Am I being charged?”
“Not yet.” Hamilton closed the door.
She nodded, but not yet meant it was coming, meant it was close. “What evidence?”
“Forensics on the basement.” Hamilton’s fingers touched a file on the desk. “Is there anything you want to tell us about what happened there?” His voice came from some distant place. “Detective Black?”
Everyone was looking at her, now, Dyer suddenly worried, the state cops so full of inexplicable pity they seemed grotesque.
“We ran DNA,” Hamilton said. “On the wire used to bind Channing Shore. The lab identified blood from two different people. One was from the girl, of course, which we expected.” He paused. “The second sample came from an unknown person.”