16. Janet
JANET
Peter closes his office door.
That's the first sign. Peter McGuire does not close his door for routine conversations.
He sits across from me, not behind his desk. Across from me is careful.
"I heard something this morning," he says. "About an old case of yours. Ryan Keller."
I keep my face still.
"Elliot Vance is trying to get the case reopened on a technicality. I don't have details — just chatter. But Vance doesn't chase lost causes, so I wanted you to hear it from me first."
"Do you know what grounds?"
"Not yet." He watches me. "You tried that case in Queens, what, five years ago?"
"About that."
"Strong conviction?"
"Solid," I say. "Good evidence, clean trial record. Ryan Keller was guilty."
Peter nods. He's not alarmed. Not yet. "Keep an eye on it. If Vance is serious, you'll want to be ahead of whatever he's filing before it shows up somewhere inconvenient."
"Of course," I say. "Thanks for the heads-up."
He opens the door.
I make it back to my office and close my door.
I pick up my phone and call Frank.
He picks up on the second ring.
"It's Janet," I say, keeping my voice low. "I heard Vance is filing on the Keller case. What do you know?"
A silence. Too long.
"Frank."
"Not on the phone," he says. Flat and careful in a way that tells me everything. "We need to sit down."
"I can't come to Queens."
"I know. I'm not going to your office either."
We both understand what this is.
"Lonegan's," he says. "Red Hook. Van Brunt Street. Tonight at eight."
"I'll be there."
Lonegan’s hasn’t changed since 1980.
Neon beer signs. Wood paneling. Bruce Springsteen playing. The place that smells like beer and old wood and carries it like a badge. The bartender stands at the register, counting singles, and lets the door close behind me.
Frank is already in the back booth.
Glass of something dark in front of him. Newspaper folded to the crossword. Pen in his hand. He has the look of a man who’s been sitting there awhile and decided waiting counts as work.
I slide in across from him and keep my coat on.
“You still do those?” I ask.
“Every day. Keeps the brain sharp.”
“In pen?”
He keeps his eyes on the paper.
“Pencils are for pussies.”
I almost smile.
He taps one square with the tip of the pen.
“Six letters. River through Prague.”
“Vltava.”
Frank looks up.
“Jesus. I was hoping you’d say Danube so I could feel superior.”
“It’s Vltava.”
He writes it in.
“Damn,” he says.
“You called me here to help with the crossword?”
“I miss us doing the crosswords. My wife sucks at it.”
He folds the paper once, neatly down the center, and looks at me.
"How'd you hear about this?"
"Peter called me into his office. Tell me," I say.
"Vance filed this morning. Brady violation. Newly discovered evidence." He looks at me. "He has the video, Janet."
The bar noise drops away.
"How is that fucking possible?"
"You tell me."
"Didn't come from me. I don't have it."
"You didn't keep a copy?"
"No. You?"
"A copy, no. The original is under lock and key. Not giving the defense a video is a mistake; destroying evidence is a whole other ballgame. Where I kept it, no one could get to it."
"Well, obviously someone did."
He goes to the bar. I look around at a couple arguing at the bar.
He returns with two Scotch and sodas.
"It has to be from your office. Someone new?" I say.
Frank shakes his head. "I don't see how."
"Well, go through it."
"I am."
"How serious is the motion?"
"Serious enough that Queens County can't ignore it." He picks up his glass and drinks. "We're both fucked."
The booth feels airless.
Frank slides out and pulls on his jacket. "I'll look into where it came from on my end." He buttons his coat. "And Janet. Be very careful who you talk to about this."
He leaves without finishing his drink.
I sit in the booth alone.
I run through every possibility.
Because the copy on my laptop didn't go anywhere. It's been locked away since the night I saved it. Nobody has been in those files. Nobody knows it exists.
If Vance has the video, it came from somewhere else.
It had to.
The cab crawls over the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan; the skyline rising black and hard against the river.
By the time we drop into lower Manhattan, the streets are slick with light and my stomach still hasn't settled.
I get home and don't turn on the lights.
I drop my bag by the door, kick off one heel, the other. My coat stays on for another minute, like I forgot I'm wearing it.
I take it off and throw it over the back of a chair.
I keep moving.
Blouse unbuttoned. Skirt unzipped. Stockings peeled off and left on the floor.
I go into the bathroom, sit on the toilet, and pee in the dark.
When I'm done, I stay there another minute with my elbows on my knees, breathing through my mouth.
I get up, wash my hands, dry them, and wash them again.
I go to the kitchen and open the refrigerator. There's a chicken salad I made two days ago. I pull it out, find a fork, and eat it standing at the counter in the dark.
I finish half of it. Put the rest back.
Okay. I'm okay.
I walk to the bedroom, sit on the edge of the bed, and open my laptop.
Building camera. Wide angle. The quality that was never meant to be evidence.
But it's clear.
Officers move in and out of the frame. No gloves. Evidence bagged without being logged first. One of them picks up a package, sets it down somewhere else, and picks it up.
I pause it.
Rewind ten seconds.
Watch it again.
There it is.
No paperwork. No procedure. Not something I can clean up with a better argument.
A break.
I press play.
Nobody writes anything down for the first eleven minutes.
When it ends, I don't move.
The room hasn't changed.
The case has.
I close the laptop.
So where did Elliot Vance get it the fucking footage?
My phone rings.
Mike.
I stare at his name on the screen for a moment. I pick up.
"Hey," he says. "Haven't heard from you today. You okay?"
"I should have gone with you to Costa Rica."
"Offer's still available."
"Too late. That ship has sailed.”
"That's the best time to go. You want to talk about it?"
I pause. What am I going to say? I could get disbarred. "No." I lean back against the headboard. "I need to not think about it for five minutes."
"I can do that." His voice is calm. Warm. "Five minutes. Go."
He tells me about a problem at Nocturne. A bourbon delivery came in two cases short, and Nico thinks one guy sold them to cover a bad bet.
“Prediction markets,” Mike says. “Fancy name for gambling. Sports, elections, indictments, celebrity divorces. Everybody’s got money on something now.”
“That happen a lot?”
“In a club? You’re always watching somebody. Who’s drunk, who’s dealing, who’s looking for a fight. Now you’ve got guys making side bets in booths and moving money on their phones like it’s Wall Street.”
He exhales.
“Everybody thinks because it’s on an app, it’s clean.”
I shake my head.
“It’s still gambling. But everybody’s dirty,” he says.
It's nothing.
It's exactly what I need.
By the time he's done, I realize my shoulders have dropped two inches.
"Better?" he says.
"A little. What you said last night, did you mean it?"
"About how I feel about you?"
"Yeah."
"I'm thirty-one years old and I've never felt anything like this."