Chapter 34
Helena spent Saturday afternoon at the ballet studio and stayed into the evening. Austen was with her but only to watch.
Helena was the instructor for intermediate-level girls on pointe, and she wanted Austen to observe their first partnering
class with boys. Austen sat quietly on a bench by the window, right beside Helena’s teaching assistant, a twenty-year-old
ballerina whose professional career had ended overnight with a knee injury. Helena moved around the classroom offering corrections
to the dancers. Her son might have been bored, but it was better than letting him exercise his thumbs playing videogames all
afternoon, and the raging teenage hormones provided some entertainment. One of the eighth-grade girls sought out Helena during
the midway break, literally holding her nose.
“Ms. Pollard,” she whispered, “Jason smells so gross.”
It was a common complaint. Girls could be on the younger side in pas de deux, but the boys had to be strong enough to lift,
and some were practically men. Helena always came to class prepared.
“Kirsten, I’m going to let you in on a ballerina’s little secret,” Helena said. She pulled a small jar of Vicks VapoRub from
her bag and placed a dab between Kirsten’s nostrils and her upper lip.
“How does that smell?”
“Like medicine.”
“Better than Jason?”
“Much.”
“On your way, girl,” said Helena, and Kirsten happily took her place with the other ballerinas at the barre.
“Two more minutes!” Helena said in a voice loud enough for all. “If you need to use the bathroom, better be quick about it.”
Helena took a seat beside Austen and quickly checked her phone. None of the messages caught her attention until she saw the
voicemail from her lawyer. She stepped into the hallway and listened to it.
“Helena, it’s Patricia Dubrow. I just received a call from Julianna Weller at the state attorney’s office. Call me as soon
as you get this message. Don’t worry that it’s a Saturday night. It’s important that we talk.”
Waiting until after class didn’t sound like an option. She went across the hall to the empty studio, closed the door, and
dialed. Patricia answered after one ring and went straight to the point.
“I got an update on that gun your dog dug up.”
Helena felt a chill that went all the way to her toes. “Wait. Why did the prosecutor call you and not me?”
“Very good question,” her lawyer said. “What this tells me is that, for purposes of keeping the victim’s family informed,
the state attorney’s office is no longer treating you strictly as a family member.”
Helena’s grip on the phone tightened. “Are you saying I’m a suspect in Owen’s death?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. Weller probably doesn’t know how to treat you until a few things are sorted out. Things about the
gun, in particular.”
“Like what?”
“Before I get into that, let me say one thing. Our relationship is entering a phase in which you need to understand my philosophy
as a criminal defense lawyer. This is very important, and it’s very simple. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want
to tell me. Do you understand?”
Helena paused, not quite sure what to make of that statement. “I think so.”
“Let me explain,” said Patricia. “Too much information from a client can limit the type of defense a lawyer can present at trial. For example, if the client says, ‘I was home alone sleeping in my own bed the night of the crime,’ the lawyer might be nervous about calling an alibi witness to the stand who wants to testify that the defendant was out until dawn dancing with him at the clubs.”
“I see,” said Helena.
“Good. With that in mind, I’m going to tell you everything the prosecutor shared with me about the gun. All I want you to
do is listen. Then think carefully before you respond. Or choose not to respond. Got it?”
There was a knock at the door. Helena asked her lawyer to hold on and opened the door. It was Isabel, the teaching assistant
with the bum knee.
“Ms. Pollard, the class is ready for you,” she said.
“Can you lead them at the barre for five minutes, please? I’ll be right there.”
Isabel eagerly agreed, more than happy to teach for once, rather than just take notes.
Helena closed the door and resumed the conversation. “I’m listening,” she said into her phone.
“The first thing Ms. Weller told me was that the gun is a pistol made by Beretta. A twenty-two-caliber Bobcat. It’s one of
those small, palm-sized handguns that women like to carry because they fit in just about any purse. Remember, Helena: Think
before you respond.”
“Okay,” said Helena, offering no response.
“The gun will be checked for fingerprints on Monday,” said Patricia. “Then it will be sent to a ballistics expert, who will
determine whether the markings on the gun match those on the bullet that was removed from your dog.”
“Okay.”
“The final piece of information the prosecutor shared with me is rather curious,” said Patricia. “The gun has no serial number.
And I don’t mean the serial number was scratched off. I mean it has no serial number and never did.”
Helena was silent.
Patricia gave her a moment, then continued. “That’s all the information I have. Is there anything you want to tell me, Helena?”
There was another knock on the door, followed by her teaching assistant’s desperate voice. “Ms. Pollard, the girls won’t listen
to me.”
Helena stayed with the call. “Patricia, now is not a good time. Can I call you later?”
“Yes, of course.”
The call ended. Helena took several deep breaths to regain her composure and then opened the door. Isabel looked like the
saddest ballerina she’d ever seen.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Pollard. I let you down.”
“You did the best you could,” she said with a sympathetic smile. “That’s all any of us can ever do.”
Jack poured two glasses of sauvignon blanc and brought one to Andie. She was in the shower, getting ready for their first
“date night” since her return from Seattle. The chilled wineglass fogged with condensation as he entered the steamy master
bathroom.
“Thanks, sweetie,” she said over the sound of running water. “Leave it on vanity next to my curling iron.”
The vanity top was white marble, and Jack noticed a strand of Andie’s long dark hair that obviously predated her trip to Seattle,
as it was at least three times her current length. He chided himself for wondering, just for an instant, how long it would
take her hair to grow back.
“Jerk,” he said to that guy in the mirror.
The shower went silent. Andie’s body was a suggestive blur on the steamy side of the wet glass. She slipped on her robe, wrapped
a towel around her wet hair, and stepped out. Jack handed her a glass of wine.
“Cheers,” she said, and their glasses clicked. She went to the bedroom, and Jack followed. Two dresses lay flat on the bed.
She held up the red one first. “This one?” Then the black. “Or this one?”
Jack knew there was no right answer. “The red one?” he said, but it sounded like a guess, not an answer.
She crinkled her nose and put the red one aside. “Black, definitely.”
“Excellent choice,” said Jack.
She sipped more wine. “So, how was your trip to the Pollards’ house this morning?”
It was the kind of question she would never have asked earlier in their marriage, while “the Rule” was in place. Their marriage
counselor had convinced them that it was healthier for two married people to talk about their jobs, even if they were on opposite
sides of the law, so to speak. Jack agreed with the concept, but he just didn’t feel like talking about the Pollards.
“Tons of fun,” he said. “Can’t think of a better way to spend my Saturday morning.”
“Did you take Theo with you?”
“Yeah.”
She set her wineglass on the nightstand and took another look at the red dress. “Do you really think that’s a good idea? Taking
Theo, I mean.”
“Well, yeah,” said Jack. “He’s my investigator.”
“I know he is.” She went to the closet, found another black dress, and laid it on the bed beside the others for comparison.
Then she picked up her thought. “Sometimes I just wonder: Have you ever considered hiring a real investigator?”
The conversation was taking a strange turn. “Theo is real,” said Jack. “Why would you even ask that question?”
“I’m just trying to be helpful. I know tons of former FBI agents now working as private investigators. They’d love to work
with you.”
Jack clearly hadn’t given enough thought to the full ramifications of dropping the Rule and talking to each other about their
work like a normal married couple. “Andie, I think we’re both happy to be rid of the Rule, but do you think maybe the pendulum
is swinging too far in the other direction?”
“What do you mean?”
“First, you called while you were undercover to tell me about my client’s juvenile conviction. Now you’re home for twenty-four
hours, and you want me to fire Theo.”
“I didn’t say you should fire Theo. Just mix it up. Maybe take a ‘Theo break.’”
“What do you have against Theo?”
“Nothing. Why are you so defensive?”
“Andie, what is going on between you and Theo?”
“Nothing is going on.”
“Something is up. Theo is not one for heartfelt conversations. But this morning, when we were in the car, he wanted to know
if he told me something private, could he count on me not to tell anyone—including you.”
“Hmm. That’s interesting. What did you say?”
“I said it would depend on—”
“Wait. You said ‘it depends’?” she asked, incredulous.
Jack was taken aback. “I was going to say it depends on—”
“It doesn’t depend on anything,” she said, interrupting again. “You don’t keep secrets from your wife.”
“It’s not about keeping secrets. I was talking about professional confidences.”
“Oh, that makes all the difference, Jack. Anything Theo doesn’t want you to tell me is a professional confidence. Anything
that he says is okay to tell me is not.”
Jack needed a second to catch up. It had been a long time since they’d talked past each other like this. “No, that’s not what
I’m saying.”
“I honestly don’t know what you’re saying, Jack. But Theo is your best friend. He’s not your wife. I’m your wife. Please remember that.”
“Andie, come on. You’re not being fair.”
She grabbed her wineglass, but she’d clearly reached a breaking point.
“You know what, Jack? This has been a terrible week. My assignment was canceled. I left an eighteen-year-old girl high and dry, and God only knows what’s going to happen to her.
Now you and I are fighting again. I just want to lie down with Righley and hug my girl.
You go have your boys’ night with Theo.”
She walked out and started down the hallway to Righley’s room.
Jack stood for a moment, not sure what had just hit him. Slowly, he shuffled toward the bed and took a seat on the edge of
the mattress, next to Andie’s dresses.
Max pushed himself up from his dog bed in the corner, lazily crossed the room, and laid his big head in Jack’s lap. He was
getting old, but he was still the most “talkative” golden retriever Jack had ever known, and he seemed to grunt out a few
words as Jack stroked his snout.
“You’re right,” Jack said. “I should have picked the black one.”