Chapter Thirty-one

The Essex County Prosecutor’s Office is located on Market Street in the simply dubbed Veterans Courthouse. I work here, so I know the building well. This place is always humming—more than a third of the entire state’s criminal cases are tried here. As I head inside, I hear an unfamiliar ding coming from my phone and I realize it’s that new app Maura installed. I read the message from her:

Drove by again. Cops found yellow Mustang.

This isn’t good, of course, but it would still be a while before the course of events I laid out earlier would lead them to me. I have time. Probably. I type back:

Okay. Heading into meeting now.

Loren Muse is waiting for me at the door, staring daggers. She is a short woman, and she is flanked on both sides by tall men in suits. The younger of the two is thin and wiry, with hard eyes. The older guy sports a halo of too-long hair circling his bald dome. His protruding gut is giving his shirt buttons a hell of a battle. When we step into the outer office, the older guy says, “I’m Special Agent Rockdale. This is Special Agent Krueger.”

FBI. We shake hands. Krueger, of course, tries to give me the dominant squeeze. I frown at him.

With that done, Rockdale turns to Muse and says, “Thank you for your cooperation, ma’am. We would be grateful if you could leave us now.”

Muse doesn’t like that. “Leave?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“This is my office.”

“And the bureau appreciates your cooperation in this manner, but we really need to speak to Detective Dumas alone.”

“No,” I say.

They turn to me. “Pardon?”

“I would like Prosecutor Muse to attend any questioning.”

“You’re not suspected of any crime,” he says.

“I still want her here.”

Rockdale turns back to Muse.

Muse says, “You heard the man.”

“Ma’am—”

“Stop calling me ma’am—”

“Prosecutor Muse, my apologies. You received a call from your superior, did you not?”

Through gritted teeth, Muse replies, “I did, yes.”

Her superior, I know, is the governor of the state of New Jersey.

“And he did ask that you cooperate and give us jurisdiction on this matter of great national security, did he not?”

My phone vibrates. I sneak a quick peek, and I’m surprised to see it’s from Tammy.

Van of guys searching your house. Wearing FBI windbreakers.

I’m not surprised. They’re looking for the original tape. They won’t find it in my house. I buried it—where else?—in the woods near the old base.

“The governor did contact me,” Muse continues, “but Detective Dumas has now requested counsel—”

“Irrelevant.”

“Sorry?”

“This is a matter of national security. What we are about to discuss is highly classified.”

Muse looks at me. “Nap?”

I think about it. I think about the issues Augie had raised, about what we should keep secret, about who is to blame for what happened to Leo and how I can get to the bottom of it and end this once and for all.

We are standing in the doorway. Muse’s support staff of four are all pretending not to be listening. I look at the two agents. Rockdale is giving me flat eyes. Krueger is clenching and unclenching his fists, glaring at me like I just dropped out of a dog’s behind.

I’ve had it.

So I turn to Muse and say loud enough so that her support staff can hear, “Fifteen years ago, the old Nike control base in Westbridge was an illegal black site incarcerating and interrogating American citizens suspected of colluding with terrorist entities. A bunch of high school kids, including my dead twin brother, taped a Black Hawk helicopter landing there at night. They want the tape from me.” I gesture toward the two agents. “Their colleagues are, in fact, searching my house right now. It’s not there, by the way.”

Krueger’s eyes go wide in shock and anger. He jumps toward me, his hand darting out to throttle me. You need to understand, Leo. I’m good with my fists. I’ve trained hard, and I’m athletic enough. But I imagine, under normal circumstances, this guy is more than up to the task of taking me down. So how to explain what comes next? How to explain that I move fast enough to parry his attack with a forearm? Simple.

He is going for the throat.

The part of me that lets me breathe.

And after last night, after being strapped to the table, something primitive in me will not let that happen. Something both instinctive and maybe supernatural will protect that part of my anatomy no matter what.

The problem is, blocking a blow never ends it. You have to deliver one of your own. I use the heel of my palm to strike his solar plexus. It lands flush. Krueger drops to one knee, the wind knocked out of him. I jump back now, fists raised, in case the other guy wants to join in. He doesn’t. He stares at his fallen comrade in shock.

“You just struck a federal officer,” Rockdale says to me.

“In self-defense!” Muse shouts. “What the hell is wrong with you guys?”

He gets in her face. “Your man just spouted out classified information, which is illegal, especially when it’s a lie.”

“How can it be classified,” Muse shouts back, “if it’s a lie?”

My phone buzzes again, and when I see the message from Ellie, I know I have to get out of here pronto:

FOUND BETH.

“Look,” I say, “I’m sorry, okay, let’s just all go inside and straighten this out.” I go to help Krueger up. He doesn’t like it, pushes my hand away, but there is no more fight in him for now. I keep acting all Mr. Peaceful as we head into Muse’s office. I have a plan, a ridiculously simple plan, but sometimes those are the best. Once we settle down, once everyone is seated, I stand and say, “I, uh, need two minutes.”

Muse says, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I try to look a little embarrassed. “I need the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

I don’t really wait for permission. I’m an adult, right? I head out of Muse’s office and down the corridor. No one is following me. Up ahead is the men’s room door. I walk past it and hit the staircase. I run down the steps to the ground floor, where I slow into a sort of walk-run.

Less than sixty seconds after leaving Muse’s office, I am outside and putting distance between myself and those federal agents.

I call Ellie. “Where’s Beth?” I ask.

“On her parents’ farm in Far Hills. At least I think it’s her. Where are you?”

“Newark.”

“I’ll text you the address. The ride should take less than an hour.”

I hang up. I’m moving fast down Market Street. I turn onto University Avenue and use that new app to call Maura. I worry now that she won’t answer, that she’s vanished back into the ether, but she picks up right away.

“What’s up?” Maura asks.

“Where are you?”

“Double-parked in front of the prosecutor’s office on Market Street.”

“Head east and make a right on University Avenue. We need to visit an old friend.”