• • •
Sandra Koval did not meet her in the reception area this time. Grace was inspecting the photo gallery, stopping again at the shot of the wrestler, Little Pocahontas, when a peasant-bloused woman told her to come this way. She led Grace down the corridor and into the exact same conference room where she and Sandra had first talked a lifetime ago.
“Ms. Koval will be with you shortly.”
“Great.”
She left her alone. The room was set up exactly the same as last time, except now there was a yellow legal pad and a Bic pen in front of each seat. Grace did not want to sit. She did her own version of a pace, more a limp-pace, and ran it over in her head again. Her cell phone buzzed. She spoke briefly and then snapped it off. She kept it close. Just in case.
“Hi, Grace.”
Sandra Koval swept into the room like a turbulent weather front. She headed straight for the little refrigerator, opened it and peered inside.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“No.”
With her head still in the mini-fridge, she asked, “How are the children?”
Grace did not reply. Sandra Koval dug out a Perrier. She twisted the top off and sat.
“So what’s up?”
Should she test the temperature with her toe or just jump in? Grace chose the latter. “You didn’t take on Wade Larue as a client because of me,” she began without preamble. “You took him on because you wanted to stay close to him.”
Sandra Koval poured the Perrier into a glass. “That might—hypothetically—be true.”
“Hypothetically?”
“Yes. I may, in a hypothetical world, have represented Wade Larue to protect a certain family member. But if I had, I would have still made sure that I represented my client to the best of my ability.”
“Two birds with one stone?”
“Perhaps.”
“And the certain family member. That would be your brother?”
“It would be possible.”
“Possible,” Grace said. “But that wasn’t what happened here. You weren’t out to protect your brother.”
Their eyes met.
“I know,” Grace said.
“Oh?” Sandra took a sip. “Then why don’t you clue me in.”
“You were, what, twenty-seven years old? Fresh out of law school and working as a criminal lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“You were married. Your daughter was two years old. You were on your way to a promising career. And then your brother messed it all up for you. You were there that night, Sandra. At the Boston Garden. You were the other woman backstage, not Geri Duncan.”
“I see,” she said without a trace of worry. “And you know this how?”
“Jimmy X said one woman was a redhead—that’s Sheila Lambert—and the other, the one who was egging him on, had dark hair. Geri Duncan was a blonde. You, Sandra, had dark hair.”
She laughed. “And that’s supposed to be proof of something?”
“No, not in and of itself. I’m not even sure it’s relevant. Geri Duncan was probably there too. She might have been the one who distracted Gordon MacKenzie so you three could sneak backstage.”
Sandra Koval gave her a vague wave of the hand. “Go on, this is interesting.”
“Shall I just get to the heart of the matter?”
“Please do.”
“According to both Jimmy X and Gordon MacKenzie, your brother was shot that night.”
“He was,” Sandra said. “He was in the hospital for three weeks.”
“Which hospital?”
There was no hesitation, no eye twitch, no give at all. “Mass General.”
Grace shook her head.
Sandra made a face. “Are you telling me you checked every hospital in the Boston area?”
“No need,” Grace said. “There was no scar.”
Silence.
“You see, the bullet wound would have left a scar, Sandra. It’s simple logic. Your brother was shot. My husband had no scar. There’s only one way that can be so.” Grace put her hands on the table. They were quaking.
“I was never married to your brother.”
Sandra Koval said nothing.
“Your brother, John Lawson, was shot that day. You and Sheila Lambert helped drag him out during the melee. But his wounds were lethal. At least I hope they were, because the alternative is that you killed him.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because if you took him to a hospital, they would have to report the shooting. If you showed up with a dead body—or even if you just dumped him on the street—someone would investigate and realize where and how he was shot. You, the promising lawyer, were terrified. I bet Sheila Lambert was too. The world went crazy when this happened. The Boston DA—hell, Carl Vespa—was on television demanding blood. So were all the families. If you got caught up in that, you’d be arrested or worse.”
Sandra Koval stayed quiet.
“Did you call your father? Did you ask him what to do? Did you contact one of your old criminal clients to help you? Or did you just get rid of the body on your own?”
She chuckled. “You have some imagination, Grace. Can I ask you something now?”
“Sure.”
“If John Lawson died fifteen years ago, who did you marry?”
“I married Jack Lawson,” Grace said. “Who used to be known as Shane Alworth.”
Eric Wu hadn’t held two men in the basement, Grace now realized. Just one. One who had sacrificed himself to save her. One who probably knew that he was going to die and wanted to scratch out some last truth in the only way left to him.
Sandra Koval almost smiled. “That’s a hell of a theory.”
“One that will be easy to prove.”
She leaned back and folded her arms. “I don’t understand something about your scenario. Why didn’t I just hide my brother’s body and pretend he ran away?”
“Too many people would ask questions,” Grace said.
“But that’s what happened to Shane Alworth and Sheila Lambert. They just disappeared.”
“True enough,” Grace admitted. “And maybe the answer has to do with your family trust.”
That made Sandra’s face freeze. “The trust?”
“I found the papers on the trust in Jack’s desk. I took them to a friend who’s a lawyer. It seems your grandfather set up six trusts. He had two children and four grandchildren. Forget the money for a second. Let’s talk about voting power. All of you got equal voting shares, divided six ways, with your father getting the extra four percent. That way your side of the family kept control of the business, fifty-two percent to forty-eight. But—and I’m not good with this stuff so bear with me—Grandpa wanted to keep it all in the family. If any of you died before the age of twenty-five, the voting power would be divided equally among the five survivors. If your brother died the night of the concert, for example, that would mean that your side of the family, you and your father, would no longer hold a majority position.”