“Do you know anyone named Cal or Jim?”
He thought about it. “I know a couple of guys named Jim. I don’t think I know any Cals.”
“Are you aware that Ms. Johnson claimed the men who raped her were named”—I didn’t want Flair objecting with his semantics game but I did roll my eyes a little when I said the word named—“Cal and Jim?”
He was wondering how to handle that one. He went with the truth. “I heard that.”
“Was there anyone named Cal or Jim at the party?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“I see. And would you know any reason why Mr. Jenrette and Mr. Marantz would call themselves that?”
“No.”
“Ever heard those two names together? I mean, before the alleged rape?”
“Not that I can recall.”
“So you can’t shine a light on why Ms. Johnson would testify that her attackers were named Cal and Jim?”
Pubin shouted his objection. “How could he possibly know why this deranged, intoxicated woman would lie?”
I kept my eyes on the witness. “Nothing comes to mind, Mr. Flynn?”
“Nothing,” he said firmly.
I looked back at Loren Muse. Her head was down, fiddling with her BlackBerry. She glanced up, met my eye, nodded once.
“Your Honor,” I said, “I have more questions for this witness but this might make a good place to break for lunch.”
Judge Pierce agreed.
I tried not to sprint over to Loren Muse.
“We got it,” she said with a grin. “The fax is in your office.”
CHAPTER 19
LUCY WAS LUCKY THAT SHE HAD NO MORNING CLASS. BEtween the amount she drank and the late night with Sylvia Potter, she had stayed in bed until noon. When she rose she placed a call to one of the school counselors, Katherine Lucas, a therapist Lucy had always thought was really good. She explained the situation with Sylvia. Lucas would have a better idea what to do.
She thought about the journal entry that had started this all. The woods. The screams. The blood. Sylvia Potter hadn’t sent it. So who had?
No clue.
Last night, she had decided to call Paul. He needed to know about this, she’d concluded. But had that been the booze talking? Now that it was sobering daylight, did that still seem to be a good idea?
An hour later, she found Paul’s work number on the computer. He was the Essex County prosecutor—and, alas, a widower. Jane had died of cancer. Paul had set up a charity in her name. Lucy wondered how she felt about all that, but there was no way she could sort through that right now.
With a shaking hand she dialed the number. When she reached the switchboard operator, she asked to speak to Paul Copeland. It hurt when she said that. She realized that she hadn’t said his name out loud in twenty years.
Paul Copeland.
A woman answered and said, “County prosecutor.”
“I would like to speak to Paul Copeland, please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“I’m an old friend,” she said.
Nothing.
“My name is Lucy. Tell him it’s Lucy. From twenty years ago.”
“Do you have a last name, Lucy?”
“Just tell him that, okay?”
“Prosecutor Copeland isn’t in the office at the moment. Would you like to leave a number so he can return your call?”
Lucy gave her the numbers for her home, her office, her mobile.
“May I tell him what this is in reference to?”
“Just tell him that it’s Lucy. And that it’s important.”
Muse and I were in my office. The door was closed. We had ordered in deli sandwiches for lunch. I was having chicken salad on whole wheat. Muse was downing a meatball sub that was the approximate size of a surfboard.
I had the fax in my hands. “Where is your private eye? Cingle whatever?”
“Shaker. Cingle Shaker. She’ll be here.”
I sat and looked over my notes.
“Do you want to talk it out?” she asked.
“No.”
She had a big grin on her face.
“What?” I said.
“I hate to say this, Cope, you being my boss and all, but you’re a doggone genius.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess I am.”
I went back to my notes.
Muse said, “You want me to leave you alone?”
“No. I may think of something I need you to do.”
She lifted the sandwich. I was surprised that she could do it without the use of an industrial crane. “Your predecessor,” Muse said, teeth-diving into the sandwich. “With big cases, sometimes he would sit there and stare and say he was getting into a zone. Like he was Michael Jordan. You do that?”
“No.”
“So”—more chewing, some swallowing—“would it distract you if I raised another issue?”
“You mean something that doesn’t involve this case?”
“That’s what I mean.”
I looked up. “Actually, I could use the distraction. What’s on your mind?”
She looked off to the right, took a moment or two. Then she said, “I have friends in Manhattan homicide.”
I had an idea where this was going. I took a delicate bite of my chicken-salad sandwich. “Dry,” I said.
“What?”
“The chicken salad. It’s dry.” I put it down and wiped my finger with the napkin. “Let me guess. One of your homicide friends told you about the murder of Manolo Santiago?”
“Yeah.”
“Did they tell you what my theory was?”
“About him being one of the boys who the Summer Slasher murdered at that camp, even though his parents say it’s not him?”
“That would be the one.”
“Yeah, they told me.”
“And?”
“And they think you’re crackers.”
I smiled. “What about you?”
“I would have thought you were crackers. Except now”—she pointed to the fax—“I see what you’re capable of. So I guess what I’m saying is, I want in.”
“In on what?”
“You know what. You’re going to investigate, right? You’re going to see if you can figure out what really happened in those woods?”
“I am,” I said.
She spread her hands. “I want in.”
“I can’t have you taking up county business with my personal affairs.”
“First off,” Muse said, “while everyone is sure that Wayne Steubens killed them all, the homicide file is technically still open. In fact, a quadruple homicide, when you think about it, remains unsolved.”