The Murder List by Ryan Hank Phillippi

Author:Ryan, Hank Phillippi [Ryan, Hank Phillippi]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, thriller, Suspense, Crime, Contemporary
ISBN: 9781250197238
Goodreads: 41556064
Publisher: Forge Books
Published: 2019-08-20T07:00:00+00:00

JACK KIRKLAND

“Who knows about this?” Jack looked out the window of his corner office as he talked on the phone. Causeway Street was below, and then the Boston Garden arena, where nine hours from now the Celtics were playing the Knicks. Snow was beginning to fall, not the morning rush-hour blizzard those weather people had predicted, only a feathery promise. Jack was predicting the future, which, right now, was one hell of a mess. An interesting mess, but a mess.

He punched his speakerphone louder so he could pace as he listened to Tom Rafferty. Rafferty had opened this morning’s conversation with “Shit. It’s a cluster.” From their college days together, Jack knew Rafferty didn’t sweat the little stuff. “Cluster” was not little. Whatever Rafferty was calling about, certainly regarding Danielle Zander, Jack had instantly predicted must be cataclysmic. It was. Cataclysmic and impossible.

“Who the hell knows?” Rafferty’s voice threatened to blow out the cheap tin and paper speaker. “I’m not answering my phone. I told the office not to, either. Shit. I’m gonna have to resign. But even though you’re an asshole, you’re the best defense attorney in Boston.”

The press would be all over this, unstoppable. Jack had to focus. He half expected his cell phone to ring any second, and it’d be Clea, wondering what he knew and when he knew it. Wheedling again, pretending her snide “My, my” comments Monday at the Rafferty news conference were simply good-natured teasing. But intimating he’d known about this, or suspected it all along, and that’s why he’d been there. Screw her.

And now Rafferty was making it about himself, instead of about dead Danielle Zander. Which, Jack supposed, was true. It was about Rafferty.

“Where do they have her now? At the cop shop? And she’s charged? Why?”

“Yeah, at the cop shop. First-degree murder. Arraignment is today. This afternoon.” Rafferty’s voice seemed to catch as he spoke, whether from bluster or anger or fear, Jack couldn’t tell. “Who the hell knows why.”

“Seriously, Tom,” and this was pivotal, “what’s the motive? What’s possibly the motive?”

Jack pictured the crime scene. That dumpster behind the statehouse. He stared out the window as his thoughts raced. Maybe that wasn’t where the murder happened.

“Why would the victim’s body be left at the statehouse? It’s almost pointing to you. Or indicating an inside job. How’d she supposedly get her out there? Or in there? This is a hell of a narrative, Tom. They must have something. Did they tell you why they charged her? What evidence?”

Silence on the other end. Which reminded him.

“You told her not to talk, didn’t you?” Jack’s brain fried at the thought. All the suspects who figured they’d help their own cases by explaining. By describing to the cops, in excruciating detail, why they couldn’t possibly be the guilty party. And every damn time, in doing so, cooked their own goose. “I’m on my way,” Jack said.

The first rule of innocence is shut the hell up. But Rafferty knew that. He’d certainly have warned her.

Nina was, after all, his wife.

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