Frank made a grumbling noise. “That’s hardly the point.”
“Unfortunately, Frank, that’s exactly the point. You claim some big breakthrough with this blood test. You drag us down here in the middle of the night because you’re so impressed by it. I’m telling you, your so-called evidence—and I’ll skip the part about how I’ll tear apart your crime scene guys and the chain of handling because Walker can play you the tape from our first tête-à-tête—means absolutely bubkes and can easily be explained away.”
Hester looked over at Walker. “I don’t mean to make bold threats, but are you really going to use this dumb-ass blood test to falsely arrest my client for murder?”
“Not for murder,” Tremont said.
That made Hester pull back a bit. “No?”
“No. Not for murder. My thinking is, an accessory after the fact.”
Hester turned to Ed Grayson. He shrugged. She looked back at Tremont. “Let’s pretend I gasped and move straight on to what you mean by accessory after the fact.”
“We searched Dan Mercer’s motel room,” Frank Tremont said. “We found this.”
He slid an eight-by-ten photograph across to them. Hester looked at it—a pink iPhone. She showed it to Ed Grayson, her hand on his forearm as though warning him not to react. Hester said nothing. Grayson did the same. Hester understood certain basic tenets. There were times that called for attack and times that called for silence. She had a habit, big surprise, of leaning too much toward the attack—of talking too much. But they wanted a reaction here. Any reaction. She would not give them one. She would wait them out.
Another minute passed before Frank Tremont said, “That phone was found under Mercer’s bed in his hotel room in Newark, not far from where we now sit.”
Hester and Grayson stayed silent.
“It belongs to a missing girl named Haley McWaid.”
Ed Grayson, retired federal marshal who should have known better, actually groaned. Hester turned to him. Grayson’s face drained of color as though someone had opened a spigot and let out all the blood. Hester grabbed his arm again, squeezed, tried to bring him back.
Hester tried to buy some time. “You can’t possibly think that my client—”
“You know what I think, Hester?” Frank Tremont interrupted. He was gaining confidence, his voice full of bluster. “I think your client killed Dan Mercer because Mercer was getting off for what he did to your client’s son. That’s what I think. I think your client decided to take the law into his own hands—and on one level, I can’t blame him. If someone did that to my kid, yeah, sure, I’d go after him. Honest to God, I would. And then I’d hire the best lawyer I could because the truth is, the victim here is so unsympathetic—such a bucket of scum—that he could indeed get shot in front of the home crowd at a Giants game and no one would convict.”
He glared at Hester. Hester folded her arms and waited.
“But that’s the problem with taking the law into your own hands. You don’t know where it will lead. So now—oh, and this is all hypothetically speaking, right?—your client killed the only man who may have told us what happened to a seventeen-year-old girl.”
“Oh God,” Grayson said. He dropped his face in his hands.
Hester said, “A moment with my client.”
“Why?”
“Just get the hell out.” Then, thinking better of it, she leaned into Grayson’s ear and whispered, “Do you know something about this?”
Grayson leaned away and looked at her in horror. “Of course not.”
Hester nodded. “Okay.”
“Look, we don’t think your client hurt Haley McWaid,” Frank continued. “But we’re pretty damn sure Dan Mercer did. So now we need to know everything we can to find Haley. Everything. Including where Mercer’s body is. And we’re running against the clock here. For all we know, Dan was holding her someplace secret. Haley could be tied up, scared, hurt, who knows? We’re digging up his yard. We are asking neighbors, coworkers, friends, even his ex about places he liked to go. But the clock is ticking—and that girl may be alone, starving or trapped or worse.”
“And,” Hester said, “you think a corpse might tell you where she is?”
“It could, yes. He may have a clue on his body or in his pockets, something. Your client needs to tell us where Dan Mercer is.”
Hester shook her head. “Do you really expect me to allow my client to incriminate himself?”
“I expect your client to do the right thing here.”
“For all I know you’re making this all up.”
Frank Tremont stood. “What?”
“I’ve dealt with cops and their tricks before. Confess and we can save the girl.”
He leaned down. “Take a close look at my face. Do you really think this is a ploy?”
“Could be.”
Walker said, “It’s not.”
“And I’m supposed to take your word for it?”
Both Walker and Tremont just looked at her. They all knew—this was real. De Niro couldn’t give this good a performance.
“Still,” Hester said, “I won’t let my client incriminate himself.”
Tremont got up, his face red. “Is that how you feel, Ed?”
“Talk to me, not my client.”
Frank ignored her. “You’re a law enforcement officer.” He leaned right into Ed Grayson’s lowered face. “By killing Dan Mercer, you may be responsible for killing Haley McWaid.”
“Back off,” Hester said.
“You can live with yourself, Ed? With your conscience? If you think I’m going to waste time on legal maneuvers—”
“Wait,” Hester said, her voice suddenly calm. “You’re basing this connection simply on this phone?”
“What?”
“That’s all you have? This phone in his hotel room?”
“What, you don’t think that’s enough?”
“That’s not what I asked you, Frank. I asked, what else have you got?”
“Why do you care?”
“Just tell me.”
Frank Tremont looked back at Walker. Walker nodded. “His ex-wife,” Frank said. “Mercer used to visit her house. Apparently so did Haley McWaid.”
“You think that’s where Mercer met this girl?”
“We do.”