Sam nodded. “Albatross offered me the money. I still don’t know who was behind Albatross. I told that to the cops.”
“But Caroline was the facilitator.”
“She was my girlfriend,” Wickersham said.
“Right. Where is she now?”
“I don’t know. She stopped returning my emails and texts. I ran into Christopher Robles a few weeks ago, and he said he thought she was in Europe or something. A sabbatical.”
Interesting timing, Rachel thought. Caroline disappearing right before Constance was killed.
“So Caroline sets you up as a patsy and has you fake an affair with Constance Wright to help ruin her career and get her brother paid,” Rachel said. “And you go right on with your career. How much did Albatross pay you?”
“Four eighty.”
“Four hundred and eighty thousand?” Rachel said with a whistle. “So that’s what a life is worth.”
“I didn’t kill her,” he said.
“But you know who did.”
“No, I don’t. I swear to God.”
Rachel eyed Wickersham. Either he was telling the truth, or Meryl Streep had ceded the title of world’s greatest living actor to Samuel J. Wickersham. It still didn’t quite jibe. Albatross and the Drummonds had gotten what they wanted. Constance left office in disgrace. Nicholas remarried Isabelle and made a mint from the divorce. Wickersham moved on to a cushy new job and pocketed close to a half million dollars. Everything had gone according to plan.
So why would they want to kill Constance Wright now, years later?
It was possible Wright had found out about the plan and had been looking to clear her name, get even, or get her money back from Nicholas. And between the Drummonds and whoever this “Albatross” was, there were enough folks with serious money on the line who probably felt taking Constance out was quicker and cheaper than a lawsuit. But why wouldn’t Constance have gone to the press? If she had found out the truth, she’d kept quiet. Not something politicians were wont to do.
Something about the scenario didn’t quite sit right with Rachel.
“I need everything you know about Caroline Drummond, Albatross, and Constance Wright,” Rachel said. “I’m not a cop, but I’ve been working with them.”
A lie—but a white one, she figured.
“And what then?” Sam said.
“Then we find out who’s behind Albatross, what Caroline Drummond knows, and hopefully that will get us closer to getting justice for Constance Wright.”
Sam nodded.
“And what about me?” he said.
“You,” Rachel said, as though she hadn’t given it any consideration. Because, well, she hadn’t. “You’ll do some time. Perjury. Maybe accessory to murder. Fraud. But that’s not within my jurisdiction.”
Sam nodded again. He opened his desk drawer. Stared at it. Rachel leaned forward, but she couldn’t see what he was looking at. Then he reached into the drawer and came out holding a Ruger .22-caliber LCR pistol.
Rachel froze. The gun itself was not large. Less than seven inches long and five inches high. It weighed a hair under fifteen ounces. The snub nose made the Ruger LCR a poor choice for long-range targets. But at this distance, just three feet across the desk from Rachel, Wickersham couldn’t miss.
“Sam,” Rachel said, her heart pounding against her rib cage. “Put the gun down.”
Sweat began to trickle down her back. And suddenly Rachel realized that her coming here to confront Sam Wickersham had been a terrible, terrible mistake.
Sam held the gun listlessly, aiming it somewhere slightly to the left of Rachel’s head.
“It’s over,” he said. “If I go to prison or cut a deal, I’ll never work again. This . . . thing . . . will be the first item that comes up when anyone looks for me online.”
“You’re young,” Rachel said. “You made a mistake, and you have your whole life to atone. You have a chance to make it right. Caroline loves you . . .”
“No she doesn’t,” Sam said. “You said so yourself. She was using me to help take down Mayor Wright.”
“You’re going to listen to me?” Rachel said. “I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m a fool. Ask my kids. They’ll say, ‘Mom’s a fool.’”
She looked down at her purse. She could see her cell phone. If she could keep Sam distracted, perhaps she could dial 911. But even if she did, they would take minutes. Sam could end her life in less than a second.
She considered her options. She couldn’t reach him from where she sat. And she couldn’t grab the gun without lunging across the desk. And that would give him more than enough time to pull the trigger. Too much time. Too many variables.
If he wanted her dead, she was dead.
“I wake up every day wishing I could take back what we did to Ms. Wright,” Wickersham said. His gun hand was shaking. Rachel didn’t take her eyes off it, hoping an opportunity would present itself.
“You can’t take it back,” Rachel said. “But you can help us find who killed her.”
“I don’t know who killed her!” he wailed. At that moment, the door opened, and Edith appeared once again.
“Mr. Wickersham . . . oh my God!” When she saw the gun, Edith’s hand went to her mouth. Almost instinctively, Sam’s gun hand moved toward the sound, until the barrel was pointed directly at Edith’s heart.
“No!” Rachel shouted. Edith began to cry. “Point it at me!”
Sam looked at Rachel, his gun hand moving left until it was pointed at Rachel’s midsection. Edith didn’t move. “Edith,” Rachel said evenly, “go back to your desk.”
“Should I . . . should I call the police?”
“No!” Rachel said. She didn’t want Wickersham any more agitated. “Just sit down.”
Sobbing, Edith disappeared from view.
Sam looked down at the gun. Then he looked at Rachel. He seemed almost surprised by the weapon in his hand.
“There’s no coming back from this,” Sam said. “I never thought it through. I just wish I could tell Ms. Wright I’m sorry. I wish she still had her old job. She was good at it. And I messed it all up. I’m so, so sorry.”
In that moment, Rachel realized the gun wasn’t meant for her.
Just as Sam Wickersham brought the gun to rest in the soft flesh underneath his chin, Rachel dove across the oak desk. She wrapped her hands around his gun hand just as he pulled the trigger, redirecting his aim ever so slightly. The gun went off, the explosion shattering the air. She and Sam both toppled to the floor.
Instead of bursting through the bottom of his jaw and exiting through his brain, the bullet tore through the flesh on the side of Sam Wickersham’s neck. As they hit the floor, Rachel saw a river of red spreading on the tasteful gray carpeting. Blood was pumping out of a gash in Sam’s neck. She immediately knew the bullet had nicked his right external jugular vein.
The gunshot still ringing in her ears, Rachel pulled off her jacket, balled it up, and pressed it hard against Wickersham’s neck. Blood immediately soaked through it. His eyes were bulging and terrified.
“Edith!” Rachel screamed, hoping the girl hadn’t left the office in fear. “Dial 911!”