“What she did was risk her life by talking to a Russian oligarch while wearing a wire,” said Jack.

  “That’s just bullshit, Jack,” said Greenberg.

  No one liked to be accused of bullshitting the assistant special agent in charge of an FBI field office, but it was especially bothersome when that ASAC was your wife’s boss.

  Jack rose, and Imani followed his lead. “I’ll be filing a motion with the court to enforce our agreement and get the charges dismissed,” he said.

  “And the U.S. attorney in New York will be filing additional charges against your client for interfering with a government investigation.”

  Greenberg called for his assistant to escort Jack and his client out of the building. She came quickly, but before Jack could leave the conference room, the ASAC had one more thing to say.

  “Jack, I want you to know that I still have the utmost respect for your wife.”

  Jack knew he wasn’t complimenting Andie. It was his way of saying that he’d lost respect for her husband, and it made Jack wonder what, perhaps, Andie had been telling her boss about Jack over the past couple of weeks.

  “Couldn’t be happier to hear that,” said Jack, and then he and his client left the room.

  It was a chilly November night in Boston. Judge was on the prowl.

  He’d left London two weeks earlier, right after giving Goodbye Girl the boot. He had no plans to return—ever. His intentionally circuitous flight from Heathrow to Boston Logan—connecting in Amsterdam, Paris, and Madrid—had been under a new name, new passport, and new identity. He was officially a new man. But he was unchanged.

  His stakeout position was on the flat roof of an apartment building in Cambridge. His target lived in a studio on the third floor of the redbrick building across the alley. The lone window was oversized, something the landlord undoubtedly touted as a “plus,” even though it overlooked a Dumpster. The curtains were parted, affording Judge a clear view inside. His target was a twenty-three-year-old woman who lived alone and served drinks at a tavern until 10:00 p.m. on weeknights. She was alone on the Murphy bed, sitting up against a corduroy husband pillow, her face aglow in the light of an open laptop computer. Judge estimated five steps from the bed to the door. With the aid of binoculars, he was able to make out every essential detail. There was a chain lock, but it was hanging straight down on the door frame, unused.

  Can you make it any easier?

  Judge lit up a cigarette to settle his nerves. His plan was foolproof, and the anticipation of his next move was no cause for concern. His only worry was Goodbye Girl.

  Giving her that name had been a mistake. Letting her go had been downright stupid. As the start date for Imani’s murder trial drew closer, the media coverage intensified with each passing day, and not just in the United States. More coverage meant more mention of the killer’s signature. Judge could only hope that Goodbye Girl would be true to her stupid self and remain oblivious to what was happening in the world.

  Should’ve strangled the little slut.

  Judge crushed out his cigarette and raised his binoculars. Clueless was still on the Murphy bed, staring at the LCD screen, completely unaware that the hard drive was loaded with malware. Like most hacks, it had been a self-inflicted wound, triggered by browsing activity that younger users considered normal, other users regarded as an acceptable risk, and only the tech savvy labeled “reckless.” Judge opened his laptop but kept the LCD display on the dimmest setting so as not to draw attention to himself in the darkness. In just a few moments, his screen would display exactly what his target was seeing. The embedded malware was programmed to launch and take control at 11:00 p.m. Judge couldn’t wait to see her reaction.

  Three . . . two . . . one.

  The image appeared on Judge’s screen. The malware was performing exactly as programmed, but technology was only half the equation. The key to the entire operation was to elicit a certain human response from his target. Judge raised the binoculars and peered into the studio apartment. Confirmed: Clueless was no longer in control. Her expression showed confusion, then concern. Panic soon followed. The target laptop had become the slave. Judge was the master, and the on-screen image was having the intended effect.

  Clueless was freaking out.

  Even though Judge was watching through binoculars from across the alley, it was as if he were sitting on the Murphy bed beside his target, close enough to hear the gasp for breath, check the racing pulse, and dab the sweating brow. The next minute was crucial. Some targets just froze, wondering if what they’d just seen was real. Some slapped the laptop shut and quickly pushed it away, as if to pretend they’d seen nothing. Others grabbed their cellphone and texted or called someone who, perhaps, could convince them that it had all been their imagination.

  Judge waited and watched. His bet was that Clueless would call someone, and it made him smile with satisfaction to see that he was right. The call on her cellphone lasted just a few minutes. The friend, brother, sister, coworker—whoever had been on the line—seemed to put Clueless at ease, for a moment, at least. She disappeared into the bathroom to get ready for bed, but whatever comfort or courage the caller had imparted was short-lived. Barely enough time to wet a toothbrush passed before the door flew open and Clueless dived beneath the covers, as if the bogeyman himself had appeared in the bathroom mirror. She hadn’t even bothered to turn off the lamp on the nightstand. Judge guessed it would stay on all night. Fine by him. A little light would keep him from stubbing his toe.

  Judge lowered his binoculars. He would wait until well after midnight. Maybe as late as 2:00 or 3:00 a.m.

  And then he would make his move.

  Chapter 31

  Security at Miami’s criminal courthouse was tighter than usual on Monday morning. Squad cars lined the street at the front entrance. Police barricades prevented onlookers from gathering on the steps. It was all for the trial of Imani and Shaky Nichols, day one. Jack had handled high-profile cases before, typically as counsel to the infamous. Imani was his first client to have found fame for the right reasons—and then for the wrong.

  “This isn’t the red carpet,” Jack said as their SUV pulled up to the curb. “Don’t wave, don’t smile, and, above all, don’t say anything.”

  Imani was looking out the passenger-side window at her supporters, who cheered her arrival. It was a sunny morning and Jack reached for his sunglasses, a cheap plastic pair from next to the checkout line, but Imani handed him a new pair. “Your drugstore specials won’t cut it, Jack. Look the part.”

  Jack tried them on. He suddenly had an appreciation of how his father must have felt after cataract surgery. “Nice,” he said.

  “Persol 714,” said Imani. “Limited edition in honor of Steve McQueen.”

  “You’re on trial for murder, and you’re worried about what sunglasses your lawyer is wearing?”

  “You do your job. I’ll do mine.”

  Police were able to contain the crowd long enough for Jack and his client to climb out of the SUV, but not much longer. Imani’s fans were only half the problem. More than six hundred media passes had been issued. Every major network and entertainment magazine had at least one reporter at the trial. The top cable news networks had constructed a two-story air-conditioned structure across from the courthouse for reporters and crews. In addition to real-time court coverage, Jack knew of at least two prime-time segments in the works, “Inside the Imani Trial” from Dateline, and “Only Imani Knows” from CNN. In the week running up to the trial, Imani’s picture had appeared on the cover of everything from People in the United States to Bunte in Germany. Judge Cookson’s courtroom would surely become another Miami tourist destination, like South Beach and the Seaquarium, with spectators coming from all over the world to vie for the fifty seats available to the public. The first altercation among spectators broke out as Jack and Imani entered the building.

  “This is my spot!”

  “I’ve been here since five a.m.!”

  The police broke it up, Jack and his client shuffled through security, and by 9:00 a.m. they were seated safely in Judge Cookson’s courtroom. Jack had expected jury selection to carry over to Tuesday, but by three o’clock they had a jury. Four women and two men, each of whom had assured the judge that they had formed no preconceptions about the case, despite the plethora of pretrial publicity. Judge Cookson kept the freight train rolling.

  “Let’s proceed with opening statements,” he said from the bench. “Mr. Owens, if you please.”

  The prosecutor stepped to the lectern and faced the jury. He had a notebook with him, but he didn’t open it. He spoke without notes.

  “A wife cheats on her husband. The husband finds out about it, and he’s enraged. The wife is under her husband’s thumb. Her career is in her powerful husband’s hands. He wants her to get rid of the lover. At her husband’s insistence, she coaxes her lover into something kinky in bed. A second male participant is involved. Ropes are definitely involved. Perhaps her lover is blindfolded. Or perhaps the second man is wearing a mask. Either way, her lover is unable to recognize him as the husband. At some point in this frenetic orgy of sex, the rope finds it way around the lover’s neck. The lover ends up dead.”

  The courtroom was utterly silent. For a moment, it seemed as if the prosecutor might return to his seat, having said enough.

  “How did Tyler McCormick end up dead? Who strangled him? Was it Shaky Nichols, a disgusted husband who was finally done with other men having their way with his wife?”

  Then his gaze drifted across the courtroom, landing squarely on Imani. “Or was it Imani Nichols, the wife who had pushed her husband too far, and who would do anything—anything—to redeem herself in his eyes.”

  The prosecutor’s focus returned to the jurors. “We don’t know where the murder occurred. Tyler McCormick’s body was found sometime after his death on display in Biscayne Bay in an elaborate attempt to make the killing look like something it wasn’t. In the coming days, you will hear evidence on all of this. For now, let me share a little irony.

  “There’s a song by Imani. It was one of her first hits. The name of the song is ‘Safe Word.’ For those of you who don’t know, a safe word is used by couples who engage in rough or even dangerous sex. The safe word is a code from the submissive partner to let the dominant partner know that things have gone far enough. A safe word like ‘red light’ might mean ‘Time to stop. You’re really hurting me.’ Interestingly, Imani’s song has this lyric: ‘Ain’t no safe word; you ain’t safe with me.’”

  Jack rose. It was unusual to object during opening statement, but with a celebrity client, it was important to force the prosecution to stick to the evidence. “Your Honor, I object. Is my client on trial here, or her music?”

  “Sustained,” the judge said. “Mr. Owens, let’s confine our opening remarks to what the evidence will show.”

  “Absolutely,” said the prosecutor, tightening his focus on the jurors. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the evidence in this case will show you one thing. For Tyler McCormick, there was no ‘safe word.’”

  Jack was about to rise, but the judge stopped him.

  “Keep your seat, counsel. Mr. Owens, that is the last time I want to hear about song lyrics.”

  “My apologies, Your Honor. It won’t happen again.”

  Owens returned to his seat, seemingly satisfied that twice being reprimanded by the judge was well worth it, as long as that song stuck in the jurors’ heads.

  The judge turned his attention to the defense. “Mr. Swyteck? Your opening statement?”

  Jack hesitated. For weeks, he had been pushing the prosecutor for a clear articulation of how he intended to prove Imani’s active participation in the murder of Tyler McCormick. The answer had come in a song.

  Imani grabbed her lawyer by the wrist and whispered, “My songs are not murder plots. You have to say something.”

  Jack understood her reaction. But the joint defense team had weighed all options before the start of trial, and the agreed-upon plan was for Jack to plant seeds of doubt in his opening statement, to lay out a theme for the defense, not to respond point by point to every theory and every piece of evidence presented by the prosecutor. It was a good strategy, and Jack resisted the urge to change it based on Owens’s clever reference to a song.

  Jack rose and stepped to the well of the courtroom, that stage-like opening before the bench where lawyers could seemingly step away from the action and speak directly to the jury, as if delivering a Shakespearean soliloquy. He buttoned his suit coat, bid the jurors a good afternoon, and dove straight into his theme.

  “A cheating spouse, a dead lover. If it were really that simple, this jury would have the easiest job on the planet.

  “But it isn’t so easy. Your job is to make the prosecution prove its case against Shaky Nichols and Imani Nichols beyond a reasonable doubt. That standard applies to each of them. They were husband and wife at the time of the victim’s death, but the charges against them are separate. Each has been charged with murder in the second degree. Each has been charged with mutilation of a dead body. It’s as if the prosecutor wants you to tack a scarlet letter on each of their foreheads and simply conclude that they did it. They did it.”

  Jack shook his head. “The prosecution has it all wrong, folks. There is no they. Look carefully at the charges in the indictment. Notice what is missing. They are not charged with conspiracy to commit murder. That’s not an oversight by the prosecutor. There is no charge of conspiracy because the essence of a conspiracy is an agreement. You will hear no evidence of an agreement to murder Tyler McCormick. No evidence of a plan. The reason? There was no agreement. There was no plan. This all just sort of happened, is what the prosecutor would have you believe.

  “To convict my client, the state must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Imani Nichols did it. To convict Shaky Nichols, the state must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that he did it. It isn’t enough that one of them might have had some theoretical desire for Tyler McCormick to go away. Two weak cases do not add up to a conviction.

  “I submit that after all the evidence is in, you will conclude that neither of them killed Tyler McCormick. You will most certainly conclude that the prosecution has failed to prove the guilt of anyone in this courtroom beyond and to the exclusion of every reasonable doubt. Your verdict must be ‘not guilty.’”

  Jack started back to his seat, then stopped. He supposed he owed it to her client to defend her work. “Oh, one other thing before you swallow this life-imitating-art nonsense. Imani composes the music to her songs. She does not write the lyrics. I guess that makes the lyricist from ‘Safe Word’ a co-conspirator in the murder of Tyler McCormick.”

  Jack returned to his seat beside his client at the defense table.

  “Nice work,” Imani whispered.

  Judge Cookson looked at Shaky’s counsel. “Ms. Ellis, your opening statement, please.”

  She rose and said, “My client elects to defer his opening statement until the close of the prosecution’s case, Your Honor.”

  Dividing their opening statements in this fashion, Jack first and Ellis later, was a joint defense strategy, but it came as no small relief to Jack that Shaky’s lawyer had actually honored the arrangement.

  “Very well,” said the judge. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Mr. Nichols has elected to save his opening statement until after the state has presented its case. That’s his right to do so, and if any defense is necessary, you will be hearing from his lawyer at that time.” Judge Cookson checked the clock in the back of the courtroom. “It’s almost five o’clock. Let’s reconvene tomorrow at nine. The jurors are reminded of their oaths. We’re adjourned for the day,” he said with the bang of a gavel.

  All rose, and as the judge exited to his chambers, Jack noticed Shaky and Imani exchange glances. Though Jack could only guess, he imagined the defendants were thinking the same thing. All this talk about reasonable doubt was nice. But even nicer would have been the one thing Jack couldn’t deliver.

  A forceful denial that Imani had ever met Tyler McCormick.

  Chapter 32

  Boston Harbor was awash in gray. Seas, sky, and the steady drizzle blended into a monochromatic band on the horizon. It reminded Andie of weathered tin roofs and spent steel bullet casings, as she and two officers from the Boston PD’s harbor unit sped across choppy waters at over thirty knots. They were aboard one of the fastest police boats operating out of South Boston’s Terminal Road, a sleek thirty-four-foot Intercept with twin 300-horsepower outboard engines.

  “How much farther?” Andie asked, shouting over the roar of the engines. Her FBI raincoat kept her dry for the most part. For added measure, she’d positioned herself forward in the cockpit, as close to the windshield as possible, allowing the speed of the boat to take the raindrops and sea spray over her head.

  “Just a few more minutes,” the BP officer shouted back.

  A speck of land appeared on the horizon. “Is that it?” she asked, pointing.

  “Yup.”

  Andie’s day had started in Miami with a predawn phone call from her ASAC. The body of a twenty-three-year-old woman had been found chained to a concrete piling in the harbor. An alert Boston homicide detective had immediately noted the similarities to the Tyler McCormick homicide, which had returned to law enforcement’s top of mind, thanks to the trial of Imani and Shaky Nichols. FBI Agent Andie Henning was the only still-active law enforcement officer who’d observed the McCormick recovery site firsthand. Andie was in Boston by noon, and twenty minutes later they were headed east-southeast to a tiny island in the harbor.

  “This is it,” said the boat pilot, throttling down to no-wake speed. “Nixes Mate.”

  Once a twelve-acre island suitable for farming, Nixes Mate today is just two hundred square feet of uninhabited rock protruding from the harbor, most of the land lost to mining operations and rising sea levels. It essentially serves as a pedestal for a cone-shaped, black-and-white navigation marker for ships entering the harbor.