“That’s enviable.”

  “You flamed out of the profession with headlines. I left it in the middle of the night.” The waitress placed a cup of steaming coffee on the table and Teel took a long drink without the slightest grimace.

  “I’m facing prison for the rest of my life, Alan, and I haven’t killed anyone. I need some help.”

  A long slow minute passed as Alan stared at something on the floor. Simon finished his sandwich and drank some tea.

  Alan asked, “Ms. Barnett was poisoned, right?”

  “Yep. Thallium.”

  “Was Oscar Kofie working at the hospital when she was a patient?”

  “He was.”

  Alan glanced at his watch and said, “Look, I can’t talk right now. My son has a baseball game at six and I have to get the field ready. I’m the grounds crew. Pays as much as a volunteer fireman. Come to the game and we’ll sit together, have a long talk.”

  “How old is your son?”

  “Ten. My youngest.”

  “I have a daughter who’s ten, a soccer star.”

  “Can you handle a weed-eater?”

  “Haven’t had much practice but I’m sure I can.”

  “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  At six, they were sitting in lawn chairs just beyond the left-field fence, under the shade of an old tree, sipping cold lemonade and admiring their handiwork. The field was pristine, and Alan took full credit for its perfect condition. He did everything, from fertilizing the grass, trimming it three times a week, grooming the dirt infield, raking the mound and batter’s boxes, and pulling and cutting weeds. He had even painted the dugouts and repaired an old scoreboard.

  After three hours together, Simon was still uncertain as to what, exactly, the man did for a living, if anything. He appeared to be a full-time volunteer.

  And he was content to get out of the way and let others do the coaching. Once the field was ready and the perfect chalk lines were down, he retreated to his favorite spot in the shade, far away from home plate. He had yet to mention a wife, either current or ex. Simon figured they would never meet again and didn’t press for details. Hayden, his son, played second base for the Marlins and struggled at the plate. When he struck out to end the first inning, Alan, showing no disappointment at all, began talking.

  “A secretary in the law firm got an anonymous phone call about the death of Herbert Grasskie, age eighty-one, lived somewhere around Scranton or Wilkes-Barre. Said his death was not caused by pneumonia. Rather, he was poisoned. Mulrooney assigned me the case and I started digging. Autopsy, toxicology tests, the works. Took about two weeks to confirm the cause of death was thallium. I’m sure you know all about the toxin.”

  “More than enough.”

  “The perfect poison to kill with. More digging and we found another case in the same hospital. Two months earlier a seventy-two-year-old woman named Ruth Abercrombie died a similar death. We really opened the bank at that point, eventually spent over three hundred thousand dollars on the investigation. Mulrooney took charge, as only he could do, which wasn’t a bad thing. He’s brilliant, both in court and out. And we knew that Fendamar Health has very deep pockets. It’s owned by a private equity fund out of Boston that’s worth zillions. You can imagine how valuable the cases were—two wrongful deaths caused by a demented hospital employee who likes to play with poisons. The cases were pots of gold and we were all losing sleep with excitement. For various reasons I won’t waste time with, our suspicions soon centered around an X-ray tech named Oscar Kofie, a truly strange character.”

  “Slow down. How did you choose Kofie?”

  “Bribery and espionage. Mulrooney managed to keep the cases away from the police because he didn’t want to frighten the killer. We found a nurse who claimed she saw Kofie in Ms. Abercrombie’s room when he had no business being there. We paid the nurse cold cash to dig some more. And we hired a technician from another hospital, a spy really, to get a job at Fendamar. He did and it worked beautifully. We were in no hurry, you see, because another poisoning would only bolster our case. Pretty sick, really, looking back now, but at the time we were out of control and terribly excited. Our spy befriended Kofie, which wasn’t difficult because he didn’t have many friends, and they became drinking buddies. Then they did drugs. Kofie liked to talk about poisons and toxins. We also hired an ex-DEA guy, called himself a consultant, to poke around in the black market. Thallium is not that hard to find because it’s not illegal to possess. It’s just against the law to produce it. Our consultant found a broker in a shady lab in New Jersey and was able to track a shipment to Scranton, to a post office box rented to a guy with a fake name. The trail ended there, but the shipment confirmed our suspicions. Our spy finally got inside Kofie’s apartment, which had security alarms and cameras at both exterior doors, but nothing more inside. The boys from the hospital, three or four of them, including our mole, had a late-night vodka and coke binge while watching porn videos. Keep in mind these are the people we entrust with our health care. The spy managed to stay somewhat lucid, and when the others passed out, he looked around the apartment. Wasn’t much to see. Two small bedrooms, a den and a kitchen. One bedroom door was locked solid but there were no visible alarms. A weekend trip to watch a Steelers game materialized, with our guy suddenly in possession of four tickets, plus he found cheap rooms. He said that Kofie admitted he’d never had so many friends. When they were at the game, a security team entered his apartment, disabled the alarms, opened the locked bedroom door, and found two metal boxes, similar to toolboxes. They removed them from the apartment and rushed them to a hotel room where their technicians were waiting. Got one open and found enough coke and assorted pills to put him away for years. In the other they found a little pharmacy, with several plastic bottles of poisons—arsenic, cyanide, strychnine, aconitine, and of course, thallium. They were not labeled and the team was not equipped to identify them, so they took a small sample from each container and, later, ran them through a lab. Everything was put back in order, and, as far as we could tell, Kofie never suspected the break-in.”

  Teel’s son made a diving catch at second and doubled-up the runner at first. It was a spectacular play for a ten-year-old, yet Teel showed no reaction. He was lost in his story.

  “At that point, we made a strategic decision. ‘We’? It was really Mulrooney, the one and only boss. I didn’t like the way the case was going so I took a back seat, though I was still in the room. Mulrooney decided to deal with the hospital directly and not involve the police. He demanded a huge settlement in hush money. If Fendamar would pay him the fortune and get rid of Kofie, he would not file a billion-dollar lawsuit, nor would he go to the cops. The hospital’s lawyers were tough, but so is Mulrooney. They beat each other up for a few months then reached a settlement. Pay the fortune, sign a nondisclosure in blood, bury the story, run Kofie out of town, and everybody’s happy. That was about the time I left the firm.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because I was disgusted with Mulrooney. He was agreeing to take the money and in return allow a murderer to walk away unpunished. We fought and I remember asking Mulrooney what he would do one day when he heard that Kofie had killed again.”

  “And that day is here.”

  “It is.”

  “What was his response?”

  “Nothing much. A shrug that said, ‘So what?’ ”

  Simon’s mouth was dry and he sipped some lemonade.

  Teel had a dip in his lip and spat on the grass. “I had two allies in the firm who wanted to stand our ground, file a big suit, and go the distance. We wanted Kofie brought to trial and sent to prison. We wanted to expose Fendamar, though, in all fairness, the hospital is well-thought-of around here. But we were no match for Mulrooney. He just wanted the money.”

  “How much?”

  “I can’t say because it’s in the NDA.”

  “Bullshit. Everything you’ve just told me is covered by the NDA, which you’re not subject to, right?”

  “That’s far from certain and it has not been tested. It’s a thick and complicated document that, believe me, nobody on our side wants to litigate. I could get in trouble for talking.”

  “You’re obviously not afraid of it.”

  “No, I don’t care. I have few assets and have no plans to acquire anything else. Life is simple. I like it this way.”

  “Mulrooney’s life is not simple.”

  “No, he’s quite complicated. But he’s struggling right now because he knows his own greed has led to more killings. The man’s got a soul, buried deep somewhere.”

  “He also got a lot of money.”

  “Yes, he did. He got a huge slice of the deal and took his fee offshore, tax-free.”

  “How much?”

  “Lots of rumors around the firm. No one in the firm knows for sure because Mulrooney routed the money through Singapore and parts unknown, but the best guess is that Fendamar paid around fifty million.”

  Chapter 63

  Alan did not inquire about his overnight plans, and Simon didn’t offer because he had none. He found a room at a motel that appeared to have been constructed in the past thirty years, and would have felt better if the rate for one night had been more than $45, but he was in no position to be selective. The other two motels along the highway were far older, cheaper, and had yet to pave their parking lots. He had corn chips and beer for dinner, and at 9 P.M. called Raymond, who, of course, was at the office. Simon could almost smell the cigar smoke.

  Raymond’s customary crankiness vanished after Simon’s opening. The old windbag was speechless and allowed Simon to deliver his narrative for at least twenty minutes before uttering a sound. It was, “Hang on. I need another shot.”

  * * *

  Alan agreed to meet for breakfast at the same diner at seven-thirty before he took his boys to school. Still no mention of a wife or woman in his life, not that Simon cared.

  He was only ten minutes late. Simon had just taken his first bite of oatmeal—prepackaged—and flagged the waitress over for more coffee. Alan ordered wheat toast and honey.

  “Get any sleep last night?” he asked with a grin.

  “No, not much. A lot to think about.”

  Alan pulled a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket, and thanked the waitress for the coffee. “I have three priorities, in order of importance.”

  The small sheet of notebook paper had scribblings on both sides.

  “Number one: I want Kofie off the street and locked away somewhere. I can’t help with that because I’m not a direct witness to his crimes. And you can’t trust our local boys because they’ve already solved the crime and got their conviction. This is a matter for the FBI.”

  “How’d they get Kofie out of town without raising suspicions?”

  “Another sad part of the story. They suddenly had some layoffs at the hospital and he got his walking papers. Since no one filed a complaint against him, he kept his technician’s license. Pretty sick, huh?”

  “Yeah. His license to poison others.”

  “And, apparently, that’s what has happened. May I continue?”

  “Proceed, sir.”

  “Number two: I want to help you walk away from this. I see where you’ve filed a motion to vacate the guilty verdict. What are the chances of getting before the judge on this?”

  “Quite good. So far, she’s held hearings on all motions from both sides. We consider her to be sympathetic.”

  “She should be. She presided over a trial that convicted an innocent man. As a believer in our system of justice, I’m appalled by any wrongful conviction. You’re innocent and we know who’s guilty. Let’s nail him.”

  “Will you testify at the hearing?”

  “I knew this was coming and the answer is yes, with conditions. I’m not sure of the procedure in Virginia, but around here it’s possible to have a closed hearing, on the record, of course. If we can have a closed hearing to vacate—empty courtroom, no press, no spectators, no one there who’s not supposed to be there—then I’ll testify. The Fendamar file is under lock and key and it must remain buried. Which goes hand in hand with number three: I have to protect the NDA. The hospital can never know about my involvement. If it finds out it will come after me and the entire Mulrooney firm. That would not be pleasant. The NDA has some clawback provisions that allow the hospital to recoup some serious money should the lawyers develop loose tongues.”

  “How do we get the file?”

  Alan smiled and pulled out a thumb drive. “It’s all right here. I kept copies and recorded everything, even have the video of Kofie’s apartment. Surprisingly, not a very cool pad.”

  “Are you offering that to me?”

  “No. I’ll bring it to court and share it with the judge.”

  “Okay. My lawyer will start pushing for a hearing right now.”

  “You told him?”

  “Oh yeah, had a long talk last night and we’ll have another when I leave here and drive home. This changes everything, Alan. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “You’re an innocent man, Simon.”

  “I know.”

  * * *

  He would have called Zander with the news but it was not yet noon. He should be in Braxton by then. Perhaps he could buy her lunch.

  He called Raymond, who was far more talkative now that he’d had some sleep and time to digest the news. Raymond was full of ideas about legal procedures and maneuverings Simon had never heard of.

  He called Landy and they discussed the FBI’s involvement. She was certain a file would be opened and an investigation would be ramped up soon enough. She would call her supervisor as soon as she hung up.

  As he drove past the sign for the city limits of Braxton, Simon asked himself, and certainly not for the first time, why he was returning to the town. It wasn’t home anymore. For the past nineteen years, ever since he finished law school, Braxton had been the center of his world. His home and office, real estate he’d once owned, were there. His three children had been born in the very hospital where Oscar Kofie was still working. He and Paula had raised the kids in the public schools and rarely missed a teacher conference, a play, a concert, a graduation, or a game. His church was there, though over the years the family had attended less and less. The Latches were now considered Easter Christians. His friends still lived in Braxton, though he felt abandoned by all of them.

  The only thing Simon wanted from Braxton at the moment was a clear name. He had been wrongfully convicted by a jury far away but harshly condemned by the people closest to him. He wanted to be able to walk through the courthouse and then down Main Street, his final walk on his way out of town, with his head high as he looked down on all those who doubted him. He wanted them to feel rotten for misjudging him. He wanted retribution.

  It was a sad commentary on his life that the only acquaintance he could meet for lunch was a young, talented criminal with hair that was the color of a tangerine this week and lavender last week. Zander managed to pull things together by 2 P.M. and meet at her favorite tea shop, where the antisocial chef/owner was advertising ginger cookies as a special.

  “Let’s skip those,” Simon said, but Zander missed the connection. She ordered a breakfast tea loaded with caffeine and slugged it down. She was emaciated and needed to add at least twenty pounds. So did Simon, and he ordered two sandwiches. As he devoured them, he gave her a sanitized version of Alan Teel’s story, careful to avoid the sensitive areas.

  He thanked her again, and she again waved him off. It was just something she and Cooley did for fun, sometimes for profit.

  Chapter 64

  He loathed the prospect of returning to his dark, empty office and The Closet with nothing to do but dig through more research. Hadn’t he just solved the mystery, or had it been solved for him? Had he not found the killer? His phone buzzed as he pulled into the alley behind his office. Landy said, “There’s an FBI office in Charlottesville. Can you be there at nine in the morning?”

  “I have nothing else to do. What’s up?”

  “The FBI and the U.S. Attorney.”

  “Is that all? Sure I’ll be there.”

  “Bring your research. Bring everything.”

  “I have at least three boxes of files. And umpteen gigabytes on my laptop.”

  “Zip me that stuff tonight and bring the boxes.”

  “So you and your pals are interested?”

  “The investigation is now open. Congratulations.”

  He didn’t feel like celebrating, nor did he feel like working. He fell asleep on the sofa, napped for an hour, then jogged for another one. He talked to Paula and the kids for a long time and got the latest scoop on their back-to-school adventures. Buck was entering his senior year. With some luck, Simon would not miss it.

  When the sun faded, he changed into jeans and slinked through the alleys and back streets, and entered Chub’s a few minutes after nine. Valerie brought him a drink, then a cheeseburger. Chub was not around and that was okay. Simon didn’t feel like discussing his problems. He played video poker for two hours, won thirty-one dollars before finally quitting, and left a twenty-dollar bill on the bar for Valerie.

  * * *

  Landy pulled an all-nighter and put together a ten-page memo, a very rough draft of Mr. Oscar Kofie’s adventures with thallium. She had plenty of facts on the Eleanor Barnett case, but fewer on the others.

  It was an all-girls show, except for Simon, who sat on one side of the table with Landy as they faced Carmen Riddle, the assistant U.S. attorney (AUSA), and Shelia Wycoff, supervisor in charge (SIC), FBI. Once Simon had the alphabet untangled and somewhat clear, he was ready to proceed.