Page 104

96
Manhattan
Dr. Cameron Graham eases into his black Audi A8 in the parking garage across the street from the Metropolitan Club in Midtown East.
Dinner with old friends was a rare treat, but it’s after eleven and he’s starting to feel the effects of the booze—a vodka martini to start, two glasses of cabernet with the meal, then an Armagnac. He probably should have passed on the digestif, especially since he has to make the drive home to Westchester. His steak dinner is sitting heavily in his belly.
Graham pats his jacket pocket, feeling for his cell phone. He’d followed club rules and turned it off at the table. Nice to be off social media for a few hours. Now it’s time to reconnect.
Graham’s stomach is churning as he checks his work voicemail. He listens to a message from Brea Cooke.
About time.
It’s time for Brea to know everything. She needs to understand. Sometimes you pretend to befriend the enemy in orderto learn their tactics and vocabulary, earn their trust, figure out how to predict their actions.
He starts the Audi and pulls out of the parking garage. Just as he merges into Manhattan traffic, a cabdriver cuts in front of him. Graham hits the brakes to prevent a collision. A car horn blasts from behind him. He puts down the phone and picks up speed.
He’s feeling chilly. Is the AC on? He checks. Nope.
In the middle of the next block, Graham feels a prickle shoot down his left arm. His stomach feels even more sour.
Graham leans over and opens the glove box. He fishes for a foil packet of Pepcid.Got it!Grabs it with two fingers.Damn it!It slips out of his grip and drops into the footwell.
Now the pressure in his belly is moving up to his chest. He feels a sheen of sweat on his forehead and wipes it off with the back of his hand. He blinks twice to refocus. The taillights ahead are blurry. Those drinks must have been stronger than he thought.Concentrate on driving!
Suddenly, a gap opens up in the far-right lane. Graham cranks the wheel and veers into the opening. He can’t feel his hands. His chest is exploding in pain.
He jams his foot down on the brake. It slips off. He thrusts his foot down again. His leg is shaking. He hits the gas pedal instead.
There’s a loud metallic bang as the Audi rams through a barrier.
A flash of green. Then it’s gone, like someone flipped a switch.
Dr. Cameron Graham is dead before the Audi’s hood hits the tree.
CHAPTER
97
Rockingham County Courthouse, New Hampshire
Iget to court early to snag a good seat for the second day of the trial. The media people are already in place. I wave to Ron Reynolds, and he tips his tweed newsboy cap at me.
As the defendant and his team of attorneys file in, I catch a glimpse of his ankle monitor, well hidden beneath his somber bespoke suit.
The cameras light up. So does the tension in the room.
Testimony opens with the deputy attorney general calling the deputy chief medical examiner Alice Woods to the stand.
Bastinelli takes her through a review of her educational credentials and forensics experience. As she starts to explain how she positively identified the remains, Tess Hardy stands up and interrupts.
“Your Honor, in the interest of time, the defense is willing to stipulate that the remains found in the trunk of the Sentra are in fact those of Suzanne Bonanno.”
Smart move. Hardy looks like she’s being accommodating butshe’s actually taking control. The defense attorney wants Bastinelli to hurry up with Woods so she can get a crack at her.
The strategy throws Bastinelli off his game; it takes him a few seconds to adjust and skip down his question list. He grabs a controller from the lectern and turns on a video screen.
“Your Honor, State’s exhibit eleven C.”