Page 51

I MAKE WHAT FEELS like a thousand-mile journey to Mineola, where I am meeting Katherine Welsh.

I haven’t told her I’ve found the murder weapon—only that I have a present for her.

“And it’s not even my birthday,” she says.

“It’s going to feel that way,” I say.

We meet in Katherine Welsh’s office, not far from the courthouse, on Old Country Road in Mineola.

She’s dressed casually on what is supposed to be her day off: cotton pullover and sleeveless vest and black jeans and a pair of well-worn Dr. Martens boots. Even dressed down, she looks annoyingly well put together.

“I could have met you halfway and saved you some driving,” she says.

“I’ve found you can make really good time when you’re taking the high road,” I say.

She frowns.

“That sounds mysterious,” she says.

“Not for long.”

The gun is in my purse. There are two guns in there, actually. One is my Glock 27, since with Rob Jacobson in my life I never go anywhere without it. The other is the bagged Glock 19, 15-round mag, that fired the bullets that killed the family for which Katherine Welsh is now trying my client.

She asks if I’d like water or coffee.

“I’m fine,” I tell her.

“Why do I get the idea you’re not fine?”

I force a smile. “I’m not answering another question without my lawyer present,” I tell her.

She smiles back at me. “I want to say something, before we get to whatever we’re getting to here,” she says. “I have this feeling that the two of us would be friends if we were meeting under different circumstances.”

“I’m a bitch,” I say.

“Same!” she says.

We both laugh at that.

Then there’s a silence between us, as if this is some sort of awkward first lawyer date, until she says, “So what is all the mystery?”

I’ve dropped my bag next to my chair. I reach down now and remove the plastic bag and place the bagged gun on her desk.

“This is your present,” I say.

She looks down at the gun and then up at me.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask how it ended up in your possession?” she asks.

“Yes, Katherine, you may,” I say, and then force another smile as I add, “If it would please the court.”

I proceed to tell her about Rob Jacobson’s houseguest and Jimmy’s visit to the Upper West Side town house and the girl pulling a gun on Jimmy when she thought he was an intruder, and then Danny Esposito having tested and retested the gun yesterday.

Katherine Welsh gives out a long, low whistle.

“Goddamn,” she says. “The missing murder weapon, at long last.”

She pauses. “In his own goddamn house.”

“It wasn’t exactly as if the girl found a buried treasure,” I say.

“You have your treasures,” Welsh says, “and I have mine. Even when the treasure finds me.”

“Prints are useless,” I say. “The girl’s were on it. And Jimmy’s, he grabbed it before he realized what she might be handing over. But that’s all the staties could pull.”

I sit back down in my chair.

“Of course,” I say, “this doesn’t prove anything.”

“As a matter of fact,” she says, “it does.”

“Not that he did it.”

“No,” Welsh says. “It proves that you did the right thing, Jane.” She nods to herself. “It’s funny you brought up the high road before. A friend of mine gave me a T-shirt once that has ‘The high road sucks’ on the front. And on the back it says, ‘But you have to take it.’”

“There are times when it sucks way more than others,” I say. “But in the end, we’re the same in one other way: We’re both officers of the court.”

“Not everybody in your shoes would have done what you just did,” Welsh says.

“No need to rub it in.”

She stands now. I stand. We both know there’s nothing more to say, at least not this morning. She walks me to the door then, but before I walk out of her office, she puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Please don’t thank me again,” I say. “I can only take so much gratitude.”

She smiles again.

“Wasn’t going to,” she says. “Just wanted to remind you that I’m going to kick your ass with or without a murder weapon.”

“Bitch,” I say.