Tell No One

Peter Flannery had that athlete-gone-to-seed look. His once-golden locks had thinned and fled. His features were malleable. He wore a rayon three-piece suit—I hadn’t seen one in a while—and the vest even had the pocket watch attached to a faux gold chain.

“I need to ask you about an old case,” I said.

His eyes still had the ice blue of youth, and he aimed them my way. On the desk, I spotted a photograph of Flannery with a plump woman and a girl of maybe fourteen who was definitely in the throes of awkward adolescence. They were all smiling, but I saw a wince there too, as though they were bracing for a blow.

“An old case?” he repeated.

“My wife visited you eight years ago. I need to know what it was about.”

Flannery’s eyes flicked toward Tyrese. Tyrese still had the folded arms and showed him nothing more than the sunglasses. “I don’t understand. Was this a divorce case?”

“No,” I said.

“Then …?” He put his hands up and gave me the I’d-like-to-help shrug. “Attorney-client confidentiality. I don’t see how I can help you.”

“I don’t think she was a client.”

“You’re confusing me, Mr.—” He waited for me to fill in the blank.

“Beck,” I said. “And it’s doctor, not mister.”

His double chin went slack at my name. I wondered if maybe he had heard the news reports. But I didn’t think that was it.

“My wife’s name is Elizabeth.”

Flannery said nothing.

“You remember her, don’t you?”

Again he flipped a glance at Tyrese.

“Was she a client, Mr. Flannery?”

He cleared his throat. “No,” he said. “No, she wasn’t a client.”

“But you remember meeting her?”

Flannery shifted in his chair. “Yes.”

“What did you discuss?”

“It’s been a long time, Dr. Beck.”

“Are you saying you don’t remember?”

He didn’t answer that one directly. “Your wife,” he said. “She was murdered, wasn’t she? I remember seeing something about it on the news.”

I tried to keep us on track. “Why did she come here, Mr. Flannery?”

“I’m an attorney,” he said, and he almost puffed out his chest.

“But not hers.”

“Still,” he said, trying to gain some sort of leverage, “I need to be compensated for my time.” He coughed into his fist. “You mentioned something about a retainer.”

I looked over my shoulder, but Tyrese was already on the move. The cash roll was out and he was peeling bills. He tossed three Ben Franklins on the desk, gave Flannery a hard sunglass glare, and then stepped back to his spot.

Flannery looked at the money but didn’t touch it. He bounced his fingertips together and then flattened his palms against each other. “Suppose I refuse to tell you.”

“I can’t see why you would,” I said. “Your communications with her don’t fall under privilege, do they?”

“I’m not talking about that,” Flannery said. His eyes pierced mine and he hesitated. “Did you love your wife, Dr. Beck?”

“Very much.”

“Have you remarried?”

“No,” I said. Then: “What does that have to do with anything?”

He settled back. “Go,” he said. “Take your money and just go.”

“This is important, Mr. Flannery.”

“I can’t imagine how. She’s been dead for eight years. Her killer is on death row.”

“What are you afraid to tell me?”

Flannery didn’t answer right away. Tyrese again peeled himself off the wall. He moved closer to the desk. Flannery watched him and surprised me with a tired sigh. “Do me a favor,” he said to Tyrese. “Stop with the posturing, okay? I’ve repped psychos who make you look like Mary Poppins.”

Tyrese looked as though he might react, but that wouldn’t help. I said his name. He looked at me. I shook my head. Tyrese backed off. Flannery was plucking at his lower lip. I let him. I could wait.

“You don’t want to know,” he said to me after a while.

“Yeah, I do.”

“It can’t bring your wife back.”

“Maybe it can,” I said.

That got his attention. He frowned at me, but something there softened.

“Please,” I said.

He swiveled his seat to the side and tilted way back, staring up at window blinds that had turned yellow and crusty sometime during the Watergate hearings. He folded his hands and rested them on his paunch. I watched the hands rise and fall as he breathed.

“I was a public defender back then,” he began. “You know what that is?”

“You defended the indigent,” I said.

“Something like that. The Miranda rights—they talk about having the right to counsel if you can afford one. I’m the guy you get when you can’t.”

I nodded, but he was still looking at the blinds.

“Anyway, I was assigned one of the most prominent murder trials in the state.”

Something cold wormed into my stomach. “Whose?” I asked.

“Brandon Scope’s. The billionaire’s son. Do you remember the case?”

I froze, terrified. I could barely breathe. Little wonder Flannery’s name had seemed familiar. Brandon Scope. I almost shook my head, not because I didn’t remember the case, but because I wanted him to say anything but that name.

For the sake of clarity, let me give you the newspaper account: Brandon Scope, age thirty-three, was robbed and murdered eight years ago. Yes, eight years ago. Maybe two months before Elizabeth’s murder. He was shot twice and dumped near a housing project in Harlem. His money was gone. The media played all the violins on this one. They made much of Brandon Scope’s charitable work. They talked about how he helped street kids, how he preferred working with the poor to running Daddy’s multinational conglomerate, that kind of spin. It was one of those murders that “shock a nation” and lead to plenty of finger-pointing and hand-wringing. A charitable foundation had been set up in young Scope’s name. My sister, Linda, runs it. You wouldn’t believe the good she does there.

“I remember it,” I said softly.

“Do you remember that an arrest was made?”

“A street kid,” I said. “One of the kids he helped, right?”