PRAISE FOR ADAM MITZNER

Dead Certain

“Dead Certain is dead-on terrific . . . It’s an entertaining and riveting work that will more than hold your interest.”

—Bookreporter

“Consistently compelling . . . Adam Mitzner is a master of the mystery genre.”

—Midwest Book Review

“There are several twists and turns along the way . . . creating a big amount of tension . . .”

—The Parkersburg News and Sentinel

“[Dead Certain’s] leading coincidence, which is quite a whopper, is offset by an equally dazzling surprise . . . It packs enough of a punch to make it worth reading.”

—Kirkus Reviews

A Conflict of Interest

“A heady combination of Patricia Highsmith and Scott Turow, here’s psychological and legal suspense at its finest. Adam Mitzner’s masterful plotting begins on tiptoe and morphs into a sweaty gallop, with ambiguity of character that shakes your best guesses, and twists that punch you in the gut. This novel packs it. A terrific read!”

—Perri O’Shaughnessy

“Mitzner’s assured debut . . . compares favorably to Presumed Innocent . . . Mitzner tosses in a number of twists, but his strength lies in his characters and his unflinching depiction of relationships in crisis. This gifted writer should have a long and successful career ahead of him.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“Adam Mitzner combines the real world insights of an experienced litigator with the imaginative flair of a fine novelist to produce a page-turner with deeply flawed heroes, sympathetic villains, and totally unexpected twists. I loved it.”

—Alan Dershowitz

A Case of Redemption

“Head and shoulders above most . . .”

—Publisher’s Weekly

Losing Faith

“Tightly plotted, fast-paced . . . Startling . . . A worthy courtroom yarn that fans of Grisham and Turow will enjoy.”

—Kirkus Reviews

The Girl from Home

“An engrossing little gem.”

—Kirkus Reviews

OTHER TITLES BY ADAM MITZNER

Dead Certain

The Girl from Home

Losing Faith

A Case of Redemption

A Conflict of Interest

Title Page

Copyright Page

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2018 by Adam Mitzner.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

ISBN-13: 9781542048378

ISBN-10: 1542048370

Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

Dedication

For Susan, because there’s nothing more important than being with someone you truly love.

CONTENTS

CONTENTS

PART ONE

1. ELLA BRODEN

2. DANA GOODWIN

3. ELLA BRODEN

4. DANA GOODWIN

5. ELLA BRODEN

6. DANA GOODWIN

7. ELLA BRODEN

8. DANA GOODWIN

9. ELLA BRODEN

10. DANA GOODWIN

11. ELLA BRODEN

12. DANA GOODWIN

13. ELLA BRODEN

14. DANA GOODWIN

15. ELLA BRODEN

PART TWO

16. ELLA BRODEN

17. DANA GOODWIN

18. ELLA BRODEN

19. DANA GOODWIN

20. ELLA BRODEN

21. DANA GOODWIN

22. ELLA BRODEN

23. DANA GOODWIN

24. ELLA BRODEN

25. DANA GOODWIN

26. ELLA BRODEN

27. DANA GOODWIN

PART THREE

EIGHT MONTHS EARLIER DANA GOODWIN

28.

29.

30.

31.

32.

PART FOUR

33. ELLA BRODEN

34. DANA GOODWIN

35. ELLA BRODEN

36. DANA GOODWIN

37. ELLA BRODEN

38. DANA GOODWIN

39. ELLA BRODEN

40. DANA GOODWIN

41. ELLA BRODEN

42. DANA GOODWIN

PART FIVE

43. ELLA BRODEN

44. DANA GOODWIN

45. ELLA BRODEN

46. DANA GOODWIN

47. ELLA BRODEN

48. DANA GOODWIN

49. ELLA BRODEN

50. DANA GOODWIN

51. ELLA BRODEN

52. DANA GOODWIN

53. ELLA BRODEN

54. DANA GOODWIN

55. ELLA BRODEN

56. DANA GOODWIN

57. ELLA BRODEN

58. DANA GOODWIN

59. ELLA BRODEN

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PART ONE

PART ONE

1. ELLA BRODEN

1.

ELLA BRODEN

After the introductory applause dies down, and before the piano plays a note, I shut my eyes. It’s a ritual I’ve adopted—to revel for a moment in the dark quiet where nothing exists except this feeling inside me.

Even though more than a hundred people are staring at me, I’m alone. Then I let a single person into my consciousness.

Charlotte.

In my mind’s eye, my sister sits in the first row. She has on display that smile I remember so vividly from when we were little. The same one she flashed toothlessly when I held her as a baby—and every day afterward until the last time I saw it, six months ago.

I imagine mouthing “Thank you,” and she nods with understanding. She knows I’m grateful for her still being here, even after her life has ended. For giving me the courage to do this. For being proud of me.

Then I open my eyes.

“Thank you. Thank you all so much. My name is Cassidy. I appreciate you all coming out tonight.”

That’s the drummer’s cue to call it out. “One, two, three!” And it’s showtime.

The first time I took the stage as the opening act for Rescue Dogs, the clapping lasted ten seconds, tops. Polite, but certainly not enthusiastic. Karen, the Lava Lounge’s stage manager, had warned me that this would happen.

“You’re in the big time now, honey,” she said. “On Tuesday nights, people pay to get in, so it’s a different crowd than on open-mic night. Everyone comes to see the headliner, but you’ll win them over, I promise.”

The lack of enthusiasm was more than offset by the thrill of someone actually paying me to sing. Granted, I go on only one night a week, for which I receive a hundred bucks—a far cry from what I’d earned as a lawyer working in my father’s law firm. Even my salary back when I was an Assistant District Attorney, which I’d always viewed as slave wages, was a princely sum compared with the pay scale for artists in New York City. But on the stage I feel truly alive, and that can’t be converted to dollars and cents.

I do five songs. Lava requires that four of them be covers selected from a list compiled by management. It’s heavy with female rockers—Heart, Joan Jett, Blondie. I’m allowed to perform one original number. I hadn’t written a song since sleepaway camp, but after Charlotte’s death I bought a used upright piano I found on Craigslist. For several weeks, I didn’t get up from the bench except to eat, sleep, and go to the bathroom. “Never Goodbye” was the first song I wrote, and it’s still the best. I suspect that most people listening to the lyrics think it’s about a man, which is fine by me.

It’s always a struggle for me to get through it, which is why I save it for my penultimate number. I’d prefer to close with it, but I know the club wouldn’t have it. The closing number has to be loud. Really loud. Tonight I belt out Blondie’s “Call Me.”

The final applause is the most enthusiastic I’ve received to date. I even hear some whistles and a guy yelling, “More . . . More.”

There isn’t a backstage at Lava. The performance space is a red lacquer platform at the end of a large room. You exit from the left and join the paying customers, all of whom stand—at least until they start dancing. The only seating is at the bar.

When I step off the stage, Karen immediately approaches. She kisses me on both cheeks and then embraces me tightly.

“Amazing as always, Cassidy,” she says with a wink.

Back when I was doing open-mic nights, she had no idea that Cassidy was a stage name. After I was promoted to a paying gig, I had to reveal my real name—and Social Security number—in order to get paid, but I swore Karen to secrecy and asked that she always call me Cassidy in public.

I never told her my backstory, but if she had any interest about the real me, a Google search would have revealed that Ella Broden is a former sex-crimes prosecutor with the District Attorney’s office in Manhattan and the daughter of the country’s most famous attorney. These days, that bio comes after the most noteworthy thing about me—I’m the older sister of Charlotte Broden, the grad student who was murdered six months ago. The cherry on top of my cyber footprint is the revelation that I’m a killer of sorts myself, on account of the fact that I stabbed Charlotte’s murderer to death.

“I’ve been talking to Jake about you,” Karen says.

Jake is the owner of the club. There’s talk that he’s backed by mob money, but I like to think that’s all it is—talk—rather than consider the possibility that I went from prosecuting criminals to working for them.

“Good things, I hope.”

“Only.”

Not long ago, my greatest ambition was for Karen to elevate me from open mic to a paying gig. As soon as that happened, I turned my attention to climbing the next rung of the ladder—opening on a better night. I’m certain that when that comes to pass, I’ll immediately start asking Karen when I can become a featured performer myself. In many ways, I’m still the same Ella Broden as I was in my lawyering days, looking for my next promotion. The main difference is that now I’m doing it in skintight Lycra and knee-high boots rather than a business suit and Ferragamos.

“And?” I ask hopefully.

“To be determined . . . but he’s a fan.”

Behind us, Rescue Dogs begins to set up on the stage. It’s a band with six or seven members, depending on who shows. Their lead singer is a skinny guy named Liam. I’d bet anything that his parents actually christened him William, and I’d go double or nothing that he went by Billy right up to the moment he decided to be a rock star. Among the other ways Liam plays out his Mick Jagger fantasies is by constantly hitting on me, even though I’m at least ten years older. He actually thinks it helps his cause that he calls me “MILF.”

Twenty minutes elapse between my set and theirs. The early setup is a trick Lava uses, making the crowd think the headliner’s about to start so they’ll down their drinks and order refills. Liam is too big of a star in his own mind to do roadie work, so he makes his way to Karen and me, leaving his bandmates to test the equipment.

“My two favorite ladies,” he says, putting an arm around my shoulder. I remove it, and he laughs. “Aw, come on, MILF. I’m just being friendly.”

“Be less friendly and we’ll probably be better friends. Maybe you can start by calling me by my real name—Cassidy.”

Karen laughs, and I give her a death stare. Now is not the time.

“You were really hot tonight . . . Cassidy,” Liam says, exaggerating my name. “Hard act to follow.”

“Maybe soon you’ll be following me.”

“Maybe,” he says, although I know he doesn’t fear that in the least. “But until then, I was thinking we should work you into one of the songs in our set. Might be a cool transition, you know?”

Even though I’m no longer a prosecutor, I can still read a liar from a mile away. He’s not going to give me anything unless I “earn” it through some type of sexual exchange.

“I’d like that,” I say. “How about we try it out tonight?”

“No . . . we need to discuss the terms first.”

His smile is nothing short of disgusting. It’s the kind of leer they’d use in a sexual-harassment training video. Even Karen looks offended, and that never happens.

Liam doesn’t get the message. The fact that he’s completely misread the entire exchange is confirmed when he puts his hand on the small of my back.

I’m about to reach for him again when I feel someone else do it.

“Hey,” Liam says reflexively.

“I’m sorry. Did my removing your hand from the lady’s ass startle you?”

My knight in shining armor is Gabriel, my boyfriend of the last six months. This is the second go-around for us. The first was years ago and lasted only a few dates because I was too impressed by fancy pedigrees in those days to think I could get serious with a New York cop when all my friends were marrying lawyers and bankers. Then he was put in charge of my sister’s case and . . . well, the rest is history.

This is the first time he’s come to Lava. I’d been resisting inviting him because no one who knows Ella Broden has ever heard Cassidy sing, and I wanted to keep it that way. I finally relented when he reminded me that even Batman let Alfred and Robin know his secret identity.

Even without Liam knowing that Gabriel’s a cop, the look in his eyes clearly tells him that he would be wise to back down.

“I gotta go set up,” Liam says, retreating to the stage like a frightened puppy.

When he’s gone, Gabriel says, “You were wonderful.” He kisses me on the lips.

“Karen, this is my boyfriend, Gabriel Velasquez.”

Karen looks Gabriel up and down, the way she often does with me. I had previously been near certain that Karen was a lesbian, but by the look on her face after scanning Gabriel’s body, I realize I can’t rule out that she’s bisexual.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Gabriel says.

“Well, I hope I don’t get . . . Cassidy into trouble by saying this, but she hasn’t breathed a word about having a boyfriend.”

“That’s Cassidy. She’s a very private person.”

Karen looks up at the stage. Liam is chewing out his drummer about something.

“I think I better go deal with them.” Karen turns and kisses me on both cheeks. “Again, awesome job tonight.” She gives Gabriel the same pair of kisses. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Gabriel holds his tongue until Karen is on the stage dealing with Rescue Dogs, and then he says, “Wow!”

“No, really. What did you think? The truth.”

“You can’t handle the truth,” he says in a god-awful Jack Nicholson impression.

I squint at him to say that I’m waiting for an honest assessment of my performance. I can see the emotion bubbling up inside of him. So much so that it looks as if my tough cop of a boyfriend is actually tearing up.

“What’s there to really say, Ella? The truth is that you’re spectacular. Onstage. Everywhere.”

2. DANA GOODWIN

2.

DANA GOODWIN

“You’re home early.”

My husband says this with a broad smile. He doesn’t have to add that I’m a sight for sore eyes because I can see that sentiment all over his face. If I were married to a different type of man, I might be suspicious of such sentimentality after six years of marriage, but the one thing I know without any doubt is that Stuart is sincere in his love for me. Which is why, despite the fact that he longs for me when I’m away and I know I should be glad about it, it cuts me like a knife. A reminder of just how unworthy I am of his love.

My expression must betray my thoughts, because Stuart’s smile fades. A wistful look crosses his face. “Did I mention that I’m very happy you’re home so early?”

“I’m sorry I’ve been working such long hours lately.”

“I get it. New job, new boss, new responsibilities. I mean, you can’t be an elementary school art teacher for as long as I have without knowing what workplace pressure is all about.”

A common joke Stuart tells is that he’d find another job if he could figure out an even more stress-free position than the one he currently occupies. I smile at his self-deprecation.

“Is Jacob still awake?”

“Yeah. I was just about to start the bedtime ritual.”

“Mind if I do it tonight?”

I find my five-year-old son is sitting on his bed, talking to his stuffed tiger. It’s bigger than he is. Jacob named him Mr. Big Tiger.

“Mommy!” he cries upon seeing me.

Jacob’s excitement that I’m home is a further reminder of the late nights I’ve been spending away from him, and I feel the familiar stab of guilt that has accompanied me for the last several months. I’m determined to make it up to him, somehow. Him and Stuart.

“How’s my favorite boy?”

“Good.”

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Nothing.”

“It looked like you were talking to Mr. Big Tiger. What does he have to say for himself?”

“He doesn’t say anything. He’s not real.”

“Well, you’re real. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I don’t know. You’re real too, Mommy. What do you have to say for yourself?”

I suspect that every mother of a five-year-old thinks her child is a genius. If true, then I’m in good company, but I’m convinced that the label applies to my son. Jacob has a way of seeing the world, an intuition about things that I find absolutely remarkable. It’s a trait he must get from his father, because for all my professional training, I seem not to be able to understand what’s happening to me until it’s too late.

“An excellent point and question,” I say. “Let me see . . . I have this to say for myself. First, I love my Jacob very, very much. Second, I want to hear everything—and I mean everything—that happened to him today, starting with the moment he woke up.”

I scoop my son into my arms and begin to squeeze him. He giggles and squirms, but not in a way that suggests he wants me to break the hold.

“I don’t remember what happened when I woke up,” he says when I finally let him go.

“Hm. Do you remember what happened when you came home from school?”

As he thinks about it, his eyes roll back and to the right. His little brows knit together tightly.

“Yes. I had a snack when I came home. Livie made it for me.”

Livie is our babysitter. Olivia is how she’s known outside of our family. When she joined us, Jacob was just eighteen months and he couldn’t master her four-syllable name. Hence the nickname. Livie’s a college student at Iona, charged with picking Jacob up at school and occupying him away from a screen until Stuart is done with his workday, which is never later than 4:30.

“Was it . . . peanut butter and jelly?”

“How’d you know?”

I didn’t, really. It was a guess.

“Because moms know everything.”

“And what did you have for dinner?”

He can’t remember at first. “Chicken fingers.”

“Were they good?”

“Uh-uh.”

I get up from my son’s bed and open his dresser, fishing out the pajamas on top. Ironman.

“Time to get ready for sleep,” I say, handing him his pj’s.

I put Jacob to bed so infrequently these days that my son is visibly surprised that I’m doing the honors tonight. If that weren’t enough to make me feel like the worst mother ever, my absenteeism over the past weeks—months really—is brought home when Jacob tells me that I have the ritual out of order.

“Teeth brushing, then pajamas, then story,” he says.

I correct the mistake. After he’s brushed his teeth and put on his pj’s and we’re back on his bed, I say, “What story do you want to read tonight?”

“Mike Mulligan. It’s what I always read.”

Although I wouldn’t have thought it possible a minute ago, I now feel even guiltier. I should know the book my son always reads before sleep. The last time I read to him, which I swear couldn’t have been more than a month or so ago, his favorite was something different. A book about trains, I think.

“Where is it?”

Jacob reaches over to his night table. He grasps the book with both hands and passes it to me as if it’ll break if it hits the floor.

“Get all snuggly,” I say.

He wiggles under his covers and then pulls them up to his shoulders. “Ready.”

“Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel,” I say, then open the cover and begin to read.

After the story is finished, with Mike Mulligan and his steam shovel, Mary Anne, firmly ensconced in the basement of the new town hall, I ask Jacob if he’d like to read something else.

“No . . . I’m really sleepy,” he says.

“Okay,” I say, masking my disappointment that my time with Jacob is coming to an end. “Sweet dreams.”

My son closes his eyes and turns away from me.

Stuart is waiting for me on the living room sofa when I return from Jacob’s bedroom. He puts down his Kindle and offers to make me dinner.

“That’s okay. I’ll fix something for myself.”

“Don’t be silly. You just got home, and I’ve had three hours to unwind already. Besides, all I’m going to do is put the chicken fingers I made for Jacob in the microwave. Relax. I’ll pour us both a glass of wine.”

A moment later, Stuart places a plate of chicken fingers and roasted potatoes on the place mat in front of me and hands me a glass of white wine. As I begin to eat, Stuart talks about his work. It’s a subject that has never interested me. It’s all petty faculty disputes over the most trivial things, parents who think their kid is the next Picasso and don’t understand why Stuart doesn’t recognize true genius when he’s in its presence, and pressuring even seven-year-olds to get into the “right” college.

Tonight he’s going on about the school’s new principal, a woman named Natalie Owens. The changes Natalie seeks to implement at P.S. 216 have become a recurring theme of Stuart’s repertoire. It has something to do with sculpture, I know, but I was only half listening when Stuart mentioned it the first time, which means that I’m now uncertain whether the principal wants to introduce more or eliminate it. It’s too late for me to ask Stuart for that clarification, so I simply nod as he speaks.

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