“The Russians, huh?” he said.
“So Ray Marshak says. An oligarch.”
“He didn’t have a name?”
She shook her head. Her mobile phone began to ring. She glanced at it, saw it was a judge friend of hers.
“Hold on,” she said, and she answered the call.
“Juliana, it’s Nina Ernst.”
“Hi, Nina. What’s up?”
“The strangest thing. Last night I was approached by a state trooper, an investigator with the AG’s office, requesting a search warrant on you.”
Her heart started to skitter. “You’re kidding.”
“Your lobby, your home. They want files, computers.”
“They have probable cause?”
“Weak, I thought. I turned it down. But I thought you should know. Any idea what might be going on?”
“I’m as baffled as you are. More so. But thanks for the heads-up, Nina. Morrie doing okay?”
“He’s great, thanks. He’s, like, ten times as energetic since the bypass.”
She hit End and looked back at Hersh. “The AG’s office is requesting a search warrant. On me.”
He nodded. “Did they get it?”
“Not from this judge.”
“Well, that’s good, anyway. So Marshak didn’t have any names?”
“No. But he says focus on the lawyers. Find out which law firms are involved in the Wheelz deal.”
Hersh nodded. “Ropes and Gray, and Miller and Payson, were the two firms I remember reading about.”
“Miller and Payson — right, that’s Noah Miller’s firm.”
“Noah Miller represents Harrogate Capital Partners.”
She remembered Noah Miller coming up to her at the St. Jude’s fundraiser. The curly hair, the big bald spot, the rimless glasses, the staring eyes. He was the one who’d suggested she flush the Wheelz case from her docket, get rid of it, grant the defense’s motion to have it dismissed. Of course: he represented the investor, Harrogate Capital Partners. There had been something about the relentlessness with which he’d pursued the subject. Something about the fake casualness, the way his eyes hadn’t left hers. Yeah, she was pretty certain that hadn’t been random.
She told Hersh about her conversation at the fundraiser, then wheeled her chair around to her computer and typed Miller’s name into Google. The first search result was his page on the Miller & Payson website. She found a flattering studio picture of Miller, smiling wisely. She scanned the anodyne bio and read aloud to Hersh: “White-collar criminal litigation and complex business litigation, a range of criminal and civil litigation matters, blah blah blah. Nothing useful here.”
But she had a feeling about the guy.
“Marshak said that lawyers have the worst IT security.”
“Often true.”
“Can you get into his e-mail?”
He looked surprised and took a breath. But her phone rang again. Duncan. She said, “Excuse me,” answered, “Hey.”
“There’s some cops here, searching the house!” He sounded panicked. “They handed me a warrant, and it looks legit.”
“Boston Police?”
“State Police. What’s this about, Jules? Is this about that goddamned lawyer—?”
Just then she heard a loud pounding on her office door. “Hold on,” she said to Duncan. She got up and opened the door. “Shit. They’re here too.”
Duncan said something, loud and rushed, but she wasn’t listening anymore. Four state troopers stood in the hallway. She recognized the one with the goatee and the swept-back hair, Markowski.
“Judge Brody?” he said. “We’ve got a warrant to search your office. May we please enter?”
“May I see the warrant first, please?”
“Of course.” Detective Markowski handed her the thatch of papers. The search warrant, the application, the affidavit. The affidavit was a page long and sworn by State Police Detective Markowski. She skimmed it quickly. It mentioned the sunglasses found in the deceased’s hotel room, her stay at the same hotel in Chicago as the deceased, all that. Written in a careful, just-the-facts manner. She looked over the search warrant application and saw that it was signed by a famously hard-ass Suffolk Superior Court Judge named Warren Hogan. She’d met Hogan, though she wouldn’t call him a friend.
Everything in the warrant seemed to be in order. She noticed the box was checked where you had to say whether you’d submitted this affidavit to another judge previously. Markowski, turned down by Judge Nina Ernst, had next approached a judge who was rarely known to say no to law enforcement.
She put the iPhone back up to her ear and said, “I’m sorry. Let me call you back.” Then she said to Markowski, “Come on in. I have to get into court, but, Philip, can you stay here while they search?”
Hersh looked at her. There was something new in his gloomy expression, maybe an I told you so. “I can stay for another half hour, but then I have another appointment.”
“Whatever you can do,” she said.
Markowski and the other one, Krieger, small and bald and worried, nodded at her as they entered. There was barely room for them in her lobby along with herself and Hersh.
“Is this really necessary?” she said. “You said I’m a person of interest. Not a suspect.”
Markowski pointed to her computer. “If you’re in the middle of any documents, you might want to save them now.”
“You’re taking my computer? For God’s sake, why?”
But she knew why. The attorney general was looking to tie her to the murder any way he could. She was furious, but she managed to stay silent. They’d find nothing on her computer. They were wasting their time and hers. She steadied her breathing, and looked at her watch. She was three minutes late for court, and she liked to start on time.
41
When court was out for lunch, Juliana returned to her lobby, took off her robe and hung it, and sat behind her desk. She could see the big dust-free rectangle in the middle of her desktop where her computer used to be. Her phone indicated a voice mail from Hersh. Without bothering to listen to it, she called him back.
“They took some files from your file cabinet,” he said. “That and the computer, that’s all.”
“Thanks for staying.”
“That was totally unnecessary. Just a brutal show of force.”
“I told you, the AG hates me, has for years.” She hesitated. “So I have a question for you, but I’m not sure we should be talking about it on the phone.”
“It depends. Are you talking on your office landline or your mobile phone?”
“Cell. My iPhone.”
“I’m reasonably confident your iPhone is secure, and I know on my end I’m clean.”
“Well, I’d rather be careful. I’ll come by your office when court’s out this afternoon. Will you be there?”
“Call first, but I should be. Meanwhile, I think I found your ‘janissary.’”
“Really?” She remembered what Ray Marshak had told her, about how the new owner of a company might plant his own soldiers, his guys, in the company. Janissaries, he’d said. “Excellent.”
“I searched every executive hire made after the company was sold. And one of them caught my eye — the CFO, a guy named Eugene Brod.”
“I remember him. He’s the guy in the chats I read who wouldn’t let Rachel Meyers see the paperwork on Mayfair Paragon.”
“He’s Russian — his name originally was Yevgeny Brod; he worked in the Moscow office of PricewaterhouseCoopers, the accounting firm. A graduate of Moscow State Forest University.”