Pop Goes the Weasel (Alex Cross 5)

“Very nice,” Jane Halpern said, seemingly utterly charmed, as if she’d never heard the story before. “And has he remained romantic?”

“Oh, yes, even more so. Scarcely a week goes by when Geoff doesn’t bring me flowers, or perhaps a beautiful Hermès scarf, which I collect. And then there are our ‘ouch’ excursions.”

Jane Halpern wrinkled her nose, and her dark-brown eyes twinkled. “What are ‘ouch’ excursions?” she asked with the exuberant curiosity of a morning TV-show host.

“Geoff will take me to New York, or maybe Paris, or back to London, and I get to shop for clothes until he says ‘ouch.’ He’s very generous, that way.”

“A good husband, then?”

“The best you could imagine. Very hardworking, but not so much that he forgets about his family. The children adore him.”

“Yes, we could tell that from this morning’s film, Mrs. Shafer. Was the party an unusual occasion?”

“No. Geoffrey’s always throwing parties. He’s very joyful, full of life, full of fun and surprises. He’s a sensitive, very creative man.”

I looked from Lucy Shafer to the jury box. She had the jurors in a spell, and they couldn’t take their eyes off her. She was also credible. Even I had the sense that she genuinely loved her husband, and more important, that she believed he loved her.

Jane Halpern milked the testimony for all it was worth. I couldn’t blame her. Lucy Shafer was attractive and seemed nice, kind, and obviously was very much in love with her husband and adored her children, but she didn’t appear to be a fool. Just someone who had found exactly the man she wanted and valued him deeply. That man was Geoffrey Shafer.

It was the indelible image the jurors took away with them at the end of the day.

And it was an amazing lie, spun by a master.

Chapter 93

I TALKED THINGS OVER with Andrew Jones when I got home after court that afternoon. I’d tried to contact Oliver Highsmith again, but so far hadn’t gotten any response. Also, there was nothing new to link Shafer to the Jane Doe murders in Washington. Shafer didn’t seem to have murdered anyone, at least locally, in the past several months.

After a dinner of chicken pot pie, salad, and rhubarb pie, Nana gave the kids the night off from their chore of doing the dishes. She asked me to stay and help, to be her “partner in grime,” as we used to call it.

“Just like the good old days, same as it ever was,” I said as I splashed soap and water onto silver and dishes in the porcelain sink that’s as old as the house.

Nana dried the kitchenware as quickly as I got it to her. Her fingers were still as nimble as her mind. “I like to think we’re older and wiser,” she chirped.

“I don’t know. I’m still the one getting dishwater hands.”

“I haven’t told you something, and I should have,” Nana said, going serious on me.

“Okay,” I said, and stopped splashing water and soap bubbles around in the sink. “Shoot.”

“What I wanted to say is that I’m proud of the way you’ve been able to handle the terrible things that have happened. Your strength and your patience have given me inspiration. And I’m not easily inspired, especially by the likes of you. I know it has had the same effect on Damon and Jannie. They don’t miss a thing.”

I leaned over the sink. I was feeling in a confessional mood. “It’s the worst stretch of my life, the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. It’s even worse than when Maria died, Nana, if that’s possible. At least back then I knew for sure she was dead. I could let myself grieve. I could finally let her go and breathe again.”

Nana came around the sink and took me in her arms, which always surprised me with their strength.

She looked me squarely in the eyes, just like she always has since I was around nine years old. She said, “Let yourself grieve for her, Alex. Let her go.”

Chapter 94

GEOFFREY SHAFER had an attractive, loving wife, and that incongruous and monstrously unfair fact bothered me a lot. I couldn’t understand it as a psychologist or as a detective.

The clever testimony of Lucy Shafer continued early the following morning and lasted just over an hour. Jane Halpern wanted the jury to hear more about Lucy’s wonderful husband.

Finally, it was Catherine Fitzgibbon’s turn. In her own way, she was as tough, and maybe as formidable, as Jules Halpern.

“Mrs. Shafer, we’ve all been listening to you intently, and it all sounds very charming and idyllic, but I’m troubled and confused by something. Here’s what troubles me: your husband tried to commit suicide eight days ago. Your husband tried to kill himself. So maybe he isn’t quite what he seems to be. Maybe he isn’t so well balanced and sane. Maybe you’re mistaken about who he really is.”

Lucy Shafer stared directly into the prosecuting attorney’s eyes. “In the past few months, my husband has seen his life, his career, and his good name falsely put in jeopardy. My husband couldn’t believe that these horrible charges were made against him. This whole Kafkaesque ordeal drove him, quite literally, to despair. You have no idea what it means to lose your good name.”