Parker held Donovan’s stare. She broke first.

“What do you want?”

“I want Jake Myers to take a polygraph.”

“And how am I supposed to get in touch with Jake?”

Once Parker had agreed to represent Warden, no court in America would have allowed her to simultaneously represent Jake Myers. Any attempt by Parker to contact Myers directly would show up in the jail’s records, and she’d then have to explain to Willie Wells why she was contacting his client without his consent.

“You talk to Nick Warden,” Donovan explained. “He visits Jake in custody. Tells him there’s a problem. Convinces him to take the polygraph.”

“As long as you understand he can’t make Jake do anything. And I can’t make Nick do anything.”

“I understand.”

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll call him now. This all stays in this room? The firm doesn’t hear about any of it?”

“You have my word,” Donovan said.

Ellie and Rogan nodded in silent agreement.

For the second time in a week in this same office, a conspiracy had been struck. The first had been to concoct a lie. Now they were conspiring to get the truth.

CHAPTER 41

FIVE MINUTES AFTER Nick Warden visited Jake Myers in custody, Myers called Willie Wells and fired him as his attorney. His next call was to Susan Parker, seeking her representation for the purpose of contacting Simon Knight and offering to take a polygraph examination to clear his name. By the time that call came in, Knight had already lined up the polygrapher.

They all knew, of course, that the so-called lie detecting machine was far less reliable than its name might suggest. The machines were only as good as their operators and, even at their best, were not entirely accurate. But the intangible value of a polygraph transcended the questionable science.

A defendant’s willingness to sit for one said something in itself, especially if he managed to make it through an entire examination without breaking into a spontaneous confession. And a good polygrapher’s opinion, while no guarantee, would do a lot to confirm the feeling in Ellie’s gut that Jake Myers-although guilty of other wrongs-was no murderer.

The process was painstaking, with the most important components transpiring before Myers was even hooked up to the machine. It started with an open-ended debriefing in which Myers was free to state his version of the facts-at his pace, in his own words. Then he was subjected to detailed questioning from Ellie, Rogan, and Donovan, until all three were satisfied they had asked every possible question that might trip Myers up.

Only after the conversation had been exhausted did the polygrapher hook Myers up to the instruments that would measure his physiological responses during innocuous inquiries such as “Is your name Jake Myers?” and money questions like “Did you cause the death of Chelsea Hart?” By the time the polygrapher announced that he had detected no signs of deception, Ellie could already replay the scene between Chelsea Hart and Jake Myers in her head.

“Holy shit. What the fuck did you give me?”

When Chelsea had snorted the line of whatever Jake had passed her in the VIP lounge, she had assumed it was cocaine. She’d tried it twice before and thought she could handle it, but tonight something was different. Whatever the powder had been, Jake and his friend had done a lot more of it than she had.

“Just a little speed. It’s great for a second wind.” It was meth, actually, but he knew a lot of girls freaked out about the name.

Jake placed his arms around Chelsea’s waist and pulled her closer on the dance floor. She treated him to a little grind and didn’t object when he slipped his hands beneath the back of her shirt. His palms felt good against her bare skin, but she knew it was time for her to wrap things up before they went too far. She had promised Stefanie she’d be just behind them, and she knew what a worrywart her friend could be.

Chelsea pulled playfully on Jake’s skinny black tie and leaned in so he could hear her over the music. “I hate to be a tease, but it’s time for me to go.”

He tried to persuade her to stay, just as they both knew that he would. She looked at her watch. Just past three a.m. “Look at it this way,” she said. “You let me leave now, and you’ve got an entire hour to line up one of these little sluts to go home with you. Waste all your time on me and, well, you and your friend there are on your own-”

She pushed up against him again.

“Damn, you’re hot,” he said, kissing her neck and fingering the top button of her blouse.

“Occasionally. Want me to pick out a girl for you, or are you going to be fine on your own?”

Jake smirked and shook his head. “Let me at least walk you out.” He took her hand and led her from the club. “Do you have a car?”

Town cars and limos were parked and double-parked outside. “Yeah, right. I used my entire student loan check to pay for a car service while we were in New York this week.”

“My car’s in a lot in SoHo,” Jake said. “Nick’s driver’s waiting out here somewhere. Let me just run in and check-”

They both knew a ride in his friend’s car would start something they’d finish en route to her hotel. She was tempted but decided against it. She’d been faithful to Mark the entire trip and didn’t want to mess that up now.

“Really, I’m fine with a cab.”

Jake walked to the curb and tried to hail a taxi, but four yellow cabs passed them by, already taken, their rooftop medallion numbers unlit.

“I’ll be fine,” Chelsea finally said.

He ignored her and remained in the street, one arm raised above his head.

“Tick tock, Jake Gyllenhaal. You’re wasting that final hour. The other players are locking down all the pretty girls at Pulse as we speak.”

He touched her hair and leaned in for a kiss before thanking her for the fun and turning away. As Chelsea watched him return to the club, she still felt his lips against hers and wondered if it was a feeling of regret about turning down the invitation to go further.

Five more taxis passed her by before one finally stopped. She crawled into the back seat and shut the door. “The Hilton at Rockefeller Center, please. Fifty-third Street at Sixth Avenue.”

The cab rolled a few feet and then stopped. “You have cash?”

“Excuse me?”

“You have cash, right?”

“No. I’ll pay by Visa.” Chelsea had spent her final bills on that last Angel’s Tip at the bar. She was so messed up she’d forgotten about the free liquor in the VIP lounge.

“No credit cards.”

Chelsea knocked on the machine installed on the partition in front of her. “What’s this thing for if you can’t take a credit card?”

“It’s broken. Only cash tonight.”

“I’ll pay you when I get there-my friends have money, I promise.”

“I do not run a loan company, miss. I will not drive you if you do not have the money.”

“Well, I’m not getting out of the cab. What do you think about that?”

“The meter is still running, miss, and you don’t have any money. You need to find another taxi.”

Chelsea was startled by a knock against the window. It was Jake.

“My savior,” she said, rolling down the window. “I don’t have any cash, and this asshole won’t take my fucking credit card.”

“He wouldn’t do that to you, now, would you, kind sir?”

“Tell him, kind sir,” Chelsea said. “Tell him how you want to strand a girl here on the streets of New York City all by herself.”

“You need to get your drunk friend out of my car,” the driver said.

Jake touched the tip of his chin, as if pondering the situation. “This is quite a predicament, isn’t it?”

Chelsea knew Stefanie hadn’t seen the appeal, but this guy really was incredible. The hair and clothes were too much, but the smile-those lazy eyes and the softness around his mouth-were irresistible.