In the Company of Liars Read Online Free PDF

feeling guilt. He wanted the “w,” the pats on the back, the victory lap at the prosecutor’s office, the press coverage.
    â€œEveryone knew she was going down,” McCoy adds. “Everyone knew you had her.”
    Ogren stretches, arches his back, extends his arms. Full trial mode, probably hasn’t had much sleep. And now this. Like the whole prosecution was just a false start.
    â€œShe’s not up there anymore,” McCoy says. “You want to go see the body?”
    Ogren looks over the house wistfully. He is suddenly a man without a place. This is not his crime scene.
    â€œAs long as you’re sure she’s dead,” he deadpans, an attempt at dark humor that falls flat.
    She smiles at him. “You want to see the statuette?”
    Ogren does a double-take, suddenly perks up. “The—what are you talking about?”
    â€œThe statuette,” she says. “The little trophy. The award from the manufacturers’ association. You always thought she used it to kill Sam Dil—”
    Ogren steps toward her. “You have it? It was here in her house?”
    Jane McCoy gestures behind her. “She had it in her office upstairs.”
    â€œThat’s not possible.” The prosecutor squints. “She moved it there, maybe.”
    â€œExactly,” Jane agrees. “She had buried it somewhere initially. You can tell because there’s some dirt on it. But there’s some blood on it, too, and we’re getting prints off it. I assume it’s the murder weapon. We’ve inventoried it. We’ll make it available to you guys.”
    Roger Ogren is speechless. It is confirmation that he never had. A murder weapon that had never been found. McCoy wonders if there was any residual doubt in the prosecutor’s mind, any lingering question of whether he was accusing the right person. If so, the murder weapon, in the home of the accused, should erase that doubt.
    â€œThis was her way of pleading guilty,” McCoy tells him. “Before she went, she wanted the record clear, I guess.”
    Ogren nods aimlessly, his eyes unfocused. “And what about the gun?”
    â€œA revolver. Serial numbers scratched. She must have bought it on the street.”
    Ogren stares at her. Weird , he must be thinking. “Okay. I’ll give you a call,” he says. “I think we would like that statuette, actually.”
    â€œSure. Call me.”
    He turns to leave but stops, looks back at the federal agent. “Why did you say it’s your fault? Her killing herself?”
    She makes a face. “I was squeezing her. Maybe too hard.”
    Ogren gives her a look of compromise. Squeezing is something any prosecutor can understand. No one ever knows how much pressure is just right.
    â€œYou got what you wanted, Roger. Justice was served.”
    He laughs. A bitter chuckle. “This wouldn’t have happened if she weren’t out on bail,” he says. “She couldn’t have gotten a gun and she couldn’t have killed herself.”
    McCoy lifts her shoulders. “Hey, you wanted her dead, she’s dead.”
    The prosecutor glares at McCoy, then turns and walks to his car. He can’t deny that he was seeking the death penalty, of course, which means he cannot deny that he wanted death for Allison Pagone. But he doesn’t appreciate the bluntness of McCoy’s comment. As if Roger Ogren were a killer, too.
    â€œI’ll bet he’s pissed,” Harrick says, walking up, watching Ogren leave.
    â€œSomething like that.”
    They walk to their car and drive away. Once in the vehicle, Harrick, driving, casts a look at McCoy. “Something bothering you? Talk to me, Janey.”
    â€œIt looked too clean,” she says. “There’s such a thing as looking too much like a suicide.”
    â€œOh, come on.” Owen Harrick shrugs. He was a city cop for eight years. He’s witnessed a lot more suicide